Round Anvil Rock | Page 6

There was
a still larger cabin somewhat more distant from the main building,
which was intended for the use of his nephew, William Pressley, on the
marriage of that young lawyer to Ruth. But the wedding was some time
off yet, having been set for Christmas Eve, and the cabin which was to
welcome the bride from Cedar House was not quite complete. The
smallest and the oldest cabin was David's. The long black line of cabins
crouching under the hillside where the shadows were deepest, marked
the quarters of the slaves,--a dark storm-cloud already settling heavily
on the fair horizon of the new state.
Cedar House itself was the grandest of its time in all that country. Built
entirely of huge red cedar logs it was two stories in height, the first
house of more than one story standing on the shores of the southern
Ohio. Its roof was the wonder and envy of the whole region for many
years. The shingles were of black walnut, elegantly rounded at the
butt-ends. They were fastened on with solid walnut pegs driven in holes
bored through both the shingles and the laths with a brace and a bit. For
there was not a nail in Cedar House from its firm foundation to its fine

roof. Even the hinges and the latch of the wide front door were made of
wood. The judge often mentioned this fact with much pride, and never
failed to add that the leathern latch-string always hung outside. But he
was still prouder of the massive, towering chimney of Cedar House,
and with good reason. The other houses thinly scattered through the
wilderness had humble chimneys of sticks covered with clay. The
chimney of Cedar House was of rough stone--of one hundred wagon
loads, as the judge boasted--which had been hauled with great difficulty
over a long distance, because there was none near by.
On the wide hearth of this great chimney a fire was always burning. No
matter what the season or the weather might be, there was always a
solemn ceremony around the hearth when the fire was renewed, at the
beginning and the close of every day all the year round. In winter it was
a glorious bonfire consuming great logs. In summer it was the merest
glimmer that could hold a flickering spark. Between winter and
summer, as on this mild October evening, a bright flame sometimes
danced gayly behind the big brass andirons, while all the windows and
doors were wide open. But through cold and heat, and burning high or
low, the fire was never entirely forgotten, never quite permitted to go
out. Thus ever alight it burned like a sacred flame on the altar of home.
Streaming from the doors and windows that night, it gave the youth and
the maiden a cheerful welcome as they came up the darkening hillside.
Lamplight also began to glimmer, and candles flitted here and there
before the windows and door, borne by the dark shapes of the servants
who were laying the table for supper. The main room of Cedar House
opened directly upon the river front; and when brightly lighted, it could
be distinctly seen from without. Ruth and David paused on the
threshold, still unconsciously holding one another's hands, and looked
in.
There were five persons in the room, three men and two women, and
they were all members of the household with the exception of Philip
Alston, the white-haired gentleman, whose appearance bore no other
mark of age. And he also might have been considered as one of the
family, since he had been coming to the house daily for many years. He

came usually to see Ruth, but of late he had found it necessary to see
William Pressley more often; and they were talking eagerly and in a
low tone, rather apart, when the boy and girl paused to see and hear
what was taking place within the great room. William Pressley sat in
the easiest chair in the warmest corner, close to the hearth. There are
some men--and a few women--who always take the softest seat in the
best place, and they do it so naturally that no one ever thinks of their
doing anything else or expects them to sit elsewhere. William Pressley
was one of these persons. In the next easiest chair, on the other side of
the hearth, was his aunt, the widow Broadnax, whose short, broad,
shapeless, inert figure was lying rather than sitting almost buried in a
heap of cushions. This lady was the sister of the judge and the
half-sister of the other lady, Miss Penelope Knox,--the thin, nervous,
restless little old woman,--who was fidgeting back and forth between
the hearth and the doorway leading to the distant kitchen. The
relationship of these two