SAMMY LANE’S AMBITION.
“Law sakes!” cried Sammy, looking at the table. “You don’t use all them
dishes, do you, Dad? You sure must eat a lot.”
“Oh, I eat enough,” laughed Mr. Howitt; “but it happens that I had
company this evening. Young Matt and Pete were here for supper.” He
brought two chairs outside the cabin.
“Shucks!” exclaimed Sammy, as she seated herself, and removed her
sunbonnet; “they must’ve eat and run. Wish’d I’d got here sooner. Young
Matt run away from me this afternoon. And I wanted to see him ’bout
Mandy Ford’s party next week. I done promised Mandy that I’d bring him.
I reckon he’d go with me if I asked him.”
“There is not the least doubt about that,” observed the man; “I’m sure
anyone would be glad for such charming company.”
The girl looked up suspiciously; “Are you a jokin’?” she said.
“Indeed, I am not; I am very much in earnest.” Then, taking a cob pipe
from his pocket, he added, politely, “May I smoke?”
“Heh? O law! yes. What you ask me for?” She watched him curiously, as
he filled and lighted the pipe. “I reckon that’s because you was raised
in the city,” he added slowly; “is that the way folks do there?”
“Folks smoke here, sometimes, do they not?” he returned between puffs.
“I don’t mean that. Course they smoke and chew, too. And the women dip
snuff, some of ’em. Aunt Mollie Matthews don’t, though, and I ain’t
never goin’ to, ’cause she don’t. But nobody don’t ask nobody else if
they can. They just go ahead. That ain’t the only way you’re different
from us, though,” she continued, looking at Mr. Howitt, with that wide
questioning gaze. “You’re different in a heap o’ ways. ’Tain’t that you
wear different clothes, for you don’t, no more. Nor, ’taint that you
act like you were any better’n us. I don’t know what it is, but it’s
somethin’. Take your stayin’ here in Mutton Hollow, now; honest, Dad,
ain’t you afear’d to stay here all alone at nights?”
“Afraid? afraid of what?” he looked at her curiously.
“Hants,” said the girl, lowering her voice; “down there.” She pointed
toward the old ruined cabin under the bluff. _“She’s_ sure been seen
there. What if _he_ was to come, too? Don’t you believe in hants?”
The shepherd’s face was troubled, as he answered, “I don’t know, Sammy.
I scarcely know what I believe. Some marvelous experiences are related
by apparently reliable authorities; but I have always said that I could
not accept the belief. I—I am not so sure now. After all, the unseen
world is not so very far away. Strange forces, of which we know
nothing, are about us everywhere. I dare not say that I do not
believe.”
“But you ain’t scared?”
“Why should I fear?”
Sammy shook her head. “Ain’t ’nother man or woman in the whole country
would dast spend the night here, Dad; except Pete, of course. Not even
Young Matt, nor my Daddy would do it; and I don’t guess they’re afraid
of anything—anything that’s alive, I mean. You’re sure different, Dad;
plumb different. I reckon it must be the city that does it. And that’s
what I’ve come to see you about this evenin’. You see Ollie’s been a
tellin’ me a lot about folks and things way over there.” She waived her
hand toward the ridges that shut in the Hollow. “And Ollie he’s changed
a heap himself since he went there to live. I got a letter to-day, and,
when I went home, I hunted up the first one he wrote, and I can tell
there’s a right smart difference already. You know all about Ollie and
me goin’ to get married, I reckon?”
Mr. Howitt admitted that he had heard something of that nature; and
Sammy nodded, “I ’lowed you’d know. But you don’t know how mighty proud
and particular Ollie always is. I figure that bein’ in the city with
all them one folks ain’t goin’ to make him any less that way than he
was. And if he stays there and keeps on a changin’, and I stay here,
and don’t change none, why it might be that I—I—” She faltered and came
to a dead stop, twisting her bonnet strings nervously in her confusion.
“Ollie he ain’t like Young Matt, nohow,” she said again. “Such as that
wouldn’t make no difference with him. But Ollie—well you see—”
There was a twinkle, now, in the shepherd’s eye, as he answered; “Yes,
I see; I am quite sure that I see.”
The girl continued; “You know all about these things, Dad. And there
ain’t nobody else here that does. Will you learn me to be a sure ’nough
lady, so as Ollie won’t—so he won’t—” Again she paused in confusion. It
was evident, from the look on Mr. Howitt’s face, that, whatever he saw,
it was not this.
“I feel somehow like I could do it, if I had a chance,” she murmured.
There was no answer. After a time, Sammy stole a look at her quiet
companion. What could the man in the chair be thinking about? His pipe
was neglected; his gray head bowed.
“Course,” said the young woman, with just a little lifting of her chin;
“Course, if I couldn’t never learn, there ain’t no use to try.”
The old scholar raised his head and looked long at the girl. Her
splendid form, glowing with the rich life and strength of the
wilderness, showed in every line the proud old southern blood. Could
she learn to be a fine lady? Mr. Howitt thought of the women of the
cities, pale, sickly, colorless, hot-house posies, beside this mountain
flower. What would this beautiful creature be, had she their training?
What would she gain? What might she not lose? Aloud he said, “My dear
child, do you know what it is that you ask?”
Sammy hung her head, abashed at his serious tone. “I ’lowed it would be
right smart trouble for you,” she said. “But I could let you have
Brownie in pay; he ain’t only five year old, and is as sound as a
button. He’s all I’ve got, Mr. Howitt. But I’d be mighty proud to swap
him to you.”
“My girl, my girl,” said the shepherd, “you misunderstand me. I did not
mean that. It would be a pleasure to teach you. I was thinking how
little you realized what the real life of the city is like, and how
much you have that the ‘fine ladies,’ as you call them, would give
fortunes for, and how little they have after all that could add one ray
of brightness to your life.”
Sammy laughed aloud, as she cried, “Me got anything that anybody would
want? Why, Dad, I ain’t got nothin’ but Brownie, and my saddle, and—and
that’s all. I sure ain’t got nothing to lose.”
The man smiled in sympathy. Then slowly a purpose formed in his mind.
“And if you should lose, you will never blame me?” he said at last.
“Never, never,” she promised eagerly.
“Alright, it is a bargain. I will help you.”
The girl sprang to her feet. “I knew you would. I knew you would. I was
plumb sure you would,” she cried, fairly quivering with life and
excitement. “It’s got to be a sure ’nough lady, Dad. I want to be a
really truly fine lady, like them Ollie tells about in his letters, you
know.”
“Yes, Sammy. I understand, a ‘sure enough’ lady, and we will do it, I
am sure. But it will take a great deal of hard work on your part,
though.”
“I reckon it will,” she returned soberly, coming back to her seat. Then
drawing her chair a little closer, she leaned toward her teacher,
“Begin now,” she commanded. “Tell me what I must do first.”
Mr. Howitt carefully searched his pockets for a match, and lighted his
pipe again, before he said, “First you must know what a ‘sure enough’
lady is. You see, Sammy, there are several kinds of women who call
themselves ladies, but are not real ladies after all; and they all look
very much like the ‘sure enough’ kind; that is, they look like them to
most people.”
Sammy nodded, “Just like them Thompsons down by Flat Rock. They’re all
mighty proud, ’cause they come from Illinois the same as the
Matthews’s. You’d think to hear ’em that Old Matt couldn’t near run the
ranch without ’em, and some folks, strangers like, might believe it.
But we all know they ain’t nothing but just low down trash, all the
time, and no better than some of them folks over on the Bend.”
The shepherd smiled, “Something like that. I see you understand. Now a
real lady, Sammy, is a lady in three ways: First, in her heart; I mean
just to herself, in the things that no one but she could ever know. A
‘sure enough’ lady does not _pretend_ to be; she _is.”_
Again the girl broke in eagerly, “That’s just like Aunt Mollie, ain’t
it? Couldn’t no one ever have a finer lady heart than her.”
“Indeed, you are right,” agreed the teacher heartily. “And that is the
thing that lies at the bottom of it all, Sammy. The lady heart comes
first.”
“I won’t never forget that,” she returned. “I couldn’t forget Aunt
Mollie, nohow. Tell me more, Dad.”
“Next, the ‘sure enough’ lady must have a lady mind. She must know how
to think and talk about the things that really matter. All the fine
dresses and jewels in the world can’t make a real lady, if she does not
think, or if she thinks only of things that are of no value. Do you
see?”
Again the girl nodded, and, with a knowing smile, answered quickly, “I
know a man like that. And I see now that that is what makes him so
different from other folks. It’s the things he thinks about all to
himself that does it. But I’ve got a heap to learn, I sure have. I
could read alright, if I had something to read, and I reckon I could
learn to talk like you if I tried hard enough. What else is there?”
Then, continued the shepherd, “A lady will keep her body as strong and
as beautiful as she can, for this is one way that she expresses her
heart and mind. Do you see what I mean?”
Sammy answered slowly, “I reckon I do. You mean I mustn’t get stooped
over and thin chested, and go slouching around, like so many of the
girls and women around here do, and I mustn’t let my clothes go without
buttons, ’cause I am in a hurry, and I must always comb my hair, and
keep my hands as white as I can. Is that it?”
“That’s the idea,” said the shepherd.
Sammy gazed ruefully at a large rent in her skirt, and at a shoe half
laced. Then she put up a hand to her tumbled hair. “I—I didn’t think it
made any difference, when only home folks was around,” she said.
“That’s just it, my child,” said the old man gently. “I think a ‘sure
enough’ lady would look after these things whether there was anyone to
see her or not; just for herself, you know. And this is where you can
begin. I will send for some books right away, and when they come we
will begin to train your mind.”
“But the heart, how’ll I get a lady heart, Dad?”
“How does the violet get its perfume, Sammy? Where does the rose get
its color? How does the bird learn to sing its song?”
For a moment she was puzzled. Then her face lighted; “I see!” she
exclaimed. “I’m just to catch it from folks like Aunt Mollie, and—and
someone else I know. I’m just to _be,_ not to make believe or let on
like I was, but to _be_ a real lady inside. And then I’m to learn how
to talk and look, like I know myself to be.” She drew a long breath as
she rose to go. “It’ll be mighty hard, Dad, in some ways; but it’ll
sure be worth it all when I get out ’mong the folks. I’m mighty
thankful to you, I sure am. And I hope you won’t never be sorry you
promised to help me.”
As the girl walked swiftly away through the thickening dusk of the
evening, the shepherd watched her out of sight; then turned toward the
corral for a last look at the sheep, to see that all was right for the
night. “Brave, old fellow,” he said to the dog who trotted by his side;
“are we going to make another mistake, do you think? We have made so
many, so many, you know.” Brave looked up into the master’s face, and
answered with his low bark, as though to declare his confidence. “Well,
well, old dog, I hope you are right. The child has a quick mind, and a
good heart; and, if I am not mistaken, good blood. We shall see. We
shall see.”
Suddenly the dog whirled about, the hair on his back bristling as he
gave a threatening growl. A man on a dun colored mule was coming up the
road.