August came. It was half gone ere I realized that she would go back to
Bellwood early in September. How and where the days had gone I could not
tell. Week after week had slipped by, and, forgetting that time was
passing, I lived in my fool's paradise, and gave no thought to the days
that were speeding away on silken wings. Harvest had come and gone; the
fierce heat of a Kentucky summer made the days sultry, but the nights
were good to live. I had lived through it all as in a kind of waking
dream. But in the worship-chamber of my heart I had built an altar, and
on it was placed the first and only love of my life. The fire which
glowed there was as pure as Easter dawn, yet it was as intense as the
still white heat you may see in a furnace. And the time was coming when
she would go away.
One night I wandered, restless, down into the tree-grown yard. We had
sat together that night, as usual, but my lips had been mute. The time
had come when there was but one thing to say, and I had resolved not to
say it. And so she had left me early, saying, in her impetuous way, that
I was unsociable. Back and forth the long avenue I paced, thinking of
the day she came home, of the many, many times we had been together;
thinking of the pure, unselfish, Christian womanhood which crowned her
with its consecrating light. Back and forth, back and forth, and her
sweet young face burned itself into my mind with every step I took. Down
the avenue, then up, and I leaned against the corrugated trunk of an
oak, and fastened my eyes upon the windows of her room. The blinds were
drawn, but she was up, for a light showed through them. Salome!
Salome!--that was the one thought of my mind, the one bitter cry from my
aching heart. There was a shadow on the curtain; a bare, uplifted arm
was silhouetted against it. God bless you, Salome! My Salome!
Good-night!
The next day I kept to my room, sending word that my head was troubling
me. In the afternoon I went out and sat upon the porch, turning my
troubled face towards the peaceful west. The sun was sinking, swathed in
purple robes. Far stretching on either side were azure seas, with
dun-colored islands dotting their broad expanses. Below me wound the
dusty pike, like a yellow ribbon, flanked on one side by the half-dry
creek, and on the other by a field of tasselled corn. A crow sat upon
the dead limb of a sycamore, and cawed, and cawed, in noisy unrest. The
weight which had been placed upon my breast two months before seemed
like a millstone now. The consciousness of hopelessness made it heavier
than before.
"Has your headache gone, Mr. Stone?"
She had come to the doorway without my knowledge, and now advanced
towards me with a tender, questioning look upon her face.
"Yes," I answered in quiet desperation, turning my face from her. "The
pain has gone to my heart."
She stood beside me, silently, and I felt the muscles hardening in my
cheeks, as I shut my jaws tight to keep back the flood of words which
rushed to my lips, and clamored for utterance. Presently I felt that I
could speak rationally.
"How long before you return to school?"
"Three weeks; I wish I did not have to go."
"Let's walk down to the grape-vine swing," I proposed abruptly, turning
to her with set face.
She held her sunbonnet in her hand,--the same bonnet she always wore out
of doors about the farm,--and she settled it on her brown, fluffy hair
as I arose. The swing was in one corner of the yard, quite away from the
house, and it had come to be one of our favorite resorts at twilight.
This afternoon she occupied it, as was her custom, and I sat at the base
of a walnut tree close by her. Something had fallen upon her usually gay
spirits, and checked the outpourings of her mind. She sat silent,
holding to the arms of her swing, and looking with earnest eyes out over
the varied landscape. I watched her, while the fierce pulsings of my
temples blurred my eyes, and made her seem as in a sea of mist. The
noises of the day had lulled to echoes. The peace of a summer twilight
was stealing stealthily over all the land. From a far-off pasture came
the silvery tinkle of a sheep-bell; the unutterably mournful cooing of a
dove was borne from the forest. The whispering leaves above us rustled
gently before the approach of the Angel of the Dusk. The sylvan solitude
became as an enchanted spot where none were living but she and I.
Why--oh, why could it not last forever, just as it was that moment! But
Time does not halt for love or hate, and she was going away,--out of my
life, to leave it as a barren rock in a burning desert. The intense
longing of my gaze caused her to turn towards me. She dropped her eyes,
while her cheeks grew rosy as the sunset.
"Salome!"
The sweet name fell in trembling accents from my lips. She caught her
breath quickly, but did not look up. I arose and stood before her, with
my hands clasped in front of me.
"I love you, Salome!" I said in husky tones, for my voice would barely
come. "You have called into life that love which God has given every
man. It possesses me as utterly as the winds of heaven possess the
earth. It has made me as weak as a child, and, like a child, I have told
you. I was not strong enough to keep it from you. Should you detest me
for giving way as I have, I would not blame you. I am a middle-aged man;
you are a little girl, and I have no right to ask anything from you.
Your life is before you; mine is over half spent. But I love you, and I
would die for you, Salome--Salome, my precious one!"
I turned from her, and set my teeth upon my lip, for my confession had
shaken my soul to its uttermost depths. Not for the earth, nor for
heaven would I have touched her white hand. Through the swirling blood
which benumbed my consciousness I felt a presence near me,--her
presence. I turned with a low cry. She was standing there, close to me.
Her bonnet had fallen off, and in the deep twilight her brown hair
glowed like an aureole about a saint. One swift, hurt, appealing glance
from her uplifted eyes, and she sank, quivering, upon my breast,
sobbing, "Abner! Abner!"
God of mercy, I thank thee! I thank thee!
* * * * *
Once more we sat on the steps. The bewitching beauty of the August night
lay around us. The yellow harvest moon sailed on as calmly as though it
were used to beholding lovers. I held her hand in a kind of stupefied
satisfaction, feeling as though under the spell of some powerful opiate.
She was so close to me!--the skirt of her gingham gown had fallen over
one of my feet. I touched her hair, so tenderly, and smoothed it back
from her pure forehead. How could it be? This young creature, so full of
life and health, encompassed with all that wealth and love could
give--to love me!--me, a simple bookworm and lover of Nature, who had
come into her life by chance. The golden hours of that enchanted night
still glow like letters of fire upon the web of memory. It was the one
perfect period in my quiet and uneventful existence,--the one brief time
when life was full, and I held to my lips the cup of all earthly
happiness. And the changing years cannot rob me of the recollection.