CHAPTER XXX
HOME AGAIN
Marley, after a year or more in Chicago, found the excitement of his first return home growing upon him as he looked out the car window and long before the train entered the borders of Gordon County he eagerly began watching for familiar things.
In the spirit of holiday which had come in this his first vacation, he had felt justified in taking a chair in the parlor car, though from the associations he had formed in his newspaper work it was more difficult now for him to resist than to yield to extravagances. He had recalled with a smile how in those first hard days in the freight office he had joked about going home in a private car, and he had had all day a childish pleasure in pretending that the empty Pullman was a private car; he could almost realize such a distinction when he showed the conductor the pass his newspaper had got for him.
But even if he now felt glad that he was a newspaper man instead of a railroad man, he was quite willing to return to Macochee on any terms. He had tried to convince himself that he knew the very moment the train swept across the Indiana line into Ohio, and he felt a fine glow of state pride. He held his pride somewhat in check until he heard some one speak a name that he recognized as that of an Ohio town and then he boasted to the porter:
“Well, I’m back in my own state again.”
The porter, though ready to admit that Ohio was a pretty good old state, was nevertheless not very responsive, and Marley saw that he would have to enjoy his sensations all alone.
He could view with satisfaction the figure of a tolerably well-dressed city man reflected in the long mirror that swayed with the rushing of the heavy coach. He knew that his return would create a sensation in Macochee, though he was resolved to be modest about it. Even if he was not returning to Macochee in the ceremony he had dreamed of, he was returning in a way that was distinguished enough for him and for Macochee.
He was eager to see the old town; he tried to imagine his return in its proper order and sequence, first, the little depot, blistering in the hot sun of the August afternoon, the rails gleaming in front of it, and the air above them trembling in the heat; he could see the baggage trucks tilted up on the platform; from the eating-house came the odor of boiled ham compromised by the smell of the grease frying on the scorching cinders that were heaped about the ties; beyond was the grain elevator that once appeared so monstrous in his eyes; across the tracks, the weed-grown field; and the only living things in sight the two men unloading agricultural machines from a box-car abandoned on a siding, the only sound, the ticking of a telegraph instrument; the target was set, but the station officials had not yet appeared.
Thence, in thought, he went up Miami Street; he saw the Court House and, lounging along the stone base of the fence, the loafers whom no one had ever seen move, but who yet must have made some sort of imperceptible astronomical progress, for they kept always just in the shadow of the building; then the old law office across the way; then Main Street, with its crazy signs, its awnings, and the horses hitched to the racks, then the Square with its old gabled buildings, the monument and the cavalryman, the long street leading to his own home, and at last, Ward Street, arched by its cottonwoods,—and he recalled his unfinished verses which had taken Ward Street for a subject:
“I know a place all pastoral,
Where streams in winter flow,
And where down from the cottonwoods
There falls a summer snow.”
And then, at last, the old house of the Blairs’ with its cool veranda, its dark bricks, its broad overhanging cornices, and Lavinia standing in the doorway!
He had never forgotten the anguish of his parting that night in spring, and he had looked forward to this return as an experience that would expiate it, and restore the lost balance of his life. But now as he thought of his life in Chicago, of the new scenes and associations, it came to him that that night after all had been final; the youth who had then gone forth had indeed gone forth never to return; another being was coming back in his stead. He had been successful in a way which at first flattered his pride, but a new sense of proportion had been growing in him that had lately made him mistrust newspaper work; he had for it a dislike almost as definite as that which used to displease him in Weston. He was growing tired of his life as a reporter; it had so many irregularities, so many hardships; it detached him from wholesome, every-day existence. He longed for some calling more definite, more permanent, a work in which he might do things, instead of record them in an ephemeral way. He had for a while been envious of Weston’s progress in his literary efforts, and for a while he had emulated him, but he had not been long in recognizing that he lacked literary talent.
Out of this dissatisfaction with himself he had lately gone in earnestly to complete his law studies, which all along he had pursued in a desultory fashion. He found some consolation in the hope that he might be admitted to the bar in the fall, though how or when he was to get into a practice was still as much of a problem as it had been in the old days in Macochee. He clung steadfastly, however, to the feeling that his newspaper work was but a makeshift; Weston and he had constantly supported each other in this view—it was their one hope.
With thoughts somewhat like these Marley had been whiling away the hours of his long day’s journey from Chicago to Macochee. He had read thoroughly, and with a professionally critical faculty, all the Chicago papers, and had long ago thrown them aside in a disorderly pile. Now he had the tired sense that his journey was nearing its end.
At last he saw the old mill-pond, and his heart leaped in affection; then he got his umbrella and sticks, took off his traveling cap and put it in his bag. He stood up for the porter to brush him off, and when he had selected a half-dollar as a tip, he asked the porter to get his luggage together, and in a conscious affectation he could not forego, began to pull on his new gloves. They were nearing Macochee now; and suddenly the tears started to his eyes, as in a flash he saw his white-haired father standing on the platform, anxiously craning his neck for a first glimpse of the boy who was coming home.
Marley’s mother did not reproach him when he ate a hurried supper that evening and then set off immediately for Lavinia’s. He renewed some of the emotions of the earlier days of his courtship as the familiar houses along the way gradually presented themselves to his recognition; he was glad to note the changeless aspect of a town that never now could change, at least in the way of progress, and he discovered a novel satisfaction—one of the many experiences that were so rapidly crowding in with his impressions—in the feeling that here, at least, in Macochee, things would remain as they were, and defy that inexorable law of change which makes so many tragedies in life. Lavinia must have recognized his step, for there she was, standing in the doorway, a smile on her face, and her eyelashes somehow moist. Marley felt a strange discomposure; there was a little effort, the intimacy of their letters must now give way to the intimacy of personal contact. But in another second she was in his arms, and her face was hidden against his breast.
“At last,” she said, “you’re here!”
He felt her tremble, and he held her more closely. When he released her she put her hands up to his shoulders and held him away from her, while she scanned him critically.
“You’ve grown broader,” she said, “and heavier, and—oh, so much handsomer!”
The Blairs filed in presently, and Marley had the curious sense of this very scene having been enacted in his presence before, but it lacked the usual baffling effect of this psychological experience, for he was able to recall, in an incandescent flash of memory, that it was almost a repetition of their good-bys that night when he had gone away; Mrs. Blair was as tender, and if Connie and Chad were a little shy of his new importance, Judge Blair was as dignified, and as anxious as ever to get back to his reading. Marley felt once more that permanence of things in Macochee; this household had remained the same, and it made him feel more than ever the change that had occurred in him.
In lovers’ intense subjectivity, he and Lavinia discussed this change seriously. They reviewed their old dreams, and now they could laugh at their defeated wish to live, even in an humble way, in Macochee.
“It was funny, wasn’t it?” said Marley. “I was very young then,—nothing, in fact, but a kid.”
“Are you so very much older now?” asked Lavinia with a slight hint of teasing in her tender voice.
“Well,” Marley replied, with a seriousness that impressed him, at least, as the ripe wisdom of maturity, “I am not much older in years, but I am in experience, and in knowledge of life. You see, dear, you can measure time by the calendar, but you can’t measure life that way. And Weston says that there is no calling that will give a man experience so quickly as newspaper work. You know we see everything, and we get a smattering of all kinds of knowledge. Weston says that is all that reconciles him to the business; he says a man learns more there than he ever does in college. He considers the training invaluable; he says it will be of great help to him in literature, if he can ever get into literature—he isn’t sure yet that he can. He can tell better after his book is published. And he says a newspaper experience will help me in the law, too, that is,” Marley added, with a whimsical imitation of Weston’s despairing uncertainty, “if I can ever get into the law.”
“You think a great deal of Mr. Weston, don’t you?” said Lavinia.
“He’s the finest fellow in the world, and the best friend I ever had.”
Marley had a curious intuition that Lavinia was a little jealous of Weston. He immediately sought to allay the feeling with this argument:
“You see, when a man does all for a fellow that Jim has done for me, and when you have lived with him, and shared your haversack with him, and he with you, like two soldier comrades, you get right down to the bottom of him. And I want you to know him, dear, I know you’ll like him.”
Lavinia was silent, and Marley had a fear that she might not accept Weston quite so readily.
“He has done me a world of good,” he went on. “He has taught me much, he has corrected my reckoning in more ways than one. He has taught me much about books; and he has taught me to look sanely on a life that isn’t, he says, always truthfully reflected in books. And besides all, if it hadn’t been for him, if he had not kept me at it and urged me on, I think I should have been doomed for ever to remain a poor newspaper man.”
“Don’t you like newspaper work?” she asked with a shade of disappointment in her tone.
“I did, but I like it less every day. It’s a hard and unsatisfactory life, and it has no promise in it. A man very soon reaches its highest point, and then he must be content to stay there. It’s the easiest thing for a young fellow to get a start in, if he’s bright; I suppose I’m making more money than any of the young lawyers in Chicago; but because it is so easy is the very reason why it is hardly worth while. Things that are easily won are not worth striving for.”
“And you’re going to get out of it?”
“Yes, as soon as I can. As soon as I can, I’m going to get into the law. When Weston first began urging me to keep up my studies, and when finally he made me go to the night law school, I consented chiefly because I had always felt the chagrin of defeat in having been compelled to give it up; lately, I’ve begun to see things differently, and I’ve determined to carry out my first intention and get into the law somehow. Of course, it’s going to be hard. And one has to have a pull there as everywhere else in these days.”
Marley was silent for a moment and, Lavinia thought, a little depressed. She watched him sympathetically, and yet she was a little troubled by a sense of detachment. She felt that Weston was now more closely associated with Marley’s struggle than she, and she was disturbed, too, by the disappointment of finding that his struggles were not at all ended.
“Weston says,” Marley went on presently, “that newspaper work is a good stepping-stone, and by it I may be able to arrange for some place in the law which will give me the start I want.”
“I thought you liked your work,” Lavinia said; “I thought you were happy in it.”
Marley detected her regret, and was on the point of speaking, when Lavinia went on:
“I don’t see why you can’t go into literature as well as Mr. Weston.”
Marley laughed.
“The reason is that I haven’t his talent,” he said
“I don’t see why,” Lavinia argued with some resentment of his humility. “You haven’t enough confidence in your own powers; you let Mr. Weston dominate you too much.”
“Now, dearest,” he pleaded, “you mustn’t do Jim that injustice. He doesn’t dominate me; but he is so much wiser than I, he knows so much more. You will understand when you meet him.”
“Well,” she tentatively admitted, “that is no reason why you shouldn’t in time be a literary man as well as he. Why can’t you?”
“Because I can’t write, that’s why.”
“Why, Glenn, how can you say that? Your letters disprove that. Every one who read them said that they were remarkable, and that you should go into literature. They said you had such good descriptive powers.”
Marley was looking at her in amazement.
“Why, Lavinia, you didn’t show them!”
“You simpleton!” she said, with a smile in her eyes, “of course not; but I have read parts of them to mama and to your mother now and then.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right,” sighed Marley in relief, and then he resumed his defense of Weston and his analysis of himself.
“Of course, I suppose I can write a fairly good newspaper story; at least they say so at the office.” He indulged a little look of pride, and then he went on: “But that isn’t literature.”
“I don’t see why it isn’t,” she said. “I should think it would be the most natural thing in the world to go from one into the other.”
“Not at all. Literature requires style, personality, distinction, and the artistic temperament.”
“I’d say you were talking now like George Halliday if I didn’t know you were talking like Mr. Weston.”
“I wish you could hear Weston talk about literature,” he said. “He’d convince you.”
“He couldn’t convince me that he can write any better than you can.” Lavinia compressed her lips in a defiant loyalty.
Marley paused to kiss the lips for their loyalty, and he compromised the validity of his own argument by saying:
“As a matter of fact, the law, in America and in England, has given more men to literature than journalism ever has.”
“Then maybe you can enter literature through the law,” said Lavinia, seizing her advantage.
“No,” said Marley, shaking his head. “I’m not cut out for it, as Weston is. Some day he will be a great man, and we shall be proud to have known him so intimately. And we will have him at our home; I have many a dream about that.”
He looked fondly at her, and her eyes brightened.
“And there is another reason why I want to get out of newspaper work,” he went on, speaking tenderly, “and that is because everybody says a newspaper man has no more right to be married than a soldier has.”
“But they all are,” said Lavinia.
“Yes, they all are, or most of them.”
“And I suppose it is the married ones who say that.”
“Well, I know one who is going to be married just as soon as he can.”
“Who is that,—Mr. Weston?”
“No, but Mr. Weston knows him, and knows his intentions, and he has promised to be at the wedding and act as best man.”
“Oh, it would be fine to have a literary man at the wedding, wouldn’t it.”
They talked then about the wedding, and they found all their old delicious joy in it. Marley said it must be soon now, though with a pang that laid a weight on his heart, he wondered, as he thought of all the extravagances he had allowed himself to drift into, where he was to get the money. He could reassure himself only by telling himself that he was going to live as an anchorite when he got back to Chicago; even if he had to give up the pleasant apartment with Weston and go back to the boarding-house in Ohio Street.
“How shall you like living in Chicago?” he asked. “Can you be happy in a little flat, without knowing anybody, and without being anybody?”
“I shall be happy anywhere with you, Glenn!” she said, looking confidently into his eyes.
CHAPTER XXXI
ILLUSIONS AND DISILLUSIONS
It was a pleasure to Marley to accept the homage the people paid him; they confounded his success in journalism with a success in literature, and under the impression that all writers are somehow witty, they laughed extravagantly at his lightest observation.
But much as Marley relished all this, much as he enjoyed being at home again, with Lavinia and with his father and mother, he was disturbed by a certain restlessness that came over him after he had been in Macochee a few days and the novelty and excitement of his return had worn off. The glamour the town had worn for him had left it; it seemed to have withered and shrunk away. He could no longer, by any effort of the imagination, realize it as the place he had carried affectionately in his heart during the long months of his absence; its interests were so few and so petty, and he found himself battling with a wish to get away. He was fearful of this feeling; he did not dare to own it to himself, much less to his father and mother or to Lavinia.
He was glad that Lavinia would not let him mention going back to Chicago, and as the days swept by with the swiftness of vacation time, he was troubled that he did not feel more acutely the sorrow he felt would best become the prospect of another separation. He was comforted, finally, when he was able to analyze his sensations sufficiently to discover that it was neither his sweetheart nor his parents that had changed, but his own attitude toward life in a small town; he was vastly relieved when he succeeded in separating his feelings and saw that it was Macochee alone that he had lost his affection for, though he could not analyze his sensations deeply enough to recognize himself as at that period of life when external conditions are accepted for more than their real value; he was still too young for that. And so he could spend his days happily with Lavinia and grudge the moments which Lawrence and Mayme Carter filched from them by their calls, and he was as resentful of Mayme’s invitation to the supper which she exalted into a dinner with a reception afterward, as was Lavinia herself.
When Marley went to pay his call on Wade Powell, he found many sensations as he glanced about the dingy little office where he had begun his studies. Wade Powell himself, smoking and reading his Cincinnati paper, was sitting at his old desk, with the same aspect of permanence he had always given the impression of. Marley rushed in on him with a face red and smiling and when Powell looked up, he threw down his paper, and leaped to his feet, saying:
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
But when their first greetings were over, Powell’s manner changed; he began to show Marley a certain respect, and he paid him the delicate tribute of letting him do most of the talking, whereas he used to do most of the talking himself. He was not prepared to hear that Marley was still studying law; and it cost him an effort to readjust his conception of Marley as a successful journalist to the old one of a struggling student. He gave Marley some intelligence of this, and of his disappointment when he said with a meekness Marley did not like to see in him:
“Well, of course, you know your own business best.”
But when Marley had taken pains to explain his position and when he had described the Chicago law offices, Powell grew more reconciled.
“I’ve watched you,” he said, “I’ve watched you, and I’ve asked your father about you every time I’ve seen him; my one regret was that you were not working on a Cincinnati paper; then I could have read what you were writing. I did try to get a Chicago paper—but you know what this town is.”
Powell was deeply interested in Marley’s description of his old friend, Judge Johnson, and as Marley gave him some notion of the judge’s importance and prosperity Powell could only exclaim from time to time:
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
Marley did not tell Powell that Judge Johnson had appeared to have forgotten him; he felt that it would be more handsome to accept the moral responsibility of a prevarication than to hurt Powell’s feelings in the way he knew the truth would hurt them. Even as it was, Judge Johnson’s success, now so keenly realized by Powell when it had been brought home to him in this personal way, seemed to subdue him, and he was only lifted out of his gloom when Marley said:
“But I’ll tell you one thing, there isn’t a lawyer in Chicago who can try a case with you.”
Powell’s eye brightened and his face glowed a deeper red; then the look died away as he said:
“Well, I made a mistake. I ought to have gone there.”
“Is it too late?”
Powell thought a moment, and Marley regretted having tempted him with an impossibility. He was relieved when Powell shook his head and said:
“Yes, it’s too late now.”
Powell, with something of the pathos of age and failure that was stealing gradually over him, begged Marley to come in and see him every day while he was at home.
“You see I’ve always kept your desk,” he said, in a tone that apologized for a weakness he perhaps thought unmanly, “just as it was when you went away.”
Marley thought cynically that Powell had kept everything else just as it was when he went away, but he was instantly ashamed of the thought, and ashamed, too, of the fact that he and Lavinia both considered even this little morning call a waste of time, and a sacrifice almost too great to be borne.
Powell went with Marley out into the street, and it gave him evident pride to walk by his side down Main Street and around the Square.
“I want them all to see you,” he said frankly.
He made Marley go with him to the McBriar House and then to Con’s Corner, and, in every place where men stopped him and shook Marley’s hand and asked him how he was getting along, Powell took the responsibility of replying promptly:
“Look at him; how does he seem to be getting along?”
Powell found a delight that must have been keener than Marley’s in Marley’s fidelity to Chicago, expressed quite in the boastful frankness of the citizens of that city when abroad, though to Marley it seemed that he was putting it on them by doing so. He found them all, however, in a spirit of loyalty to Macochee that might easily have become combative.
“Well, little old Macochee’s good enough for us, eh, Wade?” they would say.
Marley would not let them be ahead of him in praise of Macochee, and Powell himself softened enough to admit that old Ohio was a pretty good place to have come from.
When they suddenly encountered Carman in the street, Marley flushed with confusion, first for himself and then vicariously for Powell. But there was no escape from a situation that no doubt exaggerated itself to his sensitiveness, and he was soon allowing Carman to hold his hand in his right palm while with the other Carman solicitously held Marley’s left elbow, and transfixed him with that left eye which still refused to react to light and shade.
“Well, how are you?” asked Carman. “How are you, anyway?”
“Oh, I’m all right.”
“Guess you’re glad now I didn’t give you that job, eh?”
Marley could not look at Powell, but he hastened to say:
“Yes, I’m glad, now.”
“Maybe it was for the best,” said Carman.
When they had left him Marley quickly and crudely tried to change the subject, but Powell insisted on saying:
“I want you to know that I’ve always felt like a dog over that.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” Marley begged. “I was honest when I told Carman I was glad it turned out as it did.”
“Yes,” said Powell, “I guess it was all for the best.”
To Marley’s relief they dropped the matter then, and went over to Con’s Corner. There Powell lighted a cigar, and Marley could not resist asking for a brand of cigarettes, the kind that Weston smoked, though he knew that Con would not have them. He felt mean about it afterward, but he could not forego some of the petty distinctions of living in a city and he indulged a little revenge toward the people who had deserted him in what had seemed to him his need, and now, in what seemed to them his prosperity, were so ready to rally to him. Marley went home at noon feeling that his triumph had been almost as great as if he had come home in a private car.
His triumph soon was at an end; they came to the afternoon of the day when Marley was to return to Chicago. It was a golden day, with a sun shining out of a sky without clouds, and yet a delicious breeze blew out of the little hills. Marley and Lavinia walked out the white and dusty pike that made the road to Mingo. They walked slowly along the edge of the road, in silence, under the sadness of the parting that was before them. They longed ineffably that the moments might be stayed; somehow they felt they might be stayed by their silence.
But when they had ascended the hill and stood beside the old oak-tree which grew by the road, they looked out across the valley of the Mad River, miles and miles away—across fields now golden with the wheat, or green with the rustling corn that glinted in the sun, off and away to the trees that became vague and dim in the hazy distance. Back whence they had come lay Macochee; they could see the tower of the Court House, the red spire of the Methodist church, the gleam of the sun on some great window in the roof of the car-shops; on the other side of town crawled a train, trailing its smoke behind it. Marley looked at Lavinia—she was leaning against the tree, and as he looked he saw that her blue eyes were filling slowly with tears.
“Isn’t it beautiful!” he said, looking away from her to the simple scenery of Ohio.
“Do you remember that day?”
“When we picked out our farm—where was it?”
“Wasn’t it over there?”
“Yes,” he said. “We could come and live here when we are old.” He knew he was but seeking to console himself for what now could not be. “And there is the old town,” he said. “It looks beautiful from here, nestling among those trees, it seems peaceful, and calm, and simple. But it is different when you are in it; for there are gossip and envy and spite, and I can never quite forgive it because it had no place for me. Well,” he went on defiantly, in the relief he had been able to make for himself out of his immature reading of Macochee’s character; “I don’t need it any more; it is little and narrow and provincial, and the real life is to be lived out in the larger world. It’s a hard fight, but it’s worth it.”
“Don’t you regret leaving it?” asked Lavinia, in a voice that was tenderer than Marley had ever known it. Marley looked at Macochee and then he looked at her.
“I regret leaving it, dear heart, because I must leave you behind in it.”
“Would you never care to come back if it were not for me?” she asked.
“I might,” he admitted, “when we are old. We could come back here then and settle down on our farm over there.” He pointed.
“I’m half-afraid of the city,” Lavinia said.
He turned and took her in his arms.
“Dearest,” he said, “you must not say that; for the next time I come it will be to take you away from Macochee.”
“Will it?” she whispered.
“Yes; and it can’t be long now. How we have had to wait!”
“Yes,” she repeated, “how we have had to wait!”