From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
Fred Allen rose with the sun on Monday morning, and dressed himself hastily, for already it was long after five, and at six-thirty -yes, his memory surely had not failed him—he was to breakfast with Ruth Wade.
“You will not object if we are alone,” she had said, apologetically, the previous day. “Will usually breakfasts at my parties, but he must take an early train to town in the morning.”
“No,” he had answered sincerely enough, “I shall enjoy it all the more, perhaps, because you will have a chance to tell me what I am to do with myself for the remainder of this week.”
Ruth Wade had smiled a queer smile as he replied,-
“If you stay in Arden without finding something to do, hold me responsible for it.”
Now, as Fred Allen brushed the dewy cobwebs from the hedge that ran in front of Ruth Wade’s house, whistling a snatch of this song and of that, his heart cried aloud to him that the pure morning air, the twittering birds, the sharp heat of the morning sun, the vanishing mists, and the gray-blue sky, all spoke of joy and peace. In Arden Town, surely it was glorious just to be alive.
A moment more and he had knocked, almost timidly, on the small brass knocker that hung on the front of Ruth Wade’s door. In reply a gay voice called, “Come in.”
“The miasma of the city still hangs about you,” laughed Ruth Wade, as he opened the door. “In Arden we walk in without knocking. After a time you will learn.”
She said it half teasingly, half patronizingly, as she might have addressed a child, or one of the uninitiated. Fred Allen felt the tone. Hesitating for an instant, he at length ventured,—“Are strangers always treated so?”
The smile that she turned toward him was full of frank meaning as she answered,—
“Only so long as they feel strange.”
Impulsively, Fred Allen seized the hand with which she was closing the door.
“Then—may I—am I at home here? “
“Yes,” she said, “you are at home so long as you wish to be.”
There was nothing in the open, strong glance which she gave him that would lead him to expect more than friendship, and yet—he hesitated, then, releasing her hand,—
“You surely have not prepared all of the breakfast without leaving one little thing for me to do.”
She smiled up at him naively, remarking,—
“I had hoped—just a wee little hope—that you would come in time to help. Arden folk do that, you know. But the breakfast hour was fixed for six-thirty, as you may remember, and now,” she glanced at the clock, “unless my old faithful deceives me, it is already just that hour. Do not think, sir,” she added, with an expression of mock severity, “that you will escape the exactions of Arden hospitality by coming to a six-thirty breakfast at six-thirty-five. After we have finished, the dishes will need washing, and unless my eyes deceive me, you are quite in the habit of washing breakfast dishes.”
Fred Allen held out his hands for inspection.
“Yes,” he said, “you are right—more right than you suppose. For the first years of my young boyhood I helped with the dishes after each Sunday breakfast. And, really, that was not so long ago. Do you know, since I have been in Arden, the time seems very short indeed. There is something in your air down here which brings out all of the boyishness of one’s nature.”
“Now, if you are ready, breakfast is. Shall we sit down?” Then she added, “You will not mind chocolate in place of coffee? We are not patrons of the Coffee Combine here, and as we have not yet been convinced that ‘there’s a reason,’ we drink plain chocolate.”
Fred Allen wondered, as he sat across the oak table, watching the soft, wavy hair, the firm mouth, and the brilliant eyes above the white “jumper,” whether the air of Arden or Ruth Wade lent such a flavor to the plain things which he was relishing. When had he enjoyed a breakfast as he enjoyed this one?
“Remember,” he said, “that you are to keep me busy for a week. When one is accustomed to the wear and tear of a business office, even Arden may be at a loss to provide occupation.”
“You can draw?” she asked.
“You would hardly accept my lame work as drawing after our falling out on the subject of art,” he answered. “Why do you ask, though? Is there drawing to be done? If there is, I am for you.”
“You see,” Ruth Wade answered, “it is this way.” She stopped and looked about her. “Yes,” she said, in reply to his meaning glance, “if you will not have anything more, we may as well begin on the dishes. You said that you would like to wash? Good? This way, if you please. There is the dish-pan, and this,” pointing to another pan, “you can use to drain the things in. As I started to say, we have a pageant here every year.”
“A pageant?” queried Fred Allen. He had rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded in a business-like fashion to soap his water.
“Yes, a pageant. It is modeled on the pageants that were held in the small towns of medieval England.”
“How is it done?” Fred Allen asked. “Do you have regular paid performers?”
“The dross of the office!” she sighed. “Of course not. No one is ever hired here. We do it ourselves. Do you know,” she explained, “it usually takes three or four days, at the very least, for city people to get accustomed to Arden and its ways. Now, let me tell you once for all,” she emphasized the remark by an extra rub on the dish she was drying, “we do it—we. ‘If you would have a thing done well, do it yourself,’ is an excellent motto, if it is an old one. We believe in it here.”
“But the pageant,” he insisted.
“Yes, of course. Some one had an idea—I suppose it was Will, because he has more ideas to the convolution than any one I know—that we might organize the whole town into guilds. There is the Gardeners’ Guild, the Housewife’s Guild, the Players’ Guild, the Craft Guild, and so on. For each guild there is a guildmaster, and each guild takes care of all matters in its particular line. For instance, the Gardeners’ Guild buys seeds and fertilizer cooperatively, the Players’ Guild produces plays and makes costumes, the Musicians’ Guild provides dance music, and so on. In charge of the whole, there is the Arden Club, to which any one may belong. It is a sort of government of the people, you know. Now the pageant is the work of the guilds. Each guild is represented in it by an emblem, behind which march the members of that guild, in costume. Last year there were nearly three hundred people in line.’
“When do you have this performance?” Fred Allen asked.
“Usually on Labor Day or the Saturday before. There is a town fair at the same time. The Housewife’s Guild has a supper, and the Players’ Guild act ‘Robin Hood,’ or some other play of ‘Merrie England.’ You should see it!” added Ruth Wade, enthusiastically, “it is really splendid.”
“This year,” said Fred Allen simply, “I think that I will see it.”
“That is the Arden spirit, sure enough,” laughed Ruth Wade, as she dried her last dish. “Now that everything is done and put away, suppose that we journey up to the Club House. To-day has been set aside as sacred for the making of pageant costumes.”
“Do you make the costumes, too?”
“Of course, we always do it. You have forgotten my ‘If-you-would-have-a-thing-done-well-do-it-yourself’ sermon.”
“But are not sermons intended to be forgotten?” he queried.
“Not mine,” she answered.
He looked sidewise at her, as they walked across the common toward the Club House.
“No,” he said, half to himself, “no, I do not think that your sermons will be forgotten.” Then, changing the subject, “You asked me if I could draw.”
“Yes, you see we need some wash posters to advertise the pageant.”
While the women work up costumes, the men—that is, those who can—busy themselves on other things. There are one or two boys here who draw very good posters. You can give them a slice of this morning, if you feel so inclined.”
Thus it happened that Fred Allen found himself sitting in a carpenter-shop with the captain of the base-ball team on his left, and two other visitors on his right, working industriously on the Gothic letters that adorned a gay yellow and blue poster. The poster itself was well-executed, and Fred Allen found himself wondering whether his lettering might not detract somewhat from the effectiveness of the design. Instinctively, he worked his best, bending every effort to the task.
Still there was time for talk and banter. There was base-ball practice at four-thirty, the captain told him. He might like to come out, because there was to be another game Saturday, in which he would be more than welcome to play.
“You might put on a pair of silk-pajamas to play the game in,” commented the captain gravely. “Make them pale green and they will harmonize well with the delicate pink of that shirt.”
“Must one forego the pleasure of pink silk shirts simply because one happens to be in Arden?” Fred Allen asked.
“Not at all,” responded the captain, “but we do notice a dawning of intelligence in people who stay here for a while.” He added reflectively, “Now, I shouldn’t be t all surprised if the end of the week sees you in khaki.” He showed his own, adding, “They’re cheap, a dollar for the shirt, and a dollar and a half for the pants.”
The thicker they get,
You put ‘em in the water,
They’re sure to get wet.”
he quoted. “By the by,” he added, looking at his watch, “it’s half after eleven, and,” looking up, “there are the horses. We’re going to get a piano over into the Club House for the lady-people to practice up some pageant dances. Would you like to soil that soft pink at the job?”
The piano-moving was finished by lunch time, but it was practice time before the Gothic lettering was completed. An hour of base ball, ten minutes in the cool, brown water of the swimming pool, a sharp trot back to the bungalow, and a change of clothing, brought dinner time, and with it an appetite that did full justice to the generous fare at the Inn.
“You got in a good stroll across the fields to-day?” asked Will Evans in his hearty way, as he hurried in to super from his late afternoon train. “Bully for you! What?” as he saw the captain’s smile-wreathed face, “you didn’t make him work, Captain?”
“No, no!” replied the captain, contritely. “He merely came up under Ruth’s gentle guidance and voluntarily volunteered to do some lettering. Then there was the piano to move, you know – and base-ball practice isn’t work, nor is swimming.”
Will Evans looked meaningly at Fred Allen’s fast-emptying plate.
“Appetite,” said he, dolefully, “you wrong your master over much by belying his words. Or perhaps,” he looked up inquiringly, “perhaps Ruth gave you nothing to eat for breakfast.”
“Indeed, you are wrong there,” Fred Allen put in hastily, “she not only fed me heartily, but turned me loose on the dishpan to boot.”
“Alas,” sighed Will Evans, “and a pale pink silk, at that. Oh, I have heard,” he laughed at the look: of surprise which Fred Allen gave him, “the little birds whispered it to me a s I hurried up the path from the stile. Pale pink silk must become your style of loveliness passing well, else you would scarcely bring yourself to wear it in Arden.”
“Spare him, Brutus, spare him,” chirped the captain. “Under my able tutelage he spent two dollars and a half this afternoon.
“‘The longer you wear ‘em—” began Fred Allen.
“Aha,” cried Will Evans, “the saving grace. You may have thought,” turning to Fred Allen, “that love alone prompted my solicitation for your cross-country promenade, and your soft apparel; but ‘twas not so. The truth is—and it will out at last—that to-morrow I must set two door casings which our Crafts’ Shop recently turned out, and my heart told me, I know not how—truly, that if our good friend had enjoyed himself to-day, he might perhaps be prevailed upon to work to-morrow. And even while I was casting about in my mind for some substitute to put in place of those lovely city shirts, here comes our good captain to relieve my mind by telling me that you have bought a pair of khaki pants, with a shirt to match. How can you then decline to work with me to-morrow?”
Fred Allen bowed ceremoniously,-
“Fair friend,” he said, “shall we say at six-thirty?”
“So be it,” Will Evans replied with equal ceremony. “We shall set door-casings together, if Allah so wills, which reminds me,” he added, “that we have finished supper just in time for the town meeting.”
“The town meeting?” Fred Allen queried. “What is a town meeting?”
“It is one of the time-honored institutions of Arden,—ineffable, indescribable. If you would know the best and worst of the matter, come and see. “
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