"Why, that description of her hog's dying withcholera and the rescue reads like a--a Greek tragedy in its simplicity."
"Oh, Sam," I exclaimed in dismay, "that reminds me, I forgot to tell youabout the play, and now you ought to go home, with all those five milesto walk and plowing to do at daylight." "Play? What play? Won't itkeep?" asked Sam, as he rose and reached for his hat on the table."Let's enjoy this last ten minutes before my hike, down at the gate."
"Oh no, it won't keep, and I don't know exactly what I will do about itand the garden. Here's Peter's letter; read it for yourself," I wailed,as I drew the splashed letter out from the ruffle in the front of mydress where I had stuck it for safe keeping, and handed it to Sam. If Ihadn't been so distressed by the collision of the play and the garden inmy heart I never would have been so dishonorable as to let Sam read thelast paragraph in Peter's letter, which was more affectionate than Ifelt was really right for Peter to write me, even after the Astortea-party, and which had troubled me faintly until I had forgotten aboutit in my excitement about Farrington and the play. I saw Sam's handshake as he read that last page, and he held it away from me andfinished it, as I remembered and gasped and reached for it.
"Good old Pete," said Sam, in a voice that shook as his hand did whilehe handed me back the letter. "It is a great chance for him, and if youcan help you'll have to go to it, Betty. Pete only needs ballast, andyou are it--he seems to think."
"But how will I find time enough from making our garden to help make hisplay?" I asked as I rose and clung to his sleeve as I had done in allserious moments of my life, even when his coat-sleeve had been that ofa roundabout jacket. My heart was weak and jumpy as I asked thequestion.
"Betty," said Sam, gently, lifting my hand from his arm into his for asecond and then handing it firmly back to me, "that garden was just adream you and I have been having this evening. It can't be. Don't yousee, dear, I am in a hard hand-to-hand struggle with my land, which isall I possess, for--for bread for myself and the kiddie, and I--I can'thave a woman's flower-garden. It looks as if you and old Petie can do areal literary stunt together. Just get at it, and God bless you both.Good night now; I must sprint." And as he spoke he was through one ofthe long windows and out on the front porch in the moonlight.
"Oh, wait, Sam, wait!" I gasped, as I flew after him and clung to himdeterminedly.
"Well," he said, patiently, as he stood on the step below me and turnedhis bronze head away from me out toward his dim hills sleeping in thesoft mystery of the moonlight.
"I will, Sam, I _will_ have that garden," I said, with the same angrydetermination in my voice I had used when I had clung to him and kickedand fought to go to places with him when he didn't want me, and when myskirts were several inches above my bare knees and his feet werescratched and innocent of shoes.
"Betty," said Sam, as he shook me away from him and then took myshoulders under their thin covering of chiffon in his plow-calloused,big, warm hands, "forget it! There are lots of dream gardens out in theworld you can play in when you have time away from the bright lights.Everybody grows 'em without a lick of work. I have to work mine orstarve. Good night!" Then with a rough of my hair down across my eyes hewas out in the moonlit road, running away from me to his hollow log in away he had never done before, no matter how I had tagged him.
I ran as far as the gate to watch him out of sight, and then I put myhead down against the tall old post that had been one of Sam's percheswhen he wanted to climb away from me in former years, and sobbed andsobbed. I had never expected Sam to cast me off.
Girls' hearts are covered all over with little thin crystallizations ofaffection, and men ought to be very careful not to smash any of themwith their superior strength. Sam had hurt me so that I didn't even darethink about it. I knew he was poor, and I hadn't expected him to plowand plant things for me while I went about in a picture-hat snippingthem with garden scissors. I had asked him to let me set onions and weedbeans and drop peas and corn for him and share his poverty and hard workas a true friend, and he had shut his cedar-pole gate in my face andheart. And I didn't understand why. I tried to think it was hisaffection for Peter that made him thus rudely switch my mind from himand his garden to Peter and his need of me, which Sam may have thoughtwas greater than the need of his onions and turnip salad; but I don'tsee how Sam could have construed cruelty to me as generosity to Peter.
"Please God," I prayed out into the everlasting hills toward which Samwas running away from me and from which I had heard intoned "comethhelp," "give me dirt to work in somewhere except in just a yard if Ican't have Sam's. Help me to get somebody to help me to raise things forpeople to eat and milk, as well as to inspire a play. I'll do boththings, but I must have earth with rotted leaves in it. Amen."
Then I went to bed heartbroken for life, and my sad eyes closed on thelittle glimpse which my window framed of Old Harpeth, the tallest hillin Paradise Ridge, while my hand still folded in the moist hollyhockseeds.
Over Paradise Ridge Page 7