Time went swiftly. The seasons followed each other without that
fierceness in them to which one is accustomed in the North. The very
frosts were gentle; slowly and kindly they stripped the green robes
from tree and thicket, gave ample warning to the robin, linnet and
ruby-throat before taking down the leafy hangings and leaving their
shelter open to the chill rains of December. The wet kine and horses
turned away from the North and stood in slanting rains with bowed heads.
Christmas passed, and New Year. Pretty soon spring was in the valleys,
creeping first for shelter shyly, in the pause of the blustering wind
that was blowing the last remnants of old winter from the land.
There was a general spreading of dry brush over the spaded farm
country; then the sweet, clean smell of its burning and a misty veil
of thin blue smoke hanging everywhere throughout the clearing. As soon
as the fear of frost was gone, all the air was a fount of freshness.
The earth smiled its gladness, and the laughing waters prattled of the
kindness of the sun. When the dappled softness of the sky gave some
earnest of its mood, a brisk south wind arose and the blessed rain came
driving cold, yet most refreshing. At its ceasing, coy leaves peeped
out, and the bravest blossoms; the dogwoods, full-flowered, quivered
like white butterflies poised to dream. In every wet place the little
frogs began to pipe to each other their joy that spring was holding her
revel. The heart of the people was not sluggish in its thankfulness
to God, for if there were no spring, no seed time, there would be no
harvest. Now summer was all back again. Song birds awakening at dawn
made the woods merry carolling to mates and younglings in the nests.
All nature was in glad, gay earnest. Busy times, corn in blossom
rustling in the breeze, blackberries were ripe, morning-glories under
foot, the trumpet flower flaring above some naked girdled tree. Open
meadows full of sun where the hot bee sucks the clover, the grass tops
gather purple, and ox-eyed daisies thrive in wide unshadowed acres.
“Just a year ago since I came to the South,” mused Elliott Harding,
as he walked back and forth in his room, the deep bay window of which
overlooked a lawn noticeably neat and having a representative character
of its own.
As a rule, South country places in thickly settled regions are
pronounced unlovely at a glance, either by reason of the plainness of
their architecture or by the too close proximity of other buildings.
Here was an exception for the outhouses were numerous but in excellent
repair and red-tiled like the house itself. The tiles were silvered
here and there with the growth and stains of unremoved lichens. There
was not an eye-sore anywhere about this quiet home of Mr. Field.
Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity for him. Surely this quiet
must dull his nerves so used to spurring, and he find the jog-trot of
the days’ monotony an insupportable experience. That Elliott belonged
to the world, loved it, none knew better than himself. He had revelled
in its delights with the indifferent thought, “Time enough for fireside
happiness by-and-by.” His interest in life had been little more than
that which a desire for achievement occasions in an energetic mind.
In spite of his past association, his past carelessness, this moment
found him going over the most trivial event that had the slightest
connection with Dorothy Carr. He tried to recall every word, every
look of hers. Often when he had had a particularly hard day’s work,
it rested him to stop and take supper with the Carrs. The sight of
their home life fascinated him. He had never known happy family life;
he had little conception of what a pure, genial home might be. The
simple country customs, the common interests so keenly shared, the
home loyalty--all these were new to him, and impressed him forcibly.
And how like one of them he had got to feel walking in the front hall
often, hanging up his hat, and reading the evening papers if the folks
were out, and sometimes when Aunt Chloe told him where Dorothy had
gone, he felt the natural inclination to go in pursuit of her. He
remembered once finding her ankle deep in the warm lush garden grasses,
pulling weeds out from her flowers, and he had actually got down and
helped her. That was a very happy hour; the freshness of the sweet
air gave her unconventional garb a genuine loveliness--gave him a
sense of manliness and mastery which he had not felt in the old life.
How infinitely sweet she looked! Something about her neatness, grace
and order typified to him that palladium of man’s honor and woman’s
affection--the home. She appealed to the heart and that appeal has no
year, no period, no fashion.
Daylight was dying now; he looked longingly towards the gray gables,
the only indication of the Carr homestead. Afar beyond the range of
woodland the day’s great stirrup cup was growing fuller. Up from the
slow moving river came a breath of cool air, and beyond the landline
quivered the green of its willows. Dusk had fallen--the odorous dusk of
the Southland. In the distance somewhere sounds of sweet voices of the
negroes singing in the summer dark, their music mingling with the warm
wind under the stars. The night with its soft shadings held him--he
leaned long against the window and listened.