Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity for him. Surely this quiet must dull his nerves so used to spurring, and he find the jog-trot of the days’ monotony an insupportable experience. That Elliott belonged to the world, loved it, none knew better than himself. He had revelled in its delights with the indifferent thought, “Time enough for fireside happiness by-and-by.” His interest in life had been little more than that which a desire for achievement occasions in an energetic mind.
In spite of his past association, his past carelessness, this moment found him going over the most trivial event that had the slightest connection with Dorothy Carr. He tried to recall every word, every look of hers. Often when he had had a particularly hard day’s work, it rested him to stop and take supper with the Carrs. The sight of their home life fascinated him. He had never known happy family life; he had little conception of what a pure, genial home might be. The simple country customs, the common interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty—all these were new to him, and impressed him forcibly. And how like one of them he had got to feel walking in the front hall often, hanging up his hat, and reading the evening papers if the folks were out, and sometimes when Aunt Chloe told him where Dorothy had gone, he felt the natural inclination to go in pursuit of her. He remembered once finding her ankle deep in the warm lush garden grasses, pulling weeds out from her flowers, and he had actually got down and helped her. That was a very happy hour; the freshness of the sweet air gave her unconventional garb a genuine loveliness—gave him a sense of manliness and mastery which he had not felt in the old life. How infinitely sweet she looked! Something about her neatness, grace and order typified to him that palladium of man’s honor and woman’s affection—the home. She appealed to the heart and that appeal has no year, no period, no fashion.
Daylight was dying now; he looked longingly towards the gray gables, the only indication of the Carr homestead. Afar beyond the range of woodland the day’s great stirrup cup was growing fuller. Up from the slow moving river came a breath of cool air, and beyond the landline quivered the green of its willows. Dusk had fallen—the odorous dusk of the Southland. In the distance somewhere sounds of sweet voices of the negroes singing in the summer dark, their music mingling with the warm wind under the stars. The night with its soft shadings held him—he leaned long against the window and listened.
CHAPTER XI.
“Whar’s dat bucket? Whar’s dat bucket? Here it is done sun up an’ my cows aint milked yit!”
Aunt Chloe floundered round in a hurry, peering among the butter bowls and pans on the bench, in search of her milk bucket.
“I’se ransacked dis place an’ it kyant be paraded,” she said, placing her hands on her ample hips to pant and wonder. Meanwhile she could hear the impatient lowing of the cows and the hungry bleating of the calves from their separate pens. Presently her thick lips broadened into a knowing smile.
“Laws ter gracious! If Miss Dorothy aint kyard my las’ ling’rin basket an’ bucket to dem cherry trees. She ’lowed to beat de birds dar. Do she spec me to milk in my han’? I’m gwine down dar an’ git dat.”
Here she broke off with a second laugh, and with a natural affection in the midst of her hilarity, which had its tender touch with it.
“I’se lyin’! I’d do nuthin’ ob de sort. If she’d wanted me ter climb dem trees myself I’d done it even if I’d knowed I’d fall out and bust my ole haid.”