Sandy written by Alice Hegan Rice

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

It was the trees, though, that she loved best of all; for they were
friendly old poplar-trees on which the bark formed itself into all
sorts of curious eyes. One was a wicked old stepfather eye with a
heavy lid; she remembered how she used to tiptoe past it and pretend
to be afraid. Beyond, by the arbor, were two smaller trees, where a
coquettish eye on one looked up to an adoring eye on the other. She
had often built a romance about them as she watched them peeping at
each other through the leaves.

Down behind the house the waving fields of blue-grass rippled away to
the little river, where weeping willows hung their heads above the
lazy water, and ferns reached up the banks to catch the flowers. And
the fields and the river and the house and the trees were hers,--hers
and Carter's,--and neither could sell without the consent of the
other. She took a deep breath of satisfaction. The prospect of living
alone in the old homestead failed to appal her.

"A letter came this morning," said Mrs. Nelson, tracing the crest on
the silver creamer. "It's from your Aunt Elizabeth. She wants us to
spend ten days with her at the shore. They have taken a handsome
cottage next to the Warrentons. You remember young Mr. Warrenton,
Ruth? He is a grandson of Commodore Warrenton."

"Warrenton? Oh, yes, I do remember him--the one that didn't have any
neck."

Mrs. Nelson closed her eyes for a moment, as if praying for patience;
then she went on: "Your Aunt Elizabeth thinks, as I do, that it is
absurd for you to bury yourself down here. She wants you to meet
people of your own class. Do you think you can be ready to start on
Wednesday?"

"Why, we have been here only a week!" cried Ruth. "I am having such a
good time, and--" she broke off impulsively. "But I know it's dull for
you, Aunt Clara. You go, and leave me here with Carter. I'll do
everything you say if you will only let me stay."

Carter laughed. "One would think that Ruth's sole aim in life was to
cultivate Clayton--the distinguished, exclusive, aristocratic society
of Clayton."

She put her hand on his arm and looked at him pleadingly: "Please
don't laugh at me, Carter! I love it here, and I want to stay. You
know Aunt Elizabeth; you know what her friends are like. They think I
am queer. I can't be happy where they are."

Mrs. Nelson resorted to her smelling-bottle. "Of course my opinions
are of no weight. I only wish to remind you that it would be most
impolitic to offend your Aunt Elizabeth. She could introduce you into
the most desirable set; and even if she is a little--" she searched a
moment for a word--"a little liberal in her views, one can overlook
that on account of her generosity. She is a very influential woman,
Ruth, and a very wealthy one."

Ruth made a quick, impatient gesture. "I don't like her, Aunt Clara;
and I don't want you to ask me to go there."

Mrs. Nelson folded her napkin with tragic deliberation. "Very well,"
she said; "it is not my place to urge it. I can only point out your
duty and leave the rest to you. One thing I must speak about, and that
is your associating so familiarly with these townspeople. They are
impertinent; they take advantages, and forget who we are. Why, the
blacksmith had the audacity to refer to the dear major as 'Bob.'"

"Old Uncle Dan?" asked Ruth, laughing. "I saw him yesterday, and he
shook hands with me and said: 'Golly, sissy, how you've growed!'"

"Ruth," cried Mrs. Nelson, "how can you! Haven't you _any_ family
pride?" The tears came to her eyes, for the invitation to visit the
Hunter-Nelsons was one for which she had angled skilfully, and its
summary dismissal was a sore trial to her.

In a moment Ruth was at her side, all contrition: "I'm sorry, Aunt
Clara; I know I'm a disappointment to you. I'll try--"

Mrs. Nelson withdrew her hand and directed her injured reply to
Carter. "I have done my duty by your sister. She has been given every
advantage a young lady could desire. If she insists upon throwing away
her opportunities, I can't help it. I suppose I am no longer to be
consulted--no longer to be considered." She sought the seclusion of
her pocket-handkerchief, and her pompadour swayed with emotion.

Ruth stood at the table, miserably pulling a rose to pieces. This
discussion was an old one, but it lost none of its sting by
repetition. Was she queer and obstinate and unreasonable?

"Ruth's all right," said Carter, seeing her discomfort. "She will have
more sense when she is older. She's just got her little head turned by
all the attention she has had since coming home. There isn't a boy in
the county who wouldn't make love to her at the drop of her eyelash.
She was the belle of the hop last night; had the boys about her three
deep most of the time."

"The hop!" Mrs. Nelson so far forgot herself as to uncover one eye.
"Don't speak of that wretched affair! The idea of her going! What do
you suppose your Aunt Elizabeth would say? A country dance in a public
hall!"

"I only dropped in for the last few dances," said Carter, pouring
himself another glass of wine. "It was beastly hot and stupid."

"I danced every minute the music played," cried Ruth; "and when they
played, 'Home, Sweet Home,' I could have begun and gone right through
it again."

"By the way," said her brother, "didn't I see you dancing with that
Kilday boy?"

"The last dance," said Ruth. "Why?"

"Oh, I was a little surprised, that's all."

Mrs. Nelson, scenting the suggestion in Carter's voice, was instantly
alert.

"Who, pray, is Kilday?"

"Oh, Kilday isn't anybody; that's the trouble. If he had been, he
would never have stayed with that old crank Judge Hollis. The judge
thinks he is appointed by Providence to control this bright particular
burg. He is even attempting to regulate me of late. The next time he
interferes he'll hear from me."

"But Kilday?" urged Mrs. Nelson, feebly persistent.

"Oh, Kilday is good enough in his place. He's a first-class athlete,
and has made a record up at the academy. But he was a peddler, you
know--an Irish peddler; came here three or four years ago with a pack
on his back."

"And Ruth danced with him!" Mrs. Nelson's words were punctuated with
horror.

Ruth looked up with blazing eyes. "Yes, I danced with him; why
shouldn't I? You made me dance with Mr. Warrenton, last summer, when I
told you he was drinking."

"But, my dear child, you forget who Mr. Warrenton is. And you actually
danced with a peddler!" Her voice grew faint. "My dear, this must
never occur again. You are young and easily imposed upon. I will
accompany you everywhere in the future. Of course you need never
recognize him hereafter. The impertinence of his addressing you!"

A step sounded on the gravel outside. Ruth ran to the window and spoke
to some one below. "I'll be there as soon as I change my habit," she
called.

"Who is it?" asked her aunt, hastily arranging her disturbed locks.

Ruth paused at the door. There was a slight tremor about her lips,
but her eyes flashed their first open declaration of independence.

"It's Mr. Kilday," she said; "we are going out on the river."

There was an oppressive silence of ten minutes after she left, during
which Carter smiled behind his paper and Mrs. Nelson gazed indignantly
at the tea-pot. Then she tapped the bell.

"Rachel," she said impressively, "go to Miss Ruth's room and get her
veil and gloves and sun-shade. Have Thomas take them to the boat-house
at once."

CHAPTER XVII

UNDER THE WILLOWS

Between willow-fringed banks of softest green, and under the bluest of
summer skies, the little river took its lazy Southern way. Tall blue
lobelias and golden flags played hide-and-seek in the reflections of
the gentle stream, and an occasional spray of goldenrod, advance-guard
of the autumn, stood apart, a silent warning to the summer idlers.

Somewhere overhead a vireo, dainty poet of bird-land, proclaimed his
love to the wide world; while below, another child of nature, no less
impassioned, no less aching to give vent to the joy that was bursting
his being, sat silent in a canoe that swung softly with the pulsing of
the stream.

For Sandy had followed the highroad that led straight into the Land
of Enchantment. No more wanderings by intricate byways up golden hills
to golden castles; the Love Road had led him at last to the real world
of the King Arthur days--the world that was lighted by a strange and
wondrous light of romance, wherein he dwelt, a knight, waiting and
longing to prove his valor in the eyes of his lady fair.

Burning deeds of prowess rioted in his brain. Oh for dungeons and
towers and forbidding battlements! Any danger was welcome from which
he might rescue her. Fire, flood, or bandits--he would brave them all.
Meanwhile he sat in the prow of the boat, his hands clasped about his
knees, utterly powerless to break the spell of awkward silence that
seemed to possess him.

[Illustration: "Burning deeds of prowess rioted in his brain"]

They had paddled in under the willows to avoid the heat of the sun,
and had tied their boat to an overhanging bough.

Ruth, with her sleeve turned back to the elbow, was trailing her hand
in the cool water and watching the little circles that followed her
fingers. Her hat was off, and her hair, where the sun fell on it
through the leaves, was almost the color of her eyes.

But what was the real color of her eyes? Sandy brought all his
intellect to bear upon the momentous question. Sometimes, he thought,
they were as dark as the velvet shadows in the heart of the stream;
sometimes they were lighted by tiny flames of gold that sparkled in
the brown depths as the sunshine sparkled in the shadows. They were
deep as his love and bright as his hope.

Suddenly he realized that she had asked him a question.

"It's never a word I've heard of what ye are saying!" he exclaimed
contritely. "My mind was on your eyes, and the brown of them. Do they
keep changing color like that all the time?"

Ruth, thus earnestly appealed to, blushed furiously.

"I was talking about the river," she said quickly. "It's jolly under
here, isn't it? So cool and green! I was awfully cross when I
came."

"You cross?"

She nodded her head. "And ungrateful, and perverse, and queer, and
totally unlike my father's family." She counted off her shortcomings
on her fingers, and raised her brows in comical imitation of her aunt.

"A left-hand blessing on the one that said so!" cried Sandy, with such
ardor that she fled to another subject.

"I saw Martha Meech yesterday. She was talking about you. She was very
weak, and could speak only in a whisper, but she seemed happy."

"It's like her soul was in Heaven already," said Sandy.

"I took her a little picture," went on Ruth; "she loves them so. It
was a copy of one of Turner's."

"Turner?" repeated Sandy. "Joseph Mallord William Turner, born in
London, 1775. Member of the Royal Academy. Died in 1851."

She looked so amazed at this burst of information that he laughed.

"It's out of the catalogue. I learned what it said about the ones I
liked best years ago."

"Where?"

"At the Olympian Exposition."

"I was there," said Ruth; "it was the summer we came home from Europe.
Perhaps that was where I saw you. I know I saw you somewhere before
you came here."

"Perhaps," said Sandy, skipping a bit of bark across the water.

A band of yellow butterflies on wide wings circled about them, and
one, mistaking Ruth's rosy wet fingers for a flower, settled there for
a long rest.

"Look!" she whispered; "see how long it stays!"

"It's not meself would be blaming it for forgetting to go away," said
Sandy.

They both laughed, then Ruth leaned over the boat's side and pretended
to be absorbed in her reflection in the water. Sandy had not learned
that unveiled glances are improper, and if his lips refrained from
echoing the vireo's song, his eyes were less discreet.

"You've got a dimple in your elbow!" he cried, with the air of one
discovering a continent.

"I haven't," declared she, but the dimple turned State's evidence.

The sun had gone under a cloud as the afternoon shadows began to
lengthen, and a light tenderer than sunlight and warmer than moonlight
fell across the river. The water slipped over the stones behind them
with a pleasant swish and swirl, and the mint that was crushed by the
prow of their boat gave forth an aromatic perfume.

Ever afterward the first faint odor of mint made Sandy close his eyes
in a quick desire to retain the memory it recalled, to bring back the
dawn of love, the first faint flush of consciousness in the girlish
cheeks and the soft red lips, and the quick, uncertain breath as her
heart tried not to catch beat with his own.

"Can't you sing something?" she asked presently. "Annette Fenton says
you know all sorts of quaint old songs."

"They're just the bits I remember of what me mother used to sing me in
the old country."

"Sing the one you like best," demanded Ruth.

Softly, with the murmur of the river ac-companying the song, he began:

"Ah! The moment was sad when my love and I parted,
Savourneen deelish, signan O!
As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted!--
Savourneen deelish, signan O!"

Ruth took her hand out of the water and looked at him with puzzled
eyes. "Where have I heard it? On a boat somewhere, and the moon was
shining. I remember the refrain perfectly."

Sandy remembered, too. In a moment he felt himself an impostor and a
cheat. He had stumbled into the Enchanted Land, but he had no right to
be there. He buried his head in his hands and felt the dream-world
tottering about him.

"Are you trying to remember the second verse?" asked Ruth.

"No," said he, his head still bowed; "I'm trying to help you remember
the first one. Was it the boat ye came over from Europe in?"

"That was it!" she cried. "It was on shipboard. I was standing by the
railing one night and heard some one singing it in the steerage. I was
just a little girl, but I've never forgotten that 'Savourneen
deelish,' nor the way he sang it."

"Was it a man'?" asked Sandy, huskily.

"No," she said, half frowning in her effort to remember; "it was a
boy--a stowaway, I think. They said he had tried to steal his way in a
life-boat."

"He had!" cried Sandy, raising his head and leaning toward her. "He
stole on board with only a few shillings and a bundle of clothes. He
sneaked his way up to a life-boat and hid there like a thief. When
they found him and punished him as he deserved, there was a little
lady looked down at him and was sorry, and he's traveled over all the
years from then to now to thank her for it."

Ruth drew back in amazement, and Sandy's courage failed for a moment.
Then his face hardened and he plunged recklessly on:

"I've blacked boots, and sold papers; I've fought dogs, and peddled,
and worked on the railroad. Many's the time I've been glad to eat the
scraps the workmen left on the track. And just because a kind, good
man--God prosper his soul!--saw fit to give me a home and an
education, I turned a fool and dared to think I was a gentleman!"

For a moment pride held Ruth's pity back. Every tradition of her
family threw up a barrier between herself and this son of the soil.

"Why did you come to Kentucky?" she asked.

"Why?" cried Sandy, too miserable to hold anything back. "Because I
saw the name of the place on your bag at the pier. I came here for the
chance of seeing you again, of knowing for sure there was something
good and beautiful in the world to offset all the bad I'd seen. Every
page I've learned has been for you, every wrong thought I've put out
of me mind has been to make more room for you. I don't even ask ye to
be my friend; I only ask to be yours, to see ye sometime, to talk to
you, and to keep ye first in my heart and to serve ye to the end."

The vireo had stopped singing and was swinging on a bough above them.

Ruth sat very still and looked straight before her. She had never seen
a soul laid bare before, and the sight thrilled and troubled her. All
the petty artifices which the world had taught her seemed useless
before this shining candor.

"And--and you've remembered me all this time?" she asked, with a
little tremble in her voice. "I did not know people cared like that."

"And you're not sorry?" persisted Sandy. "You'll let me be your
friend?"

She held out her hand with an earnestness as deep as his own. In an
instant he had caught it to his lips. All the bloom of the summer
rushed to her cheeks, and she drew quickly away.

"Oh! but I'll take it back--I never meant it," cried Sandy, wild with
remorse. "Me heart crossed the line ahead of me head, that was all.
You've given me your friendship, and may the sorrow seize me if I ever
ask for more!"

At this the vireo burst into such mocking, derisive laughter of song
that they both looked up and smiled.

"He doesn't think you mean it," said Ruth; "but you must mean it,
else I can't ever be your friend."

Sandy shook his fist at the bird.

"You spalpeen, you! If I had ye down here I'd throw ye out of the
tree! But you mustn't believe him. I'll stick to my word as the wind
to the tree-tops. No--I don't mean that. As the stream to the shore.
No-"

He stopped and laughed. All figures of speech conspired to make him
break his word.

Somewhere from out the forgotten world came six long, lingering
strokes of a bell. Sandy and Ruth untied the canoe and paddled out
into midstream, leaving the willow bower full of memories and the
vireo still hopping about among the branches.

"I'll paddle you up to the bridge," said Ruth; "then you will be near
the post-office."

Sandy's voice was breaking to say that she could paddle him up to the
moon if she would only stay there between him and the sun, with her
hair forming a halo about her face. But they were going down-stream,
and all too soon he was stepping out of the canoe to earth again.

"And will I have to be waiting till the morrow to see you?" he asked,
with his hand on the boat.

"To-morrow? Not until Sunday."

"But Sunday is a month off! You'll be coming for the mail?"

"We send for the mail," said Ruth, demurely.

"Then ye'll be sending in vain for yours. I'll hold it back till ye
come yourself, if I lose my position for it."

Ruth put three feet of water between them, then she looked up with
mischief in her eyes. "I don't want you to lose your position," she
said.

"Then you'll come?"

"Perhaps."

Sandy watched her paddle away straight into the heart of the sun. He
climbed the bank and waved her out of sight. He had to use a maple
branch, for his hat and handkerchief, not to mention less material
possessions, were floating down-stream in the boat with Ruth.

"Hello, Kilday!" called Dr. Fenton from the road above. "Going
up-town? I'll give you a lift."

Sandy turned and looked up at the doctor impatiently. The presence of
other people in the world seemed an intrusion.

"I've been out to the Meeches' all afternoon," said the doctor,
wearily, mopping his face with a red-bordered handkerchief.

"Is Martha worse?" asked Sandy, in quick alarm.

"No, she's better," said the doctor, gruffly; "she died at four
o'clock."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE VICTIM

Some poet has described love as a little glow and a little shiver; to
Sandy it was more like a ravaging fire in his heart, which lighted up
a world of such unutterable bliss that he cheerfully added fresh fuel
to the flames that were consuming him. The one absorbing necessity of
his existence was to see Ruth daily, and the amount of strategy,
forethought, and subtilty with which he accomplished it argued well
for his future ability at the bar.

In the long hours of the night Wisdom urged prudence; she presented
all the facts in the case, and convinced him of his folly. But with
the dawn he threw discretion to the winds, and rushed valiantly
forward, leading a forlorn hope under cover of a little Platonic flag
of truce.

With all the fervor and intensity of his nature he tried to fit
himself to Ruth's standards. Every unconscious suggestion that she let
fall, through word, or gesture, or expression, he took to heart and
profited by. With almost passionate earnestness he sought to be worthy
of her. Fighting, climbing, struggling upward, he closed his eyes to
the awful depth to which he would fall if his quest were vain.

Meanwhile his cheeks became hollow and he lost his appetite. The judge
attributed it to Martha Meech's death; for Sandy's genuine grief and
his continued kindness to the bereft neighbors confirmed an old
suspicion. Mrs. Hollis thought it was malaria, and dosed him
accordingly. It was Aunt Melvy who made note of his symptoms and
diagnosed his case correctly.

"He's sparkin' some gal, Miss Sue; dat's what ails him," she said one
evening as she knelt on the sitting-room hearth to kindle the first
fire of the season. "Dey ain't but two t'ings onder heaben dat'll keep
a man f'om eatin'. One's a woman, t' other is lack ob food."

Judge Hollis looked over his glasses and smiled.

"Who do you think the lady is, Melvy?"

Aunt Melvy wagged her head knowingly as she held a paper across the
fireplace to start the blaze.

"I ain't gwine tell no tales on Mist' Sandy. But yer can't fool dis
heah ole nigger. I mind de signs; I knows mo' 'bout de young folks in
dis heah town den dey t'ink I do. Fust t'ing you know, I'm gwine tell
on some ob 'em, too. I 'spect de doctor would put' near die ef he
knowed dat Miss Annette was a-havin' incandescent meetin's wif Carter
Nelson 'most ever' day."

"Is Sandy after Annette, too?"

"No, sonny, no!" said Aunt Melvy, to whom all men were "sonny" until
they died of old age. "Mist' Sandy he's aimin' at high game. He's
fix' his eyeball on de shore-'nough quality."

"Do you mean Ruth Nelson?" asked Mrs. Hollis, snapping her scissors
sharply. "He surely wouldn't be fool enough to think she would look at
him. Why, the Nelsons think they are the only aristocratic people that
ever lived in Clayton. If they had paid less attention to their
ancestors and more to their descendants, they might have had a better
showing."

"I nebber said it was Miss Rufe," said Aunt Melvy from the doorway;
"but den ag'in I don't say hit ain't."

"Well, I hope it's not," said the judge to his wife as he laid down
his paper; "though I must say she is as pretty and friendly a girl as
I ever saw. No matter how long she stays away, she is always glad to
see everybody when she comes back. Some of old Evan's geniality must
have come down to her."

"Geniality!" cried Mrs. Hollis. "It was mint-juleps and brandy and
soda. He was just as snobbish as the rest of them when he was sober.
If she has any good in her, it's from her mother's side of the house."

"I hope Sandy isn't interested there," went on the judge,
thoughtfully. "It would not do him any good, and would spoil his taste
for what he could get. How long has it been going on, Sue?"

"He's been acting foolish for a month, but it gets worse all the time.
He moons around the house, with his head in the clouds, and sits up
half the night hanging out of his window. He has raked out all those
silly old poetry-books of yours, and I find them strewn all over the
house. Here's one now; look at those pencil-marks all round the
margin!"

"Some of the marks were there before," said the judge, as he read the
title.

"Then there are more fools than one in the world. Here is where he has
turned down a leaf. Now just read that bosh and nonsense!"

The judge took the book from her hand and read with a reminiscent
smile:

"When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;
Or if from their slumber the veil be removed,
Weep o'er them in silence and close it again.
And, oh! if 't is pain to remember how far
From the pathway of light he was tempted to roam,
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star
That arose on his darkness and guided him home."

The judge paused, with his eyes on the fire; then he said: "I think
I'll wait up for the boy to-night, Sue. I want to tell him the good
news myself. You haven't spoken of it?"

"No, indeed. I haven't seen him since breakfast. Melvy says he spends
his spare time on the river. That's what's giving him the malaria,
too, you mark my words."

It was after eleven when Sandy's step sounded on the porch. At the
judge's call he opened the sitting-room door and stood dazed by the
sudden light. The judge noticed that he was pale and dejected, and he
suppressed a smile over the imaginary troubles of youth.

"What's the matter? Are you sick?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Come in to the fire; it's a bit chilly these nights."

Sandy dropped listlessly into a chair, with his back to the light.

"There are several things I want to talk over," continued the judge.
"One is about Ricks Wilson. He has behaved very badly ever since that
affair in August. Everybody who goes near the jail comes away with
reports of his threats against me. He seems to think I am holding his
trial over until January, when the fact is I have been trying to get
him released on your account. It is of no use, though; he will have to
wait his turn."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11