An April sun was slipping behind the treetops, and the twilight mists were already rising above the creek. Francis Aydelot and his wife sat on the veranda watching Asher in the glory of a military suit and brass buttons coming up the pike with springing step.
“How strong he is! I’m glad he is at home again,” the mother was saying.
“Yes, he’s here to stay at last. I have his plans all settled,” Francis Aydelot declared.
“But, Francis, a man must make some plans for himself. Asher may not agree,” Mrs. Aydelot spoke earnestly.
“How can our boy know as well as his father does what is best for him? He must agree, that’s all. We have gone over this matter often enough together. I won’t have any Jim Shirley in my family. He’s gone away and nobody knows where he is, just when his father needs him to take the care of the tavern off his hands.”
“What made Jim go away from Cloverdale?” Mrs. Aydelot asked.
“Nobody seems to know exactly. He left just before his brother, Tank, married that Leigh girl up the Clover valley somewhere. But everything’s settled for Asher. He will be marrying one of the Cloverdale girls pretty soon and stay right here in town. We’ll take it up with him now. There’s no use waiting.”
“And yet I wish we might wait till he speaks of it himself. Remember, he’s been doing his own thinking in the time he’s been away,” the mother insisted.
Just then, Asher reached the corner of the door yard. Catching sight of the two, he put his hands on the top of the paling fence, leaped lightly over it, and came across to the veranda, where he sat down on the top step.
“Just getting in from town? The place hasn’t changed much, has it?” the father declared.
“No, not much,” Asher replied absently, looking out with unseeing eyes at the lengthening woodland shadows, “a church or two more, some brick sidewalk, and a few stores and homes – just added on, not improved. I miss Jim Shirley everywhere. The older folks seem the same, but some of the girls are pushing baby-carriages and the boys are getting round-shouldered and droopy-jawed.”
He drew himself up with military steadiness as he spoke.
“Well, you are glad to settle down anyhow,” his father responded. “The old French spirit of roving and adventure has had its day with you, and now you will begin your life work.”
“Yes, I’m done with fighting.” Asher’s lips tightened. “But what do you call my life work, father?”
It was the eighth April after the opening of the Civil War. Asher had just come home from two years of army service on the western plains. Few changes had come to the little community; but to the young man, who eight springtimes ago had gone out as a pink-cheeked drummer boy, the years had been full of changes. He was now twenty-three, straight as an Indian, lean and muscular as a veteran soldier. The fair, round cheeks of boyhood were brown and tinged with red-blooded health. There was something resolute and patient in the clear gray eyes, as if the mother’s own far vision had crept into them. But the ready smile that had made the Cloverdale community love the boy broke as quickly now on the man’s face, giving promise that his saving sense of humor and his good nature would be factors to reckon with in every combat.
Asher had staid in the ranks till the end of the war, had been wounded, captured, and imprisoned; had fought through a hospital fever and narrowly escaped death in the front of many battle lines. But he did not ask for a furlough, nor account his duty done till the war was ended. Just before that time, when he was sick in a Southern prison, a rebel girl had walked into his life to stay forever. With his chum, Jim Shirley, he had chafed through two years in a little eastern college, the while bigger things seemed calling him to action. At the end of the second year, he broke away, and joining the regular army, began the hazardous life of a Plains scout.
Two years of fighting a foe from every way the winds blow, cold and hunger, storms and floods and desert heat, poisonous reptiles, poisoned arrows of Indians, and the deadly Asiatic cholera; sometimes with brave comrades, sometimes with brutal cowards, sometimes on scout duty, utterly and awfully alone; over miles on endless miles of grassy level prairies, among cruel canyons, in dreary sand lands where men die of thirst, monotonous and maddening in their barren, eternal sameness; and sometimes, between sunrises of superb grandeur, and sunsets of sublime glory, over a land of exquisite virgin loveliness – it is small wonder that the ruddy cheeks were bronze as an Indian’s, that the roundness of boyhood had given place to the muscular strength of manhood, that the gray eyes should hold something of patience and endurance and of a vision larger than the Cloverdale neighborhood might understand.
When Asher had asked, “What do you call my life work, Father?” something impenetrable was in his direct gaze.
Francis Aydelot deliberated before replying. Then the decisive tone and firm set of the mouth told what resistance to his will might cost.
“It may not seem quite homelike at first, but you will soon find a wife and that always settles a man. I can trust you to pick the best there is here. As to your work, it must be something fit for a gentleman, and that’s not grubbing in the ground. Of course, this is Aydelot soil. It couldn’t belong to anybody else. I never would sell a foot of it to Cloverdale to let the town build this way. I’d as soon sell to a Thaine from Virginia as I’d sell to that town.”
He waved a hand toward the fields shut in by heavy woodlands, where the shadows were already black. After a moment he continued:
“Everything is settled for you, Asher. I’ve been pretty careful and lucky, too, in some ways. The men who didn’t go to war had the big chances at money making, you know. While you were off fighting, I was improving the time here. I’ve done it fairly, though. I never dodged a law in my life, nor met a man into whose eyes I couldn’t look squarely.”
As he spoke, the blood left Asher’s cheeks and his face grew gray under the tan.
“Father, do you think a man who fights for his country is to be accounted below the man who stays at home and makes money?”
“Well, he certainly can do more for his children than some of those who went to this war can do for their fathers,” Francis Aydelot declared. “Suppose I was helpless and poor now, what could you do for me?”
There was no attempt at reply, and the father went on: “I have prepared your work for you. You must begin it at once. Years ago Cloverdale set up a hotel, a poor enough tavern even for those days, but it robbed me of the patronage this house had before that time, and I had to go to farming. Every kind of drudgery I’ve had to do here. Cutting down forests, and draining swamps is a back-breaking business. I never could forgive the founders for stopping by Clover Creek, when they might have gone twenty miles further on where a town was needed and left me here. But that’s all past now. I’ve improved the time. I have a good share of stock in the bank and I own the only hotel in Cloverdale. I closed with Shirley as soon as I heard you were coming home. Shirley’s getting old, and since Jim has gone there’s no one to help him and take his place later, so he sold at a very good figure. He had to sell for some reason, I believe. The Shirleys are having some family trouble that I don’t understand nor care about. You’ve always been a sort of idol in the town anyhow. Now that you are to go into the Shirley House as proprietor I suppose Cloverdale will take it as a dispensation of Providence in their favor, and you can live like a gentleman.”
“But, father, I’ve always liked the country best. Don’t you remember how Jim Shirley was always out here instead of my going down town when we were boys?”
“You are only a boy, now, Asher, and this is all I’ll hear to your doing. You ought to be thankful for having such a chance open to you. I have leased the farm for five years and you don’t want to be a hired man at twenty dollars a month, I reckon. Of course, the farm will be yours some day, unless you take a