AT TAPPAHANNOCK
After a sleepless night, he rose as soon as the dawn had broken, and
sitting down before the pine table wrote a letter to Lydia, on a sheet
of paper which had evidently been left in the drawer by the former
lodger. "It isn't likely that you'll ever want me," he added at the end,
"but if you should happen to, remember that I am yours, as I have always
been, for whatever I am worth." When he had sealed the envelope and
written her name above that of the town of Botetourt, he put it into his
pocket and went down to the dining-room, where he found Mrs. Twine
pouring steaming coffee into a row of broken cups. A little mulatto
girl, with her hair plaited in a dozen fine braids, was placing a dish
of fried bacon at one end of the walnut-coloured oil-cloth on the table,
around which the six children, already clothed and hungry, were beating
an impatient tattoo with pewter spoons. Bill Twine, the father of the
family, was evidently sleeping off a drunken headache--a weakness which
appeared to afford his wife endless material for admonition and
philosophy.
"Thar now, Canty," she was remarking to her son, "yo' po' daddy may not
be anything to be proud of as a man, but I reckon he's as big an example
as you'll ever see. He's had sermons p'inted at him from the pulpit;
they've took him up twice to the police court, an' if you'll believe me,
suh," she added with a kind of outraged pride to Ordway, "thar's been a
time when they've had out the whole fire department to protect me."
The coffee though poor was hot, and while Ordway drank it, he listened
with an attention not unmixed with sympathy to Mrs. Twine's continuous
flow of speech. She was coarse and shrewish and unshapely, but his
judgment was softened by the marks of anxious thought on her forehead
and the disfigurements of honest labour on her hands. Any toil appeared
to him now to be invested with peculiar dignity; and he felt, sitting
there at her slovenly breakfast table, that he was closer to the
enduring heart of humanity than he had been among the shallow
refinements of his past life. Mrs. Twine was unpleasant, but at her
worst he felt her to be the real thing.
"Not that I'm blamin' Bill, suh, as much as some folks," she proceeded
charitably, while she helped her youngest child to gravy, "for it made
me downright sick myself to hear them carryin' on over his beatin' his
own wife jest as much as if he'd been beatin' somebody else's. An' I
ain't one, when it comes to that, to put up with a white-livered,
knock-kneed, pulin' sort of a critter, as I told the Jedge a-settin'
upon his bench. When a woman is obleeged to take a strappin' thar's some
real satisfaction in her feelin' that she takes it from a man--an' the
kind that would lay on softly with never a broken head to show for
it--well, he ain't the kind, suh, that I could have helt in any respect
an' honour. And as to that, as I said to 'em right then an' thar, take
the manly health an' spirit out o' Bill, an' he's jest about as decent
an' law abidin' as the rest. Why, when he was laid up with malaria, he
never so much as rized his hand agin me, an' it'll be my belief untwel
my dyin' day that chills an' fever will keep a man moral when all the
sermons sence Moses will leave him unteched. Feed him low an' work him
hard, an' you kin make a saint out of most any male critter, that's my
way of thinkin'."
While she talked she was busily selecting the choicest bit of bacon for
Bill's plate, and as Ordway left the house a little later, he saw her
toiling up the staircase with her husband's breakfast on a tin tray in
her hands.
"If you think I'm goin' to set an' wait all day for you to get out o'
bed, you've jest about clean lost yo' wits, Bill Twine," she remarked in
furious tones, as she flung open a door on the landing above.
Out of doors Ordway found that the wind had died down, though a sharp
edge of frost was still in the air. The movement of the day had already
begun; and as he passed the big house on the brow of the hill he saw a
pretty girl, with her hair tied back with a velvet ribbon, run along the
gravelled walk to meet the postman at the gate. A little farther, when
he had reached the corner, he turned back to hand his letter to the
postman, and found to his surprise that the pretty girl was still gazing
after him. No possible interest could attach to her in his thoughts;
and with a careless acknowledgment of her beauty, she faded from his
consciousness as rapidly as if she had been a ray of sunshine which he
had admired as he passed along. Then as he turned into the main street
at the corner, he saw that Emily Brooke was riding slowly up the hill on
her old white horse. She still wore her red cape, which fell over the
saddle on one side, and completely hid the short riding-skirt beneath.
On her head there was a small knitted Tam-o'-shanter cap, and this, with
the easy freedom of her seat in the saddle, gave her an air which was
gallant rather than graceful. The more feminine adjective hardly seemed
to apply to her at the moment; she looked brave, strong, buoyant, a
creature that had not as yet become aware of its sex. Yet she was older,
he discovered now, than he had at first imagined her to be. In the barn
he had supposed her age to be not more than twenty years; seen in the
morning light it was impossible to decide whether she was a year younger
or ten years older than he had believed. The radiant energy in her look
belonged, after all, less to the accident of youth than to some enduring
quality of spirit.
As she neared him, she looked up from her horse's neck, rested her eyes
upon him for an instant, and smiled brightly, much as a charming boy
might have done. Then, just as she was about to pass on, the girth of
her saddle slipped under her, and she was thrown lightly to the ground,
while the old horse stopped and stood perfectly motionless above her.
"My skirt has caught in the stirrup," she said to Ordway, and while he
bent to release her, he noticed that she clung, not to his arm, but to
the neck of the horse for support.
To his surprise there was neither embarrassment nor amusement in her
voice. She spoke with the cool authority which had impressed him during
the incident of the ram's attack upon "Sis Mehitable."
"I don't think it is quite safe yet," he said, after he had drawn the
rotten girth as tight as he dared. "It looks as if it wouldn't last, you
see."
"Well, I dare say, it may be excused after forty years of service," she
returned, smiling.
"What? this saddle? It does look a little quaint when one examines it."
"Oh, it's been repaired, but even then one must forgive an old servant
for growing decrepit."
"Then you'll ride it again?" he asked, seeing that she was about to
mount.
"Of course--this isn't my first tumble--but Major expects them now and
he knows how to behave. So do I," she added, laughing, "you see it
doesn't take me by surprise."
"Yes, I see it doesn't," he answered gaily.
"Then if you chance to be about the next time it happens, I hope it
won't disturb you either," she remarked, as she rode up the hill.
The meeting lingered in Ordway's mind with a freshness which was
associated less with the incident itself than with some vivid quality in
the appearance of the girl. Her face, her voice, her carriage--even the
little brown curls blowing on her temples, all united in his thoughts to
form a memory in which Alice appeared to hold a place. Why should this
country girl, he wondered, bring back to him so clearly the figure of
his daughter?
But there was no room for a memory in his life just now, and by the time
he reached Baxter's Warehouse, he had forgotten the interest aroused in
him a moment before. Baxter had not yet appeared in his office, but two
men, belonging evidently to the labouring class, were talking together
under the brick archway. When Ordway joined them they did not interrupt
their conversation, which he found, after a minute, to concern the
domestic and financial troubles of the one whom he judged to be the
poorer of the two. He was a meanly clad, wretched looking workman, with
a shock of uncombed sandy hair, a cowed manner, and the expression of
one who has been beaten into apathy rather than into submission. A
sordid pathos in his voice and figure brought Ordway a step closer to
his side, and after a moment's careless attention, he found his mind
adjusting itself to the small financial problems in which the man had
become entangled. The workman had been forced to borrow upon his
pathetic personal securities; and in meeting from year to year the
exorbitant rate of interest, he had paid back several times the sum of
the original debt. Now his wife was ill, with an incurable cancer; he
had no hope, as he advanced beyond middle age, of any increase in his
earning capacity, and the debt under which he had struggled so long had
become at the end an intolerable burden. His wife had begged him to
consult a lawyer--but who, he questioned doggedly, would take an
interest in him since he had no money for a fee? He was afraid of
lawyers anyway, for he could give you a hundred cases where they had
stood banded together against the poor.
As Ordway listened to the story, he felt for an instant a return of his
youthful enthusiasm, and standing there amid the tobacco stems in
Baxter's warehouse, he remembered a great flour trust from which he had
withdrawn because it seemed to him to bear unjustly upon the small,
isolated farmers. Beyond this he went back still further to his college
days, when during his vacation, he had read Virginia law in the office
of his uncle, Richard Ordway, in the town of Botetourt. He could see the
shining rows of legal volumes in the walnut bookcases, the engraving of
Latane's Burial, framed in black wood above the mantel, and against this
background the silent, gray haired, self-righteous old man so like his
father. Through the window, he could see still the sparrows that built
in the ivied walls of the old church.
With a start he came back to the workman, who was unfolding his troubles
in an abandon of misery under the archway.
"If you'll talk things over with me to-night when we get through work, I
think I may be able to straighten them out for you," he said.
The man stared at him out of his dogged eyes with a helpless
incredulity.
"But I ain't got any money," he responded sullenly, as if driven to the
defensive.
"Well, we'll see," said Ordway, "I don't want your money."
"You want something, though--my money or my vote, and I ain't got
either."
Ordway laughed shortly. "I?--oh, I just want the fun," he answered.
The beginning was trivial enough, the case sordid, and the client only a
dull-witted labourer; but to Ordway it came as the commencement of the
new life for which he had prayed--the life which would find its centre
not in possession, but in surrender, which would seek as its achievement
not personal happiness, but the joy of service.