Hearts and Other Hearts

by Kate Douglas Wiggin

　　Stephen had brought a change of clothes, as he had a habit ofbeing ducked once at least during the day; and since there was ahalt in the proceedings and no need of his services for an houror two, he found Rose and walked with her to a secluded spotwhere they could watch the logs and not be seen by the people.

　　"You frightened everybody almost to death, jumping into theriver," chided Rose.

　　Stephen laughed. "They thought I was a fool to save a fool, Isuppose."

　　"Perhaps not as bad as that, but it did seem reckless."

　　"I know; and the boy, no doubt, would be better off dead; but soshould I be, if I could have let him die."

　　Rose regarded this strange point of view for a moment, and thensilently acquiesced in it. She was constantly doing this, andshe often felt that her mental horizon broadened in the act; butshe could not be sure that Stephen grew any dearer to her becauseof his moral altitudes.

　　"Besides," Stephen argued, "I happened to be nearest to theriver, and it was my job."

　　"How do you always happen to be nearest to the people in trouble,and why is it always your 'job'!"

　　"If there are any rewards for good conduct being distributed, I'mright in line with my hand stretched out," Stephen replied, withmeaning in his voice.

　　Rose blushed under her flowery hat as he led the way to a benchunder a sycamore tree that overhung the water.

　　She had almost convinced herself that she was as much in lovewith Stephen Waterman as it was in her nature to be with anybody.He was handsome in his big way, kind, generous, temperate, welleducated, and well-to-do. No fault could be found with hisfamily, for his mother had been a teacher, and his father, thougha farmer, a college graduate. Stephen himself had had one yearat Bowdoin, but had been recalled, as the head of the house, whenhis father died. That was a severe blow; but his mother's death,three years after, was a grief never to be quite forgotten.Rose, too, was the child of a gently bred mother, and all herinstincts were refined. Yes; Stephen in himself satisfied her inall the larger wants of her nature, but she had an unsatisfiedhunger for the world,--the world of Portland, where her cousinslived; or, better still, the world of Boston, of which she heardthrough Mrs. Wealthy Brooks, whose nephew Claude often came tovisit her in Edgewood. Life on a farm a mile and a half distantfrom post-office and stores; life in the house with Rufus, whowas rumored to be somewhat wild and unsteady,--this prospectseemed a trifle dull and uneventful to the trivial part of her,though to the better part it was enough. The better part of herloved Stephen Waterman, dimly feeling the richness of his nature,the tenderness of his affection, the strength of his character.Rose was not destitute either of imagination or sentiment. Shedid not relish this constant weighing of Stephen in the balance:he was too good to be weighed and considered. She longed to becarried out of herself on a wave of rapturous assent, butsomething seemed to hold her back,--some seed of discontentwith the man's environment and circumstances, some germ oflonging for a gayer, brighter, more varied life. No amount ofself-searching or argument could change the situation. Shealways loved Stephen more or less: more when he was away fromher, because she never approved his collars nor the set of hisshirt bosom; and as he naturally wore these despised articles ofapparel whenever he proposed to her, she was always lukewarmabout marrying him and settling down on the River Farm. Still,to-day she discovered in herself, with positive gratitude, awarmer feeling for him than she had experienced before. He worea new and becoming gray flannel shirt, with the soft turnovercollar that belonged to it, and a blue tie, the color of his kindeyes. She knew that he had shaved his beard at her request notlong ago, and that when she did not like the effect as much asshe had hoped, he had meekly grown a mustache for her sake; itdid seem as if a man could hardly do more to please an exactinglady-love.

　　And she had admired him unreservedly when he pulled off his bootsand jumped into the river to save Alcestis Crambry's life,without giving a single thought to his own. And was there ever,after all, such a noble, devoted, unselfish fellow, or a betterbrother? And would she not despise herself for rejecting himsimply because he was countrified, and because she longed to seethe world of the fashion-plates in the magazines?

　　"The logs are so like people!" she exclaimed, as they sat down."I could name nearly every one of them for somebody in thevillage. Look at Mite Shapley, that dancing little one, slippingover the falls and skimming along the top of the water, keepingout of all the deep places, and never once touching the rocks."

　　Stephen fell into her mood. "There's Squire Anderson coming downcrosswise and bumping everything in reach. You know he's alwaysbuying lumber and logs without knowing what he is going to dowith them. They just lie and rot by the roadside. The boysalways say that a toad-stool is the old Squire's 'mark' on alog."

　　"And that stout, clumsy one is Short Dennett.--What are youdoing, Stephen!"

　　"Only building a fence round this clump of harebells," Stephenreplied. "They've just got well rooted, and if the boys comeskidding down the bank with their spiked shoes, the poor thingswill never hold up their heads again. Now they're safe.--Oh,look, Rose! There come the minister and his wife!"

　　A portly couple of peeled logs, exactly matched in size, cameponderously over the falls together, rose within a second of eachother, joined again, and swept under the bridge side by side.

　　"And--oh! oh! Dr. and Mrs. Cram just after them! Isn't thatfunny?" laughed Rose, as a very long, slender pair of pines swamdown, as close to each other as if they had been glued in thatposition. Rose thought, as she watched them, who but Stephenwould have cared what became of the clump of delicate harebells.How gentle such a man would be to a woman! How tender his touchwould be if she were ill or in trouble!

　　Several single logs followed,--crooked ones, stolid ones,adventurous ones, feeble swimmers, deep divers. Some of themtried to start a small jam on their own account; others strandedthemselves for good and all, as Rose and Stephen sat there sideby side, with little Dan Cupid for an invisible third on thebench.

　　"There never was anything so like people," Rose repeated, leaningforward excitedly. "And, upon my word, the minister and doctorcouples are still together. I wonder if they'll get as far asthe falls at Union? That would be an odd place to part, wouldn'tit--Union?" Stephen saw his opportunity, and seized it.

　　"There's a reason, Rose, why two logs go down stream better thanone, and get into less trouble. They make a wider path, createmore force and a better current. It's the same way with men andwomen. Oh, Rose, there isn't a man in the world that's lovedyou as long, or knows how to love you any better than I do.You're just like a white birch sapling, and I'm a great, clumsyfir tree; but if you'll only trust yourself to me, Rose, I'lltake you safely down river."

　　Stephen's big hand closed on Rose's little one she returned itspressure softly and gave him the kiss that with her, as with him,meant a promise for all the years to come. The truth and passionin the man had broken the girl's bonds for the moment. Hervision was clearer, and, realizing the treasures of love andfidelity that were being offered her, she accepted them, halfunconscious that she was not returning them in kind. How is thebelle of two villages to learn that she should "thank Heaven,fasting, for a good man's love"? And Stephen? He went home inthe dusk, not knowing whether his feet were touching the solidearth or whether he was treading upon rainbows.

　　Rose's pink calico seemed to brush him as he walked in the paththat was wide enough only for one. His solitude was peopledagain when he fed the cattle, for Rose's face smiled at him fromthe haymow; and when he strained the milk, Rose held the pans.

　　His nightly tasks over, he went out and took his favorite seatunder the apple tree. All was still, save for the crickets'ceaseless chirp, the soft thud of an August sweeting dropping inthe grass, and the swish-swash of the water against his boat,tethered in the Willow Cove.

　　He remembered when he first saw Rose, for that must have beenwhen he began to love her, though he was only fourteen and quiteunconscious that the first seed had been dropped in the rich soilof his boyish heart.

　　He was seated on the kerosene barrel in the Edgewood post-office,which was also the general country store, where newspapers,letters, molasses, nails, salt codfish, hairpins, sugar, liverpills, canned goods, beans, and ginghams dwelt in genialproximity. When she entered, just a little pink-and-white slipof a thing with a tin pail in her hand and a sunbonnet fallingoff her wavy hair, Stephen suddenly stopped swinging his feet.She gravely announced her wants, reading them from a bit ofpaper,--1 quart molasses, 1 package ginger, 1 lb. cheese, 2pairs shoe laces, 1 card shirt buttons.

　　While the storekeeper drew off the molasses she exchanged shylooks with Stephen, who, clean, well-dressed, and carefullymothered as he was, felt all at once uncouth and awkward, ratheras if he were some clumsy lout pitchforked into the presence of afairy queen. He offered her the little bunch of bachelor'sbuttons he held in his hand, augury of the future, had he knownit,--and she accepted them with a smile. She dropped hermemorandum; he picked it up, and she smiled again, doing stillmore fatal damage than in the first instance. No words werespoken, but Rose, even at ten, had less need of them than most ofher sex, for her dimples, aided by dancing eyes, length oflashes, and curve of lips, quite took the place of conversation.The dimples tempted, assented, denied, corroborated, deplored,protested, sympathized, while the intoxicated beholder cudgeledhis brain for words or deeds which should provoke and evoke moreand more dimples.

　　The storekeeper hung the molasses pail over Rose's right arm andtucked the packages under her left, and as he opened the mosquitonetting door to let her pass out she looked back at Stephen,perched on the kerosene barrel. Just a little girl, a littleglance, a little dimple, and Stephen was never quite the sameagain. The years went on, and the boy became man, yet no otherimage had ever troubled the deep, placid waters of his heart.Now, after many denials, the hopes and longings of his nature hadbeen answered, and Rose had promised to marry him. He wouldsacrifice his passion for logging and driving in the future, andbecome a staid farmer and man of affairs, only giving himself ariver holiday now and then. How still and peaceful it was underthe trees, and how glad his mother would be to think that the oldfarm would wake from its sleep, and a woman's light foot be heardin the sunny kitchen!

　　Heaven was full of silent stars, and there was a moonglade on thewater that stretched almost from him to Rose. His heart embarkedon that golden pathway and sailed on it to the farther shore.The river was free of logs, and under the light of the moon itshone like a silver mirror. The soft wind among the fir branchesbreathed Rose's name; the river, rippling against the shore,sang, "Rose;" and as Stephen sat there dreaming of the future,his dreams, too, could have been voiced in one word, and thatword " Rose."