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If You Touch Them They Vanish

<h3>VII</h3></div> "Well, Martha," said the Poor Boy, when he had kissed her and welcomed her back, "did you find some one to help you?" "She's a plain old thing," said Martha, "but honest and with good references. Would ye care to see her for yourself?" "Good God, no," said the Poor Boy. "As long as I live I don't want to see any one but you. Tell her, will you? See that she understands. Tell her—gently, so as not to hurt her feelings, but firmly, that she has only to show herself to be dismissed. The day I see her—she goes." "She'll not thank you," said old Martha. "Ye may safely leave that to me." "And if she isn't a real help to you, Martha, she goes. Another thing, I'd rather she didn't talk very loud or sing, if she can help it. I don't want to know that she's here." To Martha's discerning and suspicious eyes the Poor Boy seemed nervous, ill at ease, and eager to be off somewhere. He was dressed for deep snow-going, and kept swinging his mittens by the wrists and beating them together. He stood much on one foot and much on the other. "What's vexing you?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "I've found something off here," he waved toward the valley, "that amuses me—just a silly game, Martha, that goes on in my head. The minute I get out of sight of the house it begins. It's done it every day since you left." "What kind of a game will that be?" "It's just making believe," he said with a certain embarrassment, "pretending things—and it makes me forget other things. I'll be back by dark." He literally bolted, and could be heard saying sharp things to the straps of his skis, which had become stiffened with the cold. Old Martha stood for a while staring at the door which he had closed behind him. She wondered if by any possible chance his mind was beginning to go. To relieve her own she hurried back to Joy in the kitchen, and began a conversation that had not flagged by tea-time. The Poor Boy had found a long diagonal by which he could descend from the top of the cliff to the bottom in one swift silent slide. More than half-way down there was a dangerous turn, but he had learned to ski at St. Moritz when he was little, and never thought of the danger at all. The chief thing, turn or no turn, was to get to the bottom of the cliff as quickly as possible. Everything that was bitter and tragic in his life ended there, in an open glade among towering white pines. The day that Martha had left for New York, the Poor Boy, standing very lonely on the top of the cliff and looking out over the valley, had been struck with a whimsical thought. "If I had the power," he thought, "I'd settle this region with innocent people who have been accused of crimes." At this suggestion the component parts of his nature began a discussion. Reason: How would you know they were innocent? Truthfulness: They'd tell me. And I'd know. Snobbishness: Very few people in your station of life are accused of crime. Cynicism: And very few of them are innocent. Snobbishness: You wouldn't care to associate with people of lower station than yourself. Affection: I love Martha better than anybody in the world. Reason: Think of something more sensible. Love of Detail: I wonder how we could dispose of sewage without polluting lakes and streams? I must send for books on the disposal of sewage. Love of the Beautiful: I should like to settle the whole valley without changing the look of it—from here. Eyes (roving from one group of screening trees to the next): It can be done. Put your village on the east side of the big lake, back of the hardwood ridge. Do you remember Placid Brook? That will flow through the main street. It will be kept clean and well stocked with trout, so that the old men can fish from the bridges. Above the village there shall be a path along the brook, all in the shade. Can't you see the girls and boys walking, two and two? Love of Detail: All the houses in the village must be white. Who is going to make the laws? Ego: I am. Because I own the valley. And put up the money. Modesty: But there will be lots of men wiser than I am. And they will help. Sudden Impulse: The women shall have votes. Childishness: The men shan't. Reason: Now I wonder. It's never been tried, and maybe it's what the world is waiting for and striving for. Touch of Genius and Prophecy: It shall be tried. It is what the world needs. No votes for men. No men on juries.... Memory: (Things too recent and poignant for utterance.) Vague Idea Gathered at School: Am I going to stand for being taxed without representation? Sense of Justice: No. Self-confidence: But if I can't influence some woman's vote I may as well drown myself. Reason: Some men have no influence over anybody. They won't stand for taxation without representation. The Poor Boy (as a whole) gives up with reluctance the idea of a government of the ladies, by the ladies, and for the ladies. Wish to Do the Next Best Thing: Let it be a government by commission—a commission of three. A man and a woman—and— Touch of Genius: The children must be represented. They shall elect a child. Sense of the Ridiculous: Upon a platform of "Baseball in the streets—longer vacations, and more of them." Reason: The child must not be related to the other members of the commission. We are against affairs of state being influenced by a slipper. Sense of Decency, Good Form, Breeding, etc.: Candidates shall not vote for themselves; nor stump the valley proclaiming at the top of their lungs that they alone can keep the country from going to the dogs. Fondness for an Occasional Glass of Champagne: How about liquor? Self-control: If everybody else will do without it, I will. Human Nature: We must encourage early marriages. Ego: Of course, you exempt yourself. Whole System of Nerves and Circulation: I do not! Fastidiousness: She must be so and so and so (but he only succeeded in conjuring up a vague shadow of a girl). Beginning like this (or something like it), deliberately, and thinking up things as he went along, the Poor Boy's imagination suddenly stepped in and took such a terrific grip of the situation that little by little the idea of a model settlement became as real as the most vivid and logical dream. The valley was under three feet of snow. There was four feet of snow upon the surrounding hills and mountains, but already the engineers, headed by the Poor Boy, had been at work, and the masons and the carpenters. And many miles of ditches had been dug, and dams built, and a powerhouse, and roads (always among trees—so that the natural beauty of the valley was not so much as scratched), and already the village was complete, with its white houses and white school (with its longer holidays and more of them), its white library with the long lovely colonnade, commission house facing it, gardens in front of every dwelling, and pairs of lovers strolling by Placid Brook. Furthermore the village was full of people already, and half a dozen of them had been so clearly designed by the Poor Boy's imagination that he could see them, every line of their faces, every detail of their clothes. He knew every intonation of their voices. When he talked with them, he did not have to make up their answers—they just came. And better, other people, at first dim figureheads, were becoming clearer and more vivid all the time, so it seemed sure that before long he would know even the dogs of his settlement by sight. The greatest difficulty in the game that he was playing lay in the imperfection of his memory. As he built each house in the village he saw it as plainly as I see the pages on which I am writing, but leaving it to go at the next house he had to return again and again to fix the image of the first. For instance, he got the whole village built, and lying in his bed that night could only remember with real distinction the commission house, the library, and one dwelling house, far down the main street. The rest was vague—houses—white houses—not high—not crowded, but all blurred and without detail, as if seen through tears. He built the village, parts of it, four or five times before it became a definite thing to him. Before he could stop, let us say, before the Browns' house and take pleasure in the trim of their front door, before he could see the heliotrope growing in the snow-white jardinière in the living-room window, before he knew that Mrs. Brown made cookies every Friday, and that if you went round to the kitchen door and were very hungry and polite she gave them away while they were still hot and crisp. It was precisely to call on Mrs. Brown that the Poor Boy had been so eager to leave his own house. Realities began for him at the bottom of the cliff. The road to the village crossed the glade in the pine woods—the snow was packed and icy with much travel, with the sliding of runners and the semicircular marks of horses' hoofs. As the Poor Boy sped along on his skis, he met people in sleighs and was overtaken and passed by others. They were his people—his alone. He had cheerful words for all of them, and they for him. They were hazy—a little—to the eye, but here and there he caught a face clearly and did not forget it again—a baby in a blue-and-white blanket coat, that had bright red cheeks and that smiled and showed two brand-new teeth; a boy with bare hands and red knuckles (the Poor Boy sent him a pair of warm mittens from the village store), and ears (one bigger than the other) which stuck straight out. The Poor Boy came to a halt suddenly where a stream too vigorous to be ice-bound crossed the road (under a concrete bridge that had been built only the day before), ran out over a ledge of smooth granite and fell thirty feet with a roar. "Yes," said the Poor Boy, "there's got to be a sawmill with a red roof and flower-boxes in the windows, and this is just the place for it or I'm very much mistaken.... I wonder ... I wish to the deuce Mr. Tinker was here, he's the best man we've got on water-power. The woods are full of trees that ought to be cut for the benefit of the others. Yardsley was showing me about them only yesterday. But this is a matter for Tinker." The Poor Boy listened and heard sleigh-bells. They came swiftly nearer. "Wonder who this is?" Around the nearest turn of the road toward the village came a powerful roan horse, drawing a cutter; in the cutter sat an enormous man, but the Poor Boy had already recognized the horse. "I'm damned," said he; "Tinker!" He waved both arms and called a joyous greeting. The cutter came to a halt on the bridge. "Just the man I wanted to see," said the Poor Boy. "I want advice and help. Yardsley says we're letting a lot of timber go to waste. Now how about a sawmill—right here?" Mr. Tinker was a joyous bachelor of forty-five. He had been cashier of a bank. A deficit arising, he had been wrongfully accused of direct responsibility, and from prison he had come straight to the Poor Boy's settlement on special (most special) invitation. He had taken a room (and bath) in the village inn, and had made a little money out of contracts which the Poor Boy had thrown his way. "What's the flow here in summer?" asked Mr. Tinker doubtfully. "About half what it is now," said the Poor Boy. "Hum—that would be width so and so—depth so and so.... What's the fall?" "Thirty feet." "Can't use it all, can we?" The Poor Boy shook his head. "Well—I tell you, I'll bring a tape-measure to-morrow and go into the thing thoroughly. By the way, you know Mrs. Caxton, who's staying at the inn?" "Yes—yes," said the Poor Boy, "they accused her of shoplifting and it wasn't she at all." "Damn them," said Tinker. "By all means," said the Poor Boy. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-080.jpg" alt=""Now how about a sawmill—right here?"" title="" width-obs="350" /> "Now how about a sawmill;—right here?"</div> "But what about her?" His eyes twinkled. Mr. Tinker blushed and beamed. "She's given up her rooms." "What!" exclaimed the Poor Boy. "And we're going to move to the little house on the corner." "Then," said the Poor Boy, "what are you doing alone in the woods?" "Came to find you," said Tinker. "Couldn't get married without you." "Turn around," cried the Poor Boy. "I'm with you." He knelt swiftly and took off his skis. He started to slide an affectionate arm round the older man's shoulders, but jerked it back before it was too late. "No," he muttered, "you mustn't try to touch them or they vanish." "What's that?" "Just that this is the best thing that ever happened. You're just made for each other, you two." They sped on through the pine forest, talking of village matters, of school matters, and hitching-posts, of politics, of sewers—but mostly of love. It was dark when the Poor Boy got back to his own house. But he was very happy and (in spite of many hot crisp cookies at Mrs. Brown's kitchen door) very hungry. After he had dressed and dined, he soaked his hands in hot water to make them supple, and played Beethoven till far into the night. Martha went boldly into the room to listen, and sat in a deep chair by the fire, as was her right. But Miss Joy listened without the door, and during the Adagio from the Pathetique her hands covered her bowed face and tears came through the fingers. Then she crept off to bed, but Martha came before she was asleep to say good-night. "Miss Joy," she said, "it's the first time since he came that he's played; other times he's only fooled and toyed." "Martha," said Miss Joy, "I think it's the first time that anybody ever played." "It's what the Poor Boy does best," said Martha, "and takes the least pride in. Listen now—he's making up as he goes—there's voices—only listen—there's one that insists and one that denies—but both their hearts are breakin'—breakin' in their breasts." Miss Joy sat straight up in bed. "Listen, Martha—there's a third voice—things are going to come right for the other two—" Thus the two women. As for the Poor Boy, he made music because he had been to a wedding that day and knew that if he got to thinking about it alone in the dark he might get so unhappy that he would remember where he had hidden his revolver and his rifles, and get up to look for them. He played until he was exhausted in body and mind. Then he rose from the piano, closed it gently, and went to bed. He was very sad and unhappy, but quite sane again. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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