Chapter X
At last it was Spring. One morning it seemed as though the entire country had burst into bloom. The grass was a green velvet carpet. The trees had commenced to bud. The air was fragrant and balmy, filled with the breath of new-turned soil. In the treetops, birds flew about excitedly, singing lustily. They wanted everyone to know how pleasant the future looked.
Mary sighed with relief. She scarcely knew how she had stood that long lonesome Winter. Either the wind shrieked in discord or the silence was unendurable. She had felt that the Winter bore down upon her like doom, stunting her life. It endeavored to push her down into the soil, but the soil was unwilling to receive her.
For weeks an idea had been formulating in her mind and now she spoke to Yekial Meigs about it.
"We've got several empty rooms upstairs," she began.
"I know it," he said curtly, "but a man needs elbow room. I've always had a dread of closed-in places."
"I was thinking," she said slowly, "that we might be able to take in a few boarders. We never use those rooms and I wouldn't mind the extra work. Besides it would be less lonesome."
"It is never lonesome on a farm," he said sullenly.
"Perhaps not to you."
"How could it be when there is so much life, so many growing things on every side?"
"Corn and cabbages," she sheered, "without souls."
"For that matter," said he, "how many of your fine city folks have souls?"
"At least they can laugh."
"Bah! Laughter is only the grimaces of monkeys."
Mary knew how covetous Yekial was and therefore she decided to gain his consent in the only possible manner.
"Think how much money you are losing," she said, "by having those rooms empty. If we had a few boarders it wouldn't cost you a penny to run the place. You grow all the vegetables and fruit. What they paid in each week would more than cover the incidentals."
Yekial rubbed his unshaven chin reflectively. "There is something in what you say," he admitted. "Of course it would be a lot of extra work for you."
"You needn't worry about that," she said. "Work is good for women. Have you changed your creed? Besides it would be a*change for me, give me something different to do."
"How would you go about getting boarders?"
"Advertise in the Fort Wayne papers."
"Wouldn't that cost money?"
"It usually does but you'd get it all back again with considerable interest."
"All right," he agreed, "we'll do it. Write up a few 'ads' and I'll put them in when I drive in to Fort Wayne this afternoon."
"Why are you going to Fort Wayne?" she asked. "Do you, too, need a change?"
"None of your damn business," he snapped. "I'm running this place. I'm boss here."
"That sounds like an old melodrama," she said.
She smiled reflectively. Yekial was a poor fool. His name should be Yokel. Why, he wasn't capable of running anything that was living. He could flay the farm because it was without feeling, without life.
It was a week before they received any answers at all to their advertisements and Yekial commenced to grow worried.
"I'm a damn fool!" he spat out. "I wasted that money. I should never have listened to a woman."
"You are a damn fool," she agreed, "and so was the simple woman who listened to you. But I do not think your money has been wasted."
Nor was it. For the next morning a carriage stopped at the door, driven by Ted Taylor who did the public hacking in the vicinity. His equipage met all the trains. He helped his single passenger to alight, a tall extremely thin young fellow about twenty-five or twenty-six. Yekial was far off in the fields but Mary was there to meet him. She thought that she had never seen a man with a face so pale or eyes so haggard, nor had she ever beheld such a charming smile.
"My name," he said, "is Steve Garland. I don't know what kind of a garland but you are so beautiful I wish it were a garland of roses that I might lay it at your feet."
The quality of his voice was extremely interesting. Yet in his tone was an underlying note of cynicism as though he were laughing at the world.
"I believe you advertised that you had a room to rent," he said.
"I have several," she replied.
"One will be quite enough," he assured her. "Although my body is falling apart, up till now it has never been separated. It always sleeps in one piece."
She smiled as he went on: "I'd like to stay here for a while if you don't object to a fellow who has consumption."
"If you don't object," she said lightly, "why should I?"
"You're right!" he cried. "Why should you? It is I who has to do the suffering."
He lifted his suit-case from the carriage and paid Ted Taylor his fee.
"I only hired you for one way," he drawled, "because when I go back I'm going in style."
"You mean my carriage isn't good enough?"
"I mean that I'll probably go back in a hearse."
Ted Taylor spat in disgust. "You're crazy," he declared.
"If you're right, I'll go back in a straitjacket."
Without a word, Ted Taylor climbed into his carriage and drove away. He was shaking his head dubiously. That young chap was plain mad.
Steve Garland followed Mary upstairs to a large room with four windows. It was a corner room and the sunlight streamed in in a golden flood.
"This is wonderful," he said.
"I think you'll be able to rest here," said Mary.
"My God, I don't want to rest!" he cried. "I merely want to live completely happy for a while. You might think of me as a dweller on the threshold. Someday the great door may swing shut closing me in. In simpler language I have been told by my doctor that I must go to Arizona if I wish to get my health back again. That's why I came here. I am desirous of dying enthusiastically. My health deserted me. It was a false friend. Why then should I bother going in search of it? Death on the other hand is my mistress. It is a persistent wooer. It never leaves me out of its sight. A man is a fool to go off in quest of life, persistently to worry that his health may not be restored. How much more simple and beautiful it is to sink softly into the sweet arms of death! Death is more restful than life. It quiets the nerves. Sleep is merely a fleeting death. Every time man is awakened, he is really born again. Why should people fear death if they have faith? Is their religious worship merely an idle gesture? If Heaven is such a commendable place, so gorgeously beautiful, why should men fight so abjectly to retain the few last threads of life, the only thing that keeps them from Celestial Paradise? Can it be possible that faith itself is but a fragile thing? Is religion no more than folklore, and the countless blessings held out to us akin to the fables of Æsop? If one had a friend living in a mighty house who invited one to a feast, there would be no hesitancy. Yet when death beckons to a feast of living, to eternal life where there is neither sadness nor pain, one hesitates. It rather mars the beautiful conceptions we all have of divinity. It seems to me that religion needs super-salesmen to sell it to the multitude, salesmen who can inspire faith in the product. When this can be accomplished, there will be hope for mankind. Death is really a beautiful adventure. One should go out into the fields to greet it as one greets the dawn, with arms outstretched and a song on one's lips. For there to be a birth a woman must go down to the valley of death to produce life. In this, death is superior to life, for it is not necessary to go up to the mountains of life to produce death."
Steve Garland stopped abruptly. "I fear I am boring you," he apologized, "but then I always talk too much. That is due to the fact that I am doomed to die young and have much to say. Therefore I must talk fast so that my eloquence may not be wasted."
"You are very interesting," said Mary.
"That is because I walk hand in hand with death," he explained. "Death is always interesting, an ever-faithful lover. A few other facts I will mention, so that you may know something about me. I am an artist. I paint portraits. Success has been easy. I am successful in all the arts except the art of living. Somehow that greatest art of all evades me. I have plenty of money. Enough to last me the rest of my life. Unfortunately I have not enough life to last me for the rest of my money. It is truly provoking."
"I never met anybody like you," she said truthfully.
"And perhaps you never will again," he mused. "It is not a good habit to associate with ghosts. Ghosts are cold. Feel my fingers. They are like ice. A beautiful woman should want a man of fire. She should not bother with those whose very breath is death."
Mary walked over to the window. Steve Garland interested her yet he made her feel sad. There was a wistfulness about him which was apparent even through his studied levity. From far across the fields Yekial was coming toward the house, his great bulk looming large on the horizon.
Steve Garland walked over and stood beside her. He noticed the figure striding across the fields.
"He looks a giant," said Steve. "What strength!"
"He is my husband," said Mary simply.
"Naturally your mate would be a strong man."
Mary Blaine wondered what had prompted her to lie about her status with Yekial Meigs. Somehow or other she wanted Steve Garland to believe that she was decent.