A Little Learning
It was one of those blistering July afternoons that sometimes descend upon people who have traveled a long way in the palatial discomfort of a Pullman, only to find themselves completing the last leg of their journey amid the democratic rattle-ty-bang of an antique, plush-lined day-coach. Several cars in advance, the energetic branch line locomotive was belching clouds of smoke and whistling shrilly at each spralling crossroad; while within the day-coach itself, a faded sign proclaimed that persons of color would only be tolerated on the last three seats of each car, and thus localized the scene to one of those down at the heel Southern railroads that have not yet recovered from the Civil War.
The greater part of the passengers were negroes, prosperously dressed, and covertly taking pains to be as obnoxious as possible to the little group of whites entrenched in a compact and strategic position among the last three seats of the car. Of the latter, one was a grey-haired gentlewoman of the old South, her expression combining with the pride of blood a certain indefinable mellow sweetness. A blue-eyed child of six sat by her side, and perhaps he too was conscious of his descent, but he kept his nose glued close to the window for all that. Behind these two, in a little compartment formed by turning two seats together, sat three ruddy farm girls in uncomfortable attitudes of acute self-consciousness. They had been giggling and overflowing with spirits during most of the trip, but the appearance of a young man in the seat opposite, at the last junction, had reduced their exuberance and heightened their curiosity. For, on one side of the neatly strapped suitcase which he had erected beside him as a sort of barrier from the negroes, appeared the legend, “P. R. Melton, N. Y. C.”
Thought Philip Melton, “Niggers ... niggers and heat ... the Devil putting collars of mustard plaster on damned souls....
“Common, common, common sort of girls ... perfectly decent, but not my class ... too muscular, or maybe it’s fat....
“Nice little chap ... eyes, hair, skin ... football some day ... wonder if his grandmother’s a Carroll ... aristocrat....
“Hot ... gosh....
“Marion ... letters ... letters in my pocket ... mush, but not common ... my class ... glad I’m a gentleman ... ‘known by what he does not do’ ... clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack....
“Marion ... never wrote a girl stuff like that before ... laps it up all right ... must practice on some one ... my class, not common at all....
“‘The man who seduces a pure country girl because he fears the diseases of the city deserves to be flayed alive’ ... funny ... seduceissuch a nasty word....
“Clickety clack, clickety clack, clack, click.... Fool train had to get here some time....”
As he clattered down the precipitous steps of the day-coach, the last of which was a clear jump of at least two feet, Philip saw the tall, still vigorous figure of his uncle detach itself from the crowd and come forward with its perpetually surprising grace.
“Glad to see you, boy.” The words had something soothingly restful about them that betrayed the unhurried country gentleman.
“A very long, hot ride, I’m afraid, and the train late as usual. Your mother well? And Don’ld?” The last name was slurred with the paternal carelessness of the man who has lived to ask his youngest brother’s son whether that brother is well.
“I brought Marion over in the car.” The clear eyes twinkled mischievously. “She was sitting on the porch as I drove by, and it seemed to me you rather liked her last summer. Mind she doesn’t wind you around her little finger before your two weeks are over. These ministers’ daughters—” The phrase melted away, and his uncle turned to direct the chauffeur. But Philip smiled inwardly. He knew his favorite uncle had once been “a bad man among the ladies”, as they put it in the South.
That night Philip lay half smothered in his enormous feather bed, and thought again, this time in retrospect. He was a boy whom a nagging illness had kept secluded during most of his early life, and the previous Freshman year at college had filled him with restless new ideas. Adolescence, too long delayed, was upon him with a vengeance, at last.
“Good move, coming here ... she’s certainly one of the most naturally beautiful girls I ever saw ... skin a little off, perhaps.... Lord, how can people stand to eat sausages the way they do here ... we’ll have them to-morrow ... in July!
“Somehow I feel too overconfident.... God help us if she ever really falls in love with me ... still, I don’t quite see why that’s my lookout ... Don Juan....”
“See here, Philip Melton, you’re an ass!” (That was the voice of common sense, speaking in crisp periods.) “You’ve never kissed a girl in your life, and you’ve thought too much about it lately. You’ve always been too bashful to even flirt with sub-debs. And now that curiosity, not romance, has gotten hold of you, and you’ve achieved the enormous conquest of receiving a few sloppy letters from a country clergyman’s daughter, you think—! Don Juan, blaah!” (And common sense disgustedly retired.)
But Philip’s thoughts soon began to drift in the old channel. And egotism, which lies crushed into its corner during waking hours, came out and sported in the land of demi-dreams.
“She blushed once, really.... I saw her do it ... and she let me take her hand practically as long as I wanted to, to look at her ring.
“Oh Phil, you’re not so bad ... you’ll learn ... learn ... lllle....”
Sleep.
The river was not very broad. It curved and twisted between ranks of weeping willows, and, just as Philip grew tired of rowing, a perfect grotto of a cove beckoned them to come in and rest. Marion had taken off her ugly rubber bathing cap while Philip rowed, and as they slid among the green and golden shadows of the willows, he was almost startled at the beauty of her hair. It seemed to flow about her shoulders in a leaping cascade of light and shadow, and Philip’s throat tightened as he watched it. Then he remembered that he was in search of love, not beauty, and that with a girl one must “shoot a line”. The boat touched the bank with a soft plash, and Philip summoned courage to mention one of his poems, which he said had come to him while he was rowing her up the river.
It began:
“Oh, how I wish I might transmute the arts,And make of poetry a long caress—”
“Oh, how I wish I might transmute the arts,And make of poetry a long caress—”
“Oh, how I wish I might transmute the arts,And make of poetry a long caress—”
“Oh, how I wish I might transmute the arts,
And make of poetry a long caress—”
and, aside from the questionable novelty of addressing a short poem to one’s love in Elizabethan blank verse, it was neither better nor worse than the efforts of many young poets, not as yet nipped in the bud.
A week later, Philip could lie out on the terrace of his uncle’s garden, sunning himself, and muse somewhat as follows:
“I’m getting the hang ... not a doubt in the world ... last night, now ... her hair is awfully nice when you feel it on your cheek....
“I think I’d better not try poetry ... again ... maybe ... it sounds too well ... too as if I weren’t reallyfeelingdeeply....
“Still I’ve got her going mighty well ... last night she said, ‘Maybe, just one before you go’.... I’ve thought of an awfully romantic way to do it....
“Poor Marion.... I wonder if I could really break her heart.... I mean I hope she’ll soon get over it when I’m gone....
“Anyhow I’ll never be afraid of Peggy Armitage again.... I’ve got the hang ... damn it ... got the hang....”
The Gods seemed to have conspired with Philip to make his last night in the South all that he could have wished. He and Marion had been rowing again in the moonlight, and now that it had really grown very late, they were sitting in a secluded arbor at the far end of the garden, which looked out over the river. The moon, which had been waxing ever since Philip’s arrival, was now full. And great trailing strands of the weeping willows shut them up alone, in a little secret lattice of moon shadows.
Her head was resting lightly against his shoulder, and they were speaking only now and then in whispers. She was very lovely, a pale lady of the moon, and he felt himself yearn strangely toward her. The note in his voice was not forced now. She seemed to feel it, and as his eager lips bent down to hers she met them firmly with her own, warm and yielding. For a long, long minute the kiss lasted. Philip’s sensations seemed to ebb and fuse together. Then suddenly the moment passed. Habit reasserted itself, and Philip thought, “Lord! The trapper trapped! Another minute and I’d have proposed!”
It was afternoon on the broad, cool veranda. Philip had departed northward by the morning train, and a twinkling-eyed old gentleman was sipping great cooling sips of julep through a straw. He had once been a bad man among the ladies, and perhaps a casual observer might have thought he was so still. At least, the laughing girl at his side seemed not to lack for entertainment.
“Ah but, my dear Maid Marion, you forget that after all Philipismy nephew.”
“And that should make him quite invincible to my poor charms?”
“Invincible! And you say he kissed you! Really, my dear, these minsters’ daughters—”
“And you a vestryman! But seriously, Mr. Melton, Philip got to making love awfully well toward the last—except the poetry—that was always terrible! You are to be congratulated, sir! With my aid you have started your nephew on the road to ruin!”
“Dear child! And have you never heard me say he is my favorite nephew?”
LAIRD GOLDSBOROUGH.