I
A MAN and a dog trudged along a country road. On either side, beyond gray stone walls, meadows stretched gently upward to meet a warm blue sky. Afar a mowing-machine moved slowly against the horizon, and the clatter of its blades seemed to intensify the heat, like the midsummer rasping of a locust. All about was the fragrance of clover, of red clover knee-deep in the ripe meadows, of alsike clover hugging the lichened walls, of white clover, shy and lowly, peering from the wild tangle along the way. Milkweed was adding pale mauve shadows to its delicate green; self-heal bravely defied the dust with purple blooms, and up the walls the bindweed was shooting its green arrows and tinkling its triumph on pinky bells. It was June in New England.
The man was lean and well-conditioned, in height somewhat over the average, in years somewhat under thirty. He had a good-looking, tanned face, a pair of merry, red-brown eyes, and a mouth which, unhidden by a closely-cropped mustache, was oddly at variance with the eyes, being straight and firm and serious. He was dressed for the road: gray flannel Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, puttees, stout tan shoes, and a light cloth cap pushed to the back of his head. There was a pack between his shoulders, a pipe between his teeth, and a stick in one brown hand.
The dog, who all the morning had padded along with his nose at the man's heels, was white—save for the dust that had settled on him—with occasional patches of fawn. He was frankly a mongrel, long of muzzle and leg, with a bullet-shaped head and a heavy tail, which, in spite of the short hair on the rest of the body, showed a disposition to feather. He possessed one good ear and the scant remains of another. For the rest, he seemed serious-minded and contemplative, and had evidently lived long enough to have discovered the vanity of many things. Not for him the wild scurry after elusive chipmunks, not for him the idle, exhaustive excursion into woods and fields. Mysterious rustlings beside the road produced in him no agitation. Steadily, somnolently, with drooping tail and half-closed eyes, he plodded along after the man, his dust-covered muzzle just escaping the dust-covered heels.
Over the brow of a little rise appeared a buggy, drawn by a nodding, gray horse and containing a man in a wide straw hat. He was a wearied, discouraged-looking man in the forties, with sun-bleached whiskers and watery blue eyes.
“Good morning,” greeted the man on foot, and the gray horse stopped of his own volition. “A fine day, sir.”
The man in the buggy looked about him, as though unwilling to hazard an opinion without first fully informing himself of the facts. At last—
“Pretty hot,” he objected.
“It is warm,” the other agreed cheerfully. “Do you live about here?”
He had a deeply mellow voice, a pleasant voice, and he spoke as though the possession of it—or of any voice—was something to be glad of. And as he spoke a smile hovered about his mouth and in and out of his eyes, and the farmer, who had made his first reply with the hostile suspicion of the New Englander accosted by a stranger, relaxed mentally and physically. He raised a thumb in the direction of his shoulder. “About a mile or so back,” he answered.
“Then, perhaps you can help me. You see”—the traveler seemed then to take the other into his confidence with a glance and a smile—“I am looking for a house.”
“A house?” The farmer digested it slowly. At last, “To live in?” he asked.
“And die in,” responded the traveler gaily.
The other shook his head slowly. “There ain't any houses for sale around here just now,” he said. “Nor none for rent, neither. There was a place”
“Perhaps I should explain that it is not just any house that I am looking for, but a—a particular house. I thought that perhaps you might have come across it, might be able to direct me to it.”
The farmer looked puzzled. “Who lives in it?” he asked.
The traveler spread his hands. “I don't know. Perhaps it is unoccupied. It is a small house, white, with green blinds. It stands a little way back from the road, and looks with friendly windows over a hedge. Beside the path there are, I think—” the traveler half closed his eyes, then nodded reassuringly: “Yes, there are flower-beds bordered with box; and at one side there is a garden, a sunny, tangled garden of old-fashioned flowers; heliotrope and gilly-flowers and bleeding-heart and sweet alyssum and many others. It is filled with the song of birds and the drone of bees. And—I would call your especial attention to this—there is a dove-cot with honeysuckle clambering around it. It is called”
“A dove caught?” interrupted the other.
“A dove-cot,” corrected the other gently. “C, o, t; meaning”
“A pigeon-house, likely.”
“Quite likely. Can you direct me to it?”
The farmer shook his head, observing the traveler sideways with suspicious gaze. “There ain't any such place around these parts,” he declared emphatically. “Maybe at Alderbury”
“Alderbury?” mused the other, savoring the word. “Alderbury? Yes, that has a pleasant sound. And how far is Alderbury?”
“About four miles, I guess. There's places there with gardens. Didn't they give you any address?”
“No, and I have been seeking it many years.”
The farmer gathered up his reins, looking hard and mistrustfully at the man in the road. “Well,” he muttered, “I hope you find it. When you do, though, I guess them friendly windows'll have bars on 'em! Get ap!”
“I forgot to tell you,” said the other hopefully, as the old horse jogged resignedly on, “that it is called 'Heart's Content.'”
There was no answer. The man in the buggy seemed anxious to be gone. The traveler watched the receding vehicle in silence for a min- ute as it creaked on its way. Then he filled his pipe, lighted it, and glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of eleven. After that he turned to the dog, who, seated at the edge of the road with a pink tongue much in evidence, was observing him gravely.
“Alderbury,” said the man reflectively, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. The dog thudded the dust with his tail.
“Alderbury?” repeated the man questioningly. “Yes, it has a pleasant sound, a—a suggestive sound. It suggests—h'm—yes, it suggests luncheon.” The dog's tail thumped harder. “Ah, that interests you, does it, Old Sobersides? Then, forward, my brave comrade, to Alderbury—and 'Heart's Content'!”
With a flourish of his stick, and whistling a tune between the teeth that held the pipe, the man took up his journey, and the dog, trotting to his place again, plodded along behind.