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Lo, Michael!

<h3>Chapter XII</h3> With the precious paper in his hand Michael took himself with all swiftness to the DesBrosses Ferry. Would there be a train? It was almost two o’clock. He had had no lunch, but what of that? He had that in his heart which made mere eating seem unnecessary. The experiences of the past two hours had lifted him above, earth and its necessities for the time. And a farm, a real farm! Could it be true? Had his wish come true so soon? He could scarcely wait for the car to carry him or the boat to puff its way across the water. He felt as if he must fly to see his new possession. And Mr. Endicott had said he might pay for it sometime when he got to be a great lawyer. He had no doubt but that he would get there if such a thing were possible, and anyhow he meant to pay for that ground. Meantime it was his. He was not a poor nobody after all. He owned land, and a house. His face was a mingling of delightful emotions as he stood by the rail of the ferry-boat and let his imagination leap on ahead of him. The day was perfect. It had rained the night before and everything, even the air seemed newly washed for a fresh trial at living. Every little wavelet sparkled like a jewel, and the sunlight shimmered on the water in a most alluring way. Michael forgot for the moment the sorrow and misery of the crowded city he was leaving behind him. For this afternoon at least he was a boy again wandering off into the open. His train was being called as he stepped from the ferry-boat. The next boat would have missed it. He hurried aboard and was soon speeding through the open country, with now and again a glimpse of the sea, as the train came closer to the beach. They passed almost continuously beautiful resorts, private villas, great hotels, miles of cottages set in green terrace with glowing autumn flowers in boxes or bordering the paths. Michael watched everything with deep interest. This was the land of his new possession. Whatever was growing here would be likely to grow on his place if it were properly planted and cared for. Ere this flowers had had little part in his farming scheme, but so soon as he saw the brilliant display he resolved that he must have some of those also. And flowers would sell as well if not better than vegetables if properly marketed. That vivid hedge of scarlet and gold, great heavy-headed dahlias they were. He did not know the name, but he would find it out somehow. They would take up little room and would make his new place a thing of beauty. Farther on, one great white cottage spread its veranda wings on either side to a tall fringe of pink and white and crimson cosmos; and again a rambling gray stone piece of quaint architecture with low sloping roofs of mossy green, and velvet lawn creeping down even to the white beach sands, was set about with flaming scarlet sage. It was a revelation to the boy whose eyes had never looked upon the like before. Nature in its wildness and original beauty had been in Florida; New York was all pavements and buildings with a window box here and there. He as yet knew nothing of country homes in their luxury and perfection, save from magazine pictures. All the way along he was picking out features that he meant some day to transfer to his own little farm. It was after three when he reached the station, and a good fifteen minutes walk to the farm, but every step of it was a delight. Pearl Beach, they called the station. The beach was half a mile from the railroad, and a queer little straggling town mostly cottages and a few stores hovered between railroad and beach. A river, broad, and shallow, wound its silver way about the village and lost itself in the wideness of the ocean. Here and there a white sail flew across its gleaming centre, and fishermen in little boats sat at their idle task. What if his land should touch somewhere this bonny stream! Too eager to wait for investigation he stopped a passing stranger and questioned him. Yes, the river was salt. It had tides with the sea, too. There was great fishing and sailing, and some preferred bathing there to the ocean. Yes, Old Orchard farm was on its bank. It had a river frontage of several hundred feet but it was over a mile back from the beach. The stranger was disposed to delay and gossip about the death of the former owner of Old Orchard and its probable fate now that the mortgage had been foreclosed; but Michael with a happy light in his eyes thanked him courteously and hurried on. Wings were upon his feet, and his heart was light and happy. He felt like a bird set free. He breathed in the strong salt air with delight. And then the burden of the city came to him again, the city with all its noise and folly and sin; with its smells and heat, and lack of air; with its crowded, suffering, awful humanity, herded together like cattle, and living in conditions worse than the beasts of the fields. If he could but bring them out here, bring some of them at least; and show them what God’s earth was like! Ah! His heart beat wildly at the thought! It was not new. He had harbored it ever since his first visit to the alley. It was his great secret, his much hoped for experiment. If he might be able to do it sometime. This bit of a farm would open the way. There would be money needed of course, and where was it to come from? But he could work. He was strong. He would give his young life for his people—save them from their ignorance and despair. At least he could save some; even one would be worth while. So he mused as he hurried on, eyes and mind open to all he saw. There was no fence in front of Old Orchard farm. A white road bordered with golden rod and wild asters met the scraggly grass that matted and tangled itself beneath the gnarled apple trees. A grassy rutted wagon track curved itself in vistas between the trees up to the house which was set far back from the road. A man passing identified the place for Michael, and looked him over apprizingly, wondering as did all who saw him, at the power and strength of his beauty. The house was weather-beaten unpainted clapboards, its roof of curled and mossy shingles possessing undoubted leakable qualities, patched here and there. A crazy veranda ambled across the front. It contained a long low room with a queer old-fashioned chimney place wide enough to sit in, a square south room that must have been a dining-room because of the painted cupboard whose empty shelves gazed ghastly between half-open doors, and a small kitchen, not much more than a shed. In the long low room a staircase twisted itself up oddly to the four rooms under the leaky roof. It was all empty and desolate, save for an old cot bed and a broken chair. The floors had a sagged, shaky appearance. The doors quaked when they were opened. The windows were cobwebby and dreary, yet it looked to the eyes of the new householder like a palace. He saw it in the light of future possibilities and gloried in it. That chimney place now. How would it look with a great log burning in it, and a rug and rocking chair before it. What would—Aunt Sally—perhaps—say to it when he got it fixed up? Could he ever coax her to leave her dirty doorstep and her drink and come out here to live? And how would he manage it all if he could? There would have to be something to feed her with, and to buy the rug and the rocking chair. And first of all there would have to be a bath-tub. Aunt Sally would need to be purified before she could enter the portals of this ideal cottage, when he had made it as he wanted it to be. Paint and paper would make wonderful transformations he knew, for he had often helped at remodelling the rooms at college during summer vacations. He had watched and been with the workmen and finally taken a hand. This habit of watching and helping had taught him many things. But where were paper and paint and time to use it coming from? Ah, well, leave that to the future. He would find a way. Yesterday he did not have the house nor the land for it to stand upon. It had come and the rest would follow in their time. He went happily about planning for a bath-room. There would have to be water power. He had seen windmills on other places as he passed. That was perhaps the solution of this problem, but windmills cost money of course. Still,—all in good time. There was a tumbled-down barn and chicken house, and a frowzy attempt at a garden. A strawberry bed overgrown with weeds, a sickly cabbage lifting its head bravely; a gaunt row of currant bushes; another wandering, out-reaching row of raspberries; a broken fence; a stretch of soppy bog land to the right, and the farm trailed off into desolate neglect ending in a charming grove of thick trees that stood close down to the river’s bank. Michael went over it all carefully, noted the exposure of the land, kicked the sandy soil to examine its unpromising state, walked all around the bog and tried to remember what he had read about cranberry bogs; wondered if the salt water came up here, and if it were good or bad for cranberries; wondered if cow peas grew in Jersey and if they would do for a fertilizing crop as they did in Florida. Then he walked through the lovely woods, scenting the breath of pines and drawing in long whiffs of life as he looked up to the green roof over his head. They were not like the giant pines of the South land, but they were sweeter and more beautiful in their form. He went down to the brink of the river and stood looking across. Not a soul was in sight and nothing moved save a distant sail fleeing across the silver sheen to the sea. He remembered what the man had said about bathing and yielding to an irresistible impulse was soon swimming out across the water. It was like a new lease of life to feel the water brimming to his neck again, and to propel himself with strong, graceful strokes through the element where he would. A bird shot up into the air with a wild sweet note, and he felt like answering to its melody. He whistled softly in imitation of its voice, and the bird answered, and again and again they called across the water. But a look toward the west where the water was crimsoning already with the setting sun warned him that his time was short, so he swam back to the sheltered nook where he had left his clothes, and improvising a towel from his handkerchief he dressed rapidly. The last train back left at seven. If he did not wish to spend the night in his new and uninhabitable abode he must make good time. It was later than he supposed, and he wished to go back to the station by way of the beach if possible, though it was out of his way. As he drew on his coat and ran his fingers through his hair in lieu of a brush, he looked wistfully at the bright water, dimpling now with hues of violet, pink, and gold and promising a rare treat in the way of a sunset. He would like to stay and watch it. But there was the ocean waiting for him. He must stand on the shore once and look out across it, and know just how it looked near his own house. He hurried through the grove and across the farm to the eastern edge, and looking beyond the broken fence that marked the bounds of the bog land over the waste of salt grass he could see the white waves dimly tumbling, hurrying ever, to get past one another. He took the fence at a bound, made good time over the uncertain footing of the marsh grass and was soon standing on the broad smooth beach with the open stretch of ocean before him. It was the first time he had ever stood on the seashore and the feeling of awe that filled him was very great. But beyond any other sensation, came the thought that Starr, his beautiful Starr, was out there on that wide vast ocean, tossing in a tiny boat. For now the great steamer that had seemed so large and palatial, had dwindled in his mind to a frail toy, and he was filled with a nameless fear for her. His little Starr out there on that fearful deep, with only that cold-eyed mother to take care of her. A wild desire to fly to her and bring her back possessed him; a thrilling, awesome something, he had never known before. He stood speechless before it; then raised his eyes to the roseate already purpling in streaks for the sunset and looking solemnly up he said, aloud: “Oh, God, I love her!” He stood facing the thought with solemn joy and pain for an instant, then turned and fled from it down the purpling sands; fleeing, yet carrying his secret with him. And when he came opposite the little village he trod its shabby, straggling, ill-paved streets with glory in his face; and walking thus with hat in hand, and face illumined toward the setting sun, folks looked at him strangely and wondered who and what he was, and turned to look again. In that half-light of sunset, he seemed a being from another world. A native watching, dropped his whip, and climbing down from his rough wagon spoke the thought that all the bystanders felt in common: “Gosh hang it! I thought he was one o’ them glass angels stepped out of a church winder over to ’Lizabeth-town. We don’t see them kind much. I wonder now how he’d be to live with. Think I’d feel kinder creepy hevin’ him ’round all time, wouldn’t you?” All the way home the new thought came surging over him, he loved her and she could never be his. It was deluging; it was beautiful; but it was agonizing. He recalled how beautiful she had been as she waved farewell. And some of her smiles had been for him, he was sure. He had known of course that the kisses were for her father, and yet, they had been blown freely his way, and she had looked her pleasure at his presence. There had been a look in her eyes such as she had worn that day in the college chapel when she had thrown precautions to the winds and put her arms about his neck and kissed him. His young heart thrilled with a deep joy over the memory of it. It had been wonderful that she had done it; wonderful! when he was what he was, a child of the slums! The words seemed burned upon his soul now, a part of his very life. He was not worthy of her, not worthy to receive her favor. Yet he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window frame as the train hurried along through the gathering darkness, and saw again the bright lovely face, the dainty fingers blowing kisses, the lips wreathed in smiles, and knew some of the farewell had been surely meant for him. He forgot the beautiful villas along the way, forgot to watch for the twinkling lights, or to care how the cottages looked at evening. Whenever the track veered toward the sea and gave a glimpse of gray sky and yawning ocean with here and there a point of light to make the darkness blacker, he seemed to know instinctively, and opening his eyes strained them to look across it. Out there in the blackness somewhere was his Starr and he might not go to her, nor she come to him. There was a wide stretch of unfathomable sea between them. There would always be that gray, impassable sky and sea of impossibility between them. As he neared New York, however, these thoughts dropped from him; and standing on the ferry-boat with the million twinkling lights of the city, and the looming blackness of the huddled mass of towering buildings against the illuminated sky, the call of the people came to him. Over there in the darkness, swarming in the fetid atmosphere of a crowded court were thousands like himself, yes, like himself, for he was one of them. He belonged there. They were his kind and he must help them! Then his mind went to the farm and his plans, and he entered back into the grind of life and assumed its burdens with the sweet pain of his secret locked in his inmost heart. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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