CHAPTER TWELVE
A HEBE OF THE HIGHWAY
Jean François was right when he called himself poet. Not that he was a maker of verse, for, if it were so, no one had ever seen a single rhyme. But that was his which was far better, perhaps, than writing. He possessed all of the wondrous, painful gifts of the builder of dreams. His was the sympathetic eye for beauty in her subtlest forms. Most men see only the outward and more materialistic things: he saw the deeper, truer meaning which lay at the heart of life. He found mysterious kinship in every living thing from the simplest wayside wild blossom to the complicated soul of man. He could clasp hands with an oak and feel the fine yet strong pulsations of unknown forces which gave personality to a hospitable greenwood. Every little scurrying animal that flew from his path he felt was a part of the great life, and, in a manner, a brother to men. He was a mystic; a lover of ancient lore and the tales of once-upon-a-time; a friend of elves, gnomes, fairies, fays, goblins, and children; and, with all of his knowledge of the world, was exceedingly childlike.
His year had been varied. At times he had worked at bitter tasks and known much of sorrow, despair, hunger, suffering, hardship. He had shared with the poor and loved them. Yet, withal, he had gone through life playing. Without needing a specific reason, he had entered into some of the most whimsical adventures imaginable. His fiftieth birthday found him still a child, making of some of the most serious problems a thing for play. And pray, why not? He filled his place, bore his burdens, but with the graciousness of buoyant youth unlearned in hopelessness and pessimism. He laughed along the way, and the gods, loving him, took care of him and made him happy. Is it any wonder that the elves, the fairies, the children came and ministered unto him? Do you think it anything strange that the fays should light his fire by night, that the pixies should dance before him in the white moonlight, or that Puck should seal his eyes with magic juice of flower and send him laughing and joyous into the delectable land of dreams?... As I have said, Jean François was right when he called himself a poet.
All of this to help you understand something of the day Nance had as they loafed along the highway, through green sweet-smelling woodlands, by pasture, meadow, field, and plowman, over limpid swelling streams, all in the gentle welcome sunshine of early June. It was always to be remembered as the most wonderful day of all of her life.
For an hour or more after the start, being fatigued by her journey and the strain of her interview with Jean François, she slept. He walked quietly beside the van, now and then directing Rogue by a word, at times lost in thought, unconsciously gazing at the road at his feet; again, with sweeping glance, scanning the beauty of some purple valley watered by a silver thread of a river. Once, some ladies driving by in an old phaeton became all agog upon seeing the sleeping girl upon the seat. They stopped the pedler and insisted upon his showing them his wares. He did this grudgingly, turning the rear of the cart toward them, apparently to make his goods more accessible, but in reality to hide Nance from their curious gaze. As they drove on, the more bold of them remarked:
"Your daughter is quite beautiful, sir."
"Thank you.... All right, Rogue," said he, and once more they were on the road.
As he walked this time, he studied Nance. She had grown very handsome, Jean François thought. She possessed charm. Her face was strikingly frank. Her hair was soft and sun-colored, with darker shadows here and there. Her eyes, being closed, showed more plainly the long black lashes and well-arched brows, which made her at once both blonde and brunette. The nose was slender, with sensitive and expressive nostrils. Her mouth was rather wide, with straight lips, the lower of which, like that of Herrick's Julia, seemed bee-stung. The features taken together gave her countenance an intellectual cast, softened and beautified by an air of childlike candor that, when fired by her sparkling, dancing, azure eyes, lent her a look seductive to intoxication. A certain abandon in her sleep brought out more evidently that she was round-limbed, beautifully shaped, and lithe, with lovely swelling breasts.
Jean François began to understand how Charles Reubelt might have been surprisingly in haste. He turned his gaze to the valleys. They were beautiful in a sheer primitive way, and, even if more awake, also decidedly more quieting subjects for one's admiration.