At North Sutherland he bade her follow him to a dilapidated barn a few yards from the railway tracks, where was displayed a homemade sign--"V.Goslin.Livery and Sale Stable." There was dickering and a final compromise on four dollars where the proprieter had demanded five and Warham had declared two fifty liberal.A surrey was hitched with two horses.Warham opened the awkward door to the rear seat and ordered Susan to jump in.She obeyed; he put the bundle on the floor beside her.He sat with the driver--the proprietor himself.The horses set off at a round pace over the smooth turnpike.It was evening, and a beautiful coolness issued from the woods on either side.They skimmed over the long level stretches; they climbed hills, they raced down into valleys.Warham and the ragged, rawboned old proprietor kept up a kind of conversation--about crops and politics, about the ownership, value, and fertility of the farms they were passing.Susan sat quiet, motionless most of the time.
The last daylight faded; the stars came out; the road wound in and out, up and down, amid cool dark silence and mysterious fascinating shadows.The moon appeared above the tree tops straight ahead--a big moon, with a lower arc of the rim clipped off.The turnpike ended; they were making equally rapid progress over the dirt road which was in perfect condition as there had been no rain for several days.The beat of the flying hoofs was soft now; the two men's voices, fell into a lower key; the moon marked out the line of the road clearly, made strange spectral minglings of light and darkness in the woods, glorified the open fields and gave the occasional groups of farm buildings an ancient beauty and dignity.The girl slept.
At nine o'clock the twenty-mile drive ended in a long, slow climb up a road so washed out, so full of holes and bowlders, that it was no road at all but simply a weather-beaten hillside.
A mile of this, with the liveryman's curses--"dod rot it" and "gosh dang it" and similar modifications of profanity for Christian use and for the presence of "the sex"--ringing out at every step.Susan soon awakened, rather because the surrey was pitching so wildly than because of Goslin's denunciations.Abrief level stretch and they stopped for Warham to open the outer gate into his brother Zeke's big farm.A quarter of a mile through wheat to the tops of the wheels and they reached the second gate.A descent into a valley, a crossing of a creek, an ascent of a steep hill, and they were at the third gate--between pasture and barnyard.Now they came into view of the house, set upon a slope where a spring bubbled out.The house was white and a white picket fence cut off its lawn from the barnyard.A dog with a deep voice began to bark.They drove up to the front gate and stopped.The dog barked in a frenzy of rage, and they heard his straining and jerking at his chain.A clump of cedars brooded to the right of the house; their trunks were whitewashed up to the lowest branches.The house had a high stoop with wooden steps.
As Warham descended and hallooed, there came a fierce tugging at the front door from the inside.But the front door was not in the habit of being opened, and stoutly resisted.The assault grew more strenuous; the door gave way and a tall thin farmer appeared.
"Hello, Zeke," called George.He opened the surrey door."Get down," he said to the girl, at the same time taking her bundle.
He set it on the horse block beside the gate, took out his pocketbook and paid over the four dollars."Good-by, Vic," said he pleasantly."That's a good team you've got.""Not so coarse," said Vic."Good-by, Mr.Warham." And off he drove.
Zeke Warham had now descended the steps and was opening the front gate, which was evidently as unaccustomed to use as the front door."Howdy, George," said he."Ain't that Susie you've got with you?" Like George, Zeke had had an elementary education.But he had married an ignorant woman, and had lived so long among his farm hands and tenants that he used their mode of speech.
"Yes, it's Susie," said George, shaking hands with his brother.
"Howdy, Susie," said Zeke, shaking hands with her."I see you've got your things with you.Come to stay awhile?"George interrupted."Susan, go up on the porch and take your bundle."The girl took up the shawl strap and went to the front door.She leaned upon the railing of the stoop and watched the two men standing at the gate.George was talking to his brother in a low tone.Occasionally the brother uttered an ejaculation.She could not hear; their heads were so turned that she could not see their faces.The moon made it almost as bright as day.From the pasture woods came a low, sweet chorus of night life--frogs and insects and occasionally a night bird.From the orchard to the left and the clover fields beyond came a wonderful scented breeze.She heard a step in the hall; her Aunt Sallie appeared--a comfortable, voluble woman, a hard worker and a harder eater and showing it in thin hair and wrinkled face.
"Why, Susie Lenox, ain't that you?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Aunt," said Susan.
Her aunt kissed her, diffusing that earthy odor which is the basis of the smell of country persons.At various hours of the day this odor would be modified with the smell of cow stables, of chickens, of cooking, according to immediate occupation.But whatever other smell there was, the earthy smell persisted.And it was the smell of the house, too.
"Who's at the gate with your Uncle Zeke?" inquired Sallie.
"Ain't it George?"
"Yes," said Susan.
"Why don't he come in?" She raised her voice."George, ain't you coming in?""Howdy, Sallie," called George."You take the girl in.Zeke and I'll be along.""Some business, I reckon," said her aunt to Susan."Come on.
Have you had supper?"
