WHICH CONTINUES THE ROMANCE OF ABE AND ANN UNTIL THE FORMER LEAVES NEW
SALEM TO BEGIN HIS WORK IN THE LEGISLATURE. ALSO IT DESCRIBES THE
COLONELING OF PETER LUKINS.
The next day after his return, Abe received a letter for Ann. She had
come over to the store on the arrival of the stage and taken her letter
and run home with it. That Saturday's stage brought the new suit of
clothes from Springfield. Sunday morning Abe put it on and walked over to
Kelso's. Mrs. Kelso was sweeping the cabin.
"We shall have to stand outside a moment," said Jack. "I have an
inappeasable hatred of brooms. A lance in the hand of the Black Knight
was not more terrible than a broom in the hands of a righteous woman. I
had to flee from _The Life and Adventures of Duncan Campbell_ when I saw
the broom flashing in a cloud of dust and retreated."
He stepped to the door and said: "A truce, madam! Here is the Honorable
Abraham Lincoln in his new suit."
Mrs. Kelso came out-of-doors and she and her husband surveyed the tall
young Postmaster.
"Well it is, at least, sufficient," said Kelso.
"The coat ought to be a little longer," Mrs. Kelso suggested.
"It will be long enough before I get another," said Abe.
"It is not what one would call an elegant suit but it's all right," Kelso
added.
"The fact is, elegance and I wouldn't get along well together," Abe
answered. "It would be like going into partnership with Bill Berry."
"Next month you'll be off at the capital and we shall be going to
Tazewell County," said Kelso.
"To Tazewell County!"
"Aye. It's a changing world! We should always remember that things can
not go on with us as they are. The Governor has given me a job."
"And me a great sadness," said Abe. "You must always let me know where to
find you."
"Aye! Many a night you and I shall hear the cock crowing."
It was an Indian summer day of the first week in November. That afternoon
Abe went to the tavern and asked Ann to walk out to the Traylors' with
him. She seemed to be glad to go. She was not the cheerful, quick footed,
rosy cheeked Ann of old. Her face was pale, her eyes dull and listless,
her step slow. Neither spoke until they had passed the Waddell cabin and
were come to the open fields.
"I hope your letter brought good news," said Abe.
"It was very short," Ann answered. "He took a fever in Ohio and was sick
there four weeks and then he went home. In two months he never wrote a
word to me. And this one was only a little bit of a letter with no love
in it. I don't believe he will ever come back. I don't think he cares for
me now or, perhaps, he is married. I don't know. I'm not going to cry
about it any more. I can't. I've no more tears to shed. I've given him
up."
"Then I reckon the time has come for me to tell you what is on my heart,"
said Abe. "I love you, Ann. I have loved you for years. I would have told
you long ago but I could not make myself believe that I was good enough
for you. I love you so much that if you can only be happy with John
McNamar I will pray to God that he may turn out to be a good and faithful
man and come back and keep his promise." She looked up at him with a kind
of awe in her face.
"Oh, Abe!" she whispered. "I had made up my mind that men were all bad
but my father. I was wrong. I did not think of you."
"Men are mostly good," said Abe. "But it's very easy to misunderstand
them. In my view it's quite likely that John McNamar is better than you
think him. I want you to be fair to John. If you conclude that you can
not be happy with him give me a chance. I would do my best to bring back
the joy of the old days. Sometimes I think that I am going to do
something worth while. Sometimes I think that I can see my way far ahead
and it looks very pleasant, and you, Ann, are always walking beside me in
it."
They proceeded in silence for a moment. A great flock of wild pigeons
darkened the sky above them and filled it with the whirr of their wings.
The young man and woman stopped to look up at them.
"They are going south," said Abe. "It's a sign of bad weather."
They stood talking for a little time.
"I'm glad they halted us for we have not far to go," Abe remarked.
"Before we take another step I wish you could give me some hope to live
on--just a little straw of hope."
"You are a wonderful man, Abe," said Ann, touched by his appeal. "My
father says that you are going to be a great man."
"I can not hold out any such hope to you," Abe answered. "I'm rather
ignorant and badly in debt but I reckon that I can make a good living and
give you a comfortable home. Don't you think, taking me just as I am, you
could care for me a little?"
"Yes; sometimes I think that I could love you, Abe," she answered. "I do
not love you yet but I may--sometime. I really want to love you."
"That is all I can ask now," said Abe as they went on. "Do you hear from
Bim Kelso?"
"I have not heard from her since June."
"I wish you would write to her and tell her that I am thinking of going
down to St. Louis and that I would like to go and see her."
"I'll write to her to-morrow," said Ann.
They had a pleasant visit and while Ann was playing with the baby she
seemed to have forgotten her troubles. They stayed to supper, after which
the whole family walked to the tavern with them, Joe and Betsey drawing
the baby in their "bumble wagon," which Samson had made for them. When
Ann began to show weariness, Abe gently lifted her in his arms and
carried her.
That evening Mrs. Peter Lukins called upon Abe at Sam Hill's store where
he sat alone, before the fire, reading with two candles burning on the
end of a dry goods box at his elbow.
There was an anxious look in her one eye as she accepted his invitation
to sit down in the firelight.
"I wanted to see you private 'bout Lukins," she began. "There's them that
calls him Bony Lukins but I reckon he ain't no bonier than the everidge
run o' men--not a bit--an' if he was I don't reckon his bones orto be
throwed at him every time he's spoke to that away."
Peter Lukins was a slim, sober faced, quiet little man with a long nose
who worked in the carding mill. He never spoke, save when spoken to, and
then with a solemn look as if the matter in hand, however slight, were
likely to affect his eternal welfare. In his cups he was speechless and,
in a way, dumb with merriment. He answered no questions, he expressed no
opinions, he told no stories. He only smiled and broke into roars of
laughter, even if there was no one to share his joy, as if convinced, at
last, of the hopeless absurdity of life. Some one told of following him
from Springfield to New Salem and of hearing him laugh all the way. Many
had noted another peculiarity in the man. He seemed always to have a
week's growth of beard on his face.
"What can I do about it?" Abe asked.
"I've been hopin' an' wishin' some kind of a decent handle could be put
on to his name," said Mrs. Lukins, with her eye upon a knot hole in the
counter. "Something with a good sound to it. You said that anything you
could do for the New Salem folks you was goin' to do an' I thought maybe
you could fix it."
Abe smiled and asked: "Do you want a title?"
"If it ain't plum owdacious I wisht he could be made a Colonel."
"That's a title for fighting men," said Abe.
"An' that man has fit for his life ever since he was born," said Mrs.
Lukins. "He's fit the measles an' the smallpox an' the fever an' ager an'
conquered 'em."
"I reckon he deserves the title," Abe remarked.
"I ain't sayin' but what there is purtier men," she said, reflectively,
as she stuck her finger into the knot hole and felt its edges. "I ain't
sayin' but what there is smarter men but I do say that the name o' Bony
ain't hardly fit to be heard in company."
"A little whitewash wouldn't hurt it any," said Abe. "I'd gladly give him
my title of Captain if I could unhitch it someway."
"Colonel is a more grander name," she insisted. "I call it plum
coralapus."
She had thus expressed her notion of the limit of human grandeur.
"Do you like it better than Judge?"
"Wall, Judge has a good sound to it but I'm plum sot on Colonel. If you
kin give that name to a horse, which Samson Traylor has done it, I don't
see why a man shouldn't be treated just as well."
"I'll see what can be done but if he gets that title he'll have to live
up to it."
"I'll make him walk a chalk line--you see," the good woman promised as
she left the store.
That evening Abe wrote a playful commission as Colonel for Peter Lukins
which was signed in due time by all his friends and neighbors and
presented to Lukins by a committee of which Abe was chairman.
Coleman Smoot--a man of some means who had a farm on the road to
Springfield--was in the village that evening. Abe showed him the
commission and asked him to sign it.
"I'll sign it on one condition," said Smoot.
"What is that?" Abe asked.
"That you'll give me a commission."
"A man like you can't expect too much. Would you care to be a General?"
"I wouldn't give the snap of my finger for that. What I want to be is
your friend."
"You are that now, aren't you?" Abe asked.
"Yes, but I haven't earned my commission. You haven't given me a chance
yet. What can I do to help you along?"
Abe was much impressed by these kindly words. "My friends do not often
ask what they can do for me," he said. "I suppose they haven't thought of
it. I'll think it over and let you know."
Three days later he walked out to Coleman Smoot's after supper. As they
sat together by the fireside Abe said:
"I've been thinking of your friendly question. It's dangerous to talk
that way to a man like me. The fact is I need two hundred dollars to pay
pressing debts and give me something in my pocket when I go to Vandalia.
If you can not lend it to me I shall think none the less of you."
"I can and will," said Smoot. "I've been watching you for a long time.
A man who tries as hard as you do to get along deserves to be helped. I
believe in you. I'll go up to Springfield and get the money and bring it
to you within a week or so."
Abe Lincoln had many friends who would have done the like for him if they
could, and he knew it.
"Every one has faith in you," said Smoot. "We expect much of you and we
ought to be willing to do what we can to help."
"Your faith will be my strength if I have any," said Abe.
On his way home that night he thought of what Jack Kelso had said of
democracy and friendship.
On the twenty-second of November a letter came to Ann from Bim Kelso
which announced that she was going to New Orleans for the winter with her
husband. Thereupon Abe gave up the idea of going to St. Louis and six
days later took the stage for the capital, at Rutledge's door, where all
the inhabitants of the village had assembled to bid him good-by. Ann
Rutledge with a flash of her old playfulness kissed him when he got into
the stage. Abe's long arm was waving in the air as he looked back at his
cheering friends while the stage rumbled down the road toward the great
task of his life upon which he was presently to begin in the little
village of Vandalia.