Like most country folks, my new friends went to bed shortly after
sundown. About nine o'clock, I took my pipe and my tobacco-pouch, and
crept noiselessly out to the front porch. I had noticed a quaint settee
there upon my arrival that morning, and I had no trouble in finding it
now, for a ghostly moonlight had settled over everything. My mind was
confronted by a question of decidedly more moment than any under which
it had at any time before labored, and I had to think it out before I
could sleep. If my cherished and faithful pipe, together with solitude
and the wondrous silence of a night in spring, could not bring a
solution to me, then the question was certainly beyond me.
"--And'll be home the fifth of June, God bless her!"
I think they were the last distinct words I heard at that meal. I
remember mumbling something about the pleasure in store for me, and
while my tongue pronounced this statement, my conscience denounced me as
a liar. It would be no pleasure. An upstart of a boarding-school girl,
with her airy ways, her college slang and her ear-piercing laughter,
tearing around the house like a young cyclone, having girl friends and
boy friends hanging around continually,--the thought was not
encouraging, and I groaned in spirit, and puffed away, setting misty
shallops afloat upon the sea of moonlight. And these little shallops
must have borne away as cargo my fretting and my fears, for presently I
fell into a philosophic mood, and the future looked brighter. One thing
was sure--I could not run away. That would be cowardice, as well as an
affront to hospitality. And did the worthy man snoring in a near-by room
once know that I thought of leaving because his idol was coming, he
would doubtless hasten my departure by turning loose upon me the pack of
fox-hounds I had heard clamoring for their supper a few hours before.
And, too, there were five weeks yet before this wonderful being would
arrive. During this time I would walk, and accustom myself to riding,
and when this paragon did come, I would leave her in full and free
possession of the house throughout the day. It was not near so bad as it
had looked at first. By eleven o'clock I felt able to sleep, if not
entirely reconciled to the new order of things. "Sufficient unto the
day--" I thought, with a sigh, and knocking the ashes from my cold pipe
into the palm of my hand, I threw them over the railing of the porch,
and went to bed.
The days passed for me now like a procession of pleasant dreams. The
more I became acquainted with my host and hostess, the more I identified
myself with their way of living, and the more I realized that I had
fallen among people of exceedingly gentle blood. They were aristocratic,
and perhaps a little too high headed for their near neighbors, and had
but few callers, and no visitors. The practically limitless farm was
under the direct general supervision of old Henry Grundy, and he was
consequently a very busy man, and seldom at home except at meal-times. I
soon learned that the slaves all loved him, for he was slow to anger,
and always just. Out of the thirty negroes on the place, I was given a
youth of perhaps eighteen to be my body-servant. He was to black my
boots, keep my clothes dusted, hold my stirrup, take care of my horse,
and do anything else I wanted him to do. This negro I dubbed Inky, in
deference to his pronounced color.
I was allowed to sleep late in the morning,--a privilege for which I was
grateful. Often I would accompany the master on his tours of inspection,
riding a dapple-gray gelding which was placed at my disposal, and which
was exceedingly well behaved, as became an animal of his good breeding.
Then solitary walks became part of my daily routine. Accompanied only by
Fido, and carrying a walking-stick of stout hickory, I explored the
hills and valleys which stretched for miles in every direction.
Oftentimes I was gone all day, and the good people whom I had begun
almost to love were very indulgent to me, never complaining when I was
late to a meal, or when my roving spirit kept me out till after
nightfall. I had a key to the front door, and was careful to enter
noiselessly on these occasions. I had never been back to Springfield,
and so had had no opportunity to upbraid Reuben for his treachery. But,
indeed, upon rereading his letter, I saw that he had told me the truth,
and at the same time had made me the victim of a joke. These people had
no children, and my friend had simply forbore mentioning the adopted
daughter.
Salome,--a beautiful name and an unusual one. I found myself thinking
upon it one afternoon, as I lay stretched upon a bed of moss in one of
the deepest recesses of the hills. I had never heard it before out of
the Scriptures. She who wore it ought to be a beautiful girl. "Salome,
Salome," I caught myself murmuring, gazing dreamily up through the
lace-like young foliage above me to where two fluffy clouds were
wandering arm in arm along the pathways of the air. What would she look
like, this Salome? Would she be fair or dark, and would her ways be
gentle or tomboyish? A sudden realization of the trend of my thoughts
made my cheeks tingle ever so slightly, and I brought my eyes to bear
upon Fido. This ever-restless canine had chased a timid little
ground-squirrel into a hole when we first arrived at this spot, and had
subsequently torn up enough leaves and dirt to fill a moderate-size
grave in his efforts to dislodge his quarry. He did not know that I was
watching him, and his antics were therefore perfectly natural. He had
dug a slanting ditch perhaps a foot deep in the soft loam, and when my
eyes fell upon him had stopped for a moment to get his wind. He stood
planted firmly on his four short legs, his tail vibrating incessantly,
like the pendulum of a clock. His muzzle was grimy with soil; his head
cocked on one side, and his ears pricked, while his beady little eyes
narrowly watched the hole before him. His lolling tongue was dripping,
and he was panting like a lizard. And I thought to myself, if men would
attack an obstacle like that dumb brute, there would be fewer failures
in life. All at once, and without warning, the pup leaped to the attack
once more, and the way he worked would have done credit to a galley
slave. His shoulders undulated with the ferocity of his movements, and
dirt flew in a shower from between his hind legs. Now and again he would
pause, and thrust his nose as far up in the hole as he could get it. A
moment thus, while the wagging tail still moved, then he would draw
back, snort the dirt from his nostrils, and with an eager whine renew
his efforts.
With the deepening shadows came the thought that I was several miles
from home, so I arose reluctantly, picked up my stick, and, with Fido
limping at my heels, walked slowly back through the enchanted aisles of
Nature.
The Saturday night following, a week before her arrival, I heard the
story of Salome.
I was on the old settee after supper, as usual. Here I always came to
smoke my pipe after the evening meal. Somewhat to my surprise, Mr.
Grundy came out and sat down beside me. Frequently he and his wife came
out for a short time in the early evening, but this night it was nearly
nine o'clock when I heard the old gentleman's heavy step in the hall. I
made room for him when I saw that it was his intention to sit down, and
offered him my tobacco, for I saw that he held a cob pipe in his
hands,--another unusual thing. He took my tobacco in silence, and in
silence filled his pipe and lit it. I felt that he had something to say
to me, so I waited patiently, and we both puffed away.
"S'lome's comin' a week from to-night," he said, at last. His voice was
softer than I had ever heard it, and a caressing note lurked in it.
"Seems a long time to us since she went away last September. S'lome's
comin' home," he repeated, as though the very sentence brought joy.
"It's right for me to tell you 'bout her, Stone, since you're to be one
of us for quite a spell. It's a sort o' sad story, but me an' mother've
tried to make her forget the beginning of her life. It may be that you
don't like young girls much, seein' that you've never married, but
there'll be a kind spot in your heart for S'lome when you hear 'bout
her. You see, it began away back yonder when I was a young fellow at
school. Bob Summerton was a classmate of mine, and my best friend. His
one prevailin' weakness was a woman's pretty face. He was a poor fellow,
and had no business marryin' when he did. His wife, highly connected,
but without any near relations, was killed in a railway accident. Their
little girl, who had been born six months before, escaped unhurt. Bob
was a Kentuckian, from the soles of his feet up, and one day, when
S'lome was only three years old, he was shot by a coward for defending a
woman's good name. He telegraphed me to come, and I reached him in time
for him to consign to my keepin' the child soon to be orphaned again. It
nearly broke my heart, Stone,"--the strong man choked back something in
his throat,--"but even at that tender age the young thing's grief was
pitiful. I brought her here, and me and mother--well, we've done what we
could to make her happy--God bless her!"
The last words were in a husky whisper, and I knew that tears which had
started from the heart were glistening in the eyes of that grand old
gentleman.
"She's not so big, and she's not so little," he went on, presently, for
I knew of nothing to say at this juncture. "Just kind o' medium size,
and as sweet as the Lord's blessed sunshine. She ain't ashamed to keep
the house clean, and help mother, either. It's always May-time 'bout the
old place when she's here, Stone. She's tender-hearted as a lamb, and'll
nuss a chicken with the gapes for half a day. But the horse don't run
on this farm that she's afraid to ride. And when me or mother are
ailin', she'll sit by us night and day--says she's 'fraid to trust a
nigger with medicine. And she's got our hearts so 't they'd almost stop
beatin' if she told 'em to. She's ridden on a load o' hay many a time,
and has gone to the wheat-field to help us with the thrashin'. And she's
comin' home next Saturday, Stone."
He stopped again, and I knew that he was thinking. Presently he arose,
and stretched his arms with a yawn.
"You'll like her, Stone, if you're a human. Good-night."
"Good-night," I answered, and his heavy boots thumped across the porch
to the hall door.
That night, for the first time in my life, a girl's face crept into my
dreams.