The Wonder Woman by Mae Van Norman Long - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII
 MY WONDER WOMAN

WHEN I saw Master Joey smiling at me wanly from his pillow the next morning, his fever gone, his eyes without the abnormal brightness of the previous two days, and heard his modest request for cornmeal flapjacks to be stirred up forthwith in the old yellow pitcher, my heart leaped into my throat for joy. I was so riotously happy that I went outside to the Dingle, and almost burst my throat with whistling a welcome to a lazuli-bunting, newly arrived from his winter sojourn in the south land. He was so azure-blue on his head and back, so tawny breasted, so clear a white on his underparts that he seemed like some wondrous jewel dropped from Paradise into the syringa thicket.

I had answered his “here, here—” until I was sure he understood the cordiality of my welcome, when I heard a fluttering among the serviceberry bushes and turned to see a sage thrasher fly out and soar aloft to a hemlock tree. I whistled. He answered with a beautiful song, and went on to imitate other birds’ songs, ending by emitting a sound that was strangely like the wail of a naughty youngster. I laughed outright, and it seemed to me he was attempting to imitate my laughter as I walked away. The birds were coming back in earnest. How glorious the early summer was! Was there ever such a rose-gold morning? I was overflowing with happiness. But when on my way to the spring I hailed Wanza, who was dipping water out of the big barrel by the kitchen door, and received a delicately frigid “good morning,” something rather strange came over me, my glowing heart congealed, and I went out to the yew grove, and sat down soberly on the railing of the small bridge that spanned the narrow mountain stream.

I had no quarrel with Wanza for her averted face. But I had a feeling that the blunder-god had unwarrantably interfered again, and a wish to lift my affairs up off the knees of the gods once and for all and swing them myself. I felt big enough to swing them, this morning. Only—I did not exactly understand the state of my own mind, and this was some slight detriment to clean swinging.

For one thing—after I had touched Wanza’s unwilling lips last night at Joey’s bidding, I had sat on the edge of my bunk in the darkness unable to forget the feeling of those warm lips against my own—feeling myself revitalized—made new. What had happened to me when I held the girl in my arms for that brief space? What was the answer?

I sat in deep thought, starting when a water ouzel swooped suddenly down past my face, and plunged into the water at my very feet. I watched it emerge, perch on a boulder further down stream, and spread its slaty wings to dry. The day was languorous, and very sweet. One of those perfect days that come early in June when the woods are flower-filled, and the trees full-leaved. The air was tangy with smells, the honeysuckle and balm o’ Gilead dripped perfume, the clover was bursting with sweetness, and the wild roses were faintly odorous; all the “buds and bells” of June were dewy and clean-scented. The nutty flavor of yarrow was in the air—Achillea millefolium—the plant which Achilles is said to have used in an ointment to heal his myrmidons wounded in the siege of Troy. I marked this last flavor well, separating it from the others. “Poor yarrow,” I said to myself, “content with spurious corners and waste portions of the earth, what a splendid lesson of perseverance you teach.” I thought of myself and of my struggle of the last eight years, and compared myself with the weed. I had not been content with the neglected corners of the earth; but I had honestly tried to make the best of the corners; I had attempted to improve them, and in so doing improve myself.

From that I came to Joey and the two women who had helped to make the waste places bloom; and like Byron I had a sigh for Joey and Wanza who loved me; and I had a tender smile for my dream woman—Haidee. She had come when, steeped in idealism, I was all prepared for the advent of the radiant creature who was to work a metamorphosis in my life. She had come, and I had hailed her Wonder Woman. It had been a psychological moment, and she had appeared. And I had loved her—let me not cheat myself into any contrary belief—surely I had loved her—surely; let me admit that. But no—I need not admit even that, since it was not the truth—since she knew it was not the truth. I had loved an ideal; not Judith Batterly, indeed, but a vague dream woman.

“There is no wonder woman,” I said to myself, thoughtfully.

Restless with my cogitations, I rose, left the bridge, and went through the yews to the workshop.

When in sight of the bed of clove pinks I pulled myself up smartly; Wanza knelt there. I was not too far away to see the glitter of tears on her cheeks; but in spite of the tears, she was smiling; her face was downbent, rose-flushed, to the new buds, her hands were clasped on her breast, she seemed lost in ecstatic revery, and on her head rested delicately a nuthatch.

“What a wonderful way Wanza has with the birds,” I said to myself. I turned this over in my mind. “I’ve long marked it,” I added. Presently still watching her, I decided, “She is a rather wonderful child.”

I continued to watch her.

She began to croon a soft little song; she unclasped her hands and held them out before her. A second nuthatch left the branch of a pine tree nearby and descended to settle on her left hand. She gave an indistinct gurgle of joy, and put her right hand over it.

“Why, she’s a wonder,” I said to myself, “a wonder—girl!” I hesitated, and then exultantly I murmured: “A wonder woman!” and turned and beat a hasty retreat to the cabin.

Arrived there I sat down rather breathlessly on the steps. I saw light at last!

It was under the stars that night that I told Wanza of my discovery. Joey was sleeping peacefully indoors, watched over by Mrs. Olds, the doctor had just left, after assuring me that my lad would soon be convalescent, and Wanza and I walked on the river bank.

“Wanza,” I said, “is that a russet-backed thrush singing?”

“I think so, Mr. Dale.”

“His notes are wonderfully liquid and round, aren’t they?” I gave a sigh of pure happiness. “I feel like a ‘strong bird on pinions free,’ myself to-night. I feel emancipated—as though life were beginning all over for me. I am in love with life, Wanza. I want to awake to-morrow and begin life all over.”

“Do you, Mr. Dale?”

“Isn’t the world beautiful washed in this moonlight! The sky seems so near—like a purple silk curtain strung with jewels. But it is quite dark here beneath the pines, isn’t it, Wanza? I have to guess at the flowers under our feet. There is white hawthorn nearby, I swear, and the yellow violets are in the grass, and the wild forget-me-not, and I smell the wild roses—”

“How you go on, Mr. Dale!”

“Wanza,” I said, “look up at the stars through the pine branches.”

“I like to watch them in the river.”

“Yes, but look up, Wanza.”

She looked as I bade her.

“The moonlight in your eyes is wonderful, child.”

“Please don’t, Mr. Dale.”

“Keep looking at the stars, Wanza—your face is like an angel’s seen thus. Your hair is like silver starshine, your lips are flowers—you are very wonderful—my breath fails me, Wanza. You are very wonderful—a wonder woman—and I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Joey isn’t going to die, Mr. Dale.”

“I know it.”

She spoke with a sobbing breath: “Then why do you say this?”

“Because I love you with my whole soul.”

“Oh!”

“Turn your eyes to me, dear. Don’t look at the stars any more. Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then at last I shall be blessed—I shall have a wander-bride—a wonder woman—some one who understands me, and whom I understand, to share with me the coming in of day, the mystery of the night and stars, the saneness of the moon—I shall have—Wanza! Do you remember, child:

“‘Down the world with Marna!

That’s the life for me!

Wandering with the wandering wind,

Vagabond and unconfined!’

“Do you remember the song I sang to you in the woods one night? There is another verse—listen!

“‘Marna of the far quest

After the divine!

Striving ever for some goal

Past the blunder-god’s control!

Dreaming of potential years

When no day shall dawn in fears!

That’s the Marna of my soul,

Wander-bride of mine!’”

The beautiful face was on my breast, the cornflower blue eyes were raised to mine, the maize-colored hair was like a curtain about us, shutting out the moonlight, the night, the world. I drew her closer, closer still, silently, breathlessly, until I heard her give a shaken cry:

“It’s in your eyes—I can read it! You do love me, you do, you do! David Dale! David Dale!”

After an interval, I said:

“I am writing another book, Wanza. I am sure it will sell. We will go away from here, child—we can live where we choose—we will go south to my old home. There is some property there that is mine. You will love the old home, and the river with its red clay banks—my childhood’s home. We will travel, too. Life seems very full, Wanza.”

“But we’ll always come back to Cedar Dale, won’t we, David Dale? We’ll come back to Dad—dear Dad—he’ll always be waiting. And the birds and the flowers—and the squirrels and woodsy things will be waiting. And Joey will want to come.”

THE END