“They’re a-comin’!” he shouted. “They’re a-comin’! They’re in a fine carriage.”
“Let Tom D’Willerby alone for havin’ the finest team in Hamlin,” said Mr. Doty, with a neighbourly grin.
Almost immediately the carriage was to be seen. The horses lifted their feet high, and stepped at a pace which was felt worthy of the occasion. Uncle Matt drove. Rupert and Sheba sat side by side. They looked very young and beautiful, and rather shy. They had only been married a few hours, and were bewildered by the new radiance of things. Big Tom humanely endeavoured not to look at them, but found it difficult to avert his eyes for any length of time. There was that about them which drew his gaze back in spite of himself.
“That’s old Tom!” he heard familiar voices proclaim, as they drew near the Post-office. “Howdy, Tom! Howdy, Sheby! Wish ye much joy! Wish ye much joy!”
Then the horses stopped, and the crowd of long-known faces surged near and were all about the carriage. The clamour of the greeting voices, the grasping of one hand after another seemed to Sheba and Rupert like something happening in a dream. They were too far away from earth to feel it real just now, though it was part of the happiness of things—like the sunshine and the soft wind and the look in Tom’s eyes, when, amid hand-shakes and congratulations, and welcoming laughter, he himself laughed back in his old way.
“Ye look jest like ye used ter, Tom—jest like ye used ter,” cried Jake Doty. “Ye hain’t changed a durned bit!”
How did the day pass? Who knows? What does it matter? It was full of strange beauty, and strange happiness, and strange life for two young souls at least. People came and went, congratulating, wondering, rejoicing. Talbot’s Cross-roads felt that it had vicariously come into the possession of wealth and dignity of position. Among the many visitors, Mrs. Stamps rode up on a clay-bank mare. She was attired in the black calico riding-skirt and sunbonnet which represented the mourning garb of the mountain relict.
“I’m a widder,” she said to big Tom, in a tone not unresigned. “Ye got yer claim through, but Stamps hadn’t no influence, an’ he was took off by pneumony. Ketched cold runnin’ to Linthicum, I guess. His landlady was a honest enough critter. She found a roll o’ five hundred dollars hid in his bed when she went to lay him out, an’ she sent it back to me. Lord knows whar he got it from—I don’t. But it come in mighty handy.”
By sunset the welcoming crowd had broken up and melted away into the mountains. Horses and ox-waggons had been mounted and ridden or driven homeward. The Post-office was closed; no one was to be seen in the porch. No one was to be seen anywhere except in the garden among the blossoms where Rupert and Sheba walked under the fragrance of the trees, talking to each other in low, softly broken words.