Strange Yesterday (15 page)

“So long as I love her,” he thought to himself desperately.

And then, almost imperceptibly, he shrugged; for it had come to him that he was struggling against something he did not understand, could not understand, never would understand—something that was beyond him, as now she was beyond him.

They stood there, motionless, for hours, for they were both thinking, both wondering. There was such a great deal to think of, to wonder about! At last his hand crept about her shoulder.

“Inez—” he said hesitantly, thrilling to the simple beauty a name might have—“Inez, I will kiss you once again—so that you may know, Inez—”

“That you love me?”

“That I love you as I have loved no other thing. That I shall always love you, Inez.”

He took her in his arms; gently he kissed her upon her lips. But already all was of the past. Yet he was thankful for what had been. It does not matter, he thought to himself, whether one has lived an hour or years, so long as one has lived at all.

The sun was setting, a spray of fire straining to the sea. There are so many sunsets, and each is the same, and each is different. A sailor came to call them to the evening meal, but they shook their heads and remained there—until the sun was gone and the sea was dark. Before he told her good-night, he lifted her face and held his lips to hers.

14

T
HEY
had good weather and fair winds; three days after saw them working their way through the Narrows and up the bay. They came into the shore together, and on the pier they clasped hands; and while she, the captain and the first officer by her side, went slowly through the city to Cherry Street, John Preswick turned away and walked in the direction of the Jersey ferry.

He did not look back. They were severing bonds with a tactful, swift agreement, without words, each realizing what was in the other's heart, what must be done. Words might have made it worse, and for that reason they avoided words; words could not have made it any better. And to himself, John Preswick thought: “Surely, it could not have been any better, for, had I not been a fool, I would have seen that the other was impossible, and I would not have considered it, even for a moment. But now I have lived for a little while, and I have loved—I shall always love—and I have held the woman I love in my arms, and I have slept with her by my side, and I have seen in her eyes as much as any man could desire to see in the eyes of a woman. And I have pressed her hair to my face, and her lips to mine, and her breasts to me. And for her I have fought, and killed, and murdered—and for her I have dared death. And I have seen that she would have died for the love of me. If I were to ask more, I would be very much of a fool—and if I were to desire more, I would be very much of a fool. And though I may be a fool, regardless, I am becoming a contemplative one. I will live—because it is in me to live, because my body cries out for me to live. But my living will not be life. I am twenty-eight years of age, and my life is behind those twenty-eight years. Now I shall simply exist.” He was most satisfyingly morbid. He felt that it was very good and martyr-like to be suffering for love; but, withal, he could not drown the choking in his heart.

His journey southward was not without incident, but, to him, all incident was in the past. Those few days he had lived through were short, but they were days to leave their mark upon him. In a dulled, half-absorbed manner, he would live those days over and over again.

He went through the states to the east of the foothills, proceeding by coach, by horse, and even by foot. A little money he had—in the money-pouch attached to his belt; the girl could not find it in her to offer him any. But it was enough to last him. Through Jersey he passed, and then Delaware, and then Maryland, and then Virginia and the Carolinas. It was a long and arduous journey, which he might have made much more profitably by sea. But, somehow, he could not bear the thought of going back to the sea. The sea he avoided and desired to avoid so long as he should live. So he went by land, and in time he arrived at the place called the Inn of the Steer's Horn.

Now he came by foot, for he had left the stage at a point further back; a small bundle he carried under his arm; otherwise he had nothing. He had made no change of clothes; his breeches were stained and worn; his shirt was grime-covered and torn and wet with his sweat. He was stockingless, and his heavy, black shoes were through at the soles and toes. His hair was long and shaggy; he was unshaven; he was lean; and his large frame was almost spare.

The road was dusty; the day was warm, as days in the late fall are wont to be in that part of the southland. Being tired, and knowing that his destination was near, he walked slowly, the dust curling up in ocher puff-balls about his feet. The road was long, and it stretched away through a lane of trees, through high hedges and broad fields that were scattered with shade trees. Ripe and coloring were the trees, and the fields were ripe and with color too. There was a rise and fall to the land, like a sea when no wind moves it; the hills were smooth and not high—except far ahead of him where, like a lone, expectant sentinel, the hill called Steer's Head thrust itself up above the surrounding country, covered sparsely with bush, underbrush, and thin trees of new and feeble growth.

When he saw the hill called Steer's Head—and only then—he wondered what had caused him to return to this place, and what it held for him, and why his steps were instinctive in seeking this direction. Feeling woefully tired and bruised, he fastened his eyes upon the thrust-up clump of earth and rock, and plodded on. Soon he was near it. Around its foot the road wound, and he passed with the road; the inn lay before him.

It was a lovely house, that Inn of the Steer's Horn, and John Preswick thought to himself that he had not known its loveliness until now—coming back. But those who built it had never intended it for an inn. It was old as Carolina itself, of good red brick, such as they have lost the skill or desire to make, with two wings, as in an H, and with a small, columned portico directly between the short, forward arms. Vines and creepers clawed over it to the shingled roof, not pausing even at the tiny, white-railed platform above the pillars. It was old—so old that it blended into the landscape, as an old, moss-covered stone wall will; and it was not large. But it was stately; such a stateliness it had as no inn should rightly possess. Already it was of another age, with a dignity of another time, with a courtliness that loomed over its capacity as an inn. It was a gentleman come to dire straits; but it was ever a gentleman.

It was a lovely house, and when one comes back to a lovely house that has once been one's very own, one cannot help feeling a thrill of restfulness—calm and easy restfulness.

There was never much of a bustle to the Inn of the Steer's Horn. A post came by on that road, but it was not the post to Charleston. Nor did any coach to or from Charleston come that way. If one wanted that, one must walk to a crossing, wait there, flag the coach, and swing on. The little road that wound around the Steer's Head was a lonesome one. And it was only an occasional and dusty traveler who dropped onto one of the benches that stood before the portico, and called for ale.

As he came forward, no one appeared. The place was a good deal as he had left it; nothing had changed; nothing was new. The fields were green and yellow, the hedges high and bluish, the trees broad over gobs of welcome shade. The trees were willow and locust and maple, lonesome, heavy trees. But he thought they had a little of a smile, a little of a nod for him; he thought that they knew him, and that they were welcoming him in their contained fashion.

High as his shoulder was the hedge beside which he walked, and broad as two paces. It was the sort of hedge that gave the lie to any assertion that America was young; it was a very mature hedge, and one that had known life. He walked along it, shuffling through the margin of grass that lined the road, until he came to the break, where a rickety old gate hung. As he opened the gate, it creaked warningly on its hinges. He walked in, along the flagstoned path, to the little garden where the tables and benches were set, Wearily he laid his bundle upon the table and sat down. No one appeared. There was no sound other than the thick humming of insects and the distant screech of a crow.

“Peter!” he ventured; and, raising his voice, he cried: “Peter, where are you, you sluggard!”

From within, there was a sound, a shuffling of feet, and opening and closing of doors, a sound coming nearer, until finally the front door swung inward, and an old man poked out his head.

“Peter, come here! Must I wait forever for a tankard of ale?”

Coming forward, the old man stretched his head like a turkey, straining his eyes to see; then he clapped his hands, forgot his age, picked up his apron, and almost ran to the tables. “I thought—” he began—“I thought surely my eyes—”

“A drink, Peter! Must I die here of thirst?”

“Yes. A tankard. A hundred tankards. Only be patient, and old Peter will serve you.”

“You are an old man, and a slow old man. Your joints crack.” But there was a warmth and affection in his voice; the old man had not changed much.

Presently they sat together, one on either side the table, John Preswick's face buried in foam, the old man watching him with a fond, though an appraising, look.

When John Preswick had satisfied his thirst, he thrust away the tankard and glanced up. With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth, and he half smiled.

“Old Peter,” he said, “you did not expect to see me again.”

“But I did,” the old man protested strongly.

“I have crawled back—because the other was too much for me.”

“But it is good that one should come back to the place that is his.”

“I come with nothing, Peter. Even the money is gone.”

“What is money!” shrugged Peter. And, indeed, in that quiet garden, tucked away behind the hedge, heavy with the scent of earth and of flowers, money could not have a place. Peter shrugged. “Yes. What is money!”

“Much, Peter, as I have come to learn. I went away a rich fool. I come back a beggar, but a slightly wiser man. Yet I am still a fool, Peter.”

“I knew you would come,” declared old Peter, sage as the ages.

“You have a wife now perhaps, Peter?”

“What would an old man do with a wife?”

“But you are hale as an old oak, Peter.”

“No, I am old and settled in my habits. I have no wife.”

“Then perhaps, Peter, you will take me—to work for you. You know I am a strong worker. I want only a bed and to be here.”

The old man's eyes opened wide; questioningly he gazed at the worn, dark, yellow-haired person before him. In his face amazement mingled with incredulity. “To work for me?” he inquired. “When it is yours, all of it?”

“But not any longer. Before I went, I gave it to you—for the money. I wanted the money then, Peter,” he finished simply.

“That?” Peter let out his breath and smiled in relief. “That, you mean. But you do not imagine that I took it for your words! For three thousand?—No. I am an honest man. It is yours, and I have kept it for you. Some day you will return the money I gave you—if you wish. I do not need it. I am an old man. I desire only to be here.”

“There is the deed.”

Old Peter went into the house and returned with the deed. Carefully he tore it into bits and cast them away. And John Preswick laid his face in his hands and sobbed for the first time in many, many years. Old Peter walked over, bent, and laid a hand upon the yellow hair. “Come,” he whispered. “Come. Soon the post will be here.”

15

A
YEAR
later, John Preswick received this letter:

“D
EAR
L
OVE
:

“For many things you must forgive me, but for this most of all. I have married, but only because our daughter must have a name. I have married a fine and good man of whom I will not speak here. And I am not unhappy.

“But I write to tell of her—our daughter. Is that not terrible and wonderful, our daughter! My mother tells me she is much like I was, except that her eyes are blue—your blue. It is like the sea. I have told my mother all, and she seems to understand. I think sometimes that she dreams of you. To her it is not grotesque; it is beautiful.

“She is a healthy, large child, with clear, intelligent eyes. Discreetly, I made inquiries of a young medical friend of our family, a Dr. Van Aurstchen, who seems to love and to understand the child; but he does not appear to know a great deal. He says that if the stock is good, it may matter not at all, and I pray nightly that he is right. You see, I love her as I have loved no other person—but you. That is wicked, is it not, for my husband loves me? His name is Fredric Thatcher. He is a splendid person, and you must understand how good he is to me. You must understand, John Preswick, and forgive me and love me.

“I shall not write again; I cannot. As I write this, I am trying to be brave, as I know I should be; but it is so hard. I feel that some one is laughing over it all. That is why, even when I pray, I know I am not praying with my soul. Somehow, I can hear—laughter.

“Her name is Inez, as mine is, for I knew you love the name. She is beautiful, her eyes like deep wells. Remember, dear one, that the kisses I give her are from your lips. Remember, too, that I loved you. I ask much, for it is hard to remember—

“I
NEZ
.”

He did not know, as he read it, that she was dead—after months of lingering, painful illness—after the bearing of the child. He did not know that she wrote the letter at the end, only then.

He received a short, impersonal note from her mother, a few lines. She had died. He did not wonder at the coldness of the note. He saw only the dread implication.

He wondered whether, as Inez had thought, it was all something of a jest.