Time went swiftly. The seasons followed each other without that fierceness in them to which one is accustomed in the North. The very frosts were gentle; slowly and kindly they stripped the green robes from tree and thicket, gave ample warning to the robin, linnet and ruby-throat before taking down the leafy hangings and leaving their shelter open to the chill rains of December. The wet kine and horses turned away from the North and stood in slanting rains with bowed heads.
Christmas passed, and New Year. Pretty soon spring was in the valleys, creeping first for shelter shyly, in the pause of the blustering wind that was blowing the last remnants of old winter from the land.
There was a general spreading of dry brush over the spaded farm country; then the sweet, clean smell of its burning and a misty veil of thin blue smoke hanging everywhere throughout the clearing. As soon as the fear of frost was gone, all the air was a fount of freshness. The earth smiled its gladness, and the laughing waters prattled of the kindness of the sun. When the dappled softness of the sky gave some earnest of its mood, a brisk south wind arose and the blessed rain came driving cold, yet most refreshing. At its ceasing, coy leaves peeped out, and the bravest blossoms; the dogwoods, full-flowered, quivered like white butterflies poised to dream. In every wet place the little frogs began to pipe to each other their joy that spring was holding her revel. The heart of the people was not sluggish in its thankfulness to God, for if there were no spring, no seed time, there would be no harvest. Now summer was all back again. Song birds awakening at dawn made the woods merry carolling to mates and younglings in the nests. All nature was in glad, gay earnest. Busy times, corn in blossom rustling in the breeze, blackberries were ripe, morning-glories under foot, the trumpet flower flaring above some naked girdled tree. Open meadows full of sun where the hot bee sucks the clover, the grass tops gather purple, and ox-eyed daisies thrive in wide unshadowed acres.
“Just a year ago since I came to the South,” mused Elliott Harding, as he walked back and forth in his room, the deep bay window of which overlooked a lawn noticeably neat and having a representative character of its own.
As a rule, South country places in thickly settled regions are pronounced unlovely at a glance, either by reason of the plainness of their architecture or by the too close proximity of other buildings. Here was an exception for the outhouses were numerous but in excellent repair and red-tiled like the house itself. The tiles were silvered here and there with the growth and stains of unremoved lichens. There was not an eye-sore anywhere about this quiet home of Mr. Field.
Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity for him. Surely this quiet must dull his nerves so used to spurring, and he find the jog-trot of the days’ monotony an insupportable experience. That Elliott belonged to the world, loved it, none knew better than himself. He had revelled in its delights with the indifferent thought, “Time enough for fireside happiness by-and-by.” His interest in life had been little more than that which a desire for achievement occasions in an energetic mind.
In spite of his past association, his past carelessness, this moment found him going over the most trivial event that had the slightest connection with Dorothy Carr. He tried to recall every word, every look of hers. Often when he had had a particularly hard day’s work, it rested him to stop and take supper with the Carrs. The sight of their home life fascinated him. He had never known happy family life; he had little conception of what a pure, genial home might be. The simple country customs, the common interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty—all these were new to him, and impressed him forcibly. And how like one of them he had got to feel walking in the front hall often, hanging up his hat, and reading the evening papers if the folks were out, and sometimes when Aunt Chloe told him where Dorothy had gone, he felt the natural inclination to go in pursuit of her. He remembered once finding her ankle deep in the warm lush garden grasses, pulling weeds out from her flowers, and he had actually got down and helped her. That was a very happy hour; the freshness of the sweet air gave her unconventional garb a genuine loveliness—gave him a sense of manliness and mastery which he had not felt in the old life. How infinitely sweet she looked! Something about her neatness, grace and order typified to him that palladium of man’s honor and woman’s affection—the home. She appealed to the heart and that appeal has no year, no period, no fashion.
Daylight was dying now; he looked longingly towards the gray gables, the only indication of the Carr homestead. Afar beyond the range of woodland the day’s great stirrup cup was growing fuller. Up from the slow moving river came a breath of cool air, and beyond the landline quivered the green of its willows. Dusk had fallen—the odorous dusk of the Southland. In the distance somewhere sounds of sweet voices of the negroes singing in the summer dark, their music mingling with the warm wind under the stars. The night with its soft shadings held him—he leaned long against the window and listened.