I WAS SHORT with my students. I wanted them gone. I wanted to listen to Lydia read the news. I wanted to laugh at the troubles of others. But when the class did leave, Lydia was in no mood to play jester to my frowning face. She asked if I had eaten worms for breakfast.
I owed some explanation, but I certainly couldn’t tell her about Burton. “I’ve been cast out of the church,” I said, offering what I could. “Albright thinks I’m a Deist, whatever that is.”
Lydia would now say something bad about Reverend Albright, call him a sour pickle or something. She didn’t. “Oh, why do you care?” she said, annoyed. “It’s all just hocus-pocus. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not MONEY, I have become as sounding brass and—”
“Lydia stop! Stop mocking everything.” She stepped back, seeming frightened by my outburst. A moment passed. “I’m sorry,” I said holding out my hand. After a hesitation Lydia took it, and we came together, rocking gently in an embrace. “Just speak your heart,” I said softly, “that’s all you need do.”
I thought we might stay entwined, but suddenly Lydia released herself. “Well then, speak it I will.” She paused and then continued in a softer, less certain voice. "Joseph, I lie in bed at night and wish that you were with me, to touch me and kiss me and talk to me when I wake up in the lonely hours. But there’s something you must know.” She took a breath. “I’ve seen the life my mother lives. I don’t want anything like it.”
I held my face steady. “What would you have in its place?”
Lydia tugged on her sash. “Minnesota.”
“What? The territory?”
“My cousin has written of its beauty and open spaces. I don’t need comforts, Joseph. I want to be free. I want to go to Minnesota and raise horses.” Lydia blushed. “Well, didn’t that sound just awful. What must you think?”
I thought everything, and it spilled out of me. “Lydia, I know that here I’m just the music teacher, but I have lived the plain life. I know horses. I ride well. And I can track and hunt. I’m a crack shot with a rifle.”
Lydia clapped her hands and gave a little jump. “Oh, Joseph! We shall marry and go west.” Then she caught herself and became still. “Will you marry me, my dear, dear Joseph? You must.”
At that moment, a dropped book might have fallen to the ceiling. The earth stopped turning, and wishes became logic. I could give Lydia the freedom she wanted, and our union, born as it was out of love, would be blessed by God. And what she had yet to learn was small next to what we now knew—that we wanted to be with each other. And I had found more pleasure in her embrace than anything in my marriage bed. Why couldn’t the same be true for her with me? We could make a life for ourselves in the wilds of Minnesota.
“Oh dearest Lydia,” I said, with my last ounce of reason, “I think we should talk about this.”
“But, Joseph, you do want to be with me?”
“I do. Yes. Very much.”
“And would you go with me to Minnesota?”
“I would, but this is sudden. As a gentleman, I should allow you time to think it over.”
“I’ve thought it over.”
“And what about your father?”
“I will see to my father.”
“But, Lydia, there are things you should know.”
“Such as?”
I took a breath. Did I have the courage? “Such as, all I have in this world is one hundred and fifty dollars and a rifle back in New York.”
“I have money,” she said. “My grandfather left us each a thousand dollars. Once I am married, it’s mine. Then we can decide when we want to go west. Anything else?”
“Yes. I am descended from wolves. And you have to leave within the minute, so we should talk about all this when we can do so without hurry. I think we should take another walk up the Dyberry. Can you come on Saturday?”
Lydia thought for a moment and said she’d come at noon. Then, to seal the agreement, she gave me a peck on the cheek. “I can’t wait to tell Evelyn,” she said as she pulled away.
“Don’t!” I warned.
“Evelyn and Dorothy are my friends,” she said, looking offended. “I know their secrets and they know mine.” And before I could caution her further, she hopped down the stairs like it were any other day.
I set off for Honesdale, my worries dragging close behind—Reverend Albright had my soul roasting in Hell; Damon was looking at me strange; Burton was hoping for heaven-knows-what; and Lydia wanted to marry me and go west. All of it seemed beyond my control, except, perhaps, the last. Lydia and I would meet on Saturday. We would walk up the Dyberry, but this time I would set things right. I would tell her about my hand already promised, or I would tell her the truth—one or the other.
After a late breakfast the next morning, I walked to the canal and took the towpath east, wishing to think about things without the distractions of the tavern. But once I was out of town and imagining our planned walk up the Dyberry, the choices that had seemed so clear the night before made no sense. After all that had happened, I couldn’t very well say that I had just remembered my betrothed back in Westerlo. That was no choice at all. And as difficult as the truth would be, if Lydia knew my true nature, there was a chance that she would still want to go with me—go to Minnesota and live a life that would be ours. I came to a stop and decided to do what I already knew I had to—I would tell Lydia everything. I would tell her about Helen and George Slater. I would take off my shirt. Then she could choose, and if we were not to be married, I would leave town by dark. I was afraid of it, but there was also a comfort in the resolve.
It was early afternoon when I got back to Honesdale. As I started down Main, I saw three men ahead. Two of them I didn’t know, but one was familiar. Then I near froze in alarm. The man was not from Honesdale—it was William Patterson, a timberman from Long Eddy! He was not a friend, but he knew who Lucy Lobdell was and might recognize her, even in disguise. He would certainly know she’d gone missing.
I kept my head down as I went by, but I felt his cold stare on my back.
* * *
Saturday, and Lydia was coming to the glass factory to plan our engagement. I would tell her the truth and accept my fate. I was there for more than an hour, but Lydia didn’t appear. I became increasingly fearful and hoped very much that she hadn’t yet spoken to her friends or her mother about our plans. Then a knock. I went downstairs, thinking that I had carelessly latched the door behind me. But the door wasn’t locked, and when I opened it, I saw a gray-haired lady, the Watson’s housekeeper. “This is for you,” she said, offering an envelope and nervously looking around. “It’s from Miss Lydia.”
I took the envelope. Perhaps Lydia had fallen ill, and I would make some reply. But the woman hurried away in a manner that frightened me. The note said all.
Dear Joseph, Some terrible accusations are being made about you that I know cannot be true. An unspeakable humiliation is being planned. Guard yourself without delay. Lydia.
I had been found out. There could be no other meaning. And no comfort in Lydia’s professed disbelief, for if she did not believe the accusations, she would have come herself and not warned me to flee. And no hint at all that she wished to come with me.
Desperate to escape, I took the road back to Honesdale at a fast walk, not sure if I were moving away from danger or closer to it. After the Bethany turnoff, I saw in the distance two men on horseback coming toward me. On any other day I would have thought nothing of it, but I went into the bushes and was well hidden by the time they passed at a canter. I only got a glimpse, but one of the men, I was almost certain, was David Horton. I counted to thirty before taking to the road again. The riders had disappeared around the bend, and I couldn’t tell if they had gone toward the glass factory or up to Bethany.
I reached Honesdale and walked down Main Street fearing every passerby. Up ahead I saw Francis Penniman standing outside the office of the Democrat. He was having a conversation with someone whose arms were making wild gestures. I crossed the street to avoid them.
At Blandin’s, I went straight upstairs to collect my things. I stuffed my bag in haste, all the while worrying about my money. It was in Blandin’s safe, but I hadn’t seen him when I came in. Was he in the back? Would he give it to me?
A sudden bang and the door to my room swung open. It was Damon, and his withered face was looking mean. “Daniel wants to see you, missy. He wants to see you now.”
With no choice I tied my bag and followed Damon down the stairs. There were a few men at the tables, but I was afraid to look in their direction. Blandin was now behind the bar. Our eyes met, and he motioned for me to go into the back room.
Blandin followed me into his office, closed the door, and threw the bolt across. It was just me and him. I didn’t know what he had in mind, but three of me would have been no match for him, if he were looking to settle things that way. He put his hands on his hips and looked at me hard. “There’s gonna be trouble, son,” he said, voice steady. “You need to go. You need to go now.”
I didn’t know why he was being calm and kind. I had made a fool out of him in front of the whole town. Any other man would have bellowed or lashed out, but Daniel Blandin didn’t even need to unmask me.
“Yes,” I replied in a whisper. “I’ve gotten my things.”
Blandin nodded and went to his safe. He pulled out the envelope with my money then turned to me. “Which way will you go?”
I had no answer.
“Listen,” he said, “there’s no time to lose; they’ll be on horseback.”
“Who’ll be on horseback?”
Blandin gave a disbelieving snort. “Who do you think? Horton and his friends. I’ll try to slow them down, offer them some drinks when they get here, but that’ll just make things worse if they catch you. And you don’t want that to happen. Do as I say—take the towpath.”
“Won’t they know I went that way?”
“They will, so you have to be smart about it. Where the Pike branches off, there’s a store. Go in and buy some tobacco and ask the distance to Hawley. Then go on down the towpath, as though you’re goin’to Hawley. Half a mile or so there’ll be a footpath that goes up the hill. When no one’s looking, take it. It will bring you over to Narrowsburg. They’ll go right on by.”
Blandin then crossed the room and undid the bolts on the rear door. It groaned as it opened onto a narrow alley. He turned and offered his hand. “Take care of yourself, Joseph.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” I managed to say, aware that he now took my hand gently. A tear rolled down my cheek, then another. I was crying like a woman.