EVOLUTION

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 1, 6 July 1907, Page 35

EVOLUTION

By

W. PRITCHARD EATON

“ I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.”

. w ND to think,” said Miss Elizabeth / I Dwight, with mock solemnity, 1 I “that in this very house Welkj[ come Amidon (was that his funny name?) wooed and won the fair Elizabeth!” “'l'he other fair Elizabeth,” I corrected. a little sulkily. “Don't pay me compliments, if it hurts you,” said Miss Elizabeth Dwight, looking at an ancient photograph on the wall. “Do you suppose this is a picture of—of the other Elizabeth?” she asked. “Probably. Photography had reached a high state of development in Revolutionary times,” 1 remarked sarcastically. “Oh,” said she, peeping at me out of the corner of her eye, “I suppose not!” 1 nursed my grievance silently, gazing into the huge fireplace where the kettle hung on its crane over the great birch logs that awaited the winter. It was a little hard to have brought Miss Elizabeth some miles up the valley expressly to show her the ancient elm-buried town where my New England ancestors had read their Bibles and drunk their cider with one eye open for Indians, and very expressly to show her the house where Welcome Amidon, a famous captain of our line, had conducted his hardest seige against the thrice craftily fortified heart of the fair Elizabeth Allen—only to have Elizabeth Dwight take it all lightly. Jf she wasn't impressed because Welcome Amidon was my progenitor, she might at least have shown a glimmer of serious interest because Elizabeth A)4en was a great-aunt of .uonje of hers! * I'm very suie that if I had J)een making my first vi>sit to the spot vvnere a branch of my family had lived and loved and borne children and left its mark on trees and houses a hundred years ago and more, 1 should have been not only interested but a little awed and reverential. Of course, I didn't really expect anything more personal of her, but I did expect that. But here was Miss Elizabeth pretending to be serious in the most frivolously ironical manner. I maintain that my vexation was quite justified, and that if 1 continued to look into the age-black-ened fireplace in silence, paying no more visible attention to her, it was no more than she deserved. “You might tell me about the. doormat man and his Elizabeth,” said a penitent voice behind my shoulder. “T'he what?” said I, choosing to ignore the almost imperceptible emphasis on the “his.” “The door-mat man. You know those brown scratchy door mats in hardware shops frequently say ‘Welcome’ on them in large rod letters,” chuckled Miss Eliz abeth. “I thought for one moment,” said I “that you were experiencing some contrition for your conduct, hut I see you were not, since you choose to make game of my progenitor.” “I don't know why I should be contrite,” said she. Besides, contrition is the final aspect of timidity.” “1 would rather feel contrition than know the definition thereof,’” I retorted severely. “That's quoted from somebody,'’ said Miss Elizabeth, knitting her brows. “It is,” said I; “from Thomas a Kenipis. an excellent, godly man.” “And forgiving, too. He would have told me the story.’’ “You’ve heard the story a dozen times,’’ said I. ’ - • “I've forgotten it,” said Miss Elizabeth. ’ I looked at her reproachfully, but she met my eyes with a wondering glance as if to say. What is the matter? I sighed despairingly. Miss Elizabeth sat down on the mahogany footstool upholstered in black haircloth with red roses embroidered upon it. She popped her chin in her hands like a child awaiting a fairy tale.

“It was in 1785—” 1 began. “I thought it was ’B4/’ said Miss Elizabeth demurely. I looked at her again, feeling of a sudden foolishly happy. She was gazing into the great fireplace, a tiny smile on her lips, “'rhe story, please,’’ she prompt“H was soon after Yorktown, thenj” 1 began again, “that Captain Amidon, young and impetuous, renewed his boyhood suit for the hand of the fair Elizabeth Allen.” “‘Young and impetuous' - that’s fine!” said my audience. “I'm sure there ought to be a ‘brave’ in there, too.” “That is implied in the statement that he wooed the fair Elizabeth/’ said I. “Oh!” said she. “lie. had distinguished himself during the later years of tin* war for youthful courage and a cool-headedness and strategic skill beyond his years/’ I went on; “but we don't need to go into details of his military exploits, do we?”,. “I suppose they're . not,the important part of the. story,” Miss Elizabeth reflected. “Still, they would be interesting.'* she added brightly. “We will oniit them,” said I. “The captain went away io war a boy and very much in love with Elizabeth Allen, lie came back a man and more in love with her than ever.” “What a funny man!” said Elizabeth Dwight. “Was he?” said I. She. examined the watering pan which stood by the hearth. * ; ' * “Was he?” I asked again, leaning forward to catch her.eye. “I never knew one like Trim.” she said, suddenly giving me look for look. I resumed my narrative somewhat less enthusiastically. “Elizabeth Allen lived in this house—doubtless often sat on that footstool and warmed her bed in winter with that warming pan” my companion was peering inside of it “and tiie captain rode his big black horse up the valley and clattered down the quiet street to see her, I'd hate to say how often. Everybody knew he loved her; if 1 hey didn't he told them. But what her feelings toward him were nobody could find out for sure, least of all the. captain. There used to be other horses at the door, other wooers within, and that made the captain sulk. He was said to be very handsome when he sulked: like a thundercloud. However, Miss Elizabeth Allen, your great-aunt. would but torment him the worse. 'l'he others never received so much encouragement as when he was sulking, his big body taking up half tin' chimney-corner.” “He was a great ninny,” said Miss Elizabet h. “He w.is a brave soldier/’ said 1. “Pooh!” said she. “Anyhow.” I went on, “sulking or happy, in despair or hope, he kept at his wooing. When he was in despair she would suddenly melt to him; when his hopes ran high she would suddenly turn ice. And no answer could he get, cither yes or no. for one mortal year.” “Only a year?” laughed Miss Elizabeth. “A year is a long time to keep a man on the rack,” I replied. “Only a pretty \voinan could be cruel enough to do it—and for no crime than loving her too well.’’ “She might want to find out if his love were really constant.” “Pooh!” said I. “That false platitude again! A platitude is the last extremity of the feminine bluff.'’ “Mercy!” cried Miss Elizabeth. “1 won't do it again!’’ “Well, one winter afternoon.” I resumed more confidently, “the captain drove up to the door in his sleigh. His tormentor camo out, looking. I have no doubt, more tormenting than ever with her p< it, ilowvr like face peeping from

the encircling furs, and they drove northward together over the frozen crust. Tradition says that the captain s face was grimly determined, though how tradition knows is a mystery, for they met nobody. Soon they began to (limb through a winding gorge into the high hills. I'he Connecticut valley disappear ed behind and below them. I'he shadows of the primeval hemlocks darkened their track. And. ‘Where are we going?’ said Elizabeth Allen. To Canada, maybe,’ answered the captain, and clucked to his horses. Elizabeth sat up very straight and looked at him. ‘Sir, this lias ceased to he a joke,’ said she. ‘Madam, for once we are in perfect accord,' was his reply. And again he clucked to the horses. ‘What do you want?’ said the girl, flaming with anger. ‘Your answer Will you marry me? Yes or no,’ said Captain Welcome Amidon. ‘No!' cried she. ‘Now, sir. 1 ake me home.’ ” “He didn’t gain much by that eave man proceeding,” remarked Mis s Eliza beth Dwight. . “No?” said I. “Well, he merely replied that if her answer was ‘No/ he’d have to give her linn* to reconsider it, and he clucked the horses oil again northward. *1 hate you,’ said Miss Elizabeth. ‘You love me,’ said the captain, ‘or you will before we get through the Green Mountains.’ So they rode on and on, through clearing and forests, over frozen streams and past the lonely mountain farms, always noythwayd, silent, will dashing against will in wordless conflict. Night eaifie on mnd rtwvas latter cold. Sonic >wild thing crashed through the under brush dtfse to their path. -It was miles f<t. the nearest town in-■ Vermont, and no return was possible from there till the next day. Tongues would talk. Miss Elizabeth stormed; the captain (lucked to his horses. It grew blacker. She wept and begged; he urged the strong span northward. Again there was silence. 'l'he road grew steeper; the for (•st swallowed up the trail in gloom. ‘Yes.' the captain heard a sudden whisper in his rar. They still point out the spot where he turned the sleigh in its tracks.” “Thank you/’ said Miss Eliza beth Dwight. “Your progenitor was a cave man. just the same.” “Perhaps,” said I. rising and looking at my watch. “But maybe the Big Stick is as useful in love as anywhere else. If you've seen enough of the house that became tin' home of my rave man and your great aunt, let us say good by to Hie folks and depart.” “This great, snorting thing is a desc« ration in this sleepy, time tombed street.” said Elizabeth, as we (limbed into the ear. “Now, if it were only a sleigh ■’ “If he lived to day, the captain would use a motor car,” said I, with convir tion. She shook her head. “No,'* she said, “he would do nothing so unroinant ic. Even a rave man has a sense of ro ma nee.” “Romance consists in making the pi.o tieal serve an ideal end.” said I. “\n automobile will do as well as the chariot of the sun.” I put over the lever I spoke and headed northward. “This is not the way home!” < » ><• I Miss Elizabeth in a startled V(»ire. “I'm going to take you down the >at lev by another road, for variety. I an swried in a matter of-fact tow, with just a "h.ide of binpiise in it at her ex clam.il ion. She sank li.u-k reassured. \\ »• whizzed over a State load and a ‘•'frvl bridge where the captain had used the fields and ire, chugged through a thiiv ing. biisv town where he had skirted a farming hamlet; but as we began to climb the winding gorge into the hills, a second generation of hemlocks came down the to ujeet us. as their prr «lv«rssora had met him; the Connecticut

valley -lipped lower and lower, and the far blue hills came up one by one over Ui< horizon.

“This is lovely, glorious!" exclaimed Miss Elizabeth. "Hut it’s a funny way home." she suddenly added, as the river disappeared from -sight. "It’s the captain’s road to Canada,” said 1.

“< > lack, don’t l>e a silly boy!” she eaid, with a laugh. “We'll be late to tea if you're not careful.” But 1 noticed that there was a shade of uncertainty in her laugh. The machine lunged up over the last thank youmarm in silence and sped along the level. A farmer was standing in his barn. ‘’Waal." he hailed us, “didn’t git stuck, did vet"

“No." said I. “She’s eighty horsepower. and will take Mount Washington without lying down. But she’s pretty Heavy to handle coming back to the bottom.”

“'S tiiat so?" he replied. “I reckon it might lie. Ye’d better watch out on the hill jist ahead. ’Bout a houndred rods down tbar's a sharp turn and ye might have a few regrets if ye went off'n the bank.” I thanked him more heartily than he knew and sped on. Peeping at Miss Elizalteth. 1 saw that she looked annoyed, and a bit frightened, too. “For Heaven's sake don’t be a goose,” she said. “Turn back. It's getting late and the hills are piling up in front. Look, you ean see them." “I don’t need to see them to know they are there,” I answered. “I wish they were higher, though.” The machine took the first pitch of the incline with a sickening lurch. Miss Elizabeth braced back and gritted her teeth. "What do you want, anyway?” she said. "You." I replied calmly, my eye on the road. “You've taken a nice, gentlemanly way to get me. I must say!” she sniffed. “It's effective for the present, at least." I replied, as I worked the car slowly around the ugly turn where the Toad hung over the rocks, and then let her out. The wind flew by our faces.

“What if we should meet a team coming up in this narrow road? Are you mad?” she cried.

“No, just come to my senses,” 1 replied, easing the brake some more. “You think the fortnula that worked on one woman when applied by your cave man ancestor will work on another when applied by’ you. do you?" She was sneering now, between her gasps of terror as we sagged and rose over the thank-you-marms.

I screeched the horn madly. “You bet it will work, or it’s Canada by morning!” I shouted as we struck the sand at the bottom, skidded a sickening moment, righted, and cut northward between the great boles of the sugar maples at fifty miles an hour. “Jack,” she said, touching my sleeve, “I have always liked you.” I blew the horn to break her sentence. “Whether you have liked me. do like me. or will like me," 1 cut in, "is a matter of complete indifference to me. Liking is not what I want, as you very well know and as you have very well known for a year.” “if you keep up this nonsense 1 shall hate you," she said, her cheeks reddening. “At least.” said I, “that will be something definite." We came around a corner at a criminal speed and narrowly missed a bad mix-up with a farmer’s waggon. The horse took fright and disappeared in a cloud of dust, the driver sawing and tugging on the reins. Before us was another plunge, longer and steeper than the last, and across the valley yet more hills piled up and up, rosy in the level sunlight that now passed above the valley and left the lowlands in a faint dusk. “Jack, dear Jack, are you going to take this hill at such a breakneck speed?" she pleaded. “You’ll kill us both. Please don’t do it!” “Will you marry me?” I asked. “No!” she said, turning deadly white as I shoved the lever over. We were alive and whole at the bottom, the angel of fools and lovers alone knows how. but Elizabeth was ghastly. My heart smote me and my purpose al-

most failed. But 1 steeled myself somehow and kept on. "Will yon turn back?” she finally moaned.

“Somewhere on that hill we passed the captain’s turning-point.” I replied. “But I will not turn tilt I have his reason.” “I’m faint and hungry and ill,” she besought me, and her words did not belie her. “If we don't get back I don’t, know what the family will do. And what will people say? How can we ever explain it? O Jack, please, if you love me take me home!” I got out and lighted the lamps. Then I looked in the tanks. "Water and fuel enough for the next town.’ I said. “What is the next town?” came from the machine. I named it truthfully. Oh, please, please!” she pleaded. “I didn’t know we were so far into Vermont!” "Will you marry me?” said I, climbing back beside her. “You beast, you ugly beast!” she cried. Then she grew softer. “I'll tell you to-morrow. honestly I will; I’ll tell you early in the morning.” “If you tell me in the morning it will lie in Canada." I answered, as we shot northward through the fast deepening night.

The increasing peril of the road and my constant efforts to hedge secretly eastward toward the Connecticut valley allowed me no time for conversation, had I been disposed to talk. We bumped on in silence. The speed was down now, and I had to stop frequently to grope for the way, but it was reckless driving enough. Once we stopped to fill the tanks and buy food at a store. Presently the moon rose, and looking back southward Miss Elizabeth recognised the outline of Ascutney bulking up against the sky. ’•Why." site cried, “we are half-way up the State!" “No, not more than a third.” I 2answered. “But it's early evening yet.” “You might put back to Cornish and let me stay with the Bussells, or somebody,” she said with a sudden flicker of hope. “T shook my head. “It's home or

Canada." And I put the speed up ■ notch over a gleaming straightway. Th* night air was getting very chill, and I felt Elizabeth shiver. Perhaps she leaned a little against me that I might feel it better. “You can be very stubborn — Jack,” she said.

“The stake is very lug and very dear to me,” I muttered.

“You can’t get home now, anyway," she said plaintively, “not down all those terrible hills.” “I know the river road like a book and this moonlight is as good as day,” said I. “I can get you home at midnight easy. An hour from now. though, we'll be up in the Woodstock Mountains, and there I'm a total stranger to the roads. And the grades are worse than anything we’ve struck vet.”

Even as I spoke we saw through the trees ahead the break of a valley, and, beyond, the hills piling up once more. A mountain loomed dimly across our northward track. The car sagged over an ugly rut, and one side went into the gully. Elizabeth caught my arm convulsively, and a nervous sob escaped her. Then something snapped—whatever mysterious nerve it is that keeps the will at fighting tension—and she wept. “You —you may t-take me home,” she said, between her sobs. Almost in front of the house where Captain Welcome Amidon wooed the fair Elizabeth Allen and brought her home from their fateful sleigh-ride, two of my sore-taxed tires sank wearily down on the rims. I roused my sleepy and astonished relations, and half-car-ried my Elizabeth, wrapped in my coat and all the robes in the car, into the house. Then I plodded to the railroad, and flagged the night train down the valley to reassure her family.

The next morning I found her inspecting the dusty machine. She put both hands in mine. “I slept in Elizabeth Allen’s chamber,” she-said, “and dreamed, the loveliest dream?" “About what?” I asked.

“About a great brute of a cave man.” she answered, “who dragged off his bride by the hair.”