IV
The last bright streamer had disappeared, but still there remained afaint, chaste glow above the dark line of hills. An unseen Hand had sownthe sky thickly with stars, and more fell to their appointed places asthe moments passed. A bull-frog boomed out his guttural note, and Fidobegan to whine and gnaw at the rail just below my feet. He was gettinghungry, and I acquiesced to his wordless plea to go home. Night had nowcome, and the air was chilly, so I buttoned my coat close up to my chin,and moved briskly. We were some distance from home, but the lights ofthe city were reflected in the sky, and besides, it was not dark,because of the stars, and the road over which we went had but one end.
I ate in quiet satisfaction the lunch which Mrs. Moss had saved for me,but when I tried to interest myself in Emerson, a few minutes later, Ifound that one of my favorites bored me. This sudden lack ofappreciation of the great essayist annoyed me, and I forced my eyes totraverse line after line, hoping that the pleasing charm which they hadalways held for me would return. But this policy proved futile, so atlength I quietly closed the book and put it down on the table, disgustedwith myself. Perhaps my mind required something in lighter vein, andthere was my bookcase, with its glass doors open, as they usually were.But the delightful metre of the "Lady of the Lake" seemed halting andtame to me that night, and this volume I did not close as gently as Ihad the former one, but flung it carelessly on the table and walkednervously to the window and raised the sash. For a moment--only amoment--I stood there, trying to find a few stars through the curtain offactory smoke which hung overhead, and letting the cool air blow aboutme. Then I put the window down, and came back to my easy-chair,satisfied, for I had solved the riddle of my unrest.
That afternoon's walk had showed me of what I was depriving myself. Itdawned upon me in that moment that the pastoral joys which I had knownthat day were dearer to my soul than printed pages and themind-narrowing captivity of four walls. Out there were unboundedpossibilities for the mind and soul, lessons to be learned, pages to beread, secrets to discover,--a message in each soft gurgle of the brook;a whisper from each stirring leaf; a hidden story in the dreamy face ofeach flower. All of these became voices in my ears; I could listen totheir singing and sighing for hours. What an awakening it was! I hadbeen dreaming for over half my life, and with a sigh I looked at thewell-worn tomes in my bookcase, which must now take second place in myheart. They had served me well. True and tried friends, into whose facesI had looked in both joy and sorrow, and never failed of consolation ordelight. I would never desert them--God forbid! They were grappled to mysoul with hooks which would neither bend nor break, and which could notfall away. Still would I come to them and caress them with lovingfingers as I held them in my lap; still would I ask their advice andstore my mind of their knowledge, for they had lightened too many hoursof my life to be forsaken now,--it would be like giving up a friend oftwoscore years for one newly found. And I loved them none the less,--inthe full flush of the secret which I had discovered I knew this, and Iwalked over to where the long rows stood like phalanxes, and ran myhands lovingly over the sheepskin and vellum backs. And, 'pon my soul,they seemed to respond to my fingers, as though I had touched hands witha friend! They may have been dumb, but they were not lifeless; for thespirits of their creators still lingered between the leaves, and madethem live--for me. Good friends, rest easy on your shelves; one by oneeach of you shall come down, as you have always done, and commune withme. When Nature sleeps, then we shall revel.
I sat down again, and stretched my feet out towards the low fire. Withpipe newly filled, I caressed it between my joined hands, and thought.After a half hour of smoking and ruminating, I came to a conclusion. Iwould move to the country for the summer! What a dolt I had been allthese years! The matter of board need not be considered, for that wascheaper in the country than in town. When winter came again, I couldreturn to my present quarters, if I chose. What I wanted was a quiet oldfarmhouse with as few people in it as possible, and located in theblue-grass region of the State. Then life would be one endlessdelight,--days afield, and peaceful, noiseless nights. To be awakened inthe morning by the matin song of the thrush; to breathe the intoxicatingodor of honeysuckle and jessamine; to step out into the dew-washedgrass, instead of upon the hard pavement, and to receive the countlessbenedictions of the outstretched arms of the trees as I walked beneaththem. Where had my mind been a-wandering all of these years that I hadnot thought of this before? But I was too sensible to mar my present joywith useless regrets. The future was bright with anticipation and richwith promise, and my heart grew light.
And Fido--poor Fido--would be glad of the change, too, for I am sure itmust have taxed his love for me to stay in the goods-box which I hadconverted into a kennel and placed in the small backyard. Mrs.Moss,--honest soul,--when giving her reluctant consent to this, consoledherself by thinking that she was only yielding to another of myvagaries.
There was no one else to consider, and so I put the thing down in mymind as settled. I would leave this soul-dwarfing, cramped, smoke-hungatmosphere, and take up my abode where the air was pure, and where thesun could shine. Mrs. Moss would lose a good, quiet boarder, it istrue; but my consideration for Mrs. Moss's feelings would not cause meto sacrifice myself. Some one else would come and take the room whichhad been mine for ten years, and I would soon be forgotten.
The revelation which I had experienced put me in such high spirits atthe glorious prospects before me that I could not think of going to bedwhen eleven o'clock sounded from the mantel-tree. Instead, I believe Iactually chuckled, as I slipped my hand into the pocket of mydressing-gown for my tobacco-pouch, and proceeded to fill my pipe again.Method had always been the rule of my life, but that night I put it byfor a space. The question paramount was--where should I go? Certainlymost any farm housewife would give me a room upstairs for a small moneyconsideration a month, but I was a little particular, and wanted tolive and move among _folks_, for which I was fitted by birth andeducation. I knew that blood as blue and as genteel flowed throughcountry veins as through city arteries; but how was I to find thesepeople out? I didn't know a dozen persons in Louisville outside of myboarding-house. The hands of the clock were getting dangerously neartogether at the top of the dial before a solution came.
Suddenly I bethought me of Reuben Walker, that staid, long-headed fellowwho had graduated with me back in forty. The nearest approach I ever hadto a friend. He had gone to practise law in Springfield, down there inWashington County, and had made something of a name for himself, too. Ihadn't seen him since forty-five, hadn't written to him since fifty, buthe was the only man living I knew who could help me. So I forthwithindited a note to Reuben Walker, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, reminding him ofour former intimacy, regretting that we had allowed ourselves to driftapart, and asking if he knew of a quiet country home where I might spendthe summer. I reasoned that it was a country lawyer's business to knoweverybody in his county, and I hoped that Reuben remembered me wellenough to refer me only to the kind with whom I would care to affiliate.I did not write letters often, my correspondence averaging perhaps ahalf dozen epistles a year, and so I signed my name to this one beforereading it over. Then I recollected one of the earliest injunctions ofmy father: "Be very careful what you sign your name to," so Ideliberately reread the missive before me. It was all right; I had saidall that was necessary, but just as I was bending the sheet to fold itI stopped, spread it out again, and, taking up my quill, wrote as apostscript:
"I much prefer a home where there are _no_ young ladies."
The Love Story of Abner Stone Page 4