Rose of Dutcher's Coolly Part 18

Around the walls sat or stood the parents of the dancers, dignified business men and their wives, keen-eyed farmers and village merchants and lawyers. There were also the alumni from all over the West, returned to take part in the exercises, to catch a glimpse of the dear old campus. It was all a renewal of youth to them. Many came from the prairies. Some came from the bleak mountain towns, and the gleam of the lakes, the smell of gra.s.s, the dapple of sunlight on the hillside affected them almost to tears. Now they danced with their wives and were without thought or care of business.

Professors danced with their pupils, husbands with their wives, who had also been pupils here. Lovely, lithe young girls dragged their bearded old fathers out into the middle of the floor, amid much laughter, and the orchestra played "Money-Musk" and "Old Zip c.o.o.n" and "The Fireman's Dance" for their benefit.

Then the old fellows warmed up to it, and danced right manfully, so that the young people applauded with swift clapping of their hands. Plump mothers took part in the quaint old fas.h.i.+oned figures, and swung and balanced and "sashayed" in a gale of fun.

It was a beautiful coming together of the University. It represented the unspoiled neighborliness and s.e.x _camaraderie_ of the West. Its refinement was not finicky, its dignity was not frigidity, and its fun was frank and hearty. May the inexorable march of wealth and fas.h.i.+on pa.s.s by afar off, and leave us some little of these dear old forms of social life.

It had a tender and pensive quality, also. The old were re-living the past, as well as the young, and all had an unconscious feeling of the transitoriness of these tender and careless hours. Smiles flashed forth on the faces of the girls like hidden roses disclosed in deep hedges by a pa.s.sing wind-gust, to disappear again in pensive, thoughtful deeps.

Rose danced with Dr. Thatcher, who took occasion to say:

"Well, Rose, you leave us soon."

"Yes, tomorrow, Doctor."

"What are your plans?"

"I don't know; I must go home this summer. I want to go to Chicago next winter."

"Aha, you go from world to world. Rose, you will do whatever you dream of--_provided_ you don't marry." He said this as lightly as he could, but she knew he meant it.

"There isn't much danger of that," she said, trying to laugh.

"Well, no, perhaps not." They fell into a walk, and moved slowly just outside the throng of dancers.

"Now, mark you, I don't advise you at all. I have realized from the first a fatality in you. No one can advise you. You must test all things for yourself. You are alone; advice cannot reach you nor influence you except as it appeals to your own reason. To most women marriage is the end of ambition, to you it may be an incentive. If you are big enough, you will succeed in spite of being wife and mother. I believe in you.

Can't you come and see me tomorrow? I want to give you letters to some Chicago people."

The company began to disperse, and the sadness impending fell upon them all. One by one good-byes were said, and the dancers one and all slipped silently away into the night.

CHAPTER XIII

THE WOMAN'S PART

It was all over at last, the good-byes, the tearful embraces, the cheery waving of hands, and Rose was off for home. There were other students on the train, but they were young students whom she did not know. At the moment it seemed as if she were leaving all that was worth while--five years of the most beautiful time of her life lay behind her.

She had gone there a country girl, scared and awkward. She was now a woman (it seemed to her) and the time for action of some sort had come.

She did not look to marriage as a safe harbor. Neither had she regarded it as an end of all individual effort, as many of her companions unequivocally had done.

After her experiences during those last three days, she felt as if s.e.x were an abomination, and she wished for freedom from love. She had already the premonition that she was of those who seem destined to know much persecution of men.

Her strong, forceful, full-blooded, magnetic beauty could not be hidden so deep under sober garments but that the ever-seeking male eye quickly discovered it. As she entered the car she felt its penetrating, remorseless glare, and her face darkened, though she was no longer exposed to the open insults of brakemen and drummers. There was something in the droop of her eyelids and the curve of her mouth which kept all men at a distance, even the most depraved. She was not a victim--a girl to be preyed upon. She was quite evidently a proud, strong woman, to be sued for by all flatteries and attentions.

The train whirled along over the familiar route, and the land was most beautiful. Fresh gra.s.s everywhere, seas of green flas.h.i.+ng foliage, alternating with smooth slopes of meadow where cattle fed, yet she saw little of it. With sombre eyes turned to the pane she thought and thought.

What was to be done now? That was the question. For a year she had been secretly writing verse and sending it to the magazines. It had all been returned to her. It made her flush hot to think how they had come back to her with scarcely a word of civility. Evidently she was wrong. She was not intended for a writer after all. She thought of the stage, but she did not know how to get upon the stage.

The train drew steadily forward, and familiar lines of hill-tops aroused her, and as she turned her face toward home, the bent and grizzled figure of her father came to her mind as another determining cause. He demanded something of her now after nearly five year's absence from home, for he had paid her way--made it possible for her to be what she was.

There he sat holding his rearing horses and watching, waiting for her.

She had a sudden, swift realization of his being a type as he sat there, and it made her throat fill, for it seemed to put him so far away, seemed to take away something of her own sweet dignified personality.

There was a crowd of people on the platform. Some of them she knew, some of them she did not. She looked very fine and lady-like to John Dutcher as she came down the car steps, and the brakeman helped her down, with elaborate and very respectful courtesy.

The horses pranced about, so that John could not even take her hand, and so she climbed into the buggy alone.

"Carl will take care of your trunk," he said. "Give him the check."

She turned to Carl, whom she had not noticed. He bowed awkwardly.

"How de do, Rosie," he said, as he took the check. He wore brown denims, and a broad hat and looked strong and clumsy.

She had no time to speak to him, for the horses whirled away up the street. The air was heavy with the scent of clover, and the bitter-sweet, pungent smells of Lombardy poplar trees.

They rode in silence till the village lay behind them and the horses calmed down.

"Cap's a perfect fool about the cars," said John. "But I had to take him; Jennie's getting too heavy, I da.r.s.ent take her."

"How is the stock?"

"O, all right. We had a big crop of lambs this spring. The bees are doing well, but the clover don't seem to attract 'em this year. The corn looks well except down near the creek--it's been wet there in rainy seasons, you remember." He gave other reports concerning stock.

Rose felt for the first time the unusualness of this talk. All her life she had discussed such things with him, but on previous vacations she had not been conscious of its startling plainness, but now it came to her with a sudden hot flush--think of such talk being reported of her to the Doctor and Mrs. Thatcher!

There was something strange in her father's manner, an excitement very badly concealed, which puzzled her. He drove with almost reckless swiftness up the winding coule road. He called her attention to the way-side crops, and succeeded in making her ask:

"Father, what in the world is the matter with you? I never knew you to act like this."

John laughed. "I'm a little upset getting you home again, that's all."

She caught a gleam of new s.h.i.+ngles through the trees.

"What have you been building?"

"O, nothing much--new granary--patchin' up a little," he replied evasively. When they whirled into the yard she was bewildered--the old cottage was gone and a new house stood in its place.

John broke into a laugh.

"How's that for a new granary?"

"O father, did you do that _for me_?"

"For you and me together, Rosie."

They sat in the carriage and looked at it. Rose peered through tear-blurred lids. He loved her so--this bent old father! He had torn down the old home and built this _for her_.