A Dixie School Girl Part 1

A Dixie School Girl.

by Gabrielle E. Jackson.

CHAPTER I

FULL SPEED FOR FOUR CORNERS

Four straight country roads running at right angles. You cannot see where they begin because they have their beginning "over the hills and far away," but you can see where they end at "Four Corners," the hub of that universe, for there stand the general store, which is also the postoffice, the "tavern," as it is called in that part of the world, the church, the rectory, and perhaps a dozen private dwellings.

"Four Corners" is oddly mis-named, because there are no corners there at all. It is a circle. Maybe it was originally four corners, but today it is certainly a circle with a big open s.p.a.ce in the center, and in the very middle of that stands a flag staff upon which floats the stars and stripes. The whole open s.p.a.ce is covered with the softest green turf.

_Not_ a lawn, mind you, such as one may see in almost any immaculately kept northern town, with artistic flower beds dotting it, and a carefully trimmed border of foliage plants surrounding it. No, this circle has real Virginia turf; the thick, rich, indestructible turf one finds in England, which, as an old gardener told the writer, "we rolls and tills it for a thousand years." Nature had been rolling and tilling this green plot of ground for a good many thousand years.

The circle was encompa.s.sed by an iron rail fence to which the people from the surrounding community hitched their saddle or carriage horses when they came to the "Store" for their mail, or to make various purchases.

And there the beasties often stood for hours, rubbing noses and exchanging the gossip of the paddocks, horse (or mule) fas.h.i.+on.

There were always several hitched there, and they were always gossiping or dozing as they waited for their owners to start toward home, and they represented all sorts and conditions of their kind just as those owners represented all sorts and conditions of men. Some were young men, some middle-aged, some old. Some were of the gentry of the surrounding country, some the humbler white folk, some the negroes who had managed to acquire small tracts of land which they farmed successfully or otherwise.

Among them, too, was the typical s.h.i.+ftless, "triflin' no-'count" darkey who "jist sits 'round a-waitin'," though it would be hard for him to tell what he was waiting for.

Nevertheless, the "Corners" is the center of the activities of that community, though to make those who most frequently gather there, comprehend the limitations of its activities they would have to be set down in the midst of some big, hustling city.

Still, some who go to the Corners are very much alive to this fact, for they have journeyed throughout the length and breadth of their own land and many other lands beside. But they do not tell their less travelled brothers much of the wonders which lie beyond the towering mountains, which is just as well, perhaps. The stay-at-home might be less happy and content were they to learn of the doings of the big world beyond the barriers of their snug, peaceful valley, which seems to the wiser ones so far away from the trials, struggles, and worries of the world beyond.

And, curiously enough, when those of wider knowledge return to the valley they find again the peace and tranquility which they left there, and, breathing a sigh of relief, settle back into its restful atmosphere, and tranquil content, as one settles into a comfortable old chair.

The nearest "real, sure-enough town" to the Corners is Sprucy Branch and that is fourteen miles from Luray, with its famous caverns. To reach Sprucy Branch from Four Corners one must drive or ride "a right smart distance," and then to reach Luray take a railway trip or drive the fourteen miles. It is a beautiful part of this big world, and the valley is a happy one. Moreover, it would be hard to find a more delightful, little social world than its gentlefolk represent. Not the formal, artificial, rigidly conventional social world of the big northern cities, where few have time or inclination to be absolutely genuine, but the rare, true social life of the well-bred southerner, to whom friends.h.i.+p means much, kins.h.i.+p more, and family ties everything. Whose sons go forth into the world to make their mark, and often their fortunes, too, yet still retain the charm of their up-bringing, the traditions of their families, and their intense love of "the home back yonder." Whose daughters, though brought up, "raised," they often say, in the simplicity of country life, and more often than not having very limited financial resources, are in the truest sense of that beautiful old word, the gentlewomen we picture, prepared to grace their homes, or the outer world and reflect credit upon the land of their birth. And this is the conviction of her northern sister, the first of nine generations to be born beyond the borders of the old Bay State, so she can hardly be accused of a biased opinion.

And this lovely September morning, when the air holds just the faintest suggestion of autumn, when the leaves are beginning to hint of richer tints than the soft greens which they have worn all summer, when the native birds are hobn.o.bbing and gossiping with their friends who are journeying farther south, "All the news of the north to the sunny south bringing," and the squirrels are chattering and scolding as they gather their h.o.a.rd of c.h.i.n.kapins and other fodder for the long winter at hand, something is stirring. Yes, stirring vigorously, too, if one may judge by the hullabaloo which suddenly arises far down the East Pike. The people gathered upon the porch at the store p.r.i.c.k up their ears to listen. There are a dozen or more there upon one errand or another, for the store is the commercial center of the district, and from it can be bought or ordered every nameable thing under the sun. It is also the postoffice, so, once, at least, each day there wends his or her way to it, every human being who expects, hopes for, or by any chance may receive a letter.

It was mail time. Hence the number of people gathered about to p.r.i.c.k up their ears as the racket down the road grew louder and louder each second, and the thud of horses' hoofs, the shouts of boys' voices and a girl's ringing laugh were borne to them.

"Yonder comes the Woodbine bunch, I'll bet a dollar, and they're sure enough a-hittin' it up, too. Reckon that young one of the old Admiral's is a-settin' the pace, too. She's a clipper, all right," commented a man seated upon a tilted-back chair, his hat pushed far back upon his shock head. He was guiltless of coat, and his jean trousers were hitched high about his waist by a pair of wool suspenders.

Hardly had he ceased speaking when three horses came pounding into view, the leader ridden by a girl about fifteen years of age. The animal was a little mouse-colored beastie with white markings and eyes which gave a pretty strong hint of a good bit of broncho disposition to which the markings also pointed. He was lithe and agile as a cat and moved with something of the sinuous gliding of that animal, rather than the bounding motions of his eastern-bred mates. The two horses running neck and neck behind him were evidently blooded animals, and all three were a-lather from the pace set by their leader, all mud-bespattered to the point of being wholly disreputable, for a shower the previous night had left many a wide puddle in the road.

The girl leading rode as only a southern girl, accustomed to a saddle all her life, can ride. The saddle was of the Mexican type, but the headstall was the lightest possible, with a simple snaffle bit, even that seeming almost superfluous for she guided her mount more by the motions of her body than the bridle. She held the reins at arm's length in her left hand, while with her right she waved above her head a soft felt hat, her banner of defiance and derision of her pursuers. Swaying ever so slightly in her saddle, she brought her wiry little mount up to the platform, and slid from his back as snow slides from a hillside. The reins were tossed over his head and the race was ended.

Running across the porch she nodded or bowed comprehensively to all seated or standing upon it--the greeting accompanied by a sunny, happy smile which revealed faultlessly pretty teeth.

As she disappeared within the store her friends came rus.h.i.+ng up to the platform, shouting after her as they drew up their horses:

"Here, come back! Hold on! That's no fair, even if you did beat. _We're_ going to decide the kind of candy. You'll do us out of our last cent if we let you get it."

"Of course! Why not?" was called back, banteringly.

"Do you think I'm going to run Apache off his legs, risk breaking my neck and then not have the say-so in the end? I reckon not. It's just _got_ to be chocolates _this_ time. Cinnamon suckers are all right enough for a little race, but this was a two-mile go-it-for-all-you're-worth one, and besides, you'd better be nice to me, while you have the chance, because you won't have me with you very much longer."

"Ah, cut that out. We know it well enough. You needn't rub it in," was the chorus of answers.

"Shut up, Bev," added the taller of the two boys, a fair haired lad of sixteen or seventeen. He was a handsome boy, with eyes of such a deep blue that they seemed violet, wavy golden hair and a fine, clear skin, though it was tanned many shades darker than nature intended it to be.

The nose was clean cut, and the mouth and chin indicated considerable strength of character. He carried himself as though very sure of his place in the world, and his intention to hold it. Nevertheless, the face was a cheery, happy one.

The other boy was so like the girl that it was laughable. Exchange their garments and it would have puzzled the cleverest person to tell "t'other-from-which." To label them twins would have been superfluous.

Nature had attended to that little matter fifteen years earlier in their lives, and even their old mammy used to say: "Now don' none of yo' other chillern go ter projectin' wid dem babies whilst I's got my haid turn'd 'way, cause if yo' does dey's gwine fer to get mixed pintedly, an' den I's gwine ter have ter spend a hull hour mebbe a-gettin' my mind settled pon which is which again."

Moreover, the fifteen years of daily a.s.sociation had only served to consummate what Dame Nature had so ably begun, for the girl and the boy almost thought and felt in unison. In all those years they had hardly been separated for a day. That is no further than a strict quarantine beneath the same roof had separated them, and that had been entirely Beverly's doings. At five she began the performance by contracting whooping-cough; at seven she tried mumps; at nine turned a beautiful lobster hue from measles, and at eleven capped the climax by scaring the family nearly to death with scarlet fever, and thereby causing her grandfather, Admiral Ashby, to exclaim:

"Lord bless my soul, Beverly, you are worse than the potato bugs; they _do_ skip the fatal second year now and again, but you never let up."

Perhaps this criticism had called a halt in her performances in the line of contagious diseases, for since the scarlet fever scare she had quit frightening the family into spasms, and at fifteen was as charming, healthy, and tantalizing a bit of girlhood as one could wish to see, though about as much of a tomboy as one could find.

CHAPTER II

WOODBINE

While Beverly Ashby is squabbling good-naturedly with her brother and chum, suppose we take this opportune moment in which to learn something about the trio?

Beverly and her brother, Athol, had elected to enter this world exactly fifteen years and four months prior to the opening of this story. They also chose the thirteenth of May, 1897, to spring their first surprise upon their family by arriving together, and had managed to sustain their reputations for surprising the grownups by never permitting a single year to pa.s.s without some new outbreak, though it must be admitted that Beverly could certainly claim the greater distinction of the two in that direction.

"Woodbine," their home, had been the family seat for many generations. It had seen many a Seldon enter this world and many a one depart from it. It had witnessed the outgoing of many brides from its broad halls, and seen many enter to become its mistress. It was a wonderful old place, beautiful, stately, and so situated upon its wooded upland that it commanded a magnificent view of the broad valley of Sprucy Stream. Over against it lay the foothills of the blue, blue mountains, the Blue Ridge range, and far to the westward the peaks of the Alleghanies peeped above the Ma.s.sanutton range nearer at hand.

The valley itself was like a rare painting. The silvery stream running through the foreground, the rich woodlands and fertile fields, the marvelous lights and shadows ever holding the one looking upon it entranced. And all this lay before the broad acres of Woodbine, so named because that graceful vine hung in rich festoons from every column, gallery, portico and even the eaves to which it had climbed, a delicate gray-green adornment in early spring, a rich, darker tone in midsummer, and a gorgeous crimson in the autumn.

It was a s.p.a.cious old mansion and would have been considered a large one even in the north, where, during the past fifty years, palaces have sprung into existence under the misnomer of "cottages." Happily, it did not tower up into the air as many of the so-called cottages do, but spread itself comfortably over the greensward, the central building being the only one ambitious enough to attain to two stories and a sharply peaked roof, in which were set several dormer windows from which a most entrancing view of the valley and distant mountain ranges could be obtained.

These dormer window chambers were rarely used, and, excepting during the semi-annual house cleaning, rarely visited. That one of these rare visits should have been paid one of them upon this particular day of which we are writing was simply Kismet. But of that a little later. Let us finish our picture of lovely Woodbine.

Across the entire front of the main floor as well as the second story, ran a wide piazza, gallery they call it in that part of the country. The lower gallery gave upon a broad, velvety lawn dotted with elms, beeches, oaks and feathery pines. No path led to this gallery, and when one stepped from it one's feet sank into the softest green turf. The door which opened upon it fairly spoke hospitality and welcome from its beautiful fan-like arch to its diamond-paned side lights and the hall within was considered one of the more perfect specimens of the architecture of its period to be found in the state, as was the stately circular double stairway leading to the floor above. Half way up, upon a broad landing, a stained gla.s.s window, brought long, long ago from England, let the western sunlight filter through its richly tinted panes and lie in patches of exquisite color upon polished stairs and floor.

At the north and south ends of the house were the real entrances from the carefully raked, wide driveway which described almost a complete circle from the great stone gateway half a mile across Woodbine's lawn. Could this driveway have run straight through the house the circle would have been perfect, but it had to stop at the big south portico, with its graceful columns, and resume its sweep from the north one which gave upon the "office," the overseer's cottage, the various buildings devoted to the business "ob de gr'et house," as the darkies called it, and away further to the stables, carriage house, granaries and other buildings of the estate, with the servants' cabins behind these. All upon the north side of Woodbine was devoted to the practical, utilitarian needs of the place, all upon its southern to its pleasures and luxuries, for in the buildings circling away from the south end were the s.p.a.cious kitchens, dairy, smoke house, laundry and other buildings necessary to the domestic economy of the household. None of these buildings touched directly upon the main house, but were connected with it by a roofed-over colonnade upon which the woodbine ran riot, as it did upon all the detached buildings, producing an effect charming beyond description. The colonnades described a semicircle from the north-west and south-west corners of the big house, and led from the kitchen to the big dining room, and from the office to the Admiral's study. All the buildings were constructed of rich red brick, brought from England generations ago, the pillars being of white marble. The effect against the dark green foliage was picturesque to agreed.

Unlike many of the old southern homes, Woodbine had always been kept in perfect repair, and by some miracle of good fortune, had escaped the ravages of the Civil War. Its present owner, Admiral Athol Seldon, enjoyed a very comfortable income, having been wise enough during the troublous times of the war to invest his fortune where it would be reasonably safe. He would not have been called a wealthy man, as wealth is gauged in the great northern cities, but in this peaceful valley, where needs were simple and diversions sensible, he was regarded as a man of affluence and no little importance.

During the war he had served in the Confederate Navy, and served with all the strength of his convictions. When it ended in a lost cause he returned to Woodbine to learn in what condition the home he so loved had come through the conflict, for it was situated in the very vortex of the disturbance. Finding it but slightly harmed, and having sufficient means to repair it, he resolved to end his days there. He had never married, an early romance having come to a tragic end in the death of his fiancee soon after the outbreak of the war. Consequently, beautiful Woodbine lacked a mistress, to the great distress of the old family servants.

To remedy this he sent for his brother's widow and her little two-year-old daughter, Mary. Beverly Seldon, two years his brother's junior, had been killed at the battle of Winchester in 1864, and the little Mary had entered this world exactly five months after her father's death. Her mother came very near following her father into the great beyond, but survived the shock to live beneath Athol Seldon's hospitable roof until Mary was eleven years of age, then quietly went to sleep, leaving Mary to her uncle's care. The child then and there became mistress not only of Woodbine, but of every living thing upon the place, her uncle included, and no only daughter could have been cared for, petted, spoiled or spanked more systematically than the Madcap Mary Seldon.

At twenty-six she married Turner Ashby, the grandson of one of the Admiral's oldest friends. Two years later a little daughter was born, but died before she was a year old. Then, just when the old Admiral was beginning to grumble because there seemed to be no prospect of a grand-nephew to inherit Woodbine, Mary Ashby presented him with not only an heir but an heiress as well, and the old gentleman came very near a balloon ascension.

The twins were christened Athol Seldon Ashby and Beverly Turner Ashby before they had fully decided that they were really American citizens, and for seven years no happier household could have been found in the state. Then another calamity visited it. Turner Ashby was killed in a railway accident while north on a business trip. It was a frightful blow to the home in which he was adored by every member, from the Admiral straight down to the blackest little piccaninny upon the estate, and to make it, if possible, more tragic, all that ever came back to Woodbine was the seal ring he had worn, picked up in the charred ruins of the parlor coach. More than eight years had pa.s.sed since that tragedy, and those years had changed Mary Ashby from a light-hearted, happy young wife and joyous mother to a quiet, dignified woman. Never again did her children find in her the care-free, romping play-fellow they had always known, though she never ceased to be the gentle, tender mother.

And how they missed it. They were too young to fully appreciate their loss, though they grieved deeply for the tall, handsome, golden-haired, blue-eyed father who had been their jolly comrade, riding, romping with them, rowing, playing all manner of games, and always ready to relate some thrilling tale, and who, after eleven years of married life, had remained as much their mother's lover as upon the day he married her.

Indeed, all the countryside mourned for Turner Ashby, for such a personality could not be s.n.a.t.c.hed from its environment without leaving a terrible blank for many years.