Part 22 (2/2)

I pointed to a square, old-fas.h.i.+oned red-brick building set well back from the road and surrounded by great oak-trees, and smaller ones of birch and maple and spruce and pine, and shrubs of various kinds. It was Claxon's one redemption. Shading my eyes, I read the tin sign swinging in the wind from a rod nailed at right angles to a sagging post at its gateless yard. ”Swan Tavern.” The name thrilled. I was no longer a twentieth-century person, but a lady of other days, and if a coach and four with outriders had appeared I would have stepped in it with delight. It did not appear, nor was Selwyn suddenly in knee-breeches and buckles and satin coat and brocaded vest. Not even my imagination could so clothe him. His practicality recalled me.

”I'll go over and find out what sort of place it is, and see if we can get anything to ride in. Perhaps this man can tell me. Wait here.” He put out his hand as if to prevent my speaking first to the man. I didn't intend to speak to him.

The man could tell him nothing. He lived seven miles back and had come to the station to meet a friend who had failed to appear. There were teams in the neighborhood that might be gotten. Swan Tavern didn't have any. Used to, but most people nowaday, specially drummers, wanted automobiles, and old Colonel Tavis, who owned the place, wouldn't let an automobile come in his yard. Perhaps Major Bresee might let him have his horse and buggy. The person who gave the information changed his quid of tobacco from his left to his right cheek and, spitting on the ground below the plank-loose platform on which we were standing, pointed to a one-room office-building down the street, then again surveyed us. Two or three men across the road came over, and two or three others hanging around the station drew nearer and nodded to us, while both of the boys, hands in their pants pockets, stared up at Selwyn as if something new had indeed come to town.

From each of the group, now uncomfortably close to us, the impression radiated that the right of explanation was theirs as to why we should appear in Claxon with no apparent purpose for so appearing.

Seemingly we were not the sort who usually applied for aid to the minister of the little town, known far and near for his matrimonial activities, and just what we wanted was a matter concerning which they were ent.i.tled to enlightenment. They said nothing, but looked much. Frowningly, Selwyn bit his lip. Presently he spoke.

”Can you tell me where I can get a horse and buggy for a few hours?”

He looked first at one man and then another. ”We have to wait here for friends who will return with us on the three-thirty train, and we'd like to see something of the country round about here while we're waiting. Can we get lunch over there? And what time do they have it?” His hand pointed to Swan Tavern.

”Don't have lunch. Dinner's at twelve o'clock.” The man farthest away took his hands from the pockets of his pants and put them in those of his coat. ”I reckon you can get Major Bresee's horse and buggy if he ain't using 'em. The horse ain't much, but it moves along. Want me to see if I can get him for you?”

”I would be very much obliged.” Selwyn turned to me. ”Shall we have the buggy sent over to us while we see about lunch?” he asked, but not waiting for an answer spoke again to the man whose kindly offices he had accepted. ”If you can get anything we can ride in comfortably, bring it over, will you? And bring it as soon as you can.”

Lifting his hat, he turned from the staring strangers and helped me down the three rickety steps that led to the road across which we had to go before turning in to the tree-lined lane that led to the quaint old tavern; and as we walked we were conscious of being watched with speculation that would become opinion as soon as we were out of hearing.

Picking our way through the mud, we soon reached the house, and at its door an untidy old gentleman, with the grace and courtesy of the days that are no more, greeted us as a gracious host greets warmly welcomed guests, and we were led to a roaring fire and told to make ourselves at home.

As he left the room to call his wife I touched Selwyn's arm and pointed to an open book on an old desk near the window at which travelers were supposed to register. ”Ask him if he can't have a lunch fixed for us to take with us. Then you won't have to register or explain. Tell him anything will do, and please to hurry!”

He did not hurry. n.o.body hurries in Claxon. It was twelve o'clock before the buggy was at the door, a basket of lunch in it, and good-bys said; and giving a last look around the big, dusty, suns.h.i.+ny room with cobwebs on its walls and furniture in it that would have made a collector sick with desire, I walked out on the porch, and with me went the three dogs which had been stretched in front of the big log fire. Together we went down the steps.

Tucking a robe around me, the old gentleman nodded to Selwyn. ”Don't let your wife get cold, suh, and don't stay out too long. The sun's deceiving and it ain't as warm as it looks.” Being deaf, he spoke loudly. ”The battlefields are to your left about half a mile from the creek with a water-oak hanging over it, and nigh about two miles from here. You can't miss 'em. Over yonder”--he pointed to the top of a modest mountain--”is where we had a signal station during the war. The view from there can't be beat this side of heaven. I ain't sure the battlements of heaven itself--”

But our horse had started and Selwyn, looking at me, laughed.

”Battlefields have their interest, but not to-day. It's nice, isn't it, to be--just by ourselves and all the world away? Are you all right? I have orders to keep my wife warm.”

”She's very warm. Where are we going?” I turned from Selwyn's eyes.

”I don't know. Don't care. It is enough that we are to be together.”

”Wouldn't you feel better if you said 'I told you so'? Any one would want to say it. It was a pretty long trip to take unnecessarily, and as we haven't been of service we needn't have come. I'm sorry--”

”I'm not.” Selwyn, paying no attention to the horse, who had turned into the road leading to the top of the mountain, kept his eyes still on me. ”I don't deserve what has come of our venture, but I shall enjoy it the more, perhaps, because of undeserving. It is just 'we two' to-day. I get so mortally tired of people--”

”I don't. I like people. Perhaps if I only knew one sort I would get tired of them. I used to think my people were those I was born among, but I'm beginning to glimpse a little that my family is much larger than I thought, and that all people are my people. Still--”

I laughed and drew in a deep breath of pine-scented air.

”Still--?” Selwyn waited.

”It _is_ nice to get away from everybody now and then, and be with just you. I mean--” Certainly I had not meant to say what I had said, and, provoked at my thoughtless revealing, at the chance it would give Selwyn to say what I did not want him to say, I stopped abruptly, then quickly spoke again. ”Why don't you make the horse go faster? We'll never get to Signal Hill at this rate. He's crawling.”

”What difference does it make whether we get anywhere or not? I don't want to get anywhere. To be going with you is enough. You are a cruel person, Danny, or you would not make me go so long a way alone.”

”I am not making you go alone. It is you who are making me. I am much more alone than you.” Again I stopped and stared ahead. What was the matter with me that I should be saying things I must not say?

In the silence of earth and air I wondered if Selwyn could hear the quick, thick beating of my heart.

<script>