of 'em. She never had any patience with the way Dr. Pendleton and Miss
Dorothy behaved about marryin'. Says she, 'You put an old married
woman and an old maid together, and you can't tell which is which. A
woman's got to lose her good looks and her health whether she marries
or not, and while she's about it, she might as well lose 'em for her
husband and her children instead o' stayin' single and dryin' up all
for nothin'.' They said Judge Elrod undertook to reason with the
doctor once about the folly of two people stayin' single when they
loved each other. He p'inted out to him that Miss Dorothy was gittin'
on in years, and that a woman ought to be willin' to put up with a few
hardships if she loved a man. And the doctor, he listened, and shook
his head and says he, 'Yes, she's fading, fading, but--God be
thanked!--it's no fault of mine. The hand of time has touched her; her
pretty curls are turning gray and the pretty color's leaving her
cheek; but her hands are as soft and white as they were when I put my
ring on her finger. She's never known a hardship or carried a burden.
She'll go to her grave like a rose that's touched by the frost, and I
can bear to be parted from her that way. But if I'd put a hardship or
a burden on her and she'd died under it, I'd never be able to look my
own soul in the face.'
"That's the way he looked at it, and nothin' could ever make him
change his mind. I reckon the doctor's way o' lovin' was somethin'
like Hamilton Schuyler's."
* * * * *
With these words Aunt Jane closed the treasure-chest of memory and
walked briskly away to look after the welfare of the tulips and
hyacinths.
A little story of a great love! And as I pondered it, the country
doctor became a knight of a finer chivalry than that which once
stirred the blood under a coat of mail, or guided a lance-thrust to an
enemy's heart. In every man's soul there is a field of valor, lonely,
perhaps unknown; and he is the true knight who enters the lists
against himself and strikes down every impulse of man's nature that
would harm the woman he loves. And how rich the guerdon of such a
victory, and the recompense of the beloved one for whose sake he
strives and conquers!
The pitying world looks on and measures the unwed lovers' loss, but
who can measure their gain? Theirs is the bliss which Psyche had
before she lit the fatal lamp. They hold forever in their hearts "the
consecration and the poet's dream"; and, undimmed by disillusionment,
the mirage of youthful love hovers over each solitary path, lighting
the twilight of age, the night of death and melting at last into the
dawn of heaven's unending day.
VII
THE REFORMATION OF SAM AMOS
[Illustration]
VII
THE REFORMATION OF SAM AMOS
All day the land had lain dreamily under an enchantment soon to be
broken by the rude counter-spells of the coming winter.
A frost so light that it was hardly more than a cold dew had rested
that morning on the early chrysanthemums and late roses; but the wind
that shook the leaves from the crimson maples was a south wind; the
midday sun held the tropic warmth of August, and over the brightening
hills lay a tender, purple haze. Summer was dead, but its gentle ghost
had come back to the earth, and it was Indian summer, the season that
has no name or place in any calendar but the poet's. The sun had set,
and the mist that veiled the horizon had caught its last rays, holding
the light lingeringly, fondly, in its folds and spreading it far to
the north and south in a soft splendor of color that no other season
can show. Not pink, not crimson, but such a color as an artist might
make if he crushed together on his palette the rose of summer and the
leaf of autumn. The chill of the coming night was in the air, but
still we lingered at the gate, Aunt Jane and I, with our faces toward
the west.
"I wonder how many folks are watchin' this sunset," she remarked at
last. "Old Job Matthews, after he got converted at the big revival
back yonder in the thirties, used to look for the second comin' of the
Lord, and every sunset and sunrise he'd stand and look at the sky and
say, 'Maybe the King of Glory is at hand.' Once the old man declared
he saw a chariot in the clouds, and it does look like, child, that
somethin' ought to happen after a sight like this, or else it ain't
worth while to git it up jest for a few people like you and me to look
at."
As she spoke there was a quick, sharp clang of hoofs on the
macadamized road, and a horse and rider passed in the twilight. The
clean, even gait of the horse and the outlines of its head showed it
to be of noble blood; and as it trotted past with an air of proud
alertness, we could see that the dumb animal realized the double share
of responsibility laid upon it. For the hand that held the bridle was
limp and nerveless, the rider's head was sunk on his breast, and the
brain of the man that should have guided the brain of the horse was
locked in a poison-stupor.
Long and wistfully Aunt Jane gazed after the horse and its rider, and
the gathering darkness could not hide the divine sorrow and pity that
looked out from her aged eyes. Sighing heavily she turned from the
gate, and we went back to the shadowy room where the "unlit lamp" and
the unkindled fire lay ready for the evening hours.
The fireplace was filled with brush cleared that day from the
flower-beds, dry stems that had borne the verdure and bloom of a
spring and now lay on their funeral pyre, ready to be translated, as
by a chariot of fire, into the elemental air and earth from whence
they had sprung.
Aunt Jane struck a match under the old mantel and, stooping, touched
the dead mass with the finger of flame.
Ah! the first fires of autumn! There is more than light and more than
heat in their radiance. But as I watched the flames leap with exultant
roar into the gloom of the old chimney, my heart was with the lonely
man homeward bound, his sorrowful, helpless figure a silhouette
against the sunset sky, and Aunt Jane, too, looked with absent eyes at
the fire she had just kindled.
"Yes, child," she said, answering my thought, "it's a sad, sad sight;
I've watched it for a lifetime and I'm clean tired of it,--seein' 'em
go out in the mornin' straight and strong and handsome as a Kentucky
man ought to be, and comin' home at night with hardly strength enough
to handle their reins, and less sense than the horse that's carryin'
'em. I trust that man'll reach home safe, for somewhere up the road
there's a woman waitin' for him. She's cooked a hot supper for him and
the biscuits are in the pan, and she's put the coffee on the back o'
the stove to keep it from boilin' too long, and the meat's in the
dish in front o' the stove, and she's lookin' out o' the window and
goin' to the gate every few minutes, strainin' her eyes and her ears
lookin' down the road and listenin' for the sound of a horse's feet.
And maybe there's a baby asleep in the cradle, and another child
waitin' for Father; and when he comes, the child'll run from him, and
his wife'll cry her eyes out, and nobody in that house'll feel like
eatin' any supper to-night. Well, may the Lord give that woman grace
to be as patient with her husband as Milly Amos was with Sam, and
maybe she'll reap the same reward."
"Was Sam Amos a drunkard?" I asked in surprise.
"Well, no," said Aunt Jane, judicially, "Sam wasn't, to say, a
drunkard. A drunkard, according to my notion, is a man that's born
with whiskey in his veins. He's elected and predestined to drink, you
might say, and he ain't to be blamed when he does drink. Sam wasn't
that sort of a man; but once in his life it looked mightily like he
was goin' to be a drunkard. Sam come of a sober family, and there
wasn't any manner of reason for him to take to drink, but Dr.
Pendleton used to say there was a wild streak in nearly every person,
and sooner or later it was bound to break out in one way or another.
It was the wild streak in Brother Wilson, I reckon, that sent him into
the army before he went to preachin', and the same wild streak put it
into Sam's mind to drink whiskey, when his father and grandfather
never touched it. How it started I don't know, but I reckon the coffee
house must 'a' been the beginnin' of it. I can ricollect well the time
when that was opened in town. They had a sort of a debatin' society in
that day,--Lyceum, they called it, but Sam Amos called it the Jawin'
Club. Dr. Brigham and Judge Grace and Judge Elrod and Colonel Walker
and all the big men o' the town belonged to it, and they used to meet
in the doctor's office and argue about everything that was done in the
town or the State. One question they had up was whether the Whigs or
the Democrats had the best party, and they argued till pretty near one
o'clock in the mornin', and the meetin' come mighty near breakin' up
in a fight. Well, when the coffee-house got its license they had a
debate about that, and Dr. Brigham, he was in favor of the license, he
got up to make a speech, and, says he, 'What would this State be
without whiskey?' And Judge Grace, he was against it,--he jumped up
and shook his fist at the doctor and says he, 'A heap more peaceable
place than it is with it.' And that made the doctor mad, but he went
on like he hadn't heard it. Says he, 'You jest shut your eyes and say
the word "Kentucky," and what'll you see? Why, you'll see a glass o'
toddy or a mint julep, and a pretty woman smilin' over 'em,'--and
Judge Grace he hollers out, 'No, you won't! No, you won't! You may see
the toddy and the julep and the woman, but the woman won't be smilin';
she'll be cryin' her eyes out over the stuff that makes a brute of her
husband and her son.' This made the doctor madder still, but he kept
right on, and says he, 'Think of the poetry that's been written about
wine and whiskey--
"'"Fill up, fill up
The brimmin' cup"--
and all the rest o' the songs about drinkin'! And no wonder,' says he,
'for where'll you find a prettier sight than a clear glass tumbler
with a sprig o' mint and a silver spoon in it and two or three lumps
o' sugar dissolvin' in the julep?' And the Judge says, 'All right! All
right! Keep your toddy and your julep in a glass tumbler and look at
'em and write poetry about 'em, and I won't say a word against 'em.
But,' says he, 'when they get inside of a man, where's your poetry
then?' Says he, 'It'll take some mighty plain prose to fit that
situation,' says he.
"Well, they had it up and down and back and forth, and finally their
friends had to hold 'em to keep 'em from comin' to blows. But as I was
sayin', that coffee house was the beginnin' of Sam Amos's troubles and
Milly's. The coffee house was a sociable sort of a place, and Sam was
a sociable sort of a man, and it was natural for him to go there and
see his friends and talk with 'em, and the first thing we knew he was
drinkin' with 'em; not much, but enough to unsettle his brain and make
him talk wild and act foolish. And he went on followin' the same old
beaten track that men 'a' been walkin' since the days of Noah. And at
last he got to neglectin' his farm, and he'd go to town every week and
come home in such a condition that it wasn't safe for Milly and the
children to be in the same house with him. Folks used to say that the
first drink made Sam a fool, and the second drink made him a devil,
and the third drink put the fool and the devil to sleep.
"Sam was as smart a man as you'd find anywhere, and many a time I used
to feel for Milly when he'd mortify her before company by sayin'
foolish things he never would 'a' said if he'd been in his right
senses. I ricollect once she had a parlor full o' company and she was
showin' an ambrotype of her brother David, and somebody passed it to
Sam and he took it and looked at it right hard, and says he, 'Shuh!
that don't look half as much like Dave as he looks like himself.' And
another time, one county court day, me and Abram happened to be
standin' on the corner in front o' the old drug store, and Sam come a
staggerin' up and laid his hand on Abram's shoulder and looked him
straight in the eye like he had somethin' mighty important to say, and
says he, 'Uncle Abram, I want to tell you right here and now, and
don't you ever forgit it; if there's anything I do despise it's one
thing more'n another.' I don't believe Abram ever got through laughin'
at that. And if Sam had only stopped at the first glass that made a
fool of him, his drinkin' would 'a' been a small matter. But the man
that can stop at one glass don't live in Kentucky, child, and so Sam
went from the first glass to the second and from the second to the
third and from that to the gutter. And many a time the neighbors had
to pick Sam up and bring him home, for betwixt the shame of seein' him
in that condition and the danger of bein' with him, Milly had to stop
goin' to town.
"I ricollect one county court day me and Abram happened to be passin'
along in front o' the old Methodist Church, and Sam come walkin' out
o' Jockey Alley leadin' his big bay mare--Jockey Alley, child, is the
alley that runs from State Street clean back to the street leadin'
over to the old footbridge, and everybody that had a horse or a mule
or a colt to swap, why, they'd go to that alley and do their swappin'
every county court day.
"Well, as I was sayin', Sam come along leadin' his bay mare. That mare
was the pride of Sam's heart. He used to say there was more good blood
in that bay mare of his than in any six families in the state o'
Kentucky. Sam was a mighty fine judge o' horse flesh, and he got his
love for horses from his father and his grandfather, old Harrison
Amos. The old man was one o' the biggest horse raisers in the state,
and he made his thousands out of it, too. But folks that went to his
farm used to say it was like huntin' a hen's nest to find the house
where the family lived, the house was so little and there was so many
big fine barns and stables. Somebody asked him once why he didn't
build a better house for his children to live in, and the old man
says, 'I believe in puttin' my money where I am certain of gettin'
good returns.' Says he, 'There's no manner of certainty in children.
You can put good blood into a boy and do your best to bring him up in
the way he should go, and after all you've spent on him he'll lose
every race he goes into, and you'll find you've got a scrub on your
hands. But,' says he, 'you breed a horse right, and train him in his
gaits whilst he's young, and there ain't one chance in a thousand of
your losin' money on that horse. Of course,' says he, 'I think more of
my boys than I do of my horses, but when it comes to investin' money,
a man must be governed by his judgment and his common sense, not by
his feelin's.'
"They said the old man went down to New Orleans one winter on some
business and left his son Joe in charge o' the stock farm, and when he
got back he went out to the stables, the first thing, to look at his
horses, and when he got through, there was four of his thoroughbreds
missin'. And, says he, 'Joe, where's May Queen?' and Joe says, 'Why,
Father, she's dead; died right after you left.' And the old man said,
'Well, where's Dixie Gyirl,' and Joe says, 'Why, Father, I'm mighty
sorry to have to tell you, but Dixie Gyirl, she's dead,--died pretty
near the same time May Queen died.' And the old man says, 'Well,
where's Annie Laurie and Nelly Gray?' And Joe says, 'Father, I'm
mighty sorry, but they died just like Dixie Gyirl and May Queen.' And
the old man looked at Joe for a minute, and says he, right slow and
earnest, 'Well, Joe, why didn't you die, too?'
"So that's where Sam got his love o' fine horses, child, and, as I was
sayin', Sam come walkin' up leadin' his bay mare by the bridle. Me and
Abram on our way to the drug store and Tige, our yeller house-dog,
follerin' close behind us, and Sam called to us to stop, and says he,
'Can't we make a trade to-day? I'll swap you my mare for your dog.'
And Abram says, 'Done,' and he took hold o' the mare's bridle, and he
pulled a piece o' stout twine out of his pocket and tied it to Tige's
collar and put the end o' the string in Sam's hand. I says to him,
'Why, Abram, you wouldn't take advantage of a poor drunken man, and a
neighbor at that?' And Abram says, 'Make yourself easy, Jane, I'm only
goin' to give Sam a lesson that may shame him out of his drinkin'
habits for awhile, at least.' And then he led the mare to the stable
and told the man to feed her and water her, and he'd call for her
late that evenin'.
"Well, when goin'-home time come round, we set out to look for Sam,
and after lookin' all around the Square and up and down Main Street,
we found him lyin' helpless in the back o' the grocery store. Abram
got two men to help him, and they managed to lift him up and put him
in the wagon. Then we drove around to the livery stable and got the
bay mare and fastened her to the back o' the wagon and started home.
When we got to our gate, Abram put me and the children out and turned
Sam's mare into the horse lot, and then he drove over to Sam's farm as
quick as he could, for he knew Milly was waitin' and grievin'. And
sure enough there she was, standin' under the big sycamore in front o'
the gate, lookin' and listenin' for Sam. She told me afterwards she'd
stayed out that way many a night till her clothes'd be wet with the
dew, and for the rest of her life she hated the sound of crickets and
katydids, because they reminded her of that year when Sam give her so
much trouble.
"Well, Abram drove up to the gate, and Milly was too skeered to speak.
She was always worryin' about Sam fallin' off his horse and breakin'
his neck, and when she saw Abram and nobody with him, she thought he
was comin' on ahead to break the news to her, and Sam's dead body
would be the next thing to come. Abram didn't know this, or he'd a
told her right at once that Sam was in the wagon. He said when he
stopped, Milly was leanin' forward, her hands together, and hardly
enough breath to speak, and she whispered, 'Where's Sam?' And Abram
says, 'Right here in the wagon.' And Milly says, 'Thank God! I was
afraid he was dead.' Now that shows what kind of a heart Milly had.
When a man's brought home dead drunk, child, it ain't every woman
that'll thank God he's alive.
"Well, they had some trouble rousin' Sam, but at last they got him to
the house and took off his coat and shoes and laid him on the bed, and
when Abram started to go Milly says, 'But where's Sam's mare?' And
Abram says, 'When Sam comes to himself to-morrow, you send him over to
my house and I'll put him on the track of his mare.' So the next
mornin' about eleven o'clock here was Sam lookin' about as reckless
and miserable as a man ever gits to look, and says he, 'I've come for
my mare, Uncle Abram; I see the stable door's open, so you needn't
bother yourself; I'll go down there and saddle her and ride her home.
I'm much obliged to you,' says he, 'for takin' care of her.'
"And Abram says, 'Sam, you may not know it, but that mare belongs to
me.' And Sam laughed and says he, 'I reckon I do owe you somethin' for
bringin' me home last night, but you surely won't take my horse for
that.' And Abram says, 'But, Sam, you swapped that mare to me
yesterday,' and Sam says, 'Swapped her? What did I swap her for?' And
jest then old Tige come around the corner o' the house waggin' his
tail, and Abram p'inted to him and says he, 'You swapped your mare for
that dog, Sam.'
"Well, for a minute Sam couldn't say a word he was so thunderstruck,
and says he, 'Do you mean to say, Uncle Abram, that I was such a fool
yesterday as to swap my bay mare, the finest piece o' horse flesh in
the State, for that old yeller dog, and me the best judge of horses in
Warren County?' 'Yes,' says Abram, 'you did that very thing, Sam, and
the swap was your own proposin'.'
"Well, Sam set down on the door step and folded his arms over his
knees and dropped his head on his arm, and he cursed himself and he
cursed the whiskey and he cursed the coffee house and finally, says
he, 'I swear, I'll never touch another drop o' the cursed stuff, and
all the devils in hell can't make me break my oath.'
"And Abram says, 'Well, Sam, I wanted to hear you make that promise,
and that's why I kept your mare. Now, go to the stable and you'll find
your mare all safe and sound and the saddle and bridle on the right
hand side o' the door. And may God give you grace,' says he, 'to keep
you from ever makin' such a fool of yourself again.'
"But, honey, it wasn't a month before Sam had to be hauled home again
in a wagon. And finally it got to the pass that he come home drunk,
late one Monday night, and struck Milly and kicked the children out o'
the house, and the next thing we heard was that Milly's father had
come to take her home. Milly told me about it long after the trouble
was over. She said she'd been hopin' that the bruise on her cheek
would be well before her father saw her, and she'd been puttin' cold
water and hot water and everything else she could think of on it to
draw the blood out, but somebody told the old man how bad things had
been goin' with Milly, and it wasn't two hours till he was there with
a two horse wagon to move Milly back home. Milly said Sam was sittin'
by the table with his head down on his arms and she was washin' up the
dinner dishes, and her face bound up in one o' Sam's handkerchiefs.
The old man come in, his hands and his lips tremblin', and says he,
'Daughter, put your things together as quick as you can, I've come to
take you back home.' Says he, 'I'm no advocate of married folks
separatin', but,' says he, 'when Sam took you from your father's house
he promised to be good and kind to you, but he's broke his promise,
and you've got no call to stay with him any longer.' And Milly said
before she could answer him, Sam raised up his head from the table and
says he, 'That's right! That's right! I'm not fit to be trusted with a
wife and children. Take Milly and the boys with you and leave me to go
to the dogs where I belong.' And Milly's father says, 'Well, Samuel,
I'm glad you think as I do, for that makes it easier for all of us.'
And then he turns to Milly and says he, 'Hurry up, daughter, and get
yourself ready to go back home with me. No child of mine shall live
with a drunken brute that lays violent hands on his wife and
children.'
"I reckon the old man thought he was sayin' exactly the right thing
and that Milly would thank him for takin' her part. But Milly said
when her father called Sam 'a drunken brute' she was so mad she lifted
her hand to strike him, and she run to Sam and put her arms around
him, and says she, 'Father, you're the only person in this world
that'd dare to say such a thing to me about Sam.' Says she, 'You can
take the children if you want to, for I am afraid that Sam'll do them
some harm, when he ain't himself, but as for me, my place,' says she,
'is right here with Sam. Drinkin' whiskey is bad enough,' says she,
'but it ain't the worst thing a man can do, and it's not what a man
does when he's drunk that makes a woman hate him and leave him, it's
what he does when he's sober. And you know,' says she, 'that when
Sam's himself there ain't a kinder, better husband anywhere, and no
matter what he does when he's drunk, I'll stay with him while life
lasts.'
"Milly said Sam give a gasp and looked up at her as if he couldn't
believe his ears, and then he burst out cryin' and fell on his knees
and threw his arms around her and held on to her like a drownin' man
tryin' to save himself. And says he, 'O Milly! Milly! I didn't know
you cared that much for me! I've asked God to help me,' says he, 'and
He didn't seem to care, but if you care enough to stay with me, Milly,
I'll have to quit! I'll have to quit!' says he.
"Milly said if it had been little Sam holdin' on to her and beggin'
her to stay she couldn't 'a' felt sorrier for him, and she patted him
on the head and says she, 'Don't you worry, Sam; Father may take the
children if he wants to, but he'll never take me. Of course, you're
goin' to quit drinkin',' says she, 'but whether you quit or not I'll
stand by you, for that's what a wife's for.'
"Milly said Sam cried still harder, and her father, he wiped his eyes
and says he, 'Well, daughter, maybe you're right. Meddlin' with
married folks' affairs is a poor business, anyhow, and I'm more than
willin' to give Samuel another chance.'
"So the old man got in his wagon and drove off, and Milly said all
that day Sam stayed around the house and follered her about like a dog
follerin' its master, and every now and then he'd say, 'I've got to
quit, Milly, and I will quit now.' Milly said she'd heard him promise
that so often and break his promise that she didn't have a bit of
faith that he'd keep it now, but of course she didn't let him know it.
She'd say, 'Why, of course you will, Sam, I've always believed you'd
quit sometime.' And Sam says, 'Keep on believin' in me, Milly, and
your faith'll save me.'