Precise Sue took him up at once. "Of course she isn't. Aunt Jane's very,
very old, Pell. She's 'mos' a hunderd. Aren't you, Aunt Jane?"
The aged cook snorted contemptuously. "What I is, I is, Miss Susie. I'se
gwine ter yer Uncle Derrell's, _I_ is."
The children gazed open-eyed. "Are you goin' to cook for him 'n' Aunt
Eloise?" asked Pelham.
"Sho' I is, honey! Dey gotter have mah cookin', Mister Derrell he says."
The noise of the creaking wagons drawn up at the side door claimed the
children's attention. They ran out to watch the first loading, hoping to
be allowed to help.
Paul followed briskly, thoroughly at home as an executive, issuing his
orders with precision. His active mind ranged even at this absorbing
moment. Well, he was leaving a slate wiped clean! All of the Jackson
investments had turned out finely; he has sold the real estate to
advantage, so as to cover a large part of the mountain purchase money.
The street railway stock he was still carrying; its regular income
furnished a safe fund to fall back upon.
After the last load had been urged away, he walked with Mary through the
echoing emptiness.
"We've been happy here, Paul," she observed quietly.
"Mm ... yes. Did that box of books in the spare room go with the last
load?"
He hurried up to make sure.
Mary saw the children into their heavy wraps--it was unusually chilly
for a Jackson October--and young Ike drove them down to the Great
Southern station in the old carriage. It had been sold to Shanley's
Livery Stable--it would hardly be the thing in Adamsville; but the wife
had had her way for once more, due to Paul's expansive satisfaction at
the smooth-running plans, and they were to make their last trip as
citizens of Jackson in the accustomed conveyance.
When they became settled in the train, Pelham retold to the sisters the
story of his trip to the mountain. They had never seen it, and his
colorful narrative fascinated. Mary listened attentively, adding an
occasional touch.
Paul went forward into the smoking car. The Dixie Flier was a political
exchange for the state, just before the legislature met. There was
always some one to listen, though usually unconvinced, to his insistence
on the future prosperity of this dormant section. Mary heard his
nervous, energetic laugh sound out, when the train stopped at some
crossroads station to pick up a giggling group of ginghamed farm-girls
and stooped country elders.
The children were quiet now. Across the aisle the baby lay with his head
in Nell's lap; Sue was stretched out on the seat facing them, flushed
cheek pillowed on cindery hand, brown eyes closed. Pell sat beside his
mother, his dreamy face pressed against the smudged car pane, watching
the flickering landscape sway by.
They were beautiful ... her children. But the cost to her ambitions had
been heavy. Her vague dreams of a career, cherished while she was at art
school, had been shoved far into the future. She realized, with a sigh,
that she could never overtake them. Perhaps some one of the
children,--perhaps the little son at her side,--would show the same
talent; in him she might realize her own hid longings.
It hurt her to leave the quiet home town she had always known and loved,
for the restless, youthful city, big with the future. It was the second
time that she had felt wholly uprooted from her former life. Home days
with Paul and his urging aggressiveness were vastly different from the
placid, considerate atmosphere of the old Barbour plantation. There, a
sharp word had been unknown. Her kindly, courtly father, the sweet quiet
mother, the gay-hearted brothers and sisters,--there was an unbridgeable
chasm between these and the push of her married life.
And now again a change....
Paul had a grasp of things, a will to shove his way over all obstacles,
a single-ideaed vision of a high goal, that, she believed, could not
fail to win for him the success that he sought. She sometimes wondered
if the gentler bringing-up that had been hers would not have been better
for the children. But that could not happen. They, she, were to be a
part of the swell, the hurried, assertive course of Adamsville. She was
glad she would be there to guard her little ones: they would need all
she could do.
A long whistle woke her from her reverie. She looked out; the dusk had
softened the countryside until it was a dull blur, shot with irregular
streaky lights.
Her husband shouldered briskly back from the smoking car. "This is
Hazelton, Mary," he said eagerly. "Adamsville next!"