The Mettle of the Pasture | Page 2

grandmother; I have my lace."
Crossing the hall, she went into the front parlor, took from a damask
sofa a rare shawl of white lace and, walking to a mirror, threw it over
her head, absently noting the effect in profile. She lifted this off and,
breaking the rose from part of its stem, pinned that on her breast. Then,
stepping aside to one of the large lofty windows, she stood there under
the droop of the curtains, sunk into reverie again and looking out upon
the yard and the street beyond.
Hardly a sound disturbed the twilight stillness. A lamplighter passed,
torching the grim lamps. A sauntering carrier threw the evening
newspaper over the gate, with his unintelligible cry. A dog-cart
rumbled by, and later, a brougham; people were not yet returned from
driving on the country turnpikes. Once, some belated girls clattered
past on ponies. But already little children, bare-armed, bare-necked,
swinging lanterns, and attended by proud young mothers, were on their
way to a summer-night festival in the park. Up and down the street
family groups were forming on the verandas. The red disks of cigars
could be seen, and the laughter of happy women was wafted across the
dividing fences and shrubbery, and vines.
Breaking again through her reverie, which seemed to envelop her,
wherever she went, like a beautiful cloud, she left the window and
appeared at the front door. Palms stood on each side of the granite steps,
and these arched their tropical leaves far over toward her quiet feet as
she passed down. Along the pavement were set huge green boxes, in
which white oleanders grew, and flaming pomegranates, and crepe
myrtle thickly roofed with pink. She was used to hover about them at
this hour, but she strolled past, unmindful now, the daily habit
obliterated, the dumb little tie quite broken. The twisted newspaper lay
white on the shadowed pavement before her eyes and she did not see

that. She walked on until she reached the gate and, folding her hands
about one of the brass globes surmounting the iron spikes, leaned over
and probed with impatient eyes the long dusk of the street; as far as he
could be seen coming she wished to see him.
It was too early. So she filled her eyes with pictures of the daylight
fading over woods and fields far out in the country. But the entire flock
of wistful thoughts settled at last about a large house situated on a
wooded hill some miles from town. A lawn sloped upward to it from
the turnpike, and there was a gravelled driveway. She unlatched the
gate, approached the house, passed through the wide hall, ascended the
stairs, stood at the door of his room--waiting. Why did he not come?
How could he linger?
Dreamily she turned back; and following a narrow walk, passed to the
rear of the house and thence across the lawn of turf toward the garden.
A shower had fallen early in the day and the grass had been cut
afterwards. Afternoon sunshine had drunk the moisture, leaving the
fragrance released and floating. The warmth of the cooling earth
reached her foot through the sole of her slipper. On the plume of a pine,
a bird was sending its last call after the bright hours, while out of the
firs came the tumult of plainer kinds as they mingled for common sleep.
The heavy cry of the bullbat fell from far above, and looking up
quickly for a sight of his winnowing wings under the vast purpling
vault she beheld the earliest stars.
Thus, everywhere, under her feet, over her head, and beyond the reach
of vision, because inhabiting that realm into which the spirit alone can
send its aspiration and its prayer, was one influence, one spell: the
warmth of the good wholesome earth, its breath of sweetness, its voices
of peace and love and rest, the majesty of its flashing dome; and
holding all these safe as in the hollow of a hand the Eternal
Guardianship of the world.
As she strolled around the garden under the cloudy flush of the evening
sky dressed in white, a shawl of white lace over one arm, a rose on her
breast, she had the exquisiteness of a long past, during which women

have been chosen in marriage for health and beauty and children and
the power to charm. The very curve of her neck implied generations of
mothers who had valued grace. Generations of forefathers had imparted
to her walk and bearing their courage and their pride. The precision of
the eyebrow, the chiselled perfection of the nostril, the loveliness of the
short red lip; the well-arched feet, small, but sure of themselves; the
eyes that were kind and truthful and thoughtful; the sheen