Part 51 (2/2)
Something kept the train, and as he was joined by his large-eared friend--who had breakfasted at the sandwich counter--he said,
”See that young fellow talking to Mr. Fair? That's the famous John Marsh, owner of the Widewood lands. He's one of the richest young men in Dixie. Whenever he wants cash all he's got to do is to go out and cut a few more telegraph-poles--O laugh if you feel like it, but I heard Miss Garnet tell her friends so just now, and I'll bet my head on anything that girl says.” The firm believer relighted his cigar, adding digressively, ”I've just discovered she's a sister-in-law”--puff, puff--”of my old friend, General Halliday”--puff, puff--”president of Rosemont College. Well, away we go.”
The train swept on, the smoking-room filled. The drummer with the large ears let his companion introduce ”Mr. Marsh” to him, and was presently so pleased with the easy, open, and thoroughly informed way in which this wealthy young man discussed cigars and horses that he put aside his own reserve, told a risky story, and manfully complimented the cleanness of the one with which Mr. March followed suit.
A traveling man's life, he further said, was a rough one and got a fellow into bad ways. There wasn't a blank bit of real good excuse for it, but it was so.
No, there wasn't! responded his fellow-craftsman. For his part he liked to go to church once in a while and wasn't ashamed to say so. His mother was a good Baptist. Some men objected to the renting of pews, but, in church or out of it, he didn't see why a rich man shouldn't have what he was willing to pay for, as well as a poor man. Whereupon a smoker, hitherto silent, said, with an oratorical gesture,
”Lift up your heads, O ye gates, the rich and the poor meet together, yet the Lord is the maker of them all!”
March left them deep in theology. He found Mr. and Mrs. Fair half hid in newspapers, and Miss Garnet with a volume of poems.
”How beautiful the country is,” she said as she made room for him at her side. ”I can neither write my diary nor read my book.”
”Do you notice,” replied he, ”that the spring here is away behind ours?”
”Yes, sir. By night, I suppose, we'll be where it's hardly spring at all yet.”
”We'll be out of Dixie,” said John, looking far away.
”Now, Mr. March,” responded Barbara, with a smile of sweetest resentment, ”you're ag-grav-a-ting my nos-tal-gia!”
To the younger commercial traveler her accents sounded like the wavelets on a beach!
”Why, I declare, Miss Garnet, I don't want to do that. If you'll help me cure mine I'll do all you'll let me do to cure yours.”
Barbara was pensive. ”I think mine must be worse than yours; I don't want it cu-ured.”
”Well, I didn't mean cured, either; I only meant solaced.”
”But, Mr. March, I--why, my home-sickness is for all Dixie. I always knew I loved it, but I never knew how much till now.”
”Miss Garnet!” softly exclaimed John with such a serious brightness of pure fellows.h.i.+p that Barbara dropped her gaze to her book.
”Isn't it right?” she asked, playfully.
”Right? If it isn't then I'm wrong from centre to circ.u.mference!”
”Why, I'm glad it's so com-pre-hen-sive-ly cor-rect.”
The commercial traveler hid his smile.
”It's about all I learned at Montrose,” she continued. ”But, Mr. March, what is it in the South we Southerners love so? Mr. Fair asked me this morning and when I couldn't explain he laughed. Of course I didn't confess my hu-mil-i-a-tion; I intimated that it was simply something a North-ern-er can't un-der-stand. Wasn't that right?”
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