Clover and Blue Grass Part 4

"I reckon you're right," said Sally, laughing with the rest. "And that's why I say let young people alone; they're seein' their best days. Dan courted for me six months, and if I had to live my life over again, I'd make it six years."

Sally was one of those daring spirits who do not hesitate to say what others scarce venture to think.

"Maybe I wouldn't 'a' held out," observed Dan. "Courtin's mighty wearin'

work, and I ain't a Jacob by any manner o' means."

"Well, if you hadn't held out," said Sally recklessly, "somebody else would 'a' taken it up where you left off. Oh! you women needn't say a word. If you want to pretend you like dish-was.h.i.+n' and cookin' and mendin' better than courtin', you're welcome to do it. But if I was just young again, I wouldn't get married till I was too old to be courted, for courtin' time's the only time a woman sees any peace and happiness.

You, Daniel! You, Sally! Get up out of that dusty road."

"Mary," said John Crawford, in a low voice, "you get your things together, and we'll follow Matty's example."

Mary hesitated. Conscience said, "Stay to preaching"; but the laughing and talk had grown wearisome to her, and the strange feeling in her head had returned. So before the hour for the second service came, they stole quietly away, their rockaway wheels cutting the trail left by the erring young people who had gone before them.

The way to the bridge was a shady avenue, the trees in that rich alluvial soil growing to extraordinary height and grandeur, and in the comfortable homes and well-tilled farms there was a cheerful presentment of the legendary "Man with the Hoe." Only one melancholy spot by the roadside marred the traveler's pleasure. It was a country graveyard, walled around with stone, surmounted with an iron railing to protect it from the desecrating tread of beast or man. Nearly a century ago the hand of some woman had planted on one of the graves a spray of myrtle and a lily of the valley, and Nature had laid her leveling touch on each gra.s.sy mound and changed the place outwardly to a garden of flowers. But neither spring's white glory of lilies and azure of myrtle, the rich foliage of summer, the crimson splendor of autumn, nor winter's deepest snow could hide from the pa.s.ser-by the secret of the place.

Young lovers like Matty and Percival might go by with laughter and smiles unchecked; not yet for them the thought of death. But John touched the horse to a quicker pace and looked to the other side of the road where sunny fields of grain spoke of life more abundantly, and Mary drew closer to John's side, saying in her heart: "I wish there was no death in this world."

In the middle of the bridge they paused for a moment to look up and down the s.h.i.+ning river, and John recalled the tale, still told by the oldest inhabitants, of the spring of '65, when the river rose forty-five feet in nine hours and washed the bridge away. Beyond the bridge the road turned to the right, following the stream in a friendly way, and terminating at a fording place opposite a large sand bar known as "The Island." A giant sycamore in the middle cast a welcome shadow in the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne, and a fringe of willows encircled it. Under these, near the water's edge, lay heaps of mussel sh.e.l.ls,--white, pink, yellow, and purple,--the gift of the river to the land, and a reminder of the April freshet. The carriage wheels grated on the sand-bar, and as they caught sight of the treasures the children gave a cry of delight, for no sh.e.l.ls from a tropic ocean are more beautiful in color than the common mussel sh.e.l.ls of Kentucky rivers, and not infrequently a pearl is found within the tinted casket.

"Now, gather all the sh.e.l.ls you want," said John, "while your mother and me sit down here and rest in the shade."

Again he made a bed of the cus.h.i.+ons from the carriage, and closing her eyes Mary fell into blissful half-consciousness. The minister had read David's psalm of rejoicing at the morning service, and one line of it, "He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul," floated through her brain like a slumber song, with an obbligato of rippling water and the faint whispering of willows. Once she drifted to the very sh.o.r.es of sleep, to be gently called back by the laughter of the children; and when they turned homeward in the late afternoon, she felt strong for the next day's burden, only she hoped that no one would come to use the chart, until she had time to finish the spring cleaning. She wanted to get back into the old peaceful routine of work, in which each day had its duties and every duty brought with it time and strength for its performance.

Monday morning pa.s.sed without any interruption, and by half-past twelve o'clock the work belonging to the day was done and dinner was over. But just as she began was.h.i.+ng the dishes, there was a noise of wheels on the 'pike. Mary gave a start and almost dropped the dish she was holding.

"Oh, John!" she exclaimed, "see who it is." John stepped out on the back porch and looked up the road. "It looks like Sally and Dan McElrath and the two children," he said, coming back into the kitchen.

Mary compressed her lips to keep back a sigh of dismay. "Yes," she said quietly, "Sally told me yesterday she would be over some time this week to cut out a tea jacket by my chart, but I didn't expect her this soon.

I was just thinking I'd go up-stairs and take a nap as soon as I got through with the dishes. But it's all right. You put a stick of wood in the stove, John, to keep my dish-water hot, and I'll go out and ask Sally in."

John was looking at her very earnestly.

"Honey," he said, "your hair looks as if you hadn't combed it to-day.

You run up-stairs and fix yourself, and I'll see to Sally and Dan."

And while Mary darted up the back stairs, John hurried softly into the parlor. He could hear Sally's high, clear voice, and the wagon was almost at the gate. It was a bold emprise on which he was bent, and the time was short. On the top shelf of the old cherry secretary that had belonged to Mary's grandfather lay the chart. Looking fearfully around, he seized it, tiptoed to the kitchen, opened the stove door, and dropped the hateful thing on a bed of glowing hickory coals. Then he put in a stick of wood, according to Mary's behest, and the next moment he was at the front door, placing chairs on the porch and calling out a welcome to the alighting guests.

"Come right in, Dan. Glad to see you both. Mary's been looking for you.

Sit down here on the porch where it's cool. Here, Lucy Ellen, here's Sarah and Daniel come to play with you."

"What on earth did John mean by saying my hair needed combing?"

soliloquized Mary up-stairs, as she looked in the gla.s.s at the s.h.i.+ning braids of her hair; "I fixed it just before dinner, and it's as smooth and nice as it can be." She hurried down to see that her guests lacked no attention demanded by hospitality. John was likely to be forgetful about such matters.

"I was just saying, Mary," Sally called out as soon as she caught sight of her hostess, "that Dan was on his way to town, and I'm going to stay here with the children till he comes back. But I want to lay the chart on my goods right away, for I'm afraid I've got a scant pattern for that tea jacket, and if I have, I can give Dan a sample of the goods, and he can bring me an extra yard from town. And if you'll bring the chart out, I'll lay off my goods right here and now, so Dan won't lose any time on my account."

"Oh! never mind about me," said Dan, with the air and accent of one who has suffered long and given up hope. "I've been losin' time on your account for the last fifteen years, and this trip ain't goin' to be an exception."

Every one laughed, for Sally's weakness was known of all men. Aunt Tabby McElrath once said that if the road from Dan's place to town was ten miles long, and there was a house every quarter of a mile, Sally would make just forty visits going and coming.

"Get the chart, John," said Mary, "and it won't take us two minutes to find out whether there's enough goods. It's on the top shelf of the old secretary in the parlor."

John went obediently. "Where did you say that chart was?" he called back.

"On the old secretary. I saw it there just before dinner," answered Mary.

"I saw it there, too," responded John, "but it ain't there now."

Mary hastened to the parlor. "Why no, it isn't here," she exclaimed in dismay. "Who could have taken it?"

"Ask the children," suggested Sally from the porch, where she sat cheerfully rocking and fanning herself. "Whenever there's anything missing at our house, some of the children can tell who's mislaid it."

But Lucy Ellen and little John with one voice made haste to defend themselves against the visitor's accusation. By this time Dan had come into the parlor, and the three stood looking at each other in silent perplexity.

Dan was openly worried over the delay, Mary was sympathetically distressed, and John's face expressed nothing but the deepest concern over the situation.

"Maybe it's up-stairs," he said. "Suppose you and Sally run up there and search while Dan and myself'll search down here. That'll save time."

"What sort of a lookin' thing is that chart?" asked Dan, as he got down on his knees and made a dive under the sofa.

"Well, I'd recognize it if I saw it," said John, "but, come to think of it, I don't know as I could tell anybody exactly how it looks. It's something done up in a roll and tied with red tape."

"Done up in a roll and tied with red tape," repeated Dan, meditatively, opening closet doors and peering into corners, while he tried to keep in his mind an image of the lost chart as described by his fellow searcher.

"Is this it?"

"Well, now that's something like it," said John. "I'll ask Mary. Here, Mary, is this it?"

Mary leaned over the railing with hopeful expectancy in her glance.

"Why, John, that's my gossamer case with the gossamer in it. I thought you knew my chart better than that. Tell the children to look, too.

They'd know it if they saw it."

"I'm lookin' as hard as I can," piped Lucy Ellen from the closet under the stairs, while little John seized a long stick, ran to the henhouse, poked the setting hens off their eggs, and searched diligently in every nest for Mother's lost chart.

"Don't stand on ceremony, Dan. Open every door you come to," commanded John, as he rummaged in the sideboard and tumbled the piles of snowy damask. Thus encouraged, Dan walked into the pantry and gazed helplessly at the jars of preserves and jelly on the top shelf. He lifted the top from Mary's b.u.t.termilk jar. No chart there.

"Done up in a roll and tied with red tape," he muttered, opening a tin box and disclosing a loaf of bread and a plate of tea-cakes.

"Here, John," he exclaimed, "this prowlin' around in other people's houses don't suit me at all. Makes me feel like a thief and a robber.

I'll go out and see to my horses, and you keep on lookin'."

And John continued to look, as the shepherd looked for the lost sheep, as the woman looked for the piece of silver. Now and then he uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of wonder and regret, and raised his voice to inquire of Mary if the lost had been found.

Mary's search up-stairs was greatly hindered by Sally's digressions.

Some minds move in straight lines, others in curves, but Sally's mental processes were all in the nature of tangents.

"You look in the closet, Sally," said Mary, "and I'll go through the bureau drawers."

But the novelty of being up-stairs in Mary's house made Sally forget the cause of her being there.

"Gracious! Mary, how do you keep your room so nice? This is what I call a young girl's room. I used to be able to have things clean and pretty before I was married, but Daniel and Sarah make the whole house look like a hurrah's nest. And there's your great-grandmother's counterpane on the bed, white as the driven snow, too. I wonder how many generations that's going to wear. My, what a pretty view you've got from this window. Ain't that Pilot k.n.o.b over yonder, just beyond that clump of cedars? Yes, that must be old Pilot. I've heard my grandfather tell many a time how his father camped at the foot of the k.n.o.b, and sat up all night to keep the bears and wolves away."