"Even so, Love, even so!
Whither thou goest, I will go."
SO THE boy continued driving on and on, loitering in the faint
sweet-smelling May afternoon.
At first after having left the farm his heart had been troubled and his
mind uneasy, burdened by an unconscious wave of sex weariness.
"Lord," he said aloud once, "seems such a pity you didn't make all
critturs the same sex; I ain't carin' which, male or female, seein' what
a lot of trouble we might all then 'a' been saved."
Naturally, so far as Ambrose himself was concerned, he was through with
the dangers lurking in feminine society forever! He even intended
confessing this conviction to his friend and partner, Miner, as soon as
they should be alone together, for even at the moment of his resolution
had not the boy's subliminal self whispered that he might need
strengthening later on?
After getting well away from his danger zone, however, Ambrose had
chosen that the remainder of his spring journey should lie through an
unfamiliar part of the state, and so had turned his horse into every
likely lane presenting itself until by degrees the ever-increasing
beauty of the landscape wrought its effect upon his susceptible soul.
The houses along his route were finer than those of his own
neighbourhood and, being placed farther back, showed only a chimney, or
the white fluted column of a veranda every now and then beyond the
closely planted avenues of beech or maple trees. Sounding across the
fields came the voices of the darkies closing their day's tasks with
songs. Truly this Kentucky was a happy land in the days before the war,
and on this afternoon there were myriads of the soft, green growing
things toward which Ambrose's young spirit had yearned,--acres of corn
just creeping above the mould, and miles of tiny tobacco plants.
Then unexpectedly this character of landscape disappeared, and old Liza
trotted on to a hard white turnpike. The twilight was closing down, but
a toll-gate keeper showed himself a few yards ahead, and then a cluster
of small stores. Afterward there was nothing further to interest Ambrose
until he drove straight up to a big building surrounded by a high fence
and set in the middle of a grassless yard without the influence of a
tree or vine near it and where from the inside came the murmur of
children's voices hushed to a pathetic, uniform note.
The boy knew the place at once for a county orphan asylum, and being
what he was, reflected. In times past he had seen these same orphans led
through the streets of Pennyroyal, a dreary set of little human beings,
dressed alike and made to keep step like a chain gang. "Glory," he
whispered, "here am I running away from the fear of havin' to keep step
with _one_ person; what if I had been made to keep step with so many?"
The next moment brought him nearly opposite a woodpile, and there he
slowed up, for he thought that he heard a noise behind it sounding like
a scared sheep or lamb.
"Stop!" What looked like a child's figure instantly rose and ran toward
him. "Hide me!" she gasped; "oh, please be quick and don't ask
questions." And the girl clung so tightly to the spokes of the gig wheel
that had the young man driven on she must have been dragged like a slave
at his chariot.
But of course he did no such thing. "Hop in," he replied cheerfully.
Then, while the child crouched shivering and panting against his knee
under the thin laprobe, Ambrose whistled to indicate his entire lack of
concern in this latest adventure, and also to suggest that he rode
alone.
Pretty soon, however, he began wondering what character of person he had
rescued and from what or from whom she was running away, it being
characteristic of Ambrose that first he had done what was required of
him, and later had desired to ask questions. In the haste and
semi-darkness it had been impossible to tell whether the child was a
gypsy or a mere ordinary waif, and she had looked so young--twelve or a
little more perhaps. There was nothing much to judge by except that she
was little and light and that her eyes were dark and shiny and she had
two braids of long hair. But by and by of its own accord the figure
under the laprobe started talking. "Don't let anybody take me
away,--say you ain't seen me if they come along," she pleaded in such a
tone that it was only possible for Ambrose to give a reassuring pat to
her head and then to drive more rapidly along. Once when there was a
moment of unusual stillness he did peep under the laprobe, only to catch
sight of a pair of grateful eyes upturned to his and to jerk back his
hand from the touch of cold lips.
Fifteen minutes of what had seemed totally unnecessary hiding, as there
were few vehicles abroad on the turnpike at this late hour, and then
both the occupants of the gig heard a furious pounding of a horse's
hoofs behind them and knew that something or some one was being pursued.
The girl's clasp tightened, and Ambrose could catch, not the words, but
the sound of a prayer. Harder than ever before in all their ten years of
friendly intimacy the boy now spurred on old Liza. It might have been
just as well had he known why he was being thus chivalrous, but there
had been no opportunity so far for finding out, and everything in
Ambrose played gallantly with this new adventure. He was still a boy
with a boy's love of mischief, of hiding, of winning in any kind of
game, and susceptibility to instant sympathy.
Old Liza was a retired racehorse, and although her retirement dated some
years back, still she was subject to spurts of speed. However, the best
of spurts won't hold out long, and soon her driver realized that the
wagon behind was gaining on him every moment.
"Keep still!" he ordered, deliberately pulling up short in the middle of
the road. With a quick movement, seeing that the truant was completely
hidden, he set his carpet-bag up on his lap, and, opening it, began
rummaging among its contents. When the other wagon was within hailing
distance he turned slowly about.
"Thank the Lord for trifles, stranger," he called. "I wonder now if you
would mind pausin' and givin' me a light; I got my pipe and tobacco"--he
held out an old-time corncob pipe--"but maybe you be hurryin' on to a
sick person."
Naturally the other man hesitated. Ambrose's solemn long face was fairly
plain to view, also his manner of having all eternity before him. Eying
him suspiciously, the newcomer thrust forth his own lighted pipe,
Ambrose managing to keep his carpet-bag between them.
"You ain't seen anything of a runaway girl?" the man asked.
Ambrose nodded with irritating precision, the time being consumed in
scrutiny of his questioner's face. The man had lantern jaws, small, hard
eyes, and an expression of official authority peculiarly annoying to
certain members of the laity.
"There was a girl a piece back hidin' behind a woodpile; thought maybe
she was playin' hide and seek." Here the speaker laughed. "Reckon you
suspicioned she was a pretty fair runner if you're chasin' a girl along
the high-road with that horse. Most any human would have had the sense
to hide." Here the reins flapped on old Liza's back and she took a few
steps forward.
Evidently Ambrose's words had not been without effect, for the stranger
did not hurry on at once, neither did he reveal any misgiving in
connection with the young man nor the amount of property being
transported at the front of his gig, for the country people of that day
were accustomed to doing their own carrying.
Safety with honours! A smile began playing about Ambrose's face, when
suddenly a kind of miniature convulsion shook his leg, followed by a
choking, spluttering noise that was plainly a terrified sneeze.
And instantly the hand of the man in the wagon reached forward, but he
was not within reaching distance, and at the same instant Ambrose,
seizing hold of his passenger, made a flying leap from the gig. Then
catching the girl's hand in his he ran with her, ran gloriously, hardly
conscious of the light figure being drawn along. All day his long legs
had been cramped with sitting still; this, then, was the thing that he
had most desired: leaping ditches, tearing across ploughed fields to the
woods ahead, with the frightened girl panting but keeping close to his
side, and behind them the enraged, shouting figure of officialdom.
Once in the woods the hiding was easy; twisting in and out among the
trees not only did Ambrose lose his pursuer, but himself. For if he had
counted on anything, which he probably had not, it was that the man
would not run after them for any length of time, leaving his fast horse
to stand in the road.
Finally, the girl and boy both dropped down on the ground. The long May
twilight was past, still they could see the outlines of each other's
forms, and Ambrose could hear the beating of the girl's heart against
her frock like the fluttering of an imprisoned moth.
He could not help reassuring her. "You're safe, sis, don't worry," he
drawled. "Keep still and maybe in a minute I'll find some water."
But she would not let him leave her, and tagged along until they finally
discovered a little stream. Then, as Ambrose had some stale bread in his
pocket, together they feasted for a short time, when, as the moon of the
night before had come out again a trifle larger, Ambrose decided to
inquire concerning his companion's plans. She now seemed entirely
peaceful, and, though rested, had made no mention of moving along.
However, for some time longer he watched her with that solemn stare of
his. She was chattering gayly enough about nothing ("there was never a
time when a female wouldn't be able to talk," he thought), but by and
by she _must_ be interrupted.
"I wonder now," he said when there was no longer any sound either of
fear or fatigue in her voice, "if you would kindly be tellin' me which
way you would like to be goin' and what friends you was plannin' to run
to to-night when I picked you up back on the road? I ain't to say
acquainted with this part of the country, but I reckon I can help to
find them. It's gettin' late and I ain't easy in my mind about Liza."
For some absurd reason he felt himself placed upon the defensive.
The girl was shaking her head. "I ain't no friend but you."
Ambrose whistled. "Well, bein's as I am what one might call a recently
adopted friend, maybe you'll so much as tell me where you're thinkin' of
spendin' the night."
"I ain't thinkin'," was the answer, and at this Ambrose swore softly,
though you may count on his having sworn under his breath.
"Look here, you got to tell me a straight story. I ought to 'a' made you
before," he confessed. "I reckon I knew you were runnin' away from that
orphan asylum and I kind of wanted to help, even more when that fellow
came after you, but we can't go traipsin' around all night, and I got to
find Liza. You oughtn't to have run away from a good asylum if you
hadn't no friends."
Ambrose knew himself for a liar before the girl on the ground began
rocking herself back and forth with her hands clasped over her knees.
"I ought to, I ought to, I ought to," she repeated until her words had
the swaying influence of a chant. "You know nothin' about it. I have
been in that place so long I can't remember anywheres else. How can I
have friends? I don't know nobody, I don't love nobody, I ain't nobody!
Why, there's mornings when I get up and lookin' at the other orphans,
seein' we are dressed alike and got to do the same things at the same
time all day, I begin to think maybe there ain't any _me_. I'm just one
of them--any one." She began crying now, but that did not interrupt her
passionate speech. "I've been thinkin' of runnin' away a long time.
P'raps I'll have a hard time; I don't care. Ain't I a right to find
out?"
And this of course the young man could not answer, so he only passed his
hand over his brow. "Well, you might 'a' stayed at the asylum a little
longer," and then because he was Ambrose, "or at least till I got safely
past that woodpile."
"I was too old," she defended. "I ought not to have stayed so long as I
did, only nobody knew what to do with me." She was looking up into her
companion's face close, that she might find something more of help in
it. "Maybe you know some one that might want me? I know lots of things,
cleanin' and cookin' some----" She would like to have continued to pour
out her poor list of accomplishments, but Ambrose stopped her.
For some time the fear had been growing upon him that the child he
believed himself to have rescued was not so much a child as he had first
supposed. Of course he had never seen her very plainly and there was
nothing to judge by in her short, scant dress. "Would you mind," he now
inquired, "tellin' me just about how old you are?"
"Sixteen."
Ambrose groaned. For in Kentucky half a century ago, you must remember,
sixteen was thought an age nearer that of a woman than of a girl.
"Then I've got to take you back to the orphans," he announced.
However, his declaration had not even the distinction of being listened
to, for the girl, with her chin sunk in her clasped hands, was plainly
thinking of something else. Now she put one hand timidly on his coat
sleeve, and Ambrose could see that she had a curiously pointed chin and
that her eyes were like deep wells with the moonlight shining down into
them. "Maybe you'll tell me where _you're_ thinkin' of stayin' the
night?"
"The Lord knows _only_." And here yesterday's adventurer had a sudden
vision of himself setting forth on his journey to be alone with nature.
On the morning of the second day he had been almost caught in a trap of
his own setting, and now at nightfall was probably in a worse fix. "I
had been thinkin', though, of spendin' the night somewhere peaceful-like
in the woods," he growled.
The girl clapped her hands together and, yawning, drew closer to her
new friend, almost as if she meant to rest her head upon his shoulder.
"Then let me stay with you, please," she begged, and Ambrose could feel
her warm breath on his cheek. "The woods is big and there's plenty of
room for me, too. I shan't be afraid with you, and I've never seen the
stars, except through the window."
The boy rose. "No," he said harshly, "you can't stay alone in the woods
at night with me. I reckon before this I understood you didn't know
nothing."
Half an hour afterward they found old Liza cropping grass, a little off
the main road where they had left her. When both of them had returned to
the gig Ambrose drove on in silence with an uncommonly bored face.
Later the moon went behind a cloud and a light mist fell, and then the
girl's body began swaying gently backward and forward. Once she fell too
far forward, when, still frowning, her companion slipped an arm about
her, and a moment later she was fast asleep with her head resting on his
shoulder.
Ambrose breathed deeply of the odour of the fresh wet earth. It was
like the perfume of her young body; the moist curls about her face like
the damp tendrils of new vines. Soon the boy's shoulder ached, and his
entire left side, including his leg, seemed to have gone to sleep. Now
and then he wondered if it ever should wake again in this world; and yet
try as he might Ambrose Thompson could not make up his mind that he
actually disliked the presence of the girl with him, and never from
youth to old age had he the talent for deceiving himself.
"Poor kid," he murmured more than once, "she must 'a' been lyin' awake
nights plannin' to run away, with no place on God's earth to run to."
Seldom did he allow himself the pleasure of looking long at her, and
only once did his lips move toward hers, and then, though his face
worked, they were drawn sharply back.
"Lord!" he whispered after this, "whatever shall I do with her?" A
stranger in that part of the country himself, he knew of no one to ask
to shelter the girl, and take her back to the asylum he would not.
Should he turn her over to a stranger she would promptly be sent back
there in the morning. Yet here were the lights of a village showing
close ahead of them, and every now and then old Liza stumbled, almost
falling from weariness.
Ambrose's prayer half awakened the girl. Anyhow, she sat up for a moment
rubbing her eyes, to hear him asking: "Whatever is your name?"
"Sarah," and then her head swayed again.
But Ambrose sat straight up giving his reins an unexpected joyous flap.
"Glory, why ain't I thought of it before?" he asked of no one. Then
aloud: "When Abraham drew near to the land of the Egyptians didn't he
admonish Sarah, his wife, to say she was his sister that it might be
well with him and that his soul should live?" He grinned silently. "I'm
findin' the patriarchs pretty useful this trip, but I reckon if Abraham
could say that his wife Sarah was his sister to save his _own_ skin, I
can tell the same kind of a one to save a girl."
"Wake up, Sarah," he urged, when a few moments later he drew rein before
a red brick tavern door, "and if anybody asks questions, recollect you
are to say you're my sister."
However, on that same evening, when Sarah put up her lips for a sister's
good night kiss, it was the boy who turned away. There was something in
this girl that called to him too strongly, something fragrant and as yet
unawakened, and then he had not dreamed she was so pretty, with her
scarlet cheeks and big, heavy-lidded eyes, some poor little child of Eve
from a far different land than his blond Kentucky. It looked, too, as
though the little force the girl had, had now spent itself in her one
effort of running a way, and hereafter some one would surely have to
look after her. "Not only had she never been taught at the asylum to
think for herself," the boy reflected, "she ain't never even been
allowed to."
Nevertheless the girl slept untroubled in her high-post bed in the best
guest chamber of the tavern, while Ambrose in a tiny room close under
the roof, lay awake for a long time. He was not in the woods alone as he
had dreamed of being, and yet he was not unhappy. He was not listening
to the voices of nature as he knew her, but to the stirrings of his own
blood, to the beating of his own heart.
More than once in order to stay his restlessness Ambrose had risen from
his bed and stood leaning and looking out of his window at the stars and
breathing deep the odours of the night. Still he could see nor feel
nothing except the presence of the strange girl near him, the appeal of
her utter helplessness. And yet the boy did not understand that the song
of life he had come forth to hear was being sung to him for the first
time to-night. For he only kept repeating to himself over and over:
"Whatever am I to do with her, poor little kid?" until he also fell
asleep.