"'All hopes, all wishes, all desires have left me,My heart is empty as a last year's nest,O, great Earth—Mother! take me to thy bosom[193]And give a tired child rest."'Nay, not a grave! Leave thy green turf unbroken!Not death I ask,—but strength to bear my life,This endless round of strange, conflicting duties,These stale conventions and this aimless strife."'I have no part nor lot in such existence,And I am like a stream cut from its source;Let me go hence and quench the spirit's thirstingAt those deep springs of force"'That well unseen neath all life's myriad phases,Rousing to action, lulling to repose—A child's first cry, a warrior's call to battle,A planet's march, the fading of a rose."'Give me a bed among earth's flowers and grasses,Some shadowy place from men and things apart,Where I can hear and feel the steady beatingOf Nature's tireless heart,"'Stilling the tumult of my brain, o'er-crowdedWith fears and fancies that have banished sleep,And losing pain and weariness foreverIn heaven's unfathomed deep,"'Till I lay hold upon my dear lost birth-right,My oneness with all things that were and are,Can feel the sea's pulse mine, my breath the wind's breath,[194]And trace my kinship to the evening star."'Then send me back to life's imperious calling,The love that crushes and the cares that irk,To strive, to fail, to strive again and conquer,Till the night cometh when no man can work.'"
"'All hopes, all wishes, all desires have left me,My heart is empty as a last year's nest,O, great Earth—Mother! take me to thy bosom[193]And give a tired child rest.
"'Nay, not a grave! Leave thy green turf unbroken!Not death I ask,—but strength to bear my life,This endless round of strange, conflicting duties,These stale conventions and this aimless strife.
"'I have no part nor lot in such existence,And I am like a stream cut from its source;Let me go hence and quench the spirit's thirstingAt those deep springs of force
"'That well unseen neath all life's myriad phases,Rousing to action, lulling to repose—A child's first cry, a warrior's call to battle,A planet's march, the fading of a rose.
"'Give me a bed among earth's flowers and grasses,Some shadowy place from men and things apart,Where I can hear and feel the steady beatingOf Nature's tireless heart,
"'Stilling the tumult of my brain, o'er-crowdedWith fears and fancies that have banished sleep,And losing pain and weariness foreverIn heaven's unfathomed deep,
"'Till I lay hold upon my dear lost birth-right,My oneness with all things that were and are,Can feel the sea's pulse mine, my breath the wind's breath,[194]And trace my kinship to the evening star.
"'Then send me back to life's imperious calling,The love that crushes and the cares that irk,To strive, to fail, to strive again and conquer,Till the night cometh when no man can work.'"
Aunt Jane had dropped her knitting; her eyes glowed, and she leaned forward entranced, for the simple verses held the unfailing spells that rhythm and rhyme have cast over the soul ever since the Muses touched their golden harps on Parnassus, pouring "the dew of soft persuasion on the lips of man" and "dispelling sorrow and grief from the breast of every mortal."
"Why, child," she exclaimed, drawing a breath of deep delight, "that's as pretty as any hymn. But it looks like anybody that can say things that pretty oughtn't to have the troubles that common folks has."
Ah, if the power to put a sorrowful thought into beautiful words brought with it exemption from sorrow, who would not covet the gift?
"But," continued Aunt Jane, "everybody has to have some trials. I ricollect Parson Page preachin' a sermon about that very thing. He said folks in troublealways thought their troubles was more than anybody's; and they'd look around and see somebody that appeared to be happy and they'd envy that person, when maybe that person was envyin' them, for it's jest as the Bible says, 'There hath no trouble taken you but is common to all men.'"
And while Aunt Jane spoke I saw this life of ours as a sacramental feast. The table is long, and here sits a king and there a beggar. The cups are many, and mine may be of clay and yours of gold, but the wine, the bitter-sweet wine, is the same for all. One rapture throbs in the heart of the Romany youth who plights his troth under the forest tree, and the heart of the prince royal who kneels at the cathedral altar. The tramp-wife burying her baby by the roadside might clasp hands with the queen-mother who weeps at the door of the royal mausoleum, for on the heights of joy or in the depths of pain all men are brothers, all women sisters.
"And now, honey," said Aunt Jane, "I've wasted enough o' this pretty mornin' talkin' about old times. Spring time's workin' time and I must be up and doin'."
But I caught her hand and held her fast.
"Just one thing more, Aunt Jane," I pleaded. "Tell me what you meant by saying that being the man he was Dr. Pendleton couldn't marry?"
Aunt Jane hesitated a moment looking towards a certain flower-bed where tulips and hyacinths stood half-smothered in a drift of dead leaves. The morning hours were passing and the garden needed the work of her hands, but my clasp was firm and the call of the past was still sounding in her heart.
"I meant jest what I said, honey," she answered, settling herself again on the old garden seat. "There's such a thing as a man lovin' a woman too well to marry her, and that's the way it was with the doctor. You might think, maybe, Dr. Pendleton come of plain folks, bein' jest a country doctor. But, no; his people was among the best and the richest in the county, and he'd had all the chances that rich people can give their children. He'd been to college and he'd travelled around and seen the world, and no young man could 'a' had a prettier prospect before him than Arthur Pendleton,—that was the doctor's name,—when he come home from his studyin' and his travellin' and started out to practisin' medicine with his father. Young and handsome and rich, and then therewas Miss Dorothy Schuyler, and he was in love with her and she was in love with him. Father used to say when a man had all that, there wasn't standin' room for a wish.
"Miss Dorothy was one o' the Virginia Schuylers, and the first time she come to visit her Kentucky cousins, she met the young doctor, and they fell in love with each other jest like Hamilton Schuyler and Miss Amaryllis, and before she went back to her home it was all settled that they'd be married the next spring. The young doctor, he made a journey to Virginia to git her father's and mother's consent; for in that day and time, child, a young man couldn't jest pick up a gyirl and walk off with her. He had to say 'By your leave' and do a little courtin' with the old folks before he could claim the gyirl.
"Well, it all looked like plain sailin' for the young doctor. His father begun givin' up his practice—took off his own shoes, you might say, and let his son step into 'em—and the weddin' day was comin', when all at once the banks got to failin' all over the country, and the Pendletons lost pretty near everything they had except their land. Then, to make a bad matter worse, the old doctor's name was on anote, and that fell due about the time the banks failed, and he had to sell the family place and a good deal o' the land.
"They said when he got through settlin' up his affairs he says, 'Well, I've lost my money and my lands and my home, but I've saved my good name.'
"I reckon it must 'a' taken the young doctor a good while to come to an understandin' of what he'd lost. By the time you're old, losin' comes natural to you, but it's hard for young folks to take in a big loss. But as soon as Arthur Pendleton understood that all his father had was a good name, and all he had was his father's practice, he wrote to Miss Dorothy and set her free from her promise to marry him.
"The old doctor begged him not to do it. Says he, 'Son, you've lost pretty near everything, and now you're throwing away the best of what's left.' Says he, 'Don't strip your life bare of every chance for happiness. Hold on to love, even if you have lost your money.'
"But the young doctor says, says he, 'When a man's money's gone it's no time for him to be thinkin' about love.' Says he, 'Unless a man loves a woman well enough to give her up when he's too poor to takecare of her, his love's not worth much. In her father's house,' says he, 'she's lived like the lilies of the field, and the man that loves her mustn't be the one to bring her down to poverty and hard work.' So he wrote to her and told her to forget him as soon as she could, and love some other man who could give her what a woman ought to have, and she told him that if she ever loved anybody else, she'd send back the ring he'd given her. But, honey, that ring stayed on Miss Dorothy's finger till her dyin' day, and I reckon it was buried with her. Folks said they never wrote to each other any more, but every year or so Miss Dorothy'd come back to visit the Schuylers and the doctor he'd go to see her, and they used to say that he'd look at her finger before he'd look at her face, and when he'd see his ring there he'd be too happy to say a word. He'd take both her hands in his, and his eyes'd fill up with tears and he'd look down at her face, and she'd look up at him and laugh and ask him if he didn't want his ring back to give to some other gyirl.
"Well, things went on this way one year after another, the doctor workin' and Miss Dorothy comin' and goin' and both of 'em hopin', I reckon, and lookin' forward to marryin' some day; for she was young andso was he, and when folks are young they always feel certain of havin' their own way with life, and it's easy for 'em to wait and hope for the things that's out o' reach. But nothin' seemed to go right with the doctor. If he saved up a little money and put it in the bank, or bought a piece o' property, bad luck was sure to come along and pull down everything he'd built up. His father's health broke down, and of course he had to ease the old man's way to the grave; his youngest brother had to be educated, and first one thing and then another kept comin' up and puttin' Miss Dorothy further off.
"But the older they got, the more they loved each other; and Miss Dorothy, she'd come and go every summer, till finally one summer she didn't come; and the next summer the doctor went to Virginia to see her, and come back lookin' like an old, old man; and not long afterwards he come into church one Sunday with a band o' black crape around his hat, and then we knew Miss Dorothy was dead."
"But wasn't Miss Dorothy willing to marry the doctor in spite of his poverty?" I asked.
"I reckon she must 'a' been," responded Aunt Jane. "When a woman waits all her life for a man, like MissDorothy did for the doctor, it stands to reason she's willin' to marry him any time."
"Oh! Then why in the world didn't she tell him so?" I exclaimed.
The bodies of my lovers were dust and their souls with the saints these many years, but Aunt Jane had called from the dead "each frustrate ghost"; the pathos of her tale thrilled me sharply and I could not stay my cry of regret over "The counter these lovers staked"—and lost.
Aunt Jane turned toward me and looked over her glasses with frank astonishment in her clear old eyes. More than once had I shocked her with sentiments discordant with her own ideals of life and conduct, but never so severely as now. She delayed her reply as if to give me a gracious opportunity to recall my unseemly words. Then—
"Child," she said, in a low voice, "you know such a thing wouldn't be fittin' for a young gyirl to do. Why that'd be pretty near as bad as Miss Dorothy askin' the doctor to marry her. No matter how much a woman loves a man, she's got to sit still and wait till he asks her to marry him, and if he never asks her, why, all she can do is to marry somebody else or stayan old maid. With the raisin' you've had, I oughtn't to have to tell you that."
"Oh! Of course!" I hastily assented. "A woman can't ask a man to marry her. But isn't it sad to see people losing their happiness in this way?"
"Now, that's the curious part of it, child," said Aunt Jane. "It's mighty mournful while I'm tellin' it, but if you'd known the doctor and Miss Dorothy, you never would 'a' thought they were losin' anything. At first, you must ricollect, they had hopes to keep their spirits up, and as long as you've got hope, child, you've got everything. Of course there must 'a' come a time when they stopped hopin', and I reckon that was when their hair begun to turn gray and their eyesight failed. It's a time that comes to all of us, honey, and when it does come, we generally find that we've got grace to give up the things we've been wantin' so long; and that's the way it was with Miss Dorothy and the doctor. To see them two, after they'd passed their youth, walkin' together and ridin' together and comin' into church and settin' side by side in the same pew, singin' out o' the same hymn book,—why it was the prettiest sight in the world. Mighty few old married couples ever looked as happy as Miss Dorothyand the doctor, old maid and old bachelor as they were.
"Plenty of folks, though, thought jest as you do, and Mother was one of 'em. She never had any patience with the way Dr. Pendleton and Miss Dorothy behaved about marryin'. Says she, 'You put an old married woman and an old maid together, and you can't tell which is which. A woman's got to lose her good looks and her health whether she marries or not, and while she's about it, she might as well lose 'em for her husband and her children instead o' stayin' single and dryin' up all for nothin'.' They said Judge Elrod undertook to reason with the doctor once about the folly of two people stayin' single when they loved each other. He p'inted out to him that Miss Dorothy was gittin' on in years, and that a woman ought to be willin' to put up with a few hardships if she loved a man. And the doctor, he listened, and shook his head and says he, 'Yes, she's fading, fading, but—God be thanked!—it's no fault of mine. The hand of time has touched her; her pretty curls are turning gray and the pretty color's leaving her cheek; but her hands are as soft and white as they were when I put my ring on her finger. She's never known a hardshipor carried a burden. She'll go to her grave like a rose that's touched by the frost, and I can bear to be parted from her that way. But if I'd put a hardship or a burden on her and she'd died under it, I'd never be able to look my own soul in the face.'
"That's the way he looked at it, and nothin' could ever make him change his mind. I reckon the doctor's way o' lovin' was somethin' like Hamilton Schuyler's."
With these words Aunt Jane closed the treasure-chest of memory and walked briskly away to look after the welfare of the tulips and hyacinths.
A little story of a great love! And as I pondered it, the country doctor became a knight of a finer chivalry than that which once stirred the blood under a coat of mail, or guided a lance-thrust to an enemy's heart. In every man's soul there is a field of valor, lonely, perhaps unknown; and he is the true knight who enters the lists against himself and strikes down every impulse of man's nature that would harm the woman he loves. And how rich the guerdon of such a victory, and the recompense of the beloved one for whose sake he strives and conquers!
The pitying world looks on and measures the unwedlovers' loss, but who can measure their gain? Theirs is the bliss which Psyche had before she lit the fatal lamp. They hold forever in their hearts "the consecration and the poet's dream"; and, undimmed by disillusionment, the mirage of youthful love hovers over each solitary path, lighting the twilight of age, the night of death and melting at last into the dawn of heaven's unending day.
Chapter Illustration
All day the land had lain dreamily under an enchantment soon to be broken by the rude counter-spells of the coming winter.
A frost so light that it was hardly more than a cold dew had rested that morning on the early chrysanthemums and late roses; but the wind that shook the leaves from the crimson maples was a south wind; themidday sun held the tropic warmth of August, and over the brightening hills lay a tender, purple haze. Summer was dead, but its gentle ghost had come back to the earth, and it was Indian summer, the season that has no name or place in any calendar but the poet's. The sun had set, and the mist that veiled the horizon had caught its last rays, holding the light lingeringly, fondly, in its folds and spreading it far to the north and south in a soft splendor of color that no other season can show. Not pink, not crimson, but such a color as an artist might make if he crushed together on his palette the rose of summer and the leaf of autumn. The chill of the coming night was in the air, but still we lingered at the gate, Aunt Jane and I, with our faces toward the west.
"I wonder how many folks are watchin' this sunset," she remarked at last. "Old Job Matthews, after he got converted at the big revival back yonder in the thirties, used to look for the second comin' of the Lord, and every sunset and sunrise he'd stand and look at the sky and say, 'Maybe the King of Glory is at hand.' Once the old man declared he saw a chariot in the clouds, and it does look like, child, that somethin' ought to happen after a sight like this, orelse it ain't worth while to git it up jest for a few people like you and me to look at."
As she spoke there was a quick, sharp clang of hoofs on the macadamized road, and a horse and rider passed in the twilight. The clean, even gait of the horse and the outlines of its head showed it to be of noble blood; and as it trotted past with an air of proud alertness, we could see that the dumb animal realized the double share of responsibility laid upon it. For the hand that held the bridle was limp and nerveless, the rider's head was sunk on his breast, and the brain of the man that should have guided the brain of the horse was locked in a poison-stupor.
Long and wistfully Aunt Jane gazed after the horse and its rider, and the gathering darkness could not hide the divine sorrow and pity that looked out from her aged eyes. Sighing heavily she turned from the gate, and we went back to the shadowy room where the "unlit lamp" and the unkindled fire lay ready for the evening hours.
The fireplace was filled with brush cleared that day from the flower-beds, dry stems that had borne the verdure and bloom of a spring and now lay on their funeral pyre, ready to be translated, as by a chariotof fire, into the elemental air and earth from whence they had sprung.
Aunt Jane struck a match under the old mantel and, stooping, touched the dead mass with the finger of flame.
Ah! the first fires of autumn! There is more than light and more than heat in their radiance. But as I watched the flames leap with exultant roar into the gloom of the old chimney, my heart was with the lonely man homeward bound, his sorrowful, helpless figure a silhouette against the sunset sky, and Aunt Jane, too, looked with absent eyes at the fire she had just kindled.
"Yes, child," she said, answering my thought, "it's a sad, sad sight; I've watched it for a lifetime and I'm clean tired of it,—seein' 'em go out in the mornin' straight and strong and handsome as a Kentucky man ought to be, and comin' home at night with hardly strength enough to handle their reins, and less sense than the horse that's carryin' 'em. I trust that man'll reach home safe, for somewhere up the road there's a woman waitin' for him. She's cooked a hot supper for him and the biscuits are in the pan, and she's put the coffee on the back o' the stove to keep it fromboilin' too long, and the meat's in the dish in front o' the stove, and she's lookin' out o' the window and goin' to the gate every few minutes, strainin' her eyes and her ears lookin' down the road and listenin' for the sound of a horse's feet. And maybe there's a baby asleep in the cradle, and another child waitin' for Father; and when he comes, the child'll run from him, and his wife'll cry her eyes out, and nobody in that house'll feel like eatin' any supper to-night. Well, may the Lord give that woman grace to be as patient with her husband as Milly Amos was with Sam, and maybe she'll reap the same reward."
"Was Sam Amos a drunkard?" I asked in surprise.
"Well, no," said Aunt Jane, judicially, "Sam wasn't, to say, a drunkard. A drunkard, according to my notion, is a man that's born with whiskey in his veins. He's elected and predestined to drink, you might say, and he ain't to be blamed when he does drink. Sam wasn't that sort of a man; but once in his life it looked mightily like he was goin' to be a drunkard. Sam come of a sober family, and there wasn't any manner of reason for him to take to drink, but Dr. Pendleton used to say there was a wild streak in nearly every person, and sooner or later it was bound to break outin one way or another. It was the wild streak in Brother Wilson, I reckon, that sent him into the army before he went to preachin', and the same wild streak put it into Sam's mind to drink whiskey, when his father and grandfather never touched it. How it started I don't know, but I reckon the coffee house must 'a' been the beginnin' of it. I can ricollect well the time when that was opened in town. They had a sort of a debatin' society in that day,—Lyceum, they called it, but Sam Amos called it the Jawin' Club. Dr. Brigham and Judge Grace and Judge Elrod and Colonel Walker and all the big men o' the town belonged to it, and they used to meet in the doctor's office and argue about everything that was done in the town or the State. One question they had up was whether the Whigs or the Democrats had the best party, and they argued till pretty near one o'clock in the mornin', and the meetin' come mighty near breakin' up in a fight. Well, when the coffee-house got its license they had a debate about that, and Dr. Brigham, he was in favor of the license, he got up to make a speech, and, says he, 'What would this State be without whiskey?' And Judge Grace, he was against it,—he jumped up and shook his fist at the doctor andsays he, 'A heap more peaceable place than it is with it.' And that made the doctor mad, but he went on like he hadn't heard it. Says he, 'You jest shut your eyes and say the word "Kentucky," and what'll you see? Why, you'll see a glass o' toddy or a mint julep, and a pretty woman smilin' over 'em,'—and Judge Grace he hollers out, 'No, you won't! No, you won't! You may see the toddy and the julep and the woman, but the woman won't be smilin'; she'll be cryin' her eyes out over the stuff that makes a brute of her husband and her son.' This made the doctor madder still, but he kept right on, and says he, 'Think of the poetry that's been written about wine and whiskey—
"'"Fill up, fill upThe brimmin' cup"—
"'"Fill up, fill upThe brimmin' cup"—
and all the rest o' the songs about drinkin'! And no wonder,' says he, 'for where'll you find a prettier sight than a clear glass tumbler with a sprig o' mint and a silver spoon in it and two or three lumps o' sugar dissolvin' in the julep?' And the Judge says, 'All right! All right! Keep your toddy and your julep in a glass tumbler and look at 'em and write poetry about 'em, and I won't say a word against 'em. But,' says he,'when they get inside of a man, where's your poetry then?' Says he, 'It'll take some mighty plain prose to fit that situation,' says he.
"Well, they had it up and down and back and forth, and finally their friends had to hold 'em to keep 'em from comin' to blows. But as I was sayin', that coffee house was the beginnin' of Sam Amos's troubles and Milly's. The coffee house was a sociable sort of a place, and Sam was a sociable sort of a man, and it was natural for him to go there and see his friends and talk with 'em, and the first thing we knew he was drinkin' with 'em; not much, but enough to unsettle his brain and make him talk wild and act foolish. And he went on followin' the same old beaten track that men 'a' been walkin' since the days of Noah. And at last he got to neglectin' his farm, and he'd go to town every week and come home in such a condition that it wasn't safe for Milly and the children to be in the same house with him. Folks used to say that the first drink made Sam a fool, and the second drink made him a devil, and the third drink put the fool and the devil to sleep.
"Sam was as smart a man as you'd find anywhere, and many a time I used to feel for Milly when he'dmortify her before company by sayin' foolish things he never would 'a' said if he'd been in his right senses. I ricollect once she had a parlor full o' company and she was showin' an ambrotype of her brother David, and somebody passed it to Sam and he took it and looked at it right hard, and says he, 'Shuh! that don't look half as much like Dave as he looks like himself.' And another time, one county court day, me and Abram happened to be standin' on the corner in front o' the old drug store, and Sam come a staggerin' up and laid his hand on Abram's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye like he had somethin' mighty important to say, and says he, 'Uncle Abram, I want to tell you right here and now, and don't you ever forgit it; if there's anything I do despise it's one thing more'n another.' I don't believe Abram ever got through laughin' at that. And if Sam had only stopped at the first glass that made a fool of him, his drinkin' would 'a' been a small matter. But the man that can stop at one glass don't live in Kentucky, child, and so Sam went from the first glass to the second and from the second to the third and from that to the gutter. And many a time the neighbors had to pick Sam up and bring him home, for betwixt the shame of seein' him in that conditionand the danger of bein' with him, Milly had to stop goin' to town.
"I ricollect one county court day me and Abram happened to be passin' along in front o' the old Methodist Church, and Sam come walkin' out o' Jockey Alley leadin' his big bay mare—Jockey Alley, child, is the alley that runs from State Street clean back to the street leadin' over to the old footbridge, and everybody that had a horse or a mule or a colt to swap, why, they'd go to that alley and do their swappin' every county court day.
"Well, as I was sayin', Sam come along leadin' his bay mare. That mare was the pride of Sam's heart. He used to say there was more good blood in that bay mare of his than in any six families in the state o' Kentucky. Sam was a mighty fine judge o' horse flesh, and he got his love for horses from his father and his grandfather, old Harrison Amos. The old man was one o' the biggest horse raisers in the state, and he made his thousands out of it, too. But folks that went to his farm used to say it was like huntin' a hen's nest to find the house where the family lived, the house was so little and there was so many big fine barns and stables. Somebody asked him once why he didn'tbuild a better house for his children to live in, and the old man says, 'I believe in puttin' my money where I am certain of gettin' good returns.' Says he, 'There's no manner of certainty in children. You can put good blood into a boy and do your best to bring him up in the way he should go, and after all you've spent on him he'll lose every race he goes into, and you'll find you've got a scrub on your hands. But,' says he, 'you breed a horse right, and train him in his gaits whilst he's young, and there ain't one chance in a thousand of your losin' money on that horse. Of course,' says he, 'I think more of my boys than I do of my horses, but when it comes to investin' money, a man must be governed by his judgment and his common sense, not by his feelin's.'
"They said the old man went down to New Orleans one winter on some business and left his son Joe in charge o' the stock farm, and when he got back he went out to the stables, the first thing, to look at his horses, and when he got through, there was four of his thoroughbreds missin'. And, says he, 'Joe, where's May Queen?' and Joe says, 'Why, Father, she's dead; died right after you left.' And the old man said, 'Well, where's Dixie Gyirl,' and Joe says, 'Why,Father, I'm mighty sorry to have to tell you, but Dixie Gyirl, she's dead,—died pretty near the same time May Queen died.' And the old man says, 'Well, where's Annie Laurie and Nelly Gray?' And Joe says, 'Father, I'm mighty sorry, but they died just like Dixie Gyirl and May Queen.' And the old man looked at Joe for a minute, and says he, right slow and earnest, 'Well, Joe, why didn't you die, too?'
"So that's where Sam got his love o' fine horses, child, and, as I was sayin', Sam come walkin' up leadin' his bay mare by the bridle. Me and Abram on our way to the drug store and Tige, our yeller house-dog, follerin' close behind us, and Sam called to us to stop, and says he, 'Can't we make a trade to-day? I'll swap you my mare for your dog.' And Abram says, 'Done,' and he took hold o' the mare's bridle, and he pulled a piece o' stout twine out of his pocket and tied it to Tige's collar and put the end o' the string in Sam's hand. I says to him, 'Why, Abram, you wouldn't take advantage of a poor drunken man, and a neighbor at that?' And Abram says, 'Make yourself easy, Jane, I'm only goin' to give Sam a lesson that may shame him out of his drinkin' habits for awhile, at least.' And then he led the mare to the stable and toldthe man to feed her and water her, and he'd call for her late that evenin'.
"Well, when goin'-home time come round, we set out to look for Sam, and after lookin' all around the Square and up and down Main Street, we found him lyin' helpless in the back o' the grocery store. Abram got two men to help him, and they managed to lift him up and put him in the wagon. Then we drove around to the livery stable and got the bay mare and fastened her to the back o' the wagon and started home. When we got to our gate, Abram put me and the children out and turned Sam's mare into the horse lot, and then he drove over to Sam's farm as quick as he could, for he knew Milly was waitin' and grievin'. And sure enough there she was, standin' under the big sycamore in front o' the gate, lookin' and listenin' for Sam. She told me afterwards she'd stayed out that way many a night till her clothes'd be wet with the dew, and for the rest of her life she hated the sound of crickets and katydids, because they reminded her of that year when Sam give her so much trouble.
"Well, Abram drove up to the gate, and Milly was too skeered to speak. She was always worryin' about Sam fallin' off his horse and breakin' his neck, andwhen she saw Abram and nobody with him, she thought he was comin' on ahead to break the news to her, and Sam's dead body would be the next thing to come. Abram didn't know this, or he'd a told her right at once that Sam was in the wagon. He said when he stopped, Milly was leanin' forward, her hands together, and hardly enough breath to speak, and she whispered, 'Where's Sam?' And Abram says, 'Right here in the wagon.' And Milly says, 'Thank God! I was afraid he was dead.' Now that shows what kind of a heart Milly had. When a man's brought home dead drunk, child, it ain't every woman that'll thank God he's alive.
"Well, they had some trouble rousin' Sam, but at last they got him to the house and took off his coat and shoes and laid him on the bed, and when Abram started to go Milly says, 'But where's Sam's mare?' And Abram says, 'When Sam comes to himself to-morrow, you send him over to my house and I'll put him on the track of his mare.' So the next mornin' about eleven o'clock here was Sam lookin' about as reckless and miserable as a man ever gits to look, and says he, 'I've come for my mare, Uncle Abram; I see the stable door's open, so you needn't bother yourself;I'll go down there and saddle her and ride her home. I'm much obliged to you,' says he, 'for takin' care of her.'
"And Abram says, 'Sam, you may not know it, but that mare belongs to me.' And Sam laughed and says he, 'I reckon I do owe you somethin' for bringin' me home last night, but you surely won't take my horse for that.' And Abram says, 'But, Sam, you swapped that mare to me yesterday,' and Sam says, 'Swapped her? What did I swap her for?' And jest then old Tige come around the corner o' the house waggin' his tail, and Abram p'inted to him and says he, 'You swapped your mare for that dog, Sam.'
"Well, for a minute Sam couldn't say a word he was so thunderstruck, and says he, 'Do you mean to say, Uncle Abram, that I was such a fool yesterday as to swap my bay mare, the finest piece o' horse flesh in the State, for that old yeller dog, and me the best judge of horses in Warren County?' 'Yes,' says Abram, 'you did that very thing, Sam, and the swap was your own proposin'.'
"Well, Sam set down on the door step and folded his arms over his knees and dropped his head on his arm, and he cursed himself and he cursed the whiskeyand he cursed the coffee house and finally, says he, 'I swear, I'll never touch another drop o' the cursed stuff, and all the devils in hell can't make me break my oath.'
"And Abram says, 'Well, Sam, I wanted to hear you make that promise, and that's why I kept your mare. Now, go to the stable and you'll find your mare all safe and sound and the saddle and bridle on the right hand side o' the door. And may God give you grace,' says he, 'to keep you from ever makin' such a fool of yourself again.'
"But, honey, it wasn't a month before Sam had to be hauled home again in a wagon. And finally it got to the pass that he come home drunk, late one Monday night, and struck Milly and kicked the children out o' the house, and the next thing we heard was that Milly's father had come to take her home. Milly told me about it long after the trouble was over. She said she'd been hopin' that the bruise on her cheek would be well before her father saw her, and she'd been puttin' cold water and hot water and everything else she could think of on it to draw the blood out, but somebody told the old man how bad things had been goin' with Milly, and it wasn't two hours till hewas there with a two horse wagon to move Milly back home. Milly said Sam was sittin' by the table with his head down on his arms and she was washin' up the dinner dishes, and her face bound up in one o' Sam's handkerchiefs. The old man come in, his hands and his lips tremblin', and says he, 'Daughter, put your things together as quick as you can, I've come to take you back home.' Says he, 'I'm no advocate of married folks separatin', but,' says he, 'when Sam took you from your father's house he promised to be good and kind to you, but he's broke his promise, and you've got no call to stay with him any longer.' And Milly said before she could answer him, Sam raised up his head from the table and says he, 'That's right! That's right! I'm not fit to be trusted with a wife and children. Take Milly and the boys with you and leave me to go to the dogs where I belong.' And Milly's father says, 'Well, Samuel, I'm glad you think as I do, for that makes it easier for all of us.' And then he turns to Milly and says he, 'Hurry up, daughter, and get yourself ready to go back home with me. No child of mine shall live with a drunken brute that lays violent hands on his wife and children.'
"I reckon the old man thought he was sayin'exactly the right thing and that Milly would thank him for takin' her part. But Milly said when her father called Sam 'a drunken brute' she was so mad she lifted her hand to strike him, and she run to Sam and put her arms around him, and says she, 'Father, you're the only person in this world that'd dare to say such a thing to me about Sam.' Says she, 'You can take the children if you want to, for I am afraid that Sam'll do them some harm, when he ain't himself, but as for me, my place,' says she, 'is right here with Sam. Drinkin' whiskey is bad enough,' says she, 'but it ain't the worst thing a man can do, and it's not what a man does when he's drunk that makes a woman hate him and leave him, it's what he does when he's sober. And you know,' says she, 'that when Sam's himself there ain't a kinder, better husband anywhere, and no matter what he does when he's drunk, I'll stay with him while life lasts.'
"Milly said Sam give a gasp and looked up at her as if he couldn't believe his ears, and then he burst out cryin' and fell on his knees and threw his arms around her and held on to her like a drownin' man tryin' to save himself. And says he, 'O Milly! Milly! I didn't know you cared that much for me! I've askedGod to help me,' says he, 'and He didn't seem to care, but if you care enough to stay with me, Milly, I'll have to quit! I'll have to quit!' says he.
"Milly said if it had been little Sam holdin' on to her and beggin' her to stay she couldn't 'a' felt sorrier for him, and she patted him on the head and says she, 'Don't you worry, Sam; Father may take the children if he wants to, but he'll never take me. Of course, you're goin' to quit drinkin',' says she, 'but whether you quit or not I'll stand by you, for that's what a wife's for.'
"Milly said Sam cried still harder, and her father, he wiped his eyes and says he, 'Well, daughter, maybe you're right. Meddlin' with married folks' affairs is a poor business, anyhow, and I'm more than willin' to give Samuel another chance.'
"So the old man got in his wagon and drove off, and Milly said all that day Sam stayed around the house and follered her about like a dog follerin' its master, and every now and then he'd say, 'I've got to quit, Milly, and I will quit now.' Milly said she'd heard him promise that so often and break his promise that she didn't have a bit of faith that he'd keep it now, but of course she didn't let him know it. She'd say,'Why, of course you will, Sam, I've always believed you'd quit sometime.' And Sam says, 'Keep on believin' in me, Milly, and your faith'll save me.'
"Well, the very next Monday was county court day, and all day Sunday Milly told me she was prayin' that Sam would be kept from goin' to town. But right after supper Sam says, 'I'm goin' to town to-morrow, Milly. Make your arrangements for goin' with me—you and the children—and we'll get an early start.'
THE GLASS BROKE INTO A HUNDRED PIECES."'THE GLASS BROKE INTO A HUNDRED PIECES.'"Page 229.ToList
"'THE GLASS BROKE INTO A HUNDRED PIECES.'"Page 229.ToList
"Milly said she couldn't sleep much that night, and she prayed that it might pour down rain, or somethin' would happen to keep Sam at home. But the sun come up clear, and there was nothin' to do but dress and go to town with Sam. She said Sam took particular pains with himself, put on his Sunday clothes, and shaved and combed and brushed his hair till he looked more like his old self than he'd looked since he took to drinkin'. She said the road to town never had seemed so short and she kept hopin' somethin' would happen to send Sam back home, but nothin' happened, and when they struck the Square, Sam went right down Main Street right in the direction of the coffee house. Milly said her heart give a jump and she shook all over like she was havin' a chill, butshe didn't say a word, because she knew if Sam had made up his mind to drink that day, she couldn't stop him. And sure enough he went on and stopped right in front of the coffee house. The barkeeper was standin' in the door, and Sam called out to him and says, 'Fix me up a glass o' that old Bourbon the way I like it and bring it out here to me.' And the barkeeper went in and fixed it up and come out with it, smilin' as a basket o' chips, and handed it to Sam.
"Sam had his purse out and says he, 'How much is the glass worth?' And the barkeeper says, 'About five cents, I reckon.' And Sam handed over the money for the drink and the glass, and then he held the glass up and looked at it, and he put his face down and smelled it, and then he put it to his lips like he intended to drink it, and then he turned around to Milly and says, 'Look here, Milly!' and he dashed it down in the gutter, and the glass broke into a hundred pieces, and the whiskey spattered on the horse's hoofs and the barkeeper's shoes. Milly said Sam was as white as a ghost and shakin' as hard as she was, and he nodded to the barkeeper and says he, 'That's my last drink.' And then he turned around and drove up the street towards the Square.
"Milly said she was so thankful he hadn't touched the whiskey that she begun cryin' for joy, but still she didn't know whether that was his last drink or not, he'd broken so many promises to her before. And Sam seemed to know what was in her mind, for he says to her, 'Milly, do you believe me or not?' And Milly said all at once she thought o' that text o' scripture that says, 'For by grace are ye saved through faith.' And she thought o' Sam the day her Father come to take her home and how he kept sayin', 'Keep on believin' in me, Milly, and your faith'll save me.' And she laid her hand on Sam's knee and says she, 'Yes, Sam, I do believe you.' And the minute she spoke the word, she said it looked like a stone rolled away from her heart, and she felt in her soul that she'd come to the end of her trouble, and the world appeared to be made over and made new. When they got to the Square Sam handed her a roll o' bills and says he, 'Now go and buy yourself and the children some Christmas gifts, while I lay in the groceries we need, and then we'll meet at the drug store and go home whenever you're ready to go.'
"Milly said she took the money and bought things for the children, but when she begun to look in thewindows and the show cases for somethin' for herself, she couldn't see a thing that would make her any happier than she was, so she put the rest o' the money in the waist of her dress and when Sam met her in front o' the drug store she handed it to him and says she, 'I've bought the children some things, but there's no use wastin' money on a woman who's got everything on earth she wants.' So she wouldn't let Sam buy her a thing that Christmas, and yet, she said she felt as if she owned the whole earth.
"And, honey, when Sam dashed that glass o' whiskey to the ground and said that was his last drink, he told the truth, and if he'd been the chief of sinners there couldn't 'a' been more rejoicin' over him as the time went by, and everybody in Goshen begun to feel sure that he'd quit for good. Parson Page said somethin' to him one day about the grace of God savin' him. And Sam shook his head and says he, 'No, Parson, I'm certain God's too honest to want credit that don't belong to him, and in the matter of my quittin' drink, it wasn't the grace of God that stopped me, it was the grace of my wife, Milly.' And Doctor Pendleton was standin' by and says he, 'Yes, all Sam needed was a great moral uplift. The grace of God might have givenit, but,' says he, 'in a case like his there's no lever like a woman's love.'
"But I never got through wonderin' over the way Milly bore with Sam in the days when he was walkin' the downward path and it looked like nothin' could stop him. Human nature is a curious thing, child. You may think you know a person so well that you can tell exactly what he'll do, if a certain thing happens; but many and many time I've found myself mistaken about folks I'd known all my life, and it was that way with Milly. Milly was high-tempered and quick-spoken, and if anybody had asked me how Milly would act if Sam took to drinkin', I'd 'a' said at once, 'Why, she'd leave him that quick.' But she didn't; she was as patient with him as any mother ever was with her son. She'd put him to bed and wait on him, and when he'd come to himself she'd never say a word about what had happened, and I reckon it was her grace that saved him.
"And, it's another curious thing, child," she continued, "how two people'll live together for years and years and never know how much they love each other. Milly told me that when Sam burst out cryin' and said he didn't know she cared that much for him, itcome over her all at once that she must 'a' been a mighty poor sort o' wife to him, for him not to know she loved him well enough to stay with him through thick and thin. But I reckon it's that way with most married folks. They jog along together, and they have their ups and downs, and may be they think many a time they don't love each other like they did when they first married, but jest let a trouble come up, and they'll find out that all the love they used to have is there yet, and more besides.
"I ricollect Parson Page sayin' once that love and money was alike in one respect, they'd both draw interest, and I reckon many a married couple's richer than they think they are."
To find our treasure of love greater than we had dared to dream—what rarer joy has earth? And when the poor derelict soul clung to his wife and found in her a help sufficient for his needs, his was a rapture not less profound than that of the poet-husband when he opened the sonnets in which a woman's soul had poured itself, counting the ways and measuring the depth and the height of her wifely love.
Aunt Jane pushed her spectacles up on her forehead, folded her hands, and leaned back in her chair, lostin the reverie that generally followed the telling of a story, while I gazed at the tremulous fire light, and felt the cord of human sympathy drawing me closer to the people of her day and time.
As an artist finishes a picture, and then goes lovingly back to strengthen a line or deepen a tint, so every story told by Aunt Jane made more vivid to me her portraits of these men and women who were the friends of her youth. I had known Sam, the jovial, careless, sceptical one; Milly, quick of temper, sharp of tongue, swift to act and swift to repent—just a plain farmer and a plain farmer's wife. But by the light of this tale of triumph I saw them again. Sam, the man who met and vanquished the dragon of thirst, Milly, the woman whose love was strong enough to hold and redeem; and in my thought each rises to heroic stature and stands touched forevermore "with something of an angel light." For it is not battles that drench the earth with the blood of her sons, but these unchronicled victories of the spirit that lift man from the clod to the star and make him even greater than the angels.