I never knew just how it happened. Instead of driving back through
Port Vigor, we turned into a side road leading up over the hill and
across the heath where the air came fresh and sweet from the sea.
The Professor sat very silent, looking about him. There was a grove
of birches on the hill, and the sunlight played upon their satin
"It feels good to be out again," he said calmly. "The Sage cannot
be so keen a lover of open air as his books would indicate, or he
wouldn't be so ready to clap a man into quod. Perhaps I owe him
another punch on the nose for that."
"Oh, Roger," I said--and I'm afraid my voice was trembly--"I'm
_sorry_. I'm _sorry_."
Not very eloquent, was it? And then, somehow or other, his arm was
"Helen," he said. "Will you marry me? I'm not rich, but I've saved
up enough to live on. We'll always have Parnassus, and this winter
we'll go and live in Brooklyn and write the book. And we'll travel
around with Peg, and preach the love of books and the love of human
beings. Helen--you're just what I need, God bless you. Will you come
with me and make me the happiest bookseller in the world?"
Peg must have been astonished at the length of time she had for
cropping the grass, undisturbed. I know that Roger and I sat
careless of time. And when he told me that ever since our first
afternoon together he had determined to have me, sooner or later,
I was the proudest woman in New England. I told Roger about the
ghastly wreck, and my agony of apprehension. I think it was the
wreck that made us both feel inclined to forgive Andrew.
We had a light luncheon together there on the dunes above the Sound.
By taking a short cut over the ridge we struck into the Shelby road
without going down into Port Vigor again. Peg pulled us along toward
Greenbriar, and we talked as we went.
Perhaps the best of it was that a cold drizzle of rain began to fall
as we moved along the hill road. The Professor--as I still call him,
by force of habit--curtined in the front of the van with a rubber
sheet. Bock hopped up and curled himself aginst his master's leg.
Roger got out his corncob pipe, and I sat close to him. In the
gathering gloom we plodded along, as happy a trio--or quartet, if
you include fat, cheery old Peg--as any on this planet. Summer was
over, and we were no longer young, but there were great things
before us. I listened to the drip of the rain, and the steady creak
of Parnassus on her axles. I thought of my "anthology" of loaves of
bread and vowed to bake a million more if Roger wanted me to. It was
after supper time when we got to Greenbriar. Roger had suggested
that we take a shorter road that would have brought us through to
Redfield sooner, but I begged him to go by way of Shelby and
Greenbriar, just as we had come before. I did not tell him why I
wanted this. And when finally we came to a halt in front of Kirby's
store at the crossroads it was raining heavily and we were ready for
"Well, sweetheart," said Roger, "shall we go and see what sort of
rooms the hotel has?"
"I can think of something better than that," said I. "Let's go up to
Mr. Kane and have him marry us. Then we can get back to Sabine Farm
afterward, and give Andrew a surprise."
"By the bones of Hymen!" said Roger. "You're right!"
It must have been ten o'clock when we turned in at the red gate
of Sabine Farm. The rain had stopped, but the wheels sloshed
through mud and water at every turn. The light was burning in the
sitting-room, and through the window I could see Andrew bent over
his work table. We climbed out, stiff and sore from the long ride.
I saw Roger's face set in a comical blend of sternness and humour.
"Well, here goes to surprise the Sage!" he whispered.
We picked our way between puddles and rapped on the door. Andrew
appeared, carrying the lamp in one hand. When he saw us he grunted.
"Let me introduce my wife," said Roger.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Andrew.
But Andrew isn't quite so black as I've painted him. When he's
once convinced of the error of his ways, he is almost pathetically
eager to make up. I remember only one remark in the subsequent
conversation, because I was so appalled by the state of everything
at Sabine Farm that I immediately set about putting the house to
rights. The two men, however, as soon as Parnassus was housed in
the barn and the animals under cover, sat down by the stove to talk
"I tell you what," said Andrew--"do whatever you like with your
wife; she's too much for me. But I'd like to buy that Parnassus."
"Not on your life!" said the Professor.
|Art of Worldly Wisdom Daily|
In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.
Shakespeare wrote over 150 sonnets! Join our Sonnet-A-Day Newsletter and read them all, one at a time.