THE HOME IN THE SOUTH.
They had gone to the country--to Kentucky. The wind seemed to blow
out of all the heavens across the greening world. With what light
touch it lifted the hazel, bent to earth at morning. How gentle to the
wind-flower--its own spoiled child.
Quiet brooded over the wide, gray farm-house. All the doors stood
open to the soft air, and Cherokee had gone into the garden, where
the commonplace flowers were in disarray. Her straying foot crushed
memoried fragrance from borders all overgrown; wild thyme ran vagrantly
in happy tangle everywhere. She did not like to see such riotous growth
where once had been borders, clean and kept.
The breeze came to her like the soothing touch of a friendly hand;
the tall elms, nodding, seemed to outstretch their arms in blessings
on her head, murmuring, in leaf music, “Be kind to her.” The effect
was subtle as the viewless winds that in their very tenderness are
uplifting. Those same trees had bent their strengthening shade in those
other days, when she was but a learner in the infant school of sorrow,
and scarcely able to spell its simplest signs. She rambled through
the laurel greenery, her soul full-charged with its own feelings, nor
able to restrain their passionate flow. Pretty soon Robert joined her,
saying:
“I have a surprise for you; my model is coming to-day.”
“Why, who on earth?”
“Bless the dear old boy, it is Latham.”
Striving to be strong, she said, softly: “I trust you are hopeful, now.”
“Yes, I am greatly helped up. He will likely not be here until the
night train. I am going for a short hunt,” and shouldering his gun he
walked towards the woodland.
When Cherokee had watched him out of sight she went into the house. So
Marrion was coming into her life again--the wound must be cauterized
before it had time to heal. She wearily dropped her head upon the broad
window-sill.
The train had already whistled for the station, and Marrion was on his
way to the farm-house; he could see the red roof and chimney tops, half
hid in leaves, as he passed down a road where wild elders bloomed by
rail fences.
The glimmering water-line flowed on westward between broad fields of
corn and clover. Down in the deep wood he crossed the stream; here he
got out, unreined his horse to let it drink, then he lay down on the
cool brink and let the living water lave his lips.
This was surely a place of delight. The creek was no sluggish stream,
crawling between muddy banks, but a young water-giant, turbulent and
full of crystal bravery. A vernal harmony of subtle sweets loaded all
the air, while the winds echoed their chant of rejoicing that mingled
with the waters’ sweep and swell, and away up among the tallest trees
the forest organ was playing the anthem of resurrection.
Somehow there stole over him a spell of rhythmic motion; the scene was
wholly intoxicating. It seemed that he had escaped from the soulless
tumult of the blistering street and found himself in a virgin world.
Wood-birds bathing in the ripples left them dimpling with delight as
they, twittering, flew away. Ivy dangled wantonly about him, while
trailing moss seemed grasping him with its waxen tendrils.
Overhead, in the intense blue, where soft clouds drifted like mantles
that angels had thrown away, a wizard haze quivered and quivered. The
great dark shadow of the present was lifted, and light beamed in where
light might never be again. He forgot, for the moment, that he held two
lives in the hollow of his hand; he forgot that just ahead of him lay
the untried road where he would surely stagger, maybe fall.
Arousing himself from the reverie, he reined his horse and drove on.
The remainder of the road was even prettier than the first part had
been. Riotous bees stole sweets from blooms before unkissed, and the
blossoming peach shed warm its rosy flush against pale drifts of apple
boughs.
* * * * * *
Sundown was stealing through the land as he reached the door where
Cherokee met him. Latham’s greeting was grateful, apologetic, most
painfully self-reproachful.
“I want you to know it was in his interest that I came.”
“Yes, I know that,” and her face strangely softened.
“I just couldn’t refuse him, though I knew it might cost----”
“Hush,” she warned, “we must bear it,” then her eyes fell; she held her
breath, and this electrical sympathy between heart and heart told her
that she had betrayed herself to him.
Only a moment he hesitated, the next he laid his hand on the back of
the chair she had just taken.
“Cherokee, I have a question to ask you; it is best that all should be
clear between us, for I want to be your friend--want you to come to me
feeling that I would protect you in all things except----”
“Except that I will allow you to advise me.”
“Then tell me, what is Willard Frost to you?” he asked, with quick
breath.
“Nothing at all, I only tolerate him because Robert says he needs his
influence,” she answered, solemnly.
“Well, I can’t understand how a man like that could help anyone, and I
was shocked when I heard of your going with him to visit that patient.”
“Marrion, I thought my husband wished me to go.”
“On the contrary, he was hurt. It was not the mere fact of going; it
was how it looked to the world, such things are so often misjudged.
Forgive me if I talk plainly, but a woman can defend her virtue easier
than her reputation. Frost is publicly over-fond of you. He names your
beauty to low men at clubs, and that is calculated to injure you.”
“Yes, I wish he lived in another part of the world. He has done me more
harm than everybody else in it.”
Then they talked of other things.
“How glad I am that you will pose for the Athlete. Robert will surely
win now, for I don’t think you have a counterpart presentment on
earth,” she declared.
“To the world’s advantage, no doubt; but tell me,” he said, suddenly
changing the subject, “are you happier here?”
“Happier than I have been for some time”--her voice trembled.
In her expression Marrion caught an attempt at excess of content and he
wondered at it, for he knew so much of her inner life, though he had
never questioned her. In that life he found a great deal to keep her
from being glad. He felt a sudden twinge of conscience, too, for he
knew that much of the satisfaction he saw upon her face was assumed,
lest her sad looks might be construed into a reproach for his coming.
“And how is Robert doing?” he paused, looking at her with half-pitying
fondness.
“When he first came he did remarkably well; we spent a short time
with our friends, the McDowells, at Ashland. They sent over and had
everything arranged here before our coming, even the dinner served the
day we arrived. Robert was, or seemed to be, highly pleased with the
way we live in this part of the world. During our stay at Ashland, we
went with our friends to one of the Governor’s Friday receptions; it
was an affair of State, but under Southern auspices seemed almost our
own. A congenial, pleasant party, each endeavoring to make you feel at
home. Fresh, pretty girls served the ices, and chatted merrily a moment
or so, then passed on.
“Robert looked at this dazzling South-scene, and in its stead fancied
the gray-robed eastern zone dropping stiff, scentless, pensive-hued
flowers. I use this illustration to you because you appreciate things
high-sounding. But the joke on him and his metropolitan training was
this--the first thing he remarked on was the unusual brightness and
pretty gowning of the attendant waiters, ‘But the cool effrontery
of their conduct,’ he said, ‘roused my ire and almost took away my
presence of mind--why they even dared ask me if the evening had been
an enjoyable one, and hoped to see me there often.’ He told us how he
wiped the perspiration from his brow, and told himself the confounded
impudence and intrusion ought to be swiftly checked, but for the life
of him he couldn’t think of an effectual way of doing it. We asked
him what he finally did. ‘I just took it all, and smiled back,’ he
answered, with a crestfallen air.
“What was his astonishment when we told him he was smiling at the
Governor’s daughters, and the queens of the social world. We quite
enjoyed his discomfort, but he could not reconcile the difference in
our ways and the ones he had known.
“Of late he seems to be falling back in his old ways,” she went on, her
voice sinking lower yet. “I hope your presence will be strength in his
weakness”--she sighed deeply, but the expression on her face was one of
kindly resignation rather than hopeless grief.
Marrion started; every syllable of that sweet tremulous voice seemed to
unnerve him utterly.
“I don’t want it to make your days darker, at least”----then he added:
“It is better not to be too good to men,” and there was in his voice an
accent of kindly warning.
Cherokee listened pensively the while; she could see the path to be
trodden by Robert’s side, uphill, rough, bristling with thorns.
“I have tried to do what is my part, my duty always.”
“And let me tell you how grandly you have succeeded.”
Thrilling and flushing she heard this compliment.
“We are Rebels, both of us; perhaps you are partial,” she suggested.
“I do admire you, that you are a Southerner, and more because you are a
Kentuckian, but surely you would not accuse me of running my political
prejudice into individual instance; I want to give you justice, that’s
all.”
He met her eyes wide open to his, and he read, even then, something
of the genuine unalterableness of her estimate of him. It was not
necessary for her to return a word.
“Speaking of our home, Kentucky,” Cherokee began, “why is it that
writers quote us as illiterate and droll? It rather makes me lose
interest in stories, or books, when I see such gross errors, whether
they are willful or not.”
“It is but a crop of rank weeds--this class of literature, people have
no right to represent others they know nothing of, or discuss a subject
to which they have scarcely been introduced. My characters are actual
men and women. I have one they cannot fail to appreciate; you will see
yourself as others see you,” he said, in softer tones.
An ecstacy of hope lighted her face.
“Will my husband appreciate me then?”--she regretted the question
before she had voiced it.
“Will he appreciate you then? Listen, don’t think that I speak to
praise my own powers as a playwright. I have been a moderate success,
but I don’t regard myself as a genius. The play will be a success on
account of the leading character which I hope to draw true to life.
Robert loves you now, but when he sees my play he will worship you
then.”
There was that in his earnest, enthusiastic face that told her Robert
would not be alone in his devotion.
“What do you call your play?”
“I’ve not determined yet; though I’ve thought of dubbing it ‘A Womanly
Woman, or My Heroine.’”
“Don’t do that, for I am anything but a heroine.”
“No woman was ever a truer one. What title would you propose?”
“You want something that would suggest my real character--my striking
characteristics?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Then, remember, that I am always stumbling along, allowing myself to
be deceived and duped into doing silly things, and sometimes, as you
have just told me, compromising things; weigh all these and call your
play ‘A FOOL IN SPOTS.’” She laughed merrily, but there was a certain
earnestness in her jest.
“But where is Robert?” Latham suddenly asked. While avowing his
devotion to his friend, he had not until now thought of asking this
question, nor had it occurred to Cherokee to explain his absence.
“He took his rifle and went out for a hunt,” she said, after a moment’s
silence. “He begged that you would excuse him.”
“I find ample excuse in the pleasure of being alone with you.”
“Don’t say that; we must do nothing but what will profit and further
the end he seeks.”
“Trust me, I hope to be strong; we must see a little of each other.”
“This is surely best,” she answered, with suppressed emotion.
“And yet, and yet,” he added, as if speaking to himself, “I have much
to communicate to you, but loyalty to my friend forbids confidences,
though it is not wrong of me to say I want to see you perfectly happy.”
Her lips moved nervously.
“Oh, how sweet your words, and uplifting, I shall keep heart, and work;
I have much on my hands, as you see,” and so saying she pointed to a
litter of correspondence on the table.