september—the moon of falling leaves

the summer that old madam hale died had been followed by a swift autumn. frost trod so closely upon the heels of the last thunder shower that the samphire glowed red in the marshes, while there was yet aftermath of clover in the uplands, and shy groundsel-tree garnished her plain summer garb with white feathers, before blue gentian had opened her fringed lids wide enough to show the colour of her eyes.

unusual as the season was, it received scant attention from people of westover heights, so absorbed were they in the question of “what will become of john hale?”

the hales belonged to one of the old county families, and, in fact, a decided type, known as the hale nose, a cross between roman and aquiline, might be traced the length and breadth of the state and well across its western border, while a corresponding mental strength had marked both the men and women; judge hale, madam hale’s husband, having been both a judge and a national legislator. but, like many another american family, prominent in the last century, the line direct had dwindled to john hale, the only living child of the judge, and john, in his fifty-eighth year, was only now beginning his life as an independent being.

to any one born and bred outside of a certain circle and unacquainted with the intricate weave of the social fabric of certain conservative new england towns, such a condition is inconceivable. no one would have denied the possibility of such a happening more decidedly than john hale himself when he graduated from college with distinct literary honours, and set out upon a year of travel, before taking a congenial position offered him by his alma mater.

it was during this year of absolute freedom that john hale formed the only decided opinions that he ever seemed destined to be allowed, the most conclusive of these being that jane mostyn was the only woman with whom he could imagine wishing to spend his life.

miss mostyn was likewise making a sort of post-graduate tour, but not alone, for her father, a fussy, rather than nervous, invalid, was her companion. his invalidism was of the intermittent type that appeared when his daughter’s plans in any way crossed his own, but was otherwise held in abeyance; and most people readily conceded that he was a charming man, for he could discuss many topics without affectation, and without posing as a pedant, was extremely well read. his regarding his daughter as an absolute possession who should exist for his happiness alone was his chief eccentricity.

one of the strangest things about the acquaintance of the young people was that it began in venice, when they had been born and brought up practically in the same new england township. the reasons that had militated against their previously having more than a passing glimpse of one another were the aggressively different political affiliations of the fathers, while madam hale knew that the judge had been refused in early life by the girl who afterward became jane mostyn’s mother, and so strange was her form of tribal fealty that she regarded this refusal as not only a slight to her husband, but as a species of criticism upon her own choice, though she did not marry the judge until ten years after. mrs. mostyn had died when jane was about twenty, and at the time when john hale met her, she was in every possible way trying to draw her father’s mind from his loss.

usually if mr. mostyn stayed indoors, jane did likewise, but one fateful morning the sea shimmered too alluringly under their window, and being attracted by the singing of a gondolier, she determined to brave conventions and go out, only to find the particular gondola was already occupied, and by a man. hesitating, but only for a moment, for jane mostyn seldom hesitated, and usually compassed her ends (not connected with her father) by cheerfully assuming that there would be no opposition, she said to the man, who was looking at her with an expression half reminiscent, half questioning, and taking it for granted that he was either english or an american: “i do not speak italian; would you kindly direct your man to return here to the hotel for me when you are through with him? i’ve taken a fancy both to his craft and to his voice;” at the same time writing her name in vigorous characters on one of the cards of the hotel, she held it towards him. a glance at the card, and the puzzled expression turned to one of pleased recognition. john hale had not spoken to miss mostyn more than twice since she tucked up her hair, lengthened her skirts, and went to boarding-school, yet suddenly to talk with her at close range, as she stood there with glints of red setting off her deep blue gown and clear olive skin, seemed the most desirable occupation in the world. motioning the man to push close to the landing, hale sprang out of the gondola, and hat in one hand, the other holding the card, he said, “do you chance to remember johnny hale at whom you used to jeer because his mother would not let him coast down the hill that crossed the railroad track at westover village?”

miss mostyn coloured as red as the cap that topped her black hair, and then extended both hands, the gesture brought about wholly by the impulse to be at once on friendly terms with a home face in a strange land, no matter how slight the previous footing.

“why not come out at once and enjoy the morning freshness? one can never tell what sort of an afternoon may follow,” hale said eagerly.

“there is only one obstacle, this country requires a chaperon; where shall we get her? my father is out of the running to-day. does your mother chance to be with you? no? can you suggest any compatriot who may be staying at your hotel? we are the only americans at ours.”

“no,—yes,” corrected hale, while a mischievous smile flitted over his usually serious face, “mrs. atwood from westover is here, travelling with an assorted party. i presume that she knows us both, and the poor soul is so homesick that she will hail the opportunity as a perfect godsend.”

“what, the wife of ‘b. atwood, leading grocer, we strive to please and suit the taste of each customer’? of course she will do as a chaperon, but, considered as ballast, i am afraid we shall require an extra gondolier.”

hale laughed. “she has fallen away, as she expresses it; the change having been wrought by rushed travel, indigestion, and several inadvised cures of mineral waters. here she comes now in that brown gondola with blue curtains, and holding on for dear life as if she were with an overloaded picnic party and some one was rocking the boat.”

immediately recognizing the young people, mrs. atwood landed after several frantic efforts, during which her baedecker fell into the water and floated off, looking like a fishing bobber of eccentric design.

“let it go, mr. hale, let it go,” she panted, as he tried to follow and rescue the book, “i’ll be a good deal better off without it; i can remember what the courier tells us, but when i come to pick out the places and match his stories to them, i get a headache over the nose, such as i used to have when pa wanted me to go to high school, and i got as far as algebra, and then balked flat. go out with you? certainly, if you won’t be gone too long. our party starts on at two; not but what i’d much rather stay here in peace until they come back. why don’t i? why, i should miss at least a half a dozen baggage labels for my suit case. i’m collecting them for daughter ida. we couldn’t both leave mr. atwood the same season, so i’m making the trip, and ida’s to have the suit case, and i don’t know but what she’s got the best of the bargain.”

thus, under cover of harmless prattle that did away with the necessity of other conversation, they pushed off, and when, presently, in a lull, the gondolier took up his song again, gesture and sympathetic play of expression and eyes filled the place of words between miss mostyn and john hale, so that in a single morning, under the spell of peace and subtle, mutual appreciation, a friendship began and was cemented more securely than would have been possible during months of conventional intercourse.

from thenceforward until the end of the vacation year, while their paths could not be made to run absolutely parallel, they were at least continually crossing. though totally unlike in temperament, each seemed able to develop the best qualities in the other. miss mostyn, quick and decisive in all things, lacked the very creative mental faculties that she was able to foster in john hale, while in his company certain rather sharp edges in the young woman were smoothed away, and she became all that was charming and womanly. so vital was her influence that it began to be reflected almost at once in his work. the random sketches of travel were dropped for serious work, and before his return he was spoken of as a new man, who not only had something to say, something vital to add to the comedy of humanity, but, moreover, did it well.

that the two were virtually engaged was a matter of course, and as there were no financial reasons to make a delay necessary, hale urged with masculine directness, as her father was with her, that they be married without fuss and feathers prior to their return.

to this jane mostyn would not consent, though at first she hesitated. there were reasons why the home-coming would be trying enough to her father; she could not leave him until he had at least in a measure readjusted his life.

surely, as it proved, there was plenty of time for everything but marrying, for that magic hour of possibility passed out of the youth of jane mostyn and hale at almost the moment that they set foot on their native soil. before long, reasons for delay began to be entered on hale’s side of the ledger, springing from a too narrow idea of filial devotion. within a month of his return, just as he had entered upon his new work, his father died, with only a few hours’ warning.

judge hale and his wife had been romantically attached in spite of her almost masculine force of will and unrelenting purpose that had planned every detail of his life, which at the same time was veiled to the world at large by a physical fragility that made her appearance almost ethereal. now, as a widow, she was doubly resolute, and even more fragile to the eye, and she clung to her only son with a tenacity not to be gainsaid. it was too much to ask of her whose life would doubtless be short, to make her home with him in the university town where she had no associations; so he transferred himself to the home at westover, going to and fro, and by so doing missing the social side of his association with the college and much impetus that went with it.

then the years began to fly by, each one laden with its own excuses. madam hale (she had always been thus called, “mrs.” by common consent seeming too lowly a title) loved her son passionately, but she loved him as he was related to and a part of her own projects, not with the sacrificial and rare mother love that considers self merely as a means of increasing the child’s happiness and broadening its scope. despotism has many forms, and the visible iron hand is the least to be dreaded. is there any form of tyranny so absolute as that of a delicate woman over the man who loves her, be he husband or son?

judge hale, as the final mark of confidence in his wife, had left her in entire control of his property, including the homestead, probably never doubting that she would share it at once with john, but wishing the pleasure of giving to be solely hers. about this she was very deliberate. what need of haste? her son shared her home, and his own income, though but a moderate salary, was sufficient for his outside needs.

theoretically, she wished him to marry, and she would have liked a pretty, subservient daughter-in-law and a group of well-bred and creditable grandchildren to swell her train; but actually, she resented the idea of relinquishing an iota of her influence. while as to jane mostyn, they had gauged each other to a nicety, and though on friendly terms, each resented the other to a finality.

exactly how the pair reconciled their relations to one another, no one knew, probably not even themselves. westover village had grown tired of waiting to see what would happen, and cited the case variously as one of obstinacy, where neither would give in, or else crowning them as filial martyrs, according to the temperament of the narrator. neither jane mostyn nor john hale appeared to mope in the least, but of the two the woman’s life seemed the best rounded, and she, who in the beginning, though several years younger, looked older than the man, had now gained many years of youth.

five years more passed, and hale resigned what had then grown to a professorship, and, stopping his creative work altogether, relapsed to the mental drudgery of adapting the classics and editing schoolbooks.

so the world wagged on until, during the year that jane mostyn was fifty-five and john two years older, both parents died, mr. mostyn in june and madam hale in august. then, again, the people of westover were all alert to know if the old spark of romance would revive, or whether it was buried in cold ashes.

when the wills of the old people, one nearing and one past eighty, were probated, to the amazement of every one it was found that in each case there were restrictions placed upon the properties, so that the full enjoyment of them depended upon the two heirs not only keeping up the family homesteads as long as they lived, but in absolutely living therein, so determined upon dictation were these parents even after death. the same lawyer, as it had chanced, had drawn up both wills, and he seemed to regard the whole matter in the light of a huge practical joke that might easily be set aside, as there were no near kin, either in the hale or mostyn family, and the several institutions that were the conditional residuaries would, under the circumstances, of course compromise.

jane mostyn felt that she had done her duty, and was now prepared within proper limits to live to the full what of life was left; but john hale, to whom independent action had so long been a stranger, would neither in spirit nor in letter, it seemed, deviate from his mother’s desires, and as her tyranny had been absolute, so was the gap it left in his life great. thus by the last of september, after madam died, people were all agog to know what would become of poor john hale.

the hale and mostyn houses were of the same colonial type, and situated about half a mile apart, the one on the valley road that ran to bridgeton, and the other on a parallel road that lay on the north side of sunset hill. the land holdings of each ran up the hill until merely a party fence in a wooded plateau at the top separated them. the houses were pleasantly located, but the view in front of each ran only the length of the village street, while the steep hill in the back shut off the east and west horizon respectively.

the morning after the first unexpected frost, john hale had gone to the extreme boundary of his land on the hilltop to see to some fencing that the farmer said must be renewed. as he left the roadside for the rolling ground, a change came over him; as he began to ascend, his head grew clearer and his gait more elastic; he threw back his shoulders and a feeling of exhilaration possessed him such as he had not known for years.

a very short distance separated the heavy air of the river valley from the fresh breath of the hills swept by winds from across salt water, and he began to wonder why any one owning so much land should have literally turned his back upon the hill country as his grandfather had done. then he began to realize that he, also, had his point of view limited by mere tradition. coming out from the shelter of low-growing trees, the beauty of both day and scene burst upon him; he had almost forgotten how glorious the world is when seen from the hilltop on a ripe september morning.

he straightway forgot the broken fences, forgot the conditions of his mother’s will, forgot that he was nearing threescore. he felt himself a young man again with love walking by his side and ambition before him, and immediately his steps turned towards a well-hedged lane or pent-road that began nowhere in particular, crossed the hilltop at an angle and joined the upper road near his neighbour’s garden, for all at once his new-born sense of youth and freedom led him as directly towards jane mostyn, as it had that september morning when they had journeyed on the waterways of venice. surely, yes, it was the anniversary of that meeting, the thirtieth; how could such things be? he would forget the between time; it would not be difficult; already it seemed like some dark dream that had suddenly lifted. would jane mostyn feel the same? he would go and ask her.

a covey of quail rose from the edge of a field of buckwheat and passed almost above his head with a whistling flight. how long had it been since he had gone to the woods with dog and gun? now for the first time in his life he realized his mother’s affection as a sort of fetter that had bound his faculties until they had grown numb.

what did it matter now? he was on his way to find jane. as he went up the lane he observed many things that he had scarcely noticed since his boyhood,—the scarlet berries of spice bush, and jack-in-the-pulpit, the frost-bleached fronds of wood and lady ferns, while feathers of white now wreathed many groups of dull green bushes that earlier in the season he would have passed unnoticed.

a curve in the lane brought him directly upon a tall figure, which, basket on arm, was gathering sprays of the plumy white things; it was a woman dressed in dark blue with red at the belt and throat, above which showed a wealth of bright, white, wavy hair, the face being in shadow; who was it? the dress brought some sort of compelling memory to john hale, but the hair did not fit it. a branch broke under his foot, and the figure turned; it was jane mostyn, surely, her eyebrows and lashes, black as of old, a rich colour on cheeks and lips, while the white hair gave her an almost dramatic beauty. but why was miss mostyn in colours, when for the last three months she had been so heavily draped in black that her shadow seemed to leave a chill behind?

“i did not know that you ever came to these woods,” she said, glancing down at her gown, in visible embarrassment.

suddenly the combination was translated to hale, memory coupled with intuition—she wore either the gown in which he had seen her on the venice quay that other september day, or else its counterpart. so she had not forgotten!

“may i walk back with you? i was coming to see you. but then perhaps you would prefer that mrs. atwood should come as chaperon; she drove past the house an hour ago in a fine red motor-car.”

“he has not forgotten,” said jane mostyn’s second self, of whom, lacking any other, she had made a confidant of late years; what she said, however, was, “we will not go home; i am tired of shade and the pent feeling of the lowlands; let us go back up to the hilltop in the open, where one may see, hear, and breathe broadly, openly. this morning when i was in the library, i thought i should suffocate if i did not get away from both the place and myself for a day at least.” then, looking at hale, he thought rather anxiously, she added quickly as if she must say the words at any cost, “as i could not change my body and travel backward to youth, i changed my clothes.”

“what is that you are gathering?” hale asked, transferring the basket to his arm and touching the feathers lightly; “i’ve never seen it before, and yet it grows here in profusion.”

“groundsel-tree,” she answered; “you might pass by week in and out and never notice it, for its flower has no beauty; for that it must wait until frost releases its seed wings. i love the dear, shy thing; it has blown from the lowlands, and it keeps one’s courage up.”

something made hale look full at her, and there were tears clinging to her lashes as if ready to fall and betray her, but at the same moment they came out upon the hilltop and stood looking at the world together.

“i wonder if they had spent their lives up here instead of living in a valley of their own shadows, would everything have been different?” said jane, yet perfectly unconscious that she had spoken.

john hale held a branch of the winged seeds in his hand and looked from it again to her face. “if glory is given to a bush in autumn that is denied summer beauty, why may it not be so with people as well? being under a spell we have spent the best part of the day in the valley, but now that we have seen the full light of the afternoon sun, we can never go down again, you and i. jane, you must marry me now, to-day; not even the shadow of one more nightfall shall come between, and, moreover, you shall never go back to the black clothes that speak of the valley. neither of us need wear that badge,—it has been discounted by thirty years’ service.” with a swift, passionate gesture he drew her to him so close that her breath came forcibly.

could this be the same man who had first accepted her reasons for delay, and then intrenched them with others of his own?

as she leaned against him, glad to be powerless, she closed her eyes,—was she twenty or fifty-four? she could not tell.

“you must go to work; you must write again,” she said when he had released her, though it was only to hold her at arm’s length, and then cover her eyes and brow with kisses that made them both tremble,—“a book full of all we have both thought and put away until now; but before that we must go on a journey so as to make sure that we may do as we please.”

“shall we go to venice?” asked hale, touching the red scarf that was knotted above her throat; “but where is the red cap?”

“no, not so far back or away,” she answered slowly, shaking her head, “the red cap is too far back, and besides with motor-boats spinning about it wouldn’t be the same; we should be disappointed, and it’s foolish to court disappointment. yet, john, i really think we might go to stratford once more in spring, and see if it feels the same as it did to sit on the lovely damp, green grass and watch the avon go by. possibly we might take cold now,” and then they both laughed as they walked to and fro, swinging the basket between them as children do may baskets in springtime.

presently a floe of ice clouds high in air crossed the sun, and at the same time something passed over jane mostyn’s face. dropping her hold of the basket, she fell back a few steps, and giving a little shiver she could not repress, said: “john, we have forgotten the two houses in the valley. how can we be free and live on the hilltop? we can do without the money, but the tradition,—ah, what shall we do?”

“do? be married first and think it out afterwards; one more look, dearest, and then we will go down,” and, neither desiring to argue, they gazed in silence.

presently jane mostyn gave an exclamation, and a look almost of awe crossed her face, and then an expression of deep content rested upon it.

“i have it,” she said. “just then i saw it as plainly as in a mirage; after we are married, then let us marry our houses, move them to the hilltop, and join them in one house on the boundary line; thus shall we keep not only the letter, but the spirit also, by taking them up out of the valley with us.”

again he drew her close, but now there were tears in his eyes, also.

five hours later, westover village was electrified by the sight of jane mostyn and john hale entering the rectory arm in arm, soon to be followed by mrs. atwood, who, bearing an enormous bunch of bride’s roses, drew up to the door in her motor-car and alighted with great ceremony. shortly after, word came by way of the back door that the couple were married, mrs. atwood being both witness and bridesmaid; but as they left by a circuitous route in mrs. atwood’s car, while that worthy woman walked home, the next question, to whose house would they go? remained unanswered until the following week, when it was found that they had gone to neither, but were stopping at a quiet place ten miles farther up the moosatuck.

the next month brought a still greater shock, when a contractor from bridgeton with a gang of men began the labour of moving the two houses up the hill toward a newly dug cellar on the party line, that the gossips had decided was intended to support a great farm barn.

another september and the new home had already become old to the two who were never tired of looking out and up, and with this double marriage all the old-time mental influence that jane had held came back. john hale was putting the finishing touches to a novel that competent critics said would more than make its mark, so unusual was it in conception as well as full of sweet and mellow strength.

the title alone was not decided, and as john one afternoon was striving for a simple combination of words that should suggest, and yet not reveal, the motive, jane came into the room with an armful of late wild flowers and stood by his table arranging them in a jar that she always kept filled there. as she stretched out her arm to add some long, feathery white sprays by way of background, john caught her wrist, exclaiming, “see, you have also brought me the title; our book shall be called ‘groundsel-tree’!”