One of Ours
Book II: Enid
Chapter V
Claude's first trip to Frankfort was to get his hair cut. After leaving the
barber-shop he presented himself, glistening with bayrum, at Jason Royce's
office. Mr. Royce, in the act of closing his safe, turned and took the young man
by the hand.
"Hello, Claude, glad to see you around again! Sickness can't do much to a
husky young farmer like you. With old fellows, it's another story. I'm just
starting off to have a look at my alfalfa, south of the river. Get in and go
along with me."
They went out to the open car that stood by the sidewalk, and when they were
spinning along between fields of ripening grain Claude broke the silence. "I
expect you know what I want to see you about, Mr. Royce?"
The older man shook his head. He had been preoccupied and grim ever since
they started.
"Well," Claude went on modestly, "it oughtn't to surprise you to hear that
I've set my heart on Enid. I haven't said anything to her yet, but if you're not
against me, I'm going to try to persuade her to marry me."
"Marriage is a final sort of thing, Claude," said Mr. Royce. He sat slumping
in his seat, watching the road ahead of him with intense abstraction, looking
more gloomy and grizzled than usual. "Enid is a vegetarian, you know," he
remarked unexpectedly.
Claude smiled. "That could hardly make any difference to me, Mr. Royce."
The other nodded slightly. "I know. At your age you think it doesn't. Such
things do make a difference, however." His lips closed over his half-dead cigar,
and for some time he did not open them.
"Enid is a good girl," he said at last. "Strictly speaking, she has more
brains than a girl needs. If Mrs. Royce had another daughter at home, I'd take
Enid into my office. She has good judgment. I don't know but she'd run a
business better than a house."' Having got this out, Mr. Royce relaxed his
frown, took his cigar from his mouth, looked at it, and put it back between his
teeth without relighting it.
Claude was watching him with surprise. "There's no question about Enid, Mr.
Royce. I didn't come to ask you about her," he exclaimed. "I came to ask if
you'd be willing to have me for a son-in-law. I know, and you know, that Enid
could do a great deal better than to marry me. I surely haven't made much of a
showing, so far."
"Here we are," announced Mr. Royce. "I'll leave the car under this elm, and
we'll go up to the north end of the field and have a look."
They crawled under the wire fence and started across the rough ground through
a field of purple blossoms. Clouds of yellow butterflies darted up before them.
They walked jerkily, breaking through the sun-baked crust into the soft soil
beneath. Mr. Royce lit a fresh cigar, and as he threw away the match let his
hand drop on the young man's shoulder. "I always envied your father. You took my
fancy when you were a little shaver, and I used to let you in to see the
water-wheel, When I gave up water power and put in an engine, I said to myself:
'There's just one fellow in the country will be sorry to see the old wheel go,
and that's Claude Wheeler.'"
"I hope you don't think I'm too young to marry," Claude said as they tramped
on.
"No, it's right and proper a young man should marry. I don't say anything
against marriage," Mr. Royce protested doggedly. "You may find some opposition
in Enid's missionary motives. I don't know how she feels about that now. I don't
enquire. I'd be pleased to see her get rid of such notions. They don't do a
woman any good."
"I want to help her get rid of them. If it's all right with you, I hope I can
persuade Enid to marry me this fall."
Jason Royce turned his head quickly toward his companion, studied his
artless, hopeful countenance for a moment, and then looked away with a frown.
The alfalfa field sloped upward at one corner, lay like a bright
green-and-purple handkerchief thrown down on the hillside. At the uppermost
angle grew a slender young cottonwood, with leaves as light and agitated as the
swarms of little butterflies that hovered above the clover. Mr. Royce made for
this tree, took off his black coat, rolled it up, and sat down on it in the
flickering shade. His shirt showed big blotches of moisture, and the sweat was
rolling in clear drops along the creases in his brown neck. He sat with his
hands clasped over his knees, his heels braced in the soft soil, and looked
blankly off across the field. He found himself absolutely unable to touch upon
the vast body of experience he wished to communicate to Claude. It lay in his
chest like a physical misery, and the desire to speak struggled there. But he
had no words, no way to make himself understood. He had no argument to present.
What he wanted to do was to hold up life as he had found it, like a picture, to
his young friend; to warn him, without explanation, against certain
heart-breaking disappointments. It could not be done, he saw. The dead might as
well try to speak to the living as the old to the young. The only way that
Claude could ever come to share his secret, was to live. His strong yellow teeth
closed tighter and tighter on the cigar, which had gone out like the first. He
did not look at Claude, but while he watched the wind plough soft, flowery roads
in the field, the boy's face was clearly before him, with its expression of
reticent pride melting into the desire to please, and the slight stiffness of
his shoulders, set in a kind of stubborn loyalty. Claude lay on the sod beside
him, rather tired after his walk in the sun, a little melancholy, though he did
not know why.
After a long while Mr. Royce unclasped his broad, thick-fingered miller's
hands, and for a moment took out the macerated cigar. "Well, Claude," he said
with determined cheerfulness, "we'll always be better friends than is common
between father and son-in-law. You'll find out that pretty nearly everything you
believe about life—about marriage, especially—is lies. I don't know why people
prefer to live in that sort of a world, but they do."