Bobbie was sixteen when his father finally made up his mind to send him
to college. It nearly broke his mother’s heart, to say nothing of the
terrible blow it was to Peter Black and Sallie Tom, who still kept up
their passionate love for the boy; yet it was admitted by all that the
going was a necessity. Bobbie simply would not study at home. By dawn
of the day he was off on his horse, and every inch of ground for miles
around was as familiar as the lawn in front of the house. Every bend of
the river with all its fish, every bird that flew, every insect that
hummed, and every kind of game in the woods, were as near and dear to
Bobbie and Peter Black as old and tried friends; and though his progress
with his tutors was not always as great as it might have been, his tall,
straight body, his supple limbs, and his clear eyes and bright, clever
face more than repaid for the neglect of his books.
His father had a serious talk with him before he left, and Bobbie’s face
took on a new expression while he listened. “All right, father,” he said
when he left him, “I know it’s time for me to study now, and you shan’t
be ashamed of me when I come back;” and his father was satisfied, for
Bobbie’s word, once given, he knew would never fail.
Such a time there was the day he left! Had the sun been in an eclipse,
and all the world in total darkness, there could not have been greater
gloom than that which pervaded the entire household, with all the cabin
contingent, on the morning he was to leave. Bobbie’s heart was out of its
accustomed place, and stuck so persistently in his throat that he found
talking difficult. The remembrance of his mother’s face, he felt would
go with him through life, and the intense dolefulness of Peter Black was
oppressive. Sallie Tom was a kind of nightmare. So heartily did she
disapprove of this move of the master that she had kept away as long as
possible, but now that her idol, her pride, was leaving, she could hold
out no longer. Like a cyclone she rushed through the line of darkies, all
drawn up by the big gate waiting to see the young master off, and in a
minute she had him in her arms and almost off his feet. “Gord A’mighty
tek care of my chile!” she sobbed, rocking him backwards and forwards in
a way highly uncomfortable to poor Bobbie, who yet had not the heart to
rebuff her. “Gord A’mighty tek care of my po’ chile, gwine out alone, all
by hissef, and bring him back to his old mammy!” and she strained him
passionately to her heart, and with a cry of real anguish she let him go
and rushed wildly down to her cabin, and for two days nobody saw Sallie
Tom.
At last all the partings were over and Bobbie and his father had waved
as long as they could see them, to the waiting crowd, and then a silence
long and oppressive fell upon both. Bobbie dared not trust himself to
speak, and his father was watching solicitously one of the back wheels
of the carriage, and only the hoarse, choky “Git up dar, Jonah, git up,
you Whale, you,” of Uncle Lias as he jerked the horses, trying to make
out there was nothing unusual in the trip they were taking, broke the
stillness of the air. A turn in the road, however, made Bobbie start,
and caused his heart to give an extra leap. There, waiting under the big
willow down by the river road, were Dr. Trevillian and Dorothy, and the
former called cheerily that they were waiting to ride part of the way as
escort, and to his dying day Bobbie never forgot this gracious act of
letting him see Dorothy once more before leaving. He had left her the
night before just at twilight, but a new feeling possessed him as he
saw her now sitting so quietly, yet so firmly on the little pony he had
broken and trained for her until safe for her to ride.
Ever since the day his nose was broken, and she had come over to play
with him, she had possessed him absolutely and entirely, and no tree was
ever too high to climb for birds’ eggs for Dorothy; no briars ever too
sharp to hunt for the berries and flowers and nuts she liked the best,
and no trouble ever too great to take, if only she were pleased; but
it was simply as comrades, as boy and girl, that they had played and
quarreled and made up again, but to-day it was different. Bobbie felt it,
but did not understand—he only had a fierce desire to take that gawk of
a fellow, John Coxe, away with him—he would be finding all the flowers
that Dorothy loved, and would get all the chinquapins and chestnuts from
Pebble Hollow now, and he would be far, far away. They had both been
shy and unlike themselves last night. Bobbie had slipped over early to
tell her good-bye, and they had stayed down at the spring until almost
dark and talked over all the foolish little nothings that neither was
interested in, and Bobbie had almost kicked out the toe of his boot
against the pebbles trying to appear natural. “I’m awfully sorry you’re
going,” said Dorothy, at last, making a desperate effort, however, to
look as if she did not mind much. “There won’t be anything to do now
except to think about Christmas, and after Christmas the summer, and
that seems like a hundred years off,” and as the blankness all came over
her, she threw herself down on the grass and forgot to make believe
anything except that she was lonely and miserable, and didn’t want Bobbie
to go, and in a minute he was down there beside her, and both were
fighting desperately hard to keep back the tears, and Bobbie tried to say
something to her and he couldn’t—he could only choke and then get angry
with himself, and then he told her he must go, and he put his arms around
her and kissed her.
And now when he saw her sitting so easily on her horse, waiting for him,
his heart gave a great leap. They merely nodded to each other, and Dr.
Trevillian became actually merry and jolly in his efforts to keep up
the spirits of the party. He would miss the lad sorely. He knew how his
old friend’s heart ached at the thought of sending his boy out into the
world, and he felt keenly for him, but it would never do to show it now.
Dorothy and Bobbie talked but little, and soon they reached the point
where they must separate. Bobbie took off his hat and shook hands with
Dr. Trevillian. “I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor,” he said in his
frank, fearless way, “Will you let Dorothy write to me sometimes, and
will you object to my telling her about the college, and the boys, etc.?
I wouldn’t expect her to do it often,” he went on, trying to repress the
eagerness in his voice, “but I would thank you very much.” Dr. Trevillian
looked a little taken back at this modest request, and he hesitated a
moment, and then he saw Bobbie’s eager face and Dorothy’s flushed one,
and he thought it would be no harm. “Very well,” he said, “I will make
it a reward of merit, if you make a certain average with your studies,
of which your father will tell me, and Dorothy makes the same with hers,
once a month you shall each send a letter—is that satisfactory?” and the
Doctor wrung the boy’s hand until it almost hurt.
“Perfectly,” answered Bobbie, returning the pressure gratefully, “and I
thank you very much. I promise you my letters will always come—will you
promise also, Dorothy?”
And Dorothy nodded, and without waiting to say good-bye, touched her
horse with her whip, and was far down the road before her father had
finished shaking hands with Mr. Tayloe.