L.Tom Perry Special Collections Harold B. Lee Library Brigham Young University
BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY
1197 22656 1014
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
THE
NUPTIAL FLIGHT
EDGAR LEE MASTERS
BONI AND LIVERIGHT Publishers New York
Copyright, 1^23, by EDGAR LEE MASTERS
All rights reserved
First Printing y August, 1923, Second Printing, August, 1923,
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE LIBRARY
BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIV£RS|Tlf PROVO, UTAH
To
ABRAHAM MEYER
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
ifc.-. ■.
If:
'ilfr
fe
' ■
5rV.v-
^'^kf
=.f"
: ■ ■'
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
CHAPTER I
I
On the same day in 1849 from opposite sides of Louis¬ ville, Kentucky, two families start for Whitehall, Illinois. They are the Creightons and the Houghtons. The Creigh¬ tons lived ten miles west of Louisville; the Houghtons six miles east of it. They do not know each other, and have never heard of each other.
Great emigration now to Illinois ! Men from Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, have messed with the tall fellows from the valley of the Mississippi, and have heard tales of wonder about the rich land anywhere in the central part of Illinois. They have camped together at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma in the struggle for Texas. Now after the return from the war they have rested a little, only to swarm and fly to richer fields.
The Creightons and the Houghtons ! Elizabeth Creigh¬ ton is the head of her household, which consists of her brother, John Young, a broken soldier aged forty-one, and her granddaughter, Nancy Wilson. Elizabeth is about sixty. Nancy is eighteen. They have been drawing a living out of a few acres of rocky soil, by the help of John Young. It is hard work, and the returns are small. Eliza¬ beth has been boarding the school teacher and making quilts and knitting socks and selling honey. Nancy, the
I
2
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
granddaughter, has learned all these things, and contrib¬ utes her labor to the support of the group. She is known as Nancy Wilson. And why not? Her father’s name was Gerald Wilson, even if her mother’s name was Mary Creighton. Mary had lived with them until she died, when the child Nancy was seven years of age. Old Eliza¬ beth had made no difficulty of the matter. She had accepted it in good part, for she loved the daughter and the granddaughter, and kept them with her. Nancy never knew that her father and mother were not married.
Elizabeth had heard of a tavern at Whitehall which could be run at a profit by the right management. She believed she could do it, for she had her brother, John Young, to do the heavy work and the granddaughter, Nancy, to wait upon the tables and to help in the kitchen. They are starting for Illinois this day, by the overland way, through Indiana; and at the same time the Hough¬ tons are going by boat down the Ohio and up the Missis¬ sippi, and across to Whitehall by stage. They will arrive shortly before the Creightons do. They will meet the Creightons when they arrive, and their lives will be changed.
Thomas Houghton is the father of three children, Madison, William, and Elvira. The mother has been dead six months, and that has something to do with their leaving Kentucky. But they are farmers, and the thin, rocky soil of their rented acres presents a problem too difficult. Besides, Thomas’ father has just died in Vir¬ ginia. He has inherited about $600, and that will buy a large amount of rich land in Illinois. Thomas is in the middle fifties, and William, the oldest son, is twenty. The daughter is eighteen and Madison is sixteen. With such aids a large amount of land can be managed. Chance yet to grow rich, after so many fruitless years of living in
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
3
Kentucky! William takes a parting look at the brook where he had made marbles by leaving pebbles to be turned by the tumbling water. Then they are off.
2
Thomas Houghton went out to look for land around Whitehall. He found what he wanted and bought it. He kept Madison, the younger son, with him, and Elvira, the daughter, to run the house. It is a log house of three rooms: a big living room, a kitchen, and a loft. It is the fall of the year in which they have come to this new country. They are getting ready for the next year. There is much to do. But meantime William can earn money for himself by hauling brick for the new building that is being erected at Whitehall. He is taking his meals at a boarding house kept for workingmen. There is talk of the tavern being opened again. Newcomers are going to run it. A woman and her granddaughter from Kentucky, and from Louisville too!
3
William hears this and looks forward eagerly to their arrival. He has been away from Kentucky but a few days; but how good to see someone from his old state! There is much here that is strange. He is becoming acquainted with the people but slovdy. And how is this? A family from beyond the west side of Louisville? The Creightons; he had never heard of them. They are farmer people, too. They must have come on the next boat. It will be better to go to the tavern to live. To be among one’s own people in a new country is a good thing. And William waits for the arrival of the Creightons.
William has just brought a load of brick into town. As
4
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
he passes the tavern he sees a wagon standing in front of the door, which is open. Someone has entered. He has not gone by when an elderly woman and a young woman come out followed by a limping man dressed in an army coat. It is Elizabeth Creighton and Nancy, her grand¬ daughter, and the uncle, John Young, The Creightons have arrived!
William Houghton stares at them. Then he goes on with his load of brick. As soon as the tavern can receive anyone he will ask to be taken in. He does not like the boarding house. Besides, to be with one’s own people! And the young woman! She has black hair and red cheeks. William wants a woman. He cannot buy a farm of his own; but he can rent one. Meantime there are brick to haul and money to be earned by work. And if he makes this woman his wife perhaps he can live at the tavern until a better home is at hand. He is thinking of all these things as he drives on with his load of brick.
Elizabeth Creighton and her granddaughter turn back to the tavern. It must be cleaned. John Young goes to get lye and soap. • All the curtains must be taken down and washed. The bedding too. Here is work for several days. A new name must be found for the tavern. John Young would call it The Kentucky Inn; and that pleases Elizabeth and Nancy. The Kentucky Inn it is.
4
William is still hauling brick, but he is nearly done. A larmer at the edge of town has seen him and likes him. William is a happy man. He is strong, industrious. This farmer has bought three cribs of corn six miles away. He wants it hauled to his place. He is feeding cattle. Wil¬ liam therefore has another job when the brick are hauled.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
5
There will be no lack of work for William. He finds, too, that he can save some money. His board and room are $2 a week. He can pay this and save $4, unless there are clothes to buy. And as yet he has not needed any. The farmer wants William to come to his house to live while he is hauling the corn. But William has another plan. He has made up his mind to go to the Kentucky Inn. On a time, however, he goes to the farmer’s house, and has supper and stays for the night. The farmer has a daughter, and William sees that she is looking for a mate. She is a hearty, strong woman of nineteen, and would make a good wife; but William has not ceased to think of the girl at the Kentucky Inn. She is of his own people; and tomorrow night he is going to the Inn to live. It will cost him $3 a week. Then he can save only $3 a week. But there is something in the daily enjoyment of life. William has thought this out. But above all he cannot resist the attraction of the young woman at the Inn. Her face stays in his memory. He wonders what her voice will be like; if she is kindly; if she will be his friend . . . also whether she will like him. William does not know that he is a very handsome male. His red cheeks and blue eyes have always been with him; there¬ fore he does not see them. Nor does he see how stalwart he is; nor how his vitality and good nature will affect Nancy. She will see William as he is . . . tomorrow 1
5
Nancy is waiting on the table. She not only helps her grandmother prepare the meals, but she serves the guests, and she serves William. No sooner is he seated than Nancy comes to him and lays a fresh napkin by his plate. She goes off for a glass of water and brings that to him.
6
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
Then she speaks. There is a choice of meat; and will he have milk or coffee? Her voice is all that he wished it to be in dreams of her, yes, more musical; and it has a happy way of breaking into a softer and lower tone. As he puts the napkin down he looks at her hands. They are very firm hands. They could be very white; but they are red; and they have been bleeding a little around the nails. It is the lye and the soap, no doubt. As William gives his order he looks into Nancy’s face. It is like a dawn, white and rosy and mild. It is like dawn in the sense of something elemental. Nancy looks at him as if he were a good man in a good world and feels that it is among the happy and natural things of the day that he is here. She is identified with the work of the hour; but without anxiety or haste. She is order and deftness. As she waits on William she feels the blood surge happily through her, and a subtle warmth permeates her being.
While she was gone for his food, William looked about the room. The floor had been made white with soap and vigorous scrubbing. The dishes shone, the table linen was nicely ironed; everything showed care. In the cor¬ ner stood an old mahogany chest. It had been turned to the uses of a bxiffet. On it were pieces of pretty china, some silver, a bouquet of wild flowers. On the walls were a few pictures, one of the falls of Niagara. Scarcely had William observed these things when Nancy returned with the meal.
He ventured to tell her that he was from near Louisville, and to say that he had heard that she was too. Yes, she was, and she smiled as she expressed surprise and asked William when he had come to Whitehall, and by what way. In a few minutes they had told each other the whole story and much of each other. William was sure that Nancy had gone to the kitchen to tell her grandmother.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
7
For before he was ready to leave the table, Elizabeth Creighton came in, and gave him a welcome in the name of Kentucky. She sat down for a few minutes to talk of the neighborhoods in which they lived. They hadn’t a single mutual friend or acquaintance . . . how strange that they had left Louisville on the same day! Elizabeth went on to say that she had stopped in Indiana for a while to visit with some relations that she hadn’t seen for years. William must be perfectly at home at the Inn. They would do everything for his comfort; and the father and children must come. It would be a delight to them to meet people from the old home.
Nancy went her way taking care of boarders as Eliza¬ beth talked with William. Then she returned to the kitchen; and Nancy came to William to ask him if he would be served with something more. He tried to detain her a little for further talk, but guests kept arriving. He arose to leave. Well, the Inn was thriving; and he was hauling com and knew of other work ahead.
6
William has hauled all the corn. That job is done. The farmer wants him to come there as a regular hand. But William can’t do that. He could not live at the Inn in that case. He could not see Nancy morning and evening. He was obliged to breakfast at half-past five while hauling the corn. But Nancy was always up to serve him and see him off. She seemed to know when he was returning at night. If she wasn’t in the office of the Inn to see him enter, she was in the dining room when he came to take his place at the table. So that in spite of the work all day, he saw her morning and night. If he went to the fanner’s house to live this could not be. Hence he did not even consider the farmer’s offer. The farmer said
8
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
William was a good man, and well worth his wages. William knew that he was giving value received for his money. He meant to do so.
There were evenings too when William sat in the kitchen while Nancy was washing the dishes. The second time he did this he offered to wipe them for her. Then this became the habitual thing. Sometimes there were heavy things to lift and put away, and William did this for Nancy. Then there were errands to do. Once William went into the country with Nancy for chickens for the Sunday dinner. It was three miles out from Whitehall, but they made the return in about two hours. It was moonlight, and balmy. Another time a farmer had killed a beef; and William went to the country and carried a side of it into town. Beef was a luxury. There were no refrigerators, and the meat had to be consumed quickly like chicken or turkey. If William went to work for the farmer he would miss all these associations and happy times. He refused to think of it. There would always be work. . . . But there was something else. William’s father was about to clear twenty acres of timber. He wanted William to help; Madison and the father could not do it alone. William meant to end his days of service for his father by helping to clear this land.
The farm was four miles from Whitehall. William con¬ tinued at the Inn, breakfasting at five-thirty as before and walking out. He arrived generally at a little before seven. All day he swung the ax and piled the wood and the brush. At six o’clock he walked back to town. That brought him to the Inn at about seven. All the others had been to supper and gone their way. But Nancy was there to serve him. If they had biscuits she saved enough dough to make fresh biscuits for William just before he came; and she brewed fresh coffee and kept the meat and the
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
9
vegetables hot. She waited for William while cleaning the table and washing the dishes. Sometimes she was behind with this work. Then William would help her when he came. Nancy’s grandmother was usually spent at the end of the day, and went to her room. . . . The clear¬ ing of the land fell mostly upon William’s back. In a few days after they started Madison fell ill of malaria. The father had other work besides the clearing. That left William to the task, and he went ahead with it steadily until it was done.
He meant this work as a gift to his father. But when the old man came out to see it when finished he was filled with delight. All the brush was carefully piled ready to burn. The wood was corded and braced. It could not have been better done. The old man was lacking for money; but he pressed a promissory note upon William for $50 payable the next spring. William didn’t wish to take it. But the father insisted. Then William thought of Nancy. He. had saved $30 out of his wages hauling brick and corn. Now with this note he had $80. And the note could be cashed at the bank.
William took the note to Nancy and showed it to her. Then she confided to him that she had money saved, almost a hundred dollars. Her grandmother had been paying Nancy wages. Besides, Nancy had been weaving carpet and selling it. Yes, Nancy could weave and sew. She showed William a pretty dress she had made for her¬ self. She knitted and crocheted between meals, and in the evenings, and William sat with Nancy while she worked upon mufflers and embroideries.
7
There were two reasons, anyway, why William did not go to his father’s farm and become a part of its manage-
10
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
ment. He wanted to remain near Nancy, for one thing. For another, his independence of spirit forced him into a path of his own. He had been helping his father all his life. He had meant to give his father the labor of clearing the land. That was to be the end of his apprenticeship. And it wasn’t a case where William’s father had to have his services or let the farm go without care. There was plenty of help about. All the while William meant to be a farmer himself. He wished to earn his own land. Should he begin as a renter, and use the profits to purchase land? Or should he do the surer thing of earning money by labor until he had a start? Meantime Nancy influenced his course. She said nothing about it. But there was work in town and work about the hotel; and Nancy kept William interested. And that was not hard to do.
People were building houses in Whitehall. There was a chance to help the carpenters, and to carry brick and mortar. But William wished to learn something of the carpenter’s trade. The opportunity came and he went to work. He was put at sawing boards, notching beams. He saw how rafters were laid, how a frame is studied out and put together. He was only a little way from the Inn now, so that he went over for the noonday meal. He could breakfast at six o’clock and be at work in time. ... In the evening he helped Nancy with her work. . . .
Uncle John Young had not proven an advantage to the business of running the Inn. He was pretty lame, to be sure, but he fell off in energy day by day. He slept late and he played checkers with loungers in the office. He drank, and at times became tight; he ate heavily. His memory was treacherous. He muttered to himself. Eliz¬ abeth Creighton was worried about him. He reminded her of her grandfather who lost his mind. She asked William to look at him and give his opinion. William
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
II
thought John Young was deteriorating. But then it might be drink, or the effect of being in the war. Anyway John Young was queer!
Madison had a hard time of it with malaria. His recov¬ ery was slow. On several Sundays Nancy and William walked out to the farm to see him. Along the way William pointed to fields and woodlands that he would like to buy as soon as he had the money. It was the best thing for the time to be in town; but later he should want to farm, and Nancy agreed to this.
8
In the winter the building fell off and William was with¬ out work in town. The farmer for whom he had hauled the corn wemted William to feed his cattle. William’s father had no cattle yet, and no need of William now. There was nothing to do but take this offered work. . . . A part of the time the snow was deep; and it was very cold from December through to March. William had to get out to the farm at least by four o’clock in the afternoon. The farmer loaned him a horse, for it was too far to walk. Then William would haul corn to the sheds and shovel it into the troughs. It was hard, cold work, for which he was paid a dollar a day. The farmer had a son; but the son had gone to Philadelphia to study medi¬ cine. That left the old man to get along the best way he could. . . . William saved about $50 this winter.
Besides, he had his mornings to himself, or with Nancy. Elizabeth Creighton came down with an attack of rheu¬ matism, and that left Nancy with everything to do. Wil¬ liam helped her with the work. He made beds, swept, carried in wood, shoveled snow and ran errands. By ten
12
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
o’clock the morning’s work was done, and then Nancy read to William.
A good fortune befell them as to books. An agent came along selling the novels of Scott. He had worked in an office until his health had broken. Then the doctor ad¬ vised him to get out and stir around. He took up the selling of books. But he had no gift for it. He had come to Whitehall and canvassed the town, selling two sets. Meantime his board bill grew. He couldn’t pay it, at last, and he offered a set of Scott in settlement. William urged Nancy to take it. And thus they had Scott. They began at the beginning, reading to each other by turns. By spring they had gone through several of the novels.
William had nothing that was fit to wear to church. The best he could do on Sunday was to brush his suit that he wore when not at work. It was a faded and worn affair. He could shave cleanly and polish his shoes, still there was the suit. Nancy wanted William to go to church. The denomination was the Cumberland Presbyterian, and the minister was a genial man of a certain eloquence and a deep sincerity. He had called on Elizabeth Creighton and Nancy; on a second call he met William. Elizabeth and Nancy had become regular attendants of the church from the beginning; and now William must begin. Still the clothes! William did not want just now to buy a suit; later, perhaps. So Nancy went to her grandmother about a doeskin coat kept carefully in a trunk. The coat had belonged to Elizabeth’s husband. They brought it out, and William tried it on. It nearly fitted him. He could have it if he would buy him a pair of trousers to go with the coat. So William took the coat to Elam the tailor to have it altered. He bought the trousers. Now he had a suit for church. Well, his white shirt was not of the right quality. It was not linen. The trunk was opened again and
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
13
William was given a pure linen shirt. He was ready for church now. It was a happy day for William. He could go with Nancy. The grandmother dared not venture into the cold; but after all William could only be with Nancy to the door of the church and from there back to the Inn for the reason that men and women sat separately. But it was wonderful to be with Nancy on the walk back and forth. There was much to talk about.
Spring would soon be here. Then what was to be done with Uncle John Young? He was growing worse. He had had a quarrel with a man on the street, and a fight. Elizabeth was not improving in health. But still the Inn was flourishing, because it was wonderfully kept by Nancy; and by William too, who had an eye to order and cleanliness. He kept the floors scrubbed, and helped Nancy in many ways. For his work William received his board. What he earned feeding cattle was therefore all gain.
9
In the spring John Young became very much worse. He conceived the idea that Elizabeth had his pension money. He went about Whitehall saying that Elizabeth had kept it away from him on account of his drinking, and that it now amounted to $500. Some people believed him, but there was not a word of truth in it. His mind was gradually giving away and this was one of his delu¬ sions. Another was that William was plotting to take the Inn away from Elizabeth and Nancy. That was why William was always around, and at work. And why should William have board free for the little he was doing? Wil¬ liam had supplanted him as manager of the Inn and as helper ! At last he made threats on William’s life. Nancy told William to watch him
14
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
Then one day John Young came to Elizabeth’s room and demanded his $500. He also demanded that William be sent away. When Elizabeth told him to go out of the room, he tried to attack her, but William interfered. At that John Young turned on William. William was too strong for him, and overpowered him. That done, what was to be the next step? William couldn’t spend all his time holding John Young down. He was put in a room and the door locked. Then Nancy went for the doctor. Oh, he was clearly crazy, the doctor said. But who was to make the complaint to the court? William! It was a disagreeable thing to do; but William was in a sense the head of the house, and he did it.
John Young was found insane and sent to an asylum. A guardian was appointed to receive his pension. \v^il- liam’s father, Thomas Houghton, was made the guardian. The two families from Louisville were growing closer together!
With milder weather Elizabeth grew stronger. She came downstairs at last. But one of her hands was stiff. She limped too. She was not able to do much. But she was happy over the way the Inn had been run. It was all as she would have it. What would have happened without William? And how was it to be run now if William went off to other work? Elizabeth offered Wil¬ liam $30 a month and his board if he would go right on as he had been doing. That was a good wage, and he could be with Nancy. He asked Nancy about it. Should he do farming, work in town at the carpenter’s trade, or help around the Inn? “Around the Inn,” said Nancy. Where else could he do so well? And if he liked the work, why not? William was only too glad to stay on; and so that was settled.
Nancy felt something like a permeating flame burning
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
IS
and glowing in her breasts when she was near William. She knew that her eyes kindled; for once she left him suddenly and ran to the mirror to see her eyes; and she saw them with deep pupils and radiant lights. She put her hands to her breasts, for they seemed to stir as with independent life. Delicate languors came over her, and her very blood seemed to etherealize itself in a warm aura about her. She wanted to mother William; she loved to direct him, set him at tasks, reprove him gently; she thought of him as a possession, as her man, her husband. When they were close together in the kitchen her heart would sometimes beat with a high, strong pulsation that kept the blood in a great overflow through all her breast, and her musical voice became more musical when she spoke to him. She sang at her work; and sometimes when she ran back into the kitchen where she had left him, she would lean her head gently against his shoulder, then turn away quickly to her task. She was awake in all her body in this first stirring of her nature for a man; and often in the early morning she would lie in bed and stretch her¬ self and turn, and glow with thoughts of William, as she wondered whether he was still asleep; and as she listened at such times to the call of the redbird, she imagined the redbird calling to her, and singing the desire that had come to her. The song of the redbird was the musical interpretation of her passion.
In the spring William told Nancy that the Inn should have a garden. There was only a little patch of ground back of the Inn; but across from the schoolhouse there was a whole vacant block. The owner would rent it for $10 for the season. But if he sold it in the meantime, the garden might have to be torn up for a builder. William would take the chance, and he sent for Madison to plow
i6
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
it for him. Then he went to work laying the ground off in beds. Nancy helped him with everything. She dropped corn, planted potatoes, sowed peas and turnips . . . she and William together. But Nancy wanted flowers for the dining room. Then they would be pretty to look at from the kitchen window. So William spaded the little plot back of the Inn, and helped Nancy to plant coreopsis, bachelor’s-buttons, poppies, pansies, sweet alyssum. There was a half-wrecked trellis at the back door. William straightened it up, nailed it together. He dug at the foot of it and fertilized the soil. Then Nancy planted morning- glories. With all these things and the running of the Inn, William and Nancy were busy from morning till night. Sometimes in the evening they would read Scott.
By the time the potatoes and peas were grown for use, the flowers were blooming in the back yard. Nancy had flowers on the dining-room table. The fame of the Ken¬ tucky Inn began to spread. . . . But how long was William to continue at this work? Was he to be an innkeeper for life? Something must happen to change things. William was doing well. He had several hundred dollars saved at last, and William wanted land. He dreamed of building himself a good house, after the style of those he had admired in Kentucky, and becoming settled in life. And then something happened that set an ultimate change in preparation.
10
Thomas Houghton, William’s father, took a heavy cold in July and died in three days. Why should a cold take a man off in this way? He had six hundred acres of land, and only a little debt against it. That meant two hundred acres for each of the children. The daughter had mar-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
17
ried a man named Tait. He was from Kentucky too, a dancer and something of a dandy. He wore high-heeled boots, and a bright-colored shirt, and a bandana hand¬ kerchief tied around his neck. He was a fighter, a lively fellow altogether. But Thomas Houghton did not approve the match. The daughter would have it no other way. Now Tait had a farm by the death of Thomas Houghton. For the old man had left a will dividing his property equally among his children. HJe had made it before this marriage. He had said he meant to change it. Death came too unexpectedly. So Tait had the farm without limitations. . . , Madison was married later to the daugh¬ ter of a neighbor farmer. She was a healthy, common woman. Tait and his wife, and Madison and his wife made common cause. They associated together. They wondered about William. What would he do? Could they get along with William in the management of the land? For the old man had bequeathed it to them in common, and only the court could set off shares by metes and bounds. They looked up to William. And feared him too. But without reason. William did not have it in his heart to harm anyone. He had no ambition that would deprive any of them of their rights.
They agreed at last that Tait and Madison should run the whole place and pay William rental upon his part of the land. This was done for two years. Then Tait was attracted by the chances in Nebraska. He wanted to sell his wife’s share. William had some ready money. He borrowed the rest and bought his sister’s interest. He now owned two-thirds of the farm. And Tait and his wife went to Nebraska. Madison and William were in control. But Madison did nothing without consulting William. He abided by William’s judgment on everything.
i8
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
n
Elizabeth Creighton was bedridden half the time now. One day she asked Nancy why she and William did not get married. How could a man and woman be together in work and in diversion day by day over this period of time without wanting to be married? Nancy told her grandmother that William had never asked her to marry him. And that was true. But why?
William could not have explained this himself. For one thing he was with Nancy from the early morning until the evening was over. There was always so much to do. There was the garden, there was the work around the Inn. There were many things to occupy his energies and his thoughts. He had kept Nancy in mind as his wife to be, almost from the day he saw her in front of the Inn when he was hauling brick. But as he was sure it was to be, he lived with the thought as with something that was settled. Meantime there were all these interests together; and he did nothing with his farm without con¬ sulting Nancy. They were living a life of marriage, all but the life that meant children. That specific thing had not taken possession of William’s thought. It had never occurred to him to possess Nancy before he married her. But Nancy carried in her breast the dream of motherhood, and William had been chosen by her for the father of her children, and her great passion would have dedicated itself to William at any time he might have come to himself. She knew William had chosen her. Why else his self- denial in her behalf; his kindness to her; his humility, simplicity before her; his unfailing good nature; his charity for everyone, born, as she hoped, of his love for her? And what man was ever so truthful, so sincere?
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 19
Where in the world could she replace the devotion of William?
On baking days she was cross sometimes. But William never turned a word. If she changed her mind a dozen times he went on to do as she directed, without expressing dissent or even surprise. His attitude meant: Nancy wishes it this way. William adjusted himself to Nancy in these unusual moods of hers. And Nancy, penitent afterward, overflowed her measure of good will toward William. ... In addition to everything else, William didn’t want to marry Nancy simply because he had fallen into a course of life in helping to run the Inn. The Inn was not his. He was thinking all the while of the farm he was to own, of the house he was to build. He was not able up to the time of his father’s death to own or to build. The future had cleared. And perhaps he would have asked Nancy to marry him now of his own accord if Elizabeth Creighton had not etched the vision for him with her on-looking and objective eyes.
It was on a day when she was suffering more than usual. She had been having fears for her life. John Young was in the asylum. He was no use if he were here. With her own death what would become of Nancy? She would marry William, no doubt. But if so, why should her own mind not be at rest in the last hours? Why should this marriage not be at once? She sent for William. “Grandma wants to see you, William,” said Nancy. She was in a glow, surmising what it was about. William hur¬ ried to the old lady’s room.
Elizabeth Creighton spoke to William of the marriage as if it were something which had long been planned, long been understood, but which for no reason, or because of the intervention of other things, had been postponed. The
20
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
time to do it had been all the time, any time. It was apples hanging ready to pick any day that came right to pick them. This was the way William felt about it. He had no other thought but this. As he mused on the mat¬ ter he saw that he had allowed the daily life of tasks and associations to suffice, as they had sufficed. They had absorbed in a golden glow of delight all more flaming emotions. But it had to be . . . that was clear. And as soon as Elizabeth Creighton saw William’s mind, that he was a boy in a sense and needed the help of a more definite mind and its emphasis, she urged him to ask Nancy, and get a minister this very day. She might die tomorrow and she wanted this settled,
William went to the kitchen to find Nancy. He didn’t say to Nancy that the grandmother wanted it settled. He went through a proposal to Nancy. He told her that he wanted to go out to the farm and begin to build it up. He wanted someone to go with him. Would Nancy go as his wife? That was the only way she could go. For here at the Inn the grandmother was the head of the house. At the farm he would be master. And he could only be so as Nancy’s husband. That’s the way it seemed to him. Then it would be just as well to have Elizabeth Creighton relieved of the Inn. She didn’t do much about it to be sure; but she was the head of it. And in case of a mar¬ riage and a removal Elizabeth should go with them.
Nancy wanted to know when the marriage was to be. “Now,” said William, “this afternoon.” Nancy accepted it as a matter of course, as if William had said, “Time to read Scott again.” So she told him to go for the minister. Then she put her hands into the sink, and closed her eyes, as she stood, while her blood warmed and her heart sang.
5'HE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
21
12
On his way for the minister William stopped at the bank to get a five-dollar gold piece. That was to be the minister’s fee. Also he drew some more money and went to the jeweler, Moss, to buy Nancy a ring. Moss was a Jew but had lived so long in Whitehall among the Gentiles that he was one of them. He was the only Jew in the town. They called him a white Jew. He asked Moss about a ring. And Moss went to his safe, and brought forth a special tray.
Here was a gold ring which had been ordered for some¬ one else, and had not been called for. Solid gold, and guaranteed, twenty carats fine, heavy and thick, would last more than a lifetime. It was only $io. It was just what William wanted. But he had only drawn $io in all. He had the jeweler wait while he stepped back to the bank and got the rest of the money. Then he returned and went away with the ring.
Hje brought the clergyman with him. When they got back to the Inn Nancy was in the kitchen washing the noonday dishes. Where should the ceremony be per¬ formed? In Elizabeth Creighton’s room. She couldn’t witness it otherwise. Nancy rolled down her sleeves and came with William, and they were married in the presence of Elizabeth. William put the ring on Nancy’s finger. Then they returned together to the kitchen. William was going to help Nancy finish the work while the clergy¬ man remained to talk with Elizabeth.
For days before this Nancy had been preparing her room for the reception of William, just as if she knew definitely that she would be married to him this day. She had put the best linen on the bed, and the finest of
22
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
her coverlets, the work of herself and Elizabeth, She had changed the hangings at the windows, making new ones: glazed chintz of red for the outer hangings, and cream netting for the inner. The redbird and the summer clouds had inspired her hands. She had painted the floor too, which was made of broad boards: and laid pieces of bright-colored rag carpet before the little bureau, and by the side of the bed; and she had placed vases of dried rose leaves here and there in the room, and scattered some of them inside the pillow slips. . . . All these things she had done when she stole away from William, playing with this dream of a mating as a little girl plays with her doll. . . . And when the night came and the work was done, she took William by the hand to lead him away to a pool of clear water in the wood. . . . With her head archly tilted on one side, her eyes very deep, she had said, “Come, William.” Then she stretched her hands about his neck, and he took her close to him, feeling how firm and warm and vital was her yearning body. . . . She rushed from the Inn then, and William followed her to the pool. Here in the starlight she undressed and dived into the water, followed by William. . . . She came forth laughing and dancing, and dressed and ran back to the Tnn. By the time William could follow her she was out in the road; and when she saw him coming she ran, and William ran. But she was in her room before William caught up with her, so swift was she of foot. . . . The door was ajar, and William pushed it and entered, his nostrils greeted by the scent of the rose leaves. . , . Nancy was already in bed. Her blood was murmuring like a flame, but she was hiding her head in the pillow in the ecstasy of the moment.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
23
13
The clergyman had been struck with the great beauty of Nancy. Such black hair, and great hazel eyes, such richness of coloring, such fineness of nose, sweetness and delicacy of mouth! He was struck by the oval perfection of her face, the highness and conicalness of her brow. The clergyman saw much. He had observed her hands, the hard, shell-like nails. He had sensed the rhythmical outlines of her slender, graceful body. He was wondering about her stock.
Elizabeth Creighton told the minister that Nancy was Irish. She, herself, was of Irish blood; Nancy’s father was Irish. But was he? Wilson! At any rate, there were Spaniards who came to Ireland during the Armada, and never left it. They married Irish women. And Nancy looked Spanish to the minister. This was his talk to Elizabeth Creighton about Nancy. Elizabeth boasted with a little laugh that she had Indian blood in her veins. That accoxmted for Nancy’s black hair, her coloring, her swift, strong body. Perhaps it was true, and who knew but Elizabeth? Or who knew but her that Nancy was born out of wedlock? William should never know it— well, if he did it would make no difference to him, perhaps. . . .
14
When the fall came Nancy and William: went to the garden to gather seeds for the next year. They had planted tall and short peas. And now Nancy was particu¬ lar to keep the seeds of the two separate. She had two bags. William was gathering the short peas, and Nancy the tall. Then they tied the bags and marked them “tall”
24 THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
and “short.” Next spring they could keep the rows separate.
The thing now was to dispose of the tavern. Nancy could scarcely wait to move out. It was hard work, this running the Inn. But it was so much indoors. She wanted to be out in the fields, in a big yard. She wanted to raise more flowers, have a larger garden. She wanted a hive of bees. The redbirds whistled in the morning around the roof of the Inn, in an old tree. William must catch her one and make her a cage. Anything in the way of a musical sound thrilled Nancy. Music opened up to her visions of far-off things, places of strange enchant¬ ment. What was in the world, beyond the horizon some¬ where that called to her when she heard musical sounds? And these delicious sensations became more vivid after a certain day when William and Nancy had been married a month.
Something had happened. She felt quite sure of it. It was like seeing a bright star suddenly upon emerging from a wood. Once she and William after walking over the farm, had cut through a patch of timber at nightfall. It was dark in there, and they battled through the thicket. Then they came all at once to the clearing . . . and there level with Nancy’s eyes was this bright star! She saw it before she was conscious of the flaming sky in which the star was set. And it was then that she turned to William and drew him to her with a kiss. That was after they had been married a few days. They often rambled in this way, and called it their honeymoon.
Perhaps the star was Hesperus. But this consciousness of something vital and exalting, which was like seeing the star unexpectedly, also came to Nancy when William was with her. They were in the yard of the Inn, for it was a warm evening in October. The redbird whistled sud-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
25
denly, and Nancy saw the star again. Then she seemed to know. She took William’s hand and told him. He was very happy, but he did not speak. It was too dusk for him to see Nancy’s eyes. He didn’t look her way. He only pressed her hand.
They couldn’t move to the farm until late February or early March. That was on account of the grandmother. The log house was too cold, and Elizabeth was used to a warm room in the Inn. Then there was the matter of sell¬ ing the Inn before they moved.
It wasn’t long before Nancy felt life moving in her. With this sensation she felt her breasts harden. She experienced a deluge of vitality emptied into her being. She seemed to rise as if upon wings. Enormous strength lifted her out of herself. She wanted to tell William. But how could she describe these feelings? There were no words for them. But there came a morning when the child seemed to turn over in her, as if better to pillow itself, or as if awakening from lusty sleep. Then she took William’s hand and put it upon her where the child lay. By now it had quieted. But in a moment it repeated its change of position, and kicked, so that Nancy cried out with laughter. “That is a boy, William,” she said. “Such strength does not belong to girls.” But William thought it might have its mother’s strength, and be a girl for that reason. No, it was a boy. Nancy was sure of that. But time had to tell.
15
Nancy was four months in her maternity when they moved to the farm. She lifted, and packed, and ran the Inn up to the last day without any change of habit. Eliz¬ abeth Creighton warned Nancy. But she was sure she knew what she could safely do . . . ^d she went ahead-
26
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
An old man named Russell Phelps had bought the Inn. He had run a hotel at Aledo and knew the business. Moss, the jeweler, had written him about the Inn. And he had come to see it. A patronage had been built up; then there were the furnishings that Elizabeth Creighton had added to the equipment, saving a few pieces of mahogany that she wished to take to the farm, as well as some china, and all her silver. These were heirlooms.
They moved out the last day of February. It was a little cold. But William had the room in the log house warm for the grandmother. As for Nancy and himself, it did not matter. . . . This was the house in which Wil¬ liam’s father had lived. Madison had a better place for that matter. ... It was small, but built of frames, and well plastered. Madison had come with his man and his teams to move William to the farm; and his wife was helping Nancy. For she found it a little hard to stoop or to kneel. The floors had to be scrubbed. For any work that could be done in an erect position Nancy asked for no help. Madison and his wife stayed to supper the first night William and Nancy were on the farm. Madi¬ son looked up to William, and they were good friends all around. Madison’s wife stood in awe of Nancy, for she had no children, and perhaps never would have. And here was Nancy who was to be a mother in June.
Life was changed now, for William had to be away and gone a good deal. He was plowing as soon as the frost was out of the ground. He was buying seed corn. He was busy the whole day long. On rainy days there was harness to mend and seeds to sort. But he helped Nancy in the morning and at evening. A hired man came whose name was Scofield. He was a carpenter, and an ingenious worker with tools. Nancy set him to work on rainy days at making a bird cage for her. He finished it at last, all
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
27
of walnut stays and good wire. Then William caught Nancy a redbird. And so she sat and listened to the clear, rippling call of the redbird, and felt the child turn and kick in her. She was weaving a carpet, and making dainty things for the child. And there was the cooking to be done for William and Scofield and the grandmother, who was now scarcely ever up, and suffered dreadfully at times.
Nancy selected the spot for the vegetable garden, and William plowed it for her. When the ground was ready they did the planting together, as they had done before. All the seeds had been put in little bags and marked. And when they came to the peas they were able to plant rows of short and rows of tall and not mix the two. Nancy wished everything in order. And they had a flower garden too, more beautiful than the one at the Inn.
An orchard had to be set out, and smaller fruit. In fifteen years the orchard would bear. Nancy wanted bell¬ flowers. And Elizabeth suggested gentians, a good winter apple growing mellow and fragrant in the holidays. Wil¬ liam managed to get the orchard set out. But not all of the smaller fruit. There was too much to do for this first spring. Next spring! But fifteen years for an orchard. They would be middle-aged people then, thirty-five or so. Well, perhaps they would outlive two orchards or more. That did not concern them now, but only the first orchard.
It was the day before Nancy’s child was born. William had to have an early breakfast these days, there was so much to do; and Scofield too was working with a lusty good will. William was away off in the field, for he was cultivating the sixty-acre patch. It ran from the road to an upland on which the country schoolhouse stood. Nancy was out in the garden. There was a warm June breeze which blew and tangled her skirts about her, and twisted the song of the meadowlark into coils of sound, as if it
28
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
were strands of silk. The glistening filaments of it which came to her were dropped by the breeze when it turned her way. Nancy looked up into the sky. She had nothing but happiness in her life. She could see William walking contentedly behind the cultivator, and her breasts tight¬ ened, her being flooded with delicious flame. William was her man; that was what Nancy thought to herself. And William was singing as he worked. She could make out the words at times when the breeze megaphoned them; but she could hear the tune all the time. She began to sing what William was singing and in unison with him:
I suppose you’ve all heard of Washington the great.
And likewise the Perry boys sailing down the lake.
How they drove the British two to one And made them take their places.
Many a battle there was fought.
And many a brave man there was shot.
So we’ll open the ring and choose a couple in To relieve the broken-hearted.
Nancy walked through the garden. How things grew in this rich soil of Illinois! The potatoes were tall and deep green. And such rows of peas! But something had happened. After all her care to keep the tall peas and the short peas separate, why these tall and short peas in the same row? Nancy kneeled down to look more closely. Then the child kicked terrifically. She experienced real pain. Well, the peas were what they were! Next year more care must be taken.
Madison’s wife was at the house, ready to send for the doctor. But Nancy did not think it would be necessary. Besides there was an old woman, the wife of the country blacksmith not g mile off, who knew about such things.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
29
Elizabeth Creighton would have answered; but she was helpless and had to be waited on herself.
The next morning Nancy felt the pains coming on her, at first intermittently, and then steadily. She did not tell William for fear he would stay away from work; and there was no need of that. She got the breakfast and did the work. William was in the field by six o’clock.
After he was gone the pains settled into a steady pulL Nancy told Madison’s wife, who wanted to saddle a horse and go for the doctor. But quickly Nancy lay upon the bed, and her child was born, all in a few minutes. She needed no help. . . . Madison’s wife was running for the old midwife. When she came Nancy was lying quite at ease, the child at her breast. Then the midwife took it and dressed it, and cared for Nancy.
Nancy had made a crib of a clothes basket. She had lined it with soft pink cloth; she had made a little pillow. She had knitted little socks and sewed little garments of white flannel. The midwife found everything ready and in order. Now that the child was bathed and dressed, the midwife brought it to Nancy. Nancy began to whisper to it and sing to it. The soft silken hair of its little head tickled Nancy’s breast, and sent a thrill through her. She kept its head in the soft warm hollow between her breasts, and her hand at its little back. The midwife said the child could not nurse for a while. Meantime its lips should be moistened with a little warm water. The milk would be too rich for it now. But of course Nancy’s breasts had to be relieved, and the midwife did that.
Nancy’s baby was a boy. His head was quite round, not much flattened by the experience of coming into the world. Nancy looked at him. She knew what he was. He was herself and William . . . oh, she was sure he was the best part of both of them. She knew that he was a
30
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
strong child. No one could tell now what his eyes would be. They were a liquid deep slate now, without pupils. But they would be dark like hers in time. He had fine little legs and arms and a round body. The coloring was inclined to be copperish, rusty and red in spots. But as soon as he cleared up, he would be the light ivory of her¬ self, hued with the red of rich blood.
As usual, Nancy had put up a luncheon for William this morning. He sat down day by day under a tree near the schoolhouse. But Nancy had told William that when the event was at hand she would have Madison’s wife wave a white cloth from the back door, until he saw it. All the morning William waited for the signal. They had calculated the days, and knew that the time was at hand. But no signal, no, not until William was about to take his place for luncheon under the tree. Then he saw the white cloth waved again and again, whirled in a semi¬ circle. He was more than half a mile away. The horses were already feeding. But he started quickly for the house. The birth had taken place at eight o’clock. It was now half after eleven. And William entered to find Nancy at ease, the child in her arms, the midwife gone, and no doctor at all. Madison’s wife was getting the noonday meal. William came up to the bed, leaned over to look at the child. He took it in his arms, oh, after being cautioned by Nancy to handle him carefully. Then Nancy told William that all had been well with her.
William asked Nancy what they should name him. Nancy had chosen the name of Walter Scott. They had read together a short sketch of Scott’s life; how Scott was an outdoor man, a lawyer, a sheriff, an unceasing worker; a staunch friend; a heart of constant nobilities; a lover of horses and dogs, and a hearty life, and great friendships; and rich hospitalities; and how in the end
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
31
he worked without complaining in an effort to pay debts that he might well have shirked if he had been a man of legal expedients. Yes, Walter Scott! That pleased Wil¬ liam. He had not thought of it. But he remembered all that he and Nancy had read of Scott. He saw what Nancy had in mind. And so it was: Walter Scott Houghton.
Perhaps the child had a little French blood in him with all the rest of the strains. But he is not to be a dwarf pea. No matter about the mixing of the bags, so far as Walter Scott Houghton is concerned.
16
William’s orchard came on in time: fifteen years for an orchard, twenty for children. . . . William had built him the house of which he had dreamed; built of brick too, and of fourteen rooms. There were only five children when he built the house, but who could tell how many more there would be? Nancy wanted a round dozen. To raise children was more interesting than to have a garden. Well, one could do both ... if one could; and Nancy could. When the fifth child was born W’illiam told Nancy it was time now to build the big house. He had the means to do it. Elizabeth Creighton had died and left Nancy a few hundred dollars, besides much good linen, some mahogany, and a few pieces of silver. But most of all, William had prospered. He had gone into stock raising and selling. He had a sixth sense for the market, when to buy and when to sell. And he had some thousands out at interest. . . . Madison’s wife had died, and Madison had disappeared without a word to anyone. Who would pay the taxes on Madison’s land? No one did at first and the land was sold for the taxes. Then in the following
32
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
years William paid the taxes and took the receipts. Seven years’ payment of taxes, with possession and claim and color of title give one the ownership. A lawyer told William this. He had taken a deed to the land on the sale. If Madison were dead, or never returned, well and good . . . but if he came back sometime? And he did come back. It was at the end of the sixth year. William had no money to spare now. He had spent it all in building the house. What should be done? William offered to deed the land back to Madison upon return of what he had paid out for the taxes, and Madison could have time to make the reimbursement. Or William would give Mad¬ ison the value of the land in money, less the taxes which he had paid. Madison chose to sell. William had to borrow money at the bank for this. But he owned the six hundred acres and his credit was sterling. He was bor¬ rowing money all the time at the bank for his cattle busi¬ ness. If he had not built the house he would have had money of his own with which to pay off Madison. But the house had cost him a good sum . . . but it was a good house.
Nancy and William had studied through an old atlas that had belonged to Thomas Houghton, in arriving at designs and plans for the house. At last they found one that pleased them. It was a two-story front with a two- story porch, very wide and flagged with broad limestones. The windows and doors were large. The ell was only a story and a half. Through the main building a wide hall¬ way ran; on either side of it, large rooms: a parlor, a living room, and a chamber for William and Nancy. Off the living room there was a conservatory for flowers, all of glass. William had built this for Nancy. She kept her canaries here and her redbirds, and it was a convenient place for early growths and settings, and for winter flow-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
33
ers. All the second floor was taken up with sleeping chambers for the children. The upstairs of the ell had rooms for the help, the girl, the man. But Scofield had vanished. He got drunk one time at Whitehall, and never came back. Madison came to live with William. He was a good helper, but he needed direction, for he had no head of his own. There was thus a good-sized household, with five children and Madison.
Walter Scott was dearer to Nancy than any of the others; but they did not know it. All were treated alike. Not one had anything better than any of the others. But Walter Scott was closer to Nancy. He was perfection in her eyes. His vitality and his strength were phenomenal. His physical beauty arrested the attention of everyone. He was a swift runner, a great jumper, a tireless swimmer, a wonderful perfection of body and mind. . . . Then there were Amy and Lucy and Hannah and Herbert. Herbert was the next best thing to Walter, fine of body and mind, but with a shadow’s inferiority. All had brown or hazel eyes like Nancy ... all but Amy, the oldest daughter, whose eyes were a deep purple. All were black¬ haired. Amy looked English or Welsh. Lucy looked French. She had an expression not unlike Moliere’s. She was very dark, laughed greatly, and had immense endurance, and a tongue that said brief, quick things that hurt with the sting of intuitive truth. By fourteen she had developed a slight mustache, and was resorting to ways to eradicate it. These left her upper lip a little blue and white, as of a powder. She was very sensitive to this unfemale feature, and would scratch if anyone spoke of it. Strangely, she was Walter Scott’s favorite sister. Amy was quite beautiful, but curiously concentrated and aspir¬ ing. This did not suit Walter Scott. He played and chummed with Lucy; and he saw to it that Herbert
34
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
learned to swim and to ride wild horses. He was not like Walter Scott in respect to fearlessness. He was a little timid. If there was a wild horse to be broken, or a danger to meet, Walter Scott came forward.
How Nancy loved her brood ! She had no thought but to have the home a perfect thing. The food was good, the beds were good. Nancy made quilts and comforters. She bought pretty blankets, and she and William con¬ sulted about the matter of the children’s education. Lucy had a passion for music, and William generously bought her a Mathushek. It was a square piano, with great plums and heavy leaves carved in the rosewood of the legs. Lucy learned to play with some skill, while Amy studied languages. She also read essays and the novels of George Eliot. There was the set of Scott too which all the children went through more or less. They were sent to near-by academies; at last away to school. The girls took to this. But not the boys. Herbert could not be kept away from this beloved home. And Walter Scott tried Greek and Latin at several places. Then returned like the Prodigal Son to serve in any way that father William wished him to do.
17
Walter Scott is past twenty years of age. The other children follow close after him. He is generous, amiable, quick of speech, humorous. He is full of odd jests. He keeps Nancy in a roar of laughter. He plays practical jokes. He takes immense enjoyment in seeing someone in a ludicrous and sudden discomfiture. The hired man is made the subject of many pranks. Walter Scott will not shrink from a row. He can fight. He has knocked down a bully or two. He has saved a chum from the
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
35
knife of a drunken desperado at Whitehall. Walter Scott has knocked the desperado into a senseless heap, just as the knife was about to be used. He can outrun anyone with whom he is matched; and outjump anyone. He swims a mile with perfect ease. He rides the wildest horse. He has no fears. . . . He has great loves . . . they are his mother, Nancy, and his sister Lucy. And they adore him. For his father Walter Scott has pro¬ found admiration. He is tormented when he displeases William, when he falls below William’s standards.
So now that he is home from school he is striving to earn again the confidence of his father. Walter Scott has done an erratic thing. He can’t altogether understand it himself. His father had sent him to college, and he had run away from school to be a street-car conductor in Philadelphia. There was a reason for this, but how to tell it, that was the difficulty. How to make William understand, who had not gone to college himself, what it was like? How to make the father understand the thou¬ sand things that destroy the pleasure and benefit of col¬ lege life? A student has the politics of the school to handle. There are the societies, the clubs, the cliques, the pulling and hauling. There is the life at the boarding house. There is the shortness of the time in which to do anything. There are the lessons committed between all sorts of interruptions; and the personalities of teachers. No chance to become deeply absorbed in well-loved studies. All is haste, business, a college mode of life, an atmosphere. Besides, Walter Scott is not a student. He is a liver. He can’t tell William about the college; he doesn’t like to confess that he is not a student. Well, William knows this perhaps. For Walter Scott is back home. And Nancy is happy; but she is wondering what is in the boy, and if he is going to prove wild, and not
36
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
devote himself to something. That will not do for Nancy’s favorite child.
Nothing has been lacking in Walter Scott’s environ¬ ment. The ecology has been good. He has seen thrift and intelligence the moving factors in the lives of William and Nancy. He has seen beauty in the order and taste of Nancy’s daily life; in her silk dresses, and bonnets kept so carefully in a closet; in her shoes standing all in a row, polished or brushed and ready for wear; in her pins and the gold watch, the gift of William, all of the most excellent quality, carefully used, as carefully treas¬ ured when not in use. Yes, he has helped Nancy with her flowers, and rambled with her in the woods looking for beautiful blossoms or leaves, or banks and hills of shade and shadows, and sweet-scented retreats. And he has been about this stately old house ever since it was built, in which the ways of daily life, sleep and food, compan¬ ionship and play, and even music, since Lucy learned the piano, have moved like a lovely stream of unchanging course.
No, Walter Scott will be like his namesake, in whom honor and truth and devotion to the tasks and the respon¬ sibilities of life shone with such splendor. For there is also before the eyes of Walter Scott the figure of William, who is the most esteemed man of the whole country around. He is reputed to have done his duty always, and by everyone; and it is true of him. He has acquired riches by work and by fair inheritance. No one envies him. His door is open to the stranger; his purse to the unfortunate. It is known that he could have kept Madi¬ son’s land for the taxes it cost him to gain the title, and that he took no advantage of that, but paid Madison full measure. A high-minded deed in a low-minded world! And this world about him takes note and remembers.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
37
And William, too, lives in order. He has a better doeskin coat than that Elizabeth Creighton gave him years ago. He keeps it hung away for special occasions. And like¬ wise the large gold watch, which some day is to be the property of Walter Scott, for his name is already engraved in it.
This is the environment of Walter Scott; and surely after these little erratic behaviors are past— due, it must be, to an excess of vitality which shakes and topples his machine — he will obey his blood inheritance. Nancy sees that he has will, and courage, and persistence, and hope, and good spirits. She is not afraid for his future. Only she wishes that he had stayed in school; and that he had not run off to Philadelphia.
Meanwhile he is not scolded. He has told the boys at school of the life of his father and mother, how they were always together, made the garden together, went always together, had no desire for any place in the world except the spot and the house that they had chosen in the world for their own. Now that Walter Scott was back from the failure at school he watched Nancy and William to verify, to enjoy over again what he had seen his father and mother do day by day in their life together. Surely it was more beautiful than he had described. It would not do to deceive or disappoint such souls as Nancy and Wil¬ liam. One would be punished for it. Gods were about and were watching. But suppose one is not a student? William was not, for that matter. He never had the opportunity to study; but if the student’s gift had been his, he would have made the opportunity. Walter Scott justified himself in this way, for his purpose was to work at whatever his father wished him to now that he was back home and without a pursuit of his own.
It was now that Lucy became ill. At school she had
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
38
been struck on the breast with a slate in the careless hands of another girl. It didn’t seem of moment at first. But a hard place came, and that was very sensitive. Then the place broke and began to run. Nancy exhausted her knowledge of healing in caring for the girl. She was with her as constantly as possible. Then they hired a woman to help care for Lucy; for Nancy had the running of the house; she had her flowers, the clothing to make and mend, the knitting to do. She was as busy as in the old days at the Inn, even to the molding of candles, in which William helped her at night as he used to do before they were married. Nancy would get the mold ready, and William would drop in the wicks and help Nancy pour the hot tallow into the forms. There were lamps in the house, and even chandeliers for great occasions; but all the same, candles were indispensable for going about. And they had to be used for the lanterns when William or Nancy went out in the darkness about the cows or horses, or into the chicken house.
And sometimes the doctor had to be brought to see Lucy. Sometimes Herbert went for the doctor; but oftener it was Walter Scott. If it had always been Her¬ bert. Well, Walter Scott’s life would have been different, if Herbert had always gone for the doctor!
Nothing happens out of the ordinary on the many occa¬ sions when Walter Scott goes for the doctor, until a cer¬ tain day. And even on that day nothing happens of which he is conscious. Only someone is moving towards him. He can’t see this; for the person, the woman who is coming to him, is starting from New Jersey, and that is a thousand miles from where Walter Scott is as he leaves off playing cards with his uncle Madison in the barn, and obeys Nancy’s call to go for Dr. Whitley for Lucy.
Dr. Whitley is the uncle by marriage of Fanny Pren-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
39
tice, who at this moment — the hour being five at Prince¬ ton, New Jersey, and four at Whitehall, Illinois — ^is step¬ ping from the porch of her father’s house on the way to Beardstown, Illinois, and a little later to Whitehall. First to visit a brother at Beardstown, then a sister at White¬ hall, the wife of Dr. Whitley.
Walter Scott is on a horse trotting east to Whitehall; and Fanny Prentice has entered the train which has started west for Illinois.
CHAPTER II
I
Rev. Reason Prentice! He has been a minister at Salisbury, Connecticut. Like Jonathan Edwards a hun¬ dred years before, he has come to an issue with his con¬ gregation, and has left the church to become a teacher. Like Jonathan Edwards, he has denoimced members of his flock for certain faithless ways, and these members, not yielding to his inflexible will, his dark and imperious discipline, have forced Rev. Reason Prentice to abide with them as they are, or go his way. And he has gone his way.
He has come to Princeton, not as president of the col¬ lege, as Jonathan Edwards did, but as a teacher of Hebrew in the Theological School. This augurs well for him, per¬ haps; for he lives a number of years. While Jonathan Edwards had no sooner started upon his presidency than God touched him in the form of a quick malady and he departed this life to enter glory. That left his son-in-law, Aaron Burr, to the presidency of the college, and his grandson, Aaron Burr, to the cherry tree in the yard of the president’s house from which the future killer of Alexander Hamilton could throw cherries at pious old women who came to consult his father, the Rev, Aaron Burr, on matters of sin and soul destiny. The Rev. Aaron Burr was a man of God; but his son, Aaron Burr, was of a spirit unknown both to his parents, and to the world later.
40
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
41
And the case is the same with Rev. Reason Prentice and Fanny Prentice, his daughter. He is of the highest spirituality, and makes the good life and the Christian faith his meditation day and night. Of course, there are matters of creed, about which people perversely differ. Yet it is all written so plainly that whoso runs may read. The Rev. Reason Prentice, therefore, stands firm by the letter of Holy Writ, from which its living spirit is to be drawn. For this resolution he has lost his congregation, and descended to the teaching of Hebrew. It is a descent. He is no longer the ruler of a flock, and his income has shrunk. He is scarcely the ruler of his own household. Mrs. Prentice is losing patience. She has sacrificed much to his mere interpretation of the Bible, as Reason Pren¬ tice has translated the Bible into the conduct of life. She is beginning to find life harder and harder as Reason’s perspective narrows. For the gate to heaven is a needle’s eye, and one must shrink to get through. Camels and obese souls are badly squeezed. So as Aaron Burr had the son Aaron Burr, Rev. Reason Prentice has the daugh¬ ter, Fanny Prentice, whose soul he did not know, and whose soul no one ever knew.
Reason Prentice’s son years before had emigrated to Beardstown, Illinois, and married and made that place his home. His name was David Prentice. And a little later a daughter, Miriam Prentice, had gone west to teach school, and had married Dr. Whitley of Whitehall, Illi¬ nois. So that, as Fanny Prentice starts for Beardstown and is soon coming to Whitehall to visit her sister Miriam; pnd as Walter Scott Houghton must at times go for Dr. Whitley to bring him to attend Lucy Houghton, bed¬ ridden from a wounded breast, there is every chance ini the world that Walter Scott and Fanny will meet!.
42
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
2
Fanny Prentice was leaving home for a number of rea¬ sons. She was now seventeen years old, and more expen¬ sive to support than formerly. A visit west for a few months would relieve Rev. Reason Prentice of the burden of feeding her. That would help him a little. There were four other children left, boys and girls, and all younger than Fanny. Mrs. Prentice had proven fruitful, and it taxed the resources of Hebrew to keep the house going. This was why Mrs. Prentice was not so good-humored as formerly. If her husband had kept the church they would not have to be so pressed in their living. Church mem¬ bers, when pleased with the pastor, can do much for him. There are pound parties, and the gift of chickens, turkeys, and hams. None of these benefactions come to a teacher of Hebrew.
Fanny Prentice shared her mother’s dissatisfaction with the life that had come to them in Princeton. And Reason Prentice, with his eyes fixed on heaven, nevertheless sensed Fanny’s attitude. He could bear with the mother’s outspoken discontent, but he was not called upon to tol¬ erate a f reward and ungracious daughter. Not that Fanny spoke rudely to her father. She brought his slippers, and waited upon him precisely as before; but it was in silence.
And Reason Prentice knew that darkness moved in her heart.
He was sending her west with the hope that it might prove fortunate for Fanny. She might learn to teach school in that wild country; or she might marry. That would settle her life. And there was a graver reason for having her out of the house. Mrs. Prentice had the sharp¬ est tongue that was ever hung in the mouth of a woman. When she turned upon Reason she quoted Scripture, and
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
43
that alone. But he always found himself routed and un¬ done. YeSj she had the sharpest tongue of all known women until Fanny began to talk. Then the supremacy passed to Fanny. The result was that when Fanny and her mother came to points, there was the ring of fine steel, and drops of blood starred with sparks of fire. Reason Prentice could not concentrate upon Hebrew with these combats conducted under his nose; and he had no power to prevent them. He had suffered in authority over his wife by leaving the church; and the daughter took her cue from the mother. Poverty had unsettled the natures of these two; but they proved conclusively that Hate is the opposite of Love, and a wonderful sharpener of thoughts and reasons.
All in all, Fanny was glad to leave home. Something wonderful might be in store for her. But life cannot be worse an3rwhere than it is with Hebrew. At the last Mrs. Prentice has grown tender, seeing that Fanny is leaving, perhaps never to return. She has helped Fanny pack, and made up a lunch box for her, enough to last all the way to Indianapolis. From there it is only a few hours to Beardstown, and David Prentice has been written of Fanny’s coming, and there will be a guest dinner for Fanny. Mrs. Prentice tells Fanny to beware of strangers along the way, not to come into conversation with men who may make advances to her. A little extra money has been raised for Fanny’s drab little purse; and Reason has taken one of his Bibles and inscribed it to Fanny. This she must read morning and night. It will be a com¬ fort along the way.
3
Fanny has shed no tears at departure. No one has shed tears. As the train speeds west her nature grows
44
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
lighter, freer, as of wings aerified from the mucilaginous secretions of the shell. No one has ever told her that she is beautiful. She has not been permitted to have a beau; she has never gone with a man or a boy, no, not even to approved places like church, or entertainments given by the church. Sometimes her mother has spoken about the fineness of her brown hair, which vexed the comb with its delicate tendrils, and resisted straightening around the whitest of necks. Sometimes Mrs. Prentice has observed that Fanny’s complexion was like her own, being white as snow, and fine with that fineness of thinnest film of milk, and flushed with the auroral hue of a shell. But who had ever praised Fanny’s beauty with ardor? No one. Hence she had no thought of it. . . . Even her mother had never mentioned Fanny’s eyes. They were blue, and looked through one. They gave off rays like helium. They sparkled as of sea salts in the fire. She had been stared at on the way. One or more men had stopped to look at her. One had offered to help her with her baggage. She was riding in a chair car, doubling down in the seat at night to sleep. One morning she awoke to find a man standing by her seat, his eyes fixed upon her. He winced and walked on as Fanny pierced him with her startled look.
But at Indianapolis Fanny had to change cars and wait for her train. She was very tired and stiff. Two nights on the train now, and the sleeping in this cramped position had almost made her lame. There was chance now to walk out a little. Besides, the waiting room was hot and fetid. And Fanny went to the platform at the rear of the station to which the buses and carriages came for pas¬ sengers. She was walking up and down, feeling a little sick and a good deal tired. The west grated upon her nerves. She was quite conscious of a different land and
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
45
a different people from, those she had known. She looked about her at the buildings, the houses. They were not what she had known in Connecticut and Princeton. Dirt here, and great disorder, and a sprawl of things; and haste and familiarity between people, and strange, dirty men, and thin, pale women carrying babies, followed by a crying brood; and old men wearing heavy beards, yel¬ lowed with tobacco, hatted in large felts and dressed in rough blue suits.
As Fanny was observing these things, a man of about forty had been watching her. He saw how white and pink she was, how trim and well filled her figure was. A catch perhaps! And he came to her. Fanny saw him now, and anticipating his accosting her, her eyes began to sparkle, not with delight but with curiosity. He was not bad to look at, nor xmfavorably dressed. And when he spoke his voice was pleasant enough. Fanny stood calmly to see what he would say and how he would say it, even though she despised him for this familiarity. . . . What he proposed was that she get in his carriage and take a ride over the town. He would show her the town. Doubtless she was waiting for a train. He was. He had come to meet a brother of his wife . . . the wife had died but a few weeks before. Fanny had all the man’s story in a few words. Yes, and his name was Richard Morris ; he owned a factory in Indianapolis. He went on. Fanny sprayed him with sparks from her eyes. The man felt a change go through his entire being. In an instant he thought of Fanny as his wife. Why not? She was a miracle of clear flesh and vital spirits. He was a good sort, that was the truth; and he tried to make Fanny see this. She let him talk, answering not a word, looking him straight in the eye. He felt himself weakening, something giving way in him, all the stays and supports in him part-
46
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
ing and falling. His being seemed to turn in on itself, to shrivel, as of one who has been struck in a moment of proffered affection. All the seats of sensation turned in, tightened . . . and Fanny had done nothing but look at him. Not until a little smile of contempt dimpled the corners of her lips. The man backed off, turned sud¬ denly and disappeared. Fanny had the field. What was there to fear of men? She set his advance down to amor¬ ous interest. But how easily that can be withered! Fanny laughed to herself all the way to Beardstown.
4
Yes, David Prentice had a dinner for Fanny, and was glad to welcome her. She was his sister, even though he didn’t know her and hadn’t seen her for years. But David’s wife! Fanny loathed her. Fanny loathed the house. Fanny loathed her room and her bed. The Illi¬ nois River, which she could see from her window, filled her with sickness of heart. But what could Fanny do? Nothing but to go on to Whitehall to see Miriam, and when she thought of that she remembered the time that Miriam had whipped her, and with her mother’s approval. Would Miriam now rule it over her? If so, what would she do? Return to David, and this disgusting wife of David’s ... or go back to Princeton?
David began to talk with his wife about what they should do with Fanny. He was not making enough money to support Fanny. Even a long visit was out of the ques¬ tion. And what could Fanny do for herself? She didn’t know enough to teach school . . . well, perhaps a coun¬ try school. But neither kind of school was open now. Fanny had learned a smattering of French, and had read many novels and miscellaneous books; but nothing to dis-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
47
cipline her mind. David didn’t know the superintendent of schools. David kept a livery stable, and cared as little for Hebrew or religion as the horses. And at once David’s wife began to tell David that they couldn’t have Fanny around for long. They couldn’t afford it. Besides, Fanny didn’t make herself very useful. She was growing, and loved to sleep late; and she left her bed unmade until she was called to make it. And sometimes it went unmade over the day. And she was hearty at the table. David came to Fanny with the plan that she clerk in one of the stores. But why? She was soon going to Whitehall. For that matter she could go now, if she was not wanted here. Oh, no! David had just suggested it, thinking she would like to stay with them for good. And if she did she would want to pay board. But Fanny could stay as long as she liked . . . and welcome.
David was lying. For Fanny had already made a catch. James Burgett was a rich horse dealer and farmer at the edge of town, well known to David, and his friend. In the first week David and his wife had given a party for Fanny, and James Burgett was of the invited.
Fanny had never imagined anything like this. The men kissed the girls, and chased them through the rooms. They were playing blindman’s buff. And James Burgett had not polished his rough shoes enough to take away the smell of the stable. He had scented the room so that Fanny was all but sick. She went to the door at times for fresh air. No one seemed to notice it. . . . But Fanny! It seemed that disgust was entering deeper into her soul every day. James Burgett was completely over¬ come by Fanny’s beauty. What luck to be thrown her way! He was a little shy of her, and well for him. For just as he had nerved himself to kissing her, another man tried it. Fanny stepped back from the man and slapped
48
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
him roundly on the cheek. Everyone laughed and whooped. And the poor devil slunk to one side covered with shame. James Burgett wanted no such experience as that. He meant to marry Fanny. And this fellow had pointed to him the way not to do.
The next day David told Fanny how rich James Bur¬ gett was, what a good man he was. David and his wife wanted this marriage to be. It meant better days for them. And with this end in view they began to humor Fanny. Nothing more was said about her going to work. Nothing about the unmade bed. But Fanny uttered no word to indicate her state of mind. She knew that the possibility of her marrying James Burgett meant a longer stay at David’s house, and without working. And why go up to Whitehall until this field was exhausted? It probably wasn’t any pleasanter there . . . and there was Miriam, who might be worse than David’s wife.
At the same time she would rather have been touched by a toad than by James Burgett. He had a great dished mouth, one lip slipping over the other. Then there was the smell of him ... his large rough hands, his common talk. But just the same Fanny had to go riding with James Burgett, or reveal herself and in consequence go on to Whitehall. She chose the ride.
James Burgett came at the appointed time with his most wonderful stepper, drawing a new buggy. They drove into the country, for James Burgett wanted to show Fanny his land. This piece was his, and this and this. It had cost him so much to tile this quarter section. Next year more wheat! He was going to raise more cattle. He had sent to England for a bull. A bull! Fanny was ready to leap out of the buggy at these words, but she knew that she would have to move on to Whitehall if she did. David had not dealt in circumlocution lately in
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
49
telling Fanny that she would soon have to make some in¬ dependent provision for herself. Hence Fanny let James Burgett talk about the bull. . . . Also, he told her what he was worth. She saw that James Burgett would give everything he had to make her his wife. How strange men are, Fanny thought. They act drunk. Right then James Burgett asked Fanny to marry him. He would build a new house for her, and a fine one. She could design it herself. He realized the difference in their ages. He was forty-one and she was . . . well, he guessed her seventeen years, at not more than twenty. Fanny was beginning to enjoy this conquest and did not correct him. James went on. Such being the difference in their ages, it was only fair that a contract should be made in advance giving her certain land of her own. He would do that. Then she would be rich in her own right and need not worry about anything. ... It would be fine to have a lot of children, seven or eight anyway, and have them soon in the world. As things were he would be over sixty when the first child was of age.
Fanny began to cry now, first to laugh and then to cry. She had heard James Burgett all through . . . first of the bull, but this talk of children to her, a subject as dis¬ gusting as that, and on the second meeting with this manl And children by this horse man!
Fanny wept, she moaned and writhed. James Burgett, supposing that she was overcome with surprise, for he had heard that women cry from delight, tried to comfort her. He put his arm about Fanny. She drew up and away like a startled snake. She made James Burgett afraid with her look. But at that he thought that she was very young, and that she had never been proposed to before ... all of which was true. And he thought she required breaking like a colt, and that he could bring
50
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
her around. . . . Fanny wanted to be driven home. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Her situation became sharply etched to her. She had no money, no home. What should she do? She didn’t want to clerk in a store. But one thing was sure: anything but marry James Burgett. No! She would never see him again. , . . And they drove back. James Burgett was thinking that the next time she would give in to him.
David’s wife saw the tears in Fanny’s eyes and asked her about them. She didn’t tell her until David came in. Then she gave way to her rage. She told them about James Burgett’s talk, his proposal, and she declared that she would do anything before she married such a mam Then David was very pointed in asking Fanny what she proposed to do. H|e observed that she wouldn’t work in the store; and that one of the richest men in the county did not suit her as a husband. What can be done to please such a woman? Further, Fanny was no help around the house. And, in short, what did she intend to do?
Fanny said she was going to Whitehall. And the next morning she went.
5
Fanny had a satisfaction in the fact that James Burgett had offered himself and his fortune to her. It was strange, this feeling akin to having appeased one’s hunger. She felt stronger for thinking of it. His disappointment made her smile to herself. How badly did he feel? Was his nature as calloused as his hands? Were his sensibilities as vulgar as the smell of him? Clearly, however, she had thrills of triumph. But she would never see him again . , . not in a way where he could talk to her familiarly.
Another thing that she thought of on the way to White-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
SI
hall was the self-absorption that possessed everyone in his own life. Who had time for her and her problems? Fanny was quite depressed at times or, rather, angry. Here she was in the west, and she didn’t like it. She was dependent upon relatives, and she had no use for them. She was without means, and marriage was the only easy solution of her poverty. And the only man who had wanted to marry her was James Burgett. Well, Beards- town was a vile town. And after all, what did her brother David do for her? Nothing. He didn’t know anyone but horse people; and then, how concentrated David and his wife were in their daily life! They really had no time for her. And no doubt Miriam and her doctor husband would be preoccupied with their own affairs; and there, too, she would be a supernumerary. Fanny had a hatred for her life and the people that were in it. After all, what was piety if a father couldn’t do any more for a daughter than Reason Prentice had done for her? What was all the goodness in the world if a daughter had to be thrust forth into such surroundings as these, to make her way as best she could?
6
Fanny was in the front room of Miriam’s house. Miriam had kissed her and given her welcome. She had told Miriam about Princeton, about father and mother. Miriam was sitting anxiously on the edge of her chair. The conversation was at a pause. The bright light of the windows almost blinded Fanny. They produced a sort of hypnosis in her. For a second she wondered where she was. So many changes of scene lately! What was she herself? She seemed to have changed as often as the scene had changed, and had thus lost her identity. For a second she didn’t know who she was or where she was.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
S2
Then Miriam spoke; the squares of light became windows in Miriam’s house. Miriam was saying that she must go to the kitchen a minute. Yes, Miriam had her interests, come what would. Fanny saw that she could suffer ever so much, she could not confide her sorrows to Miriam.
In a moment Miriam returned to take Fanny to her room. Not a thing had been done in preparation of her coming. The bed had no sheets on it. The mattress was covered with a faded calico spread. The pictures himg awry on the walls. The carpet was gray with trodden dirt. There were two windows, one looking upon a side street, the other toward the square. . . . Fanny put down her satchel. Miriam went for the bedding, came back quickly and began to spread the bed. Fanny was rocking in a little rickety rocker. Well, this room was not furnished in keeping with the rest of the house. Fanny had looked into Miriam’s room from the parlor where she faced the bright windows, and that was a dif¬ ferent matter. Then Miriam completed Fanny’s disgust by saying that this room had not been occupied since the doctor had lost the man who lived with them and took care of the doctor’s horses. What was this? Were there to be horses and the smell of horses wherever Fanny went?
Fanny did not offer to help Miriam spread the bed. Miriam asked her at last to take hold of the quilt, and tuck it down at the comers. It was in a tone of elder- sister authority that grated Fanny. Then she remem¬ bered the whipping that Miriam had given her long ago, and she remembered Miriam’s dictatorial nature. How long could she stand Miriam? And where should she go when she could no longer stand her? If she could not master Miriam in an open fight, perhaps she could do so by cunning. But there could not be two queens in the
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
53
same house, only one; and that one Fanny. Miriam had the right to run her own house, but no right to control Fanny.
The breakfast was at seven o’clock, the dinner at twelve, the supper at six. Fanny must take care of her own room. She must help with the work. Miriam had no maid now, and it was not necessary to keep one with two women in the house. Fanny could do nothing but listen. But she had made up her mind as Miriam de¬ veloped the points. And what was all this talk about regular meals, and order? Miriam had seen no such thing at the home of Reason Prentice. No, and the state of this house did not show any such system as Miriam was planning for Fanny to be a part of. Pretense! Well. Fanny smiled to herself. She knew Miriam’s blood. She could handle it. . . .
The doctor was uptown seeing about the purchase of a cow. Miriam thought they both might learn to milk. The doctor would do it whenever he was home. But his calls into the country! Fanny made no reply to this. She resolved, however, that she would go back to Prince¬ ton before she would milk the cow.
In a moment the doctor came in for his medicine case. He was a quiet man of few words, spoken with his lips close together, in a low voice. He greeted Fanny in a matter-of-fact way. What did it mean? A relative come to live with him . . . indefinitely, perhaps. That is the way Fanny took it.
The doctor went off at once and Fanny and Miriam descended to the kitchen. It was four o’clock in the after¬ noon, and the noonday dishes were not yet done. How was this for a house of such system? The fire in the stove had to be built up to heat water for the dishes, and Miriam thrust in cobs which burned quickly. Fanny had
54
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
never seen this sort of fuel before. Miriam pressed Fanny into service on the dishes, and the two sisters talked as they worked together.
The doctor had told Miriam that William Houghton had come in town for him to take him to see his daughter, Lucy Houghton. A very bad case, the doctor thought. Perhaps she would get well, with great care. She had been struck on the breast with a slate and a sore had come which had not yet yielded to treatment. William Hough¬ ton was perhaps the richest man in the neighborhood, and very highly esteemed by everyone. His children, too, were all noted for something remarkable. The daughters were all talented, the sons promising. Walter Scott Houghton was in every way unusual, of wonderful phy¬ sique, beauty of body, and gifted of mind. He had been away to school but was now back. It was said that he had run away from school to Philadelphia, and had re¬ turned home penitent and willing to do whatever his father told him. The Houghtons had a very fine house four miles from Whitehall. Mrs. Houghton looked like a Spanish lady of quality, like the pictures in an old book at Salisbury, Connecticut. This was what Miriam told Fanny as they washed the dishes. Also that Kate Green was a girl in Whitehall who had lost her heart completely to Walter Scott Houghton; and it was believed that Walter Scott had failed at school for thinking of Kate and not of his studies.
The Houghton house was a wonderful place to visit. Yes, they were southern people, from Kentucky, and dis¬ pensed a very liberal hospitality. Miriam and the doctor had been there on a number of occasions, particularly since the doctor had begun to treat Lucy Houghton. Per¬ haps they could all go out together sometime. It would be an event. Well, if James Burgett was willing to give
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
55
his fortune to marry Fanny, why would Scott Hough¬ ton fail to show an interest in her? If he did not smell of horses, if he was all that Miriam described him to be, perhaps Fanny could stand him, especially if it solved her fortunes to marry him. She was wondering how and when she could meet Walter Scott. Where did he get this name? Houghton was a Scotch name perhaps. Fanny had never known any Scotch people. She thought herself all English.
7
A number of weeks passed by. The doctor was going out every few days to see Lucy Houghton. She was grad¬ ually getting better. Miriam tried to bring about an invi¬ tation to all of them to visit the Houghtons, but it was not extended. Fanny thought that Miriam had exag¬ gerated her intimacy with the Houghtons. Then she won¬ dered if Miriam had some reason for keeping her out of this delight. At any rate, why was not Walter Scott asked to call upon Fanny? She suggested that to Miriam; but Miriam said that would not do, that Walter Scott was no doubt engaged to Kate Green.
Once when Miriam was standing at the window waiting for the doctor, she called excitedly to Fanny to come. Fanny got to the window in time to see a buggy go by, driven very rapidly. She caught a glimpse of a clear-cut profile, a head of black, curly hair. It was Walter Scott. What was wonderful about it? She had seen many hand¬ some men in the east. Kate Green was on the other side of the seat. Miriam had seen her. Yes, it was an as¬ sured thing that they would be married. Walter Scott was reputed a great lover. Many women had been mad about him. He had escaped them all, leaving sore hearts. But Kate knew how to handle him. He had met his fate
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
S6
at last. This was what Miriam told Fanny. And Fanny felt that she could draw Walter Scott to her, in spite of Kate Green. Often she stood at the window hoping that Walter Scott would pass again or, better luck, would come to the door for the doctor. And as she stood in this mood she felt a power in her extending itself toward Walter Scott and drawing him to her. Yes, and she smiled to herself at this: did a spider feel so as it lurked at the door of its web and waited for the fly?
And the days went by. Fanny felt her dependence upon Miriam and the doctor. She was made to feel it. Miriam was noted for her sharp tongue; but she was no match for Fanny. Miriam knew her inferiority in retort to Fanny. Had Fanny changed? Why was Fanny now so mild, never retaliating upon Miriam otherwise than by looking her through, or smiling with penetrating irony? Miriam set Fanny’s manner down to Fanny’s fear of losing a place to live. For Miriam had resolved, indeed she had told her husband, the doctor, that if Fanny was insolent, as she termed it, Fanny must leave. The matter of blood should make no difference. Fanny divined her own precarious position, and every danger signal con¬ nected with it. In consequence she sheathed her anger at critical moments, and held her tongue. Her purpose was to meet Walter Scott before coming to an issue with Miriam. If she didn’t marry him she would leave Miriam’s house. She hated it. She could only endure to stay for her own ends.
8
Walter Scott had hea.r3 of Fanny Prentice, of her beauty and wit, her keen mind and humorous sayings. He wanted to meet her. But of course there was Kate
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
57
Green. Kate had fallen into his arms at a touch ... all women had done so. But Kate had capitulated with a determination to hold Walter Scott. He rather liked being held. Kate was a good sort; she had a certain beauty. Anyway, there were two things: Walter Scott had found himself falling out of key with his father’s home. He felt the need of a home of his own. What he did on the farm did not constitute an occupation. It had no future, because his heart was not in it. The second thing was that Kate Green sensed Walter Scott’s ties loosening at home, and she snuggled in to the loneliness that was com¬ ing upon Walter Scott in this metamorphosis of his life.
But now that he had heard of Fanny Prentice, he was wondering if she were not harder and more fascinating game. He was not a hunter, but he wanted more resist¬ ance than Kate Green had given him. He was dreaming of a woman of greater vitality, of sharper mind than Kate. Was Fanny Prentice the woman? He wanted to meet Fanny; but there were difficulties. He couldn’t bring himself to call. There was Kate to prevent that. Mean¬ time, his days were badly spent. He worked on the farm, but it was for wages, and rather small wages. He neither felt, nor was made to feel, that he had to work. Then he entertained no ambition about being a farmer. It was only a makeshift. His overflowing vitality collected in the hollows of his nature and became stagnant. He dreamed of far-off places and he longed for diversions, for gayeties, for festive associations. And there were only the country dances, and the rides with Elate. Walter Scott began to feel a strange restlessness.
Then Uncle Madison was the only one at home who fitted into any of Walter Scott’s restless moods. He was intimately close to his mother; but she was much occu¬ pied now with the daughter Lucy. His father seemed
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
58
stern and disapproving. There was more illness now too. One of the little girls had taken scarlet fever; and Nancy more than had her hands full. Walter Scott was sent to Whitehall to bring Dr. Whitley.
The father, William Houghton, came to the barn to tell Walter Scott to go for the doctor. And Walter Scott was almost caught in a bad pastime, as it was regarded by William. It was a rainy day and Walter Scott and Uncle Madison were in the hallway of the barn playing seven-up. There was nothing else to do. The rain prevented work; and there was no other play. Uncle Madison had a bottle of pink liquid. It was alcohol diluted with water and colored with cinnamon drops. Uncle Madison had intro¬ duced this drink to Walter Scott before . . . and how good for a rainy day! Walter Scott felt all the currents of his being surge and gather under its influence. It gave him strange, powerful dreams. It filled him with super¬ human strength, with will and indomitable courage. Once when he had drunk some of it he had taken the hired man, a huge fellow, and thrown him with perfect ease. All humorous things came to him fluently when taking it. He laughed and kept Uncle Madison in a roar. He re¬ cited Julius Caesar and the March of the Ages, things he had learned at school. He climbed down into the stalls, put his back under Old Nell, the saddle horse, and lifted her off her feet. He turned handsprings in the hay in the loft. He hustled Uncle Madison about in good nature, and as if he were a child. . . . But as William Houghton came to the bam they were only playing seven-up, and taking a sip now and then of the pink liquid.
They were almost caught with it. For William’s step was no sooner heard than the face of William appeared at the door of the barn hallway. And as William told Walter Scott to saddle a horse and go for the doctor,
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
59
Walter Scott’s heart gave a sudden, powerful beat. He imagined instantly Fanny Prentice coming to the door; and the pink liquid gave him a more vivid sense of that consummation. So he set off in haste to bring Dr. Whitley.
9
At that moment Fanny was upstairs making her bed. She was in the midst of this when Miriam called to her to come and help with the dishes. This angered Fanny, and she made some spirited return. Whereupon Miriam, with direct bluntness, told Fanny that she could help with the work or find another place to board. Fanny looked at Miriam with brilliant, hating eyes. But she only said that she was making her bed, and thought it might be well to finish that first. Miriam pushed the case by say¬ ing that Fanny must do what she was told. That was the last thing that Fanny would do for anyone. Yet at this moment something held back Fanny’s tongue. She con¬ cealed her anger and helped with the dishes. A few days before this they had quarreled again; and Fanny was now thinking that something must happen, or she must leave Miriam’s house. She couldn’t go back to Beards- town, nor to Princeton. WTiere then? At times life looked insoluble to Fanny. A hatred of her lot took pos¬ session of her, and that made her hate her sister. She had been raised on the doctrine of Rev. Reason Prentice that a child’s will must be broken. It had filled her with rebellion and with the desire to break Miriam’s will if she had a fair chance. But what could she do in this dependent position? Miriam had a will, too; and Fanny knew that Miriam would not hesitate to set her in the street if she ignited Miriam’s inclination to anger. . . . But just as soon as she finished helping with the dishes
6o
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
she returned to finish making her bed, leaving Miriam to sweep the kitchen and the dining room.
Miriam, no doubt, wanted Fanny to help with that. Well, let Miriam ask her! So off she went, after having done the literal thing that Miriam had asked her to do. She was just finishing the bed when she heard the click of the gate. She looked out. She saw a man, tall, strong, with black curly hair, and with cheeks as pink as the drink he had been taking. Fanny could see how large his eyes were from the distance of the window. Yes, he seemed as wonderful as she had been told he was. What should she do? Miriam was downstairs. She would be able to reach the door first in response to the ring. That must not be! Fanny dropped the coverlet and with swift, silent steps glided down the stairs. She was standing in the corner of the hall, at the side of the door, when Walter Scott rang the bell. She heard Miriam hastening from the dining room. But Fanny herself op>ened the door and faced Walter Scott!
She could put flaming laughter in her eyes when she tried. She could modulate her voice to music when she pleased. And she looked at Walter Scott with such de¬ light that he thought the flames of an open fire were playing in her widely gazing eyes. On his part, a deep seriousness darkened his expression. It was a look of wonder and of fear, and of anticipated suffering. He asked for the doctor. ... By this time Miriam had come to the door and, as the wife, had asserted the author¬ ity to answer for the doctor’s coming. In this way she had slightly pushed Fanny aside. Walter Scott refused the invitation to enter; but in the midst of the talk Miriam had introduced Fanny to him. Then he had turned away and taken a hurried departure.
All the way home he thought of Fanny , . . her eyes!
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
6i
How laughing and bright they were! Her voice, how musical! A fear went through him. He felt that some¬ thing had been introduced into his being. It was like a drug. It was like a wound, which at once began to spread its exhilaration and then its depression through him. He went at once to the barn to find Uncle Madison. He felt the need of a little of the pink liquid. When he got it Uncle Madison warned him against taking too much. It made him drowsy, and he crawled into the hay and fell asleep thinking of Fanny’s eyes!
lO
This trick of Fanny’s was too transparent. If Fanny had stayed upstairs at her work she would not have met Walter Scott. Perhaps sometime it had to come about, anyway. But Miriam wanted to rule the meeting. Kate Green’s father was one of Dr. Whitley’s best friends. Miriam did not intend to have her sister Fanny steal Walter Scott from Kate Green, and thus lose the doctor’s friends and patronage. She reproved Fanny for coming to the door, and told her in so many words to leave Walter Scott alone. But Fanny knew that she had wounded Walter Scott with her eyes. And in the con¬ sciousness of that triumph she let Miriam say what she chose without returning a word. Fanny was planning ways night and day to see Walter Scott again. She knew that Kate Green was not a serious rival.
Miriam played into Fanny’s hands. There was young Dr. Horton, a friend of Dr. Whitley’s. Miriam planned to get Fanny interested in him. That was the thing to do. There was just one objection to this. Dr. Horton had paid some attention to Lucy Houghton. But Lucy had now been ill a long time, and though she was getting
62
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
better it was doubtful if she ever would be completely well. Miriam thought always of Dr. Whitley’s professional progress. The Houghtons were good patrons; but, on the other hand, Kate Green’s family meant more to Dr. Whitley than the Houghtons. Reasoning thus far, Miriam decided to bring Dr. Horton and Fanny together. Fanny must be placed. She couldn’t live indefinitely with Miriam.
Fanny fell into the plan at once of having Dr. Horton to dinner. But it was with a different idea from that Miriam had. Fanny intended to use Dr. Horton as a foil. If Walter Scott grew willful she would turn to Dr, Horton. Thus she would be able to play Walter Scott until she caught him. And she had determined to catch him. She had already planned this far ahead.
So Dr. Horton came to dinner. Fanny made herself wonderfully agreeable. But Dr. Horton took no wounds. She was not dangerous to him, nor wonderful. He saw her as a keen mind more than as a beautiful face. He was a friendly, self-possessed man, of small imagination, of worldly ambitions. What was Fanny Prentice to him in his plans for the future? She could do nothing to advance his fortunes. Lucy Houghton would get well, and she would have an inheritance. Besides she had a family. And if she didn’t get well, there were other daughters of well-to-do men. No, Dr. Horton had no thought of Fanny Prentice as a wife. And Fanny had no thought of Dr. Horton as a husband, although he imagined otherwise. Thus the dinner passed with quiet feeling all around. And afterward Dr. Horton took Fanny to some dances and parties. In this, way she met Walter Scott again, and talked and danced with him. But when he asked to call she pleaded excuses. Finally she lied to him, saying that Dr. Whitley was very strict with her.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
63
and that Dr. Whitley was afraid of young men who touched drink. Fanny had heard that Walter Scott some¬ times drank. And she saw her chance now to use the subject for her own ends in catching him.
All the while Walter Scott was growing madder about Fanny Prentice. And Fanny was pretending that she was mad about Dr. Horton. She gave Walter Scott to under¬ stand this.
The largest dance of the year was given in Whitehall. Walter Scott brought Kate Green, and Dr. Horton brought Fanny. This night Walter Scott danced with Fanny every time he could, and to do it he schemed to find partners for Kate. Once when he couldn’t, he left Kate to sit the dance out with some girl friends who were also without partners. Fanny was wearing a new dress. It was one of Miriam’s made over. Her eyes were more lambent than ever; and she was wearing a powder that thrilled Walter Scott to intoxication. Moreover, the orchestra had been brought from Springfield, and one of the waltzes drugged Walter Scott with consuming amor¬ ousness.
Fanny had taken Walter Scott in without betraying her plan to do so. At the same time she kept thinking of the other men she had known: of George Godfrey, red¬ cheeked and bluff, who had made love to her after a fashion in Princeton when she was only fourteen. He had shocked her with his profanity. And then, when he was killed by the kick of a horse, she had thought of him with horrible imaginings, believing that he was in the hell that her father had preached. She thought of the fellow at Indianapolis and of James Burgett, the horse man. Well, in what company of men would Walter Scott not shine the brightest? As Walter Scott’s mother had been thrilled by the song of the redbird, so was he now carried
64
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
away by the music of this waltz. Music always betrays. It is the expression of a betrayed soul, and it perpetuates betrayal. And in the midst of it Walter Scott’s emotional power swept him away. He held Fanny very close to him in the dance. He became more than ever conscious of the whiteness of her skin, the softness of her flesh. It was on his lips to tell her that he loved her. But he was afraid. Afraid! He had never been afraid of anything before. A revulsion of feeling touched him. He wished himself away ... in the barn playing seven-up with Uncle Madison, lifting the horses, at work. In a turn of the waltz Fanny looked into his face with a curious, tri¬ umphant, half-cruel smile. Hjs suffering gave her de¬ light. It acted upon her like a blood transfusion. Walter Scott guessed vaguely at what her feeling was. Then he mastered himself to ask her to ride with him the next night, since he couldn’t come to the house. And Fanny looked pleased, but as if she were puzzled. Then with that sweet secretness which betokens a yielding interest, she asked him how it could be managed. And Walter Scott, grown bolder, told her to meet him at the front door of the Baptist church at dark. Fanny consented, thinking to herself that if she couldn’t satisfy Miriam with some lie, she would brave it out. She felt sure now that Walter Scott was hers. She had wounded and lamed him. For his part, his will was up to keep even with her, to master her, to demonstrate the male superiority of strength.
All the next day Walter Scott heard the music of the waltz. He moved in a land of dreams in which Fanny was a supernatural figure. Uncle Madison had helped him wash the buggy, and to curry the horses, and to brighten .up the harness. He thought Walter Scott was shining up for Kate Green . . . and still. But Walter
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 65
Scott would not for the world tell Uncle Madison what he was going to do this night. Well, what should he do? Should he propose to her? Then if he could gain her consent, that much would be won. And if Fanny should grow cruel or incorrigible, he could pay her up by desert¬ ing her. He was in an ecstasy, and for that reason thought of cruel things, too. Also, for the reason that he had already divined Fanny as a will, and as a punish¬ ing heart. Yes, it was one strong will against another. Both were bent on devouring each other; and neither was wholly conscious of it, especially Walter Scott. What he thought of specifically was making Fanny his own, so that her will might be his. That was it, a harmonization, a union of lives . . . love, to use a word. That must be, if anything; and if not that, then the reassertion of all masculine powers; brutalities, perhaps.
Walter Scott was at the church promptly at the minute. People might be passing, and he could not pause without being seen. Anyone would know he was not meeting Kate Green, as he always called at her house for her. Well, if he was seen, Kate Green would hear of it. But what matter? Kate Green was very much in the rear of his interest this night. ... Fanny had not arrived. And he did not think it wise to stop; so he drove on around a few blocks and returned. He was driving a different horse than he ever had when taking Kate Green; and yet he must not run the chance of stopping by the church. He drove past again; for Fanny had not come. Did she understand the hour? She was now eight minutes late. He drove to the end of the street, where there was a corn¬ field. That was a foolish thing to do, because anyone would know he had no errand at that destination. How¬ ever, all was well. He turned around unobserved and returned to the church. It was now twelve minutes past
66
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
the appointed time. There was no one by the church. Accordingly, he paused a few minutes. Someone was ap¬ proaching, and he must drive on. He looked at his watch again. Fanny was now fifteen minutes late. He was impatient, a little angry. It occurred to him that it would be good for her to wait for him. So he took a long road this time, and went for nearly a mile into the country. It was twenty-five minutes past the meeting time when he got back to the church. No Fanny! Perhaps she meant to fool him. That was the meaning in her eyes when she was dancing with him. Well, one more turn, and if she wasn’t here then Walter Scott would drive around to Kate Green’s. She never kept him waiting this way.
At this moment Fanny was coming down the side street. She saw the horse and buggy and because they were moving slowly she knew that Walter Scott was waiting for her. Miriam and the doctor were going out for the evening. That made it opportune for Fanny. But she had to stay at the house until they had gone. So she knew that Walter Scott was on time and had been wait¬ ing for her. Still she did not hasten to join him. Her heart began to thump. She had never done anything like this before. She was almost on the point of hurrying back home. Then she stepped into the side entrance of the church until she got her breath better. That was just as Walter Scott looked down on the street on which she had come. And so he didn’t see Fanny. He drove on. It was forty minutes past the hour when he returned. She saw him driving slowly toward the church and hastened to the corner to step into the buggy when he should arrive.
As soon as she was seated she thought she would test Walter Scott. She asked him why he was so late. She complained that it embarrassed her to stand where pass-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 67
ers-by could see her. She pretended that the meeting place was at the side entrance of the church. Walter Scott knew that she was not at the front of the church at the appointed hour. But she might have been at the side entrance! And if she did not from that place see him pass, perhaps she did believe that he was late. And so Walter Scott lied too! It suited him now not to appear too eager. So he told Fanny that Lucy was worse and that he could not start as early as he had planned. And Fanny laughed to herself. She had kept Walter Scott waiting, and he was ashamed of it and had lied to her about it!
II
They drove into the country. The horse was a fast stepper, and Walter Scott held the reins with a masterful hand. Fanny’s presence at his side inspired masculine self-assertion. He sensed her power, her will. He had to demonstrate his own. This was no time to propose marriage to Fanny. And how did it give Walter Scott a dominant hand over Fanny to ask her to marry him? Yet Walter Scott felt his nerves crying for some relief. His presence did not awe Fanny; his deep voice did not be¬ witch her. At least, so it seemed to Walter Scott.
He was with her now, and was attempting to under¬ stand the sorcery he had been under since the dance; the opiate effect of the music in which Fanny was the dream picture. Well, she seemed different from the woman he danced with last night. In this open air she was more definite in personality, hard perhaps. She was saying bright things that flashed like sparks of iron; and as they fell from her lips they grew black and gave forth a metallic sound. Walter Scott had a lively wit too, and a gift of humorous characterization and story telling. Fanny did
68
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
not care to hear tales of the people around here. She despised them; and for her there was nothing but clown¬ ishness and vulgarity in these stories of them. She let Walter Scott go on at will. She wanted to see the quality of his tongue. For as no one had ever routed her in an exchange of repartee, she was curious to see if she had met a man who could hold his own with her. She said just enough to keep Walter Scott keyed up. When he had shown his full strength she would unloosen her batteries. Besides, she wanted to marry him; and it was no time to terrify him with her tongue. . . .
Walter Scott suspected that Fanny had pieties, being the daughter of a minister. In the tension of self-restraint his tendency was to lurch out in some shocking word. He wanted to assert his strength and independence. The idea of feeling such deference and almost fear in the presence of a woman! All the while Kate Green was fading out of his consideration. Nothing seemed to be important now but to master the present moment. And how was that to be done? Walter Scott was conscious of his physical perfections. He had been told of them enough. And he had been told also of his promising gifts of mind at school and elsewhere. Did Fanny over¬ look these things? She had said nothing about them in the remotest way. What of flattery had there been in her attitude? Oh, yes, her coming to the door that day, her look. And now this secret ride! Walter Scott was buoyed into self-regard as he thought of these things. At that moment the buggy ran over something in the road. The springs sounded suddenly as if they were cracked. And Walter Scott ejaculated, “By God!” He felt proud of himself in that instant. Let the preacher’s daughter do what she would! But Fanny simply inquired if some¬ thing had broken. For that matter, she had heard George
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
69
Godfrey swear in the old days at Princeton. And, be¬ sides, she keenly saw that this oath of Walter Scott’s was only a nervous self-assertion. It was really a tribute to her power. . . . Walter Scott got out to look the buggy over. Nothing had broken. He got back into the buggy, Fanny thoughtfully held the duster up so that he could easily draw it over him. Ah! he had shown his independ¬ ence, and all was well. , . . While they were stopped a traveler had come up and paused too. He called Walter Scott by name and asked, “What’s the matter?” Walter Scott answered that nothing was the matter, and the man laughed knowingly and drove on.
This was a disturbing encounter for a few minutes. After all, Kate Green would find out that he had been driving with Fanny. But no matter. Kate Green simply would not do. He could not stand her now, not as a wife, after this knowledge of a woman as keen and fascinating as Fanny. , . . Something had to be done. Walter Scott was in a torrent of crossing and recrossing emotions, Fanny drew him, repelled him. Her personality stood aloof from him, defied him . . . yet here she was by his side, and on a secret adventure. And she had said noth¬ ing that was wounding. He was trying to make out what to do with Fanny. It even crossed his mind to try to make a prize of Fanny. But there could be no delight in that, and no conquest either. He could see Fanny turn¬ ing instantly into a lynx. No, that would not do. Well, he loved her enough to marry her. And at that moment a warm breeze stirred out of a meadow they were passing, and Walter Scott began to grope for words of proposal. He had proposed to Kate Green, but that was simple. That was nothing but a laughing declaration of interest and an expression of boyish delight. This was different. It was more complex. Kate Green, for one thing, made
70
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
it so. For Fanny knew about Kate Green. And then Fanny! Why did Walter Scott experience shame and fear while trying to find words? He was in a madness about Fanny, but it did not carry him into any intimacies, any caresses. He was in fear of being repulsed. He had seen animals kick each other. It came to an animalistic vision of himself as repelled or hurt when he thought of the possibility of Fanny’s response to a proffered tender¬ ness. Hence he began with words of interest, of admira¬ tion, of vouchings for himself.
He began to gather speed. He became moved by the sound of his own voice. Hb felt his tongue losing its firm self-control. Tears came out of his eyes. His voice broke just a little. But that might be only embarrassment . . . not tears. Fanny could not see his eyes in this darkness. If in maternal tenderness she had only leaned her cheek against his, she would have felt the tears. Kate Green would have done so. How kind and yielding Kate Green was! But here Fanny only heard Walter Scott through. And then in a small voice, speaking not very fluently, not hesitatingly but thinly at least, with no ap¬ parent emotion, Fanny began to speak of Kate Green, and to say that she could not be unfair, that it was not in her nature to take what was not hers, and that on that score she would have to be sure both that Walter Scott had no further interest in Kate Green, and that Kate Green was assured in some way that she had done noth¬ ing unfair toward Kate. And then there was the matter of Walter Scott’s lively ways: all these country dances, these fights, wrestlings, this unsettled life, the drink of which she had heard; the running away from school at Philadelphia. She would have to be perfectly sure of Walter Scott before embarking upon a serious matter like an engagement. . . . And lastly, there was Dr. Florton,
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 71
whom she had encouraged. And she could not be unfair to him, no matter what suffering it brought her.
And so Fanny talked until they came back to the Bap¬ tist church. And there, Walter Scott, saying good-night, asked her to think the matter over and be ready to speak when he saw her next. Then he drove home in anger, despising himself. He had dishonored Kate Green; he had seen his strength break under a strange emotion which had come over him and overwhelmed him. He could not understand it. He had seen fish streaking the water with their blood as they ran to the length of the line. Was the hook still in him? Had he broken loose? But in any case, there was the blood.
And Fanny found Miriam waiting for her. She told Miriam that she had been out for a walk. Miriam re¬ proved Fanny; and Fanny held her tongue and went up to her room smiling at the results of the evening.
12
In the confusion of thought at the parting, Walter Scott had made no arrangement for seeing Fanny again. When was he to go for her answer? He thought of this the next morning as he awoke. Should he go for her answer? What was this that made him want to punish Fanny, to hurt her? He had never felt so toward Kate Green. He had bared his heart to Fanny, and it was a heart that was deeply moved. He had offered himself to Fanny impulsively but with full seriousness. Now if she did not fully respond to him, he wanted to wound her. Had she responded to him? Walter Scott was vain. He was considered the greatest catch of the whole country around. Kate Green had accepted him only too gladly. Who was this Fanny Prentice t^t she did not accept him
72
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
on the spot? Hadn’t he dishonored himself in this pro¬ posal? Why had he been so faithless to Kate Green? This sort of fickleness was not in his blood. There was his mother Nancy, and his father William! How they had honored and loved each other from the beginning! Was this some outcropping of the blood of Nancy’s unknown father, the Spaniard, the Irishman, whoever he was?
But above all, Walter Scott was afraid of Fanny. His fear was unreasoning and unexplained. He could not make it out. Above a certain shame for what he had done, there was fear in his heart; but at the same time he could not put Fanny out of his mind. He loved her . . . yes, that must be what is called love. One feels drawn irresistibly, and one feels hurt and terrified; one tries to get away. And to begin it, he went about with Uncle Madison. They worked together. They played cards, and freshened the bottle for more drinks. Then Lucy was gradually getting well, and Walter Scott went to her side and spent hours with her, reading to her, talk¬ ing with her about everything, except Fanny; about Kate Green, and Lucy was warning Walter Scott against Kate Green. She was not near good enough for this adored brother. Besides, why worry? “You are scarcely more than twenty-one,” said Lucy.
Then Walter Scott found himself back with his mother more than he had been for months. Now that Lucy was improving, the mother had more time for the rest of the children. And when she found Walter Scott sitting with her again in the kitchen, helping her with the work, her heart was full of delight. In a sense he had got away from her in these changed conditions; the illness of Lucy, and the interest in Kate Green. So Nancy began to talk to Walter Scott about Kate Green. “Don’t do this,
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
73
Walter,” she said. “There’s time yet; and let things come more naturally. Wait until you meet someone that you can’t give up. When you say to yourself that this must be, then the time has come. You don’t say that about Kate Green. She can’t be any help to you. Mar¬ ried life must have something to grow around. It can’t grow around love. You had just as well expect a vine to support itself. You must have work or interests for a trellis. There must be something to love about or for. Love cannot love about itself. And you are a nature that needs a capable woman, a good mind and a devoted heart to ensure your happiness, and carry you forward. You need help, Walter. You are strong and gifted, and you have an affectionate nature. Think about all your own qualities when considering a woman. It will help you to know what she can be to you and whether you can make her happy. I love you almost to death, and I don’t want to see you mess yourself. There’s a lot of girls around who think that it means money to them to marry you; and besides, you are not so bad a catch on your own hook. But look here: as much as I hate to see you go away from the old home, you aren’t doing any good for your¬ self here. You don’t want to farm. What are you going to do? It’s time to think of that. Do you know your hair needs attention? Come, I’ll do it now.” And Nancy took Walter Scott into the room where Lucy was and combed his hair, dressing it with bay rum.
Meantime, Kate Green had heard of Walter Scott’s ride with Fanny. The traveler in the road turned out to be a clerk in the drug store, and once when Kate Green had come in for a purchase the clerk had teased her with the revelation. She had gone at once to Walter Scott with it. And Walter Scott had lied: he told Kate that he wa.s taking Fanny out to see Lucy, and at Lucy’s
74
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
request. Yes, the hour was a little late; but the buggy had broken down and they were delayed while he repaired it. Kate Green made herself believe him. Anyway, there had been no repetition of the association, and perhaps Walter Scott had told the truth. But when Kate Green saw Lucy she managed the conversation so as to get the truth. She confronted Walter Scott with it; and he confessed that he had taken Fanny for a ride, but that he had gone no farther. And why not believe this? It was true. He had not seen Fanny again; and he was going with Kate Green as before. Still, he could not forget Fanny. He saw his own blood streaked in the water. He knew that he was not loose. Memory of her hauled him up constantly. And there were no rushes, no conceal¬ ments into which he could dart without feeling that he was hooked and fastened. And when he was with Kate Green she made him desperate at times. She was so inane, so devoid of everything that made Fanny irre¬ sistible.
Six months went by, and Walter Scott did not see Fanny. . . . Once, at a distance. She was going with Dr. Horton to the dances, everywhere. And Walter Scott was keeping away from the dances. He was plead¬ ing to Kate Green the excuse that he had lamed himself. As he saw Kate habitually, she let the matter of the dances go. All the while he was in a desperate state of mind. To be so inconvenienced, so circumscribed in movement because of Fanny. It was exasperating, humiliating. It must end.
^3
Fanny felt dishonored that Walter Scott had not returned to her. Her mind was keen, but it did not penetrate to Walter Scott’s secret. There w^ a certain
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
75
coarseness in her intellectual acumen. Walter Scott had proposed to her. What did he mean by turning away and never coming back? She took a deep hurt from this which she did not get over to the day of her death.
The wound became malignant. It was the center of poison into which all other poisons afterwards poured themselves. But also she was determined not to be put aside in this way. She was in love with Walter Scott, at least in the sense that he was her food, her ultimate object of conquest. She plotted ways ceaselessly by which she could get hold of him again. And it came about, because Walter Scott could not stay away from her.
Fanny was having a hard time with Miriam. She could no longer deceive Miriam with the pretense that she was interested in Dr. Horton. And how much longer was Fanny going to plant herself upon Miriam’s household? Fanny hated herself because of her dependence upon Miriam; and she hated Miriam because she was made to feel her obligations to Miriam. Then Miriam found out that Fanny had gone riding with Walter Scott. That was the way to put a smut upon her reputation, and probably she had done it. If not, why did Dr. Horton carry on this futile association? The sisters quarreled about this. It was a bitter encounter between them, in which at last, Miriam told Fanny that she could go. Fanny said she would go, and furthermore, that she would leave the house at once, and go to the hotel and stay until the father sent her money from Princeton to return home upon. Just then Dr. Whitley came in, and Fanny said; “Miriam has ordered me out of the house, and I am going to the hotel to stay until father sends me money for my expenses home.” Dr. Whitley did not relish the talk this would occasion, and he tried to bring peace between them. He did it at last. Fanny had won her point. She knew that
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
76
the doctor would not stand the gossip that such an open breach and consequence would occasion. And so, with more time at her disposal, Fanny determined to capture Walter Scott.
For one thing, she began to be seen as much as possible with Dr. Horton. Then, at the time of her quarrel with Miriam, she gave it out that she was soon departing for Princeton not to return.
One evening, when Walter Scott had been imbibing with Uncle Madison, he took a sudden impulse to see Fanny. He felt strong enough for her now. He had stayed away from her for six months. He had shown her that he did not care. So he drove to the door boldly and without any concealment. He called out. Fanny was in the rear of the room. But at that moment something prescient in her awoke with a thrill before the sound of Walter Scott’s voice came to her. Instantly she knew it. Miriam was in the room, too. Fanny put on a bonnet and started for the door. It was all too quick for Miriam to ask Fanny what she was about. And then, in a moment, Fanny was by the buggy, her eyes dancing as they had done when she first greeted Walter Scott at the door. He felt the same sensation of elation, and without the fear. The drink had made him brave. He asked her to ride. And without returning to the house for wraps or a hat, Fanny got in and the two drove away.
No word from Fanny about Walter Scott’s long neglect, this failure to return for an answer to his proposal. She talked of her departure from Whitehall, which was to be soon. She could stand it here no longer. George God¬ frey, back in Princeton, was soon going to Europe and she wanted to see him before he went. Another thing: if she stayed she would have to marry Dr. Horton. A very good sort, and perhaps she was a fool not to talce
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
77
him; but she had not made up her mind to it. One doctor in the family was enough.
Walter Scott felt suddenly ashamed of his treatment of Fanny. It was dishonorable to propose to Fanny and then keep away from her for these months! His conscience hurt him. His being crumbled in her presence in the strength of these self-reproaches. What excuse should he make for his conduct? He was not hard enough to make no excuse. Fanny’s presence put him under the sorcery which he had been resisting these months. The drink helped. His sense of having wronged Fanny helped. And he began to make apologies. Fanny listened. The advantage was coming her way at last. Walter Scott’s subjection to her unfolded without assisting questions from her. He came out with it at last, and said that he was afraid of her. “I haven’t thought of anything but you since I first saw you. I thought it was best to keep away from you. I am afraid of you.” Fanny laughed in the most good-natured way and said that there was nothing about her of which to be afraid. “At least,” she said, “I have always been perfectly kind to you.” That was true. Walter Scott reflected on this. It was true. What was there of which to be afraid? Perhaps he had been a perfect fool. Walter Scott felt at once that he had misplayed the case to tell Fanny that he was afraid of her. But true now to a native recklessness, a disposition to throw the dice blindly when he could not reason out the play, he plunged ahead with explanations and apologies. A little conscious, too, of putting himself completely in her hands. But what could she do? He had stayed away from her six months, could he not do it again?
He went on to tell Fanny that he had spoken to her in entire good faith. It was only after he had gone away frorn her that he became apprehensive of what he had
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
78
done. It was not a question of not loving her. The mat¬ ter was loving her too much. Somewhat hard to under¬ stand! Perhaps Fanny couldn’t understand it; but she did, in fact . . . quite well! Anyway he had thought the whole question over. It was his first impression of her that made him fear; and he didn’t know why. He could always see her dancing eyes when he thought of the day that she came to the door . . . too brilliant, something like a dazzling sun upon an irradiating creature, half pea¬ cock, half serpent. Now, in her presence, what nonsense was this! She was a different being. She was her simple, vivacious self. And Walter Scott was riotous in the con¬ sciousness of great strength and daring. Yes, but he loved her, and she must be his. There was no way out of it but marriage. His father and mother had found themselves inevitably mated, not in just this way, but with the same inescapable fate. And they had been happy. . . . Then Fanny grew exceedingly moral: What about Kate Green? What had become of his affection for Kate Green? It must be that, else why this long association with her? Fanny was not in the least afraid of Walter Scott; but she said to him, “I should be afraid of you instead of your being afraid of me.” “Why?” he asked, to draw her out. “Well,” said Fanny, “you go with one girl for a long while, then you propose to another girl, that’s me. Then you go back to the first girl, Kate Green, and then return to me, the second girl. It looks as if your feelings were not settled, that you might be fickle, if not false.”
This expression of Fanny’s fear, though she was not afraid, stimulated Walter Scott. He sat up straighter, held the lines tighter, and began to protest his faithful nature, his constancy. When Fanny saw this turn in his mind she said: “You’ll have to prove to me that you
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
79
are true, constant.” “How can I prove it?” he asked. “By your conduct,” said Fanny; “by showing me for a period of time that you are constant.” “How long?” he psked. “I can’t say how long. But I shall not give you any answer until I am sure of your nature.”
They came back to town. Fanny waited for the moment of parting for the last revelation. She was going to Beardstown tomorrow. Would she write? Yes, per¬ haps once a week. Would she be back to Whitehall? Perhaps, if she did not go on to Princeton too suddenly. What was between them? Nothing! How could she know, if she was in Beardstown, whether he was living up to his professions of love for Fanny? Oh, she could tell by his letters; she might hear from Miriam. An3rway, could he play a double part with her? Walter Scott put an arm over Fanny’s shoulder, just as the horse stopped. He drew her to him, and kissed her. Then Fanny leaped from the buggy and was gone.
Nothing settled! No plan for seeing her off to Beards¬ town tomorrow. Why tomorrow? Walter Scott’s brain was in a tangle. Was she going to Beardstown, to Prince¬ ton? What was her feeling for Dr. Horton after all?
And Walter Scott drove home, in a reaction of lessened vitality, subdued exhilaration. He was tormented. He was in doubt. . . . The next morning he woke up think¬ ing at the first of Fanny. Was she going today? He was about to drive to the train to see for himself. But something stayed him. He went to the barn and played seven-up with Uncle Madison.
CHAPTER III
When Fanny came in Miriam was waiting for her. “What’s in your blood?” asked Miriam in a voice of anger. “The same thing that’s in your blood, I’m sorry to say,” retorted Fanny. “You’re a dishonest woman,” Miriam went on. “There’s something wrong with you. You know well enough that Walter Scott is engaged to Kate Green. How do you dare to go riding in this secret way with him, with just a bonnet on — and to this hour?” “You can mind your own business,” said Fanny. “You came west and hooked Dr. Whitley — and from another woman, if mother is to be believed.” “It’s a lie!” shouted Miriam. “And you can leave my house . . . this minute.” “I’ll not leave your house,” replied Fanny with cold defiance. “And you won’t dare to put me out. Dr. Whitley will not want a scandal like that on his hands. If I leave your house tonight I’ll go to the hotel. And your reputation as a quarrelsome woman is bad enough. Don’t add to it. But I’ll tell you what I will do. Tomorrow morning I’ll leave, and I’ll never see you again, or speak to you.”
Fanny went hurriedly out of Miriam’s presence to her room, slammed the door and went to bed.
The next morning, as Fanny did not come down to breakfast when it was ready, Dr. Whitley went to her door and called her. “I’m not coming to breakfast,” said Fanny. “Open the door a minute,” he asked; “I want to say something to you.” Fanny opened the door and stood calmly for Dr. Whitley to begin. “You two sisters should not get into a temper like this. Come down to breakfast.”
8o
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
8i
“No,” said Fanny, “if the food was wholly yours, it would be different. But I’ll break no bread of hers. I’m off this morning. She has treated me like a scullery maid all the time I’ve been here. I’ll endure it no longer. It’s none of her business with whom I go riding, so long as it’s a reputable man. And all this regard for Kate Green is just pure hypocrisy.” “Well, well,” said the doctor in con¬ ciliation, “of course it’s all right. And I approve. Now come down and we’ll patch this up. It will be all right after a while.”
But Fanny said “No” again, and resumed putting her belongings in her valise. The doctor looked at her a moment, then went downstairs. ... An hour later Fanny walked out of Miriam’s house to the station, and took the train for Beardstown.
Fanny had just enough for her fare and a telegram to David (bat she was on her way, asking him to meet her at the station. She did without breakfast, but a little while before the train came to Beardstown she thought she would spend her last nickel for a cup of coffee. It v/ould brighten her up for her meeting with David. She must make a good impression on him. The train stopped at a town for ten minutes to wait for a connecting train. There was a lunch counter in the station. She went in and ordered coffee and suddenly she saw James Burgett at the end of the counter. He smiled and bowed, and moved his plate and food to the stool next Fanny’s. “Nothing but coffee?” he inquired. “Come, these dough¬ nuts are pretty good. More doughnuts, Jerry.” Jerry brought them. Fanny was famished and saw no point in declining them; and so they ate together. James Bur¬ gett was returning to Beardstown. He went back to the car with Fanny and sat beside her all the way to the end of the journey.
82
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
David Prentice wondered why Fanny had telegraphed him. He went to the train and was astonished to see Fanny helped from the steps of the car by James Burgett. Then she said good-day to him, and took David’s arm. “David,” she said, almost ecstatically, “you’re the first to know the good news. I’m going to be married.” “Married!” “Yes, and to the most wonderful man. The most handsome man you ever saw. The most gifted man, and very rich. And he adores me.” “Uh huh,” grunted David, “and how about you?” “Oh, well, you can imagine. And I want you to be a good brother, and help me a little. That’s why I telegraphed to you. I want to talk everything over with you before we get to your house. I want to be married at your house.” David was wondering why Fanny did not stay in Whitehall — ^if the man in the case lived there. So he asked: “Where does your beau live?” “In Whitehall, of course — ^why?” “I was wondering.” “Oh, well, you know Miriam. You never got along with her so well yourself. And she hates me. She treated me terribly. I shouldn’t think of being married in her house, or asking any favors of her what¬ ever. We quarreled because she talked to me so vilely. She wanted to marry me off to a Dr. Horton because of the good it would do her doctor, or something, and I was not interested. Then she pretended to take the part of a girl that my beau cares nothing for — ^has just been going with for pastime. David, I want you to let me have just a little money, say fifty dollars to get a dress and a few things. You don’t want your sister to go like a beggar girl to the marriage altar. Will you do this?”
David had just sold a horse, and made some trades. He had something more than one hundred dollars ahead. But it pinched him to lend fifty dollars. Besides, he dared not let his wife know it. “When are you going to be
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
83
married?” he asked Fanny. “As soon as I can get ready, perhaps three weeks or so.” David was thinking to him¬ self that Fanny would be in his home for that length of time. And what of the relationship between Fanny and his wife? Anyway, he saw no way to deny Fanny the hospitality of his home. As to the fifty dollars, when could Fanny repay it? Of course pretty soon if she were going to marry a rich man. Fanny said that it would be a loan for only a little while, and David consented. And they entered David’s house.
Fanny had made up her mind to get along with David’s wife. She altered her ways entirely. She helped David’s wife with the work. She arose early, swept the rooms, made her bed and the other beds. She pretended to take David’s wife into her confidence, consulting her about many things; her dress, the minister, the guests. She was wholly agreeable to David’s wife. All the while she was gambling on the chance of Walter Scott coming to her at all. He had stayed away from her for six months. If he did that now, or for three months, her scheme was ruined. She would have to return to Princeton. Then the question was, should she write to Walter Scott? In two days a letter came from him; after that a letter a day. Walter Scott was proving that he could be constant; that he meant what he had said. Fanny did not write him for nearly a week. When she did she told him of the gay times that she was having; and in fact she was lively and restless. There had been much entertaining for her since she returned, so she wrote; but that was not true. She concluded the letter with the words: “You must be true to yourself, your ovm feelings, and to anyone else who has a right to rely on your word.”
Walter Scott determined that he would be true. As for Kate Green, she was lesser truth; Fanny was the real
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
84
truth. His conscience hurt him that he had treated Fanny so abominably. He meant to make amends for that. But what was most absorbing of his powers and thoughts was the spell that Fanny had thrown upon him. He could think of nothing but her. The waltz music that he asso¬ ciated with her went constantly through his head. And she was away from him, having gay times — and at last, would she accept him?
Fanny had bought the material for a dress, and David’s wife was helping her make it. She had written to her mother that she was soon to be married; and the mother was making up a box of wedding gifts for her: a shawl, which the mother had worn as a young woman, two solid silver spoons which had belonged to Fanny’s grandmother; a silk sash, some cloth buttons which the mother had never used, a gift from a parishioner ; a piece of silk for a waist, and some light apparel. Fanny’s mother wrote that she would, if possible, get the box on by the time of the wed¬ ding. And the Rev. Reason Prentice had written Fanny a long homiletic letter, referring her to many scriptural passages which enjoined wifely duty and obedience. All the while Fanny was not sure that Walter Scott would come to her!
But before Fanny had her dress done, Walter Scott arrived. David’s wife went to the door, and gasped as she beheld this young Adonis, all dressed, too, in a new suit; bright-eyed, vivacious and smiling. She knew that this must be Fanny’s beau before Walter Scott made him¬ self known. Then Fanny, who had been listening in the next room, came into the hall and smiled the old smile of enchantment upon Walter Scott. He was acutely sen¬ sitive to anyone’s change of moods; but in Fanny’s case he was keenly intuitive of her feelings. He had been in fear all the way. She might turn him off! She might
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
85
upbraid him for coming without an invitation. She had not told him that she would marry him. And why was he here now? But when she smiled upon him his heart gave a great bound. Floods of vitality drenched his being. He broke into a hearty laugh over some trivial thing that he related. And Fanny laughed with all the heartiness of which she was capable. There was thus no ice to break, and David’s wife fell into their mood. Soon David came home, and they had a happy supper together.
After supper Fanny and Walter Scott went for a walk. He told her at once that he could stand the loneliness no longer; that he could not live without her; that she must either marry him at once, or send him away for good. Fanny went on to explain that she was not ready to be married. There was the matter of clothes. A woman could not be married without new dresses. Well, why not make them after the marriage? What was the difference? And Walter Scott told Fanny that she would have plenty of time for sewing after they were married. His mother would help her, and his sisters. For he had spoken to his father about bringing a bride to the old homestead. He had promised his father to do better, to take an interest in the farm, to work. But why had he slacked? Simply because he could not concentrate his mind on work with Fanny away, with this matter im- settled. And it seemed at times to him that he must kill himself if he couldn’t have Fanny.
Fanny had read many novels of consuming passion. Now she saw it before her, more flaming and powerful that she had ever read of it. She was swept out of herself by the melodious enchantment that flowed from the loos¬ ened tongue of this great lover. Her dress was all but done, anyway. And at last, she told Walter Scott to wait until tomorrow for her answer. She must first talk to
86
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
her brother. It would be better for Walter Scott to go to the hotel. David’s house was none too commodious. So Walter Scott told her good-night at the gate and went his way . , . hoping, but not fully confident. Walter Scott did not sleep that night. He arose early, before breakfast was ready at the shabby hotel, where it was served to workmen at five-thirty. He walked about the streets. He took coffee and bread and bacon at last, and waited for ten o’clock to call upon Fanny.
But Fanny had managed her heart alone. She said nothing to her brother, nothing to David’s wife. She arose, and waited for Walter Scott to come. She meant to tell him that she would marry him the next day. This was the way to cure her poverty, settle her life. Once married, she could snap her fingers at Miriam. As for David and his wife, they had done nothing whole-heartedly for her. But when she was living in state at Whitehall, as the wife of Walter Scott, their attitude toward her would be quite different. . . . Fanny was full of revenges.
Walter Scott came at ten o’clock. “I want to know what my fate is,” he said, almost as soon as he had entered the room. Fanny went to him, took both his hands in hers and looked up into his eyes with searching tenderness. She loved Walter Scott. In spite of all her self-regarding motives, she loved him. Now he stood before her in beautiful youth, transfigured by deep emo¬ tion. “Will you be a good husband to me?” she asked. “I hope God will punish me with all His power if I am not.” He pressed her head against his breast and stroked her hair. “Well,” he said at last, the tears streaming out of his eyes, “when is it to be?” “Tomorrow, if you wish.” “Tomorrow!” he echoed, half incredulously.
And tomorrow it was.
CHAPTER IV
James Burgett came to the wedding and brought Fanny a cake basket of plated silver. It was dented at one side; the handle was crooked. He had, no doubt, bought it at a bargain. Fanny’s sensitive nature, her patrician tastes, were constantly offended in this country, which in her heart she hated. There were other guests, too . . . Mabel Champlin, who affected a superiority because of her little travels about the country, her little purse. David’s wife knew her in a way, and wanted to make an impression. For it had gone around who Walter Scott was and that Fanny had made a notable match. There were a few others. And the officiating clergyman was the rector of the Episcopal church of Beardstown. Fanny wished this. The service was more impressive; and she had made up her mind to turn from the faith of her father and become an Episcopalian.
David had loaned Fanny fifty dollars. He couldn’t afford, therefore, to give Fanny much of anything. David’s wife was too penurious to spend more than a dol¬ lar or two. So she and David, largely at her instance, gave Fanny a copy of “Lucille,” bound in stuffed leather and illustrated with hideous wood cuts. The wedding break- fast, served at two, was good and bounteous enough, but not delicate. And Fanny loathed it, but kept her peace. She was beginning to wonder if disgust would not soon be off her trail and let her alone for good. . . . Then the couple was followed to the afternoon train by guests, led by James Burgett, who had insisted upon kissing
87
88
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
Fanny, and had been repulsed with spirit. He took it all in good part. His feelings were not easily hurt. He laughed, and stood with the crowd waiting for the train, telling stories, some of rather a broad application. . . . All the while Fanny’s heart was a mystery to herself. She hated these people. She felt soiled by their presence, espe¬ cially upon this occasion. She hated herself a little. She was not just now wholly pleased with Walter Scott. No one could look better, but at times she did not like the expression that came into his eyes. It belied his divinity somehow. Then he laughed clownishly sometimes . . . and at some of the indelicate allusions of James Burgett. Fanny felt something like tears, or a nameless hurt rising in her breast. She had strange fears. Above all, she wished for the train to come so that she could get away. Why didn’t the train come?
And just as it came David stepped to Fanny’s side and said, “Do what you can about getting that fifty dollars back to me ... no hurry exactly; but I can always use the money.” Fanny said “Yes,” a great hate giving a rising beat to her heart. And then amid showering rice and old shoes, Fanny and Walter Scott stepped on the train and were gone ... on the long journey.
Fanny supposed that they were going to Whitehall. But Walter Scott had planned to stay at Roodhouse until the next day. It was a small town about halfway to Whitehall.
They rode in a bus to the hotel, and everyone knew that they were a newly married pair, and stared at them. Fanny’s heart sank as they drew up to the hotel. It was a warm September, sickly heat, the town and the entrance of the hotel tinged with stale smells. Under the porch at the entrance door, loafers were sitting in their shirt sleeves, sleepy, torpid, heavy-eyed; smoking
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 89
pipes, spitting on the flagstone. The glass in the doors was covered with dust and fly specks. Fanny saw that one of the curtains to the left front window was torn at the pole and was hanging down. But the loafers were roused out of their somnolence by this vision of Fanny and Walter Scott ... by Fanny chiefly, whose brilliant complexion and shining eyes almost made a light around her. There were two other passengers in the bus. But when they had got away, Fanny asked Walter Scott incredulously if this was the best place in Roodhouse. “There is another hotel here that puts on more style, but it isn’t really any better.” Well, why didn’t she have something to say about the hotel? Fanny was furious. But to assert herself it was necessary to stand in front of these loafers and talk it out with Walter Scott. In the haste of the moment and the excitement of it, Fanny was not wholly in possession of herself. And almost before she knew it, she was standing by the counter while Walter Scott registered their names. She was flustered too, and indignant. For why had Walter Scott gone ahead of her in entering, almost letting the screen door bump her face? Yes, and the clerk of the hotel, too! He had walked in, leaving Walter Scott to follow; and Walter Scott had played the same discourtesy on her! There were little tears in Fanny’s eyes. But after all, this might be better than living upon the bounty of Miriam, or draw¬ ing upon the brotherly affection of David. The only thing to do was to assert one’s self. Everyone was demanding, taking, thinking of self . . . then why should not Fanny?
And it was clear that Walter Scott was flustered. She heard the clerk tell him that there was just one room left; that that was the best room. It looked upon the street in front of the hotel. And Walter Scott was asking the rate, and whether it could not be had for less than four
90
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
dollars a day for both of them. That included the meals. Was Walter Scott close-fisted, or was he short of money? After all, Fanny saw that she knew very little about this man that she had married. The repute of his family was high, and he himself was handsome of body and engaging of spirit — ^but what did she really know of Walter Scott himself?
The clerk led them into the hall and up broad stairs that creaked, stairs that were covered with a worn and dirt- trodden carpet of ugly reds and yellows. The walnut ban¬ ister was weak, and swayed to Fanny’s touch. The clerk was carrying a pitcher of water, against which the large brass check of the key was clicking as he stepped. And then the great high door was unlocked, opened. The clerk put the pitcher in the bowl, and went out. It was about five o’clock. Smells of cooking for the evening meal were ascending; the dead smells of much cooking still hung in the air, clung to the walls and curtains. The voices of the waitress girls singing below could be heard.
Fanny was now free to talk. “I hate this room. Why did you take it?” “It was the only room they had.” “Well, but why come to a hotel like this? Awful! Awful!”
She went over to the bureau. There was a swinging mirror on top of it. But she could not see herself dis¬ tinctly in it. The mirror was full of waves, streaks in the glass. She got but a distorted image of herself to study, and she was thinking of Princeton, of the order and ele¬ gance she had known, even in the poverty of a professor’s daughter. And here she was in this disgusting room — ^her bridal room, in this loathsome little town of Illinois. . . . The windows went to the top of the high ceiling. Coarse, dirty lace curtains hung from weakly secured poles. The brackets were decorated by cheap ornaments of brass.
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
91
which had become unfastened and were hanging awry. It was hot. The windows were down. She walked to the front of the room and raised the windows. Walter Scott followed her, taking her in his arms. “You are minp. now,” he said. Fanny began to weep. She covered her face with her hands. “Come,” he said, trying to tear her hands away. But Fanny held them fast, as her body shook; as her voice sobbed. Walter Scott was wondering. Perhaps she was thinking of Dr. Horton. Who could tell what was in a woman’s heart? But why these tears, if not for another man? Walter Scott began to be angry. He held Fanny tight to him with great strength. “Do you love me?” he asked. And as Fanny did not answer, but continued to sob, he pressed the words, “Do you love me?” Fanny broke loose from him and took her hands away from her face. She looked at him with steady strength and resolution. “Do I love you? Do you love me? How could you do the things you do?” “What things?” he asked. “If you are crying about the room, why be so silly? We’ll only be here until tomorrow, and then we’ll be home. I’ve done the best I could.”
Fanny sat down in a creaking rocker, and began to laugh and cry by turns. Suddenly she saw her hand with the wedding ring upon it. That was the only gift from Walter Scott on this day of days. And he had said it was as near like the one his father had given his mother as he could find. What of that? They were married years ago. They were poor. And was not Walter Scott able to draw upon a rich purse, even if he did not have one of his own?
Walter Scott felt a little afraid of Fanny. He expe¬ rienced a strange introversion of physical power and interest. He thought of kneeling by her, of taking her hands. But she was not tender. She was harsh, ready
92
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
to bristle. How could he manage her? He went to the bed and flung himself upon it. A slat gave way and fell with a bang to the floor. Walter Scott crawled under the bed and replaced it. Fanny broke into a loud laugh; and Walter Scott left the room. He descended to the bar of the hotel and drank a whisky.
Fanny went over to the bed. The pillow slips and sheets were clean enough, but of coarse, cheap material. But the mattress was thin and hard, compressed by much use. It rested upon springs that set unevenly under it. The bed as a whole was scooped in consequence, hollowed like a shell. What were people thinking of who could fur¬ nish such a place for rest, for sleep, that happiest of human experiences?
Walter Scott had eaten cloves to disguise the scent of whisky on his breath. But as he entered the room he saw Fanny sitting by the window. She seemed meek enough now. And if he had been at fault, whatever fault it was, he was sorry. Under the stimulus of the drink he was not afraid of a rebuff. And so he knelt by Fanny and took her hands and kissed them. Fanny caught the scent of the whisky. She loved it. It aroused her pas¬ sional nature. Her head fell back against the chair. She closed her eyes. And Walter Scott sprang to his feet and clasped her convulsively, plcinting kisses upon her brow, her cheeks, her lips. He took her hands in his, and tried to pull her up from the chair into his arms. But Fanny resisted him. ‘‘Don’t,” she said. “Don’t.” “Why?” “Oh, no, don’t.”
A great handbell was now rung up and down the hall. “Are you hungry, Fanny?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, “but I’d starve before I’d go to that dining room.” “Well, we have to. What can we do?”
Fanny looked at Walter Scott. Had he been away
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
93
to school, in Philadelphia: for ever so brief a time, and never heard of one’s meals being served in one’s room? How strange ! What was this handsome creature after all? So brilliant and witty, yet on some sides so undeveloped, inexperienced ! “Have one of the waitress girls bring in a table and the food. We can eat here.”
That pleased Walter Scott. A meal alone with Fanny! Not in the dining room among all the starers! So he set off to do her bidding. And the girl came and served them, and afterwards cleared the dishes away, removed the table and shut the door with a bang. For Walter Scott had not tipped her. He did not know that there was such a thing as a tip. Fanny smiled and asked him, “Why didn’t you give the girl something?” “What?” “Why, a tip for serving us here.” “Well, she gets her wages, and I am paying for this room.” Walter Scott was not stingy; he did not want to be imposed upon, that was all. And this struck him as an imposition.
It grew dark in the room. Fanny was sitting by the window. Walter Scott sat in front of her. There was much silence between them. Like two beetles that face each other for long minutes, waving little feelers ahead, Fanny and Walter Scott tested and searched each other. He was wondering, after all, how he was going to live, whether he could endure the farm life, the farm work; whether Fanny with her great spirit, her volatile temper, could adjust herself to his father and mother, to Amy, Lucy, Herbert, Ubcle Madison; and if she couldn’t, what he would do with her. But on her part, Fanny was at ease on the score of living, of a roof and food. But now, with that settled, she was wondering whether she was better off. Did she love Walter Scott? Yes; and yet, what was it to love someone? She wanted him for her own; but it was to subdue him, absorb him. She did
94
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
not know this was her feeling. She only wondered what her love was. And all these thoughts, analytical, not pas¬ sional, wove back and forth in her mind like wires, as the darkness in the room deepened and the hour of sleep approached.
“Aren’t you sleepy, Fanny?” he asked at last. She hesitated, then after a pause said “Yes.” And Walter Scott, inspired in that moment to respect the delicacy of Fanny’s feelings, got up and after kissing Fanny, went out of the room. He again descended to the bar for a drink. He walked about for a few minutes in the town. Then he returned. The room was dark. He went to the bed. Fanny was l5dng with her face hidden in the pillow. He arose, walked to the window, taking off his coat on the way. This he hung on a chair. Then he sat down and began to unlace his shoes. And Fanny was listening to every movement he made. . . .
Are these beginnings of the mutual lives of men and women sometimes joyous and beautiful, delicate and fruitful of tender memories? This is the hour comparable to the transplanting of flowers, the setting out of trees; and can the flower of love not be placed in the earth of its growth without breaking its leaves and its stalk, with¬ out scattering upon its petals the soil that should be heaped around its roots and its stem? The splotches of earth and water are never removed from the petals; the wound given the tree in the planting, in the accidental glance of the spade, is never healed. . . . And Fanny never recovers from the memories of this hour. . . . This is the time of feasting and of happiness, of glad surrender, of the full blossom of awaited ecstasy, of the beauty of life wholly realized. How often in the careless and unlicensed hours of men and women is there not sweet¬ est communion, wine and laughter and happy comrade-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
95
ship ... and here on this occasion guarded by law and custom Fanny lies and listens to Walter Scott unlacing his shoes I They have not talked, or laughed, or played, or feasted. Vehement and serious desire absorbs this man at her side; and in the storm of his loosened blood he withers and fails in her arms; and then what was mad¬ ness in him becomes the clearest sanity of sudden indif¬ ference, and wonder at the passion that was his a moment ago; and a great drowsiness takes his being. There has been no wooing; and no fusion of natures in this great fire, which has blown its flames and subsided into the coals. . . . Fanny has opened one eye, and she sees the night through the lace curtain of the high window. . . . The smell of stale cooking assaults her nostrils; and she is wounded and shamed and violated. . . . Walter Scott lies in a strange quiet by her side. She will never forget this night; and it will distill itself in a thousand bitternesses toward Walter Scott in the years to cornel
CHAPTER V
The next day there was an early train to Whitehall, and Walter Scott wished to catch it. He had no way to get word to the family that he was coming. Otherwise, he should have had Uncle Madison meet them at the station. But by taking the early train they could be at the farm in time for Nancy to have a: suitable home¬ coming for the son, Walter Scott, and his bride. . . . They arrived in Whitehall about noon. Walter Scott went to the livery stable and hired a carriage and a driver. And they set forth briskly for the farm.
As they drew up at the front gate Walter Scott called “Halloo!” And Nancy ran out immediately to greet them. This was the first time that Fanny had seen Nancy; and she felt instinctively that they were at oppo¬ site poles about ever5dhing. Nancy’s dark hair, scarcely at all touched with gray, her dark skin, her wrists slightly covered with hair, her hazel, peering eyes, her quick, self- possessed, individual manner . . . these were the things that Fanny saw. “So this is you,” said Nancy to Fanny. “You’re a pretty young thing. Come in. I have every¬ thing ready for you. I’ve cleaned the parlor bedroom and you can have the parlor, too. And we’re going to have fried chicken for supper.” “Supper!” exclaimed Walter Scott, “we haven’t had dinner yet.” “Well, come in,” said Nancy. “I’ll get you a bite of cold ham and some eggs if you want them.”
Then Amy ran out, and Herbert, and Uncle Madison. Fanny was lifted out of the carriage and kissed all around.
96
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT 97
Lucy was up now, gradually getting well; but not strong enough to come out.
Fanny found everything arranged for her comfort. The parlor was carpeted tastefully with a good Brussels of large figures. Lucy’s piano was in here; a handsome mahogany table, some oil paintings; a hair sofa; a what¬ not, on which shells and pieces of glass were resting. There were easy-chairs, and many cane-bottomed chairs, and a parlor stove brightly polished and ready for use, with kindling wood. The bedroom had two windows, one looking out upon a back porch, and the other upon the side yard, with a great maple tree not far from it. It was light. And Fanny found a good mirror before which to take off her hat and tidy her hair. She looked at herself keenly now. Yes, there was the look about her eyes that she had fancied they had. They were slightly red, a little weary, a little self-conscious. She wanted to get into the air. The rooms were musty, from lack of ventilation and use. But there was no way out except through the door that led from the parlor into the main hallway. And that way she might encounter some of the family. She didn’t want to see them again so soon. Accordingly she sat down and waited for Walter Scott. Perhaps this was love, or the feeling of the union of married people. Walter Scott was the nearest human being to her after all. She felt a dependence upon him. He had humbled her; and that word as used in the Bible text ran in her thought. And who were Miriam and David, and the Rev. Reason Prentice and her mother back in Princeton? They were really nothing to her. But Walter Scott was her support, her defender, her intimate, her husband. And she rocked and waited for him.
Meanwhile, Walter Scott had gone to the barn with
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
98
Uncle Madison. Uncle Madison had, in celebration of the event, bought some excellent whisky from Whitehall. No alcohol with cinnamon drops this time. And Walter Scott was having a drink, and warding off Uncle Madi¬ son’s questions and his teasings. “You look a little peaked,” said Uncle Madison. “We’ll have to keep you fed up for a while.” Walter Scott resented this obtrusion just a little, but he made no reply. He took two drinks, and returned to Fanny.
They went out into the yard, out to the tree which was at the side of Fanny’s window. Just then Lucy came out, assisted by Amy. Lucy’s mustache had grown too long, was too visible. And Fanny shrank from her. Lucy, like old Nancy, had hair on her arms. She had black eyes, which sometimes were satirical, sometimes were humorous. Fanny had faced a picture of Moliere day by day while reading “L’Avare” in Princeton. And she saw at once that Lucy looked like Moliere. She didn’t want to kiss Lucy. But there was no way to avoid it. She felt herself white where all this family was dark; and blue where they were gray or yellow; and smooth-skinned where they were hairy; and keen, swift, fiery, where they were astute, contemplative, of deep slumberous heat. She began to experience what she had heard was the feeling of others for the families into which they have married: a repug¬ nance for the stock. She began to assert to her¬ self that Walter Scott was of this family, but unlike all of them. For if he were like them she could not have chosen him.
While they were standing together William came up. He had been off in the far pasture about a fence. He greeted Fanny with a kindliness that won her heart. She loved his voice. Ah, here was the kinship. Walter Scott
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
99
was of the stock of William, not of the stock of Nancy and Lucy, Amy and Herbert, and Hannah.
At the evening meal, with all the family assembled, Fanny lifted her plate to find fifty dollars under it. “A little wedding present,” said William. And Fanny blushed and broke into tears. She thought that in some way it was known that she had borrowed fifty dollars from her brother David, and that this was to enable her to repay it. But Amy and Lucy fancied that she cried because she expected more. And Walter Scott thought that she was nervous and tired. Nancy looked at Fanny inquir¬ ingly, but not with sympathy. She was of tougher material than this. Altogether, Fanny did not have an understanding mind at the table. And how could she have? She was furious and hurt. She arose and left the table. Later, Nancy went to her and tried to console her. Nancy took food to her. Meanwhile, there was talk in the kitchen between Amy and Lucy. They were wondering what kind of woman Walter Scott had taken for a wife.
Fanny was tom with a thousand tormenting thoughts. There was the memory all too fresh of the hotel at Rood- house, and the blundering passion of Walter Scott which had broken through the sanctities of her woman nature with such blindness. Then these people upon whom she was dependent! After all, was it worse to be beholden to Miriam and to David? When she went from the table to her room, she sat biting her handkerchief, the tears falling from her eyes. She was visualizing the faces of Amy and Lucy, and Hannah. Amy had purple eyes; cold, contemptuous eyes, she thought. They seemed to bulge, due to the fullness of Amy’s temples. Altogether, her face was like the head of a house fly seen under the microscope! Then there was Lucy’s mustache; the curled, affected
lOO
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
upcurve of her lips, the sharp intonation of her voice. And as for old Nancy, Fanny was afraid of her, not in an exchange of wit, but on the score of Nancy’s superior strength, endurance, her knowledge of life, her dominance of this household which was so wholly her own.
The next day Fanny wrote a letter to David and enclosed the fifty dollars which William had given her, all loosely, trusting the letter to go through safely. She couldn’t go to the post office for a money order without running the risk that Walter Scott would discover what she was doing with her gift. She and Walter Scott were about to take a drive, and Whitehall was on the way. So she got out at the post office and mailed the letter to David, She had no sooner returned to the buggy where Walter Scott was waiting for her than he said: “You need a new hat, Fanny, and there is one in the milliner shop there. Look!” Fanny laughed. “No, not that hat, I want to ride now, an3rway.” Then Walter Scott asked her what she had done with her money. And she told him that she had put it away. “You be good,” she said. “I am going to spend that money when I want to and in the way I want to.” “Of course,” said Walter Scott. Fanny was cautiously biding her time to see if she could learn how the Houghton family had become apprised of her loan from David. But anyway, she made up her mind that the first one who threw it up to her would get seared.
It seemed that every day brought forth some disagree¬ able thing to torture Fanny. She sat down to play upon Lucy’s piano. Lucy heard her and came in to warn her against pounding the keys. “You are perfectly welcome to play it all you wish. Only be careful of the keys . . . and the rosewood scars easily.” Fanny was playing a piece called “Whisperings of Love.” Everyone who was learn-
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
lOI
ing the piano in those days played this ostentatious thing. Fanny did not read music well and she had not practiced enough to be proficient. “Is that the way you play that?” asked Lucy. And she sat at the piano and played it correctly but with less feeling, if feeling were possible to be put into such music. “Yes,” said Fanny, after listening to Lucy, “that is the way I play it, and not the way you do.” Lucy looked at her with perfect hatred, smiled sarcastically upon Fanny and left the room. . . . She went to tell Amy: “This woman will never do. Walter Scott has got himself into a bad mess.”
In a few days Fanny’s box came. In order to thaw the silence that crept arovmd her day by day, which was Amy’s and Lucy’s way of saying that Fanny had brought no dowry, and not even a wedding outfit Fanny had men¬ tioned from time to time that her mother was sending her a box of things. But Fanny was furious that she had to defend herself on such a score. She was in dread, too, of the arrival of the box, when all the Houghton family would know exactly what her mother had sent. But when Uncle Madison, who had been to Whitehall, drove up to the front gate and got out carrying the box, Fanny was in a tumult of shame and rage. It was easy for him to carry. It was not more than two feet square ... a little longer than that perhaps. And Lucy went to the door to let Uncle Madison in. “Fanny’s box, perhaps,” she said with a crisp inflection. Fanny heard her, but waited in her room for Uncle Madison to bring it in.
Here was the box! Amy and Lucy did not come in to see what Fanny had received. Fanny did not call them to come to see. If she could only have overwhelmed them with her mother’s benefactions! But she knew that could not be. So she stood looking at the box, and about to give way to tears. Yes, these were trying days
102
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
for Fanny. To be a bride of a few days, and under such conditions! Why had Walter Scott not taken her away somewhere else, so that they could begin their adjustment to each other without these daily grating offenses from outsiders?
While Fanny was looking at the box, Walter Scott came in. Uncle Madison had brought fresh whisky from Whitehall, and Walter Scott had taken a drink of it, this time without cloves. And Fanny smelled the drink on his breath. “Almost every day you do this,” Fanny said. “Not every day. . . . Oh, your box has come. Let’s open it.” Walter Scott went for the hammer. As he passed through the dining room he heard Lucy say to Amy with a sneer, “Quite a come-down after all this talk of her box.” Walter Scott was furious. His nerves were not too steady these strenuous days. He went back with the hammer to find Fanny crying. He didn’t try to console Fanny about the box. He said directly and with anger in his face, remembering what he had just heard Lucy say: “If my sisters don’t treat you right, come to me. You are my wife, and I won’t have them be anything but respectful.” Then he opened the box.
There were the silver spoons, the silk sash, the cloth buttons, the silk for the waist, and the apparel! Fanny flung herself upon the bed and began to sob. And it only dawned dimly upon Walter Scott what moved in Fanny. Oh, yes, he saw that there was not much in the box, but what difference did it make? And Fanny didn’t care so much for the fact that the gifts were poor and meager as she did for the humiliation to which she was subjected before Amy and Lucy. That night Fanny did not come to the supper table.
Old Nancy, who was composed by suffering of one kind and another, and by living busily and normally, and with
THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT
103
a mate with whom she had harmonized from the first, did not understand these hysterics on the part of Fanny, a more