A Daughter of the Middle Border Part 12

There were no bathrooms in West Salem in 1899--the plumber was still the tinner, and when the news of my ambitious designs got abroad it created almost as much comment as my brother's tennis court had roused some five years earlier. As a force making toward things high-fi-lutin, if not actually un-American, I was again discussed. Some said, "I can't understand how Hamlin makes all his money." Others remarked, "Easy come, easy go!" Something unaccountable lay in the scheme of my life. It was illogical, if not actually illegal.

"How can he go skittering about all over the world in this way?" asked William McEldowney, and Sam McKinley said to my mother, "I swear, I don't see how you and d.i.c.k ever raised such a boy. He's a 'sport,'--that's what he is, a freak." To all of which mother answered only with a silent laugh.

The carpenters came, together with a crew of stonemasons, and the old kitchen began to move southward, giving place for the foundations of the new dining-room. By the end of the week, the lawn was littered with material and tools, and the frame-work was enclosed.

My mother, in her anxiety to justify the enormous outlay said, "Well, anyhow, these improvements are not entirely for me, they will make the house all the nicer for my New Daughter when she comes."

"That's true," I answered, "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's _time_ you thought of it. You're almost forty years old," she replied with humorous emphasis, then she added, "I begin to think I never _will_ see your wife."

"Just you wait," I jestingly replied. "The case is not so hopeless as you think--I have just received a letter which gives me a 'prospect.'"

I said this merely to divert her, but she seized upon my remark with alarming seriousness. "Read me the letter. Where does she live?--Tell me all about her."

Being in so far I thought it could do no harm to go a little farther. I described (still in bantering mood) my first meeting with Zulime Taft more than five years before. I pictured her as she looked to me then, and as she afterward appeared when I met her a second time in the home of her sister in Chicago. "I admit that I was greatly impressed by her,"

I went on, "but just when I had begun to hope for a better understanding, her brother Lorado chilled me with the information that she was about to be claimed by another man. To be honest about it, mother, I am not sure that she is interested in me even now; although one of her friends has just written me to say that Lorado was mistaken, and that Zulime is not engaged to any one. I am going down to visit some friends at the camp to test the truth of this; but don't say a word about it, for my information may be wrong."

My warning went for nothing! My confession was too exciting to be kept a secret, and soon several of mother's most intimate friends had heard of my expedition, and in their minds, as in hers, my early marriage was a.s.sured. Did not the proof of it lie in the fact that I was pushing my building with desperate haste? Was this not done in order to make room for my bride?--No other reason was sufficient to account for the astounding improvements which I had planned, and which were going forward with magical rapidity.

Of course no one could convince my mother that her son's "attractions"

might not prove sufficiently strong to make his "prospect" a possibility, for to her I was not only a distinguished author, but a "Good provider," something which outweighed literary attainment in a home like ours.

She could not or would not speak of the girl as "Miss Taft," but insisted upon calling her "Zuleema," and her mind was filled with plans for making her at home.

Privately I was more concerned than I cared to show, and I would be giving a false impression if I made light of my feeling at this time. I spoke to mother jestingly in order to prevent her from building her hopes on an unstable foundation.

In the midst of my busiest day I received a letter from my good friends, Wallace and Tillie Heckman, and though I was but a clumsy farmer in all affairs of the heart, I perceived enough of hidden meaning in their invitation to visit Eagle's Nest, to give me pause even in the welter of my plumbing. I replied at once accepting their hospitality, and on Sat.u.r.day took the train for Oregon to stay over Sunday at least.

Squire Heckman was good enough to meet me at the train, and as he drove me up the hill to "Ganymede," which was his summer home, he said, "You will breakfast with us, and as it is our custom to dine at the Camp on Sunday we will take you with us and introduce you to the campers, although most of them are known to you."

Mrs. Heckman, who was cordial in her welcome, informed me at breakfast that Miss Taft was the volunteer stewardess of the Camp. "She is expecting us to bring you to dinner to-day."

"As one of the Trustees of the Foundation, a tour of inspection is a duty," I replied.

There was a faint smile on Mrs. Heckman's demure lips, but Wallace, astute lawyer that he was, presented the bland face of a poker player.

Without a direct word being spoken I was made to understand that Miss Taft was not indifferent to my coming, and when at half-past eleven we started for Eagle's Nest I had a sense of committing myself to a perilous campaign.

A walk of half a mile through a thick grove of oaks brought us out upon a lovely, gra.s.sy knoll, which rose two hundred feet or more above the Rock River, and from which a pleasing view of the valley opened to the north as well as to the south. The camp consisted of a small kitchen cabin, a dining tent, a group of cabins, and one or two rude studios to which the joyous off-hand manners of the Fine Arts Building had been transferred. It was in fact a sylvan settlement of city dwellers--a colony of artists, writers and teachers out for a summer vacation.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Miss Zulime Taft, acting as volunteer housekeeper for the colony, had charge of the long rude table under the tent-fly to which the campers a.s.sembled with the appet.i.tes of harvest hands and the gayety of uncalculating youth.]

In holiday mood Browne, Taft, and Clarkson greeted me warmly, upbraiding me, however, for having so long neglected my official duties as trustee.

"We need your counsel."

Mrs. Heckman, laconic, quizzical, walked about "the reservation" with me, and in her smiling eyes I detected a kind of gentle amus.e.m.e.nt with her unconventional neighbors. She said nothing then (or at any time) which could be interpreted as criticism, but a merry little quirk in the corner of her lip instructed me.

Miss Taft was not visible. "As house-keeper she is busy with preparations for dinner," Mrs. Heckman explained, and so I concealed my disappointment as best I could.

At last at one o'clock, Lorado, as Chief of the tribe, gave the signal for the feast by striking a huge iron bar with a hammer, a sound which brought the campers from every direction, clamoring for food, and when all were seated at the dining table beneath a strip of canvas, some one asked, "Where's Zuhl?"

Browne answered with blunt humor, "Primping! She's gone to smooth her ruffled plumage."

A cry arose, "Here she comes!" and Spencer Fiske the cla.s.sical scholar of the camp with fervent admiration exclaimed "By Jove--a veritable Diana!"

Browne started the Toreador's song, and all began to beat upon the tables with their spoons in rhythmical clamor. Turning my head I perceived the handsome figure of a girl moving with calm and stately dignity across the little lawn toward the table. She was bareheaded, and wore a short-sleeved, collarless gown of summer design, but she carried herself with a leisurely and careless grace which made evident the fact that she was accustomed to these moments of uproar. As she neared the tent, however, I detected a faint flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt in the lines about her mouth.

This entrance so dramatic and so lovely was precisely the kind of picture to produce on my mind a deeply influencing impression. I thought her at the moment one of the most gracious and admirable women of my world, a union of European culture and the homely grace of the prairie.

She greeted me with a pleasant word, and took a seat opposite, making no reply to the jocular comment of her boarders. It was evident that she was not only accustomed to demonstrations of this sort, but considered them a necessary part of her stewardship, an office which was entirely without salary--and scantily repaid in honor.

No complaints about the scarcity of b.u.t.ter, or questions concerning the proportions of milk in the cream jug, had power to draw her into defensive explanation. At last her tormentors unable to stampede her by noise, or plague her by pet.i.tions, subsided into silence or turned to other matters, and we all settled down to an abundant and very jolly dinner.

It was because the camp loved Zulime Taft that they could carry on in this way. It was all studio _blague_, and she knew it and offered no defense of her economies.

Most of the artists and writers in the camp were already known to me.

They were all of small income, some of them were almost as poor as I, and welcomed a method by which they were able to spend a summer comfortably and inexpensively. A common kitchen, and an old white horse and wagon also owned collectively, made it possible to offer board at four dollars per week!

The Heckman home, which the campers called "the Castle," or "The Manor House," a long, two-story building of stone which stood on the southern end of the Bluff, overlooked what had once been Black Hawk's Happy Hunting Ground. It was not in any sense a chateau, but it pleased Wallace Heckman's artist-tenants to call it so, and by contrast with their cook-house it did, indeed, possess something like grandeur.

Furthermore "the Lord of the Manor" added to the majesty of his position by owning and driving a coach (this was before the day of the automobile), and at times those of his tenants most highly in favor, were invited to a seat on this stately vehicle.

"Lady" Heckman possessed a piano, another evidence of wealth, and the pleasantest part of my recollections of this particular visit concerns the evenings I spent with her in singing "Belle Mahone" and "Lily Dale,"

while Lorado and his sisters sat in the corner and listened--at least I infer that they listened--now that I grow more clear in my mind I recall that Tillie Heckman did not sing, she only played for me; and my conviction is that I sang very well. I may be mistaken in this for (at times) I detected Wallace Heckman addressing a jocose remark to Miss Taft when he should have been giving his undivided attention to my song.

Miss Taft was accused of having a keen relish for the fare at Castle Heckman, and in this relish I shared so frankly that when Tillie invited me to stay on indefinitely, and Wallace suggested that I might make the little pavilion on the lawn serve as my study, I yielded. "Work on the homestead must wait," I wrote to my mother. "Important business here demands my attention."

Zulime Taft appeared pleased when I announced my acceptance of the Heckman hospitality, and Wallace immediately offered me the use of his saddle horses and his carriage, and when he said, "Miss Taft loves to ride," I was convinced not only of his friendly interest but of his hearty cooperation. Furthermore as Mrs. Heckman often kept Miss Taft for supper, I had the pleasant task of walking back to camp with her.

In some way (I never understood precisely how) the campers, one and all, obtained the notion that I was significantly interested in Miss Taft; but, as I was proceeding with extraordinary caution, wearing the bland expression of a Cheyenne chieftain, I could not imagine any one discovering in my action anything more than a frank liking, a natural friendship between the sister of my artist comrade and myself.

It is true I could not entirely conceal the fact that I preferred her company to that of any other of the girls, but there was nothing remarkable in that--nevertheless, the whole camp, as I learned afterward (long afterward), was not only aware of my intentions but, behind my back, almost under my nose, was betting on my chances. Wagers were being offered and taken, day by day, as to whether I would win or lose!

Fortunately, nothing of this disgraceful business reached me. I was serenely unconscious of it all.

Demure as Tillie Heckman looked, slyly humorous as she occasionally showed herself to be, she was a woman of understanding, and from her I derived distinct encouragement. She not only indicated her sympathy; she conveyed to me her belief that I had a fair chance to win. I am not sure, but I think it was from her that I received the final statement that Miss Taft was entirely free. However, this did not clear me from other alarms, for on Friday night the train brought Henry Fuller and several young men visitors who were all quite willing to walk and talk with Miss Taft. It was only during the midweek that I, as the only unmarried man in camp, felt entirely secure.

Henry Fuller stayed on after the others went back to the city, and I would have been deeply disturbed by Zulime's keen interest in him, had I not been fully informed of their relationship, which was entirely that of intellectual camaraderie. Fuller was not merely a resolved bachelor; he was joyously and openly opposed to any form of domesticity. He loved his freedom beyond all else. The Stewardess knew this and revelled in his wit, sharing my delight in his bitter ironies. His verbal inhumanities gave her joy, because she didn't believe in them. They were all "literature" to her.

The weather was glorious September, and as my writing was going forward, my companionship ideal, and my mother's letters most cheerful, I abandoned myself, as I had not done in twenty years, to a complete enjoyment of life. Golden days! Halcyon days! Far and sweet and serene they seem as I look back upon them from the present--days to review with wistful regret that I did not more fully employ them in the way of youth, for alas! my mornings were spent in writing when they should have been given to walking with my sweetheart; yet even as I worked I had a sense of her nearness, and the knowledge that the shimmering summer landscape was waiting for me just outside my door, comforted me.

However, I was not wholly neglectful of my opportunities. My afternoons were given over to walking or riding with her, and our evenings were spent in long and quiet excursions on the river or sitting with the artists in the light of a bonfire on the edge of the bluff, talking and singing.

The more I knew of Miss Taft the more her versatility amazed me. She could paint, she could model, she could cook and she could sew. As Stewardess, she took charge of the marketing, and when the kitchen fell into a flutter, her masterly taste and skill brought order--and a delicious dinner--out of chaos. It remains to say that, in addition to all these, her intellectual activities, she held her own in the fierce discussions (concerning Art) which broke out at the table or raged like whirlwinds on the moonlit bluff--discussions which centered around such questions as these: "Can a blue shadow painting ever be restful?" "Is Local Color essential to fiction?" I particularly admired the Stewardess in these moments of controversy, for she never lost her temper or her point of view.

Incredibly sweet and peaceful that week appears as I view it across the gulf which the World War has thrust between that year and this.

We had no fear of hunger in those days, no dread of social unrest, no expectation of any sudden change. All wars were over--in our opinion.

The world was at last definitely at peace, and we in America, like the world in general, had nothing to do but to go on getting richer and happier, so happy that we could be just. We were all young--not one of us had gray hair. Life, for each of us as for the Nation, moved futureward on tranquil, shining course, as a river slips southward to the sea, confident, effortless, and serene. Heavenly skies, how happy we were!