THE STOREKEEPER
It was now late afternoon, the sun’s rays coming slantingly into the
forest, and the warmth of the day past and gone. To Haward, riding at a
gallop down the road that was scarce more than a bridle path, the rush
of the cool air was grateful; the sharp striking of protruding twigs,
the violent brushing aside of hanging vines, not unwelcome.
It was of the man that the uppermost feeling in his mind was one of
disgust at his late infelicity of speech, and at the blindness which
had prompted it. That he had not divined, that he had been so dull as
to assume that as he felt, or did not feel, so must she, annoyed him
like the jar of rude noises or like sand blowing into face and eyes. It
was of him, too, that the annoyance was purely with himself; for her,
when at last he came to think of her, he found only the old, placid
affection, as far removed from love as from hate. If he knew himself,
it would always be as far removed from love as from hate.
All the days of her youth he had come and gone, a welcome guest at
her father’s house in London. He had grown to be her friend, watching
the crescent beauty of face and mind with something of the pride and
tenderness which a man might feel for a young and favorite sister; and
then, at last, when some turn of affairs sent them all home to Virginia
to take lot and part there, he had thought of marriage.
His mind had turned, not unwillingly, from the town and its apples
of Sodom to his Virginia plantation that he had not seen for more
than ten years. It was his birthplace, and there he had spent his
boyhood. Sometimes, in heated rooms, when the candles in the sconces
were guttering down, and the dawn looked palely in upon gaming tables
and heaped gold, and seamed faces, haggardly triumphant, haggardly
despairing, determinedly indifferent, there had come to him visions of
cool dawns upon the river, wide, misty expanses of marsh and forest,
indistinct and cold and pure. The lonely “great house,” too,--the house
which his father had built with so much love and pains, that his son
and his son’s sons should have a worthy home,--appealed to him, and the
garden, and the fishing-boats, and the old slaves in the quarters. He
told himself that he was glad to go back.
Had men called him ambitious, he would have smiled, and felt truly
that they had bungled in the word. Such and such things were simply
his appurtenances; in London, the regard due to a gentleman who to
a certain distinction in his manner of amusing himself added the
achievement of a successful comedy, three lampoons quoted at all
London tea-tables, and a piece of Whig invective, so able, stern, and
sustained that many cried that the Dean had met his match; in Virginia,
the deferential esteem of the colony at large, a place in the Council,
and a great estate. An alliance with the master of Westover was in
itself a desirable thing, advantageous to purse and to credit; his
house must have a mistress, and that mistress must please at every
point his fastidious taste.
What better to do than to give it for Mistress Evelyn Byrd? Evelyn, who
had had for all her suitors only a slow smile and shake of the head;
Evelyn, who was older than her years; Evelyn, who was his friend as he
was hers. Love! He had left that land behind, and she had never touched
its shores; the geography of the poets to the contrary, it did not lie
in the course of all who passed through life. He made his suit, and now
he had his answer.
If he did not take trouble to wonder at her confession, or to modestly
ask himself how he had deserved her love, neither did he insult her
with pity or with any lightness of thought. Nor was he ready to believe
that his rejection was final. Apparently indifferent as he was, it was
yet his way to move steadily and relentlessly, if very quietly, toward
what goal he desired to reach. He thought that Fair View might yet call
Evelyn Byrd its mistress.
Since turning into the crossroad that, running south and east, would
take him back to the banks of the James and to his own house, he had
not slackened speed, but now, as he saw through the trees before him a
long zigzag of rail fence, he drew rein. The road turned, and a gate
barred his way. When he had opened it and passed through, he was upon
his own land.
He had ridden off his irritation, and could now calmly tell himself
that the blunder was made and over with, and that it was the duty of
the philosopher to remember it only in so far as it must shape his
future course. His house of cards had toppled over; but the profound
indifferentism of his nature enabled him to view the ruins with
composure. After a while he would build the house again. The image of
Evelyn, as she had stood, dark-eyed and pale, with the flowers pressed
to her bosom, he put from him. He knew her strength of soul; and with
the curious hardness of the strong toward the strong, and also not
without the delicacy which, upon occasion, he could both feel and
exhibit, he shut the door upon that hour in the forest.
He had left the woods, and was now riding through a field of newly
planted tobacco. It and the tobacco house in the midst of it were
silent, deserted, bathed in the late sunshine. The ground rose
slightly, and when he had mounted with it he saw below him the huddle
of cabins which formed the ridge quarter, and winding down to it a
string of negroes. One turned his head, and saw the solitary horseman
upon the summit of the slope behind him; another looked, and another,
until each man in line had his head over his shoulder. They knew that
the horseman was their master. Some had been upon the plantation when
he was a boy; others were more recent acquisitions who knew not his
face; but alike they grinned and ducked. The white man walking beside
the line took off his hat and pulled a forelock. Haward raised his hand
that they might know he saw, and rode on.
Another piece of woods where a great number of felled trees cumbered
the ground, more tobacco, and then, in worn fields where the tobacco
had been, knee-deep wheat rippling in the evening breeze. The wheat
ran down to a marsh, and to a wide, slow creek that, save in the
shadow of its reedy banks, was blue as the sky above. Haward, riding
slowly beside his green fields and still waters, noted with quiet,
half-regretful pleasure this or that remembered feature of the
landscape. There had been little change. Here, where he remembered deep
woods, tobacco was planted; there, where the tobacco had been, were
now fields of wheat or corn, or wild tangles of vine-rid saplings and
brushwood: but for this it might have been yesterday that he had last
ridden that way.
Presently he saw the river, and then the marshes with brown dots that
were his cattle straying over them, and beyond these the home landing
and the masts of the Golden Rose. The sun was near its setting; the men
had left the fields; over all things were the stillness and peace, the
encroaching shadows, the dwindling light, so golden in its quality, of
late afternoon. When he crossed the bridge over the creek, the hollow
sound that the boards gave forth beneath his horse’s hoofs had the
depth and resonance of drumbeats, and the cry of a solitary heron in
the marsh seemed louder than its wont. He passed the rolling-house and
drew near to the river, riding again through tobacco. These plants were
Oronoko; the mild sweet-scented took the higher ground. Along the river
bank grew a row of tall and stately trees: passing beneath them, he saw
the shining water between brown columns or through a veil of slight,
unfolding leaves. Soon the trees fell away, and he came to a stretch of
bank,--here naked earth, there clad in grass and dewberry vines. Near
by was a small landing, with several boats fastened to its piles; and
at a little distance beyond it, shadowed by a locust-tree, a strongly
built, two-roomed wooden house, with the earth around it trodden hard
and bare, and with two or three benches before its open door. Haward
recognized the store which his father--after the manner of his kind,
merchant and trader as well as planter and maker of laws--had built,
and which, through his agent in Virginia, he had maintained.
Before one of the benches a man was kneeling with his back to Haward,
who could only see that his garb was that of a servant, and that his
hands were busily moving certain small objects this way and that upon
the board. At the edge of the space of bare earth were a horse-block
and a hitching-post. Haward rode up to them, dismounted, and fastened
his horse, then walked over to the man at the bench.
So intent was the latter upon his employment that he heard neither
horse nor rider. He had some shells, a few bits of turf, and a double
handful of sand, and he was arranging these trifles upon the rough,
unpainted boards in a curious and intricate pattern. He was a tall
man, with hair that was more red than brown, and he was dressed in a
shirt of dowlas, leather breeches, and coarse plantation-made shoes and
stockings.
“What are you doing?” asked Haward, after a moment’s silent watching of
the busy fingers and intent countenance.
There was no start of awakened consciousness upon the other’s part.
“Why,” he said, as if he had asked the question of himself, “with this
sand I have traced the shores of Loch-na-Keal. This turf is green
Ulva, and this is Gometra, and the shell is Little Colonsay. With this
wet sand I have moulded Ben Grieg, and this higher pile is Ben More.
If I had but a sprig of heather, now, or a pebble from the shore of
Scridain!”
The voice, while harsh, was not disagreeably so, and neither the words
nor the manner of using them smacked of the rustic.
“And where are Loch-na-Keal and Ulva and Scridain?” demanded Haward.
“Somewhere in North Britain, I presume?”
The second question broke the spell. The man glanced over his shoulder,
saw that he was not alone, and with one sweep of his hand blotting
loch and island and mountain out of existence, rose to his feet, and
opposed to Haward’s gaze a tall, muscular frame, high features slightly
pockmarked, and keen dark blue eyes.
“I was dreaming, and did not hear you,” he said, civilly enough. “It’s
not often that any one comes to the store at this time of day. What d’
ye lack?”
As he spoke he moved toward the doorway, through which showed shelves
and tables piled with the extraordinary variety of goods which were
deemed essential to the colonial trade. “Are you the storekeeper?”
asked Haward, keeping pace with the other’s long stride.
“It’s the name they call me by,” answered the man curtly; then, as he
chanced to turn his eyes upon the landing, his tone changed, and a
smile irradiated his countenance. “Here comes a customer,” he remarked,
“that’ll make you bide your turn.”
A boat, rowed by a young boy and carrying a woman, had slipped out
of the creek, and along the river bank to the steps of the landing.
When they were reached, the boy sat still, the oars resting across his
knees, and his face upturned to a palace beautiful of pearl and saffron
cloud; but the woman mounted the steps, and, crossing the boards, came
up to the door and the men beside it. Her dress was gray and unadorned,
and she was young and of a quiet loveliness.
“Mistress Truelove Taberer,” said the storekeeper, “what can you
choose, this May Day, that’s so fair as yourself?”
A pair of gray eyes were lifted for the sixth part of a second, and
a voice that bad learned of the doves in the forest proceeded to
rebuke the flatterer. “Thee is idle in thy speech, Angus MacLean,” it
declared. “I am not fair; nor, if I were, should thee tell me of it.
Also, friend, it is idle and tendeth toward idolatry to speak of the
first day of the fifth month as May Day. My mother sent me for a paper
of White-chapel needles, and two of manikin pins. Has thee them in thy
store of goods?”
“Come you in and look for yourself,” said the storekeeper. “There’s
woman’s gear enough, but it were easier for me to recount the names of
all the children of Gillean-ni-Tuaidhe than to remember how you call
the things you wear.”
So saying he entered the store. The Quakeress followed, and Haward,
tired of his own thoughts, and in the mood to be amused by trifles,
trod in their footsteps.
Door and window faced the west, and the glow from the sinking sun
illumined the thousand and one features of the place. Here was the
glint of tools and weapons; there pewter shone like silver, and
brass dazzled the eyes. Bales of red cotton, blue linen, flowered
Kidderminster, scarlet serge, gold and silver drugget, all sorts of
woven stuffs from lockram to brocade, made bright the shelves. Pendent
skins of buck and doe showed like brown satin, while looking-glasses
upon the wall reflected green trees and painted clouds. In one dark
corner lurked kegs of powder and of shot; another was the haunt of
aqua vitæ and right Jamaica. Playing-cards, snuffboxes, and fringed
gloves elbowed a shelf of books, and a full-bottomed wig ogled a
lady’s headdress of ribbon and malines. Knives and hatchets and duffel
blankets for the Indian trade were not wanting.
Haward, leaning against a table laden with so singular a miscellany
that a fine saddle with crimson velvet holsters took the head of the
board, while the foot was set with blue and white china, watched the
sometime moulder of peak and islet draw out a case filled with such
small and womanish articles as pins and needles, tape and thread, and
place it before his customer. She made her choice, and the storekeeper
brought a great book, and entered against the head of the house of
Taberer so many pounds of tobacco; then, as the maiden turned to
depart, heaved a sigh so piteous and profound that no tender saint
in gray could do less than pause, half turn her head, and lift two
compassionate eyes.
“Mistress Truelove, I have read the good book that you gave me, and I
cannot deny that I am much beholden to you,” and her debtor sighed like
a furnace.
The girl’s quiet face flushed to the pink of a seashell, and her eyes
grew eager.
“Then does thee not see the error of thy ways, Angus MacLean? If it
should be given me to pluck thee as a brand from the burning! Thee will
not again brag of war and revenge, nor sing vain and ruthless songs,
nor use dice or cards, nor will thee swear any more?”
The voice was persuasion’s own. “May I be set overtide on the Lady’s
Rock, or spare a false Campbell when I meet him, or throw up my cap for
the damned Hogan Mogan that sits in Jamie’s place, if I am not entirely
convert!” cried the neophyte. “Oh, the devil! what have I said?
Mistress Truelove--Truelove”--
But Truelove was gone,--not in anger or in haste, for that would have
been unseemly, but quietly and steadily, with no looking back. The
storekeeper, leaping over a keg of nails that stood in the way, made
for the door, and together with Haward, who was already there, watched
her go. The path to the landing and the boat was short; she had taken
her seat, and the boy had bent to the oars, while the unlucky Scot was
yet alternately calling out protestations of amendment and muttering
maledictions upon his unguarded tongue. The canoe slipped from the
rosy, unshadowed water into the darkness beneath the overhanging trees,
reached the mouth of the creek, and in a moment disappeared from sight.