_ BOOK IV. THE DAY OF THE PLOUGH
CHAPTER XXXVI. AT THE GATEWAY
In a certain old Southern city there stands, as there has stood for many generations, and will no doubt endure for many more, a lofty mansion whose architecture dates back to a distant day. Wide and spacious, with lofty stories, with deep wings and many narrow windows, it rests far back among the ancient oaks, a stately memorial of a day when gentlemen demanded privacy and could afford it. From the iron pillars of the great gateway the white front of the house may barely be seen through avenues made by the trunks of the primeval grove. The tall white columns, reaching from gallery floor to roof without pause for the second lofty floor, give dignity to this old-time abode, which comports well with the untrimmed patriarchal oaks. Under these trees there lies, even today, a deep blue-grass turf which never, from the time of Boone till now, has known the touch of ploughshare or the tool of any cultivation.
It was the boast of this old family that it could afford to own a portion of the earth and own it as it came from the hand of Nature. Uncaught by the whirl of things, undisturbed essentially even by the tide of the civil war, this branch of an old Southern family had lived on in station unaffected, though with fortune perhaps impaired as had been those of many Southern families, including all the Beauchamp line.
To this strong haven of refuge had come Mary Ellen Beauchamp from the far-off Western plains, after the death of her other relatives in that venture so ill-starred. The white-haired old widow who now represented the head of the Clayton family--her kin somewhat removed, but none the less her "cousins," after the comprehensive Southern fashion--had taken Mary Ellen to her bosom, upbraiding her for ever dreaming of going into the barbarian West, and listening but little to the plea of the girl that poverty had driven her to the company of those who, like herself, were poor. Now, such had been the turn of the wheel, the girl was nearly as rich in money as her older relative, and able to assume what little of social position there remained in her ambition.
Mary Ellen was now well past twenty-seven, a tall, matured, and somewhat sad-faced woman, upon her brow written something of the sorrows and uncertainties of the homeless woman, as well as the record of a growing self-reliance. If Mary Ellen were happy or not none might say, yet surely she was dutiful and kind; and gradually, with something of the leadership she had learned in her recent life, she slipped into practical domestic command of this quiet but punctilious
menage. By reason of an equal executive fitness Aunt Lucy rose in the kitchen also into full command. The Widow Clayton found her cousin Mary Ellen a stay and comfort, useful and practical to a degree unknown in the education of the Southern young lady of the time.
Of her life in the West Mary Ellen spoke but little, though never with harshness, and at times almost with wistfulness. Her history had seemed too full of change to be reality. For the future she made no plans. It seemed to her to be her fate ever to be an alien, a looker-on. The roses drooped across her lattice, and the blue grass stood cool and soft and deep beyond her window, and the kind air carried the croon of the wooing mocking bird; yet there persisted in her brain the picture of a wide, gray land, with the sound of an urgent wind singing in the short, tufted grasses, and the breath of a summons ever on the air. Out there upon the Plains it had been ever morning. Here life seemed ever sinking toward its evening-tide.
This old family and the family house were accepted unquestioningly by the quiet Southern community now, as they had ever been, as a part of the aristocracy of the land, and as appurtenances there-to. The way of life had little change. The same grooms led out the horses from the stables, the same slow figures cut the grass upon the lawn. Yet no longer were the doors thrown open upon a sea of light and colour. The horses were groomed and broken, but they brought no great carriage of state sweeping up the drive between the lion-headed pillars of the gateway. When Mrs. Clayton feebly sought to propose brighter ways of life for the young woman, the latter told her gently that for her, too, life was planned and done, the struggle over, and that she asked only that she might rest, and not take up again any questions for readjustment.
"You will change after a while, honey," said her protectress; but Mary Ellen only smiled. It was enough to rest here in this haven, safe from the surging seas of doubt and hope and fear, of love and self-distrust. Let it be settled. Let it be ended. Let these tall white columns mark the grave of her heart. Let this wide sea of green mirror that which should one day lie above her bosom in this land of finished things. Let the great lion gates guard off all intrusion, all curiosity, even all well-intended courtesy. For her no cavalier should ever come riding up the gravelled way, nor should lights ever set dancing again the shadows in the great dining hall over the heads of guests assembled in her honour. It was done--finished. And Mary Ellen was not yet twenty-eight.
One morning the little street car stood, as was its wont, at the terminus of the track, near the front of the wide grounds of the old mansion house. This was far out upon the edge of the little city, and few were the patrons that might be expected; but it was held but mere courtesy to offer the services of the street-car line to this family, so long recognised as one of the unimpeachably best of this Southern city. This modern innovation of the street car was not readily taken up by the conservative community, and though it had been established for some years, it might be questioned whether its shares had ever paid much interest upon their face value. Now and then a negress with a laundry bundle, a schoolgirl with her books, a clerk hurrying to his counter, might stop the lazy mules and confer the benefit of an infrequent coin.
At this terminus of the line at the outskirts of the town there was each morning enacted the same little scene. The driver slowly unhitched his mules and turned them about to the other end of the car, in readiness for the return journey. Matters having progressed this far, the mules fell at once into a deep state of dejection and somnolence, their ears lopping down, their bodies drooping and motionless, save as now and then a faint swish of tail or wag of a weary ear bespoke the knowledge of some bold, marauding fly. The driver, perched upon his seat, his feet upon the rail, his knees pushed toward his chin, sat with his broad hat drawn down upon his forehead, his hands clasped between his legs, and all his attitude indicative of rest. Slow clouds of dust passed along the road near by, and the glare of the sun grew warm; but no motion came to either team or driver, undisturbed by any care and bound by no inconvenient schedule. From the big oaks came now and then the jangle of a jay, or there might be seen flitting the scarlet flame of the cardinal. These things were unnoted, and the hour droned on.
Presently from a side street, faced by a large brick dwelling, there came with regular and unhurried tread a tall and dignified figure, crowned with a soft Panama, and tapping with official cane. As it approached the car the driver straightened a trifle on the seat.
"Good mawnin', Judge Wilson," he said.
"Uh-ah, good mawnin', James," replied the judge. "Uh-ah, Doctah Gregg li'l late this mawnin', eh?"
"Yessah, seems like," said the driver, his head again falling.
In perhaps five or ten minutes, perhaps half an hour, there would be heard the tapping of another cane, and Dr. Gregg, also tall, not quite so portly, and wearing a white beaver instead of a soft Panama, would appear from the opening of yet another side street tributary to the car.
"Good mawnin', James," said the doctor as he passed; and the driver answered respectfully.
"Good mornin', Doctah. You li'l late this mornin', seems like."
"Well, yessah, I may be a leetle late, just a leetle.--Good mawnin', Judge; how are you this mawnin', sah?"
"Very well, Doctah, sah, thank you, sah. Step in an' seddown. Right wahm, this mawnin'. Uh-ah!"
So the judge and the doctor sat down in the car, and conversed, easily and in no haste, perhaps for five or ten minutes, perhaps for half an hour. Now and then the driver cast a glance out of the side of his eye over toward the lion-headed gates, but no one was uneasy or anxious. The mules were to apparent view very sad and still, yet really very happy within their souls.
"Young lady li'l late this mawnin', seems like," remarked the Judge.
"Oh, yes, but she'll be 'long direckly, I reckon," replied the doctor. "You know how 'bout these young folks. They don't always realize the impohtance o' pressin' business mattehs. But we must fo'give heh. Judge, we must fo'give heh, foh she suhtinly is well wo'th waitin' foh; yes indeed."
"Uh-ah! quite right, Doctah, quite right! Fine young lady, fine young lady. Old stock, yes indeed! Beechams o' Fehginny. Too bad Cousin Sarann Clayton keeps heh so close like. She fitten to be received, sah, to be received!"
"Yes, indeed," assented the doctor. "Yes, sah. Now, ain't that the young lady a-comin' down the walk?"
Judge and doctor and driver now turned their gaze beyond the lion-headed gateway to the winding walk that passed among the trees up to the old mansion house. Far off, through the great columns of the trees, there might indeed this morning now be seen the flutter of a gown of white. The faint sound of voices might be heard. Mary Ellen, conscientious marketer, was discussing joints and salads with her aunt. And then Mary Ellen, deliberately tying the strings of her bonnet under her chin, turned, answering her aunt's summons for replevin of a forgotten fan. Then, slowly, calmly, the gown of white became more distinct as she came nearer, her tall figure composing well with the setting of this scene. For her patiently waited the judge and the doctor and the driver.
"Good mawnin', Miss Beecham," said the driver as she passed, touching his hat and infusing more stiffness to his spine.
"Good morning, sir," she replied pleasantly.
"Uh-ah, good mawnin', Miss Beecham, good mawnin'," said Judge Wilson; and "Good mawnin'," said Dr. Gregg.
"Good morning, Judge Wilson," replied Mary Ellen, as she entered the car.--"Good morning, Dr. Gregg." The gentlemen made way for her upon the shady side of the car, and lifted their hats ceremoniously.
"L'il late this mawnin', Miss Beecham, seems like," said the judge, with no trace of resentment in his tones.
Dr. Gregg upon this morning began his customary reproach also, but it halted upon his tongue. "Miss Beecham," he said, "pardon me, allow me--are you ill?"
For Mary Ellen, settling herself for her regular morning ride with her regular companions, all at once went pale as she gazed out the window. She scarcely heard the kind remark. She was looking at a man--a tall man with a brown face, with broad shoulders, with a long, swinging, steady stride. This man was coming up the side of the street, along the path between the fence and the burdocks that lined the ditch. His shoes were white with the limestone dust, but he seemed to care nothing for his way of locomotion, but reached on, his head up, his eye searching eagerly.
Not with equipage, not mounted as a Southern cavalier, not announced, but in the most direct and swiftest way in his power had Edward Franklin come. Strong, eager, masterful, scorning the blazing sun, his reckless waste of energy marked him as a stranger in that place. He stopped at the gateway for one moment, looking up the path, and then turned swiftly toward the car as though called audibly.
As with a flash his face lighted, and he strode straight on toward a woman whose heart was throbbing in a sudden tumultuous terror. She saw him stoop at the car door, even as once before she had seen him enter at another lowly door, in another and far-off land. She felt again the fear which then she half admitted. But in a moment Mary Ellen knew that all fear and all resistance were too late.
The eyes of Franklin, direct, assured, almost sad, asked her no question, but only said, "Here am I!" And Mary Ellen knew that she could no longer make denial or delay. Her thoughts came rapid and confused; her eyes swam; her heart beat fast. Afar she heard the singing of a mocker in the oaks, throbbing, thrilling high and sweet as though his heart would break, with what he had to say.
Judge Wilson and Dr. Gregg politely removed their hats as Franklin entered the car and addressed Mary Ellen. Confused by the abruptness of it all, it was a moment before she recognised local requirements, and presented Franklin to the gentlemen. For an instant she planned flight, escape. She would have begged Franklin to return with her. Fate in the form of the driver had its way. "Git ep, mewel!" sounded from the front of the car. There was a double groan. A little bell tinkled lazily. The rusty wheels began slowly to revolve.
"It's an awful hour to call," admitted Franklin under the rumble of the wheels. "I couldn't get a carriage, and I hadn't any horse. There wasn't any car. Forgive me."
Part of this was open conversation, and Franklin made still further polite concessions to the company. Yes, he himself was a member of the bar--a very unworthy one. He had a relative who was a physician. A lovely city, this, which they had. Beautiful old places, these along the way. A rare and beautiful life, that of these old Southern families. Delightful, the South. He had always loved it in so far as he had ever known it, and he felt the better acquainted, having known Miss Beauchamp so well in her former home in the West. And the Judge said, "Uh-ah!" and the doctor bowed, looking the while with professional admiration at the chest and flank of this brown, powerful man, whose eye smote like a ray from some motor full of compressed energy.
Beyond this it is only to be said that both Judge and doctor were gentlemen, and loyal to beauty in distress. They both earned Mary Ellen's love, for they got off eight blocks sooner than they should have done, and walked more than half a mile in the sun before they found a place of rest.
"Oh, well, yessah, Judge," said Dr. Gregg, half sighing, "we were young once, eh, Judge?--young once ouhselves."
"Lucky dog!" said the judge; "lucky dog! But he seems a gentleman, and if he has propah fam'ly an' propah resources, it may be, yessah, it may be she's lucky, too. Oh, Northehn, yessah, I admit it. But what would you expeck, sah, in these times? I'm told theh are some vehy fine people in the No'th."
"Deep through," said the doctor, communing with himself. "Carries his trunk gran'ly. Splendid creatuah--splendid! Have him? O' co'se she'll have him! What woman wouldn't? What a cadaver! What a subjeck--"
"Good God! my dear sir!" said the judge. "Really!"
Meantime the dingy little car was trundling down the wide, sleepy street, both driver and mules now fallen half asleep again. Here and there a negro sat propped up in the sun, motionless and content. A clerk stretched an awning over some perishable goods. A child or two wandered along the walk. The town clock pointed to half past eleven. The warm spring sun blazed down. A big fly buzzed upon the window pane. No more passengers came to the car, and it trundled slowly and contentedly on its course toward the other end of its route.
Franklin and Mary Ellen sat looking out before them, silent. At last he turned and placed his hand over the two that lay knit loosely in her lap. Mary Ellen stirred, her throat moved, but she could not speak. Franklin leaned forward and looked into her face.
"I knew it must be so," he whispered quietly.
"What--what must you think ?" broke out Mary Ellen, angry that she could not resist.
"There, there, dearest!" he said, "don't trouble. I knew it was to be. I came straight to you." He tightened his grip upon her hands. Mary Ellen straightened and looked him in the face.
"I'll admit it," she said. "I knew that you were coming. I must have dreamed it."
There in the street car, upon the public highway, Franklin cast his arm about her waist and drew her strongly to him. "Dear girl," he said, "it was to be! We must work out our lives together. Will you be happy--out there--with me?"
Again Mary Ellen turned and looked at him with a new frankness and unreserve.
"That's the oddest of it," said she. "Out on the prairies I called the South 'back home.' Now it's the other way."
They fell again into silence, but already, lover-like, began to read each the other's thoughts and to find less need of speech.
"You and I, dearest," said Franklin finally, "you and I together, forever and ever. We'll live at the Halfway House. Don't shiver, child; I've built a fine new house there--"
"You've built a house?"
"Yes, yes. Well, I'll confess it--I bought the place myself."
"Then it was your money?"
"And it is your money."
"I've a notion," began Mary Ellen, edging away, biting her lip.
"And so have I," said Franklin, stooping and kissing her fingers with scandalous publicity. "I've a notion that you shall not speak of that. It is ours. We've more than a thousand acres of land there, and plenty of cattle. Curly shall be foreman--he's married the little waiter girl, and has come back to Ellisville; they live next door to Sam and Nora. Aunt Lucy shall be our cook. We shall have roses, and green grass, and flowers. And you and I--you and I--shall live and shall do that which has been sent to us to do. Mary Ellen--dear Mary Ellen--"
Again the girl threw up her head, but her pride was going fast.
"Then--then you think--you think it is no sin? Is there no lapse in this for me? You think I shall not be--"
Franklin drew her closer to him. "That which is before us now is Life," he said. "Dearest, how sweet--how very sweet!"
A caged mocking bird at a little near-by house burst out into a shrill paean, fellow to that of the wild bird of the oaks. Mary Ellen felt her senses melting into a mysterious, bewildering joy. Unconsciously she swayed slightly against the shoulder of her lover. In her heart the music of the bird thrilled on, even when the tinkle of the little bell ceased, even when Franklin, stepping from the car, held up his hands to her and whispered, "Come."
[THE END]
Emerson Hough's Western Novel: Girl at the Halfway House: A Story of the Plains
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