THE EDUCATION OF DAVID JOSLIN

THE hours dragged leaden for the women, cooped up, silent, as in the old block-house days, but for the men the great adventure of going out to war, born in their ancient Highland blood, sped the time rapidly enough. It cost a certain resolution on the part of David Joslin to call upon the “furrin woman,” but now he must say good-by. Therefore in time he knocked at the door of Granny Williams’ log house.

Marcia Haddon herself met him, as though she had sent for him. “Come,” said she. But she led him not into the house itself.

He walked at her side, silent, as she directed her footsteps toward the little steps cut into the foot of the hill. They sat here, both looking out now across the valley to the hills beyond.

The woman’s gray eyes were wistful and sad. The eyes of the man, resting everywhere but upon her face, were also sad. He did not turn to look at her at all—apparently did not note the increasing goodliness of her figure and her rounder contours, the browner coloring of her cheek. She was a very comely woman, Marcia Haddon, young, but wiser than she once had been—more impulsive also, less cold, less reserved. It was as though she entered a new stage of womanhood, as yet denied her in her chill years of self-repression. Never until now had she really known the awakening of woman. Virginal, warming, fluttering, she was not married woman or widow now; she was a girl, a girl at the brink of life. Oh! how vast and sweet the revealing Plan seemed now to her.

“Well, you’re going out,” said she at last, the first to break the silence.

“Yes, I’m going out.” His voice was low and deep. It seemed to her that she now for the first time realized its even vibrancy.

At last: “What will become of the work here?” she began.

“I can’t tell as to that, Mrs. Haddon,” said he. “It must wait.” She made no reply, and he went on:

“You see, all my life has been pretty much the same thing. I’ve always had to look ahead and did not dare look at things between. Once this school up here on the hill was all I looked at—and there wasn’t anything between. There’s other work afoot that’s even bigger, now. Maybe after that I’ll be fit for this.”

“You’ve done wonderfully well. It’s scarce less than a miracle—how you’ve got on.”

“At least I’ve told you all about myself,” said he after a time. “I’ve nothing more to say—now or at any other time.”

“You need say nothing,” she rejoined. “Life goes hard for all of us sometimes.” She was conscious of her banality, but found herself, as so often, dumb in her largest emotions.

“It was a hard enough start,” he assented. “It’s hard enough for all of us in here. I’m not so old.”

“No. You only seem old to me. I suppose that’s because you have had to do so much in so short a time. But I’m older, too. It’s a sad country—did you ever stop to think how few people smile, down here in these mountains?”

“Yes, I know; and you know, now. Well, I suppose you’ll go away and forget us. We’ve been forgotten, more than a hundred years. That’s hard—to be forgotten.”

“Do you think that of me?” she said, still staring straight down the valley.

“I hardly know what to think of you,” said he, deliberately. “You are not like any woman I ever knew.” He flushed, suddenly remembering he had told her he never had known but three women in his life.

“Well, be fair, at least. Be sure you know my point of view. This work ought not to stop.” She was trying to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“The Lord has built that building up on the hill, Mrs. Haddon,” answered David Joslin. “I suppose the Lord will continue it or destroy it. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

She half turned her face toward him now as she replied.

“I’ve told you I’ve been a useless woman all my life. Well, just the other day I saw a child—a little child, out in the hills—it lived wild, in a cave. I held, its hand right in mine, this way—don’t you see? And then, I thought, there were hundreds of them—hundreds, all through these hills.” She was flushing.

“Yes,” said he; “many hundreds.”

“Then I thought of the money that’s mine that maybe oughtn’t all to be mine. You see, I’ve counsel—lawyers—that sort of thing—men who would help me in anything I asked. Suppose we had some more buildings, and plenty of teachers after a time?”

He did not make any answer at all, and she was obliged to go on unaided.

“In this awful time of the world, Mr. Joslin,” said she, “everyone ought to be useful. We’ll need more good citizens in America. All of us women ought to work in some way. The country must go on, until we’ve won. Where could I be more useful than here? Don’t you think I could keep the work going some way until—until you came back, David Joslin?”

Still he did not answer, and still she went on, struggling somewhat desperately with his native reticence and her own.

“Why, they say this is a war for democracy, don’t you know? And where could we fight better for democracy? Wasn’t that your ambition—wasn’t that your dream?”

“Yes!” suddenly he exclaimed, hoarsely. “That was my dream! You know how it ended—you know why. I killed my own school, you know how.”

“Yes—you’ve spoken very freely. It’s just as well. These are days when there’s no time to be lost. And I’d like you to know, at least how much I’ve marveled at what you’ve done.”

“Marveled!” said he. “It’s I who have marveled. But what you say—if you could keep the school going—why, that’s a miracle!”

“Well,” said Marcia Haddon quietly, “you’ve always spoken of miracles as matter of course.”

“Maybe we’d better not talk much more,” said he after a time, long silences seeming natural now. “I told you I wasn’t through. I’ve sinned, and I’ll repent. I’m ignorant—but I’m going out now to get the rest of my education. If I am spared ... some time ... I’ve told you about the other woman up there,” he finished, anguished. “As you know—she’s dead.”

“Is she dead forever, David Joslin?” asked Marcia Haddon quietly. The color in her own cheek was warm.

“Yes, forever. And I’ll not speak any ill of her memory.”

“Nor I of the memory of the man that’s dead,” said she slowly. “It’s life, I suppose.”

“Yes, that’s life! And I want it—all, every bit of it, all that any man ever coveted or had—all of a man’s dues in life. Yes, I want it—all!”

He spoke now with a sudden fierceness, his gray eyes aflame in a way she had not seen, that indomitableness of the inner man now showing through as never yet she had seen him, so that she felt a thrill, a shock, as of some vast, measureless dynamo of power suddenly awaking. “All life is the same thing. It’s all an education, all a growing—God! Give me my chance to grow! Let me get ready, so I can deserve. I’ve been hungry all my life—hungry for the world—hungry for my education—hungry for all a man’s life—love, happiness, content, power, usefulness. I’m hungry for this war, even, because I know it will teach me something or leave me at last at peace. I’ve not known peace. I’ve lived in torment—I’m in torment now. But I’ll come back bigger and better if I ever come back at all. Life—why, life——”

He halted, his drawn brows turned away.

“That little child that came up to me,” began Marcia Haddon hastily, as though irrelevantly—“if I could do something in the meantime—while you were out there—why, I’d be the happiest woman in all the world. Yes, I! And I’d said good-by to happiness, the same as you.” Her eyes were soft now.

“If I thought that could be,” he answered slowly, “I’d know the end even of this war—I’d know the end of my own fight—I’d know that justice and good do triumph over all and through all. Oh, what a dream! And for my people—the forgotten, the mocked, the helpless ones. If I—if you and I——”

“I’m going now,” he concluded, long later. “These are things in which I can’t give you counsel. You’re the one real woman I ever knew in all my narrow life—the one real woman. I reckon I’ve seen them all now. I wanted to tell you that, before I went away—I had to tell you! If only I had lived so that you wouldn’t think so ill of me. Oh, my God! Always I do the evil thing when I would do the right I’m so impatient. It’s so hard for me to be patient now.”

He rose and stood facing straight ahead. The twilight now was falling softly upon the hills. Sounds came from the street below—sounds unwelcome.

“Good-by,” said he, suddenly. “I’ll love you all my life!”

“Going?” Her voice seemed not yet to accept it after all. She half raised a hand. The blood of her cheek surged back.

“Yes—to finish my education!”

He stalked away, never looking back.

She sat alone now, still gazing out across the hills, at a new and wider world than any she had ever known.

The sounds on the street below became more audible, wafted by a change in the evening air. She knew that there was forming yonder a procession of men who presently would pass out around the shoulder of the hill at the end of the street. And then at last she heard fully the throb of the drum, the keening of the fife. The men of the Cumberlands were marching out into the world. He was at their head—going out for his ordeal, going out to grow, to get ready—to deserve, as he had said. What a man he would be—what a man he was!

Marcia Haddon suddenly reached out her arms, her gesture following the marching men, as though something of her own had gone out with them. She sat, until she knew not whether she heard the throb of a passing drum or felt the pulse of a new heart, beating high and strong. Her Work lay at hand—out there, on the hills where the gaunt buildings grew. And on ahead—was it Life, as sweet as it was earnest and compelling, that rested yonder—on the heights ahead?