And--it's the only plan that's at all possible."Obviously he was right; but she would not consent.By adroit questioning he found that her objection was dislike of being so much trouble to him."That's too ridiculous," cried he."Why, Iwouldn't have missed this adventure for anything in the world."His manner was convincing enough, but she did not give in until moonrise came without her having thought of any other plan.He was to be Bob Peters, she his sister Kate, and they were to hail from a farm in the Kentucky hills back of Milton.They practiced the dialect of the region and found that they could talk it well enough to pass the test of a few sentences They packed the fishing bag; she wrapped the two eggs in paper and put them in the empty milk bottle.They descended by the path--a slow journey in the darkness of that side of the rock, as there were many dangers, including the danger of making a noise that might be heard by some restless person at the house.After half an hour they were safely at the base of the rock; they skirted it, went down to the creek, found the horse tied where he had left it.With her seated sideways behind him and holding on by an arm half round his waist, they made a merry but not very speedy advance toward the river, keeping as nearly due south as the breaks in the hills permitted.After a while he asked: "Do you ever think of the stage?""I've never seen a real stage play," said she."But I want to--and I will, the first chance I get.""I meant, did you ever think of going on the stage?""No." So daring a flight would have been impossible for a baby imagination in the cage of the respectable-family-in-a-small-town.
"It's one of my dreams to write plays," he went on."Wouldn't it be queer if some day I wrote plays for you to act in?"When one's fancy is as free as was Susan's then, it takes any direction chance may suggest.Susan's fancy instantly winged along this fascinating route."I've given recitations at school, and in the plays we used to have they let me take the best parts--that is--until--until a year or so ago."He noted the hesitation, had an instinct against asking why there had come a time when she no longer got good parts."I'm sure you could learn to act," declared he."And you'll be sure of it, too, after you've seen the people who do it.""Oh, I don't believe I could," said she, in rebuke to her own mounting self-confidence.Then, suddenly remembering her birth-brand of shame and overwhelmed by it, "No, I can't hope to be to be anything much.They wouldn't have--_me_.""I know how you feel," replied he, all unaware of the real reason for this deep humility."When I first struck town I felt that way.It seemed to me I couldn't hope ever to line up with the clever people they had there.But I soon saw there was nothing in that idea.The fact is, everywhere in the world there's a lot more things to do than people who can do them.
Most of those who get to the top--where did they start? Where we're starting."She was immensely flattered by that "we" and grateful for it.
But she held to her original opinion."There wouldn't be a chance for me," said she."They wouldn't have me.""Oh, I understand," said he and he fancied he did.He laughed gayly at the idea that in the theater anyone would care who she was--what kind of past she had had--or present either, for that matter.Said he, "You needn't worry.On the stage they don't ask any questions--any questions except `Can you act? Can you get it over? Can you get the hand?'"Then this stage, it was the world she had dreamed of--the world where there lived a wholly new kind of people--people who could make room for her.She thrilled, and her heart beat wildly.In a strangely quiet, intense voice, she said:
"I want to try.I'm sure I'll get along there.I'll work--Oh, so hard.I'll do _anything!_""That's the talk," cried he."You've got the stuff in you."She said little the rest of the journey.Her mind was busy with the idea he had by merest accident given her.If he could have looked in upon her thoughts, he would have been amazed and not a little alarmed by the ferment he had set up.
Where they reached the river the bank was mud and thick willows, the haunt of incredible armies of mosquitoes."It's a mystery to me," cried he, "why these fiends live in lonely places far away from blood, when they're so mad about it." After some searching he found a clear stretch of sandy gravel where she would be not too uncomfortable while he was gone for a boat.He left the horse with her and walked upstream in the direction of Brooksburg.As he had warned her that he might be gone a long time, he knew she would not be alarmed for him--and she had already proved that timidity about herself was not in her nature.
But he was alarmed for her--this girl alone in that lonely darkness--with light enough to make her visible to any prowler.
About an hour after he left her he returned in a rowboat he had borrowed at the water mill.He hitched the horse in the deep shadow of the break in the bank.She got into the boat, put on the slip and the sunbonnet, put her sailor hat in the bag.They pushed off and he began the long hard row across and upstream.
The moon was high now and was still near enough to its full glory to pour a flood of beautiful light upon the broad river--the lovely Ohio at its loveliest part.
"Won't you sing?" he asked.
And without hesitation she began one of the simple familiar love songs that were all the music to which the Sutherland girls had access.She sang softly, in a deep sweet voice, sweeter even than her speaking voice.She had the sunbonnet in her lap; the moon shone full upon her face.And it seemed to him that he was in a dream; there was nowhere a suggestion of reality--not of its prose, not even of its poetry.Only in the land no waking eye has seen could such a thing be.The low sweet voice sang of love, the oars clicked rhythmically in the locks and clove the water with musical splash; the river, between its steep hills, shone in the moonlight, with a breeze like a friendly spirit moving upon its surface.He urged her, and she sang another song, and another.She sighed when she saw the red lantern on the Carrollton wharf; and he, turning his head and seeing, echoed her sigh.
"The first chance, you must sing me that song," she said.
"From `Rigoletto'? I will.But--it tells how fickle women are--`like a feather in the wind.'...They aren't all like that, though--don't you think so?""Sometimes I think everybody's like a feather in the wind,"replied she."About love--and everything."
He laughed."Except those people who are where there isn't any wind."
