Copyright Story. THE FORK OF THE ROAD.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XIV, 6 October 1900, Page 622

Copyright Story. THE FORK OF THE ROAD.

By

GRACE M. GALLAGER.

' i’a’her’* i-iai in’. Saloame. I can Sah am*' 'tarred * . her feet with a **¥• i don’t mean. Achah. he’s a-dyin* “No. no. child. Bur rhe end ain’t far < fl. Fellie’s a-sett:n’ with him now. I come out for a minute’s air.” Saloame p it her arms tenderly about her sister. ••"Rest just a m nute. dear, on the wall. P’s real soothin’ here now.” Achah yielded stiffly to the pressure drawing her down. The two sisters * i: on the crumbling old wall watching the sun disappearing behind Elv’s Hill in a sea of gold. The waters‘of rhe Cove murmured against the wall a soft unceasing sound. Beyond •he Cove flowed the Connecticut, and l»eyond the river lay the great, mysterio s sea. Saloame had watched the sin saying good-night to the river ever > nee she was a wee little girl, her ab< ve the wall. Her face a. re a dreamy, rapt expression as if - • < - _ ly off. thr igh •he shining West, into some fairy world. Achah showed the placidity of •he hour—that was all. The two sister?* were unlike. Achah was short and plump with a worn but contented fare. Saloame had a tall, slender figure. “wispy” her family called it. delicate iearure* and wild rose colouring. ’ irdinarily her face had a dullness, a blankness, as if her mind were elsewhere. But when her interest was - routed, her colour deepened, her lips >mhvd. and her eyes glowed. She beanie another woman. Her eyes were always wonderful, great, dark ones, with mysterious depths of tenderness and of tire. Saloame was twenty-nine. The grace of her figure and her childlike way made her seem much younger. Achah was twelve years older, the brother Ethelbert (“Kellie”) came between. The dip of oars sounded < 'er the Cove. Achah rose with a smile. “Don’t stay out in the damp.” she *aid. and walked away. Saloame leaned over the wall, her ■ reath coming quickly, her eyes bright. A >oat slipped against the little pier. The man in it held out one hand to Saloame. while with the other he >’eadied his boat. “GcodCeven’, David.” ‘ • jod-even’. Saloame.” They looked into one another’s eyes ? : 1 found no need of speech. The man ■ . < of a type not common outside of New E s . ta p wrerful, with. :.g. grave, kind face. He seemed muiy year* older than Saloame. ’ Father ain’t near so well.” He ain’t ?” “It’ll make an awful change to us when he’s gone.” she went on. her lips <; dvering. David stroked her hand softly. “H-A i w’*h an effort. “It’s you that’s the good man to 'peak *o of him.” cried the other with > klen heat. “Why. Saloame. why. my girl ! The gt acted as he th Right ’twas right * . ■ refuse - • ' is ghter n :rr\ a fellar like me. nothin* but a mnion lighthouse keeper an’ farmer wAh n • prospects of ever risin*. an’ • >._inL r to a poor family. The ' gt’s beei a • i sistent church mem-i--r :» : his life : I ijuess he made it a ■ . efore he done it. \ • i.uT what it’s been awful now. Y--i know that—.” David paused in ssment ; t s was long e s [her h*-a-i stubbornly. “¥->u are a good man. David.” she ■ * • ’" e ice. .. \ ■ ■. say s there’s a I>a 1 E-he :*err wa< running towards her. - - -•« -. without her fire. With a swift <iht to D . S * • r •:■ or ’her. The Judge Lyman nest i ’ • _ ;•* w house. It stood on ■i terriu • . w th a green lawn and a -■ . rd.-n. ihe Judge had always k-, * ' in rx<-rh»-nt repair, so that it , ked a- * w as when hi* grandfather Lui • *. Within the same neatness and rder prevailed. The heavy old f irni’ ire had r* • been moved out of

-tiff rows since the day it was set m them. The portraits of George 111. ai. 1 his "royal consort" had hung in the -ame positions for a hundred years. The brother and sister groped their way up the dark stairs into a room where a lamp burned dimly. Through the .pen windows rustled the soft September air. Achah was weeping quietly at the head of the bed. The 'ace on the pillow was a grey white, the eyes were closed, yet the dying man was evidently awake. Saloame looked at him steadily. strange thoughts filling her mind. Judge I'hineas Lyman was the richest. most powerful man in the village. When a young man he had loved a~hd A on Lucy Starkey and had been like one beside himself with joy. Not a month before the wedding Lucy had jilted him to marry Elihu Compton, a p -or farmer. The blow had been a bitter one to the Judge's pride as well as to his affections. He had told his >..-fe] ,r.g to none, but at once set about courtin . so his neighbours phrased it. Sophia Dillingham. He married her a it’ie later than the day appointed for his wedding with Lucy. Fortunately for Sophia, “the drop of nervous fluid too much.” said to be the inheritance of the New Englander, had been omitted in her make upi otherwise her life would have been unbearable. For the Judge, never amiable, grew yearly more caustic, letter and irritable: harder to bear, even, than his fierce temper, was his miserliness. He made splendid the cutside of the cup and platter—his house and grounds were an envv or a delight to his neighbours, according to their dispositions. His family went abroad clothed in Solomon-like grandeur. at least according to the village standards. But within his home he forced the household to live with the most pinching economy, not even allowing sufficient food. Achah. who. at her mother's death, became the manager, spent her strength struggling to make a dollar do the work" of ten. None of the children ever had any money, not even the smallest sum. to spend. Saloame had never possessed fifty cents in her whole life, the greatest injustice, however, the Judge had committed against his family had been when twelve years before he had refused to allow David Compton to marry Saloame. David was the son of the Judge's sweetheart. Lucy. The sight of her happiness when she lived at the very foot of his garden, had been a daily torment to him. Now he •odd be avenged through her only ■hil her idol. He made David's poverty and low origin the grounds of his ref ■-:■]. He seemed to rejoice when people said he hastened Mrs. Compton's death. To Saloame. who had begged an 1 reasoned with him. he said "marry that fellow, and your father's urse goes with you." And Saloame, to whom dis obedience to parents, even the most undeserving, was a religious duty, could only weep, and steal out year after year, to meet David every evening as he came home from lighting the lamp in the lighthouse. All this was dimly forming itself in the girl's mind as she waited for her father to make some sign. After a long time he opened his eyes. "Achah. Fell. Saloame. where are you?" The three crept nearer. "My will is in my secretary." he said faintly. "I've given each one of you an equal share. Spend it as you please." Then, after a pause. "Where's David Compton? You needn't look so scared. I'm of sound min. Saloame. run fetch him. In a few minutes Saloame reappeared with David, both breathless from running. The Judge held out his hands feebly. David and Saloame each put one of theirs in his. "There." David." he said, with a last flicker of his bitter humour. “Saloame ain't quite the girl she was when you courted her. twelve years does make a girl a little older, but if you want her she's yours." S iloane dropped on her knees be--ide the bed. kissing the cold face repeatedly. She had never kissed her father before. The old man made no motion as if he noticed it; he seemed to have fallen asleep. But when Achah w hi-pered. ”< lughten we to get Parson Howard?”

He answered her with, "Do you think I'm a Catholic to need extreme unctions before 1 die? I've been a professin' Christian fifty years, I ain't afraid o' death.” He lay very quiet after that. Suddenly he raised himself, calling in a strange, tender voice, "Lucy, is it you?” Then he fell back dead. A month later Saloame was seated on the wall by the Cove. The day was Sunday one of those mild hazy October days when summer seems to have stolen back for a last look of the world. Saloame was bent over her lap. her cheeks on fire, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Beside her were a few crayons, some worn brushes, and a handful of twisted tubes. Surely never had artist a more meagre outfit. For Saloame was an artist; ever since she had been able to hold a slate pencil her great happiness had been to draw whatever she saw or imagined. A teacher in the village school had given her a few lessons and a set of crayons. Year after year she had worked, with no instruction and almost no materials. One summer, five years before, a young artist from New York had spent some months in the village. She was very kind to Saloame and enhtusiastic over what she called her genius. The girl had listened breathlessly to her stories of art and artists. She had longed to go with her new friend to some one of the schools of which she spoke. Ethelbert had a musician's spirit and had asked his father to let him be one. The Judge in a fury at such ridiculous notions, had set his son at the dry copying of law papers at once. Saloame. fearing a like fate, had never dared mention her ambition. Her love for David, her love for art. that was her life. She laid down her brush and looked at her picture critically. It was horribly crude in colouring and in drawing, yet it had the feeling of tranquil pensiveuess. of quiet dreaminess that belonged to the radiant summer day. David's slow step sounded on the path. It was the most marked sign of the Judge's death, the freedom with which David came and went. Saloame scrambled together her work with a guilty blush, then said bravely. " I gues you'll think I'm a profanin’ the Sabbath paintin' like this. 1 jest' had a feelin' I must paint the water an' the sky the way it looks to-day. I couldn't make myself wait until tomorrer." David smiled sympathetically. If his lady-love had danced a jig on the stairs of the church pulpit, he would have considered it highly fit and becoming. For him " the king can do no wrong.” '• I guess art ain't work nor pleasure neither, it's—it's sorter like preachin'." Having settled that question he proceeded to a more vital one. " saloame. dear, we don't want to do nothin' that's disrespectful to your father's memory. But we've waited a sight o' years an' he approved our marriage. Don't you think it might be sometime this fall—say Thanksgivin ?" Saoame caught David's hands in hers. " I've got to say somethin' to you. It'll hurt you. dear David, but I must .' All my life I've been a-longin' an' a hankerin' for a chance to learn art. I jest love to paint 1 An’ I know- I could make real pictures like those Miss Dwight done, if I only had some lessons. I can't tell you how I love it. David." " More n me, Saloame ?” ” Oh. David 1 of course not. It's like Parson Howard ; he loves his wife, but he loves his preachin', too. What 1 want to do is this. I want to go to New York an' take lessons. You know I'm a rich woman, now,” with an innocent importance. " an’ father said we could do as we liked with the property. I'm a goin’ to 1 That is if you're willin'. Oh. David, it don t seem as if I could be happy even in Heaven if I don't take them lessons." She pressed his hands tight, her eye- were like stars. David was a little pale, and his kind face quivered for a minute, but he answered gently : "If that's the way you feel. Saloame, there ain't pothin' to do but jest co. I've waited considerable long so 1 guess few months more wont make much differ." Saloame kissed him rapturously.

'A ou ,l * ar - good David !” she cried, 1 nt cornin' back in June with a famous picture ; you'll be so proud o’ me you 11 be glad you let me go.” David smiled patiently. Saloame unfolded plans for living with the artist friend, painting all day. and the rest of her glow ing dreams. In a few minutes David was entering into them as cheerily as if he. and not she. were their chief promoter. Yet as he went away to his supper she thought his nead drooped a little.

Saloame s preparations were soon made. A week later saw her standing on the platform at Saybrook Junction waiting for her first ride in a train. J a '’<l was with her. The misery of the separation overcame them both, clung to one another unmindful of the other passengers, while Saloame sobbed.

" It don't seem now as if I cared so great about art.”

But who can resist the excitement of a first railway journev ? Not Saloame Lyman with her adventurous spirit and her intense interest in “the pageantry of human life.” Bv the time she reached New York she felt as if David. Aehah. Fell, all the people of her existence hitherto were dwellers in another world with which she had for ever severed connections. hat a wonderful experience began for her with her first dav in New lork . Generations of staid, home keeping New- England farmers and merchants whose blood was in her 5' ou nted as naught now; the old vikings, the rovers of Queen Elizabeth s day were showing their power over this, their descendant. The ‘ lT i’i !e ‘i h° me - bre <L mousey woman revelled like a child in the confusion and excitement of the city. She throve on its tainted air as never on the breeze of Connecticut. She loved to vvalk the streets, meeting the crowds of people, not one of she would ever know. Her complete jov. however. was in her art : she worked at it ceaselessly. Her progress in it was remarkable.

In June, tired but happv, she returned home. The morning after her arrival she called to David who was potatoes in his garden. •• Don't you want to come see all mv grand pictures ?”

J? avi< l climbed the fence, smiling delightedlv.

I dunno but what I ought to <?et on my meetin' clothes if I'm a-goin’ to a picture show.”

Saloame laughed, yet down in her heart she thought : " I wonder if I talk as bad as David does . I spose I do. I never knew no — any — better, an’ of course he don t.

The pictures were mostlv those severe anatomical heads and figures which the untaught regard with such ° U r V -. r< * xc ' ,amat >'ons of pleasure and s;:eh inward contempt. There were some sketches of lemons in a green dish : oranges, currants, and other fruit joined in a union Nature certainly could not approve : and a tew sketches from memorv of the Connecticut. David admired them all unreservedly, calling them " handsome. "elegant.” and "real prettv;” the adjectives varied, not with the merit of the picture, but in accordance with his own ideas of diversity .■saloame shuffled them over a little impatiently. This one my teacher thought had a great deal of atmosphere." she said holding up a bit of woods and sky. •lAell. now, I guess it has,” anj' v ejed David, peering at the picture cs i atmosphere” were a particular sorr of varnish. Saloame shut them quickly awav in her portfolio. Her cheeks were red. David sat smilingly watching her motions. A line of graceful "white boats was gliding down the river, but his eyes never moved from her. Do you know what I'm a-goin’ to do this summer ? I'm a-goin' to draw your head. You’ve got a real noble heao. David, like some of them old statues- •• Sho. now. you're makin' fun o’ mv headpiece. I warn't never good for much, 'cent rememberin’ time to light the lamp an’ the like o' that. Do you know, the Inspector said there warn't a man on the river, no, nor the Sound neither, that could keep his light a-goin* every night, year in an' year out, blizzard or no’, the way I do.” he glowed with modest pride. ” You’re jest as faithful !” cried Saloame, and David eared more for

t»er pra>se than he did for the Insjx'c tor's. "Sny, dearie, when’s that good day ta-eoniin' ?” he asked after a minute. — The fifteenth o' July's my birthday, wouldn't it be kinder nice to celet»rate round 'bout that time ?" SaloaUte laughed. •'Ain't you shamed, you grasper, you- tryiii' to get me away from .Achah an’ Fellie, when I've jest got home to 'em Davjd felt reproached. For several days he did not mention the subject. 'Then the Griffiths came and there seemed ho chance. Mrs. Griffith was the sister of Saloame's artist friend : she and his husband were both artists. They took a deep interest in Saloame. thinking her full of promising talent. Saloame went everywhere with them, and while she did not neglect David, ooniidential talks between them were rare. David showed no signs of opening the subject even after the Griffiths were gone, though Saloame waited for liiin to do so. One night as they -were walking home from church she said suddenly : •• Da'id. I've got somethin’ to say ’bout our weddin'.” '• There ain't no subject I like half so Well- you know I s'pose." he sweredSaloante halted by the little bridge over Baek Creek, a branch of the Connecticut. "'Vottld you feel awful bad if we was To put °tf the weddin' a little longer?" -For how long do you mean?" he said slowly. "Till next June. I know I'm a ■wicked- selfish woman." passionately, —but 1 do want jest one year more. Seenis as if I didn’t never live till I grot do' v n here apaintin’. I ain’t been like other girls, you know. David. I ain't never had nothin' in my whole life kept jest scimpin' an’ savin' an’ -workin’. Maybe if I’d had a chance to kinder take my lot easy while I -was a growin’ up I wouldn’t feel as I <lo ‘Loot it. all kinder —bound up in it. If I c°uld have jest one year more I won't ne'er say nothin’ even ’bout it again." she ended pleadingly. David's face was in shadow, so she couldn’t see it: but his voice shook when he answered.

■‘There ain’t very much in my life. Saloante. but jest you. You’re all I want. When 1 have you I’ve got everything- When you’re gone pretty near all’s gone. I’ve been afigurin’ how J could put you up a little kinder paintin' room on to my house, so as you could keep up your work same as If you Was in New York ’most. Course tliere’d be some work. Gram’s gettin* on in years an’ takes some care, but I could do the heft o’ it. I’m real handv 'bout a house. I guess that little’ room can wait, though. I shouldn't feel no comfort if I thought your heart was in New York ’stead o’ with me. So I guess you’d better go another year." ’’Oh- David, if you knew how happy ’twin make me." David suddenly caught her in his arms. "Mr darlina-!’’ he cried lyThat winter Saloame worked harder than, ever. She went about, too. in what seemed to her a whirl of gaiety, for -he Griffiths took her to exhibitions. concerts, teas, and even once to the theatre. Saloame meant to write often to David, but she found little time. Achah wrote her his grandmother was ill with rheumatism, and he was so hard at work keeping house and nursing her that she seldom saw him. "He looks real kind of peaked himself and dreadful sober," she said in conclusion. Saloame cried over the letter and at once sat down to write him. A note from Mrs Griffiths interrupted her. and it was days before she c°Uld finish. Somehow, though she loved all the home people so dearly- they never seemed a vital part of her winter life. With the spring came a great triumph—the Academy accepted on e of her pictures. It was an unpretentious bit, and it was put in ratfier a dark corner. It was Saloame’s first success, however, and hence dearer to her than any other greater ones that might follow. She sat smiling to herself in the spring twilight the day she received the news, when the maid announced a visitor. A little picturesvpiel.v dressed woman entered and threw her arms around Saloame. ‘"You dear, clever girl! We’ve just heard and we’re so happy.” Saloame blushed with pleasure. “Thank you. Mrs Griffiths." she said, trying to lie calm. "I’ve only a minute, but I want to te>l you our beautiful plan. Mr

Griffiths and 1 are going to Paris this summer for two years to study, aiul we want you to come too. You must. Paris, ami Paris teachers, is just what you need. It won t be expensive, for we’re going to do it all just as economically as possible. Don’t say a word till you think it over. I’m coining again to-morrow." and the visitor glided away almost as quickly as she had entered. Saloame was too astonished to move. She stood in the middle of the floor where her friend had left her. She. Saloame Lyman, who till two years ago had never been on the cars, go to Europe! It was absurd. Oh. the joyful possibilities of it! All the artistic nature in her throbbed responsive to the idea. What would Achah say, and Fel. and David?’ At this last name her heart contracted: painful thoughts rushed upon her. She looked straight before her with terrified eyes. Had the mere thought of him brought him bodily to her? For there he stood, and more, he was speaking. She shieked and sank on the sofa. "Why. Saloame. dear girl. I must have .seared you dreadful. I thought you heard the lady that let me in say who I was. There, there!" He kissed her soothingly and stroked her hair. Saloame was very pale. She did not heed his caresses. “How on earth did you come here?" she gasped. “Well, it is considerable queer about that. Gram, she had some money owed her years back. ’Twas outlawed much as twenty years ago. Here a little while back the man died an’ now his heirs want to pay. outlawed or no. So they sent for Gram, an’ as she couldn’t come 1 had to. I should go clean ravin’ mad if I was to live in this racketty place. Much as ever 1 can do to stand it till to-morrow. Don’t seem to me you look very peart. Saloame. I guess you’ve been ?<- workin’ too hard, and overdoin’.” “I am tired a little. How’s everything at home?” "Pretty good, pretty good." David was still smoothing her hair. He had put his arm around her waist: once in a while he gave a gentle hug. "I never see so forard a spring; my plantin’s all done. I’ve bought that meadow over by Judson's Post’s—the one I wanted so long. Got my kitchen all painted up. too. It looks real slick. Gram, she ain’t quite so well: seems kind o’ pernieety 'bout her food an’ the like o’ that: but she’s real patient." Saloame listened to these facts of his daily life, once so absorbing to her. like one in a dream. "David.” she said at last, while he was still talking—excitement had made him unusually communicative — “I’ve got some business to ’tend to. I want you to go get you supper now an’ come back in ’bout an hour to spend the evenin' with me. I’ve got something to tell you. Will you?" "Course I will, Saloame. I donno as I could have made myself come to this awfui, distractin’ place if you wasn’t here." He kissed her good-bye tenderly. When he was gone Saloame flew to her own room. She paced the floor back and forth. "I’ve got to decide now. I’ve got to tell David to-night. I can’t never put him off another year. If I marry him I’ve got to give up all my art. There ain’t no use thinkin’ of it when I marry him. Thre’ll be the cookin’, an’ the washin’, an’ the makin’ butter, an’ all that, besides waitin’ on old Mrs Compton, an’ mendin’ for David an’ her. I won’t get no time, an’ I’ll be too wore out if I do. I’ll jest live as I uster, never seein’ nothin' nor nobody. nor knowin’ what’s in the world. If I go with the Griffiths I’ll live the life I jest love. I can't give it up. Oh. I can’t! It’ll break David’s heart if I go. an’ it’ll break mine if I stay. Oh. dear! Oh, dear! Oh, it’s all jest too miserable!”

She knelt by the window and buried her face in her arms. Slowly there rose before her the long years when she and David had gone with hopeless but unfailing loyalty every night to the wall by the cove to whisper their little greeting. She could see herself wrapped in a shawl, standing amid the flying snow, watching David crawling carefully over the treacherous ice up from the Point. No man on the Sound ever kept his light going as he did. she remembered. She could feel his cold cheek against hers as he kissed her. Or it was summer twilight, and she was telling, in David's comforting arms, the story of her struggle

to paint feoiur urw, and brr failure', lie did not undvi stand. but how he sympathised! lure »o troubled. ju»t because she wa» unhappy. mere hau never • erii a tria* too small lor his. pity, nor a pleasure too fleeting for hi.- enjoyment in al. her life. iVhy, everj act ot her day. every thought of tier dreamy brain was as beautiful and as \ilal tv David as though it were to turn the unlliow he lo\ed her! And. yes. how she nothin* like that. l:‘s lovin a man like “That’s it: that’s it’. He loves mu an’ 1 love him. There ain’t nothin’ else like that. Fame an’ paintin’ an* all. what are they ’longsiue love like ours? What if 1 don't never paint that great picture that's agoin’ to help the worid so much? 1 guess I’ll help one man to be good an' happy, an* that’s jest a beautiful thing to do. Besides, maybe the picture wouldn’t do no good. 1 know I can to David. What would my life be. I’d like to know, goin’ on an’ on without nothin’ to love ’cept jest old dead pictures? Mow’d 1 feel if 1 thought David didn’t care no more whether 1 was happy or not? Oh. it’s love that makes folks’ lives big an’ full an* happy. It ain’t art nor New York, nor Paris, nor nothin’ like that. It’s livin’ a man like David that means life to a woman, an’ havin’ him love her back.” When, a few minutes later, she entered the room where David was waiting her eyes were full of a beautiful light and her lips smiled. “David. I’m feelin’ real tired an’ wore out. 1 want you to take me home with you. ’Tain’t no matter ’bout the rest of the term. An’ then, soon as ever my settin* out can l»e got ready, why—we’ll be married. We’ve awaited two years too long. I can’t bear to wait no more.”