“Whar’s dat bucket? Whar’s dat bucket? Here it is done sun up an’ my
cows aint milked yit!”
Aunt Chloe floundered round in a hurry, peering among the butter bowls
and pans on the bench, in search of her milk bucket.
“I’se ransacked dis place an’ it kyant be paraded,” she said, placing
her hands on her ample hips to pant and wonder. Meanwhile she could
hear the impatient lowing of the cows and the hungry bleating of the
calves from their separate pens. Presently her thick lips broadened
into a knowing smile.
“Laws ter gracious! If Miss Dorothy aint kyard my las’ ling’rin basket
an’ bucket to dem cherry trees. She ’lowed to beat de birds dar. Do she
spec me to milk in my han’? I’m gwine down dar an’ git dat.”
Here she broke off with a second laugh, and with a natural affection in
the midst of her hilarity, which had its tender touch with it.
“I’se lyin’! I’d do nuthin’ ob de sort. If she’d wanted me ter climb
dem trees myself I’d done it even if I’d knowed I’d fall out and bust
my ole haid.”
Again Aunt Chloe looked about her for something which would do service
for a milkpail. Out in the sun stood the big cedar churn, just where
she had placed it the night before that it might catch the fresh
morning air and sunshine. At sight of it she looked relieved.
“Well! dis here doan leak, and aint milk got to go in it arter all?” So
shouldering the awkward substitute, she hurried to the “cup pen” with
the thought: “Lemme make ’aste an’ git thro’, I’se gwine ter he’p Miss
Dorothy put up dem brandy cherries.”
Down in the orchard Dorothy was picking cherries to fill the last
bucket whose loss had caused Aunt Chloe’s mind such vexation, and whose
substitute--the churn--was now causing her a vast deal more, as the cow
refused to recognize any new airs, and so moved away from its vicinity
as fast as she set it beside her.
Presently Dorothy heard the sound of a horse’s tread, at the same time
a voice called out:
“Oh, little boy, is this the road to Georgetown?”
Elliott Harding had drawn in rein, and was looking up through the
leaves.
“How mean of you!” she stammered, her face flushing. “What made you
come this way?”
He only laughed, and did not dare admit that Aunt Chloe had been the
traitor, but got down, hitched his horse, and went nearer. Dorothy
was very lovely as she stood there in the gently swaying tree, one
arm holding to a big limb, while the other one was reaching out for a
bunch of cherries. Her white sunbonnet with its long streamers swayed
over her shoulders. Her plenteous hair, inclined to float, had come
unplaited at the ends and fell in shimmering gold waves about her blue
gingham dress. Nothing more fragrant with innocent beauty had Elliott
ever seen, as her lithe, slim arms let loose their hold to climb down.
She was excited and trembling as she put out her hands and took both
his strong ones that he might help her to the ground.
“I suppose it is tomboyish to climb trees,” she commenced, in a
confused sort of way. “But, the birds eat the cherries almost as fast
as they ripen, and I wanted to save some nice ones for your cocktails.”
A look of embarrassment had been deepening in Dorothy’s face. Her
voice sounded tearful, and looking at her he saw that her lips
quivered and her nostrils dilated, and at once comprehended that the
frank confession was prompted by embarrassment rather than gayety.
Remembering her diffidence at times with him, he quickly reassured her,
feeling brutal for having chaffed her.
“It is all right to climb if you wish,” he said. “I admire your
spirit of independence as well as your fearlessness. You are a
wholesome-minded girl; you will never be tempted to do anything
unbecoming.”
As he stood idly tapping the leaves with his whip, a strange softening
came over him against which he strove. He wanted to find some excuse
to get on his horse and ride away without another word. He looked
off toward the path along which he had come. At the turn of it was
Aunt Chloe’s cabin, half hidden by a jungle of vines and stalks of
great sunflowers. Festoons of white and purple morning-glories ran
over the windows to the sapling porch around which a trellis of gourd
vines swung their long-necked, grotesque fruit. Flaming hollyhocks
and other bits of brilliant bloom gave evidence of the warm native
taste that distinguished the negro of the old regime. The sun flaring
with blinding brilliancy against the white-washed fence made him turn
back to the shade where he could see only Dorothy’s blue eyes, with
just that mingling of love and pain in them; the sweet mouth a little
tremulous, the color coming and going in the soft cheeks.
“And a cocktail with the cherry will be perfect.” He had almost
forgotten to take up the conversation where she had left off. “But your
dear labor has brought a questionable reward. You will remember the
cherry was the one thing lacking to make me yours?”
“Oh, yes!” her face lightening with a sudden recollection. “Now you do
belong to us.”
“If ‘us’ means you, I grant you that I have been fairly and squarely
won.”
Dropping his whip, Elliott leaned over and took Dorothy’s face between
his hands bringing it close to his own, their hearts and lips together
for one delicious moment.
“Dorothy, we belong to each other,” he said, gazing straight into her
eyes.
She had been beautiful to him always, but loveliest now with the look
of love thrilling her as he felt her tapering wrists close around his
neck.
“It seems as though I have loved you all my life, Elliott.”
“Oh, if in loving me, the sweetness of you, the youth, the happiness
should be wasted! Shall I always make you happy, I often ask myself. I
want to know this, Dorothy, for I hope to make you my wife.”
At the word “wife,” delicate vibrations glided through her, deepening
into pulsations that were all a wonder and a wild delight, throbbing
with the vigor of love and youth that drenched her soul with a
rapturous sense.
“Oh, Elliott! Elliott! You are mine. All mine.”