A Day of Fate Part 15

I said, with a deprecatory gesture, "I will speak my mind. Never before in my life have I enjoyed the utter absence of concealment. In the city one must use words to hide thoughts more often than to express them, but here, in this old garden, I intend to reproduce for a brief moment one of the conditions of Eden, and to speak as frankly as the first man could have spoken. I am not jesting either, nor am I irreverent. I say, in all sincerity, you are the mystery of this garden--you who come from New York, and from a life in which your own true womanhood has been your protection; and yet if, as of old, G.o.d should walk in this garden in the cool of the day, it seems to me you would not be afraid. Such is the impression--given without reserve--that you make on me--you whom I have just seen, as it were!"

As she realized my sincerity she looked at me with an expression of strong perplexity and surprise.

"Truly, Mr. Morton," she said slowly, "you are in a strange, unnatural mood this evening."

"I seem so," I replied, "because absolutely true to nature. See how far astray from Eden we all are! I have merely for a moment spoken my thoughts without disguise, and you look as if you doubted my sanity."

"I must doubt your judgment," she said, turning away.

"Then why should such a clearly defined impression be made on me? For every effect there must be a cause."

She turned upon me suddenly, and her look was eager, searching, and almost imperious in its demand to know the truth.

"Are you as sincere as you are unconventional?" she asked.

I took off my hat, as I replied, with a smile, "A garden, Miss Warren, was the first sacred place of the world, and never were sincerer words spoken in that primal garden."

She looked at me a moment wistfully, and even tearfully. "I wish you were right," she said, slowly shaking her head; "your strange mood has infected me, I think; and I will admit that to be true is the struggle of my life, but the effort to be true is often hard, bitterly hard, in New York. I admit that for years truthfulness has been the goal of my ambition. Most young girls have a father and mother and brothers to protect them: I have had only the truth, and I cling to it with the instinct of self-preservation."

"You cling to it because you love it. Pardon me, you do not cling to it at all. Truth has become the warp and woof of your nature. Ah! here is your emblem, not growing in the garden, but leaning over the fence as if it would like to come in, and yet, among all the roses here, where is there one that excels this flower?" And I gathered for her two or three sprays of sweetbrier.

"I won't mar your bit of Eden by a trace of affectation," she said, looking directly into my eyes in a frank and friendly manner; "I'd rather be thought true than thought a genius, and I will make allowance for your extravagant language and estimate on the ground of your intoxication. You surely see double, and yet I am pleased that in your transcendental mood I do not seem to make discord in this old garden.

This will seem to you a silly admission after you leave this place and recover your everyday senses. I'm sorry already I made it--but it was such an odd conceit of yours!" and her heightened color and glowing face proved how she relished it.

It was an exquisite moment to me. The woman showed her pleasure as frankly as a happy child. I had touched the keynote of her character as I had that of Adah Yocomb's a few hours before, and in her supreme individuality Emily Warren stood revealed before me in the garden.

She probably saw more admiration in my face than she liked, for her manner changed suddenly.

"Being honest doesn't mean being made of gla.s.s," she said brusquely; "you don't know anything about me, Mr. Morton. You have simply discovered that I have not a leaning toward prevarication. That's all your fine words amount to. Since I must keep up a reputation for telling the truth, I'm obliged to say that you don't remind me of Adam very much."

"No, I probably remind you of a night editor, ambitious to be smart in print."

She bit her lip, colored a little. "I wasn't thinking of you in that light just then," she said. "And--and Adam is not my ideal man."

"In what light did you see me?"

"It is growing dusky, and I won't be able to see you at all soon."

"That's evasion."

"Come, Mr. Morton, I hope you do not propose to keep up Eden customs indefinitely. It's time we returned to the world to which we belong."

"Zillah!" called Mrs. Yocomb, and we saw her coming down the garden walk.

"Bless me! where is the child!" I exclaimed.

"When you began to soar into the realms of melodrama and forget the garden you had asked her to show you, she sensibly tried to amuse herself. She is in the strawberry-bed, Mrs. Yocomb."

"Yes," I said, "I admit that I forgot the garden; I had good reason to do so."

"I think it is time we left the garden. You must remember that Mrs.

Yocomb and I are not night editors, and cannot see in the dark."

"Mother," cried Zillah, coming forward, "see what I have found;" and her little hands were full of ripe strawberries. "If it wasn't getting so dark I could have found more, I'm sure," she added,

"What, giving them all to me?" Miss Warren exclaimed, as Zillah held out her hands to her favorite. "Wouldn't it be nicer if we all had some?"

"Who held you up to look into the robin's nest?" I asked reproachfully.

"Thee may give Richard Morton my share," said the little girl, trying to make amends.

I held out my hand, and Miss Warren gave me half of them.

"Now these are mine?" I said to Zillah. "Yes!"

"Then I'll do what I please with them."

I picked out the largest, and stooping down beside her, continued: "You must eat these or I won't eat any."

"Thee's very like Emily Warren," the little girl laughed; "thee gets around me before I know it."

"I'll give you all the strawberries for that compliment."

"No, thee must take half."

"Mrs. Yocomb, you and I will divide, too. Could there possibly be a more delicious combination!" and Miss Warren smacked her lips appreciatively.

"The strawberry was evolved by a chance combination of forces," I remarked.

"Undoubtedly," added Miss Warren, "so was my Geneva watch."

"I like to think of the strawberry in this way," said Mrs. Yocomb.

"There are many things in the Scriptures hard to understand; so there are in Nature. But we all love the short text: 'G.o.d is love.' The strawberry is that text repeated in Nature."

"Mrs. Yocomb, you could convert infidels and pagans with a gospel of strawberries," I cried.

"There are many Christians who prefer tobacco," said Mrs. Yocomb, laughing.

"That reminds me," I exclaimed, "that I have not smoked to-day. I fear I shall fall from grace to-morrow, however."

"Yes, I imagine you will drop from the clouds by tomorrow," Miss Warren remarked.

"By the way, what a magnificent cloud that is rising above the horizon in the southwest. It appears like a solitary headland in an azure sea."

"Ah--h!" she said, in satirical accent.

"Mrs. Yocomb, Miss Warren has been laughing at me ever since I came. I may have to claim your protection."

"No! thee and father are big enough to take care of yourselves."