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Title: The Voice of the People

Author: Ellen Glasgow

Release Date: August 10, 2005 [EBook #16505]

Language: English

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

"THE DESCENDANT"

AND

"PHASES OF AN INFERIOR PLANET"


CROWNED MASTERPIECES OF MODERN FICTION

SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION EDITION



The Voice of the People


BY

Ellen Glasgow



NEW YORK, DOUBLEDAY
PAGE & COMPANY, 1904

Copyright, 1900, by
ELLEN GLASGOW

Published September, 1902



TO REBE GORDON GLASGOW





THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE




BOOK I

FAIR WEATHER AT KINGSBOROUGH




I


The last day of Circuit Court was over at Kingsborough.

The jury had vanished from the semicircle of straight-backed chairs in
the old court-house, the clerk had laid aside his pen along with his air
of listless attention, and the judge was making his way through the
straggling spectators to the sunken stone steps of the platform outside.
As the crowd in the doorway parted slightly, a breeze passed into the
room, scattering the odours of bad tobacco and farm-stained clothing.
The sound of a cow-bell came through one of the small windows, from the
green beyond, where a red-and-white cow was browsing among the
buttercups.

"A fine day, gentlemen," said the judge, bowing to right and left. "A
fine day."

He moved slowly, fanning himself absently with his white straw hat,
pausing from time to time to exchange a word of greeting--secure in the
affability of one who is not only a judge of man but a Bassett of
Virginia. From his classic head to his ill-fitting boots he upheld the
traditions of his office and his race.

On the stone platform, just beyond the entrance, he stopped to speak to
a lawyer from a neighbouring county. Then, as a clump of men scattered
at his approach, he waved them together with a bland, benedictory
gesture which descended alike upon the high and the low, upon the rector
of the old church up the street, in his rusty black, and upon the
red-haired, raw-boned farmer with his streaming brow.

"Glad to see you out, sir," he said to the one, and to the other, "How
are you, Burr? Time the crops were in the ground, isn't it?"

Burr mumbled a confused reply, wiping his neck laboriously on his red
cotton handkerchief.

"The corn's been planted goin' on six weeks," he said more distinctly,
ejecting his words between mouthfuls of tobacco juice as if they were
pebbles which obstructed his speech. "I al'ays stick to plantin' yo'
corn when the hickory leaf's as big as a squirrel's ear. If you don't,
the luck's agin you."

"An' whar thar's growin' corn thar's a sight o' hoein'," put in an
alert, nervous-looking countryman. "If I lay my hoe down for a spell,
the weeds git so big I can't find the crop."

Amos Burr nodded with slow emphasis: "I never see land take so natural
to weeds nohow as mine do," he said. "When you raise peanuts you're
raisin' trouble."

He was a lean, overworked man, with knotted hands the colour of the
soil he tilled and an inanely honest face, over which the freckles
showed like splashes of mud freshly dried. As he spoke he gave his blue
jean trousers an abrupt hitch at the belt.

"Dear me! Dear me!" returned the judge with absent-minded, habitual
friendliness, smiling his rich, beneficent smile. Then, as he caught
sight of a smaller red head beneath Burr's arm, he added: "You've a
right-hand man coming on, I see. What's your name, my boy?"

The boy squirmed on his bare, brown feet and wriggled his head from
beneath his father's arm. He did not answer, but he turned his bright
eyes on the judge and flushed through all the freckles of his ugly
little face.

"Nick--that is, Nicholas, sir," replied the elder Burr with an
apologetic cough, due to the insignificance of the subject. "Yes, sir,
he's leetle, but he's plum full of grit. He can beat any nigger I ever
seed at the plough. He'd outplough me if he war a head taller."

"That will mend," remarked the lawyer from the neighbouring county with
facetious intention. "A boy and a beanstalk will grow, you know. There's
no helping it."

"Oh, he'll be a man soon enough," added the judge, his gaze passing over
the large, red head to rest upon the small one, "and a farmer like his
father before him, I suppose."

He was turning away when the child's voice checked him, and he paused.

"I--I'd ruther be a judge," said the boy.

He was leaning against the faded bricks of the old court-house, one
sunburned hand playing nervously with the crumbling particles. His
honest little face was as red as his hair.

The judge started.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and he looked at the child with his kindly eyes. The
boy was ugly, lean, and stunted in growth, browned by hot suns and
powdered by the dust of country roads, but his eyes caught the gaze of
the judge and held it.

Above his head, on the brick wall, a board was nailed, bearing in black
marking the name of the white-sand street which stretched like a
chalk-drawn line from the grass-grown battlefields to the pale old
buildings of King's College. The street had been called in honour of a
duke of Gloucester. It was now "Main" Street, and nothing more, though
it was still wide and white and placidly impressed by the slow passage
of Kingsborough feet. Beyond the court-house the breeze blew across the
green, which was ablaze with buttercups. Beneath the warm wind the
yellow heads assumed the effect of a brilliant tangle, spreading over
the unploughed common, running astray in the grass-lined ditch that
bordered the walk, hiding beneath dusty-leaved plants in unsuspected
hollows, and breaking out again under the horses' hoofs in the sandy
street.

"Ah!" exclaimed the judge, and a good-natured laugh ran round the group.

"Wall, I never!" ejaculated the elder Burr, but there was no surprise in
his tone; it expressed rather the helplessness of paternity.

The boy faced them, pressing more firmly against the bricks.

"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said. "It's jest farmin' fur
crows. I'd ruther be a judge."

The judge laughed and turned from him.

"Stick to the soil, my boy," he advised. "Stick to the soil. It is the
best thing to do. But if you choose the second best, and I can help you,
I will--I will, upon my word--Ah! General," to a jovial-faced,
wide-girthed gentleman in a brown linen coat, "I'm glad to see you in
town. Fine weather!"

He put on his hat, bowed again, and went on his way.

He passed slowly along in the spring sunshine, his feet crunching upon
the gravel, his straight shadow falling upon the white level between
coarse fringes of wire-grass. Far up the town, at the street's sudden
end, where it was lost in diverging roads, there was visible, as through
a film of bluish smoke, the verdigris-green foliage of King's College.
Nearer at hand the solemn cruciform of the old church was steeped in
shade, the high bell-tower dropping a veil of English ivy as it rose
against the sky. Through the rusty iron gate of the graveyard the marble
slabs glimmered beneath submerging grasses, long, pale, tremulous like
reeds.

The grass-grown walk beside the low brick wall of the churchyard led on
to the judge's own garden, a square enclosure, laid out in straight
vegetable rows, marked off by variegated borders of flowering
plants--heartsease, foxglove, and the red-lidded eyes of scarlet
poppies. Beyond the feathery green of the asparagus bed there was a bush
of flowering syringa, another at the beginning of the grass-trimmed
walk, and yet another brushing the large white pillars of the square
front porch--their slender sprays blown from sun to shade like
fluttering streamers of cream-coloured ribbons. On the other side there
were lilacs, stately and leafy and bare of bloom, save for a few
ashen-hued bunches lingering late amid the heavy foliage. At the foot of
the garden the wall was hidden in raspberry vines, weighty with ripening
fruit.

The judge closed the gate after him and ascended the steps. It was not
until he had crossed the wide hall and opened the door of his study that
he heard the patter of bare feet, and turned to find that the boy had
followed him.

For an instant he regarded the child blankly; then his hospitality
asserted itself, and he waved him courteously into the room.

"Walk in, walk in, and take a seat. I am at your service."

He crossed to one of the tall windows, unfastening the heavy inside
shutters, from which the white paint was fast peeling away. As they fell
back a breeze filled the room, and the ivory faces of microphylla roses
stared across the deep window-seat. The place was airy as a summer-house
and odorous with the essence of roses distilled in the sunshine beyond.
On the high plastered walls, above the book-shelves, rows of bygone
Bassetts looked down on their departed possessions--stately and severe
in the artificial severity of periwigs and starched ruffles. They looked
down with immobile eyes and the placid monotony of past fashions,
smiling always the same smile, staring always at the same spot of floor
or furniture.

Below them the room was still hallowed by their touch. They asserted
themselves in the quaint curves of the rosewood chairs, in the blue
patterns upon the willow bowls, and in the choice lavender of the old
Wedgwood. Their handiwork was visible in the laborious embroideries of
the fire-screen near the empty grate, and the spinet in one unlighted
corner still guarded their gay and amiable airs.

"Sit down," said the judge. "I am at your service."

He seated himself before his desk of hand-carved mahogany, pushing aside
the papers that littered its baize-covered lid. In the half-gloom of the
high-ceiled room his face assumed the look of a portrait in oils, and he
seemed to have descended from his allotted square upon the plastered
wall, to be but a boldly limned composite likeness of his race, awaiting
the last touches and the gilded frame.

"What can I do for you?" he asked again, his tone preserving its
unfailing courtesy. He had not made an uncivil remark since the close of
the war--a line of conduct resulting less from what he felt to be due to
others than from what he believed to be becoming in himself.

The boy shifted on his bare feet. In the old-timed setting of the
furniture he was an alien--an anachronism--the intrusion of the
hopelessly modern into the helplessly past. His hair made a rich spot in
the colourless atmosphere, and it seemed to focus the incoming light
from the unshuttered window, leaving the background in denser shadow.

The animation of his features jarred the serenity of the room. His
profile showed gnome-like against the nodding heads of the microphylla
roses.

"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said suddenly; "I--I'd
ruther be a judge."

"My dear boy!" exclaimed the judge, and finished helplessly, "my dear
boy--I--well--I--"

They were both silent. The regular droning of the old clock sounded
distinctly in the stillness. The perfume of roses, mingling with the
musty scent from the furniture, borrowed the quality of musk.

The child was breathing heavily. Suddenly he dug the dirty knuckles of
one fist into his eyes.

"Don't cry," began the judge. "Please don't. Perhaps you would like to
run out and play with my boy Tom?"

"I warn't cryin'," said the child. "It war a gnat."

His hand left his eyes and returned to his hat--a wide-brimmed harvest
hat, with a shoestring tied tightly round the crown.

When the judge spoke again it was with seriousness.

"Nicholas--your name is Nicholas, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Yes, sir."

"Write?"

"Y-e-s, sir."

"Spell?"

The child hesitated. "I--I can spell--some."

"Don't you know it is a serious thing to be a judge?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must be a lawyer first."

"Yes, sir."

"It is hard work."

"Yes, sir."

"And sometimes it's no better than farming for crows."

The boy shook his head. "It's cleaner work, sir."

The judge laughed.

"I'm afraid you are obstinate, Nicholas," he said, and added: "Now, what
do you want me to do for you? I can't make you a judge. It took me fifty
years to make myself one--a third-rate one at that--"

"I--I'd l-i-k-e to take a bo-b-o-o-k," stammered the boy.

"Dear me!" said the judge irritably, "dear me!"

He frowned, his gaze skimming his well-filled shelves. He regretted
suddenly that he had spoken to the child at the court-house. He would
never be guilty of such an indiscretion again. Of what could he have
been thinking? A book! Why didn't he ask for food--money--his best piece
of fluted Royal Worcester?

Then a loud, boyish laugh rang in from the garden, and his face softened
suddenly. In the sun-scorched, honest-eyed little figure before him he
saw his own boy--the single child of his young wife, who was lying
beneath a marble slab in the churchyard. Her face, mild and
Madonna-like, glimmered against the pallid rose leaves in the deep
window-seat.

He turned hastily away.

"Yes, yes," he answered, "I will lend you one. Read the titles
carefully. Don't let the books fall. Never lay them face downwards--and
don't turn down the leaves!"

The boy advanced timidly to the shelves between the southern windows. He
ran his hands slowly along the lettered backs, his lips moving as he
spelled out the names.

"The F-e-d-e-r-a-l-i-s-t," "B-l-a-c-k-s-t-o-n-e-'s
C-o-m-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-e-s," "R-e-v-i-s-e-d Sta-tu-tes of the U-ni-ted
Sta-tes."

The judge drew up to his desk and looked over his letters. Then he took
up his pen and wrote several replies in his fine, flowing handwriting.
He had forgotten the boy, when he felt a touch upon his arm.

"What is it?" he asked absently. "Ah, it is you? Yes, let me see. Why!
you've got Sir Henry Maine!"

The boy was holding the book in both hands. As the judge laughed he
flushed nervously and turned towards the door.

The judge leaned back in his chair, watching the small figure cross the
room and disappear into the hall. He saw the tracks of dust which the
boy's feet left upon the smooth, bare floor, but he was not thinking of
them. Then, as the child went out upon the porch, he started up.

"Nicholas!" he called, "don't turn down the leaves!"




II


A facetious stranger once remarked that Kingsborough dozed through the
present to dream of the past and found the future a nightmare. Had he
been other than a stranger, he would, perhaps, have added that
Kingsborough's proudest boast was that she had been and was not--a
distinction giving her preėminence over certain cities whose charters
were not received from royal grants--cities priding themselves not only
upon a multiplicity of streets, but upon the more plebeian fact that the
feet of their young men followed the offending thoroughfares to the
undignified music of the march of progress.

But, whatever might be said of places that shall be nameless, it was
otherwise with Kingsborough. Kingsborough was the same yesterday,
to-day, and forever. She who had feasted royal governors, staked and
lost upon Colonial races, and exploded like an ignited powder-horn in
the cause of American independence, was still superbly conscious of the
honours which had been hers. Her governors were no longer royal, nor did
she feast them; her races were run by fleet-footed coloured urchins on
the court-house green; her powder-magazine had evolved through
differentiation from a stable into a church; but Kingsborough clung to
her amiable habits. Travellers still arrived at the landing stage some
several miles distant and were driven over all but impassable roads to
the town. The eastern wall of the court-house still bore the sign
"England Street," though the street had vanished beneath encroaching
buttercups, and the implied loyalty had been found wanting. Kingsborough
juries still sat in their original semicircle, with their backs to the
judge and their faces, presumably, to the law; Kingsborough farmers
still marketed their small truck in the street called after the Duke of
Gloucester; and Kingsborough cows still roamed at will over the vaults
in the churchyard. In time trivial changes would come to pass. Tourists
would arrive with the railroad; the powder-magazine would turn from a
church into a museum; gardens would decay and ancient elms would fall,
but the farmers and the cows would not be missed from their accustomed
haunts. On the hospitable thresholds of "general" stores battle-scarred
veterans of the war between the States dealt in victorious reminiscences
of vanquishment. They had fought well, they had fallen silently, and
they had risen without bitterness. For the people of Kingsborough had
opened their doors to wounded foes while the battle raged through their
streets, succouring while they resisted. They lived easily and they died
hard, but when death came they met it, not in grim Puritanism, but with
a laugh upon the lips. They made a joy of life while it was possible,
and when that ceased to be, they did the next best thing and made a
friend of death. Long ago theirs had been the first part in Virginia,
and, as they still believed, theirs had been also the centre of all
things. Now the high places were laid low, and the greatness had passed
as a trumpet that is blown. Kingsborough persisted still, but it
persisted evasively, hovering, as it were, upon the outskirts of modern
advancement. And the outside world took note only when it made tours to
historic strongholds, or sent those of itself that were adjudged insane
to the hospitable shelter of the asylum upon the hill.

It was afternoon, and Kingsborough was asleep.

Along the verdurous, gray lanes the houses seemed abandoned, shuttered,
filled with shade. From the court-house green came the chime of
cow-bells rising and falling in slow waves of sound. A spotted calf
stood bleating in the crooked footpath, which traversed diagonally the
waste of buttercups like a white seam in a cloth of gold. Against the
arching sky rose the bell-tower of the grim old church, where the
sparrows twittered in the melancholy gables and the startled face of the
stationary clock stared blankly above the ivied walls. Farther away, at
the end of a wavering lane, slanted the shadow of the insane asylum.

Across the green the houses were set in surrounding gardens like cards
in bouquets of mixed blossoms. They were of frame for the most part,
with shingled roofs and small, square windows hidden beneath climbing
roses. On one of the long verandas a sleeping girl lay in a hammock, a
gray cat at her feet. No sound came from the house behind her, but a
breeze blew through the dim hall, fluttering the folds of her dress.
Beyond the adjoining garden a lady in mourning entered a gate where
honeysuckle grew, and above, on the low-dormered roof, a white pigeon
sat preening its feathers. Up the main street, where a few sunken bricks
of a vanished pavement were still visible, an old negro woman, sitting
on the stone before her cabin, lighted her replenished pipe with a
taper, and leaned back, smoking, in the doorway, her scarlet
handkerchief making a spot of colour on the dull background.

The sun was still high when the judge came out upon his porch, a smile
of indecision on his face and his hat in his hand. Pausing upon the
topmost step, he cast an uncertain glance sideways at the walk leading
past the church, and then looked straight ahead through the avenue of
maples, which began at the smaller green facing the ancient site of the
governor's palace and skirted the length of the larger one, which took
its name from the court-house. At last he descended the steps with his
leisurely tread, turning at the gate to throw a remonstrance to an old
negro whose black face was framed in the library window.

"Now, Cęsar, didn't I--"

"Lord, Marse George, dis yer washed-out blue bowl, wid de little white
critters sprawlin' over it, done come ter pieces--"

"Now, Cęsar, haven't I told you twenty times to let Delilah wash my
Wedgwood?"

"Fo' de Lord, Marse George, I ain't breck hit. I uz des' hol'n it in
bofe my han's same es I'se hol'n dis yer broom, w'en it come right ter
part. I declar 'twarn my fault, Marse George, 'twarn nobody's fault
'cep'n hit's own."

The judge closed the gate and waved the face from the window.

"Go about your business, Cęsar," he said, "and keep your hands off my
china--"

Then his tone lost its asperity as he held out his hands to a pretty
girl who was coming across the green.

"So you are back from school, Miss Juliet," he said gallantly. "I was
telling your mother only yesterday that I didn't approve of sending our
fairest products away from Kingsborough. It wasn't done in my day. Then
the prettiest girls stayed at home and gave our young fellows a chance."

The girl shook her head until the blue ribbons on her straw hat
fluttered in the wind, and blushed until her soft eyes were like
forget-me-nots set in rose leaves. She possessed a serene, luminous
beauty, which became intensified beneath the gaze of the beholder.

"I have come back for good, now," she answered in a serious sweetness of
voice; "and I am out this afternoon looking up my Sunday-school class.
The children have scattered sadly. You will let me have Tom again, won't
you?"

"Have Tom! Why, you may have him every day and Sunday too--the lucky
scamp! Ah, I only wish I were a boy again, with a soul worth saving and
such a pair of eyes in search of it."

The girl dimpled into a smile and flushed to her low, white forehead, on
which the soft hair was smoothly parted before it broke into sunny curls
about the temples. She exhaled an atmosphere of gentleness mixed with a
saintly coquetry, which produced an impression at once human and divine,
such as one receives from the sight of a rose in a Bible or a curl in
the hair of a saint. The judge looked at her warmly, sighing half
happily, half regretfully.

"And to think that the young rogues don't realise their blessings," he
said. "There's not one of them that wouldn't rather be off fishing than
learn his catechism. Ah, in my day things were different--things were
different."

"Were you very pious, sir?" asked the girl with a flash of laughter.

The judge shook his stick playfully.

"I can't tell tales," he answered, "but in my day we should have taken
more than the catechism at your bidding, my dear. When your father was
courting your mother--and she was like you, though she hadn't your eyes,
or your face, for that matter--he went into her Bible class, though he
was at least five and twenty and the others were small boys under ten.
She was a sad flirt, and she led him a dance."

"He liked it," said the girl. "But, if you will give my message to Tom,
I won't come in. I am looking for Dudley Webb, and I see his mother at
her gate. Good-bye! Be sure and tell Tom to come Sunday."

She nodded brightly, lifted her muslin skirts, and recrossed the street.
The judge watched her until the flutter of her white dress vanished down
the lane of maples; then he turned to speak to the occupants of a
carriage that had drawn up to the sidewalk.

The vehicle was of an old-fashioned make, bare of varnish, with rickety,
mud-splashed wheels and rusty springs. It was drawn by an ill-matched
pair of horses and driven by a lame coloured boy, who carried a peeled
hickory branch for a whip.

"Ah, General Battle," said the judge to a stout gentleman with a red
face and an expansive shirt front from which the collar had wilted away;
"fine afternoon! Is that Eugenia?" to a little girl of seven or eight
years, with a puppy of the pointer breed in her arms, and "How are you,
Sampson?" to the coloured driver.

The three greeted him simultaneously, whereupon he leaned forward,
resting his hand upon the side of the carriage.

"The young folks are growing up," he said. "I have just seen Juliet
Burwell, and, on my life, she gets prettier every day. We shan't keep
her long."

"Keep her!" replied the general vigorously, wiping his large face with a
large pocket handkerchief. "Keep her! If I were thirty years younger,
you shouldn't keep her a day--not a day, sir."

The little girl looked up gravely from the corner of the seat, tossing
her short, dark plait from her shoulder. "What would you do with her,
papa?" she asked. "We've got no place to put her at home."

The general threw back his great head and laughed till his wide girth
shook like a bag of meal.

"Oh, you needn't worry, Eugie," he said. "I'm not the man I used to be.
She wouldn't look at me. Bless your heart, she wouldn't look at me if I
asked her--"

Eugenia clasped her puppy closer and turned her eyes upon her father's
jovial face.

"I don't see how she could help it if you stood in front of her," she
answered gravely, in a voice rich with the blending of negro
intonations.

The general shook again until the carriage creaked on its rusty
springs, and the coloured boy, Sampson, let the reins fall and joined in
the hilarity.

"She won't let me so much as look at a girl!" exclaimed the general
delightedly, stooping to recover the brown linen lap robe which had
slipped from his knees. "She's as jealous as if I were twenty and had a
score of sweethearts."

The little girl did not reply, but she flushed angrily. "Don't,
precious," she said to the puppy, who was licking her cheek with his
warm, red tongue.

"What have you named him, Eugie?" asked the judge, changing the subject
with that gracious tact which was mindful of the least emergency. "He is
nicely marked, I see."

"I call him Jim," replied Eugenia. She spoke gravely, and the gravity
contrasted oddly with the animation of her features. "But his real name
is James Burwell Battle. Bernard and I christened him in the
spring-house--so he'll go to heaven."

"Cap'n Burwell gave him to her, you know," explained the general, who
laughed whenever his daughter spoke, as if the fact of her talking at
all was a source of amazement to him, "and she hasn't let go of him
since she got him. By the way, Judge, you have a first-rate garden spot.
I hear your asparagus is the finest in town. Ours is very poor this
year. I must have a new bed made before next season. Ah, what is it,
daughter?"

"You've forgotten to buy the sugar," said Eugenia, "and Aunt Chris can't
put up her preserves. And you told me to remind you of the whip--"

"Bless your heart, so I did. Sampson lost that whip a month ago, and
I've never remembered it yet. Well, good-day--good-day."

The judge raised his hat with a stately inclination; the general nodded
good-naturedly, still grasping the linen robe with his plump, red hand;
and the carriage jolted along the green and disappeared behind the
glazed brick walls of the church.

The judge regarded his walking-stick meditatively for a moment, and
continued his way. The smile with which he had followed the vanishing
figure of Juliet Burwell returned to his face, and his features softened
from their usual chilly serenity.

He had gone but a short distance and was passing the iron gate of the
churchyard, when the droning of a voice came to him, and looking beyond
the bars, he saw little Nicholas Burr lying at full length upon a marble
slab, his head in his hands and his feet waving in the air.

Entering the gate, the judge followed the walk of moss-grown stones
leading to the church steps, and paused within hearing of the voice,
which went on in an abstracted drawl.

"The most cel-e-bra-ted sys-tem of juris-pru-dence known to the world
begins, as it ends, with a code--" He was not reading, for the book was
closed. He seemed rather to be repeating over and over again words which
had been committed to memory.

"With a code. From the commencement to the close of its history, the
ex-posi-tors of Ro-man Law con-sistently em-ployed lan-guage which
implied that the body of their sys-tem rested on the twelve
De-cem-viral Tables--Dec-em-vi-ral--De-cem-vi-ral Tables."

"Bless my soul!" said the judge. The boy glanced up, blushed, and would
have risen, but the judge waved him back.

"No--no, don't get up. I heard you as I was going by. What are you
doing?"

"Learnin'."

"Learning! Dear me! What do you mean by learning?"

"I'm learnin' by heart, sir--and--and, if you don't mind, sir, what does
j-u-r-i-s-p-r-u-d-e-n-c-e mean?"

The judge started, returning the boy's eager gaze with one of kindly
perplexity.

"Bless my soul!" he said again. "You aren't trying to understand that,
are you?"

The boy grew scarlet and his lips trembled. "No, sir," he answered. "I'm
jest learnin' it now. I'll know what it means when I'm bigger--"

"And you expect to remember it?" asked the judge.

"I don't never forget," said the boy.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the judge for the third time.

For a moment he stood looking silently down upon the marble slab with
its defaced lettering. Of the wordy epitaph which had once redounded to
the honour of the bones beneath there remained only the words "who
departed," but he read these with a long abstracted gaze.

"Let me see," he said at last, speaking with his accustomed dignity.
"Did you ever go to school, Nicholas?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"I went 'most three winters, sir, but I had to leave off on o'count o'
pa's not havin' any hand 'cep'n me."

The judge smiled.

"Ah, well," he returned. "We'll see if you can't begin again. My boy has
a tutor, you know, and his playmates come to study with him. He's about
your age, and it will give you a start. Come in to-morrow at nine, and
we'll talk it over. No, don't get up. I am going."

And he passed out of the churchyard, closing the heavy gate with a
metallic clang. Nicholas lay on the marble slab, but the book slipped
from his hands, and he gazed straight before him at the oriel window,
where the ivy was tremulous with the shining bodies and clamorous voices
of nesting sparrows. They darted swiftly from gable to gable, filling
the air with shrill sounds of discord, and endowing with animation the
inanimate pile, wrapping the dead bricks in a living shroud.

On the other side swept the long, colourless grasses, rippling in faint
waves like a still lake that reflects the sunshine and swaying lightly
beneath myriads of gauzy-winged bees that flashed with a droning noise
from blade to blade, to find rest in the yellow hearts of the damask
roses. Across the white vaults and the low-lying marble slabs
innumerable shadows chased, and from above the gnarled old locust trees
swept a fringe of vivid green, the slender blossoms hanging in tassels
from the branches' ends, and filling the air with a soft and ceaseless
rain of fragrant petals. Pale as the ghosts of dead leaves, they fell
always, fluttering night and day from the twisted boughs, settling in
creamy flakes upon the bending grasses, and outlining in delicate
tracery the epitaphs upon the discoloured marbles.

Nicholas lay with wide-open eyes, looking up at the oriel window where
the sparrows twittered. On a near vault a catbird poised for an instant,
surveying him with bright, distrustful eyes. Then, with an impetuous
flutter of slate-gray wings, it fled to the poisonous oak on the far
brick wall. A red-and-white cow, passing along the lane outside, stopped
before the closed gate, and stood philosophically chewing the cud as she
looked within through impeding bars. From the judge's garden came the
faint sound of a negro voice as the old gardener weeded the vegetables.
Nicholas rolled over again and faced the outstretched wings of the
noseless angel on the nearest tombstone. The loss of the nose had
distorted the marble smile into a grimace, which gave a leer to the
remaining features. As the boy looked at it he laughed suddenly, and his
voice startled him amid the droning of bees. Then he sat up and glanced
at his brier-scratched feet stretched upon the slab, and laughed again
for the sheer joy of discord.




III


Nicholas followed the main street to its sudden end at King's College,
and turned into one of the diverging ways which skirted the whitewashed
plank fence of the college grounds, and led to what was known in the
neighbourhood as the Old Stage Road. Passing a straggling group of negro
cabins, it stretched, naked, bleached, and barren, for a good half-mile,
dividing with its sandy length the low-lying fields, which were sown on
the one side in a sparse crop of grain and on the other in the rich
leaves and round pink heads of ripening clover. At the end of the
half-mile the road ascended a slight elevation, and the character of the
soil changed abruptly into clay of vivid red, which, extending a dozen
yards up the rain-washed hillside, appeared, in a general view of the
landscape, like the scarlet tongue protruding from the silvery body of a
serpent.

Far ahead to the right of the highway and beyond the thinly sown wheat a
stretch of pine woodland was darkly limned against the western horizon,
standing a gloomy advance guard of the shadows of the night. At its foot
the newer green of the late spring foliage took a frivolous aspect,
presenting the effect of deep-tinted foam breaking against the
impenetrable mass of darkness.

The boy trudged resolutely along the sandy road, reaching at intervals
to grasp handfuls of sassafras leaves from the bushes beside the way.
From the ditch on the left a brown toad hopped slowly into the dust of
the road. On the worm-eaten rails of the fence, on the other side, a
gray lizard glided swiftly like a stealthy shadow of the leaves of the
poisonous oak.

Nicholas picked up a stone from the roadside and aimed it at the slimy
little body, but his throw erred, and the missile fell harmlessly into
the wheat field beyond, startling a blackbird with scarlet marks, which
soared suddenly above the bearded grain and vanished, with a tremulous
cry and a flame of outstretched wings, into the distant wood.

The sun had gone down behind the pines and a warm mist steamed up from
the cooling earth, condensing into heavy dew on the dusty leaves of the
plants in the ditch. Above the lowering pines the horizon burned to a
deep scarlet, like an inverted brazier at red heat, and one gigantic
tree, rising beyond the jagged line of the forest, was silhouetted
sharply against the enkindled clouds. Suddenly, from the shadows of the
long road, a voice rose plaintively. It was rich and deep and
colourific, and it seemed to hover close to the warmth of the earth,
weighed down by its animal melody. It had mingled so subtly with the
stillness that it was as much a part of nature as the cry of a
whip-poor-will beyond the thicket or the sunset in the pine-guarded
west. At first it came faintly, and the words were lost, but as Nicholas
gained upon the singer he caught more clearly the air and the song.

  "_Oh, de Ark hit came ter res'
      On-de-hill,
    Oh, de Ark hit came ter res'
      On-de-hill,
    En' dar ole Noah stood,
    En' spread his han's abroad,
    Er sacri-fice ter-Gawd
      On-de-hill._"

Nicholas quickened his pace into a run and, in a moment, saw the
stooping figure of an old negro toiling up the red clay hillside, a
staff in his hand and a bag of meal on his shoulder. In the vivid light
of the sunset his stature was exaggerated in size, giving him an
appearance at once picturesque and pathetic--softening his rugged
outline and magnifying the distortion of age.

As he ascended the gradual incline he planted his staff firmly in the
soil, shifting his bag from side to side and uttering inaudible grunts
in the pauses of his song.

  "_En' dar, mid flame en smoke,
    De great Jehovah s-poke.
    En' awful thunder b-roke,
      On-de-hill._"

"Uncle Ish!" called the boy sharply. The old man lowered the bag from
his shoulder and turned slowly round.

"Who dat?" he demanded severely. "Ain't I done tell you dar ain' no
ha'nts 'long dis yer road?"

"It's me, Uncle Ish," said the boy. "It's Nick Burr. I heard you singing
a long ways off."

"Den what you want ter go a-hollerin' en a-stealin' up on er ole nigger
fer des' 'bout sundown?"

"But, Uncle Ish, I didn't mean to scare you. I jest heard--"

"Skeer! Who dat you been skeerin'? Ain't I done tole you dar ain' no
ha'nts round dese parts? What I gwine ter be skeered fer uv er little no
'count white trash dat ain' never own er nigger in dere life? Who you
done skeer dis time?"

He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and went on his way,
the boy trotting beside him. For a time the old man muttered angrily
beneath his breath, and then, becoming mollified by the boy's silence,
he looked kindly down on the small red head at his elbow.

"You ain't said howdy, honey," he remarked in a fault-finding tone. "Dar
ain' no manners dese days, nohow. Dey ain' no manners en dey ain' no
nuttin'. De niggers, dey is gwine plum outer dey heads, en de po' white
trash dey's gwine plum outer dey places."

He looked at Nicholas, who flinched and hung his head.

"Dar ain' nobody lef to keep 'em ter dey places, no mo'. In Ole Miss'
time der wa'nt no traipsin' roun' er niggers en intermixin' up er de
quality en de trash. Ole Miss, she des' pint out der place en dey stay
dar. She ain' never stomach noner der high-ferlutin' doin's roun' her.
She know whar she b'long en she know whar dey b'long. Bless yo' life,
Ole Miss wuz dat perticklar she wouldn't drink arter Ole Marster,
hisself, 'thout renchin' out de gow'd twel t'wuz mos' bruck off de
handle."

He sighed and shifted his bag.

"Ef Ole Miss 'ud been yer thoo' dis las' war, dar wouldn't er been no
slue-footed Yankees a-foolin' roun' her parlour. She'd uv up en show'd
'em de do'--"

"Are all Yankees slue-footed, Uncle Ish?"

"All dose I seed, honey--des' es slue-footed. En dar wuz Miss Chris' en
ole Miss Grissel a-makin' up ter 'em, en a-layin' out er demselves fer
'em en a-spreadin' uv de table, des' de same es ef dey went straight on
dey toes. Dar wan't much sense in dat ar war, nohow, an' I ain' never
knowed yit what 'twuz dey fit about. Hit wuz des' a-hidin' en a-teckin'
ter de bushes, en a-hidin' agin, en den a-feastin', en a-curtsin' ter de
Yankees. Dar wan't no sense in it, no ways hits put, but Ise heered
Marse Tom 'low hit wuz a civil war, en dat's what it wuz. When de
Yankees come a-ridin' up en a-reinin' in dere hosses befo' de front
po'ch, en Miss Chris come out a-smilin' en a-axin' howdy, en den dey
stan' dar a-bowin' en a-scrapin', hit wuz des' es civil es ef dey'd come
a-co'tin'. But Ole Miss wuz dead en buried, she wuz."

Nicholas shook his head without speaking. There was a shade of
consolation in the thought that the awful "Ole Miss" was below the earth
and beyond the possibility of pointing out his place.

The brazier in the west snapped asunder suddenly, and a single forked
flame shot above the jagged pines and went out in the dove-coloured
clouds. In a huge oak beyond the rail fence there was a harsh rustling
of wings where a flock of buzzards settled to roost.

"Yes, Lord, she wuz dead en buried," repeated Uncle Ish slowly. "En dar
ain' none like her lef' roun' yer now. Dis yer little Euginny is des'
de spit er her ma, en it 'ud mek Ole Miss tu'n in her grave ter hear
tell 'bout her gwines on. De quality en de po' folks is all de same ter
her. She ain' no mo' un inspecter er pussons den de Lord is--ef Ole Miss
wuz 'live, I reckon she'd lam 'er twel she wuz black en blue--"

"Is she so very bad?" asked Nicholas in an awed voice.

Uncle Ish turned upon him reprovingly.

"Bad!" he repeated. "Who gwine call Ole Miss' gran'chile bad? I don't
reckon it's dese yer new come folks es hev des' sprouted outer de dut es
is gwine ter--"

At this instant the sound of a vehicle reached them, gaining upon them
from the direction of Kingsborough, and they fell to one side of the
road, leaving room for the horses to pass. It was the Battle carriage,
rolling heavily on its aged wheels and creaking beneath the general's
weight.

"Howdy, Marse Tom!" called Uncle Ishmael. The general responded
good-naturedly, and the carriage passed on, but, before turning into the
branch road a few yards ahead, it came to a standstill, and the bright,
decisive voice of the little girl floated back.

"Uncle Ish--I say, Uncle Ish, don't you want to ride?"

"Dar, now!" cried Uncle Ishmael exultantly. "Ain't I tell you she wuz
plum crazy? What she doin' a-peckin' up en ole nigger like I is?"

He hastened his steps and scrambled into the seat beside the driver,
settling his bag between his knees; and, with a flick of the peeled
hickory whip, the carriage rolled into the branch road and disappeared,
scattering a whirl of mud drops as it splashed through the shallow
puddles which lingered in the dryest season beneath the heavy shade of
the wood.

Nicholas turned into the branch road also, for the poor lands of his
father adjoined the slightly richer ones of the Battles. He felt tired
and a little lonely, and he wished suddenly that a friendly cart would
come along in which he might ride the remainder of the way. Between the
densely wooded thicket on either side, the road looked dark and solemn.
It was spread with a rotting carpet of last year's leaves, soft and damp
under foot, and polished into shining tracks in the ruts left by passing
wheels. Through the dusk the ghostly bodies of beech trees stood out
distinctly from the surrounding wood, as if marked by a silver light
falling from the topmost branches. The hoarse, grating notes of
jar-flies intensified the stillness.

Nicholas went on steadily, spurred by superstitious terror of the
silence. He remembered that Uncle Ish had said there were no "ha'nts"
along this road, but the assurance was barren of comfort. Old Uncle
Dan'l Mule had certainly seen a figure in a white sheet rise up out of
that decayed oak stump in the hollow, for he had sworn to it in the
boy's presence in Aunt Rhody Sand's cabin the night of her daughter
Viny's wedding. As for Viny's husband Saul, he had declared that one
night after ten o'clock, when he was coming through this wood, the
"booger-boos" had got after him and chased him home.

At the end of the wood the road came out upon the open again, and in
the distance Nicholas could see, like burnished squares, the windows of
his father's house. Between the thicket and the house there was a long
stretch of clearing, which had been once planted in corn, and now
supported a headless army of dry stubble, amid a dull-brown waste of
broomsedge. The last pale vestige of the afterglow, visible across the
level country, swept the arid field and softened the harsh outlines of
the landscape. It was barren soil, whose strength had been exhausted
long since by years of production without returns, tilled by hands that
had forced without fertilising. There was now grim pathos in its
absolute sterility, telling as it did of long-gone yields of grain and
historic harvests.

Nicholas skirted the waste, and was turning into the pasture gate on the
opposite side of the road, when he heard the shrill sound of a voice
from the direction of the house.

"Nick!--who--a Nick!"

On one of the cedar posts of the fence of the cow-pen he discerned the
small figure and green cotton frock of his half-sister, Sarah Jane, who
was shouting through her hollowed palms to increase the volume of sound.

"I say, Nick! The she-ep hev' been driv-en u-p! Come to sup-per!"

She vanished from the post and Nicholas ran up the remainder of the road
and swung himself over the little gate which led into the small square
yard immediately surrounding the house. At the pump near the back door
his father, who had just come from work, was washing his hands before
going into supper, and near a row of pointed chicken coops the three
younger children were "shooing" up the tiny yellow broods. The yard was
unkempt and ugly, run wild in straggling ailanthus shoots and littered
with chips from the wood-pile.

As he entered the house he saw his stepmother placing a dish of fried
bacon upon the table, which was covered with a "watered" oilcloth of a
bright walnut tint. At her back stood Sarah Jane with a plate of corn
bread in one hand and a glass pitcher containing buttermilk in the
other. She was a slight, flaxen-haired child, with wizened features and
sore, red eyelids.

As his stepmother caught sight of him she stopped on her way to the
stove and surveyed him with sharp but not unkindly eyes.

"You've been takin' your time 'bout comin' home," she remarked, "an' I
reckon you're powerful hungry. You can sit down if you want to."

She was long and lean and withered, with a chronic facial neuralgia,
which gave her an irritable expression and a querulous voice. For the
past several years Nicholas had never seen her without a large cotton
handkerchief bound tightly about her face. She had been the boy's aunt
before she married his father, and her affection for him was proved by
her allowing no one to harry him except herself.

"How's your face, ma?" asked Nicholas with the indifference of habit as
he took his seat at the table, while Sarah Jane went to the door to call
her father. When Burr came in the inquiry was repeated.

"Face any easier, Marthy?" It was a form that had been gone through
with at every meal since the malady began, and Marthy Burr, while she
deplored its insincerity, would have resented its omission.

"Don't you all trouble 'bout my neuralgy," she returned with resigned
exasperation as she stood up to pour the coffee out of the large tin
boiler. "It's mine, an' I've borne worse things, I reckon, which ain't
sayin' that 'tain't near to takin' my head off."

Amos Burr drank his coffee without replying, the perspiration standing
in drops on his large, freckled face and shining on his heavy eyebrows.
Presently he looked at Nicholas, who was eating abstractedly, his gaze
on his plate.

"I got that thar piece of land broke to-day," he said, "an' I reckon you
can take the one-horse harrow and go over it to-morrow. Them peanuts
ought to hev' been in the ground two weeks ago--"

"They ain't hulled yet," interrupted his wife. "Sairy Jane ain't done
more'n half of 'em. She and Nick can do the balance after supper. Hurry
up, Sairy Jane, and get through. Nannie, don't you touch another slice
of that middlin'. You'll be frettin' all night."

Nicholas looked up nervously. "I don't want to harrow the land
to-morrow, pa," he began; "the judge said I might come in to school--"

Amos Burr looked at him helplessly. "Wall, I never!" he exclaimed.

"Did you ever hear the likes?" said his wife.

"I can go, pa, can't I?" asked Nicholas.

"He can go, pa, can't he?" repeated Sarah Jane, looking up with her
mouth wide open and full of corn bread.

Burr shook his head and looked at his wife.

"I don't see as I can get any help," he said. "You're as good as a hand,
and I can't spare you." Then he concluded with a touch of irritation, "I
don't see as you want any more schoolin'. You can read and write now a
heap better'n I can."

Nicholas choked over his bread and his lips trembled.

"I--I don't want to be like you, pa!" he cried breathlessly, and the
unshed tears stung his eyelids. "I want to be different!"

Burr looked up stolidly. "I don't see as you want any more schoolin',"
he repeated stubbornly, but his wife came sharply to the boy's
assistance.

"I wish you'd stop pesterin' the child, Amos," she said, inspired less
by the softness of amiability than by the genius of opposition. "I don't
see how you can be everlastingly doin' it--my dead sister's child, too."

Nicholas swallowed his tears with his coffee and turned to his father.
"I can get up 'fore day and do a piece of the land, and I can help you
'bout the sowin' when I get back in the evening. I'll be back by
twelve--"

"Oh, I reckon you can go if you're so set on it," said Amos gruffly. He
rose and left the room, stopping in the hall to get a bucket of
buttermilk for the hogs. Nicholas went over to the window and joined
Sarah Jane, who was shelling the peanuts, carefully separating the outer
hulls from the inner pink skins, which were left intact for sowing.
Marthy Burr, who was clearing off the table, let fall a china dish and
began scolding the younger children.

"I declare, if you don't all but drive me daft!" she said, flinching
from a twinge of neuralgia and raising her voice querulously. "Why can't
you take yourselves off and give me some rest? Nannie, you and Jake go
out to the old oak and see if all the turkeys air up. Be sure and count
'em--and take Jubal (the youngest) 'long with you. If you see your pa
tell him I say to look at the brindle cow. She acted mighty queer at
milkin', and I reckon she'd better have a little bran mash--Sairy Jane,"
turning suddenly upon her eldest daughter, "if you eat another one of
them peanuts I'll box your jaws--"

Nicholas finished the peanuts and went upstairs to his little attic
room. He was not sleepy, and, after throwing himself upon his corn-shuck
mattress, he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, thinking of the
morrow and listening to the groans of his stepmother as she tossed with
neuralgia.




IV


In the first glimmer of dawn Nicholas dressed himself and stole softly
down from the attic, the frail stairway creaking beneath his tread. As
he was unfastening the kitchen door, which led out upon a rough plank
platform called the "back porch," Marthy Burr stuck her head in from the
adjoining room where she slept, and called his name in a high-pitched,
querulous voice.

"Is that you, Nick?" she asked. "I declar, I'd jest dropped off to sleep
when you woke me comin' down stairs. I never could abide tip-toein',
nohow. I don't see how 'tis that I can't get no rest 'thout bein' roused
up, when your pa can turn right over and sleep through thunder. Whar you
goin' now?"

Nicholas stopped and held a whispered colloquy with her from the back
porch. "I'm goin' to drag the land some 'fore pa gets up," he answered.
"Then I'm goin' in to town. You know he said I might."

His stepmother shook her bandaged head peevishly and stood holding the
collar of her unbleached cotton gown.

"Oh, I reckon so," she responded. "I was think-in' 'bout goin' in myself
and hevin' my tooth out, but I s'pose I can wait on you. The Lord knows
I'm used to waitin'."

Nicholas looked at her in perplexity, his arm resting on the little
shelf outside, which supported the wooden water bucket and the
long-handled gourd.

"You can go when I come back," he said at last, adding with an effort,
"or, if it's so bad, I can stay at home."

But, having asserted her supremacy over his inclinations, Marthy Burr
relented. "Oh, I don't know as I'll go in to-day," she returned. "I
ain't got enough teeth left now to chew on, an' I don't believe it's the
teeth, nohow. It's the gums--"

She retreated into the room, whence the shrill voice of Sairy Jane
inquired:

"Air you up, ma? Why, 'tain't day!"

Nicholas closed the door and went out upon the porch. The yard looked
deserted and desolated, giving him a sudden realisation of his own
littleness and the immensity of the hour. It was as if the wheels of
time had stopped in the dim promise of things unfulfilled. A broken
scythe lay to one side amid the straggling ailanthus shoots; near the
wood-pile there was a wheelbarrow half filled with chips, and at a
little distance the axe was poised upon a rotten log. From the small
coops beside the hen-house came an anxious clucking as the fluffy yellow
chickens strayed beneath the uneven edges of their pointed prisons and
made independent excursions into the world.

In the far east the day was slowly breaking, and the open country was
flooded with pale, washed-out grays, like the background of an
impressionist painting. A heavy dew had risen in the night, and as the
boy passed through the dripping weeds on his way to the stable they left
a chill moisture upon his bare feet. His eyes were heavy with sleep,
and to his cloudy gaze the familiar objects of the barnyard assumed
grotesque and distorted shapes. The manure heap near the doorway
presented an effect of unreality, the pig-pen seemed to have suffered
witchery since the evening before, and the haystack, looming vaguely in
the drab distance, appeared to be woven of some phantasmal fabric.

He led out the old sorrel mare and followed her into the large ploughed
field beyond the cow-pen, where the harrow was lying on one side of the
brown ridges. As he passed the pen the startled sheep huddled into a far
corner, bleating plaintively, and the brindle cow looked after him with
soft, persuasive eyes. When he had attached the clanking chains of the
plough harness to the single-tree, he caught up the ropes which served
for reins and set out laboriously over the crumbling earth, which
yielded beneath his feet and made walking difficult.

The field extended from the cow-pen and the bright, green rows of
vegetables that were raised for market to the reedy brook which divided
his father's land from that belonging to General Battle. The brook was
always cool and shady, and silvery with minnows darting over the shining
pebbles beneath the clear water. As Nicholas looked across the neutral
furrows he could see the feathery branches of willows rising from the
gray mist, and, farther still up the sloping hillside, the dew-drenched
green of the mixed woodlands.

The land before him had been upturned by shallow ploughing some days
since, and it lay now pale and arid, the large clods of earth showing
the detached roots of grass and herbs, and presenting a hint of
menacing destruction rather than the prospect of the peaceful art of
cultivation. It was the boy's duty to drag the soil free from grass,
after which it would be laid out into rows some three feet apart. When
this was done two furrows would be thrown together to give what the
farmers called a "rise," the point of which would be finally levelled,
when the ground would be ready for the peanut-sowing, which was
performed entirely by hand.

The boy worked industriously through the deepening dawn, giving an
occasional "gee up, Rhody!" to the mare, and following the track of the
harrow with much the same concentration of purpose as that displayed by
his four-footed friend. He was strong for his years, lithe as a sapling,
and as fearless of elemental changes, and as he walked meditatively
across the bare field he might have suggested to an onlooker the
possible production of a vast fund of energy.

Presently the gray light was shot with gold and a streak of orange
fluttered like a ribbon in the east. In a moment a violet cloud floated
above the distant hill, and as its ends curled up from the quickening
heat it showed the splendour of a crimson lining. A single ray of
sunshine, pale as a spectral finger, pointed past the woodlands to the
brook beneath the willows, and the vague blur of the mixed forest warmed
into vivid tints, changing through variations from the clear emerald of
young maples to the olive dusk of evergreens.

Last of all the ploughed field, which had preserved a neutral cast,
blushed faintly in the sunrise, glowing to pale purple tones where the
sod was newly turned. From the fugitive richness of the soil a warm
breath rose suddenly, filling the air with the genial odour of earth and
sunshine. The shining, dark coils of worms were visible like threads in
the bright brown clods.

Nicholas raised his head and stared with unseeing eyes at the gorgeous
east. A rooster crowed shrilly, and he turned in the direction of the
barnyard. Then he flicked the ropes gently and went on, his gaze on the
ground. His thoughts, which at first were fixed solely upon the teeth of
the harrow, took tumultuous flight, and he reviewed for the hundredth
time his conversation with the judge and the vast avenue of the future
which was opening before him. He would not be like his father, of this
he was convinced--his father, who was always working with nothing to
show for it--whose planting was never on time, and whose implements were
never in place. His father had never had this gnawing desire to know
things, this passionate hatred of the work which he might not neglect.
His father had never tried to beat against the barriers of his ignorance
and been driven back, and beat again and wept, and read what he couldn't
understand. The teacher at the public school had told him that he was
far ahead of his years, and yet they had taken him away when he was
doing his level best, and put him to dragging the land, and gathering
the peanuts, and carrying the truck to market, and marking the sheep
with red paint, and bringing up the cows, and doing all the odd,
innumerable jobs they could devise. He let the ropes fall for an instant
and dug his fist into his eye; then he took them up again and went on
stolidly. At last the sun came out boldly above the hill, and the
hollows were flooded with light. In the centre of the field the boy's
head glowed like some large red insect. A hawk, winging slowly above
him, looked down as if uncertain of his species, and fluttered off
indifferently.

At six o'clock his stepmother came to the back door and called him to
breakfast.

When the meal was over Amos Burr went out to the field, and Nicholas was
sent to drive the sheep to the pasture. With vigorous wavings of a piece
of brushwood, and many darts from right to left, he succeeded finally in
driving them across the road and through the gate on the opposite side,
after which he returned to assist his stepmother about the house. Not
until nine o'clock, when he had seen the Battle children going up the
road, was he free to set off at a run for Kingsborough.

As he sped breathlessly along, past the wastelands, into the woods, down
the road to the hillside, and down the hillside to the road again, he
went too rapidly for thought. The fresh air brushed his heated face
gently, and, at the edge of the wood, where the shallow puddles
lingered, myriads of blue and yellow butterflies scattered into
variegated clumps of colour at his approach, darting from the moist
heaps of last year's leaves to the shining rivulets in the wheel ruts by
the way. A partridge whistled from the yellowing green of the wheat, and
a rabbit stole noiselessly from the sassafras in the ditch and shot shy
glances of alarm; but he did not turn his head, and his hand held no
ready stone.

Though he had run half the way, when at last he reached the judge's
house, and stood before the little office in the garden where the school
was held, his courage misgave him, and he leaned, trembling, against the
arbour where a grapevine grew. The sound of voices floated out to him,
mingled with bright, girlish laughter, and, looking through the open
window, he saw the light curls of a little girl against the darker head
of a boy. He choked suddenly with shyness, and would have hesitated
there until the morning was over had not the judge's old servant, Cęsar,
espied him from the dining-room window.

"Look yer, boy, what you doin' dar?" he demanded suspiciously, and then
called to some one inside the house. "Marse George, dat ar Burr boy is
a-loungin' roun' yo' yawd."

The judge did not respond, but the tutor came to the door of the office
and intercepted the boy's retreat. He was a pale, long-faced young man
in spectacles, with weak, blue eyes and a short, thin moustache. His
name was Graves, and he regarded what he called the judge's "quixotism"
with condescending good-nature.

"Is that you, Nicholas Burr?" he asked in a slightly supercilious voice.
"The judge has told me about you. So you won't be a farmer, eh? And you
won't stay in your class? Well, come in and we'll see what we can make
of you."

Nicholas followed him into the room and sat down at one of the pine
desks, while the judge's son, Tom, nodded to him from across the room,
and Bernard Battle grinned over his shoulder at his sister Eugenia, and
a handsome boy, called Dudley Webb, made a face which convulsed little
Sally Burwell, who hid her merriment in her curls. There were several
other children in the room, but Nicholas did not see them distinctly.
Something had got before his eyes and there was a lump in his throat. He
sat rigidly in his seat, his straw hat, with the shoestring around the
crown, lying upon the desk before him. He looked neither to the right
nor to the left, keeping his frightened gaze upon the tutor's face.

Mr. Graves asked him a few questions, which he could not answer, and
then, giving him a book, turned to the other children. As the lessons
went on it seemed to Nicholas that he had never known anything in his
life; that he should never know anything; and that he should always
remain the most ignorant person on earth--unless that lot fell to Sairy
Jane.

The difficulties besetting the path of knowledge appeared to be
insurmountable. Even if he had the books and the time he could never
learn anything--his head would prevent it.

"Bound Beloochistan, Tom," said the tutor, and Tom, a stout, fair-haired
boy with a heavy face, went through the process to the satisfaction of
Mr. Graves and to the amazement of Nicholas.

The office was a plain, square room, containing, besides the desks and
tables, an old secretary and a corner cupboard of an antique pattern,
which held an odd assortment of cracked china and chemist bottles. There
was also a square mahogany chest, called the wine-cellar, which had been
sent from the dining-room when the last bottle of Tokay was opened to
drink the health of the Confederacy.

Before the war the place had been used by the judge as a general
business room, but when the slaves were freed and there were fewer
servants it was found to be little needed, and was finally given over
entirely to the children's school.

When recess came the tutor left the office, telling Nicholas that he
might go home with the little girls if he liked. "I shall try to have
the books you need by to-morrow," he said, and, his natural amiability
overcoming his assumed superciliousness, he added pleasantly:

"I shouldn't mind being backward at first. The boys are older than you,
but you'll soon catch up."

He went out, and Nicholas had started towards the door, when Tom Bassett
flung himself before him, swinging skilfully over an intervening table.

"Hold up, carrot-head," he said. "Let's have a look at you. Are all
heads afire where you come from?"

"He's Amos Burr's boy," explained Bernard Battle with a grin. "He lives
'long our road. I saw him hoeing potatoes day before yesterday. He's got
freckles enough to tan a sheepskin!"

In the midst of the laugh which followed Nicholas stood awkwardly,
shifting his bare feet. His face was scarlet, and he fingered in
desperation the ragged brim of his hat.

"I reckon they're my freckles," he said doggedly.

"And I reckon you can keep 'em," retorted Bernard, mimicking his tone.
"We ain't going to steal 'em. I say, Eugie, here're some freckles for
sale!"

The dark little girl, who was putting up her books in one corner,
looked up and shook her head.

"Let me alone!" she replied shortly, and returned to her work, tugging
at the straps with both hands. Dudley Webb--a handsome, upright boy,
well dressed in a dark suit and linen shirt--lounged over as he munched
a sandwich.

He looked at Nicholas from head to foot, and his gaze was returned with
stolid defiance. Nicholas did not flinch, but for the first time he felt
ashamed of his ugliness, of his coarse clothes, of his briar-scratched
legs, of his freckles, and of the unalterable colour of his hair. He
wished with all his heart that he were safely in the field with his
father, driving the one-horse harrow across upturned furrows. He didn't
want to learn anything any more. He wanted only to get away.

"He's common," said Dudley at last, throwing a crust of bread through
the open window. "He's as common as--as dirt. I heard mother say so--"

"Father says he's _un_common," returned Tom doubtfully, turning his
honest eyes on Nicholas again. "He told Mr. Graves that he was a most
uncommon boy."

"Oh, well, you can play with him if you like," rejoined Dudley
resolutely, "but I shan't. He's old Amos Burr's son, anyway, who never
wore a whole shirt in his life."

"He had on one yesterday," said Bernard Battle impartially. "I saw it.
It was just made and hadn't been washed."

Nicholas looked up stubbornly. "You let my father alone!" he exclaimed,
spurred by the desire to resent something and finding it easier to
fight for another than himself. "You let my father alone, or I'll make
you!"

"I'd like to see you!" retorted Dudley wrathfully, and Nicholas had
squared up for the first blow, when before his swimming gaze a defender
intervened.

"You jest let him alone!" cried a voice, and the flutter of a blue
cotton skirt divided Dudley from his adversary. "You jest let him alone.
If you call him common I'll hit you, an'--an' you can't hit me back!"

"Eugie, you ought to be--" began Bernard, but she pushed the combatants
aside with decisive thrusts of her sunburned little hand, and planted
herself upon the threshold, her large, black eyes glowing like shaded
lamps.

"He wan't doin' nothin' to you, and you jest let him be. He's goin' to
tote my books home, an' you shan't touch him. I reckon I know what's
common as well as you do--an' he ain't--he ain't common."

Then she caught Nicholas's arm and marched off like a dispensing
providence with a vassal in tow. Nicholas followed obediently. He was
sufficiently cowed into non-resistance, and he felt a wholesome awe of
his defender, albeit he wished that it had been a boy like himself
instead of a slip of a girl with short skirts and a sunbonnet. At the
bottom of his heart there existed an instinctive contempt of the sex
which Eugenia represented, developed by the fact that it was not force
but weakness that had vanquished his victorious opponent. Dudley Webb
was a gentleman, and only a bully would strike a girl, even if she were
a spitfire--the term by which he characterised Eugenia. He remembered
suddenly her exultant, "an' you can't hit me back!" and it seemed to him
that, even in the righteous cause of his deliverance, she had taken an
unfair and feminine advantage of the handsome boy for whom he cherished
a shrinking admiration.

As for Eugenia herself, she was troubled by no such misgivings. She
walked slightly in front of him, her blue skirt swinging briskly from
side to side, her white sunbonnet hanging by its strings from her
shoulders. Above the starched ruffles rose her small dark head and white
profile, and Nicholas could see the determined curve of her chin and the
humorous tremor of her nostril. It was a vivid little face, devoid of
colour except for the warm mouth, and sparkling with animation which
burned steadily at the white heat of intensity--but to Nicholas she was
only a plain, dark, little girl, with an unhealthy pallor of complexion.
He was grateful, nevertheless, and when his first regret that she was
not a boy was over he experienced a thrill of affection. It was the
first time that any one had deliberately taken his part in the face of
opposing odds, and the stand seemed to bring him closer to his
companion. He held her books tightly, and his face softened as he looked
at her, until it was transfigured by the warmth of his emotion. Then, as
they passed the college grounds, where a knot of students greeted
Eugenia hilariously, and turned upon the Old Stage Road, he reached out
timidly to take the small hand hanging by her side.

"It's better walkin' on this side the road," he said with a mild
assumption of masculine supremacy. "I wouldn't walk in the dust."

Eugenia looked at him gravely and drew her hand away.

"You mustn't do that," she responded severely. "When I said you weren't
common I didn't mean that you really weren't, you know; because, of
course, you are. I jest meant that I wouldn't let them say so."

Nicholas stood in the centre of the road and stared at her, his face
flushing and a slow rage creeping into his eyes.

For a moment he stood in trembling silence. Then he threw the books from
him into the sand at her feet, and with a choking sob sped past her to
vanish amid a whirl of dust in the sunny distance.

Eugenia looked thoughtfully down upon her scattered possessions. She was
all alone upon the highway, and around her the open fields rolled off
into the green of far-off forests. The sunshine fell hotly over her, and
straight ahead the white road lay like a living thing.

She stooped, gravely gathered up the books, and walked resolutely on her
way, a cloud of yellow butterflies fluttering like loosened petals of
full-blown buttercups about her head.




V


Battie Hall was a square white frame house with bright-green window
shutters and a deep front porch, supported by heavy pillars, and reached
from the gravelled walk below by a flight of rugged stone steps. In the
rear of the house, through which a wide hall ran, dividing the rooms of
the first floor, there was another porch similar to the one at the
front, except that the pillars were hidden in musk roses and the long
benches at either side were of plain, unpainted pine. At the foot of the
back steps a narrow, well-trodden path led to the vegetable garden,
which was separated from the yard by what was called "Cattle Lane"--a
name derived from the morning and evening passage of the cows on their
way to and from the pasture.

Beginning at the gate into the garden, where the tall white palings were
gay with hollyhocks and heavy-headed sunflowers, a grapevine trellis
extended to the farmyard at the end of the lane, whence an overgrown
walk led across tangled meadows to the negro "quarters"--a long,
whitewashed row of almost deserted cabins. Since the close of the war
the "quarters" had fallen partly into disuse and had decayed rapidly,
though some few were still tenanted by the former slaves, who gathered
as of old in the doorways of an evening to strum upon broken-stringed
banjos and to wrap the hair of their small offspring. Beyond this row
there was a slight elevation called "Hickory Hill," where Uncle Ishmael
had lived for more than seventy years; and at the foot of the hill, on
the other side, near "Sweet Gum Spring," there were several neatly
patched log cabins occupied by the house servants, who held in social
contempt the field hands in the neighbouring "quarters." Overlooking the
"Sweet Gum Spring," on a loftier hill, was the family graveyard, which
was walled off from the orchard near by, where the twisted old fruit
trees had long since yielded the larger part of their abundance.

At the front of the Hall the view was vastly different. There the great
blue-grass lawn was thickly studded with ancient elms and maples, whose
shade fell like a blanket upon the velvety sod beneath. The gravelled
walk, beginning at the front steps, was bordered on either side by rows
of closely clipped box, which ended in the long avenue of cedars leading
from the lawn to the distant turnpike. To the right of the house there
were three pointed aspens, which shivered like skeletons in silver,
holding grimly aloof from the vivid pink of the crźpe myrtle at their
feet. Beyond them was the well-house, with a long moss-grown trough
where the horses and the cows came to drink, and across the road began
the cornlands, which stretched in rhythmic undulations to the dark belt
of the pine forest. On the left of the box walk, in a direct line from
the three aspens, towered a huge sycamore, and from one of its
protecting arms, shaded by large fan-like leaves, a child's swing
dangled by a thick hemp rope. Near the sycamore, where an old oak had
fallen, the rotting stump was hidden by a high "rockery," edged with
conch shells, and over the rough gray rocks a tangle of garden flowers
ran wild--sweet-william, petunias, phlox, and the mossy stems of red and
yellow portulaca. On the western side of the house there was a spreading
mimosa tree, its sensitive branches brushing the green shutters of a
window in the second story.

The Hall had been built by the general's father when, because of family
dissensions, he had decided to move from a central county to the more
thinly settled country surrounding Kingsborough. There the general had
passed his boyhood, and there he had left his wife when he had gone to
the war. At the beginning of the struggle he had freed his slaves and
buckled on his sword.

"They may have the negroes, and welcome," he had said to the judge. "Do
you think I'd fight for a damned darkey? It's the principle, sir--the
principle!"

And the judge, who had not freed his servants, but who would as soon
have thought of using a profane word as of alluding in disrespectful
terms to a family portrait, had replied gravely:

"My dear Tom, you will find principle much better to fight for than to
live on."

But the general had gone with much valour and more vehemence. He had
enlisted as a private, had risen within a couple of years to a
colonelcy, and had been raised to the rank of general by the unanimous
voice of his neighbours upon his return home. After an enthusiastic
reception at Kingsborough he had mounted a heavy-weight horse and ridden
out to the Hall, to find the grounds a tangle of weeds and his wife
with the pallor of death upon her brow. She had rallied at his coming,
had lingered some sad years an invalid in the great room next the
parlour, and had died quietly at last as she knelt in prayer beside her
high white bed.

For days after this the empty house was like a coffin. The children ran
in tears through the shuttered rooms, and the servants lost their
lingering shred of discipline. When the funeral was over, the general
made some spasmodic show of authority, but his heart was not in it, and
he wavered for lack of the sustaining hold of his wife's frail hand. He
dismissed the overseer and undertook to some extent the management of
the farm, but the crops failed and the hay rotted in the fields before
it was got into the barn. Then, as things were galloping from bad to
worse, a letter came from his sister, Miss Christina, and in a few days
she arrived with a cartload of luggage and a Maltese cat in a wicker
basket. From the moment when she stepped out of the carriage at the end
of the avenue and ascended the box-trimmed walk to the stone steps, the
difficulties disentangled and the domestic problems dwindled into the
simplest of arithmetical sums. By some subtle law of the influence of
the energetic she assumed at once the rights of authority. From the
master of the house to the field hands in the "quarters," all bent to
her regenerating rule. She opened the windows in the airy rooms, cleaned
off the storeroom shelves with soda and water, and put the marauding
small negroes to weeding the lawn. Before her passionate purification
the place was purged of the dust of years. The hardwood floors of the
wide old halls began to shine like mirrors, the assortment of odds and
ends in the attic was relegated to an outhouse, and even the general's
aunt, Miss Griselda Grigsby, was turned unceremoniously out of her
apartment before the all-pervading soap-suds of cleaning day.

As for the servants, a sudden miraculous zeal possessed them. Within a
fortnight the garden rows were hoed free from grass, the hops were
gathered from the fence, and the weeds on the lawn vanished beneath
small black fingers. Even the annual threshing of the harvest was
accomplished under the overseeing eye of "Miss Chris," as she was called
by the coloured population. During the week that the old machine poured
out its chaffless wheat and the driver whistled in the centre of the
treadmill Miss Chris appeared at the barn at noon each day to warn the
hands against waste of time and to see that the mules were well watered.

But the revolutions without were as naught to the internal ones. Aunt
Verbeny, the cook, whose tyranny had extended over thirty years, was
assisted from her pedestal, and the hen-house keys were removed from the
nail of the kitchen wall.

"This will never do, Verbeny," said Miss Chris a month after her
arrival. "We could not possibly have eaten three dozen chickens within
the last week. I am afraid you take them home without asking me."

Aunt Verbeny, a fat old woman with a shining black skin, smoothed her
checked apron with offended dignity.

"Hi! Miss Chris, ain't I de cook?" she exclaimed.

But Miss Chris preserved her ground.

"That is no excuse for you taking what doesn't belong to you," she
replied severely. "If this keeps up I shall be obliged to let Delphy do
the cooking. There won't be a chicken in the hen-house by the end of the
month."

Aunt Verbeny still smoothed her apron, but her authority was shaken, and
she felt it. She gave a slow grunt of dissatisfaction.

"Dese ain't de doin's I'se used ter," she protested, and then, beneath
the undaunted eyes of Miss Chris, she melted into propitiation.

"Des' let dat ar chicken alont, Miss Chris," she said, skilfully
reducing the charge to a single offence. "Des' let dat ar chicken alont.
'Tain' no use yo' rilin' yo'se'f 'bout dat. Hit's done en it's been
done. Hit don't becomst de quality ter fluster demse'ves over de gwines
on uv er low-lifeted fowl. You des' bresh yo'se'f down an steddy like
hit ain' been fool you ef you knowed yo'se'f. You des' let dat ar
chicken be er little act uv erdultery betweenst you en me. Ef'n it's
gone, hit'll stay gone!"

Whereupon Miss Chris retreated, leaving her opponent in possession of
the kitchen floor.

But from this day forth the hen-house was locked at night and unlocked
in the morning by the hand of Miss Chris, and Aunt Verbeny's overweening
ill-temper diminished with her authority.

Miss Chris had been a beauty in her day, but as she passed middle age
the family failing seized upon her, and she grew huge and unwieldy, the
disproportion of her enormous figure to her small feet giving her an
awkward, waddling walk.

She had a profusion of silvery-white hair, worn in fluffy curls about
her large pink face, soft brown eyes, and a full double chin that fell
over a round cameo brooch bearing the head of Minerva set in a plain
gold band. In winter she wore gowns of black Henrietta cloth, made with
plain bodices and full plaited skirts; in summer she wore the same
skirts with loosely fitting white linen sacques, trimmed in delicate
embroideries, with muslin ruffles falling over her plump hands. When she
came to the Hall she brought with her innumerable reminiscences of her
childhood, which she told in a musical voice with girlish laughter.

After his sister's arrival the general discontinued his fitful
overseering. He rose early and spent his long days sitting upon the
front porch, smoking an old briar pipe and reading the Richmond papers.
Occasionally he would ride at a jogging pace round the fields, giving
casual directions to the workers, but as his weight increased he found
it difficult to mount into the saddle, and, at last, desisted from the
attempt. He preferred to sit in peace in his cane rocking chair, looking
down the box walk into the twilight of the cedar avenue, or gazing
placidly beyond the aspens and the well-house to the streaked ribbons of
the ripening corn. It was said that he had never been the same man since
the death of his wife. Certainly he laughed as heartily and his jovial
face had taken a ruddier tint, but there was a superficiality in his
exuberant cheerfulness which told that it was not well rooted below the
surface. His jokes were as ready as ever, but he had fallen into an
absent-minded habit of repetition, and sometimes repeated the same
stories at breakfast and supper. He talked freely of his dead wife, he
even made ill-placed jests about his widowerhood, and he never failed to
kiss a pair of red lips when the chance offered; but, for all that, his
gaze often wandered past the huge sycamore to the family graveyard,
where rank periwinkle grew and mocking-birds nested. Through the long
summer not a Sunday passed that he did not take fresh flowers to one of
the neatly trimmed mounds where the marble headpiece read:

         "AMELIA TUCKER,

          BELOVED WIFE OF

          THOMAS BATTLE,

         DIED APRIL 3RD., 18--.

'_I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith
              the Lord._'"

Sometimes the children were with him, but usually he went alone, and
once or twice he returned with red eyelids and asked for a julep.

There was little to fill his life now, and he divided it between Bernard
and Eugenia, whom he adored, and the negroes, whom he reviled for
diversion and spoiled to make amends.

"They will break me!" he would declare a dozen times a day. "They will
turn me out of house and home. Here's old Sambo's Claudius come back and
moved into the quarters. He hasn't a cent to his name, and he's the most
no 'count scamp on earth. It's worse than before the war--upon my soul
it is! Then they lived on me and I got an odd piece of work out of
them. Now they live on me and don't do a damned lick!"

"My dear Tom!" Miss Chris cheerfully remonstrated. She had long been
reconciled to her brother's swearing propensities, which she regarded as
an amiable eccentricity to be overlooked by a special indulgence
accorded the male sex, but she never knew just how to meet him in a
discussion of the servants.

"What is to be done about it?" she inquired gravely. "Claudius left here
at the beginning of the war, Aunt Griselda says, and he has never been
back until now. It seems he has brought his family. He has
lung-trouble."

"Done about it!" repeated the general heatedly. "What's to be done about
it? Why, the rascal can't starve. I've just told Sampson to wheel him
down a barrel of meal. Oh, they'll break me! I shan't have a morsel
left!"

The next time it was an opposite grievance.

"What do you reckon's happened now?" he asked, marching into the brick
storeroom, where his sister was slicing ripe, red tomatoes into a blue
china bowl. "What do you think that fool Ish has done?"

Miss Chris looked up attentively, her large, fresh-coloured face
expressing mild apprehension. She had rolled back her linen sleeves, and
the juice of the tomatoes stained her full, dimpled wrists.

"He hasn't killed himself?" she inquired anxiously.

"Killed himself?" roared the general. "He'll live forever. I don't
believe he'd die if he were strung up with a halter round his neck.
He's moved off."

"Moved off!" echoed Miss Chris faintly. "Why, I believe Uncle Ish was
living in that cabin on Hickory Hill before I was born. I remember going
up there to help him gather hickory nuts when I wasn't six years old. I
couldn't have been six because mammy Betsey was with me, and she died
before I was seven. I declare there were always more nuts on those trees
than any I ever saw--"

But the general broke in upon her reminiscences, and she took up a fresh
tomato and peeled it carefully with a sharp-edged knife.

"Some idiots got after him," said the general, "and told him if he went
on living on my land he'd go back to slavery, and, bless your life, he
has gone--gone to that little one-room shanty where his daughter used to
live, between my place and Burr's--as if I'd have him," he concluded
wrathfully. "I wouldn't own that fool again if he dropped into my lap
straight from heaven!"

Miss Chris laughed merrily.

"It is the last place he would be likely to drop from," she returned;
"but I'll call him up and talk with him. It is a pity for him to be
moving off at his age."

So Uncle Ishmael was summoned up to the porch, and Miss Chris explained
the error of his ways, but to no purpose.

"I ain' got no fault ter fine," he repeated over and over again,
scratching his grizzled head. "I ain' got no fault ter fine wid you.
You've been used me moughty well, en I'se pow'ful 'bleeged ter you--en
Marse Tom, he's a gent'mun ef ever I seed one. I ain' go no fault ter
fine."

The general lost his temper and started up.

"Then what do you mean by turning fool at your age?" he demanded
angrily. "Haven't I given you a roof over your head all these years?"

"Dat's so, suh."

"And food to eat?"

"Dat's so."

"And never asked you to do a lick of work since you got the rheumatism?"

"Dat's es true es de Gospel."

"Then what do you mean by going off like mad to that little, broken-down
shanty with half the roof gone?"

Uncle Ishmael shuffled his heavy feet and scratched his head again.

"Hit's de trufe, Marse Tom," he said at last. "Hit's de Gospel trufe. I
ain' had so much ter eat sence I'se gone off, en I ain' had much uv er
roof ter kiver me, en I ain' had nuttin' ter w'ar ter speak on--but, fo'
de Lawd, Marse Tom, freedom it are er moughty good thing."

Then the general flew into the house in a rage and Uncle Ishmael left,
followed by two small negroes, bearing on their heads the donations made
by Miss Chris to his welfare.

On the day that Eugenia encountered Nicholas at school the general was
sitting, as usual, in his rocking chair upon the front porch, when he
saw the flutter of a blue skirt, and Eugenia emerged from the avenue and
came up the walk between the stiff rows of box. It was two o'clock, and
the general was peacefully awaiting the sound of the dinner bell, but
at the sight of Eugenia his peacefulness departed, and he called
angrily:

"Eugie, where's Bernard?"

"Comin'."

"Coming!" returned the general indignantly. "Haven't I told you a dozen
times not to walk along that road by yourself? Why didn't you wait for
the carriage? Are you never going to mind what I say to you?"

Eugenia came up the steps and threw her books on one of the long green
benches. Then she seated herself in a rocking chair and untied her
sunbonnet.

"I wa'n't by myself," she said. "A boy was with me."

"A boy? Where is he?"

"He ran away."

The general's great head went back, and he shook with laughter. "Bless
my soul! What did he mean by that? What boy was it, daughter?"

Eugenia sat upright in the high rocker, fanning her heated face with her
sunbonnet.

"The Burr boy," she answered.

The general gasped for breath, and turned towards the hall.

"Come out here, Chris!" he called. "Here's Eugie been walking home with
the Burr boy!"

In a moment Miss Chris's large figure appeared in the doorway, and she
handed a brimming mint julep to the general.

"I don't know what Eugie can be made of," she remarked. "Amos Burr was
overseer for the Carringtons before he got that place of his own, and I
remember just as well as if it were yesterday old Mr. Phil Carrington
telling me once, when I was on a visit there, that the more his man Burr
worked the less he accomplished. But, as for Eugenia, that isn't the
worst about her. Just the other morning, when I was looking out of the
storeroom window, I saw her with her arm round the neck of Aunt
Verbeny's little Suke. I declare I was so upset I let the quart pot fall
into the potato bin!"

"But there isn't anybody else, Aunt Chris," protested Eugenia, looking
up from her father's julep, which she was tasting. "And I'm 'bliged to
have a bosom friend."

The general shook until his face was purple and the ice jingled in the
glass.

"Bosom friend, you puss!" he roared. "Why can't you choose a bosom
friend of your own colour? What do you want with a bosom friend as black
as the ace of spades?"

"O papa, she ain't black; she's jes' yellow-brown."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Eugie," said Miss Chris severely.
"Now go upstairs and wash your face and hands before dinner. It is
almost ready. I wonder where Bernard is!"

"Can't I wait twell the bell rings?" Eugenia asked; but Miss Chris shook
her head decisively.

"Eugenia, will you never stop talking like a darkey?" she demanded. "How
often must I tell you that there's no such word as 'twell'? Now, go
right straight upstairs."

Eugenia rose obediently and went into the hall. She had learned from her
father and the servants not to dispute the authority of Miss Chris,
though she yielded to it with a mild surprise at her own docility.

"She don't really manage me," she had once confided to Delphy, the
washerwoman, "but I jes' plays that she does."




VI


When Eugenia came downstairs she found the family seated at dinner, Miss
Chris and her father beaming upon each other across a dish of fried
chicken and a home-cured ham. Bernard was on Miss Chris's right hand,
and on the other side of the table Eugenia's seat separated the general
from Aunt Griselda, who sat severely buttering her toast before a brown
earthenware teapot ornamented by a raised design of Rebecca at the well.
Aunt Griselda was a lean, dried-up old lady, with a sharp, curved nose
like the beak of a bird, and smoothly parted hair brushed low over her
ears and held in place by a tortoise-shell comb. There were deep
channels about her eyes, worn by the constant falling of acrid tears,
and her cheeks were wrinkled and yellowed like old parchment.

Twenty years ago, when the general had first brought home his young
wife, before her buoyancy had faltered, and before the five little
head-boards to the five stillborn children had been set up amid the
periwinkle in the family graveyard, Aunt Griselda had written from the
home of her sister to say that she would stop over at Battle Hall on her
way to Richmond.

The general had received the news joyfully, and the best chamber had
been made ready by the hospitable hands of his young wife. Delicate,
lavender-scented linen had been put on the old tester-bed and curtains
of flowered chintz tied back from the window seats. Amelia Battle had
placed a bowl of tea-roses upon the dressing table and gone graciously
down to the avenue to welcome her guest. From the family carriage Aunt
Griselda had emerged soured and eccentric. She had gone up to the best
chamber, unpacked her trunks, hung up her bombazine skirts in the
closet, ordered green tea and toast, and settled herself for the
remainder of her days. That was twenty years ago, and she still slept in
the best chamber, and still ordered tea and toast at the table. She had
grown sourer with years and more eccentric with authority, but the
general never failed to treat her crotchets with courtesy or to open the
door for her when she came and went. To the mild complaints of Miss
Chris and the protestations of Eugenia he returned the invariable
warning: "She is our guest--remember what is due to a guest, my dears."

And when Miss Chris placidly suggested that the privileges of guestship
wore threadbare when they were stretched over twenty years, and Eugenia
fervently hoped that there were no visitors in heaven, the general
responded to each in turn:

"It is the right of a guest to determine the length of his stay, and, as
a Virginian, my house is open as long as it has a roof over it."

So Aunt Griselda drank her green tea in acrid silence, turning at
intervals to reprove Bernard for taking too large mouthfuls or to
request Eugenia to remove her elbows from the table.

To-day, when Eugenia descended, she was gazing stonily into Miss
Chris's genial face, and listening constrainedly to a story at which the
general was laughing heartily.

"Yes, I never look at these forks of the bead pattern that I don't see
Aunt Callowell," Miss Chris was concluding. "She never used any other
pattern, and I remember when Cousin Bob Baker once sent her a set of
teaspoons with a different border, she returned them to Richmond to be
exchanged. Do you remember the time she came to mother's when we were
children, Tom? Eugie, will you have breast or leg?"

"I don't think I could have been at home," said the general, his face
growing animated, as it always did, in a discussion of old times; "but I
do remember once, when I was at Uncle Robert's, they sent me eighteen
miles on horseback for the doctor, because Aunt Callowell had such a
queer feeling in her side when she started to walk. I can see her now
holding her side and saying: 'I can't possibly take a step! Robert, I
can't take a step!' And when I brought the doctor eighteen miles from
home, on his old gray mare, he found that she'd put a shoe on one foot
and a slipper on the other."

The general threw back his head and laughed until the table groaned,
while Miss Chris's double chin shook softly over her cameo brooch.

Aunt Griselda wiped her eyes on the border of her handkerchief.

"Aunt Cornelia Callowell was a righteous woman," she murmured. "I never
thought that I should hear her ridiculed in the house of her
great-nephew. She scalloped me a flannel petticoat with her own hands.
Eugenia, in my day little girls didn't reach for the butter. They waited
until it was handed to them."

Congo, the butler, rushed to Eugenia's assistance, and the general shook
his finger at her and formed the word "guest" with his mouth. Miss Chris
changed the subject by begging Aunt Griselda to have a wing of chicken.

"I don't believe in so much dieting," she said cheerfully. "I think your
nerves would be better if you ate more. Just try a brown wing."

"I know my nerves are bad," Aunt Griselda rejoined, still wiping her
eyes, "though it is hard to be accused of a temper before my own nephew.
But I know I am a burden, and I have overstayed my welcome. Let me go."

"Why, Aunt Griselda?" remonstrated Miss Chris in hurt tones. "You know I
didn't accuse you of anything. I only meant that you would feel better
if you didn't drink so much tea and ate more meat--"

"I am not too old to take a hint," replied Aunt Griselda. "I haven't
reached my dotage yet, and I can see when I am a burden. Here, Congo,
you may put my teapot away."

"O Lord!" gasped the general tragically; and rising to the occasion, he
said hurriedly: "By the way, Chris, they told me at the post-office
to-day that old Dr. Smith was dead. It was only last week that I met him
on his way to town with his niece's daughter, and he told me that he had
never been in better health in his life."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Chris, holding a large spoonful of
raspberries poised above the dish to which she was helping. "Why, old
Dr. Smith attended me forty years ago when I had measles. I remember he
made me lie in bed with blankets over me, though it was August, and he
wouldn't let me drink anything except hot flax-seed tea. They say all
that has been changed in this generation--"

"Leave me plenty of room for cream, Aunt Chris," broke in Bernard, with
an anxious eye on Miss Chris's absent-minded manipulations. She reached
for the round, old silver pitcher, and poured the yellow cream on the
sugared berries without pausing in her soft, monotonous flow of words.

"But even in those days Dr. Smith was behind the times, and he has been
so ever since. He used to say that chloroform was invented by infidels,
and he would not let them give it to his son, Lawrence, when he broke
his leg on the threshing machine. It was a mania with him, for, when I
was nursing in the hospitals during the war, he told me with his own
lips that he believed the Lord was on our side because we didn't have
chloroform."

"He had a good many odd ideas," said the general, "but he is dead now,
poor man."

"He raised up my dear father when he was struck down with paralysis,"
murmured Aunt Griselda.

When dinner was over the general returned to the front porch, and
Eugenia and the puppy went with Bernard to the orchard to look for green
apples.

They started out in single file; Bernard, a bright-faced, snub-nosed boy
with a girlish mouth, a little in advance, Eugenia following, and the
puppy at her heels. On the way across the meadow, where myriads of
grasshoppers darted with a whirring noise beneath the leaves of coarse
mullein plants or the slender, unopened pods of milkweed, the puppy made
sudden desperate skirmishes into the tangled pathside, pointing
ineffectually at the heavy-legged insects, his red tongue lolling and
his short tail wagging. Up the steep ascent of the orchard a rocky trail
ran, bordered by a rail fence. From the point of the hill one could see
the adjoining country unrolled like a map, olive heights melting into
emerald valleys, bare clearings into luxuriant crops, running a
chromatic scale from the dry old battlefields surrounding Kingsborough
to the arable "bottoms" beside the enrichening river.

After an unsuccessful search for cherries Bernard climbed a tree where
summer apples hung green, and tossed the fruit to Eugenia, who held up
her blue skirt beneath the overhanging boughs. The puppy, having dodged
in astonishment a stray apple, went off after the silvery track of a
snail.

"That's enough," called Bernard presently, and he descended and filled
his pockets from Eugenia's lap. "They set my teeth on edge, anyway. Got
any salt?"

Eugenia drew a small folded envelope from her pocket. Then she threw
away her apple and pointed to the little brook at the foot of the hill.
"There's that red-winged blackbird in the bulrushes again. I believe
it's got a nest."

And they started in a run down the hillside, the puppy waddling behind
with shrill, impertinent barks.

At the bottom of the hill they lost the blackbird and found Nicholas
Burr, who was lying face downwards upon the earth, a fishing line at his
side.

"He's crying," said Eugenia in a high whisper.

Nicholas rolled over, saw them, and got up, wiping his eyes on the
sleeve of his shirt.

"There warn't nobody lookin'," he said defiantly.

"You're too big to cry," observed Bernard dispassionately, munching a
green apple he had taken from his pocket. "You're as big as I am, and I
haven't cried since I was six years old. Eugie cries."

"I don't!" protested Eugenia vehemently. "I reckon you'd cry too if they
made you sit in the house the whole afternoon and hem cup-towels."

"I'm a boy, Miss Spitfire. Boys don't sew. I saw Nick Burr milking,
though, one day. What made you milk, Nick?"

"Ma did."

"I'd like to see anybody make me milk. You're jes' the same as a girl."

"I ain't!"

"You are!"

"I ain't!"

"'Spose you fight it out," suggested Eugenia, with an eye for sport,
settling herself upon the ground with Jim in her lap.

Nicholas picked up his fishing line and wound it slowly round the cork.
"There's a powerful lot of minnows in this creek," he remarked amicably.
"When you lean over that log you can catch 'em in your hat."

"Let's do it," said Eugenia, starting up, and they went out upon the
slippery log between the reedy banks. Over the smooth, pebbly bed of
the stream flashed the shining bodies of hundreds of minnows, passing
back and forth with brisk wriggles of their fine, steel-coloured tails.
On the Battle side of the bank a huge, blue-winged dragonfly buzzed
above the flaunting red and yellow faces of three tiger-lilies.

Jim sat on the brookside and watched the minnows, having ventured midway
upon the log, to retreat at the sight of his own reflection in the
water.

"He's a coward," said Bernard teasingly, alluding to the recreant Jim.
"I wouldn't have a dog that was a coward."

"He ain't a coward," returned Eugenia passionately. "He jes' don't like
looking at his own face, that's all. Here, Nick, hand me your hat."

Nick obediently gave her his hat, and Eugenia leaned over the stream,
her bare arms and vivid face mirrored against the silvery minnows, when
a shrill call came from the house.

"Nick! Who-a Ni-ck!"

"That's Sairy Jane," said Nicholas, reaching for his hat. "Ma wants me."

"Who is Sairy Jane?"

"Sister."

Eugenia handed him his dripping hat, and stood shaking her fingers free
from the sparkling drops.

"Will you come and fish with me to-morrow?" she asked.

"If I ain't got to work in the field--"

"Don't work."

"Can't help it."

The call was repeated, and Nicholas sped over the mossy log and across
the ploughed field, while Bernard and Eugenia toiled up the hillside.

As they passed the Sweet Gum Spring they saw Delphy, the washerwoman,
standing in her doorway, quarrelling with her son-in-law, Moses, who was
hoeing a small garden patch in the rear of an adjoining cabin. Delphy
was a large mulatto woman, with a broad, flat bosom and enormous hands
that looked as if they had been parboiled into a livid blue tint.

"'Tain' no use fer to hoe groun' dat ain' got no richness," she was
saying, shaking her huge head until the dipper hanging on the lintel of
the door rattled, "en'tain' no use preachin' ter a nigger dat ain' got
no gumption. Es de tree fall, so hit' gwine ter lay, en es a fool's done
been born, so he gwine ter die. 'Tain' no use a-tryin' fer to do over a
job dat de Lawd done slighted. You may ding about hit en you may dung
about hit, but ef'n it won't, hit won't."

Moses, a meek-looking negro with an honest face, hoed silently, making
no response to his mother-in-law's vituperations, which grew voluble
before his non-resistance.

"Dar ain' no use er my frettin' en perfumin' over dat ar nigger," she
concluded, as if addressing a third person. "He wuz born a syndicate en
he'll die er syndicate. De Debbil, he ain' gwine tu'n 'm en de Lawd he
can't. De preachin' it runs off 'im same es water off er duck's back.
I'se done talked ter him day in en day out twell dar ain' no breff lef
fer me ter blow wid, an' he ain' changed a hyar f'om what de Lawd made
'im. Seems like he ain' got de sperit uv--"

"Why, Delphy!" exclaimed Bernard, interrupting the flow of speech.
"What's the matter with Moses?"

Delphy snorted contemptuously and took breath for procedure, when the
sharp cry of a baby came from Moses' cabin, and Eugenia broke in
excitedly:

"Why, there's a baby in there, Delphy! Whose baby is that?"

"Git er long wid you, chile," said Delphy. "You knows er plum sight mo'
now'n you ought ter." Then she added with a snort: "Hit's es black es er
crow's foot."

"Is it Betsey's baby?"

"I reckon'tis. Moses he says ez what'tis, but he's de mos' outlandish
nigger on dis yer place. Dar ain' no relyin' on him, noways."

"When did it come, Delphy? Who brought it? I saw Dr. Debs yesterday, an'
his saddle-bag bulged mightily."

"De Lawd didn't brung hit," returned Delphy emphatically. "De Lawd
wouldn't er teched hit wid er ten-foot pole. Dis yer Moses, he ain' wuth
de salt dat's put in his bread. He's de wuss er de hull lot--"

"Why doesn't Betsey get rid of him?" asked Bernard, eyeing the shrinking
Moses with disfavour. "I heard Aunt Chris say that Mrs. Willie Wilson in
Richmond got a divorce from her husband for good and all--"

"Lawdy, chile! Huccome you think I'se gwine ter pay fer a dervoge fer
sech er low-lifeted creetur ez dat? He ain' wuth no dervogin', he ain'.
When it come ter dervogin', I'll dervoge 'im wid my fis' en foot--"

Here the baby cried again, and the irate Delphy disappeared into Moses'
cabin, while the meek-looking son-in-law hoed the garden patch and
muttered beneath his breath.

The children passed the spring, crossed the meadow, and followed the
grapevine trellis to the back steps, when Eugenia rushed through the
wide hall with an impetuous flutter of short skirts.

"Papa!" she cried, bursting upon the general as he sat smoking upon the
front porch. "What do you think has happened? There's a new baby came to
Moses' cabin, an' Delphy says it's as black as--"

"Well, I am blessed!" groaned the general, knocking the ashes from his
pipe. "Another mouth to feed. Eugie, they'll ruin me yet."

"I reckon they will," returned Eugenia hopelessly. She seated herself
upon the topmost step and made a place for Jim beside her.

The general was silent for some time, smoking thoughtfully and staring
past the aspens and the well-house to the waving cornfield. When he
spoke it was with embarrassed hesitation.

"I say, daughter."

Eugenia looked up eagerly.

"Didn't that spotted cow of Moses' die last week?"

"That it did," replied Eugenia emphatically. "It got loose in your
clover, pasture and ate itself too full. Moses says it bu'st."

"Pish!" exclaimed the general angrily. "My clover! I tell you, they
won't leave me a roof over my head. They'll eat me into the poorhouse.
But I'll turn them off. I'll send them packing, bag and baggage. My
clover!"

"Moses ain't got much of a garden patch," said Eugenia. "It looks mighty
poor. The potato-bugs ate all his potatoes."

The general was silent again.

"I say, daughter," he began at last, blowing a heavy cloud of smoke upon
the air, "the next time you go by Sweet Gum Spring you had just as well
tell Moses that I can let him have a side of bacon if he wants it. The
rascal can't starve. But they won't leave me a mouthful--not one. And
Eugie--"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't mention it to your Aunt Chris--"

At that instant a little barefooted negro came running across the lawn
from the spring-house, a large tin pail in his hand.

"Here, boy!" called the general. "Where're you off to? What have you got
in that pail?"

"It's Jake," said Eugenia in a whisper, while Jim barked frantically
from the shelter of her arms. "He's Delphy's Jake."

The small negro stood grinning in the walk, his white eyeballs circling
in their sockets. "Hit's Miss Chris, suh," he said at last.

"Miss Chris, you rascal!" shouted the general. "Do you expect me to
believe you've got Miss Chris in that pail? Open it, sir; open it!"

Jake showed a shining row of ivory teeth and stood shaking the pail from
side to side.

"Miss Chris, she gun hit ter me, suh," he explained. "Hit's Miss Chris
herse'f dat's done sont me ter tote dish yer buttermilk ter Unk Mose."

"Bless my soul!" cried the general wrathfully. "Get away with you! The
whole place is bent on ruining me. I'll be in the poorhouse before the
week's up." And he strode indoors in a rage.




VII


Twice a year, on fine days in spring and fall, Aunt Griselda's bombazine
dresses were taken from the whitewashed closet and hung out to air upon
the clothesline at the back of the house, while pungent odours of tar
and camphor were exhaled from the full black folds. On these days Aunt
Griselda would remain in her room, sorting faded relics which she took
from a cedar chest and spread beside her on the floor. The door was kept
locked at such times, but once Eugenia, who had gone with Congo to carry
Aunt Griselda her toast and tea, had caught a glimpse of a yellowed
swiss muslin frock and the leather case of a daguerreotype containing
the picture of a round-eyed girl with rosy cheeks. Aunt Griselda had
hidden them hastily away at the child's entrance--hidden them with that
nervous, awkward haste which dreads a dawning jest of itself; but
Eugenia had seen that her old eyes were red and her voice more rasping
than usual.

Sixty years ago Aunt Griselda had had her romance, and she still kept
her love-letters tied up with discoloured ribbons and laid away in the
cedar chest. It was but the skeleton of a love story--the adolescent
ardours of a high-spirited country girl and the high-spirited son of a
neighbouring farmer. When the quarrel came the letters were overlooked
when the ring went back. Griselda Grigsby had tossed them carelessly
into the cedar chest and gone out to forget them. Her heart had not
been deeply touched and it soon mended. No other lovers came, and she
lived her quiet life in her father's house, gathering garden flowers for
the great, blue bowls in the parlour, teaching the catechism to small
black slaves, and making stiff, old-fashioned samplers in crewels. The
high-spirited lover had loved elsewhere and died of a fever, and, beyond
a passing regret, she thought little of him. There were nearer
interests, and she was still the petted daughter of her father's
house--the eldest and the best beloved. Then the crash came. The old
people passed away, the house changed hands, Aunt Griselda was stranded
upon the high tide of hospitality--and crewel work went out of fashion.

In her sister's home she became a constant guest--one to be offered the
favoured share and to be treated with tender, increasing tolerance--not
to be loved. Since the death of her parents none had loved her, though
many had borne gently with her spoiled fancies. But her coming in had
brought no light, and her going out had left nothing dark. She was old
and ill-tempered and bitter of speech, and, though all doors opened
hospitably at her approach, all closed quickly when she was gone. Her
spoiled youth had left her sensitive to trivial stings, unforgivable to
fancied wrongs. In a childish oversight she detected hidden malice and
implacable hate in a thoughtless jest. Her bitterness and her years
waxed greater together, and she lost alike her youth and her
self-control. When she had yearned for passionate affection she had
found kindly tolerance, and the longings of her hidden nature, which
none knew, were expressed in rasping words and acrid tears. Once, some
years after Bernard's birth, she had called him into her room as she sat
among her relics, and had shown him the daguerreotype.

"It's pitty lady," the child had lisped, and she had caught him suddenly
to her lean old breast, but he had broken into peevish cries and
struggled free, tearing with his foot the ruffle of the swiss muslin
gown.

"Oo ain't pitty lady," he had said, and Aunt Griselda had risen and
pushed him into the hall with sharp, scolding words, and had sat down to
darn the muslin ruffle with delicate, old-fashioned stitches.

It was only when all living love had failed her that she returned to the
dead. She had gathered the letters of nearly sixty years ago from the
bottom of the cedar chest, reading them through her spectacles with
bleared, watery eyes. Those subtle sentimentalities which linger like
aromas in a heart too aged for passion were liberated by the bundle of
yellow scrawls written by hands that were dust. As she sat in her stiff
bombazine skirts beside the opened chest, peering with worry-ravaged
face at the old letters, she forgot that she was no longer one with the
girl in the muslin frock, and that the inciter of this exuberant emotion
was as dead as the emotion itself.

When the dresses were brought up to her she would put them on again and
go down to flinch before kindly eyes and to make embittered speeches in
her high, shrill voice. Outwardly she grew more soured and more
eccentric. On mild summer evenings she would come down stairs with her
head wrapped in a pink knitted "nubia," and stroll back and forth along
the gravelled walk, her gaunt figure passing into the dusk of the cedar
avenue and emerging like the erratic shadow of one of the sombre trees.

Sometimes Eugenia joined her, but Bernard, her favourite, held shyly
aloof. In her exercise she seldom spoke, and her words were peevish
ones, but there was grim pathos in her carriage as she moved slowly back
and forth between the straight rows of box.

After supper the family assembled on the porch and talked in a desultory
way until ten o'clock, when the lights were put out and the house
retired to rest. Eugenia slept in a great, four-post bedstead with Aunt
Chris, and the bed was so large and soft and billowy that she seemed to
lose herself suddenly at night in its lavender-scented midst, and to be
as suddenly discovered in the morning by Rindy, the house-girl, when she
came with her huge pails of warm water.

Those fresh summer dawns of Eugenia's childhood became among her dearest
memories in after years. There were hours when, awaking, wide-eyed,
before the house was astir, she would rise on her elbow and look out
across the dripping lawn, where each dewdrop was charged with opalescent
tints, to the western horizon, where the day broke in a cloud of gold.
The song of a mocking-bird in the poplars of the little graveyard came
to her with unsuspected melody--a melody drawn from the freshness, the
loneliness, the half-awakened calls from hidden nests and the lyric
ecstasy of dawn.

Then, with the rising of the sun, Aunt Chris would turn upon her pillow
and open her soft, brown eyes.

"It is not good for little folks to be awake so early," she would say,
and there would rush upon the child a sense of warmth and tenderness and
comfort, and she would nestle closer to her sweet, white pillow. With
the beginning of day began also the demands upon the time of Miss Chris.
First the new overseer, knocking at her door, would call through the
crack that a cow had calved, or that one of the sheep was too ill to go
to pasture. Then Rindy, entering with her pails, would shake a
pessimistic head.

"Lawd, Miss Chris, one er dem ole coons done eat up er hull pa'cel er
yo' chickens." And Miss Chris, at once the prop and the mainstay of the
Battle fortunes, would rise with anxious exclamations and put on her
full black skirt and linen sacque.

When breakfast was over Miss Chris went into the storeroom each morning
and came out with a basin of corn-meal dough, followed by Sampson
bearing an axe and Aunt Verbeny jingling the hen-house keys. The slow
procession then filed out to the space before the hen-house, the door of
which was flung back, while Aunt Verbeny clucked at a little distance.
Miss Chris scattered her dough upon the ground and, while her
unsuspecting beneficiaries made their morning meal, she pointed out to
Sampson, the executioner, the members of the feathered community
destined to be sacrificed to the carnivorous habits of their fellow
mortals.

"Feel that one with the black spots, Sampson," she said with the
indifference of an abstract deity. "Is it fat? And the domineca pullet,
and the two roosters we bought from Delphy."

And when Sampson had seized upon the victims of the fiat she turned to
inspect the bunches of fowls offered by neighbouring breeders.

To-day it was Nicholas Burr who stood patiently in the background, three
drooping chickens in each hand, their legs tied together with strips of
a purple calico which Marthy was making into a dress for Sairy Jane.

Seeing that Miss Chris had delivered her judgments, he came forward and
proffered his captives with an abashed demeanour.

"How much are they worth?" asked Miss Chris in her cheerful tones, while
Aunt Verbeny gave a suspicious poke beneath one of the flapping wings,
followed by a grunt of disparagement.

Nicholas stammered confusedly:

"Ma says the biggest ought to bring a quarter," he returned, blushing as
Aunt Verbeny grunted again, "and the four smallest can go for twenty
cents."

But when the bargain was concluded he lingered and added shamefacedly:
"Won't you please let that red-and-black rooster live as long as you
can? I raised it."

"Why, bless my heart!" exclaimed Miss Chris, "I believe the child is
fond of the chicken."

Eugenia, who was hovering by, burst into tears and declared that the
rooster should not die.

"Twenty cents is s-o ch-ea-p for a li-fe," she sobbed. "It shan't be
killed, Aunt Chris. It shall go in my hen-h-ou-se." And she rushed off
to get her little tin bank from the top bureau drawer.

When the arrangements were concluded Nicholas started empty-handed down
the box walk, the money jingling in his pocket. At the end of the long
avenue of cedars there was a wide, unploughed common which extended for
a quarter of a mile along the roadside. In spring and summer the ground
was white with daisies and in the autumn it donned gorgeous vestments of
golden-rod and sumach. In the centre of the waste, standing alike grim
and majestic at all seasons, there was the charred skeleton of a
gigantic tree, which had been stripped naked by a bolt of lightning long
years ago. At its foot a prickly clump of briars surrounded the
blackened trunk in a decoration of green or red, and from this futile
screen the spectral limbs rose boldly and were silhouetted against the
far-off horizon like the masts of a wrecked and deserted ship. A rail
fence, where a trumpet-vine hung heavily, divided the field from the
road, and several straggling sheep that had strayed from the distant
flock stood looking shyly over the massive crimson clusters.

When Nicholas came out from the funereal dusk of the cedars the field
was almost blinding in the morning glare, the yellow-centred daisies
rolling in the breeze like white-capped billows on a sunlit sea. From
the avenue to his father's land the road was unbroken by a single
shadow--only to the right, amid the young corn, there was a solitary
persimmon tree, and on the left the gigantic wreck stranded amid the
tossing daisies.

The sun was hot, and dust rose like smoke from the white streak of the
road, which blazed beneath a cloudless sky.

The boy was tired and thirsty, and as he tramped along the perspiration
rose to his forehead and dropped, upon his shoulder. With a sigh of
satisfaction he came upon the little cottage of his father and saw his
stepmother taking the clothes in from the bushes where they had been
spread to dry. It was Saturday, and ironing day, and he hoped for a
chance at his lessons before night came, when he was so tired that the
facts would not stick in his brain. He thought that it must be very easy
to study in the mornings when you were fresh and eager and before that
leaden weight centred behind your eyeballs.

When Marthy Burr saw him she called irritably:


"I say, Nick, did they take the chickens?"

Nicholas nodded, and, crossing the weeds in the garden, gave her the
money from his pocket.

"They didn't say nothing 'bout wantin' more, I 'spose? Did you tell 'em
I was fattenin' them four pairs of ducks?"

Nicholas shook his head. No, he hadn't told them.

"Well, your pa wants you down in the peanut field. You'd better get a
drink of water first. You look powerful red."

An hour later, when work was over, he carried his book to the orchard
and flung himself down beneath the trees. The judge had given him a
biography of Jefferson, and he had learned his hero's life with lips and
heart. The day that it was finished he put the volume under his arm and
went to the rector's house.

"I want to join the church," he said bluntly.

The rector, a kindly, middle-aged man, with a love for children, turned
to him in half-puzzled, half-sympathetic inquiry.

"You are young, my child," he replied, "to be so zealous a Christian."

"'Tain't that, sir," said the boy slowly. "I don't set much store by
that. But I've got to go to heaven--because I can't see Thomas Jefferson
no other way."

The rector did not smile. He was wiser than his generation, for he left
the great man's own religion to himself and God. He said merely:

"When you are older we shall see, my boy--we shall see."

Nicholas left with a chill of disappointment, but as he passed along the
street his name was called by Juliet Burwell, and she fluttered across
to him in all her mystifying flounces and her gracious smile.

"I was at the rector's," she said, "and he told me that you wanted to be
confirmed--and I want you to come into my Sunday-school class."

Nicholas met the kind eyes and blushed purple. Her beauty took away his
breath and made his pulses leap. The slow, musical drawl of her speech
soothed him like the running of clear water. He felt the image of Thomas
Jefferson totter upon its pedestal, but it was steadied with a
tremendous lurch. Jefferson was a man, after all, and this was only a
woman.

"Will you come?" asked the soft voice, and he stammered an amazed and
awkward assent.




VIII


On the Saturday after the day upon which Nicholas had pledged himself to
attend Sunday-school Juliet Burwell asked him to come into Kingsborough
and talk over the lesson for the following morning. At five o'clock in
the afternoon he dressed himself with trembling hands and a perturbed
heart; and for the first time in his life turned to look at his
reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging above the washstand in
his stepmother's room.

As a finishing touch Marthy Burr tied a flaming plaid cravat beneath his
collar.

"You ain't much on looks," she remarked as she drew back to survey him,
"but you've got as peart a face as I ever seed. I reckon you'll be
plenty handsome for a man. I was al'ays kind of set against one of these
pink an' white men, somehow. They're pretty enough to look at when
you're feelin' first-rate, but when you git the neuralgy they sort of
turns yo' stomach. I've a taste for sober colours in men and caliky."

"I think he looks beautiful," said Sairy Jane, her eyes on the cravat,
and Nicholas felt a sudden glow of gratitude, and silently resolved to
save up until he had enough money to buy her a hair ribbon.

"I ain't sayin' he don't," returned Marthy Burr with a severe glance in
the direction of her eldest daughter, who was minding Jubal in the
kitchen doorway. "Thar's red heads an' red heads, an' his ain't no
redder than the reddest. But he came honestly by it, which is more than
some folks can say as is got yellow. His father had it befo' him, an'
thar's one good thing about it, you've got to be born with it or you
ain't goin' to come by it no other way. I never seed a dyer that could
set hair that thar colour 'cep'n the Lord Himself--an' I ain't one to
deny that the Lord has got good taste in His own line."

Then, as Nicholas took up his hat, she added: "If they ask after me,
Nick, be sure an' say I'm jes' po'ly."

Nicholas nodded and went out, followed to the road by Sairy Jane and
Jubal, while his stepmother called after him to walk in the grass and
try to keep his feet clean.

When he reached Kingsborough and crossed the green to the Burwell's
house, which was in the lane called "Back Street," he fell to a creeping
pace, held back by the fluttering of his pulses. Not until he saw Juliet
standing at the little whitewashed gate did he brace himself to the full
courage of approaching. When he spoke her name she opened the gate and
gave him her hand, while all sense of diffidence fell from him.

"I've been looking at you for a long ways," he said boldly, "an' you
were just like one of them tall lilies bordering the walk."

She blushed, turning her clear eyes upon him, and he felt a great desire
to kiss the folds of her skirt or the rose above her left temple. He had
never seen any one so good or so kind or so beautiful, and he vowed
passionately in his rustic little heart that he would always love her
best--best of all--that he would fight for her if he might, or work for
her if she needed it. There was none like her--not his stepmother--not
Sairy Jane--not even Eugenia. She was different--something of finer
clay, made to be waited upon and worshipped like the picture of the
goddess standing on the moon that he had seen in the judge's study.

Juliet smiled upon his ardour, and, leading him to a bench beneath a
flowering myrtle, made him sit down beside her, while she spoke pious
things about Adam and the catechism and the salvation of the world--to
all of which he listened with wide-opened eyes and a fluttering heart.
He wondered why no one had ever before told him such beautiful things
about God and the manifold importance of keeping a clean heart and
loving your neighbour as yourself. It seemed to him that he had been
living in sin for the twelve years of his life and he feared that he
should find it impossible to purge his mind of evil passions and to love
the coloured boy Boss who had stolen his best fishing line. He asked
Juliet if she thought he would be able to withstand the assaults of
Satan as the minister told him to do; but she laughed and said that
there was no Satan who went about like a roaring lion--only cruelty and
anger and ill-will, and that he must be kind to his brothers and
sisters, and to animals, and not rob birds' nests, which was very wrong.
Then she added as an afterthought, with a saintly look in her eyes, that
he must love God. He promised that he should try to do so, though he
wished in his heart that she had told him to love herself instead. As
he sat in the soft light, watching her beautiful face rising against a
background of lilies, his young brain thrilled with the joy of life. It
was such a glorious thing to live in a great, kind world, with a big,
beneficent God above the blue, and to love all mankind--not harbouring
an angry thought or an ill feeling! He looked into the kind eyes beside
him and felt that he should like to be a saint or a minister--not a
lawyer, which might be wicked after all. Then he remembered the
waxen-faced, choleric clergyman of the church his stepmother attended,
but he put the memory away. No, he would not be like that; he would not
preach fire and brimstone from a white-pine pulpit. He would be large
and just and merciful like God; and Juliet Burwell would come to hear
him preach, looking up at him with her blue, blue glance. In the
meantime he would not rob that marsh hen's nest which he had found. He
would never steal another egg. He wished that he didn't have that
drawerful at home. He would give them to Sairy Jane if she wanted
them--all except the snake's egg, which he might keep, because serpents
were an accursed race. Yes, Sairy Jane might have them all, and he
wouldn't pull her hair again when he caught her looking at them on the
sly.

Presently Juliet called Sally and took him into the quaint old
dining-room and gave him cakes and jam on a table that shone like glass.
There he saw Mr. Burwell--a pink-cheeked, little gentleman who wore an
expansive air of innocence and a white piqué waistcoat--and Mrs.
Burwell, a pretty, gray-haired woman, who ruled her husband with the
velvet-pawed despotism which was the heritage of the women of her race
and day. She had never bought a bonnet without openly consulting his
judgment; he had never taken a step in life without unconsciously
following hers.

"Really, my dear Sally," he had said when he heard of Nicholas's
reception by his daughter, "Juliet must a--a--be taught to recognise the
existence of class. Really, I cannot have her bringing all these people
into my house. You must put a stop to it at once, my dear."

Mrs. Burwell had smiled placidly as she patted her gray fringe.

"Of course you know best, Mr. Burwell," she had replied with that
touching humility which forbade her to address her husband by his
Christian name. "Of course you know best about such matters, and I'll
tell Juliet what you say. Poor child, she has such confidence in your
judgment that she will believe whatever you say to be right; but she
does love so to feel that she is exerting a good influence over the
boys, and, perhaps, helping them to work out their future salvation. She
thinks, too, that it is so well for them to have a chance of talking to
you. I heard her tell Dudley Webb that he must take you for an
example--"

"Ah!--ahem!" said Mr. Burwell, who worshipped the ground his daughter
trod upon. "I suppose it would be a pity to interfere with her, eh, my
dear?"

"Well, I can't help wishing myself, Mr. Burwell, that she would select
children of her own class in life, but, as you say, she has taken a
fancy to that Burr boy, and he seems to be a decent, respectful kind of
child. Of course I know it is your soft heart that makes you look at it
in this way--but I love you all the better for it. I remember the day
you proposed to me for the sixth time, I had just seen you bandage up
the head of a little darkey that had cut himself--and I accepted you on
the spot."

"Yes, yes, my love," Mr. Burwell had responded, kissing his wife as they
left the room. "I am convinced that I am right, and I am glad that you
agree with me. We won't speak of it to Juliet."

In the hall below they met Nicholas Burr, and greeted him with
hospitable kindness.

"So this is your new scholar, eh, Juliet? You must do justice to your
teacher, my boy."

Juliet laughed and went out into the yard to meet several young men who
were coming up the walk, and Nicholas noticed with a jealous pang that
she sat with them beneath the myrtle and talked in the same soft voice
with the same radiant smile. She was not speaking of heaven now. She was
laughing merrily at pointless jokes and promising to embroider a
handkerchief for one and to make a box of caramels for another.

He knew that they all loved her, and it gave him a miserable feeling. He
felt that they were unworthy of her--that they would not worship her
always and become ministers for her sake, as he was going to do. He even
wondered if it wouldn't be better, after all, to become a prize fighter
and to knock them all out in the first round when he got a chance.

In a moment Juliet called him to her side and laid her hand upon his
arm. "He has promised not to rob birds' nests and to love me always,"
she said.

But the young men only laughed.

"Ask something harder," retorted one. "Any of us will do that. Ask him
to stand on his head or to tie himself into a bow knot for your sake."

Nicholas reddened angrily, but Juliet told the jester to try such
experiments himself--that she did not want a contortionist about. Then
she bent over the boy as he said good-bye, and he went down the walk
between the lilies and out into the lane.

He recrossed the green slowly, turning into the main street at the
court-house steps. As he passed the church, a little further on, the
iron gate opened and the rector came out, jingling the heavy keys in his
hand as he talked amicably to a tourist who followed upon his heels.

"Yes, my good sir," he was saying in his high-pitched, emphatic
utterance, "this dear old churchyard is never mowed except by living
lawn-mowers. I assure you that I have seen thirty heads of cattle upon
the vaults--positively, thirty heads, sir!"

But the boy's thoughts were far from the church and its rector, and the
words sifted rapidly through his brain. He touched his hat at the
tourist's greeting and smiled into the clergyman's face, but his actions
were automatic. He would have nodded to the horse in the street or have
smiled at the sun.

As he passed the small shops fronting on the narrow sidewalk and
followed the whitewashed fence of the college grounds until it ended at
the Old Stage Road, he was conscious of the keen, pulsating harmony of
life. It was good to be alive--to feel the warm sunshine overhead and
the warm dust below. He was glad that he had been born, though the idea
had never formulated itself until now. He would be very good all his
life and never do a wicked thing. It was so easy to be good if you only
wanted to. Yes, he would study hard and become learned in the law, like
those old prophets with whom God spoke as man with man. Then, when he
had grown better and wiser than any one on earth, his tongue would
become loosened, and he would go forth to preach the Gospel, and Juliet
would listen to him for his wisdom's sake. Oh, if she would only love
him best--best of all!

This evening the road through the wood did not frighten him, though the
sun was down. He thought neither of the ghosts that Uncle Dan'l had
seen, nor of the bug-a-boos that had chased Viney's husband home. He was
too old for these things now. He had grown taller and stronger in a day.
When he reached the pasture gate opposite the house he opened it and
went in to look for the sheep.

The west was fast losing colour, like a bright-hued fabric that has been
drenched in water, and a thick, blue mist, shot with fireflies, shrouded
the wide common. A fresh, sharp odour rose from the dew-steeped earth,
giving place, as he gained upon the flock, to the smell of moist wool.
As he brushed the heavy, purple tubes of Jamestown weeds long-legged
insects flew out and struck against his arm before they fell in a
drunken stupor to the grass below.

The boy made his way cautiously, his figure becoming blurred as the
mist wrapped him like a blanket. The darkness was gathering rapidly.
From the far-off horizon clouds of lavender were melting, and the pines
had gone gray.

Presently a white patch glimmered in the midst of the pasture, and he
began to call softly:

"Coo-sheep! Coo-sheep!"

A tremulous bleat answered, but as he neared the flock it scattered
swiftly, the errant leaders darting shyly behind the looming outlines of
sassafras bushes. Again he called, and again the plaintive cry
responded, growing fainter as several fleeter ewes sped past him to the
beech trees beside the little stream.

The space before the boy was suddenly spangled with fireflies, and the
mist grew denser.

He broke off a branch of sassafras and started at a brisk run, rounding
by some dozen yards the startled ewes. The scattered white blotches
closed together as he ran towards them, and fled, bleating, to the flock
where it clustered at the pasture gate.

In a moment he had driven them across the road and behind the bars of
the cow-pen.

When he entered the house a little later he found that the family had
had supper, a single plate remaining for himself. His stepmother,
looking jaded and nervous, was putting salted herring to soak in an
earthenware bowl, while she scolded Sairy Jane, who was patching Jubal's
apron.

"It's goin' on ten years sence I've stopped to draw breath," said Marthy
Burr, "an' I'm clean wore out. 'Tain't no better than a dog's life,
nohow--a woman an' a dog air about the only creeturs as would put up
with it, an' they're the biggest pair of fools the Lord ever made. Here
I've been standin' at the tub from sunrise to sunset, with my jaw a'most
splittin' from my face, an' thar's yo' pa a-settin' at his pipe as
unconsarned as if I wa'nt his lawful wife--the more's the pity! It's the
lawful wives as have the work to do, an' the lawfuller the wives the
lawfuller the work. If this here government ain't got nothin' better to
do than to drive poor women till they drop I reckon we'd as well stop
payin' taxes to keep it goin'."

Nicholas wiped his heated brow on his shirt-sleeve and hung his hat on
the back of a bottomless chair. Jubal, who was rolling on the floor,
gave a gurgle and made a grab at it, to be soundly boxed by his mother
as she reseated him at Sairy Jane's feet. His gurgle wavered dolorously
and rose into a howl.

"Have you been to supper, ma?" asked Nicholas cheerfully.

"Lord, Nick, it's a long ways past supper-time," answered Sairy Jane,
relieved by the interruption. "The things air all washed up, ain't they,
pa?"

Amos Burr scowled heavily upon the boy's head, his phlegmatic nature
goaded into resentment by his wife's ill-temper and the lamentations of
Jubal.

"I don't reckon you expect supper to keep waitin' till breakfast," he
said. "You've given your ma trouble enough 'thout makin' her do an extra
washin' up on your o'count. You've gone clean crazy sence you've been
loafin' round with them Battles. I don't see as you air much o'count,
nohow."

Nicholas raised his eyes to his father's face and looked at him
fixedly. For a moment he did not speak, and then he said slowly:

"I'm as good as a hand to you."

He was thinking doggedly that he had never hated any one so much as he
hated his own father, and that he liked the sensation. He wished he
could do him some real harm--hit him hard enough to hurt or make the
peanuts rot in the ground. He should like also to choke Jubal, who never
left off yelling.

Amos Burr spat a mouthful of tobacco juice through the open window,
flinching before the boy's steady glance. He was a mild-natured man at
best, whose chief sin was his softness. It would not have entered his
slow-witted head to protest against the accusations of his wife. When
they stung him into revolt he revolted in the opposite direction.

But his failures were faults in his son's eyes. To the desperate
determination of the boy, weakness became as contemptible as crime. What
was a man worth who worked from morning until night and yet achieved
nothing? Of what account was the farmer whom the crows outwitted and the
weather made a mockery? Did not the very crops cry out as they rotted
that his father was a fool, and the unploughed land proclaim him a
coward? Had he ever dared a venture in his life or risked a season? And
yet what had ever returned at his bidding or brought forth at his
planting?

"You've been mighty little use of late," repeated Amos Burr stubbornly
when his wife placed the earthenware bowl on the shelf and came to the
table--her arm outstretched.

"Now, you jes' take yourself right off, Amos Burr," she said. "If you
can't behave decently to my dead sister's child you shan't hang round
them as was her own flesh and blood kin. Sairy Jane, you bring that
plate of hot corn pones from the stove. Here, Nick, set right down an'
eat your supper! There's some canned cherries if you want 'em."

Nicholas sat down, but the cornbread stuck in his throat and the coffee
was without aroma. He looked at the figured oilcloth on the table and
thought of the shining glass and silver at Juliet Burwell's. The flavour
of the cake she had given him seemed to intensify his distaste for the
food before him. He felt that he cared for nobody--that he wanted
nothing. He looked at his stepmother and thought that she was dried and
brown like a hickory nut; he looked at Sairy Jane and wondered why she
didn't have any eyelashes, and he looked at Jubal and saw that he was
all gums.

When he went up to his little attic room after supper he sat on his
shucks pallet in the darkness and thought of all the evil that he should
like to do. He should like to pull Sairy Jane's plait and to slap Jubal.
He should even like to tell Juliet Burwell that he didn't want to keep a
clean heart, and to call God names. No, he would not become a minister
and preach the Gospel. He would be a thief instead and break into
hen-houses and steal chickens. If his father planted watermelons he
would steal them from the vines as soon as they were ripe. Perhaps
Eugenia would help him. At any rate he would go halves with her if she
would be his partner in wickedness. He had just as soon go to hell,
after all--if it were not for Thomas Jefferson.

He leaned his head on his hands and looked through the narrow window to
where the peanut fields lay in blackness. From the stable came the faint
neigh of the old mare, and he remembered suddenly that he had forgotten
to put straw in her stall and to loosen her halter that she might lie
down. He rose and stole softly downstairs and out of the house.




IX


One evening in late autumn Nicholas went into Delphy's cabin after
supper and found Eugenia seated upon the hearth, facing Uncle Ish and
Aunt Verbeny. Between them Delphy's son-in-law, Moses, was helping
Bernard mend a broken hare trap, while Delphy, herself, was crooning a
lullaby to one of her grandchildren as she carded the wool which she had
taken from a quilt of faded patchwork. On the stones of the great
fireplace the red flames from lightwood splits leaped over a smouldering
hickory log, filling the cabin with the penetrating odour of burning,
resinous pine. From the wall above the hearth a dozen roasting apples
were suspended by hemp strings, and as the heat penetrated the russet
coats the apples circled against the yawning chimney like small globes
revolving about a sun.

Eugenia was sitting silently in a low, split-bottomed chair, her hands
folded in her lap and her animated eyes on the dark faces across from
her, over whose wrinkled surfaces the dancing firelight chased in ruddy
lights and shadows.

Uncle Ish had stretched his feet out upon the stones, and the mud
adhering to his rough, homemade boots was fast drying before the blaze
and settling in coarse gray dust upon the hearth. His gnarled old palms
lay upward on his knees, and his grizzled head was bowed upon his chest.
At intervals he muttered softly to himself, but his words were
inaudible--suggested by some far-off and disconnected vision. Aunt
Verbeny was nodding in her chair, arousing herself from time to time to
give a sharp glance into the face of Uncle Ish.

"Huccome dey let you out ter-night, honey?" asked Delphy suddenly,
turning her eyes upon Eugenia as she drew a fresh handful of wool from
between the covers of the quilt.

"I ran away," replied the child gravely. "I saw Bernard with his hare
trap, and Bernard shan't do nothin' that I can't do."

"Yes, I shall," rejoined Bernard without looking up from his trap. "You
can't wear breeches."

"I like to know why I can't," demanded Eugenia. "I put on a pair of your
old ones and they fit me just as well as they do you--only Aunt Chris
made me get out of them."

"Sakes er live!" exclaimed Aunt Verbeny, awaking from her doze.

Uncle Ish stared dreamily into the flames. "Ole Miss wuz in her grave,
she wuz," he muttered, while Delphy looked at him and shook her head
mysteriously.

Then, as Nicholas entered, they made a place for him upon the
hearthstones, treating him with the forbearing tolerance with which the
well-born negro regards the low-born white man.

"Pa wants you all to help him in peanut-picking to-morrow," said
Nicholas, addressing the group indiscriminately. "He's late at it this
year, but he's been laid up with rheumatism."

"Dar ain' nuttin' ez goes on two foot er fo' ez won' len' er han' at a
pickin'," remarked Uncle Ish as the boy sat down. "Dar ain' nuttin' in
de shape, er man er crow ez won't he'p demse'ves w'en dey's lyin' roun'
loose, nuther."

"Dar's gwine ter be er killin' fros' fo' mawnin'," said Moses, his teeth
chattering from the draught let in by the opening door. "Hit kilt all
Miss Chris' hop vines las' year, en it'll kill all ez ain't under kiver
ter-night. Hit seems ter sort er lay holt er yo' chist en clean grip
hit."

"You ain' never had no chist, nohow," remarked Delphy disdainfully. "Hit
don't take mo'n er spit er fros' ter freeze thoo you. You de coldest
innered somebody I ever lay eyes on. Dar mought ez well be er fence rail
er roun' on er winter night fer all de wa'mth ez is in yo' bones."

"Dat's so," admitted Moses shamefacedly. "Dat's so. Dese yer nights,
when de fire is all gone, is moughty near ter freezin' me out er house
en home. I ain' never seed ne'r quilt ez wuz made fur er hull fambly
yit. Wid me ter pull en Betsey ter pull en de chillun ter pull, whar de
quilt?"

"Dar ain' no blankets dese days," said Uncle Ish sadly. "Dey ain' got
mo'n er seasonin' er wool in dese yer sto' stuff. Dey wa'nt dat ar way
in ole times, sis Verbeny. Bless yo' soul, sis Verbeny, dey wan't dat ar
way."

"Ole Miss she use ter have eve'y stitch er her wool carded fo' her own
eyes," said Aunt Verbeny. "What wa'nt good enough fer her wuz good
enough fer de res', en we got hit. Ef'n de briars wouldn't come out'n it
soon ez she laid her han' on 'em, Ole Miss she turnt up her nose en
thowed de wool on ter de niggers' pile. Hit had ter be pisonous white
en sof fo' hit 'ud tech Ole Missusses skin. Noner yo' nappy stuff done
come near her."

Uncle Ish chuckled and hung his head on his breast.

"Doze wuz times!" he cried, "doze wuz times, en dese ain't times!"

Then he looked at Nicholas, who was watching the apples spinning in the
heat.

"De po' white trash ain' set foot inside my do'," he added, "en de
leetle gals ain' flirt roun' twell dar wa'nt no qualifyin' der legs f'om
der arms."

"I don't care!" said Eugenia, looking defiantly at Uncle Ish.

"Lor', chile, don't teck on dat way," remonstrated Aunt Verbeny. "You
ain't had no raisin' noways, en dar ain' been nobody ter brung you up
'cep'n yo' pa. Hit's de foolishness uv Miss Chris ez has overturnt de
hull place."

"She's a-settin' moughty prim now," continued Uncle Ish, his eyes on the
little girl. "She des' es prim es ef she wuz chiny en glass, but I'se
had my eye on 'er afo' dis. I'se done tote 'er in dese arms when she
wa'nt knee high ter Marse Tom's ole mule Jenny, en she ain't cut nairy
er caper dat I ain't 'sperienced hit."

"I don't care," retorted Eugenia.

"Ain't I done see her plump right out whar sis Delphy wuz a-wallopin'
her Jeetle nigger Jake, en holler out dat Jake ain' done lay ban's on
her pa's watermillion--'case she done steal 'em herse'f?"

"I don't care!" repeated Eugenia with tearful defiance.

"An' she ain' no mo' steal dat ar watermillion den I is," finished
Uncle Ish triumphantly.

"It was just a lie," said Bernard. "Eugie, you know where liars go."

"Des' ez straight ter de bad place ez dey kin walk," added Aunt Verbeny
severely. "Des' ez straight ez de Lord kin sen' 'em dar."

"It was a good lie," declared Nicholas, in manful defence of the weak.
"I don't believe she's goin' to be damned for a good lie and a little
one, too."

"Well, dar's lies en dar's lies," put in Delphy consolingly, "an' I 'low
dat dar's mo' in de manner uv lyin' den in de lie. Some lies is er long
ways sweeter ter de tas' den Gospel trufe. Abraham, he lied, en it ain't
discountenance him wid de Lord. Marse Tom, he lied when he wuz young, en
it spar'd 'im er whoppin'. Hit's er plum fool ez won't spar' dere own
hinder parts on er 'count uv er few words."

"George Washington didn't," said Bernard.

"I wish he had," added Eugenia. "Aunt Chris made me read about him and
his old cherry tree when I told her the red rooster was setting, because
I didn't want her to kill him."

"Ma asked me once if I had been fishin' when she told me to clean out
the spring," said Nicholas thoughtfully, "an' I said yes."

"What did she say?" asked Bernard.

"Nothin'. She whacked me on the head."

Just then Betsey came in with her baby in her arms, and Moses shuffled
aside to give place to her, cowed by an admonishing glance from his
mother-in-law.

"Bless de Lord!" exclaimed Uncle Ish, lifting his withered, old hands.
"Ef dar ain' anur er Betsey's babies! How many is de, Mose?"

Moses scratched his head and shrank into the corner.

"I ain' done straighten 'em out yit, Unk Ish," he returned slowly.
"'Pears like soon es I done add 'em all up anur done come, an' I has ter
kac'late f'om de bottom agin. I ain' got no head fer figgers, nohow.
Betsey, she lays dat dar's ten uv 'em, but ter save my soul I can't mek
out mo'n eight."

"Dar's nearer er dozen," rejoined Betsey with offended pride, "dar's
nearer er dozen 'cordin' ter de way I count."

"Dar now!" cried Aunt Verbeny. "I ain' never trus' no nigger's
cac'lations yit, en I ain' gwine ter now. When I wants countin', I want
white folks' countin'."

"Dey tell me," said Delphy, glancing sternly at the head on Betsey's
knee, "dat de quality don' set demse'ves up on er pa'sel er chillun no
mo'. De time done gone by. My Mahaly, she went up ter some outlandish
place wid er wild Injun name, like Philadelphy, en she sez de smaller de
fambly de mo' stuck up is de heads er it. She sez ef Ole Miss had gone
up dar a-puttin' on airs 'case er her fifteen chillun, she wouldn't
never have helt up 'er head no mo'. Mahaly, she ain' mah'ed no man, she
ain't. She sez en ole maid in Philadelphy des' looks right spang over
all de heads, she's so sot up."

"'Tain' so yer," said Aunt Verbeny feelingly. "'Tain' so yer. Hit seems
like de 'oman nairy a man is laid claim ter ain' wuth claimin'. Ain' dat
so, bro' Ish?"

But Uncle Ish only grunted in retort, his head nodding drowsily. The
tremulous tracery the wood-fire cast upon his face gave it an expression
of dumb intensity which adumbrated all the pathos and the patience of
his race.

"Mahaly wuz er likely gal," went on Aunt Verbeny, "an' when she las'
come home, she wuz a-warin' spike-heeled shoes en er veil uv skeeter
nettin'. 'Tain' so long sence Rhody's Viney went to Philadelphy, too,
but she ain' had no luck sence she wuz born er twin. Hit went clean agin
'er."

"Lord a-mercy, Aunt Verbeny, she ain't a-comin' back dis way?" asked
Betsey, probing the apples with a small pine stick and giving the
softest to Eugenia.

Aunt Verbeny shook her head.

"She ain' never had no luck on er 'count er bein' er twin," she said.
"When she sot herse'f on a-gwine up ter de Yankees, Marse Tom, he tuck
er goose quill en wrote out 'er principles [recommendations] des' es
plain es writin' kin be writ--which ain't plain enough fer my eyes--en
he gun' 'em ter Viney wid his own han's. Viney tuck 'n put 'em safe 'way
down in de bottom uv 'er trunk en went 'long ter de Yankees. But she
ain' been dar mo'n er week when one night she went a-traipsin' out on de
street en lef er principles behint 'er, en, bless yo' life, oner dem ar
Yankees breck right in en stole 'em smack 'way f'om 'er. Yo' trunk is a
moughty risky place ter kyar yo' principles, but Viney, she wuz dat sot
up."

A nod of assent passed round the group. The children ate their apples
silently, and Moses got up to put fresh wood on the fire. As the green
log fell among the smouldering chips vivid tongues of flame shot up the
smoked old mortar of the chimney, and the remaining apples burst their
brown peels and sent out little rivulets of juice. The crackling of the
fresh bark made a cheerful accompaniment to the chirping of a cricket
hidden somewhere in the hearthstones.

"Dar now, bro' Ish!" exclaimed Aunt Verbeny, watching Eugenia as she sat
in the dull red glare. "Ef dat chile ain't de patt'en er young Miss
Meeley, I'se clean cracked in my head, I is. I 'members Miss Meeley des'
ez well ez 'twuz yestiddy de day Marse Tom brung her home en de niggers
stood a-bowin' en axin' howdy at de gate. She wuz all black en white en
cold lookin' twell she smiled, en den it wuz des' like er lightwood
blaze in 'er eyes."

Uncle Ish nodded dreamily.

"I use ter ride erlong wid Marse Tom ter co'te 'er," he said, "en de
gent'men wuz a-troopin' ter see her in vayous attitudes. Dey buzzed
roun' 'er de same ez bees, but she ain' had no eyes fer none 'cep'n
Marse Tom."

At that instant the door opened, and Rindy rushed in, breathlesly
pursuing Eugenia.

"Miss Chris is pow'ful riled," she announced, "an' Marse Tom is
a-stampin' roun' same ez er bull. I reckon you'se gwine ter ketch it
when dey once gits dere han's on you." Then, as her eye fell on
Nicholas, she assumed an indignant air. "Dis ain't de place fer po'
folks," she added.

Eugenia rose and put a roasted apple in her pocket.

"I ain't goin' to catch anything that Bernard doesn't catch," she said.
"When he goes I'm goin' too."

And she went out, followed by Rindy and the boys.

The first breath of the chill atmosphere brought a glow to Nicholas's
cheek, and he started at a brisk run across the fields. He had gone but
a few yards when he was checked by Eugenia's voice.

"Nick!" she called.

Her small, dark shadow was falling on the ground beside him, and by the
light of the pale moon he could see the fog of her breath.

As he went towards her she held out her hand.

"Here's an apple I saved for you," she panted. "And--and I don't mind
about your being poor white trash!"

He took the apple, but before the reply left his lips she had darted
from him and was speeding homeward across the glimmering whiteness of
the frost.





BOOK II

A RAINY SEASON




I


Mrs. Jane Dudley Webb was a lady who supported an impossible present
upon an important past. She had once been heard to remark that if she
had not something to look back upon she could not live: and, as her
retrospective view was racial rather than individual, the consolation
attained might be considered disproportionate to the needs of the case.
The lines of her present had fallen in a white frame house in the main
street of Kingsborough; those of her past began with the first Dudley
who swung a lance in Merry England, to end with irascible old William of
the name, who slept in the family graveyard upon James River.

Mrs. Webb herself was straight and elegant, and inclined to the
ironical, when, as Jane Dudley, the belle of the country-side, she fired
the fancy of young Julius Webb, an officer in the cavalry of the United
States. He danced a minuet with her at a ball in Washington, was heard
to swear an oath by her eyes at punch before the supper was over; and
proceeded the following week to spur his courtship upon old William as
daringly as he had ever spurred his horse upon an Indian wigwam.

The last Dudley of the Virginian line withstood, through several stormy
years, the united appeals of his daughter and her lover. In the end he
yielded, subdued by opposition and gout, retaining the strength to
insert but a single stipulation in the marriage contract, to the effect
that his daughter should drop the name of Jane and be known as Dudley in
her husband's household. To this the dashing bridegroom acquiesced with
readiness, and when, within a year of the wedding, his wife presented
him with a son, he called the boy, as he called the mother, by her
maiden name.

He was a jovial young buck, who lived in his cards and his cups and
loathed a quarrel as he loved a fight.

When the war between the States arose he went with Virginia, caring
little for either cause, but conscious that his heart was where his home
was. So he kissed the young mother and the boy at her side and rode
lightly away with a laugh upon his lips, to fall as lightly in the mad
charge of cavalry at Brandy Station.

When the news came Jane Dudley listened to it in silence, her hands
clasping the worsteds she was winding. After the words were spoken she
laid the worsteds carefully aside, stooping to pick up a fallen ball.
Then she crossed the room and went upstairs.

She said little, refusing herself alike to consolation and to
acquaintances, spending her days in the shuttered house with her boy
beside her. When he fretted at the restraint she tied a band of crźpe on
his little jacket and sent him to play on the green, while she took up
her worsteds again and finished the muffler she had been crocheting. If
she wept it was in secret, when the lights were out.

Some years later the house was sold over her head, but when she stood,
penniless, upon the threshold it was to cross it as haughtily as she had
done as a bride. The stiff folds of her black silk showed no wavering
ripple, the repose of her lips betrayed no tremor. The smooth, high
pompadour of her black hair passed as proudly beneath the arched doorway
as it had done in the days of her wifehood and Julius Webb.

Her neighbours opened their wasted stores to her need, and out of their
poverty offered her abundance, but she put aside their proffered
assistance and undertook, unaided, the support and education of her
child, maintaining throughout the struggle her air of unflinching irony.
She moved into a small white frame house opposite the church, and let
out her spare rooms to student boarders. Her pride was never lowered and
her crźpe was never laid aside. She sat up far into the night to darn
the sleeves of her black silk gown, but the stitches were of such
exquisite fineness that in the dim light of her drawing-room they seemed
but an added gloss.

From behind the massive coffee urn at the head of her table she regarded
her boarders as so many beneficiaries upon her bounty. When she passed a
cup of coffee she seemed to confer an honour; when she returned a
receipted bill it was as if she repulsed an insult. People said that she
had been born to greatness and that she had never adapted herself to the
obscurity that had been thrust upon her--but they said it when her back
was turned. To her face the subject was never broached, and her former
prosperity was ignored along with her present poverty. Of her own
sorrows she, herself, made no mention. When she spoke from the depths of
her bitterness of the war and the ruin it had left, her resentment was
general rather than personal. Above the mantel in her room hung the
sword of Julius Webb, sheathed under the tattered colours of the
Confederate States. At her throat she wore a button that had been cut
from a gray coat, and, once, after the close of the war, she had pointed
to it before a Federal officer, and had said: "Sir, the women of the
South have never surrendered!" The officer had looked at the face above
the button as he answered: "Madam, had the women of the South fought its
battles, surrender would have been for the men of the North." But Jane
Webb had smiled bitterly in silence. To her the Federal officer was but
an individual member of a national army of invasion, and the rights of
the victors, the wrongs of Virginia.

Her neighbours regarded her with almost passionate pride--rebuking their
more generous natures by the sight of her unbowed beauty and her
solitary revolt. When young Dudley grew old enough to attend school the
general and the judge called together upon his mother and offered, with
hesitancy, to undertake his education.

"He is only a year or two older than my Tom," began the judge, tripping
in his usually steady speech. "I assure you it will give me pleasure to
have the boys thrown together."

Mrs. Webb bowed in unaffirmative fashion.

"On my life, ma'am, I can't forget that Julius Webb fell at Brandy
Station," put in the general hotly. "Your husband died for Virginia, and
your boy shall not want while I have a penny in my pocket. I'll send him
to college with Bernard, and feel it to be a privilege!"

Mrs. Webb bowed again.

"A great privilege, ma'am," protested the general, uneasily.

Mrs. Webb smiled.

"The greatest privilege of my life, ma'am!" cried the general, his face
flushing and his eyes growing round with agitation.

In the end they gained their point, and Mrs. Webb consented, but with a
reluctance of reserve which caused the general to choke with
embarrassment and the judge to become speechless from perplexity. When
they rose to leave both thanked her with effusion and both bowed
themselves out as gratefully as if it were a royal drawing-room and they
had received the honours of knighthood.

"She is a remarkable woman!" exclaimed the general, wiping his eyes on
his white silk handkerchief as they descended the steps. "A most unusual
woman! Why, I feel positively unworthy to sit in her presence. Her
manner brings all my past indiscretions to mind. It is an honour to have
such a character in the community, sir!"

The judge acquiesced silently.

The interview had tried his Epicurean fortitude, and he was wondering if
it would be necessary to repeat the call before Christmas.

"If Julius Webb had lived she would have made a man of him," continued
the general enthusiastically, the purple flush slowly fading from his
flabby face. "A creature who could live with that woman and not be made
a man of wouldn't be human; he'd be a hound. There is dignity in every
inch of her, sir. I will allow no man to question my respect for our
immortal Lee--but if Jane Webb had been the commander of our armies, we
should be standing now upon Confederate soil--"

"Or upon the ashes of it," suggested the judge, adding apologetically,
"she is indeed a woman in a thousand."

He held it to be a lack of courtesy to dissent from praise of any woman
whose chastity was beyond impeachment, as he held it to be an absence of
propriety to unite in admiration of one who was wanting in the supremest
of the feminine virtues. His code was an obvious one, and he had never
seen cause to depart from it.

"I hope the boy will be worthy of her," he said. "It is a good name that
he bears."

The general took off his straw hat and mopped his brow.

"Worthy of her!" he exclaimed. "He's got to be worthy of her, sir. If he
takes any notion in his head not to be, I'll thrash him within an inch
of his life. Let him try it, the young scamp!"

The judge laughed easily, having regained his self-possession. "Well,
well, there's no telling," he said; "but he's as bright as a steel trap.
I wish Tom had half his sense." Then he turned past the church on his
way home, and the general, declining an invitation to dinner, went on to
the post-office, where he awaited his carriage.

From this time Dudley Webb attended classes at the judge's house and
became the popular tyrant of his little schoolroom. He was a dark,
high-bred looking boy, with a rich voice and a nature that was generous
in small things and selfish in large ones. There was a convincing air of
good-fellowship about him, which won the honest heart of slow-witted Tom
Bassett, and a half-veiled regard for his own youthful pleasures, which
aroused the wrath of Eugenia.

"I can't abide him," she had once declared passionately to Sally
Burwell. "Somehow, he always gets the best of everything."

When, after the first few years, Nicholas Burr entered the schoolroom
and took his place upon one of the short green benches, Mrs. Webb called
upon the judge in person and demanded an explanation.

"My boy has been carefully brought up," she said; "he is a gentleman,
and he will not submit to association with his inferiors. His
grandfather would not have done so before him."

The judge quailed, but it was an uncompromising quailing--a surrender of
the flesh, not the spirit.

"My dear lady," he began in his softest voice, "your son is a fine,
spirited fellow, but he is a boy, and he doesn't care a--a--pardon me,
madam--a continental whether anybody else is his inferior or not. No
wholesome boy does. He doesn't know the meaning of the word--nor does
Tom--and I shan't be the one to teach him. Amos Burr's son is a clever,
hard-working boy, and if he will take an education from me, he shall
have it."

The judge was firm. Mrs. Webb was firm also.

The judge assumed his legal manner; she assumed her hereditary one.

"It is folly to educate a person above his station," she said.

"Men make their stations, madam," replied the judge.

He sat in his great arm-chair and looked at her with reverent but
determined eyes. His head was slightly bent, in deference to her
dissenting voice, and his words wavered, but his will did not. In his
attitude his respect for her sexually and individually was expressed,
but he had argued the opposing interests in his mind, and his decision
was judicial.

"I am deeply pained, my dear lady," he said, "but I cannot turn the boy
away."

Mrs. Webb did not reply. She gathered up her stiff skirt and departed
with folded lips.

After she had gone the judge paced his study nervously for a half-hour,
giving uncertain glances towards the hall door, as if he expected the
advent of an incarnate thunderbolt. In the afternoon he sent over a
bottle of his best Madeira as a peace-offering. Mrs. Webb acknowledged
the Madeira, not the truce. The following day General Battle called upon
the judge and requested in half-hearted tones the withdrawal of Amos
Burr's son. He looked excited and somewhat alarmed, and the judge
recognised the hand of the player.

"My dear Tom Battle," he said soothingly, "you do not wish the poor
child any harm."

"'Fore God, I don't, George," stammered the general.

"He's a quiet, unoffending lad."

The general fingered his limp cravat with agitated plump fingers. "I
never passed him on the road in my life that he didn't touch his hat,"
he admitted, "and once he took a stone out of the gray mare's shoe."

"He has a brain and he has ambition. Think what it is to be born in a
lower class and to have a mind above it."

The general's great chest trembled.

"I wouldn't injure the little chap for the world George; on my soul, I
wouldn't."

"I know it, Tom."

"My own great-grandfather Battle raised himself, George."

The judge waved the fact aside as insignificant.

"Of course, Mrs. Webb is a woman," he said with sexual cynicism, "and
her views are naturally prejudiced. You can't expect a woman to look at
things as coolly as we do, Tom."

The general brightened.

"'Tisn't nature," he declared. "You can't expect a woman to go against
nature, sir."

"And Mrs. Webb, though an unusual woman (the general nodded), is still a
woman."

The general nodded again, though less emphatically.

"On my soul, she's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Why, damme, sir, if I had
that woman to brace me up I shouldn't need a julep."

And the judge, flinching from his friend's profanity, called Cęsar to
bring in the decanters.

Some time later the general left and Mr. Burwell appeared, to be met
and dispatched by the same arguments.

"Naturally my instincts prompt me to side with an unprotected widow,"
said Mr. Burwell.

"No Virginian could feel otherwise," admitted the judge in the slightly
pompous tone in which he alluded to his native State.

"But as I said to my wife," continued Mr. Burwell with convincing
earnestness, "these matters had best be left to men. There is no need
for our wives and daughters to be troubled by them. It is for us, who
are acquainted with the world and who have had wide experience, to
settle all social barriers."

The judge agreed as before.

"I am glad to say that my wife takes my view of it," the other went on.
"Indeed, I think she has expressed what I have said to Mrs. Webb."

"Your wife is an honour to her sex," said the judge, bowing.

Then Mr. Burwell left, and the judge spent another half-hour walking up
and down his study floor. He had gained the victory, but he would have
felt pleasanter had it been defeat. It was as if he had taken some
secret advantage of a woman--of a widow.

But the future of Amos Burr's son was sealed so far as it lay in the
judge's power to settle with circumstances, and each morning during the
school term Mrs. Webb frowned down upon his hurrying figure as it sped
along the street and turned the corner at the palace green. Sometimes,
when snow was falling, he would shoot by like an arrow, and Dudley would
say with quick compassion, as he looked up from his steaming cakes:
"It's because he hasn't any overcoat, mother. He runs to keep warm."

But Mrs. Webb's placid eyes would not darken.

When the boys grew too old for school Tom and Dudley went to King's
College for a couple of years, while Nicholas returned to the farm. The
judge still befriended him, and the contents of Tom's class books found
their way into his head sooner or later, with more information than
Tom's brain could hold. One of the instructors at the college--a
consumptive young fellow, whose ambitions had leaned towards the
bar--gave the boy what assistance he needed, and when the work of the
class-room and the farm was over, the two would meet in the dim old
library of the college and plod through heavy, discoloured pages, while
the portraits of painted aristocrats glowered down upon the intrusive
plebeian.

Despite the hard labour of spring ploughing and the cold of early winter
dawns, when he was up and out of doors, the years passed happily enough.
He beheld the future through the visions of an imaginative mind, and it
seemed big with promise. Sitting in the quaint old library, surrounded
by faded relics and colourless traditions, he felt the breath of hushed
oratory in the air, and political passion stirred in the surrounding
dust. There was a niche in a small alcove, where he spent the spare
hours of many a day, the words of great, long-gone Virginians lying
before him; behind him, through the small square window, all the
blue-green sweep of the college grounds ending where the Old Stage Road
led on to his father's farm.

He plodded ardently and earnestly, the consumptive young instructor
following his studies with the wistful eyes of one who sees another
striving where he has striven and failed. The students met him with
tolerant hilarity, and Tom Bassett, who would have kicked the
Declaration of Independence across the campus in lieu of a ball, watched
him with secret mirth and open championship. There had sprung up a
strong friendship between the two--one of those rare affections which
bend but do not break. Dudley Webb, the most brilliant member of his
class and the light of his mother's eyes, began life, as he would end
it, with the ready grasp of good-fellowship. He had long since outgrown
his artificial, childish distrust of Nicholas, and he had as long ago
forgotten that he had ever entertained it. As for Nicholas himself, he
had not forgotten it, but the memory was of little moment. He had a work
to do in life, and he did it as best he might. If it were the ploughing
of rocky soil, so much the worse; if the uprooting of dead men's
thoughts, so much the better. He slighted neither the one nor the other.

As he grew older he became tall and broad of chest, with shoulders which
suggested the athlete rather than the student. His hair had darkened to
a less flaming red, his eyes had grown brighter, and the freckles had
faded into a general gray tone of complexion.

"He will be the ugliest man in the State," said Mr. Burwell, inflating
his pink cheeks, with a return of youthful vanity, "but it is the
ugliness that attracts."

Nicholas had not heard, but, had he done so, the words would have left
a sting. He possessed an inherent regard for physical perfection,
rendered the greater by his own tormented childhood. He was strong and
vigorous and of well-knit sinews, but he would have given his muscle for
Dudley Webb's hands and his brains for the other's hair.

Once, as a half-grown boy, in a fit of jealousy inspired by Dudley's
good looks, he had called him "Miss Nancy," and knocked him down. When
his enemy had lain at his feet on the green he had raised him up and
made amends by standing motionless while Dudley lashed him with a small
riding-whip. The jealousy had vanished since then, but the smart was
still there.

At last the college days were over. Dudley was sent to the university of
the State; Tom Bassett and Bernard Battle soon followed, and Nicholas,
still plodding and still hopeful, was left in Kingsborough.

Then, upon his nineteenth birthday, the judge, who had left the bench
and resumed his legal practice, sent for him and offered to take him
into his office while he prepared himself for the bar.




II


When Nicholas descended the judge's steps he lingered for a moment in
the narrow walk. His head was bent, and the books which he carried under
his arm were pressed against his side. They seemed to contain all that
was needed for the making of his future--those books and his impatient
mind. His success was as assured as if he held it already in the hollow
of his hand--and with success would come honour and happiness and all
that was desired of man. It seemed to him that his lot was the one of
all others which he would have chosen of his free and untrammelled will.
To strive and to win; to surmount all obstacles by the determined dash
of ambition; to rise from obscurity unto prominence through the sheer
forces that make for power--what was better than this?

Still plunged in thought, he passed the church and followed the street
to the Old Stage Road. From the college dormitories a group of students
sang out a greeting, and he responded impulsively, tossing his hat in
the air. In his face a glow had risen, harmonising his inharmonious
features. He felt as a man feels who stands before a closed door and
knows that he has but to cross the threshold to grasp the fulness of his
aspiration. Yes, to-day he envied no one--neither Tom Bassett nor Dudley
Webb, neither the general nor the judge. He held the books tightly
under his arm and smiled down upon the road. His clumsy, store-made
boots left heavy tracks in the dust, but he seemed to be treading air.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon of a murky day in early November,
and the clouds were swollen with incoming autumnal rains. The open
country stretched before him in monotonous grays, the long road gleaming
pallid in the general drab of the landscape. As he passed along, holding
his hat in his hand, his uplifted head struck the single, high-coloured
note in the picture--all else was dull and leaden.

A farmer driving a cow to market neared him, and Nicholas stopped to
remark upon the outlook. The farmer, a thick-set, hairy man, whose name
was Turner, gave a sudden hitch to the halter to check the progress of
the cow, and nodded ominously.

"Bad weather's brewin'," he said. "The wind's blowin' from the
northeast; I can tell by the way that thar oak turns its leaves. It's a
bad sign, and if thar ain't a-shiftin' 'fore mornin', we're likely to
hev a spell."

Nicholas agreed.

"There hasn't been much rainfall lately," he added. "I reckon it has
come at last and for a long stretch." His eyes swept the western
horizon, where the clouds hung heavily above the pines.

"Yo' pa got his crops in?"

"Pretty much. The peanuts were harvested after the last frost."

"He ain't had much luck this year, I hear."

Nicholas shook his head.

"No less than usual. Last year he lost the brindle cow that was
calving. This season the mare died."

"Well, well! He never was much for luck, nohow. Seems like he worked too
hard to have Providence on his side. I allers said that Providence had
ruther you'd leave a share of the business to Him. Got through school
yet?"

"Yes; I'm reading law."

"Reading what?"

"I am going to study law in the judge's office--Judge Bassett, you
know."

"So you can keep a tongue in yo' head when those plagued cusses come
'bout the mortgage?"

"So I can take cases to court and earn a living."

"Why don't you stick to the land and make yo' bread honest?"

"The law's honest."

Turner shook his hairy head.

"It cheated me out o' twelve bushels of 'taters las' year," he said.
"Don't tell me 'bout yo' law. I know it."

Nicholas laughed.

"Come to me when I've set up, if you get in trouble," he rejoined, "and
I'll get you out."

The cow gave a lunge at the ropes, and the farmer went on his way. When
the man and cow had passed from sight Nicholas stopped and laughed
again. He wondered if he could be really of one flesh and blood with
these people--of one stuff and fibre. What had he in common with his own
father--hard-working, heavy-handed Amos Burr? No, he was not of them and
he had never been.

He had turned from the main road into the wood, when a girl on
horseback dashed suddenly towards him from the gray perspective. She was
riding rapidly, her short skirts flying, her hair blown darkly across
her face. A brown-and-white pointer ran at her side.

As she caught sight of Nicholas she half rose in her saddle, giving a
loud, clear call.

"Hello, Nick Burr! Hello!"

Nicholas stood aside and waited for her to come up, which she did in a
moment, panting from her exercise, her face flushing into a glowing
heat.

"I was looking for you," she said, waving a small willow spray in her
brown hand. "I went by the farm, but you weren't there. So, you are
nineteen to-day!" Her eyes shone as she looked at him. There was a
singular brilliance of expression in her face, due partly to the
exercise, partly to the restless animation of her features. She was at
the unbecoming age when the child is merging into the woman, but her
lack of grace was redeemed by her warmth of personality.

Nicholas laid his hand upon the bridle.

"Why, Genia, if I'd known you wanted me I'd have been hanging round
somewhere. What is it?"

"Let me look at you."

Nicholas flushed, turning his face away from her.

"God knows, I'm ugly enough," he said.

She leaned nearer, shaking back her straight, black hair, which fell
from beneath the small cap.

"I want to see if you have changed since yesterday."

He turned towards her.

"Have I?" he asked hopefully.

She regarded him gravely, though a smile played over her changeful lips.

"Not a bit. Not a freckle."

"Hang it all! I lost my freckles long ago."

"Then they've come back. There are one--two--three on your nose."

"Hold on! Let my looks alone, please."

Eugenia whistled softly, half grave, half gay.

"Down, darling!" she said to the pointer, and "be still, beauty!" to the
horse. Then she turned to Nicholas again.

"I've really and truly got something to tell you, Nick Burr."

"Out with it, then. Don't worry."

She swung her long legs idly from the saddle. "Suppose I don't."

"Then don't."

"Suppose I do."

"I'll be hanged if I care!"

"Oh, you do, you story. You're just dying to know--but it's serious."

She patted the horse's neck, watching Nicholas with child-like
eagerness.

"Well, I'm--I'm--there! I told you you were dying to know!"

"I'm not."

"Guess, anyway."

"Somebody coming on a visit?"

She shook her head.

"Try again, stupid."

"Miss Chris going to be married?"

"Oh, Lord, no. You aren't really a fool, Nick."

"Betsey got a baby?"

"Why, Tecumsey only came last June!"

"Then I give it up. Tell me."

"Say please."

"Please, Genia!"

"Say 'please, dear, good Genia.'"

"Please, dear, darling Genia."

"I didn't say 'darling.' I said 'good.'"

"It's the same thing."

She smiled at him with boyish eyes.

"Am I really a darling?"

"Do you really know something?"

"You bet I do."

"What is it?"

She laughed teasingly.

"It'll make you cry."

"Hurry up, Genia!"

"You'll certainly cry very loud."

"I'll shake you in a moment."

"It isn't polite to shake ladies."

"You aren't a lady. You're a vixen."

"Aunt Verbeny says I'm a limb of Satan. But will you promise not to weep
a flood of tears, so I can't cross home?"

She leaned still nearer, resting her hand upon his shoulder.

"I'm going away."

"What?"

"I'm going away to-morrow at daybreak. I'm going to school. I shan't
come back for a whole year. I'm--I'm going to leave papa and Aunt Chris
and Jim and you."

She began to sob.

"Don't," said Nicholas sharply.

"And--and you don't care a bit. You're just a stone. Oh, I don't want to
go to school!"

"I'm not a stone. I do care."

"No, you don't. And I may die and never come back any more, and you'll
forget all about me."

"I shan't. Don't, I say. Do you hear me, Genia, don't."

She looked for a handkerchief, and, failing to find one, wiped her eyes
on the horse's mane.

"What are you going to do when I am gone?"

"Work hard so you'll be proud of me when you come back."

"I shall be sixteen in two years."

"And I, twenty-one."

"You'll be a man--quite."

"You'll be a woman--almost."

"I don't think I shall like you so much then."

"I shall like you more."

"Why?" she asked quickly.

"Why? Oh, I don't know. Am I so awfully ugly, Genia?"

"Turn this way."

He obeyed her, flushing beneath her scrutiny.

"I shouldn't call you--awful," she replied at last.

"Am I so ugly, then?"

"Honour bright?"

"Of course," impatiently.

"Then you are--yes--rather."

He shook his head angrily.

"I didn't think you'd be mean enough to tell me so," he returned.

"But you asked me."

"I don't care if I did. You might have said something pleasant."

Her sensitive mouth drooped. "I never think of your being ugly when I'm
with you," she said. "It's a good, strong kind of ugliness, anyway. I
don't mind it."

He smiled again.

"Looks don't matter, anyway," she went on soothingly. "I'd rather a man
would be clever than handsome;" then she added conscientiously, "only
I'd rather be handsome myself."

He looked at her closely.

"I reckon you will be," he said. "Most women are. It's the clothes, I
suppose."

Eugenia looked down at him for an instant in silence; then she held out
her hands.

"I am going at daybreak," she said. "Will you come down to the road and
tell me good-bye?"

"Why, of course."

"But we must say good-bye now, too. Did we ever shake hands before?"

"No."

"Then, good-bye. I must go."

"Good-bye, dear--darling."

She touched her horse lightly with the willow, but promptly drew rein,
regarding Nicholas with her boyish eyes.

"Do you think it would make it any easier if we kissed?" she asked.

"Geriminy! I should say so!"

He caught her hands; she leaned over and he kissed her lips. She drew
back with the same frank laugh, but a flush burned his face and his
eyes were sparkling.

"More, Genia," he said, but she laughed and let the bridle fall.

"No--no--but it made me feel better. There, good-bye, dear, dear Nick
Burr, good-bye!"

Then she dashed past him, and a whirl of dust filled the solitary air.

He looked after her until she turned her horse into the Old Stage Road,
and the clatter of the hoofs was gone. When the stillness had fallen
again he went slowly on his way.

In the woods the pale bodies of the beeches seemed to melt into the
cloudy atmosphere. There was no wind among the trees, and the pervading
dampness had robbed the yellowed leaves of their silken rustle. They
fluttered softly, hanging limp from the drooping branches as if attached
by invisible threads. As he went on a deep bluish smoke issued from
among some far-off poplars where a farmer was burning brush in a
clearing. The smoke hung low above the undergrowth, assuming eccentric
outlines and varied tones of dusk. Presently the fires glimmered nearer,
and he saw the red tongues of the flames and heard the parched crackling
of consuming leaves. The figures of the workers were limned grotesquely
against the ruddy background with a startling and unreal absence of
detail. They looked like incarnate shadows--stalking between the dim
beeches and the blazing brush heaps. A few drops of rain fell suddenly,
and the fires began slowly to die away. At the foot of the crumbling
"worm" fence, skirting the edges of the wood, deep wind-drifts of
russet leaves stirred mournfully. Later they would be hauled away to
assist in the winter dressing of the fallows; now they beat helplessly
against the retarding rails like a vanquished army of invasion.

Nicholas left the wood and passed the field of broomsedge on his way to
the house. Beyond the barnyard he saw the long rows of pine staves that
had supported the shocks of peanuts, and from the direction of the field
he caught sight of his father, driven homeward by the threatening rain.

Sairy Jane, who was bringing a string of dried snaps from the outhouse,
called to him to hurry before the cloudburst. She was a lank, colourless
girl, with bad teeth and small pale eyes. Jubal, at the churn in the
hall, rested from his labours as Nicholas entered, and grinned as he
pointed to his mother in the kitchen. Marthy Burr was ironing. As
Nicholas crossed the threshold, she stopped in her passage from the
stove and looked at him, a flash of pride softening her pain-scarred
features.

"Lord, what a man you are, Nick!" she exclaimed with a kind of triumph.
"When I heard yo' step on the po'ch I could have swo'ed it was yo'
pa's."

Nicholas nodded at her abstractedly as he took off his hat.

"Where's pa?" he asked carelessly. "I thought he'd have got in before
me. I saw him as I came up."

"I reckon he won't git in befo' he gits a drench-in'," responded his
stepmother, glancing indifferently through the back window. "If he does
it'll be the first time sence he war born. 'Twarn't nothin' to be done
in the fields, nohow, an' so I told him, but he ain't never rested yet,
an' I don't reckon he's goin' to till I bury him."

As she spoke the rain fell heavily, and presently Amos Burr came in,
shaking the water from his head and shoulders.

"I told you 'twarn't no use yo' goin' to the fields befo' the rain,"
began his wife admonishingly. "But you're a man all over, an' it seems
like you're 'bliged to go yo' own way for the sheer pleasure of goin'
agin somebody else's. If I'd been pesterin' you all day long to go down
thar to look at that ploughin', you'd be settin' in yo' chair now, plum
dry."

Amos Burr crossed to the stove and turned his dripping back to the heat.

"Gimme a rubbin' down, Sairy Jane," he pleaded, and his daughter took a
dry cloth and began mopping off the water.

Marthy Burr placed an iron on the stove and took one off.

"Whar'd you git dinner, Nick?" she inquired suddenly.

"At the judge's."

"What did they have?" demanded Jubal from the hall, ceasing the clatter
of the churn. "Golly! Wouldn't I like a bite of something!"

"I shouldn't mind some strange cookin', myself," said Marthy Burr,
shaking her head at one of the children who had come into the kitchen
with muddy feet. "I ain't tasted anybody else's vittles for ten years,
an' sometimes I feel my mouth waterin' for a change of hand in the
dough."

She took one of her husband's shirts from the pile of freshly dried
clothes, spread it on the ironing-board, and sprinkled it with water.
Then she moistened her finger and applied it to the iron.

Amos Burr looked up from before the stove, where he still sat drying.

"You're a man now, Nick," he said slowly, as if the words had been
revolving in his brain for some time and he had just received the power
of speech.

"Yes, pa."

"Whatever he is, he don't git it from his pa," put in Marthy Burr as she
bent over the shirt. "He ain't got nothin' of yo'rn onless it's yo'
hair, an' that's done sobered down till you wouldn't know it."

Amos waited patiently until she had finished, and then went on heavily
as if the pause had been intentional, not enforced.

"You've got as much schoolin' as most city chaps," he said. "Much good
it'll do you, I reckon. I never saw nothin' come of larnin' yet, 'cep'n
worthlessness. But you'd set yo' mind on it, an' you've got it."

"Thar warn't none of yo' hand in that, Amos Burr," cried his wife,
checking him again before he had recovered breath from his last
sentence. "Many's the night I've wrastled with you till you war clean
wore out with sleeplessness, 'fo' you'd let the child keep on at his
books."

"I ain't never seen no good come of it," repeated Burr stolidly; then he
returned to Nicholas.

"I reckon you'll want to do somethin' for the family, now," he said,
"seein' yo' ma is well wore out an' the brindle cow died calvin', an'
Sairy Jane is a hard worker."

Nicholas looked at him without speaking.

"Yes?" he said inquiringly, and his voice was dull.

"I was talkin' to Jerry Pollard," continued his father, letting his slow
eyes rest upon his son's, "an' he said you war as likely a chap as thar
was roun' here, and he reckoned you'd be pretty quick in business."

"Yes?" said Nicholas again in the same tone.

Amos Burr was silent for a moment, and his wife filled in the pause with
a series of running interjections. When they were over her husband took
up his words.

"He wants a young fellow about his store, he says, as can look arter the
books an' the business. He's gittin' too old to keep up with the city
ways an' look peart at the ladies--he'll pay a nice little sum in cash
every week."

"Yes?" repeated Nicholas, still interrogatively.

"An' he wants to know if you'll take the place--you're jest the sort of
chap he wants, he says--somebody as will be bright at praisin' up the
calicky to the gals when they come shoppin'. Thar's nothin' like a young
man behind the counter to draw the gals, he says."

Nicholas shook his head impatiently, clasping the books tightly beneath
his arm. His gaze had grown harsh and repellent.

"But I am going into the judge's office," he answered. "I am going--"
Then he checked himself, baffled by the massive ignorance he confronted.

Amos Burr drew one shoulder from the fire and offered the other. A slow
steam rose from his smoking shirt, and the room was filled with the
odour of scorching cotton.

"Thar ain't much cash in that, I reckon," he said.

Nicholas took a step forward, still facing his father with obstinate
eyes. One of the books slipped from his arm and fell to the floor, with
open leaves, but he let it lie. He was watching his father's jaws as
they rose and fell over the quid of tobacco.

"No, there is not much cash in that," he repeated.

"Things have gone mighty hard," said Amos Burr. "It's been a bad year. I
ain't sayin' nothin' 'bout the work yo' ma an' Sairy Jane an' me have
done. That don't seem to count, somehow. But nothin' ain't come
straight, an' thar ain't a cent to pay the taxes. If we can't manage to
tide over this comin' winter thar'll have to be a mortgage in the
spring."

Sairy Jane began to cry softly. One of the children joined in.

"Give me time," said Nicholas breathlessly. "Give me time. I'll pay it
all in time." Then the sound of Sairy Jane's sobs maddened him and he
turned upon her with an oath. "Damn you! Can't you be quiet?"

It seemed to him that they were all closing upon him and that there was
no opening of escape.

Marthy Burr put down her iron and came to where he stood, laying her
hand upon his sleeve.

"Don't mind 'em, Nick," she said, and her sharp voice broke suddenly.
"Go ahead an' make a man of yo'self, mortgage or no mortgage."

Nicholas lifted his gaze from the floor and looked into his
stepmother's face. Then he looked at her hand as it lay upon his arm.
That trembling hand brought to him more fully than words, more clearly
than visions, the pathos of her life.

"Don't you worry, ma," he said quietly at last. "It'll be all right.
Don't you worry."

Then he let her hand slip from his shoulder and left the room.

He passed out upon the back porch and stood gazing vacantly across the
outlook.

It rained heavily, the drops descending in horizontal lengths like a
fantastic fall of colourless pine needles. Overhead the clouds were
black, impenetrable.

Through the falling rain he looked at the view before him, at the
overgrown yard, at the manure heaps near the stable, at the grim rows of
staves in the peanut field, at the sombre and deserted landscape. A raw
wind blew in gusts from the northeast, and the distorted ailanthus tree
in the yard moaned and wrung its twisted limbs. Sharp, unpleasant odours
came from the pig-pen in the barnyard, where the rain was scattering the
slops in the trough. A bull bellowed in a far-off pasture. Before the
hen-house door several dripping fowls strutted with wilted feathers.

He saw it all in silence, with the dogged eyes of one whose gaze is
turned inward. He made no gesture, uttered no exclamation. He was as
motionless as the lintel of the door on which he leaned.

Suddenly a gust of wind whipped the rain into his face. He turned,
reėntered the house, closed the door carefully, and went upstairs.




III


The next morning Nicholas went into the judge's study and declined the
offer of the day before.

"I shan't read law, after all," he said slowly. "There is a business
opening for me here, and I'll take advantage of it." He spoke in set
phrases, as if he had rehearsed the sentences many times.

"Business!" echoed the judge incredulously. "Why, what business is going
on in Kingsborough?"

Nicholas flushed a deep red, but his glance did not waver.

"Jerry Pollard wants me in his store, sir."

The judge removed his glasses, wiped them deliberately on his silk
handkerchief, put them on again, and regarded the younger man
attentively.

"And you wish to go into Jerry Pollard's store?" he inquired.

"I think it is the best thing I can do."

"The best paying thing, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the judge testily. "What is the world coming
to? I suppose Tom will be writing me next that he intends to keep a
stall in market. Well, you know best, of course. You may do as you
please; but may I ask if you are going to bargain in Latin and multiply
by criminal law in Jerry Pollard's store?"

"No, sir."

"Then, what in the--what in the--I really feel the need of a strong
expression--what in the world did you take the trouble to educate
yourself for?"

Nicholas was looking at the floor, and he did not raise his eyes. His
face was hard and set.

"Because I was a fool," he answered shortly.

"And now, if I may ask?"

"A fool still--but I've found it out."

The judge leaned back in his chair and tapped the ledge of his desk
meditatively.

"Have you fully decided?" he asked.

Nicholas nodded.

"I have thought it over," he said quietly.

"Then there's nothing to be done, I suppose. I hope the compensation
will satisfy you. Jerry Pollard is said to be somewhat tight-fisted, but
your business instincts may be equal to his acquirements. Now, I have a
number of letters, so, if you don't mind, I will bid you good-day."

He bowed, and Nicholas left the study and went out of the house.

Rain was still falling, and small pools of water had formed on the
palace green. Straight ahead the lane of maples stretched like a line of
half-extinguished fires, and the ground beneath was strewn with wet, red
leaves. The slanting sheets of rain gave a sombre aspect to the town--to
the time-beaten buildings along the unpaved streets and to the commons,
where the water stood in grassy hollows. Beneath the gray sky the scene
assumed a spectre-like suggestion of death and decay--the death of
laughter that seemed still to echo faintly from the vanished stones--the
decay of royal charters and of kingly grants. The very air was
reminiscent of a yesterday that was perished; the red, wet leaves
painted the brown earth in historic colours.

Nicholas turned the corner at the church and passed on to Jerry
Pollard's store--a long, low structure fronting on the main street--and
entered by a single step from the sidewalk. The show windows on either
side the entrance displayed a motley selection from the varied
assortment of a "general" store--cheap silks and high-coloured calicos,
men's shirts and women's shoes, cravats and hairpins, suspenders and
corsets. On the sidewalk near the doorway there was a baby carriage, a
saddle, and a collection of farming implements. As Nicholas crossed the
threshold a pink-cheeked girl passed him, her arms filled with bundles,
and at the counter an old negro woman was pricing red flannel.

Jerry Pollard, a coarse-featured, full-bearded man of sixty years, was
behind the counter. Nicholas caught his persuasive tones as he leaned
over, holding the end of the bolt of flannel in his hands.

"Now, look here, Aunty, you ain't going to find such a bargain as this
anywhere else in town. Take my oath on that. Every thread wool and
forty-four inches wide. Only thirty cents a yard, too. I got it at an
auction in Richmond, or I couldn't let it go at double that price. How
much? All right."

The flannel was measured off with skilful manipulations of the yardstick
and the scissors, the parcel was handed to the old negro woman, and the
change was dropped into the till. Then Jerry Pollard came from behind
the counter and slapped Nicholas upon the shoulder.

"Hello, my boy!" he said. "So your pa has taken me at my word, and here
you are. Well, Jerry Pollard's word's his bond, and he ain't going back
on it. So, when you feel like it, you can step right in and get to
business. When'll you begin? To-day? No time like the present time's my
motto."

"To-morrow!" returned Nicholas hastily. "I've got some things to wind
up. I'll come to-morrow."


"All right. I'm your man. To-morrow at seven sharp?"

Then a purchaser appeared, and Jerry Pollard went forward, his business
smile returning to his face.

The purchaser was Mrs. Burwell, and, as Nicholas passed out, she looked
up from a pair of waffle-irons she was selecting and nodded pleasantly.

"I am glad to see you, Nicholas," she said. "Juliet was asking after you
in her last letter. You were always a favourite of Juliet's. I was
telling Mr. Burwell so only last night."

"She was very kind," returned Nicholas, and added: "Is Miss Juliet--Mrs.
Galt well?"

Juliet Burwell had married five years before, and he had not seen her
since.

Mrs. Burwell nodded cheerily. She was still fresh and youthful, her pink
cheeks and bright eyes giving the gray of her hair the effect of powder
sprinkled on her brown fringe.

"Yes, Juliet is well," she answered. "They are living in Richmond now.
Mr. Galt had to give up his practice in New York because the climate did
not suit Juliet's health. I told him she couldn't stand transplanting to
the north, and I was right. They had to move south again. Yes, Mr.
Pollard, the middle-size irons, please. I think they'll fit my stove. If
they don't, I'll exchange them for the small ones. What did you say,
Nicholas? Oh! good-morning."

She turned away, and Nicholas stepped over her dripping umbrella and
went out into the rain.

When he was once outside he shook the water from his shoulders and
walked rapidly in the direction of the old brick court-house, isolated
upon the larger green. The door and windows were closed, but he ascended
the stone steps and stood beneath the portico, looking back upon the way
that he had come.

The street was deserted, save for a solitary ox-cart rolling heavily
through the mud. In the distance the gray drops made a sombre veil,
through which the foliage of King's College showed in a blurred
discolouration. From the branches of trees a double fall of water
descended with a melancholy sound.

Presently the ox-cart neared him, and the driver nodded, eyeing him with
apathetic interest.

When the cart had passed Nicholas came down the steps and started up the
street at the same rapid walk. He was not thinking of his way, but the
impulse of action had seized upon him, and he was walking down the
ferment in his brain. He did not formulate the thought that with bodily
fatigue would come mental indifference; he merely felt that when he was
tired--dead tired--he would go home and sit down to dinner and face his
father and discuss Jerry Pollard's terms. He would do that when he was
too tired to care--not before.

When he reached the heavy iron gate of the college he swung it open and
entered the grounds. In the centre of the walk stood the statue of a
great Colonial governor, and he paused before it for an instant, staring
up into the battered features of the marble face. He realised suddenly
that he had never looked at it before. Daily, for twelve years, he had
passed the college campus, sometimes crossing it so that he might have
brushed the effigy of the great Englishman with a careless hand--but he
had never seen the face before. Then he looked through the falling rain
at the deserted archway of the old brick building. For the first time
those grim walls, which had been thrice overthrown and had arisen thrice
from their ashes, impressed him with the triumphant service they had
rendered in the culture of his kind. He saw it as it was--a sacred
skeleton, an honourable decay. The long line of illustrious hands that
had procured its ancient charter seemed to wave a ghostly benediction
over its ancient learning. Clergy and burgesses, council and governor,
planters of Virginia and bishops of London had stood by its birth. It
was the fruit of the union of the old world and the new, and it had
waxed strong upon the milk of its mother ere it turned rebel. Later, to
its younger country, it had sent forth its sons as statesmen who gave
glory to its name. And through all its history it had overcome calamity
and defied assault. Thrice it had fallen and thrice it had rearisen.

He recalled next the sheltered alcove in the dim library, where he had
studied with the consumptive young instructor, who was dead. The
creepers upon the wall were encroaching stealthily upon the alcove
window. Scarlet tendrils, like forked flames, licked the narrow ledge.
Several wet sparrows fluttered in and out among the leaves.

He turned hastily away, passed the great Englishman with unseeing eyes,
clanged the iron gate heavily behind him, and went on towards the house
of his father.

The family were at dinner when he entered, and he took his seat silently
in the empty chair at his stepmother's right hand.

As he sat down she reached out and felt his coat sleeve.

"I declar, Nick, you air soaked clean through," she said. "Anybody'd
think you'd been layin' out in the rain all night. You go up and change
your clothes an' I'll keep your dinner hot on the stove."

Nicholas went upstairs mechanically, and when he came down his father
had gone to the stable and his stepmother was alone in the kitchen.

She brought him his dinner, standing beside the table while he ate it,
watching him with an intentness that was almost wistful.

"Would you like some molasses on your corn pone?" she asked as he
finished and pushed his plate away. Then, as he shook his head, she
added hesitatingly, "It come from Jerry Pollard's store."

But he only shook his head again, following with his eyes the wave-like
design on the mahogany-coloured oilcloth that covered the table.

Marthy Burr set the jug aside, nervously clearing her throat.

"I reckon Jerry Pollard has got one of the finest stores anywhar
'bouts," she said suddenly.

Nicholas looked up quickly and met her eyes. She was holding a dish of
baked potatoes in one hand and the other was resting for support upon
the edge of the table. Her face was yellow and interlined, and a faint
odour of camphor came from the bandage about her cheek.

"Yes," he replied indifferently. "He does a very good business."

His stepmother put the dish of potatoes back upon the table and took up
the pitcher of buttermilk. Her hand was trembling nervously. There was a
slight gasp in her voice when she spoke.

"I don't know but what it's as big a thing to be in a fine store like
that as 'tis to be a lawyer," she said.

For a moment Nicholas did not answer. His eyes grew darker as she stood
before him, and a shadow closed upon his face. As in a frame, he saw the
outline of her figure defined against the square of falling rain between
the window sashes. Her shoulders, bent slightly forward as if crushed by
the bearing of heavy burdens, reminded him of a domestic animal, full of
years and labour.

His face softened and he smiled into her eyes.

"Yes, I don't know but what it is just as well," he responded
cheerfully. The next day he went into Jerry Pollard's store and began
his winter's work. He measured off unbleached cotton cloth for a servant
girl; sold a pair of shoes to a farmer, a cravat to a young fellow from
the grocery shop next door, and a set of garden tools to an elderly lady
who lived in the street facing the asylum and had a greenhouse. At odd
times he looked over Jerry Pollard's books, and after dark he dunned
several debtors for unpaid bills. He did it quietly and thoroughly,
neither shirking nor overelaborating the minutest detail. There are men
who have an immense capacity for taking pains that is rarer than genius,
and he was one of them. Whether he made a success or a failure of life,
he would do it with a conscientious use of opportunities, good or bad.
An eye that is trained to detect the values of circumstances, and a hand
that is quick to adjust them, have produced the mental forces that make
or unmake the race.

When the day was over he went home and ascended to his room in silence.
The work had left him with a curious irritating sense of its
distastefulness. The second day was as the first--the week was as the
month. There were no variations, no difficulties, no advancement. With
the round of monotony his irritation sharpened. When Jerry Pollard spoke
he responded in monosyllables; when Jerry Pollard's pretty daughter,
Bessie, smiled in from the doorway, he kept his eyes on the counter. At
home he was even less responsive. The impulse which had prompted him to
return a cheering falsehood to his stepmother passed quickly. He
sacrificed himself to the family interests, but he sacrificed himself
begrudgingly. His face assumed lines of sullen repression; the tones of
his voice were full of subdued resentment. He found satisfaction in
meeting their overtures with irony, their constraint with callousness.
Since he had given the one thing they required and he valued, he
justified himself in a series of petty tyrannies. He met his stepmother
with avoidance, his father with aversion. The children he swore at or
ignored. Amos Burr, gathering his slow wits together, regarded him with
a chuckle of self-congratulation. His sensibilities were not susceptible
to slight friction, and his son's attitude seemed to him of small
significance. He had got what he wanted, and that was sufficient unto
the hour.

After the first two months, Nicholas underwent a dogged and indifferent
adaptation. He ceased to think of the judge, of Juliet, of Eugenia. He
laughed at Jerry Pollard's jokes and he winked at Jerry Pollard's
daughter. His horizon narrowed to the four walls of the shop; he told
himself that he had a roof above his head and fuel for his stomach--that
Bessie Pollard had skin that was fairer than Eugenia's and lips as red.
What did it matter, after all?

Sometimes Mrs. Webb entered the store, sweeping him, as she swept the
counter, with her clear, cold glance, and once Sally Burwell ran in to
do an errand for her mother and nodded with distant pleasantness as she
met his eyes. At such times he flushed and ground his teeth, but after
Mrs. Webb came farmer Turner, who shook his hand and said:

"Wall, I'm proud of you, Nick Burr."

And after Sally Burwell pretty Bessie Pollard threw him a kiss from the
doorway. It was not that he was ashamed of his work. He knew that at the
close of the war better men than he sought and accepted gratefully such
a livelihood as he disdained--that women in whose veins ran good old
English blood left their wasted homes to teach in public schools, or
turned their delicate hands to the needle for support. He was ashamed of
his past ambition--of his vaunted aspiration--and he was ashamed of
Jerry Pollard and his service.

The winter wore gradually to spring. A brilliant April melted into a
watery May. Nicholas, coming to Kingsborough in the early mornings,
would feel the long spring rains in his face as he splashed through the
puddles in the road. In the wood the white blossoms of dogwood showed
through interlacing branches like stars in a network of closely wrought
iron. On their hardy shrubs the pale pink clusters of mountain laurel
were beaten into shapeless colour-masses by the wind-blown rains.
Sometimes, up above, where the fiery points of redbud trees shot
skyward, a thrush sang or a blue jay scolded--and the bird-notes were
laden, like the air, with the primal ripeness of spring.

Underfoot the earth was fecundating in dampness. Chill blue violets
emerged from beneath the spread of rotting leaves, and where the
washed-out sunlight had last shone it had left rays of wandering
dandelions straying from the open roadside to the edges of the wood.

And the spring passed into Nicholas also. The wonderful renewal of
surrounding life thrilled through the repression of his nature. With
the flowing of the sap the blood flowed more freely in his veins. New
possibilities were revealed to him; new emotions urged him into fresh
endeavours. All his powerful, unspent youth spurred on to manhood.




IV


At last the rains were over. The sun came out again, and with it the
growth of the season burst into abundance. There were bird-notes on the
air, fragrance in the stillness, bloom on the trees. In the thicket
dogwood massed itself in clouds of dead-white stars, like an errant
trail from the Milky Way, lighting the wooded twilight. Wild azalea, so
deeply rose that the hue seemed of the blood, wafted its sharp,
unearthly scent across the underbrush to the road. The woods were vocal
with the mating songs of their winged inhabitants. The music of the
thrush welled from the sheer forceful joy of living. "It is
good--good--good to be a lover!" he sang again and again with amorous
repetition and a full-throated flourish of improvisation. In the pauses
of the thrush sounded the cheery whistle of the redbird, the crying of
the catbird, the liquid tones of the song sparrow, and the giddy
exclamations of the pewee. Sometimes an oriole darted overhead in a
royal flash of black and yellow, a robin stood in the road and delivered
a hearty invitation, or a hawk flew past, pursued by martins.

With the spring planting came a chance of outdoor work, and Nicholas
would sometimes rise at dawn and do a piece of ploughing before
breakfast. He had driven the team out one morning across the brown, bare
earth, which the plough had ripped open in a jagged track, when
something in the silence and the scents of nature smote him suddenly as
with a vital force. Dropping the reins to the ground, he threw back his
head and breathed a keen, quick sense of exaltation. A warm mist, sweet
and fresh as the breath of a cow, overhung hill and field, road and
meadow. In a black-browed cedar tree a mocking-bird was singing.

With a sudden shout Nicholas voiced the glorification of toil--of honest
work well done. He felt with the force of a revelation that to throw up
the clods of earth manfully is as beneficent as to revolutionise the
world. It was not the matter of the work, but the mind that went into
it, that counted--and the man who was not content to do small things
well would leave great things undone. The beasts before him did not
shirk their labour because it was clay and not gold dust that trailed
behind the plough; why should he? And where was happiness if it sprung
not from the soil? Where contentment if it dwelt not near to Nature? For
what was better than these things--the clear air of sunrise, the keen,
sweet smell of the fertile earth, the relaxation of tired muscles? Why
should he, who had been born to the soil, struggle forth to alien ends
as a sightless earthworm to the harrow's teeth?

On his way in from the fields he stopped an instant at the gate of the
barnyard to look at the red-and-white cow that was licking her little,
tottering calf. Some rollicking lambs were skipping near a dignified
group of ewes, that looked on with half-fearful, half-disapproving
faces.

At the pump he saw his stepmother filling a water bucket, and he took it
from her hands.

"I reckon it is too heavy for you to carry," he said timidly.

"'Tain't much to tote," returned Marthy Burr opposingly. "If I'd never
had nothin' more'n that to bear I'd have as straight a back as yo' pa's
got. 'Tain't the water buckets as bends a woman, nohow; it's the things
as the Lord lays on extry."

She relinquished the bucket and followed Nicholas resentfully to the
house.

"I never did care 'bout havin' folks come 'round interferin' with my
burdens," she murmured half-aggrievedly. "I ain't done for yet, an' when
I is I reckon I'll know it as soon as anybody--lessen it's yo' pa, who's
got powerful sharp eyes at seein' the failin's of other people--an'
powerful dull ones when it comes to recognisin' his own."

Then she set about preparing breakfast, and Nicholas flung himself into
a chair on the porch. Nannie, a pretty, auburn-haired girl, was grinding
coffee in a small mill, and he looked at her thoughtfully; then Jubal
came out, whittling a stick, and he turned his gaze inquiringly upon
him.

"What would you like to do in the world, Jubal?" he asked, "best of
all?"

Jubal looked up in perplexity, his fat forehead wrinkling.

"You ain't countin' in eatin', I s'pose?" he replied doubtfully.

Nicholas shook his head.

"No, leave out eating," he said.

"An' the splittin' open of that durn livered Spike Turner?"

"Yes, that too."

Jubal whittled slowly, his forehead wrinkling more deeply.

"Then I don't know whether it's to give ma a rest or to own Billy
Flinders's coon dog, Boss," he said.

Nicholas laughed for an instant, but the laugh softened into a smile.

At the table he asked his stepmother and Sairy Jane about the spring
chickens, and they answered with surprised eagerness.

"I am going to mark the lambs to-morrow," he said. "They're a nice lot."
And he added: "Some day I'll take the farm and make it pay."

"I don't see what you want to go steppin' in yo' pa's shoes for," put in
Marthy Burr. "When toes have got p'inted down-hill they ain't goin' no
other way. Don't you come back to raisin' things on this land. I ain't
never seen nothin' thrive on it yet, cep'n weeds, an' the Lord knows
they warn't planted."

Nicholas shook his head.

"Why, look at Turner," he said. "His land is as poor as this, and he
makes an easy living."

"A Turner ain't a Burr," returned his stepmother with uncompromising
logic, "an' a Burr ain't a Turner. Whar the blood runs the man follows,
an' yours ain't runnin' towards the farm. Jeb Turner can fling a handful
of corn in poor groun', an' thar'll come up a cornfield, an' yo' pa may
plant with the sweat of his brow an' the groanin' of his spirit, an' the
crows git it. A farmer's got to be born, same as a fool. You can't make
a corn pone out of flour dough by the twistin' of it."

"That's so," admitted Amos Burr, laying down his knife and meeting his
wife's eyes. "That's so. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough,
noways you turn it."

"Perhaps I'll try some day," said Nicholas with a laugh; and he rose and
went out of the house.

When he had reached the little gate he heard a voice behind him, and
turned to find his half-sister Nannie, her cheeks flushed like a damp,
wild rose above her faded dress.

"I want you to bring me something from the store, Nick," she stammered.
"I want a blue ribbon for my hair, it's--it's so worrisome."

She shook her auburn locks, and Nicholas realised suddenly that she must
be very good to look at--to men who were only in a Scriptural sense her
brothers. He felt a vague pride in her.

"Why, of course I will," he answered. "Blue let it be."

And he opened the gate and went on his way, leaving Nannie, still
flushed, in the path.

When he took down Jerry Pollard's shutters a half-hour later he stood
for an instant looking thoughtfully down upon the assortment in the
window. Then he leaned over and conscientiously set upright a blue-glass
vase before going behind the counter to unpin the curtains hanging
across the dry-goods shelves.

After breakfast Bessie Pollard came in and stood with her elbow resting
on the showcase as she flirted a small feather duster. She had just
released her hair from curl paper, and it hung in golden ringlets over
her forehead. Her face was ripe and red, like a well-sunned peach, and
the firm curves of her bosom swelled the gathers of her gown.

"You look real spry this morning," she said coquettishly; but he turned
from her in sudden distaste. Her tawdry refinement irritated the more
serious manner of his mood.

Presently she went back to her dusting, and he completed his daily
setting to rights of the shop before he drew up to the desk and made out
the bills that were due for the month. It was not until some hours later
that he looked up upon hearing a step on the threshold. At first he
stood up mechanically at the sight of a girl in a riding-habit. Then he
started and drew back, for the girl lifted her head, and he saw that it
was Eugenia Battle. In the same glance he saw also that there was a keen
surprise in her face.

"Why, Nick Burr!" she said breathlessly. She tripped over her long
riding-skirt and caught it hastily in one hand; in the other she carried
a small switch. She had grown tall and straight, and her hair was
gathered up from her shoulders.

For a moment they were both silent. In Eugenia's face the surprise gave
place to gladness, and the warmth of her personality gathered to her
eyes. She held out her ungloved hand.

"Why, Nick Burr!" she said again.

But Nicholas looked at her in silence. All the dogged bitterness of the
last six months welled to his lips--all his new-found philosophy
evaporated at the sting of wounded pride. He remembered with a start the
gray road on the afternoon in November, the sullen cast of the sky, the
hopeless trend of the wind among the trees, the leaping of the light
into Eugenia's face. She laughed now as she had laughed then--a hearty
little burst of surprise in the suddenness of the meeting.

He turned quickly from the outstretched hand.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, and his tone was like Jerry
Pollard's.

Eugenia's hand fell to her side, closing upon the folds of her skirt.
She caught her lip between her teeth with a petulant twitch. Then she
came forward and laid a small brown bit of cloth upon the counter.

"A spool of silk this shade," she said briskly. "Please match it very
carefully."

Nicholas pulled open the small drawers containing the silk, and compared
the sample with the row of spools. He made his selection, showing it to
Eugenia before wrapping it in brown paper.

"Is that all?" he asked grimly.

Eugenia nodded. He gave her the spool, and she lifted her skirt and went
out of the shop. A moment more, and she passed the door swiftly on the
brown mare. Nicholas closed the drawer and laid the torn sheet of
wrapping paper back in its place. A little girl came in for a card of
hooks and eyes for her mother, a dressmaker, and he gave them to her and
dropped the nickel in the till. When she went out he followed her to the
door and stood looking out into the gray dust of the street.

Across the way a lady was gathering roses from a vine that clambered
over her piazza, and the sunlight struck straight at her gracious
figure. From afar off came the sound of children laughing. Down the
street several mild-eyed Jersey cows were driven by a little negro to
the court-house green. In a near tree a wood-bird sang a score of
dreamy notes. Gradually the quiet of the scene wrought its spell upon
him--the insistent languor drugged him like a narcotic. On the wide,
restless globe there is perhaps no village of three streets, no
settlement that has been made by man, so utterly the cradle of
quiescence. From the listless battlefields, where grass runs green and
wild, to the little whiter washed gaol, where roses bloom, it is a
petrified memory, a perennial day dream.

The lady across the street passed under her rose vine, her basket filled
with creamy clusters. The cows filed lazily on the court-house green.
The wood-bird in the near tree sang over its dreamy notes. The clear
black shadows in the street lay like full-length figures across the
vivid sunlight.

The bitterness passed slowly from his lips. He turned, and was
reentering the shop, when his name was called sharply.

"Why, Nick Burr!"

The words were Eugenia's, but the voice was Tom Bassett's. He had come
up suddenly with the judge, and as Nicholas turned he caught his hand in
a hearty grasp.

"Well, I call this luck!" he cried. "I say, Nick, you haven't grown bald
since I saw you. Do you remember the time you shaved every strand of
hair off your head so we'd stop calling you 'Carrotty'?"

"I remember you called me 'Baldy,'" said Nicholas, running his hand
through his thick, red hair. Then he looked at the judge. "I hope you
are well, sir," he added.

The judge bowed with his fine-flavoured courtesy. "As I trust you are,"
he returned graciously.

"Well, all I've got to say," put in Tom, as his father finished, "is
that it's a shame--a confounded shame. What good will Nick's brains do
him in old Pollard's store? Old Pollard's a skinflint, anyway, and he
cuffed me once when I was a small chap."

Nicholas glanced back uncertainly into the shop.

"Oh, he isn't so bad when you know him," he said. "Most folks aren't."

"He seems to value Nicholas's services," added the judge politely.

Nicholas flushed. "I don't know about that," he returned awkwardly.

"I know one thing, though," said Tom with slow wrath, "and that is that
I'm not green enough to be fooled by Nick Burr, if other people are.
Father told me last night that it was Nick's own choice that took him to
Jerry Pollard's. Choice, the Dickens! Why, it's those blasted people of
his that put him here."

Tom was very red in the face, so was Nicholas. They looked at the judge,
and the judge looked back at them with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

"My dear Tom," he said at last, "I never gave you credit for being a
Solomon, but some day your wit may put your father to shame."

Then he held out his hand to Nicholas.

"When you're a little older, my boy," he remarked, "you may learn that,
though an old fool may be the biggest fool, he's not the only one. Come
to see us when you feel like it, eh, Tom?"

They passed on together, and Nicholas stood looking after them until a
man came in to exchange a pair of shoes.

"They're a leetle too skimpy 'cross the toes," he said deprecatingly.
"The heels air first-rate, but the toes sorter seem to be made fur a
three-toed somebody. 'Tain't as if I could jest set aroun' in 'em, of
course; then they'd be a fine fit, but when I go ter stan' up they
pinches."

Nicholas gave him a larger size and put the box back upon the shelf. He
was thinking of Tom Bassett and the twinkle in the judge's eyes, and he
did not hear the man's rambling speech. It seemed to him that his
friendship with Tom and his father had been restored--that he might once
more go freely in and out of the judge's house.

When the day was over he walked slowly homeward along the deserted road,
his mind still busy with recollections of the morning. Yes, life was
decidedly endurable at worst. If he might not become celebrated, he
might at least become content. He was _not_ Tom Bassett, but he had Tom
Bassett's friendship. He would live a simple life in his own class among
his own people, and he would grow to be respected by those who were
above him.

He had entered the wood, when he remembered suddenly that he had
forgotten the ribbon for his sister Nannie. He turned quickly and
retraced his steps through the thickening twilight.




V


So Nicholas's first fight for his manhood was fought and won. He went
back to his books--went back because his intellect ordained it, and the
ordinance of intellect is fate--but bitterness had gone out of him, and
he had come into his own. From the stress of the last year he had found
security in acceptance. His life might not be such as he had planned
it--whose was?--his work might not be the thing he wanted--again, whose
was?--but life and work were with him, and it remained for him to make
the best of them. Fate might make him a shopkeeper; he would see to it
that it made him a successful one. Success read backwards spelt work,
and work was his inheritance--a heritage of sweat and labour.

He went to Jerry Pollard's an hour earlier that he might rearrange to
advantage the shelves. His employer had secured, below cost, a supply of
dry goods, and preparations were in the making for the first summer sale
in Kingsborough. Nicholas conducted the arrangements as conscientiously
as he might have conducted a legal argument. It was the thing before
him, and it must not fail.

But at night he found his greater hour. When supper was over and he had
helped his father with the odd jobs of the farm, he would take the smoky
kerosene lamp to his room and plunge into the pages of "The Federalist."
From his sharp, retentive memory nothing passed. He held his knowledge
with the same vital grip with which he held his friends.

He had the judge's library now and the judge's assistance. Evening after
evening he sat in the dim, ghost-hallowed room, the shining calf-bound
volumes girdling the walls, and absorbed the judge as the judge, in his
own time, had absorbed the men who were gone. From that rich storehouse
of high principles and simple deeds Nicholas's future was drawing
nourishment. Judge Bassett had lived his life in a village, but he had
lived it among statesmen. His book-shelves were green with their
inspiration, his memory fresh from their impress. In his youth he
himself had been one of the hopes of his State; in his age he was one of
her consolations.

He treated the younger man with that quaint courtliness which knew not
affectation. When he talked to him, as he often did, of the great legal
minds, it was always with the courtesy of their titles. He spoke of "Mr.
Chancellor Kent," of "Mr. Justice Blackstone," as he spoke of "President
Davis" or of "General Lee." To have alluded to them more familiarly he
would have held to be a breach of etiquette of unpardonable grossness.

One day he had started in Nicholas his old political dreams of
Jeffersonian lustre.

"Virginia is not dead but sleepeth," the judge had said, as a prelude to
denunciation of the Readjuster party then in power.

Nicholas was looking at a collection of autograph letters that lay on
the judge's desk. He glanced up with an impulsive start.

"Oh, but I should like to have lived then!" he exclaimed.

The older man shook his head.

"It is not the times, but the man," he answered. "The time makes the
man, the great man makes his time."

He leaned his massive old head against the carved back of his chair and
looked at the other in his kindly, unambitious optimism. He had lost
most that the world accounts of worth, but life had dealt gently by him,
on the whole, since it had never infringed upon the sensitiveness of his
self-esteem.

"It's rough on the man," Nicholas returned brusquely, and a little later
he went out into the night. He had his periods of depression, when
desire seemed greater than duty, as he had his periods of exaltation,
when duty seemed greater than desire. Neither affected, to outward
seeming, the course of his life, but each left its mark upon his mental
forces. The chief thing was that he did the work he hated as thoroughly
as he did the work he loved.

The spring ripened into summer and the summer chilled into autumn. He
had kept rigidly to his way and to his resolutions. From neither had he
swerved in one regard. His stepmother, fixing sharp, tired eyes upon him
mentally drafted, "After all's said an' done, the Lord knows best." She
believed him to be content, as she had reason to, for he gave no outward
uneasy sign. When his small savings had paid off Amos Burr's little
debt, and they started, unhandicapped, upon their shaky progress, it
seemed to her that she was justified in commending, for the second time,
the visible methods of Providence--a commendation which faltered only
before a threatening twinge of neuralgia.

Early in October the judge, whose practice was drawn largely from other
sections of the State, left home for an absence of several weeks. Upon
his return he sent for Nicholas in the early afternoon, an unusual
happening. The young man, dropping in at two o'clock, found him at work
in his library before the early dinner, a generous mint julep upon a
silver tray on his desk. Cęsar was an acknowledged artist in the mixing
of the beverage, and Mrs. Burwell had once exclaimed that "the judge was
prouder of Cęsar's fame at the bar than of his own."

"It is an art that is becoming extinct, madam," the judge had replied
sadly. "I should wager there are more men in the State to-day who can
make a speech than can mix a julep. Cęsar's distinction is greater than
mine."

To-day, as Nicholas entered, the judge greeted him hospitably and called
for another concoction. When Cęsar brought it, frosted and clear and
odorous, the judge raised his own goblet and bowed to his caller.

"To your future, my boy," he said graciously; then, as Nicholas blushed
and stammered, he asked kindly:

"How are you getting on now?"

"Very well."

"So well that you wouldn't like a change?"

Nicholas threw a startled look upon him. His pulse beat swiftly, and his
skin burned. By these physical reactions he realised the fluttering of
his hopes.

"A change!" he said slowly, holding himself in hand. "Yes,
I--should--like a change."

The judge sipped his julep, breathing with enjoyment the strong
fragrance of the mint.

"I have just seen my friend, Professor Hartwell, of the University," he
said, "and he mentioned to me that in the work of compiling his law-book
he found great need of a secretary. It at once occurred to me that it
was a suitable opening for you, and I ventured to suggest as much to
him--"

He paused an instant, gazing thoughtfully into his glass.

"And he?" urged Nicholas hurriedly.

"He would like some correspondence with you, I believe; but, if the
prospect pleases you, and you would care to undertake the work--"

"Care?" gasped the younger man passionately; "care! Why I--I'd sell my
soul for the chance."

The judge laughed softly.

"Such extreme measures are unnecessary, I think. No doubt it can be
arranged. I understand from your father that he has tided over his last
failures."

But Nicholas did not hear him; the words of release were ringing in his
ears.

       *       *       *       *       *

The year that Nicholas Burr "worked" his way to a degree at the
University of the State Tom Bassett returned to Kingsborough and took up
that portion of the judge's practice which he termed "local"; and his
fellow citizens, whose daily existence was proof of their belief in
hereditary virtues, brought their legal difficulties to his door. He was
a stout, flaxen-haired young fellow, with broad shoulders and honest,
light-blue eyes, holding an habitual shade of perplexity. People said of
him that his heart outran his head, but they loved him not the less for
this--perhaps the more.

Upon his return to Kingsborough he applied himself conscientiously to
his cases, paid a series of social calls, and fell over head and ears in
love with Sally Burwell.

"There are two things which every respectable young man in Kingsborough
goes through with," remarked the rector's wife as she sat at breakfast
with her husband. "He becomes confirmed and he goes mad about Sally
Burwell. For my part it does not surprise me. She's not pretty, but no
man has ever found it out, and no man ever will. Did you notice that
muslin she had on in church last Sunday--all frills and tucks--"

"My mind was upon my sermon, dear," murmured the rector apologetically.

"But we've eyes as well as minds, and those of every man in the
congregation were on that dress of Sally's."

The rector meekly stirred his coffee.

"I have no doubt of it," he answered. "But what do you think of Tom's
chances, my dear?"

"They aren't worth a candle," returned his wife with an emphasis which
settled the question in the rector's mind.

Within a month Tom's chances were the topic of Kingsborough. They were
discussed at the post-office, at sewing societies, at church festivals.
Not a soul in the congregation but knew the number of times he had
accompanied her to evening services; not an inhabitant of the town but
was aware of the hour and the afternoon upon which they had last walked
through Lover's Lane.

When the state of affairs had gone the rounds of the community until
they were worn threadbare, they effected a final lodgment in the mind of
Mr. Burwell.

"I have made a little discovery," he announced one evening to his wife
as she was brushing her hair for the night.

Mrs. Burwell was all delighted attention.

"Why, what can it be?" she murmured with gratifying feminine curiosity.

"You may have noticed, my dear," began Mr. Burwell with a nervous glance
at Sally's chamber door across the hall, "that our friend Tom Bassett
has called frequently of late."

His wife nodded smilingly.

"Well, it has occurred to me from something I observed this evening that
it is Sally who attracts him."

Mrs. Burwell threw back her pretty head and laughed.

"Why, Mr. Burwell!" she exclaimed, "did you think that it was you--or
I--or your grandfather's portrait?"

Her husband looked slightly abashed.

"So you have observed it?" he asked in an injured tone.

Mrs. Burwell laid her brush aside and crossed the room to where he
stood.

"Everybody knows you are a very clever man, Mr. Burwell," she said. "I
have never pretended to have as much sense as a man, and I hope nobody
has ever accused me of anything so unwomanly--but there are some things
you can't teach your wife, with all your experience."

Mr. Burwell stroked the plump hand on his arm and smiled in returning
self-esteem.

"And you are quite sure he fancies Sally?" he inquired.

"I know it," replied his wife decisively.

"Would it not be wise to prepare her, my dear?"

"Prepare Sally?" gasped Mrs. Burwell, and she went back to her mirror
with dancing eyes.




VI


"I have learned all they can teach me here," wrote Eugenia from school
on her eighteenth birthday, "so I'll be home to-morrow."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the general, holding the letter above his
cakes and coffee. "The child's mad--clean mad! We must put a stop to
it."

"Write her to stay where she is," said Miss Chris decisively.

"I'll write her, the young puss!" returned the general angrily. "Giving
herself airs at her age, is she? Why, she's just left her bottle!"

"What else does she say, Tom?" inquired his sister as she passed him the
maple syrup.

The letter fluttered helplessly in the general's hand. "I can't stay
away any longer from my dear, bad-tempered, old dad," he read in a
breaking voice; then he added hesitatingly, "I don't reckon she's right
about knowing enough, eh, Chris?"

"Certainly not," responded Miss Chris severely. "The child's as
headstrong as a colt. Get that letter off in time for the train, and
I'll let Sampson carry it to town."

The general finished his breakfast and went to the old secretary in the
library to write his letter. When he had given it to Sampson he came
back to Miss Chris, who was washing the teacups in the pantry.

"I s'pose we might as well get her room ready," he suggested. "She may
come, anyway, you know."

Miss Chris looked up with a laugh from the delicate saucer she was
wiping.

"I know it," she admitted; "and I'll see to her room. But your letter
was positive, I hope?"

"Y-e-s," answered the general lamely, and he returned to the Richmond
papers with an eager flush in his face.

The next day when Eugenia reached Kingsborough she found the dilapidated
carriage awaiting her, with Sampson upon the driver's seat. With an
impetuous flutter she threw her arms about the necks of the old horses.
"Why, you dear things!" she cried; then she held out her hand to
Sampson. "I'm glad to see you, Sampson," she said. "But why didn't papa
come to meet me?"

Her animated eyes glanced joyously from side to side and her lips were
brimming with the delight of homecoming.

Sampson turned the wheel for her as she got into the carriage, and gave
her the linen lap-robe.

"You sho is growed, Miss Eugeny," he observed, and then in reply to her
question, "Marse Tom hev got pow'ful stiff-jinted recentelly. Hit seems
like he'd ruther sot right still den ease hisse'f outer his cheer. Sence
Ole Miss Grissel done drop down dead uv er political stroke, he ain'
step 'roun' mo'n he bleeged ter."

The carriage jolted through Kingsborough, and Eugenia bowed smilingly to
her acquaintances. Once she stopped to shake hands with the rector and
again to kiss Sally Burwell, who flew into her arms.

"Why, Eugie! you--you beauty!" she cried. Eugenia laughed delightedly,
her black eyes glowing.

"Am I good-looking?" she asked. "I'm so glad. But I'll never be as
pretty as you, you dear, sweet thing. I'm too big."

They laughed and kissed again, and Eugenia stepped from the carriage to
greet the judge, who was passing.

"This is a sight for sore eyes, my dear," said the judge, his fine old
face wreathed in smiles. Then, as his gaze ran over her full, straight
figure, "they make fine women these days," he added. "You're as tall as
your father--though you're your mother's child. Yes, I can see Amelia
Tucker in your eyes."

"Thank you--thank you," said the girl in a throaty voice. There was a
glow, a warmth, a fervour in her face which harmonised the chill black
and white of her colouring. Her expression was as a lamp to illumine the
mask of her features.

"I couldn't stay away," she went on breathlessly. "I love Kingsborough
better than the whole world."

"And Kingsborough loves you," returned the judge. "Yes, it is a good old
town and well worth dying in, after all."

He assisted Eugenia into the carriage, shook hands again, and the
lumbering old vehicle jogged on its way. In a moment another halt was
called, and Mrs. Webb came from her gate to give the girl welcome.

"This is a surprise," she said as she kissed her. "I dined at Battle
Hall last week, and they didn't tell me you were coming."

"They didn't know it," laughed Eugenia. "I come like a bolt from the
blue."

Mrs. Webb smiled coldly. She was just as the girl had known her in
childhood--only the high black pompadour was now white. She still wore
her stiff black silk gown, fastened at the throat by a Confederate
button set in a brooch.

"You are like yourself and no one else," said Eugenia simply. "But tell
me of Dudley--where is he?"

Mrs. Webb's face softened slightly.

"His practice is in Richmond now," she answered. "You know he studied
law and took great honours at college. But his ambitions, I fear, are
political. I don't like politics. They aren't for honest men."

Eugenia did not smile. She merely nodded assent and, saying good-bye
pleasantly, jolted out of Kingsborough into the Old Stage Road.

"When did Mrs. Webb dine at home, Sampson?" she asked suddenly after a
long silence.

"Hit wa'n' onc't en it wa'n' twice," said Sampson thoughtfully. "Mo'
like hit wuz tree times. She done been dar monst'ous often dis yer
winter, an' de mo' she come de mo' 'ristocratical she 'pear ter git. Dar
wa'n' no placin' her, nohow. We done sot 'er by Ole Mis' Grissel w'en
she wuz 'live, an' we done sot 'er by Miss Chris, an' we done sot 'er by
Marse Tom hisse'f, an', fo' de Lawd, I ain' never seen 'er congeal yit."

But Eugenia was seeking other information. "Is Uncle Ish well? And Aunt
Verbeny, and the dogs? and did you bury Jim in the graveyard?"

"Dey's all well," replied Sampson, flicking at a horsefly on the
sorrel's back, "an' Jim, he's well en buried. Marse Tom sot up er boa'd
des' like you tell 'im."

A little later they turned into the cedar avenue, and Eugenia could see
the large white pillars of the porch.

"There they are!" she cried excitedly, and before the carriage stopped
she was up the narrow walk and in the general's arms.

"Well, daughter! daughter!" said the general. His eyes were watery, and
when Eugenia fell upon Miss Chris, he blew his nose loudly with a
nervous wave of his silk handkerchief.

"I was obliged to come," explained Eugenia. "When I got your letter
saying I might, I was so happy."

"Tom!" murmured Miss Chris reproachfully, but her eyes were shining and
she laid an affectionate hand on her brother's arm.

The general blushed like a boy.

"I told her if she'd fully made up her mind to come, I'd--I'd let her,"
he stammered shamefacedly.

"Oh, I was coming anyway!" announced Eugenia cheerfully as she was
clasped upon the bosom of Aunt Verbeny.

"Ain't you des' yo' ma all over?" cried Aunt Verbeny enthusiastically.
"Is you ever see anybody so w'ite en' so' black in de same breff 'cep'n
Miss Meeley? Can't I see her now same ez 'twuz yestiddy, stannin' right
dar in dis yer hall en' sayin', 'You b'longs ter me, Verbeny, en' I'se
gwine ter take cyar you de bes' I kin.'"

Aunt Verbeny fixed her eyes upon the general and he quailed.

"Don't I take care of you, Aunt Verbeny?" he asked appealingly; but
Eugenia, having greeted the remaining servants, drew him with her into
the dining-room. When he sat down at last to the heavily laden table, he
seemed to have grown twenty years younger. As Eugenia hung over him with
domineering devotion, the irritable expression faded from his face and
he grew almost jovial. When she weakened his coffee, he protested
delightedly, and when she refused to allow him his nightly dole of
preserved quinces, he stormed with rapture. "She wants to starve me, the
tyrant," he declared. "She'll take the very bread from my mouth next."

Then his enthusiasm overcame him.

"That's the finest girl in the world, Chris! God bless her, her heart's
as warm as her eyes. Why, she'd damn herself to do a kindness."

Miss Chris appeared to remonstrate.

"I am surprised, Tom," she said disapprovingly, though why she was
surprised or what she was surprised at the general never knew.

When Eugenia went upstairs that night, she blew out her candle and
undressed by the full light of the moon as it shone through the giant
sycamore. Outside, the lawn lay like a sheet unrolled, rent by sharp
black shadows. All the dear, familiar objects were draped by the
darkness as by a curtain; the body of the sycamore assumed a spectral
pallor, and the small rockery near by was as mysterious as a tomb. From
the dusk beneath the window the fragrance of the mimosa tree floated
into the room.

Eugenia, in her long, white nightgown, fell upon her bed and slept.

The next day she went the rounds of the farm. "I'm coming back to take
you for exercise," she remarked to the general as she stood before him
in her sunbonnet.

The general, who was placidly smoking, groaned in protest.

"Then you'll kill me, Eugie," he urged. "Exercise doesn't suit me. I'm
too heavy."

"You'll get lighter," returned Eugenia reassuringly. "You don't move
about half enough, but I'll make you."

The general groaned again, and Miss Chris, pink and fresh in her linen
sacque, came out upon the porch.

"Bless the child!" she exclaimed. "Where on earth did she lay hands on
that bonnet? Don't stay out too long in the sun, Eugie, or you'll burn
black."

The general caught at the straw.

"I wish you'd tell her she ought to sit in the house, Chris. She wants
to drag me--me out in that heat." But Eugenia drew the sunbonnet over
her dark head and disappeared across the lawn.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having inspected the farmyard and the stables, she crossed the ragged
field to the negro cabins, where she was received with hilarity.

"Ain't I al'ays tell you she uz de fines' lady in delan'?" demanded
Delphy of the retreating Moses. "Ain't I al'ays tell you dar wa'n't her
match in dese yer parts or outer dem? I ax you, ain't I?"

"Dat's so," admitted Moses meekly.

"Where's Betsey?" inquired Eugenia, twirling her sunbonnet. "Aunt
Verbeny told me the baby died. I am so sorry."

"De Lawd He give, en' de Lawd He teck," returned Delphy piously, "en' He
done been moughty open-handed dis long time. He done give er plum sight
mo'n He done teck, en' it ain' no use'n sayin' He ain'."

"So the others are well?" ventured Eugenia, and as a bow-legged crawler
emerged from beneath the doorstep she added: "Is that the youngest?"

Delphy snorted.

"Dat ar brat, Miss Euginney? He ain' Betsey's, nohow. He's Rindy's Lije,
en' he's de mos' out'n out pesterer sence Mose wuz born."

"Rindy!" exclaimed Eugenia in surprise, lightly touching the small black
body with her foot. "Why, I didn't know Rindy was married. She's working
at the house now."

Delphy seized the child and held him at arm's length while she applied a
sounding box. "Go 'way f'om yer, honey," she said. "Rindy ain' mah'ed.
He's des' an accident. Shet yo' mouth, you imp er darkness, fo' I shet
hit fur you."

"Don't hurt him, Delphy," pleaded the girl. "Rindy ought to be ashamed
of herself, but it isn't his fault. I'm going to send him some clothes.
He looks fat enough, anyhow."

"He's fitten ter bus'," retorted Delphy sternly.

"He don't do nuttin' fur his livin' but eat all day, en' den when night
come he don't do nuttin' but holler kaze de time ter leave off eatin'
done come. He ain' no mo' use'n a weazel."

Eugenia promised to befriend the baby, and left with Delphy's pessimism
ringing in her ears. "He ain' wuth yo' shoestring, he ain'," called the
woman after her.

The girl was as popular among the negroes as she had been as a small
tomboy in pinafores. Her impulsive generosity and, above all, her
cordial kindness, had not abated with years. She was as ready to serve
as be served, her heart was as open as her hand; and the shrewd,
childish race received her as a benignant providence. Her sweetness of
disposition became a proverb. "As sunshiny ez Miss Euginny," said Aunt
Verbeny of a clear day--and the general raised her wages.

During the early summer Bernard came home on a vacation. For several
years he had held a position in a bank in Lynchburg, and his visits to
Kingsborough took place at uncertain intervals. He was a slight,
insignificant young fellow, with complacent eyes and a beautiful,
girlish mouth. His temper was quicker than Eugenia's, and he was in
continual friction with the general, who had grown absent-minded and
irritable. He not only forgot his own opinions as soon as he expressed
them, but, what is still more annoying, he was apt to offer them as some
one's else in the course of a few hours.

"That young Burr's a scamp," he remarked one morning at breakfast, "a
regular scamp. Here he's setting up as a lawyer under George Bassett's
eye, when I happen to know that Jerry Pollard wouldn't have him in his
store if you paid him."

"My dear Tom," breathed the placid voice of Miss Chris, "I'm quite sure
you're mistaken. Why, Judge Bassett--"

"Mistaken!" persisted the general angrily. "Am I the man to make a
statement without authority? I tell you he's a scamp, ma'am--a regular
scamp! If you please to doubt my word--"

"That's rather rough on a chap, isn't it?" put in Bernard indifferently.
"He isn't a gentleman, but I shouldn't call him a scamp."

"Why should you call him anything, sir?" demanded the general. "It's no
business of yours, is it? If I choose to call him a--"

"Now, father," said Eugenia, and at her decisive tones the general broke
off and turned upon her round, inquiring eyes. "Now, father, you don't
mean one word that you're saying, and you know it." And she proceeded to
butter his cakes.

The general was suppressed, and after breakfast he got into the carriage
beside his daughter and drove slowly into town. When he returned to
dinner he met Miss Chris with triumphant eyes.

"By the way, Chris, you were mistaken this morning about that Burr boy.
He's quite a decent person. I don't see how you got it into your head
there was something wrong about him."

"I'm glad to hear it," responded Miss Chris good-humouredly. She had
never uttered a harsh word about anybody in her life, but she was a
long-suffering woman, and she philosophically accepted the accusation.

Twenty-four hours later the general had a passage at arms with Bernard.

"You can watch the threshing this morning, my boy," he remarked as he
sat down to breakfast. "You won't go in to town, I suppose?"

Bernard shook his head.

"I thought of riding in for the mail," he answered; "there's a letter
I'm looking for."

The general flushed and put out a preliminary feeler. "How are you
going?" he inquired; "not on one of my horses, I hope?"

Eugenia shook her head at Bernard, but he went on recklessly:

"Why, yes, I thought I'd take the gray mare."

The general shook his head until his flabby face grew purple.

"The gray mare!" he thundered. "You mean to take out my gray mare, do
you? Well, I'd like to see you, sir. Not a step does the gray mare
stir--not a step, sir."

"Oh, all right," agreed Bernard so quietly that the general's rage
increased. "Keep her in the stables, for all I care." And, having
finished his breakfast, he bowed to Miss Chris and left the table.

But an hour later, as he passed through the hall, he found the general
waiting. "Aren't you ready?" he asked irascibly. "Are you going to waste
the whole morning? Why aren't you in town?"

Bernard's temper was well enough as long as there was no reason it
should be better; but he couldn't stand his father, and he knew it.

"I'm not going," he returned sullenly.

"Not going!" cried the general hotly, "not going after all the fuss
you've raised? What do you mean by changing your mind every minute?"

Bernard took his hat from the old mahogany rack. "I've nothing to ride,"
he replied irritably, "and I don't choose to walk--that's what I mean."

But his answer only exasperated his hovering parent.

"Damme, sir, do you want to make me lose my temper?" he demanded. "Isn't
the stable full of horses? Where's the gray mare, I'd like to know,
sir?"

"Eugie!" called Bernard angrily, "come here." And as the girl appeared
he made a break from the house. He possessed an abiding faith in the
endurance of Eugenia's clannish soul that was proof against even the
suggestion that it might succumb. His father was unquestionably trying,
but Eugie was unquestionably strong, and she loved her people with a
passion which he felt to be romantically unsurpassable. Yes, Eugie was
the hope of the family, after all.

As for the girl, she put her arm about the general and drew him to his
chair. He was failing rapidly; this she saw and suffered at seeing.
There were wrinkles crossing and recrossing his hanging cheeks, and
swollen bluish pockets beneath his eyes. When he moved he carried his
great weight uneasily. During the day she hung over him with multiplied
caresses; as he sat upon the porch in the afternoon she read to him from
the Bible and Shakespeare, the only books his library contained.

"After God and Shakespeare, what was left for any man to write?" the
general had once demanded of the judge.

Now he asked the question of Eugenia, and she smiled and was silent. Her
eyes passed from the porch to the lawn and the walk and the immemorial
gloom of the great cedars. Sunshine lay over all the warm, sleepy land,
and sunshine lay across her white dress and across the senile droop of
the general's mouth.

"For He maketh sore, and bindeth up," read the girl slowly. "He woundeth
and His hands make whole."

"He shall deliver thee in six troubles;--yea, in seven there shall no
evil touch thee."

"In famine He shall redeem thee from death: and in war from the power of
the sword."

She stopped suddenly and looked up, for the general's eyes were full of
tears.




BOOK III

WHEN FIELDS LIE FALLOW




I


On an October afternoon Nicholas Burr was walking along the branch road
that led to his father's farm. He carried a well filled bag upon his
shoulder, the musty surface of which betrayed that it contained freshly
ground meal, but, despite the additional weight, his figure was
unflinchingly erect. There was a splendid vigour in his thick-set frame
and in the swinging strides of his hardy limbs. His face--the
square-jawed, large-featured face of a philosopher or a
farmer--possessed, with its uncompromising ugliness, a certain eccentric
power. Rugged, gray, alert-eyed as it was, large-browed and overhung by
his waving red hair--it was a face to attract or to repel--not to be
ignored.

Now, as he swung on vigorously in the October light, there was about him
a joyousness of purpose which belonged to his age and his aspirations.
It was an atmosphere, an emanation thrown off by respiring vitality.

Across the road the sunshine fell in long, level shafts. The spirit of
October was abroad in the wood--veiling itself in a faint, bluish haze
like the smoke of the greenwood when it burns. Overhead, crimson and
yellow ran riot among the trees, the flame of the maple extinguishing
the dull red of the oak, the clear gold of the hickory flashing through
the gloss of the holly. As yet the leaves had not begun to fall; they
held tenaciously to the living branches, fluttering light heads in the
first autumn chill. In the underbrush, where the deerberry showed hectic
blotches, a squirrel worked busily, completing its winter store, while
in the slanting sun rays a tawny butterfly, like a wind-blown, loosened
tiger lily, danced its last mad dance with death.

To Nicholas the scene was without significance. With a gesture he threw
off the spell of its beauty, as he shifted the "sack" of corn meal upon
his shoulder. He had found Uncle Ish tottering homeward with the load,
and he had taken it from him with a careless promise to leave it at the
old negro's cabin door--then, passing him by a stride, he had gone on
his kindly, confident way. He forgot Uncle Ish as readily as he forgot
the bag he carried. His mind was busily reviewing the points of his last
case and the possible facts of a more important one he believed to be
coming to him. In this connection he went back to his first fight in the
little court-house, and he laughed with an appreciation of the humour of
his success. It was Turner, after all, who had given it to him; Turner,
who, having bought a horse that died upon the journey home, wanted
revenge as well as recompense. He remembered his perturbation as he rose
to cross-examine the defendant--the nervousness with which he drove his
weapons home. It had all seemed so important to him then--the court,
his client, the great, greasy horse dealer forced into the witness
stand.

He had proved his case by the defendant, and he had won as well a mild
reputation among the farmers who had assembled for the day. Since then
he had done well, and the judge's patronage had placed much in his hands
that, otherwise, would have gone elsewhere.

Beyond the wood, the uncultivated wasteland sported its annual carnival
of golden rod and sumach, and across the brilliant plumes a round, red
sun hung suspended in a quiet sky. In the corn field, where the late
crop was fast maturing, negro women chanted shrilly as they pulled the
"fodder," their high-coloured kerchiefs blending, like autumn foliage,
with the landscape. Around them the bared stalks rose boldly row on row,
reserving their scarred and yellow husks for the last harvest of the
year.

When Nicholas reached his father's house he did not enter the little
whitewashed gate, but kept on to the log cabin on the edge of General
Battle's land, where Uncle Ish was passing his declining years in
poverty and independence. The cabin stood above a little gully which
skirted the dividing line of the pastures, facing, in its primitive
nudity, the level stretch of the shadowless highway. It was a rotting,
one-room dwelling, with a wide doorway opening upon a small, bare strip
of ground where a gnarled oak grew. In the rear there was a small
garden, denuded now of its modest vegetables, only the leafy foliage of
a late pea crop retaining a semblance of fruitfulness.

Nicholas went up the narrow path leading from the road to the hut, and
placed the bag on the smooth, round stone which served for a step. As he
did so, the doorway abruptly darkened, and a girl came from the interior
and paused with her foot upon the threshold. He saw, in an upward
glance, that it was Eugenia Battle, and, from the light wicker basket on
her arm, he inferred that, in the absence of Uncle Ish, she had been
engaged in supplying his simple wants. That the old negro was still
cared for by the Battles he was aware, though upon the means of his
livelihood Uncle Ish, himself, was singularly reticent.

As Eugenia saw him she flushed slightly, as one caught in a secret
charity, and promptly pointed to the bag of meal.

"Whose is that?"

He looked from the girl to the bag and back again, his own cheek
reddening. At the instant it occurred to him that it was a peculiar
greeting after a separation of years.

"It belongs to Uncle Ish," he answered, with unreasonable embarrassment.
"I believe your father gave it to him."

"He might have brought it home for him," was her comment, and
immediately:

"Where is he?"

"Uncle Ish? He's on the road."

Her next remark probed deeper, and he winced.

"What were you doing with it?"

Her gaze was warming upon him. He met it and laughed aloud.

"Toting it," he responded lightly.

She was still warming. He saw the glow kindle in her eyes and illumine
her sombre face; it was like the leaping of light to the surface. As she
stood midway of the entrance, in a frame of unpolished logs, her white
and black beauty against the smoky gloom of the interior, the red sunset
before her feet, he recalled swiftly an allegorical figure of Night he
had once seen in an old engraving. Then, before the charm of her smile,
the recollection passed as it had come.

"You may bring in the bag," she said, with the authority of one
accustomed to much service. "I found he had very little left to eat. We
have to bring him things secretly, and he pretends the Lord feeds him as
He fed the prophet."

She reėntered the hut, and Nicholas, stepping lightly in the fear that
his weight might hasten the fall of the logs, deposited the bag upon a
pine table, where an ash cake lay ready for the embers. In a little
cupboard he saw the contents of Eugenia's basket--a cold fried chicken
and some coffee and sugar. Before the hearth there was a comfortable
rocking chair, and a bright coloured quilt was upon the bed. As he
turned away the girl spoke swiftly:

"It _was_ good of you," she said.

"Good of me?" He met her approbation almost haughtily; then he
impulsively added: "I always liked Uncle Ish--and he reminds me of old
times."

She turned frankly to him. In the noble poise of her head she had seemed
strangely far off; now she appeared to stoop.

"Of our old times?"

Her cordial eyes arrested him.

"Of yours and mine," he answered. "Do you remember the hare traps he
set for us and the straw mats he taught us to plait? Once you said you
had stolen a watermelon to save Jake a whipping, and he found you
out--do you remember?"

He pressed the recollections upon her eagerly, almost violently.

Eugenia shook her head, half laughing.

"No, no," she said; "but I remember you carried me home once when I had
hurt my foot, and you jumped into the ice pond to save my kitten, and--"

"You shared your lunch with me at school," he broke in.

"And you dug me a little garden all yourself--"

"And you bought me a Jew's harp on my birthday--"

"And you always left half the eggs in a bird's nest because I begged you
to--"

"And you were an out and out angel," he concluded triumphantly.

"An angel, black-haired and a tomboy?"

He assented. "A little tyrannical angel with a temper."

Her confessions multiplied.

"I scratched your face once."

"Yes."

"I got mad and smashed your best hawk's egg."

"You did."

"I threw your fishing line into the brook when you wouldn't let me
fish."

"I have never seen it since."

"I was horrid and mean."

"Such were your angelic characteristics."

She thoughtfully swung the basket on her arm, her white sleeve
fluttering above her wrist. Her head, with its wave, from the clear
brow, of dead-black hair, was bent frankly towards him.

"It has been so long since I saw you," she said suddenly, "and when I
last saw you, you were horrid, not I."

He flushed quickly.

"I was a brute," he admitted.

"And you hurt me so, I cried all night."

"Not because you cared?" he asked breathlessly.

"Of course not--because I didn't care a--a rap. I cried for the fun of
it."

He was sufficiently abashed.

"If I had known--" he began, and stopped.

"You might have known!" she flashed out.

He was at a disadvantage, which he admitted by a blank regard.

"But things were desperate then, and--"

"So were you."

"Not as desperate as I might have been."

In her equable unconsciousness she threw off the meaning of his retort.

"But I like desperateness."

She had crossed the threshold and stood now in the ambient glow, gazing
across the quiet pasture, where a stray sheep bleated. She reached up
and broke a bunch of red leaves from the oak, fastening them in her belt
as they descended the narrow path.

In the road they came upon Uncle Ish, who was hobbling slowly towards
them. He was wrinkled with age and bent with rheumatism, and his voice
sounded cracked and querulous.

"Is de Lawd done sont dem vittles?" he demanded suspiciously. "Ef He
ain', I dunno how I'se gwine ter git mo'n a'er ash cake fur supper.
'Pears like He's gittin' monst'ous ondependible dese yer las' days. I
ain' lay eyes on er dish er kebbage sence I lef dat ar patch on Hick'ry
Hill, en all de blackeye peas I'se done seen is what I raise right dar
behint dat do'. Es long es Gord A'mighty ondertecks ter feed you, He
mought es well feed you ter yo' tase."

"There are some eggs in the cupboard," said Eugenia seriously. "You must
cook some for supper."

Uncle Ish grunted.

"En egg's er wishwashy creeter es ain' got ernuff tase er its own ter
stan' alont widout salt," he remarked contemptuously; after which he
grew hospitable.

"Ain' you gwine ter step in es you'se passin'?" he inquired.

Eugenia shook her head.

"Not to-day, Uncle Ish," she responded cheerfully. "I know you're
tired--and how is your rheumatism?"

"Wuss en wuss," responded the old negro gloomily. "I'se done cyar'ed one
er dese yer I'sh taters in my pocket twell hit sprouted, en de rhematiks
ain' never knowed 'twuz dar. Hit's wuss en wuss."

As they passed on, he hobbled painfully up the rocky path, leaning
heavily upon his stick and grunting audibly at each rheumatic twinge.

Nicholas and Eugenia followed the highway and turned into the avenue of
cedars. When the house was in sight, he stopped and held out his hand.

"May I see you sometimes?" he asked diffidently.

She spoke eagerly.

"Oh, do come to see us," she said. "Papa would enjoy talking about Judge
Bassett. He half worships him."

"So do I."

She nodded sympathetically.

"I know--I know. He is splendid! And you are doing well, aren't you?"

"I have work to do, thank God, and I do it. I can't say how."

"What does Judge Bassett say?"

He laughed boyishly. "He says silence."

She was puzzled.

"I don't understand--but I must go--I really must. It is quite dark."

And she passed from him into the box-bordered walk. He watched her tall
figure until it ascended the stone steps and paused upon the porch,
whence came the sound of voices. Through the wide open doors he could
see the swinging lamp in the centre of the great hall and the broad
stairway leading to the floor above. For a moment he stood motionless;
then, turning back into the avenue, he retraced his steps to his
father's house.

In the kitchen, where the table was laid for supper, his half-sister,
Nannie, was sewing on her wedding clothes. She was to be married in the
fulness of the winter to young Nat Turner--one of the Turners of
Nicholas's boyhood. By the light of the kerosene lamp she looked
wonderfully fair and fresh, her auburn curls hanging heavily against her
cheek as she bent over the cambric in her lap.

As Nicholas entered she looked up brightly, exclaiming: "Oh, it's you!"
in disappointed accents.

Nicholas looked about the kitchen inquiringly.

"Where's ma?" he asked, and at the instant Marthy Burr appeared in the
doorway, a pat of butter in her hand.

"Air you home, Nick?" was her greeting, as she placed the butter upon
the table. Then she went across to Nannie and examined the hem on the
cambric ruffle.

"It seems to me you might have done them stitches a little finer," she
observed critically. "Old Mrs. Turner's got powerful sharp eyes for
stitches, an' she's goin' to look mighty hard at yours. If thar's one
stitch shorter'n another, it's goin' to stand out plainer than all the
rest. It's the nater of a woman to be far-sighted at seeing the flaws in
her son's wife, an' old Mrs. Turner ain't no better'n God made her, if
she ain't no worse. 'Tain't my way to be wishin' harm to folks, but I
al'ays said the only thing to Amos Burr's credit I ever heerd of is that
he's an orphan--which he ain't responsible for."

"But the sewing's all right," returned Nannie in wounded pride. "Nat
ain't marrying me for my sewing, anyway."

Her mother shook her head.

"What a man marries for's hard to tell," she returned; "an' what a woman
marries for's past find-in' out. I ain't never seen an old maid yet that
ain't had a mighty good opinion of men--an' I ain't never seen a married
woman that ain't had a feelin' that a few improvements wouldn't be out
of place. I don't want to turn you agin Nat Turner--he's a man an' he's
got a mother, an' that's all I've got agin him. No talkin's goin' to
turn anybody that's got their mind set on marryin', any more than it's
goin' to turn anybody that's got their mind set on drink. So I ain't
goin' to open my mouth."

Here Amos Burr appeared, and as he seated himself beside Nannie she drew
her ruffles away. "You're so dusty, pa," she exclaimed half pettishly.

He fixed his heavy, admiring eyes upon her, receiving the reproof as
meekly as he received all feminine utterances. He might bully a man, but
he would always be bullied by a woman.

"I reckon you're pretty near ready," he observed cheerfully, rubbing his
great hairy hands. "You've got 'most a trunk full of finery. I reckon
Turner'll know I ain't in the poorhouse yet--or near it."

It was a speech of unusual length, and, after making it, he slowly
settled into silence.

"Nat wouldn't mind if I was in the poorhouse, so long as he could get me
out," said his daughter, taking up the cudgels in defence of her lover's
disinterestedness.

Amos Burr chuckled.

"Don't you set no store by that," he rejoined.

"An' don't you set about judgin' other folks by yourself, Amos Burr,"
retorted his wife sharply. "'Tain't likely you'd ever pull anybody out
o' the poorhouse 'thout slippin' in yourself, seein' as I've slaved
goin' on twenty years to keep you from land-in' thar at last. The less
you say about some things the better. Now, you'd jest as well set down
an' eat your supper."




II


The next day Nicholas went into Tom Bassett's office, where he met
Dudley Webb, who was spending a dutiful week in Kingsborough. He was a
genial young fellow, with a clear-cut, cleanly shaven face and a
handsome head covered with rich, dark hair. His hands were smooth and
white, and he gesticulated rapidly as he talked. It was already said of
him that he told a poor story better than anybody else told a good
one--a fact which was probably the elemental feature of his popularity.

As Nicholas looked in, he raised himself lightly from Tom's desk chair
and gave him a hearty handshake.

"Hello, Burr! We were just talking of you. I was telling Tom a jolly
thing I heard yesterday. Two farmers were discussing you at the
post-office, and one of them said: ''Tain't that he's got so much
sense--I had a sight more at his age--but he's so blamed sure of
himself, he makes you believe in him.' How's that for fame?"

"Not so bad as it is for me," returned Nicholas with a laugh. "If you
win one or two small cases, there's obliged to be undue influence of the
devil."

"Which, occasionally, it is," added Tom seriously.

Dudley threw himself back into his chair and crossed his shapely legs.
For a moment he smoked in silence, then he removed his cigar from his
mouth and flecked the ashes upon the uncarpeted floor.

"Oh! the mystery to me is," he said, "that you exist down here and live
to tell the tale--or at least that you earn enough crumbs to feed the
crows."

"Kingsborough crows aren't high livers," remarked Nicholas as he threw
himself into the remaining chair.

Dudley laughed softly--a humorous laugh that fell pleasantly on the ear.

"That reminds me," he began whimsically. "I met a tourist with
spectacles walking along Duke of Gloucester Street. 'Sir,' he said
courteously, 'I am looking for Kingsborough. I am told that it is a
city.' 'Sir,' I responded, with a bow that did honour to my
grandfather's ghost, 'it was once a chartered city; it is now only a
charter.'"

Then he turned to Tom.

"We haven't got used to the railroad yet, have we?" he asked.

Tom shook his head.

"General Battle's still protesting," he replied. "He swears it makes
Kingsborough common."

Dudley thoughtfully examined his cigar, an amused smile about his mouth.

"My mother doesn't want the cows turned out of the churchyard," he
observed, "because it would abolish one of Kingsborough's
characteristics. She's right, too, by Jove."

"They're having a fight over it now," put in Nicholas with the gravity
he rarely lost. "The people who own cows call it an 'ancient right.' The
people who don't, call it sacrilege. The rector leads one faction, and
the congregation has split."

"And split we smash," added Dudley. "Well, these are exciting times in
Kingsborough's history; it is almost as lively as Richmond. There we had
a religious convention and an elopement last week. I don't suppose you
come up to that?"

Nicholas ran his hand through his hair with a habitual gesture. He was
idly watching the light of Dudley's cigar and noting the quality by the
aroma. He could not afford cigars himself, and he wondered how Dudley
managed to do so.

"We are a people without a present," he returned inattentively. "You've
heard, I take it, that an old elm has gone near the court-house."

"My mother told me. I believe she knows every brick that used to be and
is not. I'm trying to get her away with me, but she won't come."

"Sally Burwell was telling me," said Tom, a dawning interest in his
face, "she had tried to persuade her."

"Yes, we tried and failed. By the way, is it true that Sally's engaged
to Jack Wyth? I hear it at every turn."

"I--I shouldn't be surprised," gasped Tom painfully.

"I don't believe a word of it," protested Nicholas.

"He isn't much good, eh?"

"Why, he's a brick," said Nicholas.

"He's a cad," said Tom.

Dudley laughed and blew a cloud of smoke in the air.

"Well, she's a daisy herself, and as good as gold. She's the kind of
woman to flirt herself hoarse and then settle down into dove-like
domesticity. But what about Eugie? Is she really grown up? My mother
declares she's splendid."

Nicholas was silent.

"Oh, she's handsome enough," Tom carelessly replied.

"But not like Sally, eh?"

"Oh, no! not like Sally."

Dudley tossed the stump of his cigar through the open window, lit a
cigarette, and changed the subject. He talked easily, relating several
laughable stories, referring occasionally to himself and his success,
illustrating his remarks by his experience at the bar, giving finally
the exclamation of a fellow-lawyer at the close of an argument he had
made: "You may be a muff of a jurist, Webb," he had cried, "but, by
George! you're a devil of an advocate!"

He was, withal, so affable, so confident, so thoroughly a good fellow,
that an hour passed before Nicholas remembered he had looked in only for
a moment.

When he rose to go, Dudley gripped his hand again, slapped him on the
shoulder, declared him to be a "first-rate old chap," and ended by
pressing him to drop in on him when he ran up to Richmond.

Nicholas gave back the friendly grasp and pledged himself to the
"dropping in." He resistingly succumbed before the inherent jovial
charm.

The afternoon being Saturday, he left town earlier than usual and spent
a couple of hours with his father in the fields. The peanuts were being
harvested. Amos Burr, with a peanut "share" attached to the plough, was
separating the yellowed plants from the ripe nuts underground, and
Nicholas, lifting the roots upon a pitchfork, shook them free from earth
and threw them over the pointed staves which were the final supports of
the "shocks." A negro hand went before him, driving the sticks into the
sandy soil.

"I should say you might count on forty bushels an acre," remarked
Nicholas cheerfully, as he lifted a detached root from a broken hill.
"It's a fair yield, isn't it?"

Amos Burr shook his head and muttered that there was "no tellin'.
Peanuts air one of the things thar's no countin' on," he added. "Wheat
air another, corn air another, oats air another."

"Life is another," concluded Nicholas lightly. "Still we live and still
we raise wheat and oats and corn. But I wish you'd look into market
gardening. I believe it would pay you better."

"'Tain't no use," returned Amos, with his accustomed pessimism. "'Tain't
no use my plantin' as long as the government ain't goin' to move, nohow.
It's been promisin' to help the farmer ever since the war, an' it ain't
done nothin' for him yet but tax him."

But Nicholas, to avoid his father's political drift, fell to talking
with one of the negro workers.

Several hours later, when he had changed his farm clothes, he joined
Eugenia in the pasture and walked with her to Battle Hall, where the
general received him with ready, if condescending, hospitality. Eugenia
had instructed her family upon the changed conditions of Nicholas's
social standing, but her logic was powerless to convince her father
that Amos Burr's son was any better than Amos Burr had been before him.

"Pish! Pish!" he exclaimed testily, "the boy's not a lawyer--only
gentlemen belong to the bar, but there's nobody too high or too low to
be a farmer. Polite to him? Did you ever see me impolite in my own house
even to a chimney sweep?"

"I never saw a chimney sweep in your own house," Eugenia retorted,
whereupon he pinched her cheek and accused her of "making fun of her old
father."

Now, when Nicholas sat down on one of the long green benches on the
porch, the general conversed with him as he conversed with the chicken
sellers who came of an afternoon to receive payment for their luckless
fowls.

"This'll be a busy season for you," he observed cheerfully, in the
slightly elevated voice in which he addressed his inferiors. "You'll be
cutting your corn before long and seeding your winter crops. What are
you planting this fall?"

He could not be induced to engage upon social topics with the young man
or to allude in the most distant manner to his legal profession. He was
a Burr, and a Burr was a small farmer, nothing more.

"We're ploughing for oats now, sir," responded Nicholas diffidently,
"and we're going to seed a little rye with clover--if the clover's
killed, the rye'll last."

"I should advise you to look after the land," said the general, stuffing
the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and pressing it down with his fat
thumb. "What you need is to plant it in cow-peas and turn them down.
There's nothing like them for fertilising."

Nicholas, who was listening attentively, rose to shake hands with Miss
Chris who appeared in the doorway.

"The fall comes earlier than it used to," she remarked, drawing a light
crocheted shawl about her shoulders. "Why, I remember when it used to be
summer up to the middle of November. I was talking to Judge Bassett
about it yesterday, and he said he certainly thought the seasons had
changed since he was a boy."

"I don't reckon your father has much opinion of fertilisers," broke in
the general, reverting to his pleasant patronage.

Nicholas answered before Eugenia could interpose. "No, sir, he doesn't
believe in them much," he replied.

"Well, you tell him it's lime he needs," continued the general. "The
most successful peanut grower I ever knew put about a thousand pounds of
lime to an acre, and he cleared--"

"Have you seen Dudley Webb?" asked Eugenia, shaking her head at the
general's frown.

"For an hour this morning. He was in Tom Bassett's office. He told some
good stories."

Miss Chris heaved a reminiscent sigh.

"That's poor Julius Webb all over again," she said. "He could keep a
dinner table laughing for two hours and fight a duel at daybreak. I
remember at his own wedding, when they drank his health, he told such a
funny story that old Judge Blitherstone, who was upwards of eighty, had
to have cold bandages put to his head."

The general took his pipe from his mouth. "Dudley's a fine young
fellow," he said. "I saw him yesterday when I went to the post-office.
They tell me he's making a name for himself in Richmond."

Eugenia laughed lightly.

"Papa adores Mrs. Webb, so he thinks Dudley splendid," she said.

"That lady is one of the noblest of her sex," loyally asserted the
general.

"And one of the most trying of either sex," added his daughter. "When I
came home my last holiday, she asked me what I learned at school, and I
danced a skirt dance for her."

"I always told you you spoiled Eugie to death, Tom," said Miss Chris in
justification of her own responsibility. "In my day no young lady knew
what a skirt dance was."

"But that's what I learned at school," protested Eugenia.

The general, feeling that the conversation excluded Nicholas, renewed
his attack.

"What do you think of raising garden products?" he inquired affably.
Then Eugenia rose, and he submissively retired.

"We aren't going to talk farming any more," said the girl. "Nick and I
are going into the garden for roses," and she descended the steps,
followed by Nicholas, who was beginning for the first time to breathe
freely.

"Tell your father to look into the truck-growing," was the general's
parting shot.

The garden was flushed with the riot of autumn. Over the little
whitewashed fence double rows of hollyhocks and sunflowers nodded their
heavy heads, and bordering the narrow walk were lines of chrysanthemums
and dahlias. October roses, the richest of the year, bloomed and dropped
in the quaint old squares where the long vegetable rows began. At the
end of the straight, overgrown walk the hop vines on the fence threw out
a pungent odour.

"Papa wants to have the garden ploughed," said Eugenia. "He says it
takes too much time to hoe it. Give me your knife, please."

He opened the blade, and she stooped to cut off a crimson dahlia while
the Indian summer sunshine slanted from the west upon her dark head and
white dress. Over all was the faint violet haze of the season, hanging
above the gay old garden like a delicate effluvium from autumns long
decayed.

"There aren't many old-time gardens left," said Nicholas regretfully,
"but I like this one best of all. I always think of you in the midst of
it."

"Yes, we used to gather calacanthus blossoms and trade them for taffy at
school. The bushes are almost all dead now. That is the only one left."

She laid the knife upon the grass and raised her arms to fasten a yellow
chrysanthemum in her hair. As it lay against her ear it cast a clear,
golden light upon her cheek, as warm as the late sunshine.

"Flowers suit you," he said.

"Do they?" she smiled in a quick, pleased way. "Is it because I love
them?"

"It is because you are beautiful," he answered bluntly.

Some one had once called Eugenia's besetting vanity the love of giving
pleasure; it was, perhaps, in reality, the pleasure of being loved. It
was not the fact that she might be beautiful that now warmed her so
gratefully, but the evidence that Nicholas was good enough to consider
her so.

"You have seen so few girls," she remarked reasonably enough.

"I may see many, but it won't alter my view of you."

"How can you tell?"

He shook his head impatiently.

"I shan't tell. I shall prove it."

"And when you have proved it where shall I be?--old and toothless?"

"May be--but still beautiful."

There was a glow in her face, but she did not reply. His eyes and the
last, long ray of sunshine were upon her. He was revoking from an old
October a dark-haired, clear-eyed girl amid the dahlias, and it seemed
to him that Eugenia had shot up in a season like one of the stately
flowers. As she stood in the grass-grown walk, her skirt half-filled
with blossoms, her white hands lifting the thin folds above her ruffled
petticoat, she appeared to be the vital apparition of the place--a
harbinger of the vivid sunlight and the dark shadows of the passing of
the year.

"See how many!" she exclaimed, holding her lapful towards him. "You may
take your choice--only not that last pink papa loves."

He plunged his hands amid the confusion of colours and drew out a yellow
chrysanthemum.

"I like this," he said simply.

She laughed. "But it doesn't suit your hair," she suggested.

He met her sally gravely.

"It is my favourite flower," he returned.

"Since when, pray?"

"Since--since a half-hour ago."

He stooped and picked up his knife from the grass.

"Are you going away?" he asked, "or shall you stay here always?"

"Always," she promptly returned. "I'm going to live here with this old
garden until I grow to be an ancient dame--and you may walk over on
autumn afternoons and I'll be sympathetic about your rheumatism. Isn't
that a picture that delights your soul?"

"No," he said bluntly; "I see a better one."

"Tell me."

"I can never tell you," he replied gravely--"not even when you are an
ancient dame and I rheumatic."

She was merry again.

"Then I fear it's wicked," she said, "and I'm amazed at you. But my
day-dreams are all common ones. I ask only the country and my home and
horses and cows and chickens--and a rheumatic friend. You see I must be
happy, I ask so little."

"And you argue that he who demands little gets it," he returned
lightly. "On the other hand, I should say that he who is content with
less gets nothing. I ask the biggest thing Fate has to give, and then
stand waiting for--"

He paused for a breathless instant while he looked at her, and then
slowly finished:

"For the skies to fall."

They swung open the gate into cattle lane, and stood waiting while the
cows trooped by to the barnyard.

Eugenia called them by name, and they turned great stupid eyes upon her
as they stopped to munch the hollyhocks.

"She was named after you," said the girl suddenly.

"She? Who?" he turned a helpless look upon the two small negroes who
drove the cows.

"Why, Burr Bess, of course--that Jersey there. You know we couldn't name
her Nick because she wasn't a boy, so Bernard called her Burr Bess. You
don't seem pleased."

"She's a fine cow," observed Nicholas critically.

"Oh! she was the most beautiful calf! I thought you remembered it. One
was named after me, but it died, and one was named after Bernard, but it
went to the butcher. Bernard was so angry about it that he waylaid the
cart on the road and let it out. But they caught it again. It was too
bad, wasn't it?"

The garden gate closed behind them with a click, and they crossed the
lane to the lawn.

Miss Chris, who stood shading her eyes in the back porch, was giving
directions to Aunt Verbeny in the smoke-house. When she saw Nicholas
she broke off and asked him to stay to supper, but he declined hastily,
and, with an embarrassed good-evening, turned back into the lane. The
hollyhocks over the whitewashed fence brushed him as he passed, and the
spices of the garden came to him like the essence of the eternal
Romance.




III


Over all hung Indian summer and the happy sunshine. Eugenia, rising at
daybreak for a gallop across country, would feel the dew in her face and
the autumn in her blood. As she dashed over fences and ditches to the
unploughed pasture, the morning was as desolate as midnight--not a soul
showed in the surrounding fields and the long road lay as pallid as a
streak of frost. The loneliness and the hour set her eyes to dancing and
the glad blood to bounding in her veins. When a startled rabbit shied
from the brushwood she would slacken her speed to watch it, and when, as
sometimes chanced, she frightened a covey of partridges from their
retreat, she went softly, rejoicing that no shot was near.

At this time she was possessed, perhaps, of a spirit too elastic, of a
buoyance almost insolent--she turned, as it were, too round a cheek to
Fate. In her clear purity romanticism held no part, and her soul, strong
to adhere, was slow to conform. Her nature was straight as an arrow that
would not fall though it overshot the mark. She dreamed scant dreams of
the future because she clove tenaciously to the past--to the rare
associations and the old affections--to the road and the cedars and the
Hall as to the men and women whose blood she bore and whose likeness she
carried. She loved one and all with a fidelity that did not swerve.
Riding home along the open road that led to the cedars, she marked each
friendly object in its turn--on one side the persimmon tree where the
fruit ripened--on the other the blackened wreck of the giant oak,
towering above the shining spread of life-everlasting. She noted that
the rail fence skirting the pasture sagged at one corner beneath a
weight of poisonous oak, that a mud hole had eaten through the short
strip of "corduroy" road, and that where Uncle Ish's path led to his
cabin the plank across the gully was rapidly rotting. She saw these
things with the tender eyes with which we mark decay in one beloved.

Then, pacing up the avenue to the gravelled walk, she would call
"good-morning" to the general and leap lightly to the ground, fresh as
the day, bright as the autumn.

It was on one of these early rides that she saw Nicholas again. She was
returning leisurely through the stretch of woodland, when, catching
sight of him as he swung vigorously ahead, she quickened her horse's
pace and overtook him as he glanced inquiringly back.

"Divide the worm, early bird," she cried gaily.

He paused as she did, laying his hand on the horse's neck.

"There wasn't but one and you got it," he retorted lightly. "Have you
been far?"

"Miles, and I'm as hungry as two bears. Have you anything in your
pocket?"

Her glowing face rose against a background of maple boughs, which
surrounded her like a flame. The mist of the morning was on her lips and
her eyes were shining. He felt her beauty leap like wine to his brain,
and he set his teeth and looked blankly down the road.

She laughed as she plunged her hand into the pocket of his coat. "You
used to have apples," she complained, "or honeyshucks, at least--now
there's only this."

It was a worn little Latin text book, with frayed edges and soiled
leaves.

"Give it to me," he said quickly, but as he reached to take it from her
the leaves fell open and she saw her own name written and rewritten
across the crumpled pages.

She closed it and gave it back to him.

"You used that long ago," she remarked carelessly; "very long ago."

He replaced the book in his pocket, his steady eyes upon her.

"That's what we get for rifling our neighbour's pockets," he said
quietly, "and what we deserve."

"No," she returned with equal gravity, "sometimes we get apples--or even
peanuts, which we don't deserve."

He took no notice of the retort, but answered half-absently a former
question.

"Yes; I used that long ago," he said. "You don't think I would write
your name 'Genia' now, do you?"

There was a dignity in his assumption of indifference--in his absolute
refusal to betray himself, which bore upon her conception of his
manhood. There was strength in his face, strength in his voice, strength
in his quiet hand that lay upon her bridle. She looked down on him with
thoughtful eyes.

"If you wrote of me at all," she returned. "It is my name."

"But I am not to call you by it."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" He laughed with a touch of bitterness, and held out his hand,
fresh from the soil, hardened by the plough. It was a powerful hand,
brown and sinewy, with distorted knuckles and broken nails. "Oh, not
that," he said. "I don't mean that. That shows work, but I know
you--Genia--you will tell me work is manly. So it is, but is ignorance
and poverty and--and all the rest--"

She leaned over and touched his hand lightly with her own. "All the rest
is courage and patience and pride," she said; "as for the hand, it is a
good hand, and I like it."

He shook his head.

"Good enough in its place, I grant you," he answered; "good enough in
the fields, at the plough; or in the barnyard--good enough even to keep
this poor farm from collapse and to lift a few of its burdens--but not
good enough to--"

He raised her hand lightly, regarding it with half-humorous eyes.

"How strong it is to be so light!" he added.

"Strong enough to hold fast to its friends," returned Eugenia gravely.

He let it fall and looked into her face.

"May its friends be worthy ones," he said.

She rode slowly through the wood, and he walked with his hand on her
bridle. The bright branches struck them as they passed, and sometimes he
stopped to hold them aside for her. His eyes followed her as she rode
serenely above him, and he thought, in his folly, of the lady in the old
romance who was, to the desire of her lovers, as "a distant flame, a
sword afar off."

"It was here that you told me good-bye when you went off to school," he
said recklessly.

"Was it?" she asked. "I was very miserable that day and you gave me no
comfort. You didn't even come down to the road next morning to see me go
by."

"Yes, I know," he admitted.

"I thought you were asleep, and I was angry."

"No, I was not asleep. I was at work."

"But you might have come."

"Yes, I might have come," he repeated absently, and quickly corrected
himself. "No, I mean I couldn't come, of course. If you were to go away
to-morrow, I couldn't come. Something would rise and prevent. I have a
presentiment that I shall never say good-bye to you."

She dissented. "I've a feeling that I shall say 'God speed' to you when
you go off to become a great man."

"A great man? Do you mean a rich man?" he asked quickly.

"Oh, dear, yes," she mocked; "a great, gouty gentleman, who owns a
couple of railroads and wears an electric light in his shirt-front."

His lips laughed, but his eyes were grave.

"And when I came back to you with such trophies," he objected, "you
would tell me that the railroads belonged to the people and that the
electric light only served to illuminate my ugliness."

"And I should take it to wear on my forehead," she added. "What
prophetic insight!"

"But 'going off' does not always mean railroads and electric light," he
went on half seriously. "Suppose I came back poor, but honest, as they
say?"

Laughter rippled on her lips. He watched the humorous tremor of her
nostrils.

"Then I should probably kill the fatted chicken for you," she said.

There was a touch of bitterness in his answer. "Only in that case I
should stay away." As he spoke he stopped to break off a drooping branch
from a sweet-gum tree that grew near the road.

"You once called this your colour," he said quietly as he fastened the
leaves on her horse's head. "There is no tree that turns so clear and so
fiery."

Then, as she rode on with the branch waving like a banner before her, he
laughed with a keen delight in the savage brilliance.

"You remind me of--who is it?" he asked--"'_Clear as the sun and
terrible as an army with banners_.'"

Her smile was warm upon him.

"But my banners fall before the wind," she said as several loosened
leaves fluttered to the road. "So I am not terrible, after all." The
glow of the gum-tree was in her face. His eyes fell before it, and he
did not speak. The soft footfalls of the horse on the damp ground
sounded distinctly. Overhead the wind rustled among the trees.

As they emerged from the wood and passed the Burr farm they saw Amos
leaning on his gate, looking moodily upon the morning.

"Good-morning, Mr. Burr!" said Eugenia with the pleasant condescension
of the general in her manner. "Fine weather, isn't it?"

He nodded awkwardly and admitted, with a muttered reservation, that the
weather might be worse. Then he looked at Nicholas. "If you ain't got
nothin' better to do I reckon you might lend a hand at the ploughin',"
he surlily suggested.

"Why, so I might," assented Nicholas good-humouredly. "I've a couple of
hours free."

He fastened more securely the branch in the horse's bridle; then,
raising his hat, he turned and vaulted the whitewashed fence, while
Eugenia, touching her horse into a gallop, vanished in the distance of
the open road, blazing her track with scarlet gum leaves that scattered
royally in the wind.

As Nicholas passed the peanut field he nodded pleasantly to the
congregation of negroes assembled for the annual festival called "a
picking." They ranged in degrees from Uncle Ish, the oldest
representative of his race, to Betsey's five-year-old Jeremiah, who had
already been detected in an attempt to filch the nuts from an overturned
shock, and was being soundly admonished by his mother's avenging palm.
The ground was strewn with baskets and buckets of varying dimensions,
into which the nuts were gathered before being consigned to the huge
hamper guarded by Amos Burr. A hoarse clamour, like that produced by a
flock of crows, went up from the animated swarm as it settled to work.

Nicholas crossed to the adjoining field and ploughed deep furrows in the
soil, going into breakfast with the smell of the warm earth about him
and the glow of exercise in his blood. He ate heartily and listened
without remark to the political vagaries of his father. Amos Burr had
been "looking into politics" of late, and his stubborn wits had been
fixed by a grievance. "If he was a fool befo' now, he's a plum fool
now," Marthy Burr had observed dispassionately. "I ain't never seen no
head so level that it could bear the lettin' in of politics. It makes a
fool of a man and a worse fool of a fool. The government's like a mule,
it's slow and it's sure; it's slow to turn, and it's sure to turn the
way you don't want it."

"I tell you it's done promised to help the farmer," put in Amos heavily,
bringing his large red hand down upon the table. "Ain't it been helpin'
the manufacturer all these years? Ain't it been lookin' arter the
labourer, black an' white? Ain't it time for it to keep its word to the
farmer?"

"In the meantime I'd finish that piece of ploughing, if I were you,"
suggested Nicholas. "The more work in the fall the less in the
spring--that's a proverb for you."

"I don't want no proverb," returned Amos sullenly. "I want my rights,
an' I want the country to give 'em to me."

"I ain't never seen no good come of settin' down an' wishin' for
rights," remarked his wife tartly. "It's a sight better to be up an'
plantin'."

Nicholas finished his breakfast, and a little later walked in to town.
He was in exuberant spirits, and his thoughts were high on the
scaffolding where his future was building. Success and Eugenia startled,
allured, delighted him. He was at the age of sublime self-confidence,
but his eyes were not bandaged by it. He knew that without success--such
success as he dreamed of--there could be, for him, no Eugenia. He
believed in her as he believed in the sun, and yet he was not sure of
her--he could not be until he possessed her and she bore his name. That
she might not love him he admitted; that she might even love another he
saw to be dimly possible; but he was determined that so long as no other
man held her his arms should be open. In the first ardour of his mood
his relative position to that society of which she formed a part was
lost sight of, if not obscured. Now he realised bitterly that he might
work for a lifetime in the class in which he was born, and at the end
still find Eugenia far from him. He must rise above his work and his
people, he must cut his old name anew, he must walk rough-shod where his
mind led him--among men who were his superiors only in the accident of a
better birthright. And if on that higher plane his ambitions did not
betray, he would bring honour to his State and to Eugenia.

Here the two loves of the boy and the man stood out boldly. The old
romantic fervour with which he had longed for the days of Marshall and
Madison, of Jefferson and Henry, still lingered on as an exotic
patriotism in an era of time-servers and unprofitable servants. There
was an old-fashioned democracy about him--a pioneer simplicity--as one
who had walked from the great days of Virginia into her lesser ones. A
century ago he might have left his plough to fight, and, having fought,
might have returned thereto; but the battle would have tingled in his
blood and the furrows have gone crooked. He would have ploughed, not for
love of the plough, but because the time for the sowing of the grain had
come.

Now he walked rapidly to his work, seeing Eugenia in the woods, in the
sunshine, in the very clouds lifted high above. The thought of her
surrounded him as an atmosphere.

As for the girl, she rode home and spent the long day in the garden
potting plants for the winter. When she came into the hall in the early
afternoon, with her trowel in her hand and her sleeves rolled back from
her white arms, her father called her to the porch, and, going out, she
found Dudley Webb in one of the cane chairs. He sprang to his feet as
she reached the threshold, and held out his hand, but she laughed and
showed the earth that clung to her wrists. "Unclean! unclean!" she cried
gaily. Her face had flushed from its warm pallor and her hair hung low
upon her forehead. A long streak of clay lay across her skirt where she
had knelt in the flower-bed.

He seized her protesting hand, admiration lighting his eyes. "Why,
little Eugie is a woman!" he exclaimed. "Can you grasp it, General?"

The general shook his head.

"If she wasn't almost as tall as I, I shouldn't believe it," he
declared, "though she's as old as her mother was when I married her."

Eugenia seated herself upon the bench, still holding the trowel in her
hand. She was watching the interest in her father's face, and she
realised, half resentfully, that it was evoked by Dudley Webb.

He had drawn the general's favourite anecdotes from him, and they had
plunged together into a discussion of the good old days. After a few
light words she sat silent, listening with tender attention to the
threadbare stories on the one side and the hearty applause of them on
the other. She wondered wistfully why Dudley and herself were the only
persons who understood as well as loved the general. Why was it Dudley,
and not Nicholas, who brought that youthful look to his face and the
heartiness to his voice?

"Some one was telling me the other day--I think it was Colonel
Preston--that he fought beside you at Seven Pines," Dudley was saying
with that absorption in his subject which won him a friend in every man
who told him a joke.

"Jake Preston!" exclaimed the general. "Why, bless my soul! I've slept
under the same blanket with Jake Preston twenty times. I was standing by
him when he got that bullet in his thigh. Did he tell you?"

Eugenia rose in a moment and went back to her flowers. As she passed she
threw a grateful glance at Dudley, but when she reached the garden it
was of Nicholas she was thinking. There was a glow at her heart that
kept alive the memory of his eyes as he looked at her in the wood, of
his voice when he called her name, of his hand when it brushed her own.

She fell happily to work, and when Dudley came out, an hour later, to
find her, she was singing softly as she uprooted a scarlet geranium.

He smiled and looked down on her with frank enjoyment of her ripening
womanhood, but it did not occur to him to join in the transplanting as
Nicholas would have done. He held off and absorbed the picture.

"You do papa so much good!" said Eugenia gratefully. "I hope you will
come out whenever you are in Kingsborough."

She was kneeling upon the ground, her hands buried in the flower-bed,
her firm arms rising white above the rich earth. The line of her bosom
rose and fell swiftly, and her breath came in soft pants. There was a
flush in her cheeks.

"If you wish it I will come," he answered impulsively. "I will come to
Kingsborough every week if you wish it."

His temperament responded promptly to the appeal of her beauty, and his
blood quickened as it did when women moved him. There was about him,
withal, a fantastic chivalry which succumbed to the glitter of false
sentiment. He would have made the remark had Eugenia been plain--but he
would not have come to Kingsborough.

"It would please your mother," returned the girl quietly. She had the
sexual self-poise of the Virginia woman, and she weighed the implied
compliment at its due value. Had he declared he would die for her once a
week, she would have received the assurance with much the same smiling
indifference.

"I'll run down, I think, pretty often this winter," he went on easily.
"It's a nice old town, after all--isn't it?"

"It's the dearest old town in the world," said Eugenia.

"Well, I believe it is--strange, I used to find it dull, don't you
think? By the way, will you let me ride with you sometimes? I hear you
are as great a horsewoman as ever."

Eugenia looked up calmly.

"I go very early," she answered. "Can you get up at daybreak?"

He laughed his pleasant laugh.

"Oh, I might manage it," he rejoined. "I'm not much of an early riser, I
never knew before what charms the sunrise held."

But Eugenia went on potting plants.




IV


During the following week Sally Burwell came to spend the night with
Eugenia, and the girls sat before the log fire in Eugenia's room until
they heard the cocks crow shrilly from the hen-house. The room was a
large, old-fashioned chamber, full of dark corners and unsuspected
alcoves; and the lamp on the bureau served only to intensify the shadows
that lay beyond its faint illumination.

Sally, her pretty hair in a tumble on her shoulders and the light of the
logs on her bare arms, was stretched upon the hearth-rug, looking up at
Eugenia, who lay in an easy-chair, her feet almost touching the embers.
A waiter of russet apples was on the floor beside them.

"This is my idea of comfort," murmured Sally sleepily as she munched an
apple. "No men and no manners."

"If you liked it, you'd come often, chick," returned Eugenia.

"Bless you! I'm too busy. I made over two dresses this week, trimmed
mamma a bonnet, and covered a sofa with cretonne. One of the dresses is
a love. I wore it yesterday, and Dudley said it reminded him of one he'd
seen on the stage."

"He says a good deal," observed Eugenia unsympathetically.

"Doesn't he?" laughed Sally. "At any rate, he said that he found you
reading Plato under the trees, and that any woman who read Plato ought
to be ostracised--unless she happens to be handsome enough to make you
overlook it. Is that your Plato? What is he like?"

Eugenia savagely shook her head.

"It's no affair of his," she retorted promptly, meaning not Plato, but
Dudley.

"Oh! he said he knew it wasn't. I think he even wished it were. You're
too unconventional for him--he frankly admits it--but he admits also
that you're good-looking enough to warrant the unconventionality of a
Hottentot--and you are, you dear, bad thing, though your forehead's too
high and your chin's too long and your nose isn't all that a nose should
be."

"Thanks," drawled Eugenia amicably. "But Dudley's a nice fellow, all the
same. He gets on splendidly with papa--and I bless him for it."

"He gets on well with everybody--even his mother--which makes me suspect
that he's a Job masquerading as an Apollo. By the way, Mrs. Webb wants
you to join some society she's getting up called the 'Daughters of
Duty.'"

"Oh, I can't! I can't!" protested Eugenia distressfully. "I detest
'Daughter' things, and I have a rooted aversion to my duty. But if she
comes to me I'll join it--I know I shall! How did you keep out of it?"

"I didn't. I'm in it. It seems that our duty is confined to 'preserving
the antiquities' of Kingsborough--so I began by presenting a jar of
pickled cucumbers to Uncle Ish. I trust they won't be the death of him,
but he was the only antiquity in sight."

She gave the smouldering log a push with her foot, and it broke apart,
scattering a shower of sparks. "I don't know any other woman so much
admired and so little loved," she mused of Mrs. Webb.

"Papa worships her," said Eugenia. "All men do--at a distance. She's the
kind of woman you never get near enough to to feel that she is flesh.
Now, Aunt Chris is just the opposite. No one ever gets far enough away
from her to feel that she's a saint--which she is."

"It's odd she never married," wondered Sally.

"She never had time to." Eugenia clasped her hands behind her head and
looked up at the high, plastered ceiling. "She never happened to be in a
place where she could be spared. But you know her lover died when she
was young," she added. "It broke her heart, but it did not destroy her
happiness. She has been happy for forty years with a broken heart."

"I know," said Sally. "It seems strange, doesn't it? But I've known so
many like her. The happiest woman I ever knew had lost everything she
cared for in the war. That war was fought on women's hearts, but they
went on beating just the same. I'm glad I wasn't I then."

"And I'm sorry. I like stirring deeds and shot and shell and tattered
flags. They thrill one."

"And kill one," added Sally. "But you've got that kind of pluck. You
aren't afraid."

"Oh! yes, I am," protested Eugenia. "I'm afraid of bats and of getting
fat like my forefathers."

Sally shook a reassuring head.

"But you won't, darling. Your mother was thin, and you're the image of
her--everybody says so."

"But I'm afraid--horribly afraid. I don't dare eat potatoes, and I
wouldn't so much as look at a glass of buttermilk. The fear is on me."

"It's absurd. Why, your grandma Tucker was a rail--I remember her. I
know your other grandmother was--enormous; but you ought to strike the
happy medium--and you do. You're splendid. You aren't a bit too large
for your height."

Eugenia laughed as she twisted Sally's curls about her fingers. "You're
the dearest little duck that ever lived on dry land," she said. "If I
were a man I'd be wild about you."

"A few of them are," returned Sally meekly, casting up her eyes, "but
I--"

"How about Gerald Smith?"

"He's too tall. I look like an aspiring grasshopper beside him."

"And Jack Wyth?"

"He's too short."

"And Sydney Kent?"

"He's too stupid."

"And Tom Bassett?"

Sally yawned.

"He's too--everything. There's cock crow, and I'm going to bed."

The next afternoon Eugenia drove Sally in to town, and stopped on her
outward trip to pay a visit to Mrs. Webb. She found that lady serenely
seated in her drawing-room, as unruffled as if she had not just
dismissed a cook and cooked a dinner.

"Oh, yes, thank you, dear, all is well," she replied in answer to the
girl's question; for she held it to be vulgarity to allude, in her
drawing-room, to the trials of housekeeping. She was not touched by such
questions because she ignored that she was in any way concerned in them.
She spent six hours a day with her servants, but had she spent
twenty-four she would have remained secure in her conviction that they
did not come within the sphere of her life.

"I have wanted to see you to ask you to join my society, the 'Daughters
of Duty,'" she went on, her eyes on a piece of fine white damask she was
hem-stitching. "Its object is to preserve our old landmarks, and when I
spoke to your father he told me he was quite sure you would care to
become an active member."

"I'm afraid I don't have much time," began Eugenia helplessly, when Mrs.
Webb interrupted her, though without haste or discourtesy.

"Not have time, my dear?" she repeated with her slow, fine smile. "If I
can find time, with all my other duties, don't you think that you might
be able to do so?"

Eugenia was baffled. "Of course I love Kingsborough," she said, "and I'd
preserve every inch of it with my own hands if I could--but I can't bear
meetings--and--and things."

Mrs. Webb took a careful stitch in the damask. "I thought you might care
enough to assist us," she remarked tentatively; and Eugenia succumbed.

"I'll do anything I can," she declared. "I will, indeed--only you
mustn't expect much."

In a few moments she rose to go, lingering with a courteous appearance
of being unwilling to depart, which belonged to her social training. As
she stood in the doorway, her hand in Mrs. Webb's, the older woman
looked at her almost affectionately.

"I had a letter from Dudley this morning," she said. "He is coming down
next week for Sunday."

A flush crossed Eugenia's face, evoking an expression of irritation.

"You must miss him," she observed sympathetically.

"I do miss him, but he comes often. He is a good son. He sent a message
to you, by the way, but it was not important."

"No, it was not important," repeated Eugenia with a feeling that her
carelessness appeared to be assumed.

She lightly kissed Mrs. Webb and ran down the steps and into the
carriage, which was waiting in the road. Her visit had left her with a
curious sense of oppression, and she breathed a long draught of the
invigorating air.

As she drove down the street she saw Nicholas coming out of his office
and offered him a "lift" to his home. He said little on the way, and his
utterances were forced, but Eugenia talked lightly and rapidly, as she
always did when with him.

She told him of Sally Burwell, of the last letter from Bernard--who was
coming home soon--of Mrs. Webb and the "Daughters of Duty."

"The truth is, I like her, but I'm afraid of her--dreadfully."

"She disapproves of your--your liking for me," he said bitterly. "But
every one does that--even the judge, though he doesn't say anything. And
they are right--I see it. You know from what I came and what I am."

"Yes, I know what you are," she returned defiantly, "and they shall all
know some day."

He turned and looked at her as she sat beside him, but he was silent,
nor did he speak until he said "good-bye" before his father's gate.

It was some days later that she saw him again. She had gone out to
gather goldenrod for the great blue vases that stood on the dining-room
mantel-piece, and was standing knee-deep in the ragged field, when he
leaped the fence that divided the farms and crossed to where she stood.

The sun was going down behind the blackened branches of the dead oak,
and the wide common, spread with goldenrod and life-everlasting, lay
like a sea of flame and snow. Eugenia, standing in its midst, a tall
woman in a dress of brown, fell in richly with the surrounding colours.
Her arms were filled with the yellow plumes and her dress was tinselled
with the dried pollen that floated in the air. As Nicholas reached her
she was seeking to free herself from the clutch of a crimson briar that
crawled along the ground, and in the effort some of the broken stalks
slipped from her hold.

Without speaking, he knelt beside her and released her skirt. "You have
torn it," he said quietly, but he was looking up at her, and there was
a quality in his voice which thrilled her.

"Have I?" she returned quickly. "Well, I can mend it--but there! it's
caught again. I've been trying to get free for--hours."

He smiled.

"You came into the field only twenty minutes ago. I saw you. But, hold
on. I'll uproot this blackberry vine while I'm about it."

He tore it from its tenacious hold to the earth and flung it into the
field. Then he examined the rent in Eugenia's dress.

"If you had waited until I came you might have spared yourself
this--patch," he observed.

"I shan't patch it--and I didn't know you were coming."

"Don't I always come--when there's a patch to be saved?" he asked. "I
hate to see things ruined."

"Then you might have come sooner. There, give me my goldenrod. It's all
scattered."

He began patiently to gather up the stalks, arranging them in an even
layer of equal lengths.

Eugenia watched him, laughing.

"How precise you are!" she said.

"Aren't they right?" He looked up for her approval, and she saw that he
had grown singularly boyish. His face was less rugged, more sensitive.
He wore no hat, and his thick red hair had fallen across his forehead.
She felt the peculiar power of his look as she had felt it before.

"No, they're wrong. They aren't Chinese puzzles. Don't fix them so
tight. Here."

She took them from him, and as his hands touched hers she noticed that
they were cold. "You're shaking them all apart," he protested, "and I
took such a lot of trouble."

As she bent her head his eyes followed the dark coil of hair to the
white nape of her neck where her collar rose. Several loose strands had
blown across her ear and wound softly about the delicate lobe. He wanted
to raise his hand and put them in place, but he checked himself with a
start. With his eyes upon her he recalled the warmth of her woollen
dress, and he wished that he had put his lips to it as he knelt. She
would never have known.

Then, by a curious emotional phenomenon, she seemed to be suddenly
invested with the glory of the sunset. The goldenrod burned at her feet
and on her bosom, and her fervent blood leaped to her face. The next
moment he staggered like a man blinded by too much light--the field,
with Eugenia rising in its midst, flamed before his eyes, and he put out
his hand like one in pain.

"What is it?" she asked quickly, and her voice seemed a part of the
general radiance. "You have been looking at the sun. It hurts my eyes."

"No," he answered steadily, "I was looking at you."

She thrilled as he spoke and brought her eyes to the level of his. Then
she would have looked away, but his gaze held her, and she made a sudden
movement of alarm--a swift tremor to escape. She held the sheaf of
goldenrod to her bosom and above it her eyes shone; her breath came
quickly between her parted lips. All her changeful beauty was startled
into life.

"Genia!" he said softly, so softly that he seemed speaking to himself.
"Genia!"

"Yes?" She responded in the same still whisper.

"You know?"

"Yes, I know," she repeated slowly. Her glance fell from his and she
turned away.

"You know it is--impossible," he said.

"Yes, I know it is impossible."

There was a gasp in her voice. She turned to move onward--a briar caught
her dress; she stumbled for an instant, and he flung out his arms.

"You know it is impossible," he said, and kissed her.

The sheaf of goldenrod loosened and scattered between them. Her head lay
on his arm, and he felt her warm breath come and go. Her face was
upturned, and he saw her eyes as he had never seen them before--light on
light, shadow on shadow. He looked at her in the brief instant as a man
looks to remember--at the white brow--the red mouth, at the blue veins,
and the dark hair, at the upward lift of the chin and the straight
throat--at all the perfect colouring and the imperfect outline.

"You know it is impossible," he repeated, and put her from him.

Eugenia gathered herself together like one stunned. "I must go," she
said breathlessly. "I must go."

Then she hesitated and stood before him, her hands on her bosom, a
single spray of goldenrod clinging to her dress.

He folded his arms as he faced her.

"I have loved you all my life," he said.

She bowed her head; her face had gone white.

"I shall always love you," he went on. "You may as well know it. Men
change, but I do not. I have never really loved anybody else. I have
tried to love my family, but I never did. When I was a little,
God-forsaken chap I used to want to love people, but I couldn't--I
couldn't even love the judge--whom I would die for. I love you."

"I know it," she said.

"If you will wait I will work for you. I will work until they let me
have you. I don't mean that I shall ever be good enough for you--because
I shall not be. I shall always be a brute beside you--but if you will
wait I will win you. I swear it!"

She had not moved. She was as still as the dead oak that towered above
them. The sunset struck upon her bowed head and upon the quiet bosom,
where her hands were clasped.

"I will wait," she answered.

He came nearer and kissed the hands upon her breast. His face was
flushed and his lips were hot.

"Thank you," he said simply as he drew back.

In a moment he stooped to pick up the scattered goldenrod, heaping it
into her arms. "This is enough to fill the house," he protested. "You
can't want so much."

He had regained his rational tone, and she responded to it with a smile.

"I never know when I'm satisfied," she said. "It is my weakness. As a
child I always ate candy until it made me ill."

They crossed the field, the long plumes brushing against them and
powdering them with a feathery gold dust. At the fence she gave him the
bunch and lightly swung herself over the sunken rails. It did not occur
to him to assist her; she had always been as good as he at vaulting
bars. Now her long skirts retarded her, and she laughed as she came
quickly to the ground on the opposite side.

"One of the many disadvantages of my sex," she said. "The best prisons
men ever invented are women's skirts. Our wings are clipped while we
wear them."

"It is hard," he returned as he recalled her school-girl feats. "You
were such a mighty jumper."

"Those halcyon days are done," she sighed. "I can never stray beyond my
'sphere' again."

They had reached the end of the avenue, so he left her and went homeward
along the road. The sun had gone slowly down and the western horizon was
ripped open in a deep red track. The charred skeleton of the oak loomed
black and sinister against the afterglow, and at its feet the glory went
out of the autumn field. Straight ahead the sound of shots rang out
where a flock of bats circled above the road. On the darkening landscape
the lights began to glimmer in farmhouses far apart, and to Nicholas
they seemed watchful, friendly eyes that looked upon him. All Nature was
watchful--all the universe friendly. The glow which irradiated his
outlook with an abrupt transfiguration was to him the glow of universal
joy, though he knew it to be but the vanishing beam of youth and the end
thereof age.

It seemed to him that he was singled out--securely set apart by some
beneficent hand for some supreme good which, in his limited
observation, he had never seen put forth in the lots of others. His own
life lay so much nearer the Divine purpose than did the lives of his
neighbours--the purpose of Nature, whose end is the happiness that
conforms to sane and immutable laws. His kiss on Eugenia's lips was to
him God-given; the answer in her eyes had flamed a Scriptural
inspiration. In the tumultuous leaping of his thoughts it seemed to him
that the meaning of existence lay unrolled--a meaning obscured in all
religions, overlooked in all philosophies--a meaning that could be read
only by the lamp that was lit in the eyes that loved.

So in his ignorance and his ecstasy he went on his confident way, while
passion throbbed in his pulses and youth quickened in his brain.

From the far-off pines twilight came to meet him, the lights glimmered
clearer in distant windows, the afterglow drifted from the west, and the
shots ceased where the black bats circled above the road.




V


Eugenia arranged the goldenrod in the great blue vases and sat in the
deserted dining-room thinking of Nicholas. Where the damask curtains
were drawn back from the windows a gray line of twilight landscape was
visible, and a chill, transparent dusk filled the large room. Outside
she would see the box-walk, a stretch of lawn, broken by flower-beds,
and the avenue of cedars leading to the highway. From the porch floated
the smoke of the general's pipe.

Her brow was on her hand and she sat so motionless that the place seemed
deserted, save for an errant firefly that vainly palpitated in the
gloom. The glow that had flamed beneath Nicholas's kiss still lingered
in her face, and she was conscious of a faint, almost hysterical impulse
to weep. The fever in her veins had given place to a still tremor which
ran through her limbs. At first she felt rather than thought. She lapsed
into an emotional reverie as delicate as the fragrance of the October
roses on the table. There was a sensation of softness as when one lies
full length in sunshine or is caressed by firelight. She felt it pervade
her body even to the palms of her hands. Then her quick mind stirred,
and she recalled the pressure of his arms, the light in his eyes, the
quiver of his lips as they touched her hands. His strength had dominated
her and it still held her--the firm note in the voice that trembled,
the power in the hand that appealed, the almost savage vigour in the
arms that he folded on his breast. She had succumbed less to his
gentleness than to the knowledge that it was she alone who evoked that
gentleness out of a nature almost adamantine, wholly masculine. His
faults she knew to be the faults of one who had hewn his own road in
life--a rugged surface--a strain of rigidity beneath--at worst a
tendency to dogmatise--and knowing as she did her own control over them,
they attracted rather than repelled her.

And yet in this pulsating recognition of his manhood there was mingled
with an emotion half-maternal the memory of her own guardianship of his
stunted childhood. To a woman at once rashly spirited and profoundly
feminine the pathos of his boyish struggle appealed no less forcibly
than did the virility of his manhood. She might have loved him less had
her thought of him been untouched by pity.

She sat quietly in the twilight until Congo brought in the lamp and a
prospect of supper. Then she rose and went to join her father on the
porch.

"Why did you tell Mrs. Webb I would be a 'Daughter,' papa?" she gaily
demanded.

The general took his pipe from his mouth and stared up at her.

"It's a good cause, Eugie," he replied, "and she's a remarkable woman.
Her executive ability is astounding--absolutely astounding."

"I joined," said Eugenia. "I had to, after you said that. You know, I
called on her the day I took Sally in."

The general lowered his eyes and thoughtfully regarded the light that
was going gray in his pipe.

"Did she happen to say anything about--Dudley?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes. She said he sent me a message in a letter."

"Did she tell you what 'twas?"

"No. I didn't ask her."

He put the stem of his pipe between his teeth and hung on it desperately
for a moment; then he took it out again.

"He's a fine young fellow," he said at last. "I don't know a finer--and,
bless my soul! I'd see you married to him to-morrow."

But Eugenia laughed and beat his shoulder.

"You don't want to see me married to anybody," she said, "and you know
it."

At the end of the ensuing week Dudley came to Kingsborough, and upon the
first evening of his visit he walked out to Battle Hall. He was looking
smooth and well groomed, and the mass of his thick dark hair waving over
his white brow gave him an air of earnestness and ardour. Eugenia
wondered that she had never noticed before that he was like the portrait
of an old-time orator, and that his hands were finely rounded.

His voice, with its suggestion of suavity, fell soothingly on her
nerves. She had never liked him so much, and she had never shown it so
plainly. Once as she met his genial gaze she held her breath at the
marvel that he should grow to love her, and in vain. Was it that beside
his splendid shallows the more luminous depths of Nicholas's nature
still showed supreme? Or was it a question of fate--and of first and
last? Had Dudley come upon her in the red sunset, in the little shanty
beside the road, would she have gone out to him in the mere leaping of
youth and womanhood? Was it the moment, after all, and not the man? Or
was it something more unerring still--more profound--the prophetic call
of individual to individual, despite the specious pleading of the race?
But she put the thought aside and returned casually to Dudley.

His heartiness was a tonic, and her vanity responded to the unaffected
admiration in his eyes; but his chief claim to her regard lay in the
fact that it was the general, and not herself, whom he endeavoured to
propitiate.

"Well, my dear General!" he exclaimed cordially as he threw himself upon
the worn horsehair sofa in what was called the "sitting-room," "I find
your story about the fighting Texans capped by one Major Mason was
telling me last night about the North Carolinians--" He got no farther.

"I've fought side by side with North Carolina regiments, and I tell you,
sir, they're the best fighters God ever made!" cried the general. "Did
you ever hear that story about 'em when I was wounded?"

Dudley shook his head and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his
knees and an expression of flattering absorption on his face.

"I can't recall it now, sir," he delightfully lied.

The general cleared his throat, laid his pipe aside, and drew up his
chair.

"It was in my last battle," he began. "You know I got that ball in my
shoulder and was laid up when Lee surrendered--well, sir, I was propped
up there close by a company of those raw-boned mountaineers from North
Carolina, and they stood as still as the pine wood behind 'em, while
their colonel swore at 'em like mad.

"'Damn you for a troop of babies!' he yelled. 'Ain't you goin' into the
fight? Can't you lick a blamed Yankee?' And, bless your soul! those
scraggy fellows stood stock still and sung out:

"'We ain't mad!'

"Well, sir, they'd no sooner yelled that back than a bullet whizzed
along and took off one of their own men, and, on my oath, the bullet
hadn't ceased singing in my ears before that company charged the enemy
to a man--and whipped 'em, too, sir--whipped 'em clean off the field!"

He paused, clapped his knee, and roared.

"That's your North Carolinian," he said. "He's a God Almighty fighter,
but you've got to make him mad first."

Miss Chris brought her knitting to the lamp, and Eugenia, sitting with
her hands in her lap, followed the conversation with abstracted
interest.

It was not until Dudley rose to go that he came over to her and took her
hand.

"Good-night," he said, his ardent eyes upon her. "I'm to have that ride
to-morrow? You know I came for it."

The unreasoning blood beat in her face as she turned away, and she was
conscious that he had seen and misconstrued the senseless blush. It was
her misfortune to go red or pale without cause and to show an impassive
face above deep emotion.

The next morning she rode with Dudley, and the day after he came out
before returning to Richmond. She experienced a certain pleasure in the
contact with his bouyant optimism, but it was not without a sensation of
relief that she watched him depart after his last visit. It seemed to
leave her more to herself--and to Nicholas.

That afternoon she walked with him far across the fields, and they laid
together phantasmal foundations of their future lives. Perhaps the chief
thing to be said of their intercourse was that it was to each a mental
stimulant as well as an emotional delight. Eugenia's quick, untutored
mind, which had run to seed like an uncultivated garden, blossomed from
contact with his practical, unpolished intellect. He taught her logic
and a little law; she taught him poetry and passion. He argued his cases
to her and swept her back into the days of his old political
dreams--dreams from which he had awakened, but which still hovered as
memories in his waking hours. Sometimes he brought his books to Battle
Hall, and they read together beneath the general's unseeing eyes; but
more often they sat side by side in the pasture or the wood, the volume
lying open between them. He was the first man who had ever spurred her
into thought; she was the first woman he had ever loved.

As they walked across the fields this afternoon they drifted back to the
question of themselves and their own happiness. It was only a matter of
waiting, she said, of the patient passage of time; and they were so
sure of each other that all else was unimportant--to be disregarded.

"But am I sure of you?" he demanded.

It was not a personal distrust of Eugenia that he voiced; it was the
hardened state of disbelief in his own happiness which showed itself
when the first intoxication of passion was lived out.

"Why, of course you are," she readily rejoined. "Am I not sure of you?
You are as much mine as my eyes--or my hand."

"Oh, I am different!" he exclaimed. "A beggar doesn't prove faithless to
a princess--but what do you see in me, after all?"

She laughed. "I see a very moody lover."

They had reached a little deserted spring in the pasture called "Poplar
Spring," after the six great poplars which grew beside it. Eugenia
seated herself on a fallen log beside the tiny stream which trickled
over the smooth, round stones, bearing away, like miniature floats, the
yellow leaves that fell ceaselessly from the huge branches above.

"I don't believe you know how I love you," he said suddenly.

"Tell me," she insatiably demanded.

"If I could tell you I shouldn't love you as I do. There are some things
one can't talk about--but you are life itself--and you are all heaven
and all hell to me."

"I don't want to be hellish," she put in provokingly.

"But you are--when I think you may slip from me, after all."

The yellow leaves fluttered over them--over the fallen log and over the
bright green moss beside the little spring. As Eugenia turned towards
him, a single leaf fell from her hair to the ground.

"Oh! You are thinking of Dudley Webb!" she said, and laughed because
jealousy was her own darling sin.

"Yes, I am thinking--" he began, when she stopped him.

"Well, you needn't. You may just stop at once. I--love--you--Nick--Burr.
Say it after me."

He shook his head. Her hand lay on the log beside him, and his own
closed over it. As it did so, she contrasted its hardened palm with the
smooth surface of Dudley Webb's. The contrast touched her, and, with a
swift, warm gesture, she raised the clasped hands to her cheek.

"I told you once I liked your hand," she said. "Well--I love it."

He turned upon her a hungry glance.

"I would work it to the bone for you," he answered. "But--it is long to
wait."

"Yes, it is long to wait," she repeated, but her tone had not the
heaviness of his. Waiting in its wider sense means little to a
woman--and in a moment she cheerfully returned to a prophetic future.

A few days later Bernard came, and she saw Nicholas less often. Her
affection for her brother, belonging, as it did, to the dominant family
feeling which possessed her soul, was filled with an almost maternal
solicitude. He absorbed her with a spasmodic, half selfish, wholly
insistent appeal. She received his confidences, wrote his letters, and
tied his cravats. Upon his last visit home he had spent the greater
part of his time in Kingsborough; now he rode in seldom, and invariably
returned in a moody and depressed condition.

"You're worth the whole bunch of them," he had said to her of other
girls, "you dear old Eugie."

And she had warmed and laid a faithful hand on his arm. It was
characteristic of her that no call for affection went disregarded--that
the sensitive fibres of her nature quivered beneath any caressing hand.

"Do you really like me best?" she asked.

"Don't I?" He laughed his impulsive, boyish laugh--"I'll prove it by
letting you go in for the mail this afternoon. I detest Kingsborough!"

"Oh! No, no, I love it, but I suppose it is dull for you."

She ordered the carriage and went upstairs to put on her hat. When she
came down Bernard was not in sight, and she drove off, wondering why he
or any one else should detest Kingsborough.

She performed her mission at the post-office, and was mentally weighing
the probabilities of Nicholas having finished work for the day, when, in
passing along the main street, she saw him come to the door of his
office with a round, rosy girl, whom she recognised as Bessie Pollard.

She had intended to take him out with her, but as she caught sight of
his visitor she gave them both a condescending nod and ordered Sampson
to drive on. She felt vaguely offended and sharply irritated with
herself for permitting it. Her annoyance was not allayed by the fact
that Amos Burr stopped her in the road to inform her that his wife was
fattening a brood of turkeys which she would like to deliver into the
hands of Miss Chris. As he stood before her, hairy, ominous, uncouth,
she realised for the first time the full horror of the fact that he was
father to the man she loved. Hitherto she had but dimly grasped the
idea. Nicholas had been associated in her thoughts with the judge and
her earlier school days; and she had conceived of his poverty and his
people only in the heroic measures that related to his emancipation from
them. Now she felt that had she, in the beginning, seen him side by side
with his father, she could not have loved him. She flinched from Amos
Burr's shaggy exterior and drew back haughtily.

"I have nothing to do with the housekeeping," she said. "You may ask
Aunt Chris."

He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dust and fingered the torn
brim of his hat.

"I wish you'd jest speak to Miss Chris about 'em," he returned, "an'
send me word by Nick." He gave an awkward lurch on his feet.

The colour flamed in Eugenia's face.

"Aunt Chris will send for the turkeys," she said hurriedly. "Drive on,
Sampson."

She sat splendidly erect, but the autumn landscape was blurred by a
sudden gush of tears.

An hour later she remembered that she had promised to let Nicholas join
her in the pasture, and she left the house with the grievance still at
her heart.

When she saw him it broke out abruptly.

"I am surprised that you keep up with such people," she said.

He looked at her blankly.

"If you mean Bessie Pollard," he rejoined, "she was in trouble and came
to me for advice. I couldn't help her, but I could at least be civil.
She was kind to me when I was in her father's store."

"I do not care to be reminded that you were ever in such a position."

He flinched, but answered quietly:

"I am afraid you will have to face it," he said. "If you become my wife,
you will, unfortunately, have to face a good deal that you might escape
by marrying in your own class--I am not in your class, you know," he
slowly added.

She was conscious of a cloudy irritation which was alien to her usually
beaming moods. The figure of Amos Burr loomed large before her, and she
hated herself for the discovery that she was tracing his sinister
likeness in his son. No, it was only the hair--that was all, but she
loathed the obvious colour.

Her lip trembled and she set her teeth into it.

"You might at least allow me to forget it," she retorted.

"Why should you wish to forget it? I think I shall be proud of it when I
have risen far enough above it to claim you. It is no small thing to be
a self-made man."

She resented the assurance of his tone.

"It is strange that you do not consider my view of it."

"Your view--what is it?"

"That I do not wish the man I love to--to speak to that Pollard girl,"
she gasped.

"Since you wish it, I will avoid her in future. She is nothing to me;
but I can't refuse to speak to her. You are unreasonable."

She was regarding the hovering shade of Amos Burr.

"If you think me unreasonable," she returned, "we may as well--"

He reached her side by a single step and flung his arm about her. Then
he looked into her face and laughed softly.

"May as well what--dearest?" he asked.

She shook an obstinate head.

"You don't love me," was her inevitable feminine challenge.

He laughed again. "Do I love you?" he demanded as he looked at her.

She did not answer, but the shade of Amos Burr melted afar.

Nicholas bent over her with abrupt intensity and kissed her lips until
his kisses hurt her.

"Do I love you--now?" he asked.

"Yes--yes--yes." She freed herself with a laugh that dispelled the
lingering cloud. "You may convince me next time without violence," she
affirmed radiantly.

As he watched her his large nostrils twitched whimsically. "You were
saying that we might as well--"

"Go home to supper," she finished triumphantly. "The sun has set."

When she left him a little later at the end of the avenue she flew
joyously up the narrow walk. She was softly humming to herself, and as
she stepped upon the porch the song ran lightly into words.

  "I love Love, though he has wings,
    And like light can flee--"

she sang, and paused within the shadow of the porch to glance through
the long window that led into the sitting-room. The heavy curtains
obstructed her gaze, and she had put up her hand to push them aside,
when her father's voice reached her, and at his words her outstretched
arm fell slowly to her side.

"It's that girl of Jerry Pollard's," he was saying. "She's gotten into
trouble, and that Burr boy's mixed up in it; the young rascal!"

Miss Chris's placid voice floated in.

"I can't believe it," she charitably murmured; and Bernard, who was on
the hearth rug, turned at the sound.

"It's all gossip, you know," he said.

Eugenia pushed aside the curtains and stepped into the room. Her hands
hung at her sides, and the animation had faded from her glance. Her face
looked white and drawn.

"It is not true," she said steadily. "Papa, it is not true."

"I--I'm afraid it is, daughter," gasped the general. There was an
abashed embarrassment in his attitude and his hands shook. He had hoped
to keep such facts beyond the utmost horizon of his daughter's life.

Eugenia crossed to the hearth rug and stood looking into Bernard's
face. She made an appealing gesture with her hands.

"Bernard, it is not true," she said.

He turned away from her and, nervously lifting the poker, divided the
smouldering log. A red flame shot up, illuminating the gathered faces
that stood out against the dusk. The glare lent a grotesque irony to the
flabby, awe-stricken features of the general, brightened the boyish
ill-humour in Bernard's eyes, and played peaceably over Miss Chris's
tranquil countenance.

"Bernard, it is not true," she said again.

The poker fell with a clatter to the hearth; and the noise irritated
her. Bernard put out a sudden, soothing hand.

"It is what they say in Kingsborough," he answered.

She turned from him to the window, pushed the curtains aside, and went
out again into the sunset.




VI


She ran swiftly along the walk, into the gloom of the avenue, and out
again to the open road. The sunset colours were flaming in the west, and
above them a solitary star was shining. The fields lay sombre and
deserted on either side, but straight ahead, in the lighter streak of
the road, she saw Nicholas's figure swinging onward. She might have
called to him, but she did not; she sped like a shadow in his path
until, hearing her footfalls in the dust, he looked back and halted.

"You!" he exclaimed.

She came up to him, her hand at her throat, her face turned towards the
sunset. For a moment her breath failed and she could not speak; then all
the words that she had meant to say--the appeal to him for truth, the
cry of her own belief in him--rang theatrical and ineffectual in her
brain.

When at last she spoke, it was to voice the mere tripping of her
tongue--to utter words which belied the beating of her thoughts.

"You must marry her," she said, and it seemed to her that it was a
stranger who spoke. She did not mean that--she had never meant it.

He looked at her blankly, and made a sudden movement forward, but she
waved him off.

"For God's sake, whom?" he demanded.

She wished that he had laughed at her--that he had laid bare the whole
hideous farce, but he did not; he regarded her gravely, with a grim
inquiry.

"Whom do you mean?" he repeated.

A light wind sprang up, blowing across the pasture and whirling the dead
leaves of distant trees into their faces. Overhead other stars came out,
and far away an owl hooted.

"Oh! you know, you know," she said, with a desperate anger at his
immobility. "When I saw you with her to-day, I did not--I did not--"

"Do you mean Bessie Pollard?" he asked. His voice was hard; it was
characteristic of him that, in the supreme test, his sense of humour
failed him. He met grave issues with a gravity that upheld them.

She bowed her head. At the same time she flung out a despairing hand for
hope, but he did not notice it. She was softening to him--if she had
ever steeled herself against him--and a single summons to her faith
would have vanquished the feeble resistance. But he did not make it--the
inflexible front which she had seen turned to others she now saw
presented to herself. He looked at her with an austere tightening of the
mouth and held off.

"And they have told you that I ruined her," he said, "and you believe
them."

"No--no," she cried; "not that!"

His eyes were on her, but there was no yielding in them. The arrogant
pride of a strong man, plainly born, was face to face with her appeal.
His features were set with the rigidity of stone.

"Who has told you this?" he demanded.

"Oh, it is not true--it is not true," she answered; "but
Bernard--Bernard believed it--and he is your friend."

Then his smouldering rage burst forth, and his face grew black. It was
as if an incarnate devil had leaped into his eyes. He took a step
forward.

"Then may God damn him," he said, "for he is the man!"

She fell from him as if he had struck her. Her spirit flashed out as his
had done. The anger of her race shot forth.

"Oh, stop! stop! How dare you!" she cried; "for he tried to shield
you--he tried to shield you--he would shield you if he could."

But he crossed to where she stood and caught her outstretched hands in a
grasp that hurt her. She winced, and his hold grew gentle; but his voice
was brutal in its passion.

"Be silent," he said, "and listen to me. They have lied to you, and you
have believed them--you I shall never forgive--you are nothing to
me--nothing. As for him--may God, in his mercy, damn him!"

He let her hands drop and went from her into the silence of the open
road.

When the thud of his footsteps was muffled by the distance Eugenia
turned and went back through the cedar avenue. She walked heavily, and
there was a bruised sensation in her limbs as if she had hurt herself
upon stones. A massive fatigue oppressed her, and she stumbled once or
twice over the rocks in the road. Her happiness was dead, this she told
herself; telling herself, also, that it had not perished by anger or by
disbelief. The slayer loomed intangible and yet inevitable--the shade
that had arisen from the gigantic gulf between separate classes which
they had sought, in ignorance, to abridge. The pride of Nicholas was not
individual, but typical--the pride of caste, and it was against this
that she had sinned--not in distrusting his honour, but in offending it.
It was in the clash of class, after all, that their theories had
crumbled. He might come back to her again--she might go forth to meet
him--but the bloom had gone from their dreams--in the reunion she saw
neither permanence nor abiding. The strongest of her instincts--the one
that made for the blood she bore--had quivered beneath the onslaught of
his accusation, but had not bent. Wherever and whenever the struggle
came she stood, as the Battles had always stood, for the clan. Be it
right or wrong, true or false, it was hers and she was on its side.

As she went beneath the great cedars, their long branches brushed her
face, like the remembering touch of familiar fingers, and she put up her
cheek to them as if they were sentient things. Long ago they had soothed
her as a troubled child, and now their caresses cooled her fever.
Underfoot she felt the ancient carpet they had spread throughout the
century--and it smoothed the way for her heavy feet. She was in the
state of subjective passiveness when the consciousness of external
objects alone seems awake. She felt a tenderness for the twisted box
bushes she brushed in passing, a vague pity for a sickly moth that flew
into her face; but for herself she was without pity or tenderness--she
had not brought her mind to bear upon her own hurt.

Indoors she found the family at supper. The general, hearing her step,
called her to her seat and gave her the brownest chicken breast in the
dish before him. Miss Chris offered her the contents of the cream jug,
and Congo plied her with Aunt Verbeny's lightest waffles; but the food
choked her and she could not eat. A lump rose in her throat, and she saw
the kindly, accustomed faces through a gathering mist. She regarded each
with a certain intentness, a peculiar feeling that there were hidden
traits in the commonplace features which she had never seen before--a
complexity in the benign candour of Miss Chris's countenance, in the
overwrought youthfulness of Bernard's, in the apoplectic credulity of
the general's. Familiar as they were, it seemed to her that there were
latent possibilities--obscure tendencies, which were revealed to her now
with microscopic exaggeration.

The general put his hand to her forehead and smoothed back the moist
hair.

"Ain't you well, daughter?" he asked anxiously. "Would you like a
toddy?"

"It's nothing," said Miss Chris cheerfully. "She's walked too far,
that's all. Eugie, you must go to bed early."

"I had her out all the morning in the sun," put in Bernard, with an
affectionate nod at Eugenia, "and she's such a trump she wouldn't give
out."

"You must learn to consider your sister," said his father testily.

"Oh! I liked it, papa," declared Eugenia. "I'm well and--I'm hungry."

Congo brought more waffles, and she ate one with grim determination. The
alert affection which surrounded her--which proved sensitive to a
change of colour or a tremor of voice, filled her with a swift sense of
security. She felt a sudden impulse to draw nearer in the shelter of the
race--to cling more closely to that unswerving instinct which had united
individual to individual and generation to generation.

As they rose from the table, she slipped her arm through her father's
and went with him into the hall.

"I'm tired," she said, stopping him on his way to the sitting-room, "so
I'll go to bed."

The general held her from him and looked into her face.

"Anybody been troubling you, Eugie?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You dear old goose--no!"

He patted her shoulder reassuringly.

"If anybody troubles you, you just let me hear of it," he said. "They'll
find out Tom Battle wasn't at Appomattox. You've got an old father and
he's got an old sword--"

"And he's hungry for a fight," she gaily finished. Then she rubbed her
cheek against his brown linen sleeve, which was redolent of tobacco. The
firm physical contact inspired her with the courage of life; it seemed
to make for her a bulwark against the world and its incoming
tribulations.

She threw back her head and looked up into the puffed and scarlet face
where the coarse veins were congested, her eyes seeing only the love
which transfigured it. She was his pet and his pride, and she would
always be the final reward of his long life.

As she mounted the stairs, he blew his nose and called cheerfully after
her:

"Just remember, if anybody begins plaguing you, that I'm ready for
him--the rascal."

Once in her room she threw open the window and sat looking out into the
night, the chill autumn wind in her face. Far across the fields a pale
moon was rising, bearing a cloudy circle that betokened rain. It flung
long, ghostly shadows east and west, which flitted, lean and noiseless
and black, before the wind. Overhead the stars shone dimly, piercing a
fine mist. Eugenia leaned forward, her chin on her clasped hands. Beyond
the gray blur of the pasture she could see, like benighted beacons, the
lights in Amos Burr's windows, and she found herself vaguely wondering
if Nicholas were at his books--those books that never failed him. He had
that consolation at least--his books were more to him than she had been.

She was not conscious of anger; she felt only an indifferent
weariness--a nervous shrinking from the brutality of his rage. His face
as she had seen it rose suddenly before her, and she put her hand to her
eyes as if to shut out the sight. She saw the clear streak of the
highway, the gray pasture, the solitary star overhanging the horizon,
and she felt the dead leaves blown against her cheek from denuded trees
far distant. And lighted by a glare of memory she saw his face--she saw
the convulsed features, the furrow that cleft the forehead like a seam,
the heavy brows bent above the half-closed eyes, the spasmodic working
of the drawn mouth. She saw the man in whom, for its brief instant, evil
was triumphant--in whom that self-poise, which had been to her as the
secret of his strength, was tumultuously overthrown.

A great fatigue weighed upon her, as if she had emerged, defeated, from
a physical contest. Her hands trembled, and something throbbed in her
temple like an imprisoned bird.

As she sat in the silence, the door opened softly and Miss Chris came
in, bearing a lamp in her hand.

"Eugie," she said, peering into the darkness, "are you there?"

Eugenia lowered the window and came over to the hearth rug, where she
stood blinking from the sudden glare of the lamp. There were some
half-extinguished embers amid the ashes in the fireplace, and she threw
on fresh wood, watching while it caught and blazed up lightly over the
old brass andirons.

Miss Chris set the lamp on the table and came over to the fire. She
carried her key basket in her hand, and the keys jingled as she moved.
Her smooth, florid face had a fine moisture over it that showed like dew
on a well-sunned peach.

"You aren't worrying about Nick Burr, Eugie," she said with the amiable
bluntness which belonged to her. "I wouldn't let it worry me if I were
you."

Eugenia turned with a flash of pride.

"No, I am not worrying about him," she answered.

Miss Chris lifted a vase from the mantel-piece, dusted the spot where it
had stood, and replaced it carefully.

"Of course, I know you've seen a good deal of him of late," she went
on; "but, as I told Tom, I knew it was nothing more than your being
playmates together. He's a good boy, and I don't believe that scandal
about him any more than I would about Bernard; but he's Amos Burr's son,
after all, though he has raised himself a long way above him, and, as
poor Aunt Griselda used to say, 'When all's said and done, a Battle's a
Battle.'"

Eugenia was looking into the fire.

"Yes," she repeated slowly, "a Battle's a Battle, after all."

"That's right, dear. I knew you'd say so. I always declared that you
were more of a Battle than all the rest of us put together--if you do
look the image of a Tucker. Tom was telling me only last week that he'd
leave you as free as air and trust the name in your hands sooner than he
would in his own--and he has a great deal of family pride, you know,
though he was so wild in his youth. But I remember my father once
saying: 'A Battle may go a long way down the wrong road, but he'll
always pull up in time to turn.'"

Her beautiful eyes shone in the firelight, and her placid mouth formed a
round hole above her dimpled chin, giving her large face an expression
almost infantile. She took up the key basket, which she had placed on
the mantel-piece, cast a glance at the pile of logs to see if it had
been replenished, felt the cover on the bed, after inquiring if it
sufficed, and, with a cheerful "good-night," passed out, closing the
door behind her.

Eugenia did not turn as the door closed. She stood motionless upon the
hearth rug, looking down into the fire. Something in the huge old
fireplace, with its bent andirons supporting the blazing logs, in the
increasing bed of embers upon the bricks, in the sharp odour of the knot
of resinous pine she had thrown on with the hickory, brought before her
the winter evenings in Delphy's little cabin, when they sat upon
three-legged stools and roasted early winesaps. She saw the negro faces
in the glow of the hearth, and she saw Nicholas and herself sitting side
by side in the shadow. His childish face, with its look of ancient care,
came back to her with the knotted boyish hands that had carried and
fetched at her bidding. The whole wistful little figure was imaged in
the flames, melting rapidly into the boy, eager to act, ardent to
achieve, who had bidden her good-bye on that November afternoon, and,
dissolving again, to reappear as the strong man who had come upon her in
Uncle Ish's little shanty, bearing the old negro's bag upon his
shoulder.

She had loved him for his strength, his vigour, his gentleness--and she
still loved him.

Of the men that she had known, who was there so ready to assist, so
forgetful of services which he had rendered? There was none so powerful
and yet so kind--so generous or so gentle. An impulse stirred her to
cross the fields to his door and fling herself into the breach that
divided them; but again the phantom in the flames grew dim and then sent
out the face that she had seen that afternoon--convulsed and quivering,
with its flitting sinister likeness to Amos Burr. A voice that seemed to
be the voice of old dead Aunt Griselda--of her whole dead race that had
decayed and been forgotten, and come to life again in her--spoke
suddenly from the silence:

"When all's said and done, a Battle's a Battle."

The resinous pine blazed up, the pungent odour filled the large room,
and from the lightwood sticks tiny streams of resin oozed out and
dripped into the embers, turning the red to gray.

Mingling with the crackling of the flames there was a noise as of the
soughing of the wind in the pine forests.

The hearth grew suddenly blurred before her eyes; and a passion of grief
rose to her throat and clutched her with the grip of claws. For an
instant longer she stood motionless; then, turning from the fire, she
threw herself upon the floor to weep until the daybreak.




VII


When Nicholas left Eugenia it was to stride blindly towards his father's
gate. The rage which had stunned him into silence before the girl now
leaped and crackled like flame in his blood. His throat was parched and
he saw red like a man who kills.

Passing his home, he kept on to Kingsborough, and once within the shadow
of the wood, he broke into a run, flying from himself and from the goad
of his wrath. As he ran, he felt with a kind of alien horror that to
meet Bernard Battle face to face in this hour would be to do
murder--murder too mild for the man who had lied away his friend's
honour for the sake of the whiteness of his own skin. It was the
injustice that he resented with a holy rage--the hideous fact that a
clean man should be spotted to save an unclean one the splashing he
merited.

And Eugenia also--he hated Eugenia that he had kept her image
untarnished in his thoughts; that he had allowed the desire for no other
woman to shadow it. He had held himself as a temple for the worship of
her; he had permitted no breath of defilement to blow upon the
altar--and this was his reward. This--that the woman he loved had hurled
the first stone at the mere lifting of a Pharisaical finger--that she
had loved him and had turned from him when the first word was
uttered--as she would not have turned from the brother of her blood had
he been damned in Holy Writ. It was for this that he hated her.

The light of the sunset shining through the wood fell dull gold on his
pathway. A strong wind was blowing among the trees, and the dried leaves
were torn from the boughs and hurled roughly to the earth, when they
sped onward to rest against the drifts by the roadside. The sound of the
wind was deep and hoarse like the baying of distant hounds, and beneath
it, in plaintive minor, ran the sighing of the leaves before his
footsteps. Through the wood came the vague smells of autumn--a
reminiscent waft of decay, the reek of mould on rotting logs, the
effluvium of overblown flowers, the healthful smack of the pines. By
dawn frost would grip the vegetation and the wind would lull; but now it
blew, strong and clear, scattering before it withered growths and subtle
scents of death.

Out of the wood, Nicholas came on the highway again, and turned to where
the afterglow burnished the windows of Kingsborough. He followed the
road instinctively--as he had followed it daily from his childhood up,
beating out the impression of his own footsteps in the dust,
obliterating his old, even tracks by the reckless tramp of his delirium.

When he reached the college grounds he paused from the same dazed
impulse and looked back upon the west through the quiet archway of the
long brick building. The place was desolate with the desolation of
autumn. Through the funereal arch he saw the sunset barred by a network
of naked branches, while about him the darkening lawn was veiled with
the melancholy drift of the leaves. The only sound of life came from a
brood of turkeys settling to roost in a shivering aspen.

He turned and walked rapidly up the main street, where a cloud of dust
hung suspended. Past the court-house, across the green, past the little
whitewashed gaol, where in a happier season roses bloomed--out into the
open country where the battlefields were grim with headless corn
rows--he walked until he could walk no further, and then wheeled about
to retrace heavily his way. His rage was spent; his pulses faltered from
fatigue, and the red flashes faded from before his eyes.

When he reached home supper was over, and Nannie sat sewing in the
little room adjoining the kitchen.

"You're late for supper," she said idly as he entered. "Sairy Jane's
gone to bed with a headache and ma's in a temper. I'll get you something
as soon as I've done this seam."

"I've had supper," he answered shortly, adding from force of habit,
"where's ma?"

Nannie motioned towards the kitchen and drew a little nearer the lamp,
while Nicholas left the room in search of his stepmother.

Marthy Burr, a pile of newly dug potatoes on the floor beside her, was
carefully sorting them before storing them for winter use. The sound
ones she laid in a basket at her right hand, those that were of
imperfect growth or showed signs of decay she threw into a hamper that
was kept in the kitchen closet.

"You ought to make Jubal do this," said Nicholas as he entered.

"I wouldn't trust the thickest skinned potato in the field in his
hands," returned Marthy sharply. "He an' yo' pa made out to store 'em
last year, an' when I went to look in the first barrel, the last one of
'em had rotted."

"Let them rot," said Nicholas harshly. "I be damned if I'd care. You
don't eat them, anyway."

"I reckon if I was a man I might consarn myself 'bout the things that
tickle my own palate--an' 'taters ain't one of 'em," was his
stepmother's retort. "But, being a woman, it seems I've got to spend my
life slavin' for other folks' stomachs. But you're yo' Uncle Nick Sales
all over again; 'Don't you get up befo' day to set that dough, Marthy,'
he'd say, but when the bread came on flat as a pancake, he'd look sourer
than all the rest."

"What was my Uncle Nick Sales like?" asked Nicholas indifferently. He
knew the name, but he had never heard the man's story.

"All book larnin' an' mighty little sense--just like you," replied his
stepmother with repressed pride in her voice. "Could read the Bible in
an outlandish tongue an' was too big a fool to come in out of the rain.
He used to sit up all night at his books--an' fall asleep the next day
at the plough. He was the wisest fool I ever see."

"Poor fool!" said Nicholas softly. It was the epitaph over the unmarked
grave of that other member of his race who had blazed the thorny path
before him. A strange, pathetic figure rose suddenly in his vision--a
man with a great brow and a twisted back, with brawny, knotted hands--an
unlearned student driving the plough, an ignorant philosopher dragging
the mire.

"Poor fool!" he said again. "What did his learning do for him?"

"It killed him," returned his stepmother shortly.

She stood before him wiping her gnarled hands on her soiled apron. His
gaze fell upon her, and he wondered angrily whence sprung her
indomitable energy--the energy that could expend itself upon potatoes.
Her face was sharpened until it seemed to become all feature--there were
hollows in the narrow temples, and where the pale, thin hair was drawn
tightly over the head he could trace the prominent bones of the skull.

As he looked at her his own petty suffering was overshadowed by the
visible tragedy of her life--the sordid tragedy where unconsciousness
was pathos. He reached out quickly and took a corner of her apron in his
hand. It was the strongest demonstration of affection he had ever made
to her.

"I'll sort them, ma," he said lightly. "There's not a speck in the lot
of them too fine for my eyes." And he knelt down beside the earthy heap.

But when he went up to his room an hour later and lighted his kerosene
lamp, it was not of his stepmother that he was thinking--nor was it of
Eugenia. His stiffened muscles contracted in physical pain, and his
brain was deadened by the sense of unutterable defeat. The delirium of
his anger had passed away; the fever of his skin had chilled beneath the
cold sweat that broke over him--in the reaction from the madness that
had gripped him he was conscious of a sanity almost sublime. The
habitual balance of his nature had swung back into place.

He got out his books and arranged them as usual beside the lamp. Then he
took up the volume he had been reading and held it unopened in his
hands. He stared straight before him at the whitewashed wall of the
little room, at the rough pine bedstead, at the crude washstand, at the
coloured calendar above.

On the unearthly whiteness of the wall he beheld the pictured vision of
that other student of his race--the kinsman who had lived toiling and
had died learning. He came to him a tragic figure in mire-clotted
garments--a youth with aspiring eyes and muck-stained feet. He wondered
what had been his history--that unknown labourer who had sought
knowledge--that philosopher of the plough who had died in ignorance.

"Poor fools!" he said bitterly, "poor fools!" for in his vision that
other student walked not alone.

The next morning he went into Kingsborough at his usual hour, and,
passing his own small office, kept on to where Tom Bassett's name was
hung.

It was county court day, and the sheriff and the clerk of the court were
sitting peaceably in armchairs on the little porch of the court-house.
As Nicholas passed with a greeting, they turned from a languid
discussion of the points of a brindle cow in the street to follow
mentally his powerful figure.

"I reckon he's got more muscle than any man in town," remarked the
sheriff in a reflective drawl. "Unless Phil Bates, the butcher, could
knock him out. Like to see 'em at each other, wouldn't you?" he added
with a laugh.

The clerk carefully tilted his chair back against the wall and surveyed
his outstretched feet. "Like to live to see him stumping this State for
Congress," he replied. "There goes the brainiest man these parts have
produced since before the war--the people want their own men, and it's
time they had 'em."

Nicholas passed on to Tom's office, and, finding it empty, turned back
to the judge's house, where he found father and son breakfasting
opposite each other at a table bright with silver and chrysanthemums.

They hospitably implored him to join them, but he shook his head,
motioning away the plate which old Cęsar would have laid before him.

"I wanted to ask Tom if he had heard this--this lie about me," he said
quickly.

Tom looked up, flushing warmly.

"Why, who's been such a blamed fool as to tell you?" he demanded.

"You have heard it?"

"It isn't worth hearing. I called Jerry Pollard up at once, and he swore
he was all wrong--the girl herself exonerates you. Nobody believed it."

Nicholas crushed the brim of his hat in a sudden grip.

"Some believe it," he returned slowly. He sat down at the table, smiling
gratefully at the judge's protestations.

"They aren't all like you, sir," he declared. "I wish they were. This
world would be a little nearer heaven--a little less like hell."

There was a trail of lingering bitterness in his voice, and in a moment
he added quickly: "Do you know, I'd like to get away for a time. I've
changed my mind about caring to live here. If they'd send me up to the
legislature next year, I'd make a new beginning."

The judge shook his head.

"I doubt the wisdom of it, my boy," he said. But Tom caught at the
suggestion.

"Send you," he repeated. "Of course; they'll send you from here to
Jericho, if you say so. Why, there's no end to your popularity among
men. Where the ladies are concerned, I modestly admit that I have the
advantage of you; but they can't vote, God bless them!"

"You're welcome to all the good they may bring you, old boy," was
Nicholas's unchivalrous retort.

"Oh, you're jealous, Nick!" twitted Tom gaily. "They don't take kindly
to your carrot locks. Now, I've inherited a way with them, eh, dad?"

The judge complacently buttered his buckwheats. There was a twinkle in
his eyes and a quiver at the corner of his classic mouth.

"It was the only inheritance I wasn't able to squander in my wild oats
days," he returned. "May you cherish it, my boy, as carefully as your
father has done. It would be a dull world without the women."

"And a peaceable one," added Nicholas viciously.

"We owe them much," said the judge, pouring maple syrup from the old
silver jug. "If Helen of Troy set the world at war, she made men
heroes."

"You can't get the pater to acknowledge that the fair things are ever
wrong," put in Tom protestingly. "He would have proved Eve's innocence
to the Almighty. If a woman murdered ten men before his eyes he'd lay
the charge on the devil and acquit her."

The judge shook his head with a laugh.

"I might merely argue that the queen can do no wrong," he suggested.

When Tom had finished his breakfast, Nicholas walked with him to his
office, and, seeing Bessie Pollard, red-eyed and drooping in her
father's door, he lingered an instant and held out his hand. There was
defiant sympathy in his act--disdain of the judgment of
Kingsborough--and of General Battle, who was passing--and pity for a
bruised common thing that looked at him with beautiful, mindless eyes.

"You aren't looking bright to-day," he said kindly, "but things will
pull through, never fear--they always do, if you give them time."

Then he responded coolly to the general's cool nod, and, rejoining Tom,
they went on arm in arm. In his large-minded manhood it had not occurred
to him to connect the girl with the wrong done upon him--he knew her to
be more weak than wicked, and, in her soft, pretty sadness, she reminded
him of a half-drowned kitten.

During the next few months he frequently passed Eugenia in the road.
Sometimes he did not look at her, and again he met her wistful gaze and
spoke without a smile. Once he checked an eager movement towards her
because he had met Bernard just ahead--and he hated him; once he had
seen the carriage in the distance and had waited in a passionate rush
of remorse and love to hear her laughter as she talked with Dudley Webb.
They had faced each other at last with resolute eyes and unswerving
wills. On his side was the pride of an innocent man accused, the
bitterness of a proud man on an inferior plane; on hers, the
recollection of that wild evening in the road, and the belated
recognition of the debt she owed her race.

In the winter she went up to Richmond and he slowly forced himself to
renounce her. He began to see his old dream as it was--an emotional
chimera; a mental madness. As the year grew on he watched his long hope
wither root and branch, until, with the resurrection of the spring, it
lay still because there was no life left that might put forth. And when
his hope was dead he told himself that his unhappiness died with it,
that he might throw himself single-hearted into the work of his life.




VIII


The year passed and was done with--leaves budded, expanded, fell again.
Eugenia watched their growth, fulfilment, and decay as she had watched
them other seasons, though with eyes a thought widened by experience, a
shade darkened by tears. At first she had suffered wildly, then
passively, at last resignedly. The colour rebloomed in her cheek, the
gaiety rang back to her voice, for she was young, and youth is ever
buoyant.

There was work for her to do on the place, and she did it cheerfully.
She studied farming with her father and overhauled the methods of the
overseer, to the man's annoyance and the general's delight. "She tells
me Varly isn't scientific," roared the general with rapturous enjoyment.
"A scientific overseer! She'll be asking for an honest politician next."

"I'm sure Varly is a very respectable man," protested Miss Chris in her
usual position of defence. "The servants were always devoted to him
before the war--that says a good deal."

"There's not a better man in the county," admitted the general, "or a
worse farmer. Here I've let him go down hill at his own gait for more
than thirty years, to be pulled up in the end by a chit of a girl. I
wouldn't, if I were you, Eugie. He's old and he's slow."

"Oh! I'll promise not to hurt him," returned Eugenia. "I save him a lot
of hard work, and he likes it."

She drew on her loose dogskin gloves and went out to overlook the
shucking of the corn.

With the exercise in the open air she had gained in suppleness and
brilliancy. It was the outdoor work that saved her spirit and her
beauty--that gave her endurance for the indoor monotony and magnified
the splendid optimism of her saddest hour. She was a woman born for
happiness; when the Fates failed to accord it she defied them and found
her own.

In the autumn news came that Nicholas was elected to the General
Assembly. The judge brought it, riding out on a bright afternoon to chat
with the general before the blazing logs.

"The lad has a future," said the judge with a touch of pride. "Brains
don't grow on blackberry vines;" then he laughed softly. "Cęsar voted
for him," he added.

The general slapped his knee.

"Cęsar is a gentleman," he exclaimed. "He was the first darkey in
Kingsborough to vote the Democratic ticket. I walked up to the polls
with him and the boys cheered him. You weren't there, George."

The judge shook his head.

"They called it undue influence," he said; "but, on my honour, Tom, I
never spoke a political word to Cęsar in my life. Of course he'd heard
me talk with Tom at dinner. He'd heard me say that the man of his race
who would dare to vote with white men would be head and shoulders above
his people, a man of mind, a man that any gentleman in the county would
be proud to shake by the hand--but seek to influence Cęsar! Never, sir!"

"Now, there's that Ishmael of mine," said the general aggrievedly. "He
no sooner got his vote than he cast it just to spite me. I told the fool
he didn't know any more about voting than the old mule Sairy did, and he
said he didn't have to know 'nothin' cep'n his name.' He forgot that
when they challenged him at the polls, but he voted all the same--voted
in my face, sir."

They lighted their pipes and sang the praises of that idyllic period
which they called "before the war," while Eugenia crept away into the
shadows.

She was glad that Nicholas would go; glad, glad, glad--so glad that she
wept a little in the cold of a dark corner.

A week later Dudley came down, and she met him with a friendliness that
dismayed and disarmed him. Could a woman be so frankly cordial with a
man she loved? Could she face a passion that inspired her with such
serene self-poise? He questioned these things, but he did not hesitate.
He was of a Virginian line of lovers, and he charged in courtship as
courageously as his father had charged in battle. He was magnificent in
his youthful ardour, and so fitted for success that it seemed already to
cast a prophetic halo about his head.

"You are superb," Eugenia had said, half insolently, looking up at him
as he stood in the firelight. "How odd that I never noticed it before."

"You are looking at yourself in my eyes," he returned gallantly.

She shook her head.

"There are so many women who like handsome men, it's a pity you can't
fall in love with one," she said coldly.

"Am I to infer that you prefer ugly men?" he questioned.

"I--oh! I am too good-looking to care," she replied.

She sprang up suddenly and stood beside him. "We do look well together,"
she said with grave audacity.

He laughed. "I am flattered. It may weigh with you in your future plans.
Come, Eugie, let me love you!"

But her mood changed and she dragged him with her out into the autumn
fields.

In the last days of November a long rain came--a ruinous autumnal rain
that beat the white roads into livid streams of mud and sent the sad
dead leaves in shapeless tatters to the earth. The glory of the fall had
brought back the glory of her love; its death revived the agony of the
long decay.

At night the rain throbbed upon the tin roof above her. Sometimes she
would turn upon her pillow, stuffing the blankets about her ears; but,
muffled by the bedclothes, she heard always the incessant melancholy
sound. She heard it beating on the naked roof, rushing tumultuously to
the overflowing pipes, dripping upon the wet stones of the gutter below,
sweeping from the earth dead leaves, dead blossoms, dead desires.

In the day she watched it from the windows. The flower beds, desolated,
formed muddy fountains, the gravel walk was a shining rivulet, the
sycamore held three yellow leaves that clung vainly to a sheltered
bough, the aspen faced her, naked--only the impenetrable gloom of the
cedars was secure--sombre and inviolate.

On the third day she went out into the rain; splashing miles through the
heavy roads and returning with a glow in her cheeks and the savour of
the dampness in her mouth.

Taking off her wet garments she carried them to the kitchen to be dried.
With the needed exercise, her cheerful animation had returned.

In the brick kitchen a gloomy group of negroes surrounded the stove.

"Dar's gwine ter be a flood an' de ea'th hit's gwine ter pass away,"
lamented Aunt Verbeny, lifting the ladle from a huge pot, the contents
of which she was energetically stirring. "Hit's gwine ter pass away wid
de men en de cattle en de crops, en de black folks dey's gwine ter pass
des' de same es dey wuz white."

"I'se monst'ous glad I'se got religion," remarked a strange little negro
woman who had come over to sell a string of hares her husband had shot.
"De Lawd He begun ter git mighty pressin' las' mont', so I let 'im have
His way. Blessed be de name er de Lawd! Is you a church member, Sis
Delphy?"

"Yes, Lawd, a full-breasted member," responded Delphy, clamping the
declivity of her bosom.

"I ain' got much use fur dis yer gittin' en ungittin' er salvation," put
in Uncle Ish from the table where he was eating a late dinner of Aunt
Verbeny's providing. "Dar's too much monkeyin' mixed up wid it fur me.
Hit's too much de work er yo' j'ints ter make me b'lieve hit's gwine ter
salivate yo' soul. When my wife, Mandy, wuz 'live, I tuck 'n cyar'ed her
long up ter one er dese yer revivals, en' ole Sis Saphiry Baker come
'long gittin' happy, en fo' de Lawd she rid 'er clean roun' de chu'ch.
Naw, suh, de religion I wanter lay holt on is de religion uv rest."

"I ain' never sarved my Lawd wid laziness," put in Aunt Verbeny
reprovingly. "When He come arter me I ain' never let de ease er my limbs
stan' in de way. Ef you can't do a little shoutin' on de ea'th, you're
gwineter have er po' sho' ter keep de Lawd f'om overlookin' you at
Kingdom Come."

The strange little woman faced them proudly. "My husband, Silas, got
religion in de night time," she said, "an' he bruck clean thoo de slats.
De bed ain't helt stiddy sence."

Eugenia emerged from the dusk of the doorway, where she had lingered,
and Delphy rose to take the dripping clothes.

"Des' look at her!" exclaimed Aunt Verbeny at the girl's entrance.
"Ain't she a sight ter mek a blin' man see?" Then she added to the
strange little woman, "Dar ain' no lack er beaux roun' yer, needer."

Uncle Ish grunted.

"I ain' seen 'em swum es dey swum roun' Miss Meely," he muttered, while
Aunt Verbeny shook her fist at him behind the stranger's back. "De a'r
wuz right thick wid 'em."

"I reckon dis chile'll be mah'r'd soon es she sets her min' on it,"
returned Delphy indignantly. "She ain' gwineter have ter do much
cuttin' er de eyelashes, needer. De beaux come natch'ul."

"Dar's Marse Dudley, now," said Aunt Verbeny. "I ain' so ole but my
palate hit kin taste a gent'mun a mile off. Marse Dudley ain' furgit de
times I'se done roas' him roas'in' years when he warn' mo'n er chile.
Hit's 'how's yo' health, Aunt Verbeny?' des' de same es 'twuz den."

Eugenia laughed and flung the heap of garments into Delphy's arms. "The
rain's over," she said; "but, Uncle Ish, you'd better get Congo to fix
you up for the night. It is too wet for your rheumatism," and she ran
singing upstairs to where the general was dozing in the sitting-room.
"Wake up, dad! it's going to clear!"

The general started heavily from his sleep. There was a dazed look in
his eyes.

"Clear?" he asked doubtfully, "has it been raining?"

Eugenia shook him into consciousness.

"Raining for three whole days, and I believe you've slept through it.
Now the clouds are breaking."


"What is it the Bible says about 'the winter of our discontent'?--that's
what it is."

"Not the Bible, dear--Shakespeare."

"It's the same thing," retorted the general testily. His speech came
thickly as if he held a pebble in his mouth, and the swollen veins in
his face were livid.

Eugenia bent over him in sudden uneasiness. "Aren't you well, papa?" she
asked. "Is anything the matter?"

The general laughed and pinched her cheek.

"Never better in my life," he declared, "but I'll have to be getting
new glasses. These things aren't worth a cent. Find them, Eugie."

Eugenia picked them up, wiped them on his silk handkerchief, and put
them on his nose.

"You've slept too long," she said. "Come and take a walk in the hall."

She dragged him from his chair, and he yielded under protest.

"You forget that two hundred pounds can't skip about like fifty," he
complained.

But he followed her to the long hall, and they paced slowly up and down
in the afternoon shadows. At the end of ten minutes the general declared
that he felt so well he would go back to his chair.

"I'll get the 'Southern Planter' and read to you," said Eugenia. "Don't
go to sleep."

She ran lightly upstairs and, coming down in a moment, called him. He
did not answer and she called again.

The sitting-room was in dusk, and, as she entered, the firelight showed
the huge body of the general lying upon the hearth rug. A sound of heavy
snoring filled the room.

She flung herself beside him, lifting the great head upon her lap; but
before she had cried out Miss Chris was at her elbow.

"Hush, Eugie," she said quickly, though the girl had not spoken. "Send
Sampson for Dr. Bright, and tell Delphy to bring pillows. Give him to
me."

Her voice was firm, and there was no tremor in her large, helpful hands.

When Eugenia returned, the general was still lying upon the hearth rug,
his head supported by pillows. Miss Chris had opened one of the western
windows, and a cool, damp air filled the room. The rain had begun again,
descending with a soft, purring sound. Above it she heard the laboured
breathing from the hearth rug, and in the firelight she saw the regular
inflation of the swollen cheeks. The distended pupils stared back at
her, void of light.

As she stood motionless, her hands clenched before her, she followed the
soft, weighty tread of Miss Chris, passing to and fro with improvised
applications. The light fall of the rain irritated her; she longed for
the relentless downpour of the night.

At the end of an hour the roll of wheels broke the stillness, and she
went out to meet the doctor, passing, with a shiver, the unconscious
mass on the floor.

They carried him to his bed in the chamber next the parlour, and through
the night and day he lay an inert bulk beneath the bedclothes. Miss
Chris and Eugenia and the servants passed in and out of his room. One of
the dogs came and sat upon the threshold until Eugenia put her arms
about his neck and drew him away. She had not wept; she was white and
drawn and silent, as if the shock had dulled her to insensibility.
During the afternoon of the next day she persuaded Miss Chris to rest,
and, softly closing the door, sat down in a chair beside her father's
bed. It was the high white bed that had known the marriage, birth, and
death of a century of Battles. In it her father was born; beside it,
kneeling at prayer, her mother had died. The stately tester frame had
seen generations come and go, and had remained unchanged. Now its stiff
white curtains made a ghastly drapery above the purple face.

Eugenia sat motionless, her thoughts vaguely circling about the still
figure before her. It was not her father--this she felt profoundly--it
was some strange shape that had taken his place, or she was held by some
farcical nightmare from which she should awake presently with a start.
The half-used glasses on the little table beside her; the candle burned
down in the socket, and overlooked; the tightly corked phials of useless
drugs; the strong odour of mustard from the saucer in which a plaster
had been mixed--these things struck upon her faltering consciousness
with a shock of horrible reality. The odour of the mustard was more real
than the breathing of the body on the bed.

As she sat there, she thought of her mother--the pale, still woman who
had lain beautiful and dead where her father was dying now. She came to
her as from a faded miniature, wistful, holy, at rest--blessed and above
reproach. Her heart went out to her as to one standing near, hidden by
the long white curtains--nearer than Aunt Chris asleep upstairs, nearer
than Bernard, who was coming to her, nearer than the great form on the
bed. Closer than all other things was that spiritual presence. Then she
thought of her old negro mammy, who had died when she was but a
baby--her mother's nurse and hers. She recalled the beloved black face
beneath the snowy handkerchief, the restful bosom in blue homespun, the
tireless arms that had rocked her into slumber. Then of Jim, the dog,
true friend and faithful playmate. All the lives that she had loved and
had been bereft of gathered closer, closer in the gray shadows.

Her gaze passed to the window, seeking in the sad landscape the little
graveyard where they were lying. The rain came between her and the
clouded hill--descending softly and insistently between her eyes and the
end of her search. Against the panes the dripping branches of the
shivering mimosa tree beat themselves and moaned. A chill seized her
and, rising, she went to the hearth, noiselessly piling wood upon the
charred and waning logs, which crumbled and sent up a thin flame. She
hurried to the bed and sat down again, her eyes on the blanket that rose
and fell with the difficult breath. As she looked at the large, familiar
face, tracing its puffed outline and gross colouring, it resolved itself
into her earliest remembrance--throughout her childhood he had been her
slave and she his tyrant. What wish of hers had he ever ignored? With
what demand had he ever failed to comply? At the end of the long life
what had remained to him except herself--the single compensation--the
one reward? The pity of it smote her as with a lash. He had lived with
such fine bravery, and he had had so little--so little, and yet more
than myriads of the men that live and die. That live and die! About her
and beyond her she seemed to hear the rushing of great multitudes--the
passing of the countless souls through the gates of death.

With a cry she threw herself upon her knees, beseeching the dull ears.

       *       *       *       *       *

Six hours later he died, and when the rain ceased and the sun came out
they buried him beside his wife in the little graveyard. For days after
the funeral Eugenia wandered like a shadow through the still rooms.
Bernard had come and gone, carrying with him his short, sharp grief.
Miss Chris had put aside her own sorrow and gone back to the management
of the house; only the girl, worn, idle, tragic, haunted the reminders
of her loss. Coming upon the general's old slouch hat on the rack, she
had grasped it in sudden passionate longing; at the sight of his
half-filled pipe she had rushed from the room and from the house. The
faint scent of tobacco about the furniture was a continual torture to
her. In the great chamber next the parlour she would sit for hours,
staring at the cold white bed, shivering before the fireless hearth. The
place chilled her like a vault; but she would linger wretchedly until
led away by Miss Chris, when she would sob upon that broad, unselfish
bosom.

December passed; the unsunned earth turned itself for a winter rest.
January came, swift and changeful. With February a snowstorm swept from
the north, driving southward. At first they felt it in the air; then the
swollen clouds chased overhead; at last the white flakes arrived,
falling, falling, falling. Through the night the storm made a glistening
mantle for the darkness; through the day it hid sombre sky and sombre
earth in a spotless veil. It covered the far country to the distant
forests; it weighted the ancient cedars until their green branches bent
to earth; it wrapped the gravelled walk in a winding sheet; it filled
the hollows of the box bushes until they hardened into hills of ice. The
snow was followed by cold winds. The ground froze in the night. Long
icicles formed on the naked trees, the window panes bore a lacework of
frost.

One afternoon, when the landscape was white and hard, Eugenia went out
into the deserted sheep pasture where the dead oak stood. A winter
sunset was burning like a bonfire in the west, and as far as the red
horizon swept an unbroken waste of snow. The rail fences shone silver in
their coat of frost, and from the blackened tree above her pendants of
ice were shot with light. Across the field a flock of gaunt crows flew,
casting purple shadows.

Eugenia leaned against the oak and stared vacantly at the landscape--at
the sunset, and at the waste of snow, across which flitted the demoniac
shadows of the crows. Her eyes saw only the desolation and the death;
they were sealed to the grandeur.

A sense of her own loneliness swept over her with the loneliness of
nature. Her own isolation--the isolation of a strong soul in
pain--walled her apart as with a wall of ice. That assurance of human
companionship on which she had based her future seemed suddenly
annihilated. She was alone and life was before her.

Then, as she turned her gaze, a man's figure broke upon the field of
snow, coming towards her. It was Dudley Webb, and in the resolute swing
of his carriage, in the resistless ardour of his eyes, he seemed to
reach her from east and west, from north and south, surrounding her with
a warmth of summer.

As he looked at her he held out his arms.

"Eugie--poor girl! dear girl!"

In the desolation of her life he stood to her as the hearth of home to
a wanderer in the frozen North.

For an instant she held back, and then, with a sob, she yielded.

"I must be loved," she said. "I must be loved or I shall die."

Around them the winter landscape reddened as the sunset broke, and above
their heads the crows flew, cawing, across the snow.




BOOK IV

THE MAN AND THE TIMES




I


The Democratic State Convention had taken an hour's recess. From the
doors of the opera house of Powhatan City the assembled delegates
emerged, heated, clamorous, out of breath. The morning session, despite
its noise, had not been interesting--awaiting the report of the
Committee on Credentials, the panting body had fumed away the opening
hours. Of the fifteen hundred representatives of absent voters, the
favoured few who had held the floor had been needlessly discursive and
undeniably dull. There had been overmuch of the party platform, and an
absence of the wit which is the soul of political speaking; and, though
the average Virginia Convention is able to breast triumphantly the most
encompassing wave of oratory, the present one had shown unmistakable
signs of suffocation. At the end of the third speech, metaphor had
failed to move it, and alliteration had ceased to evoke applause. It had
heard without emotion similes that concerned the colour of Cleopatra's
hair, and had yawned through perorations that ranged from Socrates to
the Senior Senator, who sat upon the stage. Attacks upon the "cormorants
and harpies that roost in Wall Street" had roused no thrill in the mind
of the majority that knew not rhetoric. The most patient of the silent
members had observed that "after all, their business was to nominate a
candidate for governor," while the unruly spirits, as they brandished
palm-leaf fans, had wished "that blamed committee would come on."

Now, after hours of restless waiting, they emerged, stiff-kneed and
perspiring, into the blazing sunshine that filled the little street.
Once outside, they opened their lungs to the warm air in an attempt to
banish the tainted atmosphere of the interior; but the original motive
of expansion was lost in a flow of words. On the sidewalk the crowd
divided into streams, pulsing in opposite directions. Heated, noisy,
pervasive, it surged to dinners in hotels and boarding-houses, and
overflowed where Moloney's restaurant displayed its bill of fare. It
came out talking, it divided talking; still talking, it swept, a roaring
sea of flesh, into the far-off buzz of the distance. In a group of three
men passing into the lobby of the largest hotel, there was a slender man
of fifty years, with a well-knit figure, half closed, indifferent eyes,
and an emphatic mouth. In the insistent hum of words about him, his
voice sounded in a brisk utterance that carried a hint of important
issues.

"Oh, I don't think Hartley's much account," he was saying. "I'd bet on a
close shave between Webb and Crutchfield, with Webb in the lead. Small
will get the lieutenant-governorship, of course. Davis ought to be
attorney-general, but he'll be beaten by Wray. It's the party reward.
Davis is the better lawyer, by long odds, but Wray has stuck to the
party like a burr--I don't mean a pun, if you please."

The younger of his two companions, a spirited youth with high-standing
auburn hair, laughed uproariously.

"The trouble is they're afraid Burr won't stick to the party," he
protested. "Major Simms, who is marshalling Crutchfield's forces, you
know, said to me last night--'Oh, Burr's all right when you let him
lead, but he's damned mulish if you begin to pull the other way.'"

The third man, a sunburned farmer, with a dogged mouth overhung by a
tobacco-stained mustache, assented with a nod.

"There's not a better Democrat in Virginia than Nick Burr," he said. "If
the party's got anything against him it had better out with it at once.
He made the most successful chairman the State ever had--and he's
honest--there's not a more honest man in politics or out."

"Oh, I know all that," broke in the auburn-haired young fellow, whose
name was Dickson; "I'd back Burr against any candidate in the field, and
I'm sorry he kept out of it. I hoped he'd come forward with you to
manage his campaign, Mr. Galt," he said to the first speaker.

Galt waived the remark.

"Perhaps he thought his chances too slim for a walkover," he said in
non-committal fashion, as Burr's best friend. "I hear, by the way, that
the delegation from his old home is instructed to vote for him on the
first ballot, whether or not."

"He has a great name down in my parts," put in the farmer. "The people
think he has the agricultural interests at heart. They wanted to send
him to Congress in Webb's place, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Galt. "Hello, Bassett," as Tom Bassett joined him.
"Where've you been? Lost sight of you this morning."

"Oh, I was out with the Committee on Credentials. A member? I should say
not. I wanted to hear that Madison County case, so I got made
sergeant-at-arms. By the way, Dick," to Dickson, "I hear you held the
floor for five minutes this morning and got off five distinct stories
that landed with Columbus."

"Nonsense. I didn't open my mouth--except to call 'time' on the men who
did. There's our orator now."

He bowed to an elderly gentleman with a sharply pointed chin beard and
the type of face that was once called clerical.

"Some one defined oratory the other day," said Galt, "as the fringe with
which the inhabitants of the Southern States still delighted to trim
their politics--so I should call the gentleman of to-day 'a political
tassel.' He's ornamental and he hangs by a thread."

And he passed into the lobby arm-in-arm with Tom Bassett.

The place was swarming with delegates: delegates from country districts,
red-faced farmers in flapping linen coats and wide-brimmed hats;
delegates from the cities, dapper, well-groomed, cordial-voiced;
delegates of the true political type, shaven, obsequious, alert;
delegates of the cast that belongs at home, outspoken, honest-eyed,
remote; stout delegates, with half-bursting waistbands, thin delegates,
with shrunken chests. In the animated throng there was but one condition
held in common--they were all heated delegates. In one corner a stout
gentleman in a thin coat, with a scarlet neck showing above his wilted
collar, held a half-dozen listeners with his eyes, while he plied them
with emphatic sentences in which the name of Crutchfield sounded like a
refrain. Moving from group to group, portly, unctuous, insinuating, a
man with an oily voice was doing battle in the cause of Webb.

The throng that passed in and out of the lobby was continually shifting
place and principles. One instant it would seem that Crutchfield
triumphed in a majority sufficient to overwhelm the platform; a moment
more and the Webb men were vociferously in the ascendant. At the time it
resolved itself into a question of tongues.

"This is thick," said Ben Galt, dodging the straw hat with which a
perspiring politician was fanning himself and gently withdrawing himself
from the arms of a scarlet individual in a wet collar to collide with
his double. "Let's go to dinner. Ah! there's the Lion of Democracy--how
are you, Judge?"

The Lion, a striking figure, with a graceful, snow-white mane and a
colossal memory, held out a tireless hand. "Well met, Ben," he exclaimed
in effusive tones. "I've been on the outlook for you all day. One
moment--your pardon--one moment--Ah, my dear sir! my dear sir!" to a
countryman who approached him with outstretched hand, "I am delighted.
Remember you? Why, of course--of course! Your name has escaped me this
instant; but I was speaking of you only yesterday. No, don't tell me!
don't tell me. I remember. Ah, now I have it--one moment, please--it was
after the battle of Seven Pines. You lent me a horse after the battle of
Seven Pines. Thank you--thank you, sir. And your charming lady, who made
me the delicious coffee. My best regards to her."

The great man was surrounded, and Galt and Bassett, leaving him to his
assailants, passed into the dining-room.

Glancing hastily down the long room filled with small, overcrowded
tables, they joined several men who were seated near an open window.

"Hello, Major. Glad to see you, Mr. Slate! How are things down your way,
Colonel?"

A tired negro waiter, with a napkin slung over his arm, drew back the
chairs and deposited two plates of lukewarm soup before the newcomers,
after which he lifted a brush of variegated tissue paper and made
valiant assault upon the flies which overran the tables. Stale odours of
over-cooked food weighted the atmosphere, and waiters bearing enormous
trays above their heads jostled one another as they threaded their
difficult ways. Occasionally the clamour of voices was lost in the
clatter of breaking dishes. Tom Bassett pushed his plate away and mopped
his large forehead. He appeared to have developed without aging in the
last fifteen years--still presenting an aspect of invincible
respectability.

"It's ninety-two degrees in the shade, if it's anything," he declared,
adding, "Has anybody seen Webb to-day?"

The colonel, whose name was Diggs, nodded with his mouth full, and,
having swallowed at his leisure, proceeded to reply, holding his knife
and fork poised for service. He was fair to the point of insipidity, and
his weak blue eyes bulged with joviality.

"Shook hands with him at the train last night," he said. "Hall was a day
ahead of time. Great politician, Hall. Working for Webb like a beaver.
Here, waiter! More potatoes."

"I went to sleep last night to the music of Webb's men," said Galt, "and
I awoke to the tune of Crutchfield. I don't believe either side went to
bed. My wonder is whom they found to work on."

Slate, a muscular little man, with a nervous affection about the mouth
that gave him an appearance of being continually on the point of a
surprising utterance, hesitated over, caught, and finally landed his
speech. "They're dead against Webb down my way," he said. "Our
delegation is instructed to vote for anybody that favours retrenchment,
unless it's Webb--they won't have Webb if he moves to run the State on
the two-cent system. If we'd cast a quarter of a vote for him they'd
drum us out of the district. It's all because he voted for that railroad
bill in Washington last winter. We hate a railroad as a bull hates a red
flag."

Major Baylor, a courtly gentleman, with a face that bore traces of a
survival of the old Virginian legal type, spoke for the first time.

"Fauquier stands to a man for Dudley Webb," he said. "He has a large
following in my section, and I understand, by the way, that if Hartley
withdraws after the first ballot, it will mean a clear gain for Webb in
the eighth district. He's safe, I think."

"Oh, we're Crutchfield strong," laughed the colonel good-humouredly,
reaching for a toothpick from the glass stand in the centre of the
table. "We think a man deserves something who hasn't missed a convention
for fourteen years."

There was a spirit of ridicule tempered with good-humour about the
group, which showed it to be, in the main, indifferent to the result--an
attitude in vivid contrast to the effervescent partisanship of the
leaders. With the exception of the colonel, whose heart was in his
dinner, they appeared to be unconcerned spectators of the events of the
day.

"Hall was telling me a good story on Webb last week," said Diggs, as he
waited for his dessert. "It was about the time he seconded the
nomination of Reed for attorney-general--ever hear it?"

"Fire away!" was Galt's reply, as he leaned back in his chair. The
colonel's stories were the platform which had supported him throughout a
not unsuccessful social career.

"It was when Webb was a young fellow, you know, just beginning to be
heard of as an advocate. He was at his first convention, eager to have
his say, hard to keep silent; and he was asked to second the nomination
of Reed, a boyish-looking chap of twenty-six. He didn't know Reed from
Adam, but he was ambitious to be heard just then--and he'd have spoken
for the devil if they'd have given him a chance. Well, he launched out
on his speech in fine style. He began with Noah--as they all did in
those days--glided down the centuries to Seneca and Cęsar, touched upon
Adam Smith and Jefferson, and finally landed in the arms of Monroe P.
Reed. There he grew fairly ecstatic over his subject. He spoke of him as
'the lawyer sprung, full-armed, from the head of learning,' as the
'nonpareil Democrat who clove, as Ruth to Naomi, to the immortal
principles of Virginia Democracy,' and in a glorious period, he rounded
off 'the incomparable services which Monroe P. Reed had rendered the
deathless cause of the Confederacy!' In an instant the house came down.
There was a roar of laughter, and somebody in the gallery sang out: 'He
was at his mother's breast!'

"For a moment Webb quailed, but his wits never left him. He faced the
man in the gallery like Apollo come to judgment, and his fine voice rang
to the roof. 'I know it, sir, I know it,' he thundered, 'but Monroe P.
Reed was one of the stoutest breastworks of the Confederacy. I have it
from his mother, sir!'

"Of course the house went wild. He was the youngest man on the floor,
and they gave him an ovation. Since then, he's learned some things, and
he's become the only orator left among us."

The colonel finished hurriedly as his apple pie was placed before him,
and did not speak again during dinner.

"He is an orator," said Galt. "He doesn't use much clap-trap business
either. I've never heard him drag in the Medes and Persians, and I could
count his classical quotations on my fingers. Personally, I like Burr's
way better--it's saner and it's sounder--but Webb knows how to talk,
and he has a voice like a silver bell--Ah, here he is."

As he spoke there was a stir in the crowd at the doorway and Dudley Webb
entered and took the nearest vacant seat.

The first impression of him at this time was one of extreme
picturesqueness. A slight tendency to stoutness gave dignity to a figure
which, had it been thin, would have been insignificant, and served to
accentuate a peculiar grace of curve which prevented his weight from
carrying any suggestion of the coming solidity of middle age. His rich,
rather oily hair, worn longer than the fashion, fell in affected
carelessness across his brow and lent to his candid eyes an expression
of intensity and eloquence. His clear-cut nose and the firm, fleshy
curve of his prominent chin modified the effect of instability produced
by his large and somewhat loosely moulded lips. The salient quality of
his personality, as of his appearance, was an ease of proportion almost
urbane. His presence in the overcrowded room diffused an infectious
affability. Though he spoke to few, he was at once, and irrepressibly,
the friend of all. He did not go out of his way to shake a single hand,
he confined his conversation, with the old absorption, to the men at his
table--personal supporters, for the most part; but there was about him a
pacific emanation--an atmosphere at once social and political, which
extended to the far end of the room and to men whose names he did not
know.

He talked rapidly in a vibrant, low-toned voice, with frequent gestures
of his shapely hands. His laugh was easy, full, and inspiriting--the
laugh of a man with a vital sense of humour. As Galt watched him, he
smiled in unconscious sympathy.

"But for Burr, I think I'd like to see Webb governor," he said. "After
all, it is something to have a man who looks well in a procession--and
he has a charming wife."




II


The gas light and electric light illuminating the opera house fell with
a curious distinction in tone upon the crowd which filled the building
and overflowed through darkened doors and windows. Beneath the electric
jets the faces were focussed to a white hush of expectancy, which
mellowed into a blur of impatient animation where the dim gas flickered
against the walls.

Since the birth of Virginia Democracy, the people had not witnessed so
generous an outpouring of delegates. In a State where every man is more
or less a politician, the convention had assumed the air of a carnival
of males--the restriction of sex limiting it to an expression of but
half the population.

The delegations from the congressional districts were marshalled in line
upon the floor and stage, their positions denoted by numbered placards
on poles, while in the galleries an enthusiastic swarm of visitors gave
vent to the opinions of that tribunal which is the public. A straggling
fringe of feet, in white socks and low shoes, suspended from the red and
gilt railings of the boxes, illustrated the peculiar privileges enjoyed
in the absence of the feminine atmosphere. From stage to gallery the
play of palm-leaf fans produced the effect of a swarm of gigantic
insects, and behind them rows of flushed and perspiring faces were
turned upon the gentleman who held the floor.

A composite photograph of the faces would have resulted in a type at
once alarming and reassuring--alarming to the student of individual
endeavour, reassuring to the historian of impersonal issues. It would
have presented a countenance that was unerringly Anglo-Saxon, though
modified by the conditions of centuries of changes. One would have
recognised instinctively the tiller of the soil--the single class which
has refused concessions to the making of a racial cast of feature. The
farmer would have stamped his impress indelibly upon the
plate--retaining that enduring aspect which comes from contact with
natural forces--that integrity of type which is the sole survival of the
Virginian pioneer.

In the general face, the softening influences of society, the relaxing
morality of city life would have appeared only as a wrinkle here and
there, or as an additional shadow. Beneath the fluctuating expression of
political sins and heresies, there would have remained the unaltered
features of the steadfast qualities of the race.

The band in a far corner rolled out "Dixie," and the mass heaved
momentarily, while a cloud of tobacco smoke rose into the air,
scattering into circles before the waving of the palm-leaf fans. Here
and there a man stood up to remove his coat or to stretch his hand to
the vendor of lemonade. Sometimes the fringe of feet overhanging the
boxes waved convulsively as a howl of approbation or derision greeted a
fresh arrival or the remarks of a speaker. Again, there would rise a
tumultuous call for a party leader or a famous story teller. It was a
jovial, unkempt, coatless crowd that spat tobacco juice as recklessly
as it applauded a fine sentiment.

As an unwieldy gentleman, in an alpaca coat, made his appearance upon
the platform, there was an outburst of emotion from where the tenth
delegation was seated. The unwieldy gentleman was the Honourable
Cumberland Crutchfield, a popular aspirant to the governorship.

When Galt entered the hall, an athletic rhetorician was declaiming an
eulogy which had for its theme the graces of his candidate. "You came
too soon," observed a man seated next a vacant chair, which Galt took.
"You should have escaped this infliction."

"My dear fellow, I never escaped an infliction in my life," responded
Galt serenely. "I cut my teeth on them--but here's another," and he
turned an indifferent gaze on the orator, who had risen upon the
platform. "Good Lord, it's Gary!" he groaned. "Now we're in for it."

"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen of the convention," Gary was beginning, "it
is my pleasant duty to second the nomination of the Honourable
Cumberland Crutchfield of the gallant little county of Botetourt. Before
this august body, before this incomparable assemblage of the intellect
and learning of the State, my tongue would be securely tied ("I'd like
that little job," grunted the man next to Galt) did not the majesty of
my subject loosen it to eloquence. Would that the immortal Cicero ("Now
we're in for it," breathed Galt) in his deathless orations had been
inspired by the illustrious figure of our fellow-countryman. Gentlemen,
in the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield you behold one whose public
service is an inspiration, whose private life is a benediction--one who
has borne without abuse the grand old title of the Cęsar of Democracy,
and I dare to stand before you and assert that, had Cęsar been a
Cumberland Crutchfield, there would have been no Brutus. Gentlemen, I
present to you in the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield the Vested
Virgin of Virginia!"

The chairman's gavel fell with a thud. In the uproar which ensued hats,
fans, sticks filled the air. The tenth delegation rose to a man and
surged forward, but it was howled down. "Go it, old man!" sang the
boxes, where the fringe of feet was wildly swaying, and "He's all
right!" screeched the galleries. To a man who may be made fun of a
Virginia convention can be kind, but in the confusion Gary had sauntered
out for a drink.

After his exit the seconding motion flowed on smoothly through several
tedious speeches; and when the virtues of Mr. Crutchfield had been
sufficiently exploited Major Baylor requested the nomination of Dudley
Webb. He spoke warmly along the old heroic lines.

"The gentleman whom I ask you to nominate as your candidate for governor
stands before his people as one of the foremost statesmen of his day.
The father fell while defending Virginia; the son has pledged his
splendid ability and his untiring youth to the same service. From a
child he has been trained in the love of country and the principles of
Democracy. In his veins he carries the blood of a race of patriots. From
his mother's breast he has imbibed the immortal milk of morality. He
has laboured for his people in a single-hearted service that seeketh not
its own. There is no man rich enough to buy the good-will of Dudley
Webb; there is none so poor--"

"That he hasn't a vote to sell him!" called a voice from the pit.

In an instant a chorus of yells rang out from stage to gallery. The man
who spoke was knocked down by a Webb partisan, and assailant and
assailed were hustled from the house.

When the uproar was subdued, the thin voice of Mr. Slate sounded from
the platform.

"What he doesn't sell he buys," he cried in his nervous, penetrant
tones. "Twelve years ago he was accused of lobbying with full hands in
the legislature. He was the lobbyist of the P.H. & C. railroad. The
charge was passed over, not disproved. What do you say to this, Major?"

In the effort to restore order the chairman grew purple, but the major
turned squarely upon his questioner.

"I say nothing, sir. It is unnecessary to assert that a gentleman is not
a criminal at large."

A burst of applause broke out.

"I repeat the charge," screamed Slate.

"It is false!" retorted the major.

"It's a damned lie!" called a dozen voices.

"Nick Burr knows it. Ask him!" answered Slate.

From a peaceable assemblage the convention had passed into pandemonium.
Two thousand throats made, in two thousand different keys, a single
gigantic discord. The pounding of the chairman was a faint
accompaniment to the clamour. In the first lull, a man's voice with a
dominant note was heard demanding recognition, and at the sight of his
towering figure upon the platform there was a short silence.

"It's Nick Burr!" called a man from Burr's district. "Let's hear Nick
Burr."

There was a protest on the part of the Webb faction. Burr and Webb were
looked upon as rivals. "He hates Webb like the devil!" cried a delegate,
and "It's pie for Burr!" sneered another. But as he moved slightly
forward and faced the chairman a sudden hush fell before him.

Among the men surrounding him his powerful figure towered like a
giant's. His abundant red hair, waving thickly from his bulging
forehead, redeemed by its single note of colour the rigidity of his
features. His eyes--small, keen, deeply set beneath heavy brows--flashed
from a dull opacity to an alert animation. But in the first and last
view of his face it was the mouth that marked the man; the straight,
thin lips would close or unclose at their own will, not at
another's--the line of the mouth, like the line of the hard, square jaw,
was the physical expression of his character. He was called ugly, but it
was at least the ugliness of individuality--the ugliness of an
unpolished force--of a raw, yet disciplined energy. Now, as he stood at
his full height upon the stage, his personality was felt before his
words were uttered. He had but one attribute of recognised oratory--a
voice; and yet a voice so little vibrant as to seem almost without
inflections.

It was resonant, far-reaching, incisive; but it rang abruptly and
without mellowness.

"Mr. Chairman," he began, and his words were heard from pit to gallery.
"It is perhaps unnecessary for me to state that I do not rise as an
advocate of Mr. Webb. I am neither his personal friend nor his political
supporter, but in the year alluded to by the gentleman from Nottoway I
was upon a committee appointed to investigate the charges which the
gentleman from Nottoway has seen fit to revive." A silence had fallen in
which a whisper might have been heard. Every eye in the building was
turned to where his outstanding mop of hair shone red against the
smoke-stained wall. "The charges were thoroughly investigated and
emphatically withdrawn. The gentleman from Nottoway has been misinformed
or his memory has misled him--since there was abundant evidence brought
before the committee to prove the suspicions against Mr. Webb's methods
as a lobbyist to be absolutely without foundation.

"I have made this statement because I believe myself to be in a better
position to disprove this old and forgotten charge than any man present.
As I am a recognised opponent of Mr. Webb's political ambition my
testimony to the integrity of his personal honour may be of additional
value."

In the thunder of applause that shook the building he turned for the
first time towards the house. The cheers that went up to him brought the
animation to his eyes. The faces in the pit were hidden behind a sea of
handkerchiefs and hats--it was the response which a Virginia audience
makes to a brave or a generous action. "Hurrah for honest Nick!" yelled
the floor, and "Go in and win yourself!" shouted a delegate from his own
district.

He spoke again, and they were silent.

"Men of Virginia, in the naming of your governor, let us have neither
subterfuge nor slander. Better than the love of party is the love of
honesty--and the Democracy of Jefferson cannot thrive upon falsehood.
Fair means are the only means, honest ends are the only ends. The party
owes its right to existence to the people's will; when its life must be
prolonged by artificial stimulants it is fit that it should die. It is
not the people's master, but the people's servant; if it should usurp
the oppressor's place, it must die the oppressor's death.

"For fifteen years I have worked a Democrat among you, and it is not
needed that I should put in words my love for the party I have served;
but I say to you to-day that if that party were doomed to annihilation
and a lie could save it, I would not speak it."

He sat down and the uproar began again. Beyond the party were the
people, and he had touched them. With the force of his personality upon
it he had become suddenly the hero of the house. "Honest Nick! Honest
Nick!" shouted the galleries, and the cry was echoed from the pit. When
order was restored Major Baylor completed his speech; it was seconded by
a sensible young congressman, and the oratory was cut short by a call
for votes.

In a flash the chairmen of the different delegations were stung into
action. A buzz like that of bees swarming rose from the pit and white
slips of paper fluttered from row to row. The Webb leaders were
whipping their faction into an enthusiasm that drowned the roll call. At
last, with the reading of the ballot, there was silence, followed by
applause. Webb led slightly in advance of Crutchfield; Burr came next,
Hartley last. With the surprise of the third name, round which there had
been a rally of uninstructed delegations, a cheer went up. In the
clamour Burr had risen to ask that his name be withdrawn, but the chorus
of his newly formed followers howled him down. Then Hartley was dropped
from the race and a second ballot ordered. The excitement in the
building could be felt like steam. The heat was rising and a nervous
tension weighted the atmosphere. Through the clouds of tobacco smoke the
records of changes sounded distinctly. The Hartley delegation that Webb
had counted on divided and went two ways; the county of Albemarle passed
over to Burr; the city of Richmond broke its vote into three equal
parts.

Each change was received with a roar by the opposing factions--while the
clerks stumbled on, making alteration upon alteration. On the floor and
the stage the chairmen thickened in the fight. Ben Galt had sprung
suddenly into life as Burr's manager, and in the aisle Tom Bassett, in
his shirt sleeves, with a tally sheet in his hand, was inciting his
battalion to victory. About him the Webb men were summing up the votes
needed to bring in their leader. The noise had a dull, baying sound, as
if the general voice were growing hoarse. The odour of good and bad
tobacco was dense and stifling. In the midst of the clamour a drunken
man rose to move that the convention consider the subject in prayer.

Upon the reading of the second ballot the confusion deepened. The name
of Crutchfield went down, and Burr and Webb ran hotly neck to neck. Then
the Crutchfield party, which had held bravely together, began to go
over, and, as each change was made, a shout went up from the successful
force. Hall and Galt had established themselves on opposite sides of the
stage and were working with drawn breath. Galt, with a cigar in his
mouth and a fan in his hand, was the only cool man in the house. He had
caught the wave of popular enthusiasm before it had had time to break,
and he was giving it no ground upon which to settle. Tom Bassett in the
centre aisle was cheering on his workers. He was superb, but the Webb
men were not behind him; it was still neck to neck. Then, at last, with
the third ballot, Burr led off, and the voting was over.

There was a call upon the name of the successful candidate, but before
he stood up the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield rose to eulogise the
wisdom of the convention in nominating the man he had tried to defeat.
The Cęsar of Democracy was beaming, despite his disappointment--a
persistent beam of the flesh.

"Gentlemen, you have made your decision, and it is for me to bow to its
wisdom. In the Honourable Nick Burr your choice has fallen upon the man
who will most incite to ardour each individual voter. His record is a
glorious one,"--for an instant he wavered; then his imagination took a
blinded leap. "He was born a Democrat, he lives a Democrat, he will die
a Democrat. In the life of his revered and lamented father, the late
Alexander P. Burr, he has a shining example of unshaken conviction and
unswerving loyalty to principle. Gentlemen, you have chosen well, and I
pledge myself to uphold your nominee and to be the foremost bearer of
your banner when it waves in next November from the line of Tennessee to
the Atlantic Ocean."

He sat down amid ecstatic cheers and Nicholas Burr came forward.

His face was grave, but there was the light of enthusiasm in his eyes
and his head was uplifted.

"There's a man who has capitalised his conscience," sneered a Webb
follower with a smile.

Across the hall Ben Galt was lighting a cigar, the tattered remains of
his fan at his feet. "There's a statesman that came a century too late,"
he remarked to Tom Bassett. "He's a leader, pure and simple, but he's
out of place in an age when every man's his own patriot."




III


The successful man was returning to Kingsborough. He had spent the week
in Richmond, where he had lived for the past ten years, and he was now
going back to receive the congratulations of the judge--as he would have
gone twice the distance.

It was the ordinary car of a Southern railroad, and leaning his head
against the harsh, bristly plush of the seat, he had before him the
usual examples of Southern passengers.

Across the aisle a slender mother was holding a crying baby, two small
children huddling beside her. In the seat in front of him slouched a
mulatto of the new era--the degenerate descendant of two races that mix
only to decay. Further off there were several men returning from
business trips, and across from them sat a pretty girl, asleep, her hand
resting on a gilded cage containing a startled canary. At intervals she
was aroused by the flitting figure of a small boy on the way to the
cooler of iced water. From the rear of the car came the amiable drawl of
the conductor as he discussed the affairs of the State with a local
drummer, whose feet rested upon a square leathern case.

Nicholas Burr leaned back and closed his eyes, crossing his long legs
which were cramped by the limited space. He had already exchanged
pleasantries with the conductor, and he had chatted for twenty minutes
with a farmer, who had gone back at last to the smoking-car.

The low, irregular landscape was as familiar to him as his own face. He
knew it so well that he could see it with closed eyes--could note each
change of expression where the daylight shifted, could tell where the
thin cornfields ended and the meadows rolled fresh and green, could
smell the stretch of young pines above the smoke of the engine, and
could follow to their ends the rain-washed roads that crawled with
hidden heads into the blue blur of the distance. He knew it all, but he
was not thinking of it now.

He was thinking of the day, fifteen years ago, when he had left
Kingsborough to throw himself and his future into the service of his
State. He had told himself then, fresh from the influence of Jefferson
and the traditions of Kingsborough, that he had but one love
remaining--the love of Virginia. Now, with the bitterer wisdom of
experience, that youthful romance showed half foolish, half pathetic. To
the man of twenty-three it had been at once the inspiration and the
actuality. His personal life had turned to ashes in an hour, and he had
told himself that his public one, at least, should remain vital. He had
pledged himself to success, and it came to him now that the cause had
been won by his single-heartedness--by the absolute oneness of his
desire. There had been a sole divinity before him, and he had not
wandered in the way of strange gods. He had given himself, and after
fifteen years he was gaining his recompense--a recompense for more work
than most men put into a lifetime.

He smiled slightly as he thought of the beginning. In the beginning his
sincerity, had been laughed at, his ardour had met rebuff. He had gone
to Richmond to meet an assembly of statesmen; he had found a body of
well-intentioned, but unprofitable servants. They were men to be led,
this he saw; and as soon as his vision was adjusted he had determined
within himself to become their leader. The day when a legislator meant a
statesman was done with; it meant merely a man like other men, to be
juggled with by shrewder politicians or to be tricked by more dishonest
ones. They plunged into errors, and lived to retrieve them; they walked
blindfold into traps, and with open eyes struggled out again. For he
found them honest and he found them faithful where their lights led
them. He remembered, with a laugh, a New Englander who, after a
fruitless winter spent in scenting the iniquities of the ruling party,
had angrily exclaimed that "if politicians were made up of knaves and
fools, Mason and Dixon's was the geographical line dividing the
species." Nicholas had retorted, "If to be honest means to be a fool, we
are fools!" and the New Englander had chuckled homeward.

That was his first winter and he had been nobody. Ah, it was hard work,
that beginning. He had had to fight party plans and personal prejudices.
He had had to fight the recognised leaders of the legislature, and he
had had to fight the men who pulled the strings--the men who stood
outside and hoodwinked the consciences of the powers within. He had had
to fight, and he had fought well and long.

He recalled the day of his first decisive victory--the day when he had
stood alone and the people--the great, free people, the beginning and
the end of all democracies--had rallied to his standard. He had won the
people on that day, and he had never lost them.

But he was of the party first and last. In his youth he had believed in
the divine inspiration of the Jeffersonian principles as he believed in
God. On the Democratic leaders he had thought to find the mantle of
Apostolic Succession. He had believed as the judge believed--with the
passionate credulity of an older political age. Time had tempered, but
it had not dissipated, his fiery partisanship. He sat to-day with the
honours of a party upon him--honours that a few months would see
ratified by a voice nominally the people's. He laughed now as he
remembered that Galt had said that in five years Dudley Webb would be
the most popular man in the State. "When Senator Withers stops
delivering orations, there'll be a call for an orator, and Webb will
arise," he had prophesied. "They don't need him now because the senator
gets off speeches like hot cakes; but mark my words, the first time Webb
is asked to make an address at the unveiling of a Confederate statue,
there won't be a man to stand up against him in Virginia. He's a better
speaker than Withers--only the public doesn't know it, and there'll be
hot times when it finds it out."

The train was slackening for a wayside station. Outside a man was
driving a plough across a field where grain had been harvested. Nicholas
followed with his eyes the walk of the horses, the purple-brown trail of
the plough, the sturdy, independent figure of the driver as he passed,
whistling an air. Over the Virginian landscape--the landscape of a
country where each ragged inch of ground wears its strange, distinctive
charm, where each rotting "worm fence" guards a peculiar beauty for
those who know it--lay the warm hush of full-blown summer.

The man at the plough aroused in Nicholas Burr a sudden exhilaration as
of physical exertion. It brought back his boyhood which had brightened
as he had passed farther from it, and he felt that it would be good on
such an afternoon to follow the horses across fields that were odorous
of the upturned earth.

The train went on slowly, with the shiftless slouch of Southern trains,
the man at the plough vanished, and Nicholas returned to his thoughts.

The years had been almost breathless in their flight. He had put himself
to a purpose, and he had lost sight of all things save its fulfilment.
The success that men spoke of with astonished eyes--the transformation
of the barefooted boy into the triumphant politician, had a firm
foundation, he knew, though others did not. It was his capacity for toil
that had made him--not his intellect, but his ability to persevere--the
power which, in the old days, had successfully carried him through Jerry
Pollard's store. As chairman of the Democratic Party, men had called his
campaigns brilliant. He alone knew the tedious processes, the infinite
patience from which these triumphs had evolved--he alone knew the secret
and the security of his success.

The train stopped with a lurch.

"Kingsborough, sir!" said the conductor with a friendly touch upon his
arm.

He started abruptly from his reverie, lifted his bag, and left the car.
On the platform outside a group of stragglers recognised him, and there
was a hearty cheer followed by frantic handshakes. The incident pleased
him, and he spoke to each man singly, calling him by name. The sheriff
was one of them, and the clerk of the court, and the old negro sexton of
the church. There was a fervour in their congratulations which brought
the warmth to his eyes. He was glad that the men who had known him in
his poverty should rise so cordially to approve his success.

He left the station, walking rapidly to the judge's house. He had
frequently returned to Kingsborough, but to-day the changes of the last
fifteen years struck him with a sensation of surprise. The wide, white
street, half in sunshine, half in shadow, trailed its drowsy length into
the open country where the roads were filled with grass and dust. He
noticed with a pang that the ivy had been torn from the church and that
the glazed brick walls flaunted a nudity that was almost immodest. He
had remembered it as a bower of shade--a gigantic bird's nest. He saw
that ancient elms were rapidly decaying, and when he reached the judge's
garden he found that the syringa and the lilacs had vanished. The garden
had faced the destroyer in the plough, and trim vegetables thrived where
gaudy blossoms had once rioted.

As he opened the gate he saw old Cęsar bending above the mint bed, and
he went over to him.

"Dar ain' nuttin better ter jedge er gent'mun by den his mint patch,"
the old negro was muttering, "an' dis yer one's done w'ar out all dose
no 'count flow'rs, des' like de quality done w'ar out de trash. Hi!
Marse Nick, dat you?" he shook the proffered hand, his kindly black face
wrinkling with hospitality. "Marse George hev got de swelled foot," he
said in answer to a question, "an' he ain' tech his julep sence de day
befo' yestiddy. Dis yer's fur you," he added, looking at the bunch in
his hand.

"You're a trump, Cęsar!" exclaimed Nicholas as he ascended the steps and
entered the wide hall, through which a light breeze was blowing.

The library door was open and he went in softly, lightening
instinctively his heavy tread. The judge was sitting in his great
arm-chair, his white head resting against the cushioned back, his
bandaged foot on a high footstool.

"Is it you, my boy?" he asked, without turning.

Nicholas crossed the room and gripped the outstretched hand which
trembled slightly in the air, the usual rugged composure of his face
giving place to frank tenderness.

"I'm sorry to see the gout's troubling you again," he said.

The judge laughed and motioned to a chair beside his desk. His fine dark
eyes were as bright as ever, and there was a youthful ring in his voice.

"I'm paying for my pleasures like the rest of us," he responded. "The
truth is, Cęsar makes me live too high, the rascal--and I go on a
bread-and-milk diet once in a while to spite him." Then his tone
changed; he pushed aside a slender vase of "safrano" roses which
shadowed Nicholas's face and regarded him with genuine delight. "It's
good news you bring me," he exclaimed. "I haven't had such news since
they told me the Democratic Party had wiped out Mahonism. And it was a
surprise. We thought Dudley Webb was too secure for the chances of the
'dark horse.' Well, well, I'm sorry for Dudley, though I'm glad for you.
How did you do it?"

Nicholas laughed, but his face was grave. "Ben Galt says I worked up a
political 'revival,'" he replied. "He declares my methods were for all
the world the counterpart of those employed in a Methodist camp meeting,
but he's joking, of course. It was a distinct surprise to me, as you
know. I had declined to offer myself as a candidate for the nomination,
because I believed Webb to be assured of victory. However, the
Crutchfield party proved stronger than we supposed, and they came over
to my side. I was the 'dark horse,' as you say."

"It's very good," commented the judge. "Very good."

"Galt is afraid that what he calls 'the political change of heart' won't
last," Nicholas went on, "but he knows, as I know, that I am the choice
of the people and that, though a few of the leaders may distrust me, the
Democratic Party as a body has entire confidence in me. You will
understand that, had I doubted that the decision was free and
untrammelled, I should not have accepted the nomination."

The judge nodded with a smile. "I know," he said, "and I also know that
you were not born to be a politician. You will bear witness to it some
day. You should have stuck to law. But have you seen Dudley?"

The younger man's face clouded. When he spoke there was a triumphant
zest in his voice. His deeply-set eyes, which had at times a peculiarly
opaque quality, were now charged with light. The thick red locks flared
above his brow.

"He spoke pleasantly to me after the convention," he answered. "It was a
disappointment to him, I know--and I am sorry," he finished in a forced,
exclamatory manner, and was silent.

The judge looked at him for a moment before he went on in his even
tones.

"His wife was telling me," he said. "She was down here a week or two
before the convention. It seems that they are both anxious to return to
Richmond to live. She's a fine girl, is Eugie. It was a terrible thing
about that brother of hers, and she's never recovered from it. I can't
understand how the boy came to commit such a peculiarly stupid forgery."

A flash of bitterness crossed the other's face; his voice was hard.

"He has missed his deserts," he returned harshly.

"Oh, I don't know, poor fellow," murmured the judge, flinching from a
twinge of gout and settling his foot more carefully upon the stool. "He
has been a fugitive from the State for years and a stranger to his wife
and children. There was always something extraordinary in the fact that
he escaped after conviction, and I suppose there was a kind of honour in
his not breaking his bail. At least, that's the way Eugie seems to
regard it--and it is such a pitiful consolation that we might allow her
to retain it. She tells me that Bernard's wife has been in destitute
circumstances. It's a pity! it's a pity! I had always hoped that Tom
Battle's boy would turn out well."

The younger man met his eyes squarely and spoke in an emotionless voice.

"I should like to see him serving his sentence," he said.

An hour later he left the judge's house and walked out to his old home.
Since his father's death the place had undergone repairs and
improvements. The lawn had been cleared off and sown in grass, the
fences had been mended, and the house had been painted white. It could
never suggest prosperity, but it had assumed an appearance of comfort.

In the little room next the kitchen he heard his stepmother scolding a
small negro servant, and he broke in good-humouredly upon her discourse.

"All right, ma?" he called.

Marthy Burr turned and came towards him. She had aged but little, and
her gaunt figure and sharp face still showed the force of her
indomitable spirit.

"I declar' if 'tain't you, Nick!" she exclaimed.

He took her in his arms and kissed her perfunctorily, for he was chary
of caresses. Then he lifted Nannie's baby from the floor and tossed it
lightly.

"Nannie's spending the day," explained his stepmother with an attempt at
conversation. "She would name that child Marthy, an' it's the best
lookin' one she's got."

The baby, a pink-cheeked atom in a blue gingham frock, made a frantic
clutch at the vivid hair of the giant who held her, and set up a tearful
disclaimer. Nicholas returned her to the rug, where she attempted to
swallow a string of spools, and looked at his stepmother.

"Where's that dress I sent you?" he demanded.

Marthy Burr sat down and smoothed out the creases in her purple calico.

"Laid away in camphor," she replied with a diffidence that was rapidly
waning. "Marthy, if you swallow them spools, you won't have anything to
play with."

Nicholas looked about the common little room--at the coarse lace
curtains, the crude chromos, the distorted vases--and returned to his
question.

"You promised me you'd wear it," he went on.

"Wear my best alpaca every day?" she demanded suspiciously. "I wouldn't
have it on more'n an hour befo' one of them worthless niggers would have
spilt bacon gravy all over it. There ain't been no peace in this house
since you sent those no 'count darkies here to help me. If yo' pa was
'live, he'd turn them out bag an' baggage befo' sundown. Lord, Lord,
when I think of what yo' poor pa would say if he was to walk in now an'
find them creeturs in the kitchen."

Her stepson smiled.

"Now, if you'll sit still a moment, I'll tell you a piece of news," he
said.

"You ain't thinkin' of gettin' married, air you?" inquired Marthy Burr
with sudden keenness.

"Married!" He laughed aloud. "I've no time for such nonsense.
Listen--no, let the baby alone, she isn't choking. If the Powers agree,
and the Democratic Party triumphs in November, I shall be Governor of
Virginia on the first of January."

His stepmother looked at him in a dazed way, her glance wandering from
his face to the baby with the string of spools. There was a pleased
light in her eyes, but he saw that she was striving in vain to grasp the
full significance of his words.

"Well, well," she said at last. "I al'ays told Amos you wa'nt no
fool--but who'd have thought it!"




IV


The Capitol building at Richmond stands on a slight eminence in a grassy
square, hiding its gray walls behind a stretch of elms and sycamores, as
if it had retreated into historic shadow before the ruthless advance of
the spirit of modernism. In the centre of the square, whose brilliant
green slopes are intersected by gravelled walks that shine silver in the
sunlight, the grave old building remains the one distinctive feature of
a city where Iconoclasm has walked with destroying feet.

A few years ago--so few that it is within the memory of the very
young--the streets leading from the Capitol were the streets of a
Southern town--bordered by hospitable Southern houses set in gardens
where old-fashioned flowers bloomed. Now the gardens are gone and the
houses are outgrown. Progress has passed, and in its wake there have
sprung up obvious structures of red brick with brownstone trimmings. The
young trees leading off into avenues of shade soften the harshness of an
architecture which would become New York, and which belongs as much to
Massachusetts as to Virginia.

The very girls who, on past summer afternoons, flitted in bareheaded
loveliness from door to door, have changed with the changing times. The
loveliness is perhaps more striking, less distinctive; with the
flower-like heads have passed the old grace and the old dependence, and
the undulatory walk has quickened into buoyant briskness. It is all
modern--as modern as the red brick walls that are building where a
quaint mansion has fallen.

But in the Capitol Square one forgets to-day and relives yesterday.
Beneath the calm eyes of the warlike statue of the First American little
children chase gray squirrels across the grass, and infant carriages with
beruffled parasols are drawn in white and pink clusters beside the
benches. Jefferson and Marshall, Henry and Nelson are secure in bronze
when mere greatness has decayed.

To the left of the Capitol a gravelled drive leads between a short
avenue of lindens to the turnstile iron gates that open before the
governor's house. Here, too, there is an atmosphere of the past and the
picturesque. The lawn, dotted with chrysanthemums and rose trees, leads
down from the rear of the house to a wall of grapevines that overlooks
the street below. In front the yard is narrow and broken by a short
circular walk, in the centre of which a thin fountain plays amid
long-leaved plants. The house, grave, gray, and old-fashioned--the
square side porches giving it a delusive suggestion of length--faces
from its stone steps the thin fountain, the iron gates, beyond which
stretches the white drive beneath the lindens, and the great bronze
Washington above his bodyguard of patriots. Between the house and the
city the square lies like a garden of green.

It was on a bright morning in January that Ben Galt entered one of the
iron gateways of the square and walked rapidly across to the Capitol.

He ascended the steep flight of stone steps, and paused for an instant
in the lobby which divided the Senate Chamber from the House of
Delegates. The legislature had convened some six weeks before, and the
building was humming like a vast beehive.

In the centre of the tesselated floor of the lobby, which was fitted out
with rows of earthenware spittoons, stood Houdon's statue of Washington,
and upon the railing surrounding it groups of men were leaning as they
talked. Occasionally a speaker would pause to send a mouthful of tobacco
juice in aimless pursuit of a spittoon, or to slice off a fresh quid
from the plug he carried in his pocket.

Galt, stopping behind a stout man with sandy hair, tapped him carelessly
on the shoulder.

"Eh, Major?" he exclaimed.

The major turned, presenting a florid, hairy face, with small, shrewd
eyes and an unpleasant mouth. His name was Rann, and he was the most
important figure in the Senate. It was said of him that he had never
made a speech in his life, but that he was continually speaking through
the mouths of others. He could command more votes in both branches than
any member of the Assembly, but his ambition was confined to the
leadership of the men about him; he had been in the State Senate fifteen
years, and he had never tried to climb higher, though it was reported
that he had sent a United States senator to Washington.

"Ah, we'll see you oftener among us now," he said as he wheeled round,
holding out a huge red hand, "since your friend sits above." He laughed,
with a motion towards the ceiling, signifying the direction of the
governor's office. "By the way, I was sorry about that bill you were
interested in," he went on; "upon my word I was--but we're skittish just
now on the subject of corporations. Charters are dangerous things--you
can't tell where they're leading you, eh?--but, on my word, I was
sorry."

"So was I," responded Galt with peculiar dryness--adding, with the
frankness for which he was liked and hated, "I'd been dining that
committee for weeks. Seven of them swore to back me through, and the
eighth man said he'd go as the others went. My mind was so easy I lost
sight of them for six hours, and every man John of them voted against
the bill. I believe you got in a little work in those six hours."

Rann laughed and lowered one puffy eyelid in a blandly unembarrassed
wink. "Oh, we don't like corporations," he replied, "I think I remarked
as much. How-de-do, Colonel? Where'd you dine last night? Missed you at
table."

The colonel was Diggs, and, after a curt nod in his direction, Galt
pushed his way through the lobbyists and glanced into the House of
Delegates, where an animated discussion of an oyster bill was in
progress.

Owing to the absolute supremacy of the Democrats, the body presented the
effect of a party caucus rather than a legislative branch of opposing
elements. The few Republicans and Populists were lost in the ruling
faction.

Galt was nodding here and there to members who recognised him, when his
arm was touched by a lank countryman who was standing near.

"Eh?" he inquired absently.

"I jest axed you if you reckoned we paid that gentleman over yonder for
talking that gosh about oyschers?"

Galt bowed. "Why, I suppose so," he responded gravely. "It's a good
day's work. Am I to presume that you are not interested in oysters?"

"An' he gits fo' dollars a day for saying them things," commented the
other shortly. "I tell you 'tain't wo'th fo' cents, suh."

He lifted his bony hand and gave a tug at his scraggy beard. In a moment
he spoke again.

"Can you p'int out the young fellow from Goochland?" he inquired.
"That's whar I come from."

Galt pointed out the representative in question, and smiled because it
was a man who had dined with him the evening before.

"That he?" exclaimed the countryman contemptuously. "Why, I've been down
here sence Saturday, an' that young spark ain't opened his mouth. I
ain't heerd him mention Goochland sence I come."

"Oh, there's time enough," ventured Galt good-humouredly. "He's young
yet, and Goochland is immortal!"

"An' I reckon he gits fo' dollars same as the rest," went on the
stranger reflectively, "jest for settin' thar an' whittlin' at that
desk. I used to study a good deal about politics fo' I come here, but
they air jest a blamed swindle, that's what they air."

He turned on his heel, and in a moment Galt entered the elevator and
ascended to the office of the chief executive.

Reaching the landing he crossed a small gallery, where hung portraits of
historic Virginians--governors in periwigs and lace ruffles and
statesmen of a later age in high neckcloths. At the end of a short
passage he opened the door of the anteroom and faced the private
secretary, who was busy with his typewriter.

The secretary glanced up, recognised Galt, and gave a cordial nod.

"The governor's got a gentleman in just now who called about the
boundary line between Virginia and Maryland," he said as Galt sat down.
"He wants to see you, though, so you'd better wait. For a wonder there's
nobody else here. Two-thirds of the legislature were up a while ago."

He spoke with an easy intimacy of tone, while the click of the
typewriter went on rapidly.

Galt nodded in response and, as he did so, the door opened and the
caller came out.

"You're the very man!" exclaimed a hearty voice, and Nicholas Burr was
holding out his hand. "Come in. You're the only human being I know who
is always the right man in the right place. How do you manage it?"

He sat down before his desk, pushing aside the litter of letters and
pamphlets. "I should like you to glance over this list of appointments,"
he went on.

"It is what I dropped in about," responded Galt.

He flung himself into an easy chair and stretched his long legs
comfortably before him. He did not take the list at once, but sat
staring abstractedly at the freshly papered green walls above the large
Latrobe stove whose isinglass doors shone like bloodshot eyes.

It was a long cheerful room with three windows which overlooked the
grassy square. There was a bright red carpet on the floor, and before
the desk lay a gaudy rug enriched with stiff garlands. In one corner a
walnut bookcase was filled with papers filed for reference, and the
shelves across from it were lined with calf-bound "Codes of Virginia."
Among the pictures on the pale-green walls there were several of
historic subjects--Washington among his generals and Lee mounted upon
Traveller. Over the mantel hung an engraving of the United States Senate
with Clay for the central figure. Beside the desk a cracker box was
filled with unanswered letters.

"Yes, I dropped in about that," repeated Galt, his gaze returning to the
rugged features of the man at the desk. "You're not looking well, by the
way."

The other laughed. "The office seekers have been at me," he replied;
"but I'm all right. What were you going to say?"

His large, muscular hand lay upon the desk, and as he spoke he fingered
an open pamphlet. His penetrating eyes were on Galt's face.

Galt lifted the list of names and read it in silence.

"A-ahem!" he said at last and laid it down; then he took it up again.

"I have given a good deal of attention to the educational boards,"
continued the governor slowly.

"I do not think it is sufficiently realised that only men of the
highest ability should be placed in control of institutions of
learning."

"Ah, I see," was Galt's comment. In a moment he spoke abruptly:

"I say, Nick, has it occurred to you to ascertain the direction in which
the influence of these men will go in the next senatorial election?"

The other hesitated an instant. "Frankly, I have done my best to put
such questions aside," he answered.

Galt squared round suddenly and faced him; there was a decisive ring in
his voice.

"The next election comes in two years," he said quietly. "I have it on
excellent authority that Withers will not seek to succeed himself. His
health has given out and he is going to the country. Now, remove
Withers, and there are two men who might take his place in the Senate.
You know whom I mean?"

"Yes, I know."

Galt went on quickly:

"You want the senatorship?"

"Yes, I want it."

"Very good. Now, Webb and yourself will run that race, and one of you
will lose it. It's going to be a hot race and a hard winning. There'll
be some pretty unpleasant work to be done by somebody. You've been in
the business long enough to know that the methods aren't exactly such as
you can see your face in."

"All the more need for clean men," broke in Nicholas shortly.

"Just so. But the man who spends his days in the bathtub doesn't walk
about where mud is flinging. I'm an honest man, please God. You're an
honest man, and that's why a lot of us are running you with might and
main and money. But there's an honesty that verges on imbecility, and
that's the kind that talks itself hoarse when it ought to keep silent.
Save your talking until you get to the Senate, and then let fly as much
morality as you please; it won't hurt anybody there, heaven knows. You
are the man we need, and a few of us know it, though the majority may
not. But for the next two years give up trying to purify the Democratic
Party. The party's all right, and it's going to stay so."

"It has been my habit to express my convictions," returned the other
quickly.

"Then drop the habit," replied Galt with an affectionate glance that
softened the shrewd alertness of his look. "My dear and valued friend, a
successful politician does not have convictions; he has emotions.
Convictions were all right when Madison was President, but that
gentleman has been in heaven these many years, and they don't thrive
under the present administration. A party man has got to be a party
mouthpiece. He may laugh and weep with the people, but he has got to
vote with the party--and it's the party man who comes out on top. Why,
look at Withers! Hunt about in his senatorial record and you'll find
that he has voted against himself time out of number. You and I may call
that cowardliness, but the party calls it honour and applauds every
time. That applause has kept him the exponent of the machine and the
idol of the people, who hear the fuss and imagine it means something.
Now Webb is like Withers, only smarter. He is just the man to become a
sounding brass reflector, and there's the danger."

"And yet I defeated him!" suggested the governor.

Galt laughed, with a wave of his thin, nervous hand.

"My dear governor, you are the one great man in State politics, but that
unimportant fact would not have landed you into your present seat had
not the little revivalistic episode befuddled the brains of the
convention."

Nicholas shook his head impatiently. "You make too much of that," he
said.

"Perhaps. I want to impress upon you that you have a hard fight before
you. The Webb men are already putting in a little quiet work in the
legislature--and they have even been after the guards at the
penitentiary. Major Rann is your man, and he tells me the Webb leaders
are the quietest, most insidious workers he has ever met. As it is, he
is your great card, and his influence is immense. Webb would give his
right hand for him."

The governor tossed the hair from his brow with a quick movement.

"I have the confidence of the people," he said.

"The people! How long does it take a clever politician to befuddle them?
You aren't new to the business, and you know these things as well as I
do--or better. I tell you, when Dudley Webb begins to stump the State
the people will begin to howl for him. He'll win over the women and the
old Confederates when he gets on the Civil War, and the rest will come
easy. There won't be need of bogus ballots and disappearing election
books when the members of the Democratic caucus are sent up next
session."

"What do you want?" demanded the governor abruptly. He leaned forward,
his arms on the desk.

Galt tapped the list of appointments significantly.

"As a beginning, I want you to scratch out a good two-thirds of these
names. The others will go all right. The men I have cross marked are not
all Webb men to-day, but they will throw their influence on Webb's side
when the pull comes."

Nicholas took up the list and reread it carefully. "The men I have named
I believe to be best suited to the positions," he returned. "One, you
may observe, is a Republican--that will call for hostile criticism--but
he was beyond doubt the best man. I regret the fact that the majority of
these men are Webb partisans, but I wish to make these appointments for
reasons entirely apart from politics."

Galt had risen, and he now stood looking down upon the governor with a
smile in his eyes.

"So it goes?" he asked, pointing to the sheet of paper.

The other nodded.

"Yes, it goes. I am not a fool, Ben. I wish things were different--but
it goes."

"And so do I," laughed Galt easily. "You won't mind my remarking, by the
way, that you are a brick, but a brick in the wrong road. However, you
hold on to Rann, and the rest of us will hold on to you. Oh, we'll see
you to-night at Carrie's coming-out affair, of course. The child
wouldn't have you absent for worlds. If my wife and daughter
represented the community you might become Dictator of Richmond. Good
morning!"

As he crossed the little gallery where the portraits hung there was an
abstracted smile about the corners of his shrewd mouth.




V


"Juliet!" called Galt as he swung open his house door.

It was his habit to call for his wife as soon as he crossed the
threshold, and she was accustomed to respond from the drawing-room, the
pantry, or the nursery, as the case might be. This evening her voice
floated from the dining-room, and following the sound he stumbled over a
shadowy palm and came upon Juliet as she put the last touches to a long
white table, radiant with cut glass and roses.

She wore a faded blue dressing-gown, caught loosely together, and her
curling hair, untouched by gray, fell carelessly from its coil across
her full, fair cheek. She had developed from a fragile girl into a
rounded matron without losing the peculiar charm of her beauty. The
abundant curve of her white throat was still angelic in its outline. As
she leaned over to settle the silver candelabra on the table, the light
deepened the flush in her face and imparted a shifting radiance to her
full-blown loveliness.

"How is it, little woman?" asked Galt as he put his arm about the blue
dressing-gown. "Working yourself to death, are you?"

Since entering his home he had lost entirely the air of business-like
severity which he had worn all day. He looked young and credulous.
Juliet laughed with the pettish protest of a half-spoiled wife and drew
back from the table.

"It is almost time to dress Carrie," she said, "and the ice-cream hasn't
come. Everything else is here. Did you get dinner downtown?"

"Such as it was--a miserable pretence. For heaven's sake, let's have
this over and settle down. I only wish it were Carrie's wedding; then we
might hope for a rest."

"Until Julie comes out--she's nearly fourteen. But you ought to be
ashamed, when we've been working like Turks. Eugenia cut up every bit of
the chicken salad and Emma Carr made the mayonnaise--she makes the most
delicious you ever tasted. Aren't those candelabra visions? Emma lent
them to me, and Mrs. Randolph sent her oriental lamps. There's the bell
now! It must be Eugie's extra forks; she said she'd send them as soon as
she got home."

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Galt feebly. "You are as great at borrowing as
the children of Israel."

His comments were cut short by the entrance of Eugenia's silver basket,
accompanied by an enormous punch bowl, which she sent word she had
remembered at the last moment.

"Bless her heart!" exclaimed Juliet. "She forgets nothing; but I hope
that bowl won't get broken, it is one somebody brought the general from
China fifty years ago. Eugie is so careless. She invited the children to
tea the other afternoon and I found her giving them jam on those old
Tucker Royal Worcester plates."

She broke off an instant to draw Galt into the reception rooms, where
her eyes roved sharply over the decorations.

"They look lovely, don't they?" she inquired, rearranging a bowl of
American Beauty roses. "I got that new man to do them Mrs. Carrington
told me about--Yes, Carrie, I'm coming! Why, I declare, I haven't seen
the baby since breakfast. Unnatural mother!"

And she rushed off to the nursery, followed by Galt.

An hour later she was in the drawing-room again, her fair hair caught
back from her plump cheeks, her white bosom shining through soft falls
of lace.

"I wonder how a man feels who isn't married to a beauty," remarked Galt,
watching her matronly vanity dimple beneath his gaze. He was as much her
lover as he had been more than twenty years ago when pretty Juliet
Burwell had put back her wedding veil to meet his kiss. The very
exactions of her petted nature had served to keep alive the passion of
his youth; she demanded service as her right, and he yielded it as her
due. The unflinching shrewdness of his professional character, the
hardness of his business beliefs, had never entered into the atmosphere
of his home. Juliet possessed to a degree that pervasive womanliness
which vanquishes mankind. After twenty years of married life in which
Galt had learned her limitations and her minor sins of temperament, he
was not able to face her stainless bosom or to meet her pure eyes
without believing her to be a saint. In his heart he knew Sally Burwell
to be a nobler woman than Juliet, and yet he never found himself
regarding Sally through an outward and visible veil of her virtues.
Even Tom Bassett, who was married to her, had lost the lover in the
husband, as his emotions had matured into domestic sentiment. Galt had
seen Sally wrestle for a day with one of her father's headaches, to be
rewarded by less gratitude than Juliet would receive for the mere laying
of a white finger on his temple--Sally's services were looked upon by
those who loved her best as one of the daily facts of life; Juliet's
came always as an additional bounty.

To Galt himself, the different developments of the two women had become
a source of almost humorous surprise. After her marriage Sally had sunk
her future into Tom's; Galt had submerged his own in Juliet's. Behind
Tom's not too remarkable success Galt had seen always Sally's quicker
wit and more active nature; to his own ambitions, his love for Juliet
had been the retarding influence. He had been called "insanely aspiring"
in his profession, and yet he had sacrificed his career without a murmur
for the sake of his wife's health. He had sundered his professional
interests in New York that he might see the colour rebloom in her cheek,
and neither he nor she had questioned that the loss was justified. In
return she had rendered him a jealous loyalty and an absorbing wifehood,
and he had found his happiness apart from his ambition.

Now she dimpled as he looked at her and he pinched her cheek.

"The mother of six children!" he exclaimed; "they're changelings." He
looked at Carrie, who was flitting nervously from room to room.

"It's a shame she didn't take after you," he added. "She carries the
curse of my chin."

"She's splendid!" protested Juliet. "I never had such a figure in my
life; Sally says so. Carrie is a new woman, that's the difference."

"But the old lady's good enough for me," finished Galt triumphantly;
then he melted towards his daughter. "I dare say she's stunning," he
observed. "Come here, Carrie, and bear witness that you're as handsome
as your parents."

Carrie floated up, a straight, fine figure in white organdie, her smooth
hair shining like satin as it rolled from her brow. Her mouth and chin
were too strong for beauty, but she was frank and clean and fresh to
look at.

"Oh, I am just like you," she declared, "and I'm not half so pretty as
mamma. There's the bell. Somebody's coming!"

There was a rustle of women's skirts on the way upstairs, and in a
moment several light-coloured gowns were fringed by the palms in the
doorway.

When the governor entered, several hours later, the rooms were filled
with warmth and laughter and the vague perfume of women's dresses
mingled with the odour of American Beauty roses. An old-fashioned polka
was in the air, and beyond the furthest doorway he saw young people
dancing. The red candles were burning down, and drops of wax lay like
flecks of blood upon the floor. Near the entrance, a small, dark woman
was leaning upon a marble table, and as she saw him she held out a
cordial hand. She was plain and thin, with pale, startled eyes and a
mouth that slanted upward at one corner, like a crooked seam. She spoke
in an abrupt, skipping manner that possessed a surprising fascination.

"Behold the conquering hero!" she exclaimed, her pale eyes roving from
side to side. "I suppose if you were never late, you would never be
longed for."

"My dear Miss Preston," protested pretty little Mrs. Carrington, who was
soft and drowsy, with eyes that reminded one of a ruminating heifer's.

"I assure you, I have been positively longing to have you gratify my
curiosity," declared Miss Preston. "You know you do such dear, eccentric
things that we couldn't exist without you--at least I couldn't because I
should perish of boredom. No, you shan't escape just yet, so stop
looking at that beautiful Mrs. Galt. You must tell me first if it is
really true that you once carried a woman out of a burning building in
your right hand. It is so delightful to be strong, don't you think?"

The governor regarded her gravely. Before her animated chatter his
gravity became almost grotesque. "The only burning building I was ever
in was a burning smoke-house," he returned quietly. "I never carried a
woman out of anything in either hand."

There was a bored expression in his eyes, and he glanced beyond the
group to where Juliet stood surrounded.

"Pardon me," he said in a moment, and passed on.

In the crowd about him, where pretty women were as plentiful as pinks in
a garden bed, he moved awkwardly, with the hesitating steps of a man
who is uncertain of his pathway. His powerful frame and the splendid
vigour in his daring strides seemed out of place amid a profusion of
exotics that trembled as he passed. His appearance suggested the
battlegrounds of nature--high places, or the breadth of the open fields;
at the plough he would have been grandly picturesque, in the centre of a
throng of graceful men and women he loomed merely large and ill at ease.
Above his evening clothes his face showed rough, rather than refined,
and his stubborn jaw gave an impression of heaviness.

As he reached Juliet she uttered an exclamation of pleasure and held out
her hand. "Emma, you have heard of my Sunday-school scholar," she said
to a girl beside her. "My prize scholar, I mean. Sally, have you seen
the governor?"

Emma Carr, a pink-and-white girl who bore herself with the air of an
acknowledged belle, bowed, with a platitude that sounded original on her
lovely lips, and Sally Bassett turned with a hearty handshake.

"And he is our Nick Burr!" she exclaimed. "Tom, where are you?"

She spoke with an impulsive flutter which he had remembered as the
sparkle of mere girlish liveliness. Now he saw that it had degenerated
into a restlessness that appeared to result from a continued waste of
nervous energy. She looked older than Juliet, though she was in fact
much younger, and her face was drawn and heavily lined as if by years of
ill-health. Her physical strength was prodigious; one perceived it with
the suddenness of surprise. Much the same impression was produced by
her youthful manner in connection with her worn features; yet, in spite
of her faded prettiness, there was a singular charm in her unabated
vivacity.

She darted off in pursuit of Tom, to be arrested by the first newcomer
she encountered, and Nicholas was responding gravely to Juliet's banter
when his eyes fell full upon Eugenia Battle as she stood at a little
distance.

He had not seen her for fifteen years, and he started quickly as if from
an unsuspected shock. She was talking rapidly in her fervent voice, the
old illumination in her look. Her noble figure, in a straight flaxen
gown, was drawn against a background of green, her head was bent forward
on her long white neck, her kindly hands were outstretched. She had
developed from a girl into a woman, but to him she was unchanged. Her
face was, perhaps, older, her bosom fuller, but he did not see it--to
him she appeared as the resurrected spirit of his youth. Miss Carr was
speaking and he made some brief rejoinder. Eugenia had turned and was
looking at him; in a moment he heard her voice.

"Are old friends too far beneath the eyes of your excellency?" she
asked, and he heard the soft laugh pulse in her throat.

Her hand was outstretched, and he took it for an instant in his own.

"I am very glad to see you," he remarked lamely as he let it fall--so
lamely that he bit his lip at the remembrance. "You are looking well,"
he added.

"Of course--a woman always looks well at night," she answered lightly.
"And you," she laughed again, her kindly, unconscious laugh; "you are
looking--large."

He did not smile. "I have no doubt of it," he responded, and was silent.

Juliet Galt broke in with an affectionate protest. "Eugie is as great a
tease as ever," she said. "She will be the death of my baby yet. I tell
her to choose one of her own size, but she never does. She always
plagues those smaller than herself--or larger."

But Eugenia had turned away to greet a stranger, and in a moment
Nicholas drew back into a windowed embrasure where the lights were dim.

Suddenly a voice broke upon his ear addressing Juliet Galt--the vibrant
tones of Dudley Webb. He had come in late and was standing in mock
helplessness before Juliet and Carrie, his plump white hand vacillating
between the two.

"I am at a loss!" he exclaimed with an appealing shrug of his shoulders.
"Which is the débutante?"

Juliet laughed, her cheeks mantling with a pleased blush.

"You're a sad flatterer, Dudley! Isn't he, Eugie?"

Eugenia turned with a questioning glance.

"Oh, it's just his way," she returned good-humouredly. "A kindly
Providence has decreed that he should cover over my deficiencies."

Dudley protested affably, and ended by giving a hand to each. In the
crowded rooms he had become at once the picturesque and popular figure.
His magnetism was immediately felt, and men and women surrounded him in
small circles, while his pleasant words ran on smoothly, accompanied by
the ring of his infectious laugh. The luminous pallor of his clear-cut,
yet fleshy face, was accentuated by the sweep of his dark hair that
clung closely to his forehead. He seemed to have brought with him into
the heated rooms the spirit of humour and the zest of life.

From the deep embrasure Nicholas Burr watched curiously the flutter of
women's skirts and the flicker of candle light on shining heads. Eugenia
moved easily from group to group, the straight fall of her flaxen gown
giving her an added height, the dark coil of hair on the nape of her
long neck seeming to rise above the shoulders of other women. She was
never silent--for one and all she had some ready words, and her manner
was cordial, almost affectionate. It was as if she were in the midst of
a great family party, held together by the ties of blood.

In a far corner Juliet Galt and Emma Carr, the prettiest women in the
room, sat together upon a corn-coloured divan, and in front of them a
file of men passed and repassed slowly on their way to and from the
dining-room, pausing to exchange brief remarks and drifting on
aimlessly. Near them a fair, pale gentleman, robust and slightly bald,
with protruding eyes and anęmic lips, had flung himself upon a gilded
chair, a glass of punch in his hand. He had danced incessantly for hours
in the adjoining room, and at last, wearied, winded, with a palpitating
heart, he had found a punch bowl and a gilded chair.

Through the doorway floated music and the laughter of young girls
intoxicated with the dance. In the hall, some had sought rest upon the
stairway, and sat in radiant clusters, fanning themselves briskly as
they talked. There was about them an absence of coquetry as of
self-consciousness; they were frank, cordial-voiced, almost boyish.

The governor stepped suddenly from the embrasure and ran against Ben
Galt, who caught his arm.

"I've been searching the house for you," he exclaimed, "after landing my
twelfth matron in the dining-room." Then catching sight of the other's
face, he inquired blandly:

"Bored?"

"I am."

Galt gave a comprehending wink.

"So am I. These things are death. I say, don't go! Come into the library
and we'll lock the door and have supper shoved in through the window,
while we talk business. I've a decanter of the finest Madeira you ever
tasted behind the bookcase. Juliet will never know, and I don't care a
continental if she does. I'm a desperate man!"

"I was just going," replied the governor. "I'm not up to parties; but
lead off, if it's out of this."




VI


It was one o'clock when the governor left Galt's house, and turning into
Grace Street strolled leisurely in the direction of the Capitol Square.
The night was sharp with frost and a rising wind drove the shadows on
the pavement against darkened house-fronts, while behind a far-off
church spire, a wizened moon shivered through a thin cloud. On the
silence came the sound of fire bells ringing in the distance.

The bronze Washington in the deserted square shone silver beneath the
moonlight, and down the frozen slopes the trees stretched out stiffened
limbs. From the governor's house a broad light streamed, and quickening
his pace he entered the iron gate, which closed after him with a
rheumatic cough, and briskly ascended the stone steps. As he drew the
latch-key from his pocket he was thinking of his library, where the
firelight fell on cheerful walls and red leathern chairs, and with the
closing of the door he crossed the hall and entered the first room on
the left.

A red fire burned in the grate, and the furniture reflected the colour
until the place seemed pervaded by a visible warmth. The desk in the
centre of the room, the shining backs of law books, the crimson rugs,
the engravings on the walls, the easy chair drawn up before the hearth,
presented to him as he entered now the security of individual isolation.
He had felt the same sense of restfulness when he had ascended, after
the day's work, to the little whitewashed attic of his father's house.
To-night he liked the glow because it suggested warmth, but he could not
have told off-hand the colour of the carpet or the subjects of the
engravings on the wall; and had he found a white pine chair in place of
the red leathern one, he would have used it without an admission of
discomfort. In the midnight hours he liked the empty house about
him--the silence and the safeguard of his loneliness. The deserted
reception-rooms at the end of the hall pleased him by their stillness
and the cold of their fireless grates. Even the stiff, unyielding
furniture, in its fancy dress of satin brocade, soothed him by its
remoteness when he passed it wrapped in thought.

He flung himself into the easy chair, raised the light by which he read,
and unfolded a newspaper lying upon his desk. As he did so an article
which concerned himself caught his eye, and he read it with curious
intentness.

    "THE MAN WITH THE CONSCIENCE.

  REFUSES TO RECOMMEND THE PROPOSED
    RESTRICTION OF THE SUFFRAGE.

  ATTACHES HIS SIGNATURE TO SEVERAL BILLS.--TO
    AMEND AND RE-ENACT THE CHARTER OF THE
       TOWN OF CULPEPER--TO ESTABLISH A
         FERRY ACROSS THE PIANKITANK."

He reread it abstractedly, pondering not the future of Culpeper or of
the Piankitank River, but the title by which he was beginning to be
known:

"The Man with the Conscience!" He had been in office less than a month,
and three times within the last week he had been called "The Man with
the Conscience." Once a member of the Senate had declared on the floor
that the "two strongest factors in present State politics are found to
be in the will of the people and the conscience of the governor." The
morning papers had reported it, and when, several days later, he had
vetoed a bill providing to place certain powers in the hands of a
corporation that was backed by large capital, he had been hailed again
as "The Man with the Conscience!" Now he wondered as he read what the
verdict would be to-morrow, when his refusal to sign a document which
lay at that moment upon his desk must become widely known. He had
refused, not because the bill granted too great rights to a corporation,
but because it needlessly restricted the growth of a railroad. Would his
refusal in this instance be dubbed "conscience" or "inconsistency"?

At the moment he was the people's man--this he knew. His name was
cheered by the general voice. As he passed along the street bootblacks
hurrahed! him. He had determined that the governorship should cease to
represent a figurehead, and for right or wrong, he was the man of the
hour.

He laid the paper aside, and lifting a pipe from his desk, slowly
lighted it. As the smoke curled up, it circled in gray rings upon the
air, filling the room with the aroma of the Virginia leaf. He watched it
idly, his mind upon the pile of unopened letters awaiting his attention.
Above the mantel hung a small oil painting of a Confederate soldier
after Appomattox, and it reminded him vaguely of some one whom he had
half forgotten. He followed the trail for a moment and gave it up.
Higher still was an engraving of Mr. Jefferson Davis, with the
well-remembered Puritan cast of feature and the severe chin beard.
Beneath the pictures a trivial ornament stood on the mantel and beside
it a white rose in water breathed a fading fragrance. A child who had
come to feed the squirrels in the square had put the rose in his coat,
and he had transferred it to the glass of water.

He turned towards his desk and took up several cards that he had not
seen. So Rann had called in his absence--and Vaden and Diggs. As he
pushed the cards aside, he summoned mentally the men before him and
weighed the possible values of each. Why had Rann called, he
wondered--he had an object, of course, for he did not pay so much as a
call without a purpose. The name evoked the man--he saw him plainly in
the circles of gray smoke--a stout, square figure, with short legs, his
plaid socks showing beneath light trousers; a red, hairy face, with a
wart in his left eyebrow, which was heavier than his right one; a large
head, prematurely bald, and beneath an almost intellectual forehead, a
pair of shrewd, intelligent eyes. Rann was a match for any man in
politics, he knew--the great, silent voice, some one had said--the man
who was clever enough to let others do his talking for him. Yes, he was
glad that Rann would back him up.

The remaining callers appeared together in his reverie--Vaden and Diggs.
They were never mentioned apart, and they never worked singly. They
were honest men, whose honesty was dangerous because it went with dull
credulity. In appearance they were so unlike as to make the connection
ludicrous. Vaden was long, emaciated, with a shrunken chest in which a
consumptive cough rattled. His face was scholarly, pallid, pleasant to
look at, and there was a sympathetic quality in his voice which carried
with it a reminder of past bereavements. Beside the sentimental languor
which enveloped him, Diggs loomed grotesquely fair and florid, with eyes
bulging with joviality, and red, repellent, almost gluttonous lips. He
was a teller of stories and a maker of puns.

They were both honest men and ardent Democrats, but they were in the
leading strings of sharper politicians. Perhaps, after all, the fools
were more to be feared than the villains.

Somewhere in the city a clock rang the hour, and, as his pipe died out,
he rose and went to his desk.

The next morning Vaden and Diggs dropped in to breakfast, and before it
was over he had ascertained that they were seeking to sound him upon his
attitude towards the recent National Party Platform. As he dodged their
laboured cross-examination he laughed at the overdone assumption of
indifference. Before they had risen from the table, Rann joined them,
and the conversation branched at once into impersonal topics. Diggs told
a story or two, at which Rann roared appreciatively, while Vaden
fingered his coffee spoon in pensive abstraction.

As they left the dining-room, which was in the basement, and ascended to
the hall, Diggs glanced into the reception-rooms and nodded respectfully
at the brocaded chairs.

"I like the looks of that, governor," he said, "but it's a pity you
can't find a wife. A woman gives an air to things, you know." Then he
cocked an eye at the ceiling. "This old house ain't much more than a
fire trap, anyway," he added. "The trouble is it's gotten old-fashioned
just like the Capitol building over there. My constituents are all in
favour of doing the proud thing by Virginia and giving her a real
up-to-date State House. Bless my life, the old Commonwealth deserves a
brownstone front--now don't she?"

He appealed to Rann, who dissented in his broad, if blunt, intelligence.

"I wouldn't trade that old building for all the brownstone between here
and New York harbour," he declared.

The governor laughed abstractedly, but a week later he recalled the
proposition as he sat in Juliet Galt's drawing-room, and repeated it for
the sake of her frank disgust.

"I shall tell Eugie," she exclaimed. "Eugie finds everything so new that
she suffers a perpetual homesickness for Kingsborough."

"There's nobody left down there except the judge and Mrs. Webb," broke
in Carrie; "and you know she gets on dreadfully with Mrs. Webb--now
doesn't she, Aunt Sally?"

"She never told me so," laughed Sally, "but I strongly suspect it. I
don't disguise the fact that I consider Mrs. Webb to be a terror, and
Eugie's a long way off from saintship."

"I hardly think that Mrs. Webb would consent to join our colony,"
observed Nicholas indifferently.

"May Kingsborough long enjoy her rule," added Juliet. "I hear that she
has grown quite amiable towards the judge since she prophesied that he
would have chronic gout and he had it."

"It would be so nice of them to marry each other," suggested Carrie with
an eye for matrimonial interests. "You needn't shake your head, mamma.
Aunt Sally said the same thing to Uncle Tom."

She was standing on the hearth rug in her walking gown, slowly fastening
her gloves. Sally looked at her and laughed in her nervous way.

"Well, I confess that it did cross my mind," she admitted. "Tom, like
all men, believed Mrs. Webb to be a martyr until I convinced him that
she martyred others."

"Oh, he still believes it behind your back," said Nicholas.

Juliet turned upon him frankly. "It's a shame to destroy wifely
confidence," she protested. "Sally hasn't been married long enough to
know that the only way to convince a husband is to argue against
oneself."

Her head rested upon the cushions of her chair, and her pretty foot was
on the brass fender. There was a cordial warmth about her which turned
the simple room into home for even the casual caller. The matronly grace
of her movements evoked the memory of infancy and motherhood; to
Nicholas Burr she seemed, in her beauty and her abundance, the supreme
expression of a type--of the joyous racial mother of all men.

Her youngest child, a girl of three, that she called "baby," had come in
from a walk and was standing at her knee in white cap and cloak and
mittens, her hand clutching Juliet's dress, her solemn eyes on the
governor. He had tried to induce her to approach, but she held off and
regarded him without a smile.

"Now, now, baby," pleaded Juliet, "who fed the bunnies with you the
other day?"

"Man," responded the baby gravely.

"Who gave you nice nuts for the dear bunnies?"

"Man."

"Who carried you all round the pretty square?"

"Man."

"Who gave you that lovely picture book full of animals?"

"Man."

"Then don't you love the kind man?"

"Noth."

"Yes, you do--you've forgotten. Go and speak to him."

The child approached gravely to make a grab at his watch-chain; he
lifted her to his knee, and friendship was established. They were at
peace a moment later when a voice was heard in the hall, and the
curtains were swung back as Eugenia Webb entered, tall and glowing, her
head rising from a collar of fur. She brought with her the breath of
frost, and the winter red was in her cheeks, fading slowly as she sat
down and threw off her wraps. He saw then that she looked older than he
thought and that her elastic figure had settled into matronly lines.

She raised her spotted veil and drew off her gloves.

"I mustn't talk myself out," she was saying lightly, "because Dudley
means to make me bring him to call this evening. I can't induce him to
come by himself--he simply won't. He considers, my mission in life to be
the combined duties of paying his calls and entertaining his
legislators. We had six senators to dinner last night, and we pay six
visits this evening. Come here, Tweedle-dee," to the baby. "Come to your
own Aunt Eugie and give her a kiss."

The child looked at her thoughtfully and shook her head.

"Kith man," she responded shortly.

The swift red rose to Eugenia's face. Nicholas was looking at her, and
her eyes flashed with the old anger at a senseless blush.

"That's right, old lady," said the governor to the child. "Tell her
you'd rather kiss a man every time."

"Of course she had," replied Eugenia half angrily. "She's going to be
her mother all over again."

Juliet laughed her full, soft laugh. "Now, Eugie," she protested gaily,
"my sins are many, but spare me a public confession of them."

"She takes after her aunt," put in Sally frankly. "I always liked men
better, and I think it's unwomanly not to--don't you, governor?"

Nicholas put the child down and rose.

"I'm afraid my womanliness is only skin deep," he returned, "but I
wouldn't give one honest man for all the women since Eve."

"Behold our far-famed gallantry!" exclaimed Sally.

Eugenia looked up, laughing. She had seized upon the child, and he saw
her dark eyes above the solemn blue ones.

"I'm afraid you aren't much of a politician, Governor Burr, if you tell
the truth so roundly," she said. "The first lesson in politics is to lie
and love it; the second lesson is to lie and live it. Oh, we've been in
Congress, Dudley and I."

She moved restlessly, and her colour came and went like a flame that
flickers and revives. He wondered vaguely at her nervous animation--she
had not possessed a nerve in her girlhood--nor had he seen this shifting
restlessness the other night. It did not occur to him that the meeting
with himself was the cause--he knew her too well--but had his presence,
or some greater thing, aroused within, her painful memories of the past?

As he walked down Franklin Street a little later he contrasted boldly
the two Eugenias he had known--the Eugenia who was his and the Eugenia
who was Dudley Webb's. After fifteen years the rapture and the agony of
his youth showed grotesque to his later vision; men did not love like
that at forty years. He could see Eugenia now without the quiver of a
pulse; he could sit across from her, knowing that she was the wife of
another, and could eat his dinner. His passion was dead, but where it
had bloomed something else drew life and helped him to live. He had
loved one woman and he loved her still, though with a love which in his
youth he would have held to be as ashes beside his flame. There were
months--even years--when he did not think of her; when he thought
profoundly of other things; but in these years the thrill of no woman's
skirts had disturbed his calm. And again, there were winter
evenings--evenings when he sat beside the hearth, and there came to him
the thought of a home and children--of a woman's presence and a child's
laugh. He could have loved the woman well had she been Eugenia, and he
could have loved the child had it been hers; but beyond her went neither
his vision nor his desire.

Now he swung on, large, forceful, a man young enough to feel, yet old
enough to know. He entered his door quickly, as was his custom,
impatient for his work and his fireside. On his desk lay the papers that
had been brought over by his secretary, and he ran his fingers
carelessly through them, gleaning indifferently the drift of their
contents. As he did so a light flashed suddenly upon him, and the
meaning of Eugenia's restlessness was made clear, for upon his desk was
an application for the pardon of Bernard Battle.




VII


The paper was still in his hand when the door behind him opened.

"A lady to see you, suh."

"A lady?" He turned impatiently to find himself facing Eugenia Webb. She
had come so swiftly, with a silence so apparitional, that he fell back
as from a blow between the eyes. For a moment he doubted her reality,
and then the glow in her face, the mist on her furs, the fog of her
breath, proclaimed that she had followed closely upon his footsteps. She
must have been almost beside him when he hurried through the frost.

"You wish to speak to me?" he asked blankly, as he drew a chair to the
hearth rug. "Will you not sit down?"

There was an unfriendly question in his eyes, and she met it boldly with
the old dash of impulse.

"They told me that to-morrow would be too late," she said. "I went to
Ben Galt's to ask him to come to you in my place, but he is out of town.
I found you there instead. It is a matter of life and death to me, so I
came."

She sat down in the chair he had drawn up for her, her muff fell to the
floor, and he placed it upon the desk where the petition lay unrolled.
As he did so he saw the list of names that presented the appeal--judge,
jury, prosecuting attorney, all were there.

She followed his gaze and moved slightly towards him. "It can't be true
that you--that you will not--" she said.

He was stirring the fire into flame, but as she broke off he turned
squarely upon her.

"I have not looked into the case," he answered harshly.

He was standing beside his own hearthstone and he was at ease. There was
no awkwardness about him now; his height endowed him with majesty, and
in his inflexible face there was no suggestion of heaviness. He looked a
man with a sublime self-confidence.

Her colour beat quickly back, warming her eyes.

"Oh, I am so glad," she said. "When you know all you will do as we ask
you, because it is right and just. If he did not serve that two years'
sentence he has served six years of poverty and sickness. He is a
wreck--we should not know him, they say--and he has not seen his wife
and children for--"

He raised his hand and stopped her. A rising anger clouded his face,
and, as she met his eyes, she slowly whitened.

"And you ask me--me of all men--to show mercy to Bernard Battle? Was
there not a governor of Virginia before me?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, it was different then--he did not know, and we did not know,
everything. For years we had not heard from him--"

"So my predecessor refused?" he asked.

She bowed her head. "But it is so different now--every one is with us."

He was looking her over grimly in an anger that seemed an emotional
reversion to the past--as he felt himself reverting with all his
strength to the original savage of the race. The hour for which he had
starved sixteen years ago was unfolding for him at last. He gloated over
it with a passion that would sicken him when it was done.

"When you came to me," he said slowly, "did you remember--"

She had risen and was standing before him, her hands hidden in the fur
upon her bosom. She was pleading now with startled eyes and cold
lips--she who had turned from him when the first lie was spoken--she was
pleading for the man who had blackened his friend's honour that he might
shield his own--she was pleading though she knew his baseness. The very
nobility of her posture--the nobility that he had found outwardly in no
other woman--hardened the man before her. The cold brow, the fervent
mouth, the fearless eyes, the lines with which Time had chastened into
womanliness her girlish figure--these had become the expression of an
invincible regret. As he faced her the iron of his nature held him as in
a vise, for life, which had made him a just man, had not made him a
gentle one.

But her spirit had risen to match with his. "He wronged you once," she
said; "let it pass--we have all been young and very ignorant; but we do
not make our lives, thank God."

He looked at her in silence.

Then, as he stood there, the walls of the room passed from before his
eyes, and the gray light from the western window was falling upon the
white road beyond the cedars. The vague pasture swept to the far-off
horizon where hung the solitary star above the sunset. From the west a
light wind blew, and into their faces dead leaves whirled from denuded
trees far distant. But surest of all was this--he hated now as he hated
then. "As for him--may God, in His mercy, damn him," he had said.

"Because he wronged you do not wrong yourself," she spoke fearlessly,
but she fell back with an upward movement of her hands. The man was
before her as the memory had been for years--she knew the distorted
features, the convulsed, closed mouth, the furrow that cleft the
forehead like a scar. She saw the savage as she had seen it once before,
and she braved it now as she had braved it then.

"You are hard--as hard as life," she said.

"Life is as we make it," he retorted. He lifted her muff from the desk
and she took it from him, turning towards the door. As he followed her
into the hall he spoke slowly: "I shall read the papers that relate to
the case," he said. "I shall do my duty. You were mistaken if you
supposed that your coming to me would influence my decision. Personal
appeal rarely avails and is often painful."

He unlatched the outer door and she passed out and descended the steps.

When he returned to the fire he was shivering from the draught let in by
the opening doors, and, lifting the fallen poker, he attacked almost
fiercely the slumbering coals. The physical shock had not tempered the
rage within; he felt it gnawing upon his entrails like a beast of prey.
Once only in his life had he found himself so powerless before a
devouring passion, and then, as now, he had glutted it with wounded
love. Then, as now, he had hated with a terrible desire.

The application lay upon his desk, and he pushed it out of sight. He
could not read it now--he wondered if the time would ever come when he
could read it. The thought smote him with the lash of fear--the fear of
himself. He who an hour ago had held his assurance to be beyond assault
was now watching for the death of his hate as he might have watched for
the death of a wolf whose fangs he had felt.

Lifting his head, he could see through the curtained window the chill
slopes of the square and the circular drive beneath the great bronze
Washington. Beyond the distant gates rose the church spires of the city,
suffused with the pink flush of sunset. The atmosphere glowed like a
blush upon the perspective, which was shading through variations of
violet remoteness. All was frozen save the winter sunset and the
advancing twilight.

He turned from the window and faced the painting of the Confederate
soldier. For a moment he regarded it blankly, then, pushing aside
Eugenia's chair he threw himself into one across from it. He was
thinking of Bernard Battle, and he remembered suddenly that he must have
hated him always--that he had hated him long ago in his childhood when
the weak-faced boy had headed a school faction against him. True, Dudley
Webb had incited the attempt at social ostracism, but he bore no
resentment against Dudley--on the contrary, he was convinced that he
liked him in spite of all--in spite, even, of Eugenia. With the
inflexible fairness that he never lost, he knew that, with Eugenia,
Dudley had not wronged him. It had been a fight in open field, and
Dudley had won. He had even liked the vigour of his wooing, and some
years later, when they had met, he had given the victor a hearty
handshake. He distrusted him as a politician, but he liked him as a man.

And Bernard Battle. That was an honest hate, and he hugged it to him.
Before him still, so vivid that it seemed but yesterday, hovered the
memory of that wild evening in the road, and the unforgotten sunset
faced him as he hurried through the wood. In the acuteness of his
remembered senses he could hear the dead leaves rustle in his pathway
and could smell the vague scents of autumn drifting on the wind. Through
all the years of public life and passionate endeavour he had not lost
one colour of the painted clouds or missed one note from the sharp
tangle of autumn odours. To this day the going down of the sun in red
and gold awoke within him the impulse of revenge, and the effluvium of
rotting flowers or the tang of pines revived the duller ache of his
senseless rage.

On that evening he had buried his youth with his youthful passion. The
hours between the twilight and the dawn had seen his emotions consumed
and his softer side laid waste. Since then he had not played saint or
martyr; he had gone his way among women, and he had liked some good ones
and some bad ones--but the turn of Eugenia's head or the trick of her
voice had haunted him in one and all. He had followed the resemblance
and had found the vacancy; he had been from first to last a man of one
ideal. His nature had broadened, hardened, rung metallic to the senses;
but it had not yielded to the shock of fresh emotions. He had loved one
woman from her childhood up.

And again she rose before him as in that Indian summer when he knew her
best--her beauty flaming against the autumn landscape, "clear as the
sun, and terrible as an army with banners." He saw her red or pale,
quivering or cold, always passing from him in a splendour of colours
that was like the clash of music.

That was sixteen years ago and it seemed but yesterday. He had lost her,
and yet he had not been unhappy, for he had learned that it is not gain
that makes happiness nor loss that kills it. Life had long since taught
him the lesson all great men learn--that happiness is but one result of
the adjustment of the individual needs to the Eternal Laws. A man had
once said of him, "Burr must think a lot of life; he bears it so blamed
well. He's the happiest man I know," and Burr, overhearing him, had
laughed aloud:

"Am I? I have never thought about it."

He did not think about life, he lived it; this was the beginning and the
end of his success.

The face of Eugenia faded slowly into the firelight, and he rose and
shook himself like a man who awakes from a nightmare. There was work for
him at his desk, and he settled to it with sudden determination.

A week later the papers were still in his desk. He told himself at first
that he would send them to Kingsborough to Judge Bassett and abide by
his decision; but the course struck him as cowardly and he put it from
him. The work was his and he would do it. Then for a week longer he went
on his way and did not think of them. His days were filled with work and
it was easy to leave disturbing thoughts alone; what was not easy was to
consider them judicially.

At last Galt spoke of the matter, and he could not refuse to listen.

"By the way, I am hearing a good deal about that Battle pardon," Galt
said. "You are looking into the matter, I suppose?"

The other shook his head.

"I have not done so as yet," he answered. "I am waiting."

"Don't wait too long or the poor devil may apply higher. He's ill, I
believe, and if he insists on returning to the State, as they say he
will, the law can't help but arrest him. It's a sad case. So far as I
can see he was a catspaw for the real criminal and didn't have sense
enough to hold on to a share of the money after he sold himself. His
sister has been to see you, hasn't she? She's a superb woman, and it was
a good day for Dudley Webb when he married her."

He looked up inquiringly.

"Ah, what were you saying?" asked the governor.

That night he locked himself in with the papers and plunged into the
case. He read and reread each written word until he was in possession of
the minutest detail. In another instance he knew that the reasons for
granting the pardon would have seemed sufficient, and he would probably
have had it made out at once. As it was, he admitted the force of the
appeal, but something stronger than himself held him back. Above the
name before him he saw the girlish face of the man he hated--saw it
accusing, defying, beseeching--and beyond it he saw the gray road and
the solitary star above the sunset. In the silence his own voice echoed,
"As for him--may God, in His mercy, damn him."

He locked the papers away again. "I cannot do it," he said.

Several days later he sent for a member of the legislature from the town
where the crime was committed. He questioned him closely, but without
result--the people up there were tired of it, the man said--at first
they had been wrought up, but six years is a long time, and they didn't
care much about it now. As the governor closed the interview he realised
that he had hoped a bitter hope that his revenge might be justified.
When the door had shut, he went back to the case again, and again he
left it. "It ought to be done, but, God help me, I cannot do it," he
said.

The next morning, while he was at work in his office in the Capitol, his
secretary came in to tell him that Miss Christina Battle was in the
anteroom. He rose hurriedly. "I will see her at once," he said, and he
opened the door as Miss Chris came in, panting softly from her ascent in
the elevator.

She had changed so little that he took her hand in sudden timidity,
recalling the days when he had sold her chickens before her hen-house
door. But when he had settled her in one of the cane rocking-chairs
beside the stove, his confidence returned and he responded heartily to
her beneficent beam. Her florid face, shining large and luminous above
the stiff black strings of her bonnet, reminded him of illustrations he
had seen in which the sun is endowed with human features and an
enveloping smile.

"This is the greatest honour my office has brought me," he said with
sincerity.

She laughed softly, smoothing her black kid glove above her plump wrist.

"I don't know what they mean by saying you aren't a lady's man, Governor
Burr," she returned. "I am sure old Judge Blitherstone himself never
turned a prettier compliment, and he lived to be upwards of ninety and
did them better every day of his life. They used to say that when Mrs.
Peachy Tucker dropped in to see him as he was breathing his last, and
told him to look forward to the joys of heaven and the communion of
saints, he replied, 'Madam, if you remain with me I shall merely pass
from one heaven to another,' and they were his last words."

The governor smiled into her beautiful, girlish eyes. "Men have spoken
worse ones," he said, her kindliness warming him like a cordial.

"It was good of you to come," he added.

"Not a bit of it," protested Miss Chris with emphasis. "It's all about
that poor, foolish boy--he's still a boy to me, and so are you for that
matter. You know how wicked he has been and how miserable he has made us
all, for you can't stop loving people just because they are bad. Now you
are a good man, Governor Burr, and that's why I came to you. You'll do
right if it kills you, and whatever you do in this matter is going to
be the right thing. You can't help being good any more than he can help
being bad, and I hope the Lord understands this as well as I do--I don't
know, I'm sure--sometimes it looks as if He didn't; but we'd just as
well trust Him, because there's nothing else for us to do.

"Now the foolish boy wronged you more than he wronged us; but you'll
forgive him as we forgave him, when you know what he's suffered. It's
better to be sinned against than to sin, God knows."

Her eyes were moist and her lips trembled. The governor crossed to where
she sat and took her hand.

"Dear Miss Chris," he said, "women like you make men heroes." And he
added quickly, "The pardon is being made out. When it is ready I will
sign it."

She looked at him an instant in silence; then she rose heavily to her
feet, leaning upon his arm. "You're a great man, Nick Burr," she said
softly.

An hour later Nicholas Burr looked calmly down upon his signature that
meant freedom for Bernard Battle. He had won the victory of his life,
and he was feeling with a glow of self-appreciation that he had done a
generous thing.




VIII


Miss Chris, in her hired carriage, rolled leisurely into Franklin
Street, where pretty women in visiting gowns were going in and out of
doorways. She leaned out and bowed smilingly several times, but she was
not thinking of the gracefully dressed callers or of the houses into
which they went. When Emma Carr threw her a kiss from Galt's porch, she
responded amiably; but she was as blind to the affectionate gesture as
to the striking beauty of the girl in her winter furs.

Up the quiet street the leafless trees made a gray vista that melted
into transparent mist. The sunshine stretched in pale gold bars from
sidewalk to sidewalk, and overhead the sky was of a rare Italian blue.
But for the frost in the air and the naked boughs, it might have been a
day in April.

Presently the carriage turned into Main Street, halting abruptly while a
trolley car shot past. "Please be very careful," called Miss Chris
nervously, gathering herself together as they stopped before a big gray
house that faced a gray church on the opposite corner. A flight of stone
steps ran from the doorway to a short tesselated entrance leading to the
street, where two scraggy poplars still held aloft the withered
skeletons of last year's tulips. The Webbs had taken the house because
the box bushes in the yard reminded Eugenia of Battle Hall, while
Dudley declared it to be the best breathing space he could get for the
money.

"We done git back, Mistis," announced the negro driver, descending from
his perch, and at the same instant the door of the house flew open and
Eugenia ran out, bareheaded, followed by Dudley.

"I saw you from the window, Aunt Chris," she cried, "and now I want to
know the meaning of this mystery. Dudley suspects you of having a lover,
but I am positive that you've stolen a march on me and have been to
market. What a pity I confessed to you that I couldn't tell brains from
sweetbreads."

"Let me get there, Eugie," said Dudley, as Miss Chris emerged with the
assistance of the driver. "Take my arm, Aunt Chris, and I'll hoist you
into the house before you know it."

"Well, I declare," remarked Miss Chris, carefully stepping forth. "I
don't know when I've had such a turn. These street car drivers have lost
all their manners. If we hadn't pulled up in time, I believe he would
have gone right into us. And to think that a few years ago we never got
ready to go to market until the car was at the door. Betty Taylor used
to call to the driver every morning to wait till she put on her
bonnet--and time and again I've seen him stop because she had forgotten
her list of groceries. Now, if you weren't standing right on the corner,
I actually believe they'd go by without you."

"That's progress, Aunt Chris," responded Dudley cheerfully.

Here the driver insisted upon lending a hand, and between them they
established Miss Chris before the fire in the sitting-room. "I wish
you'd make Giles go out and pick up that loose paper that's scattered on
the pavement," she said to Eugenia. "It looks so untidy. If I wasn't
rheumatic I'd do it myself."

Dudley and Eugenia seated themselves across from her. "Now where have
you been, Aunt Chris?" they demanded.

Miss Chris laughed softly as she took off her bonnet and gloves and gave
them to Eugenia; then she unfastened her cape and passed it over.

"You'll never find out that, my dears," she returned. "I'm not too old
to keep a secret. Why, I've gone and lost my bag. Didn't I carry that
bag with me, Eugenia?"

"Of course you did," said Eugenia. "Never mind, I'll make you another."
She went out to put away Miss Chris's wraps, and came back presently,
laughing.

"Have you found out her secret, Dudley?" she asked. "If she doesn't tell
you, it will die with her."

"I know better than to ask," returned Dudley good-humouredly. "That's
the reason I'm her favourite. I don't ask impertinent questions, do I,
Aunt Chris?"

"Bless you, no," responded Miss Chris serenely, as she stretched out her
feet in their cloth shoes.

"You're her favourite because you happen to be a man," protested
Eugenia. "She comes of a generation of man spoilers. I believe she
thinks I ought to bring you your slippers in the evening--now don't you,
Aunt Chris?"

"My dear mother always brought them to my father," replied Miss Chris
placidly. "It was her pleasure to wait on him."

"And it is mine to have Dudley wait on me. But you do make an unfair
difference between us, Aunt Chris. Why did you call me 'uncharitable'
when I said Mrs. Gordon painted immodestly! Dudley said the same thing
this morning, and you only smiled."

"It was uncharitable, my dear, and besides it is too palpable to need
mention--but men will be men."

Eugenia frowned. "I wish you would occasionally remember that women will
be women," she suggested. She wore a scarlet shirtwaist, and the glow
from the fire seemed to follow her about.

"I won't have Aunt Chris bullied, Eugie," declared Dudley as he rose.
"Well, I'm off again. I may bring a legislator or two back to dinner.
What have we got?"

"The Lord knows," replied Eugenia desperately. "Our third cook this
month for one thing, and Congo refuses to serve dinner in courses. He
says 'dar's too much shufflin' er de dishes for too little victuals.'"

Dudley laughed at her mimicry.

"Oh, I suppose we'll do," he said. "By the way, don't forget to call on
Mrs. Rann to-day."

Miss Chris was gazing placidly into the fire. As Dudley turned with his
hand on the door knob, she looked up.

"I was surprised to find the Capitol so dirty," she observed
regretfully.

Dudley swung round breathlessly.

"Well, I am--blessed!" he gasped.

"So that's where you've been!" cried Eugenia. She threw herself beside
Miss Chris's chair. "What did he say, Aunt Chris?" she implored.

Miss Chris blushed with confusion.

"Well, if I haven't let it out!" she exclaimed. "Who'd have thought I
couldn't keep a secret at my age." Then she patted Eugenia's hand. "He's
a good man," she said softly, "and it's all right about Bernard."

"I knew it would be," said Dudley quickly. "You know, Eugie, I always
told you he'd do it."

But Eugenia had turned away with swimming eyes. "I must tell Lottie,"
she said hurriedly. "Oh, Aunt Chris, how could you keep it? To think the
children are at school!"

Dudley, with an afterthought, turned from the door and gave her an
affectionate pat on the shoulder. "It's fine news, old girl," he said
cheerfully, and Eugenia smiled at him through her tears.

As he went out she followed him into the hall and slowly ascended the
stairs. On the landing above she entered a room where Bernard's wife was
lying on a wicker couch, cutting the pages of a magazine.

"Lottie, I've good news for you," she exclaimed, "the best of news."

Lottie tossed aside the magazine and raised herself on her elbow. She
had a pretty, ineffectual face and a girlish figure, and, despite her
faded colouring, looked almost helplessly young. Her round white hands
were as weak as a child's.

"I'm sure I don't know what it can be," she returned. "You look awfully
well in that red waist, Eugie. I think I'll get one like it."

Eugenia picked up a child's story book from the rug and laid it on the
table; then she stood looking gravely down on the younger woman.

"Can't you guess what it is?" she asked.

Lottie looked up with a nervous blinking of her eyes. She had paled
slightly and she leaned over and drew an eiderdown quilt across her
knees.

"It--it's not about Bernard?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes, it is about Bernard. You may go to him and bring him home. You may
go to-morrow. Oh, Lottie, doesn't it make you happy?"

Lottie drew the eiderdown quilt still higher. She was not looking at
Eugenia, and her mouth had grown sullen. "I don't see why you send me,"
she said. "Why can't Jack Tucker bring him home? He's with him."

"But I thought you wanted to go," returned Eugenia blankly.

"I haven't seen him for six years," said Lottie, her face still turned
away. "He is almost a stranger--and I am afraid of him."

"Oh, Lottie, he loves you so!"

"I don't know," protested Lottie. "He has been so wicked."

Eugenia was looking down upon her with dismayed eyes.

"Don't you love him, Lottie?" she asked.

For a moment the other did not reply. Her lips trembled and her knees
were shaking beneath the eiderdown quilt. Then with a slow turn of the
head she looked up doggedly. "I believe I hate him," she answered.

A swift flush rose to Eugenia's face, her eyes flashed angrily, she took
a step forward. "And you are his wife!" she cried.

But Lottie had turned at last. She flung the quilt aside and rose to her
feet, her girlish figure quivering in its beribboned wrapper. There were
bright pink spots in her cheeks.

"Yes, I am his wife, God help me," she said.

Eugenia had drawn back before the childish desperation. Lottie had never
revolted before--she had thought Eugenia's thoughts and weakly lived up
to Eugenia's conception of her duty. She had been meek and amiable and
ineffectual; but it came to Eugenia with a shock that she had never
admired her until to-day--until the hour of her rebellion.

She spoke sternly--as she might have spoken to herself in a moment of
dear, but dismal failure.

"Hush," she commanded. "You are one of us, and you have no right to
desert us. It is because you are his wife that my home is yours and your
children's. I am only his sister, and I have stood by him through it
all. Do you think, if his sins were twenty times as great, that I should
fall away from him now?"

Lottie looked at her and laughed--a little heartless laugh.

"Oh, but I am not a Battle," she replied bitterly. "Battle sins are just
like other people's sins to me."

Then she raised her pretty, nerveless hands to her throat.

"I have wanted to be free all these years," she said. "All these years
when you would not let me forget Bernard Battle--when you shut me up and
hid me away, and made me old when I was young. And now--just as I am
beginning to be happy with my children--you tell me that I must go back
to him and start afresh."

Her voice grated upon Eugenia's ears, and she realised more acutely than
her pity the fact that Lottie was common--hopelessly common. For an
instant she forgot Bernard's greater transgressions in the wonder that a
Battle should have married a woman who did not know how to behave in a
crisis--who could even chant her wrongs from the housetop. At the moment
this seemed to her the weightier share of the family remissness. The
loyalty of the Battle wives had been as a lasting memorial to the Battle
breeding--which, after all, was more invincible than the Battle virtue.

She crossed to the window and stood looking out upon the winter sunshine
falling on the gray church across the way. On the stone steps a negro
nurse was sitting, drowsily trundling back and forth before her a
beruffled baby carriage. Nearer at hand, in the yard on the left of the
tesselated entrance below, a pointed magnolia tree shone evergreen
beside the naked poplars, and a bevy of sparrows fluttered in and out
amid the sheltering leaves.

"Oh, you will never understand," wailed Lottie. She had flung herself
upon the couch and was sobbing weakly. "It is so different with you and
Dudley."

Eugenia turned and came back. "I do understand," she returned gently,
and before Lottie could raise her lowered head she left the room.

She had promised Dudley that the calls should be made, and she put on
her visiting gown without a thought of shirking the fulfilment of her
pledge. From the day of her marriage she had zealously accepted the
obligations forced upon her by Dudley's political aspirations, and Mrs.
Rann became to-day simply a heavier responsibility than usual. Her world
was full of Mrs. Ranns, and she braved them with dauntless spirits and
triumphant humour. As she buttoned her gloves on the way downstairs she
was conscious of a singularly mild recognition of the fact that the
world might have been the gainer had Mrs. Rann abided unborn.

But the fresh air restored her courage, and by the time she sat in Mrs.
Rann's drawing-room, face to face with her hostess, she was at ease with
herself and her surroundings. She gave out at once the peculiar social
atmosphere of her race; she uttered her gay little nothings with an
intimate air; she laughed good-humouredly at Mrs. Rann's gossip, and she
begged to see photographs of Mrs. Rann's babies. It was as if she had
immediately become the confidential adviser of Mrs. Rann's domestic
difficulties.

Mrs. Rann, herself, was little and plain and obsolete. She appeared to
have been left behind in the sixties, like words that have become vulgar
from disuse. She wore bracelets on her wrists, and her accent was as
flat as her ideas. Before the war--and even long after--nobody had heard
of the Ranns; they had arrived as suddenly as the electric lights or
the trolley cars. When Miss Chris had alluded to them as "new people,"
and Juliet Galt had declared that she "did not call there," Dudley had
thrown out an uncertain line to Eugenia. "Rann is a useful man, my
dear," he had said. "He may be of great help to me," and the next day
Eugenia had left her card. Where Dudley's ambitions led she cheerfully
followed.

"We are politicians," was her excuse to Juliet, "and we can't afford to
be exclusive. Of course, with Emma Carr and yourself it is different.
You may exclude half society if you please, and, in fact, you do; but
Dudley and I really don't mind. He wants something, and I, you know, was
born without the instinct of class."

So she sat in Mrs. Rann's drawing-room and received her confidences,
while Juliet and Emma Carr were gossiping across the street.

"The greatest trouble I have with Mr. Rann when he comes to town," said
Mrs. Rann, "is that he refuses to wear woollen socks. I don't know
whether Mr. Webb wears woollen socks or not."

Eugenia shook her head.

"I've no doubt he would be a better and a wiser man if he did," she
responded.

"Then he doesn't catch cold when he puts on thin ones with his dress
suit. Now Mr. Rann says woollen socks don't look well in the
evening--and he takes cold every time he goes out at night. He won't
even let me put red flannel in the soles of his shoes."

"Then he's not the man I thought him," said Eugenia as she rose. "Do you
know, the baby is so pretty I stopped her carriage. If she were mine I
shouldn't let her grow up."

Mrs. Rann glowed with pride, and in the depths of her shallow eyes
Eugenia read a triumphant compassion. This little vulgar countrywoman,
upon whom she looked so grandly down, was pitying her in her narrow
heart.

She flushed and turned away.

"You have never had a child?" asked the little common voice.

Eugenia faced her coldly. "I lost one--a week old," she replied, and she
hated herself that she was proud of her seven days' motherhood. She had
mourned the loss, but she had never vaunted the possession until now.

As she left the house her name was called by Juliet Galt from her window
across the way. "Come over, Eugie," she cried. "We've been watching
you," and as Eugenia ascended the steps the door was opened and she was
clasped in Emma Carr's arms. "We've shut our eyes and ground our teeth
and put ourselves in your place," she said. "Oh, Eugie, she's worse than
the dentist!"

"I went to the dentist's first," was Eugenia's reply.

She followed Miss Carr into the drawing-room and sank into the
window-seat beside Juliet, who was bending over her embroidery frame.
Then she laughed--a full, frank laugh.

"You dear women," she said, "if you knew the lot of a politician's wife,
you'd--marry a footman."

"Provided he were Dudley Webb," returned Emma Carr. She seized Eugenia's
hand and they smiled at each other in demonstrative intimacy. "You
know, of course, that we are all in love with your husband--desperately,
darkly in love--and you ought to be gray with jealousy. If I were
married to the handsomest man in Virginia I'd get me to a nunnery."

"That's not Eugie's way," said Juliet, snapping off her silk. "If she
went, she'd drag him after."

"Oh, he's just Dudley," protested Eugenia. "I'd as soon be jealous of
Aunt Chris--and he's waiting at home this instant with his senators come
to judgment on my dinner. If I were free, I'd spend the day with you.
Juliet, but I've married into servitude."




IX


When Eugenia went upstairs that night she softly opened Lottie's door
and glanced into the room. By the sinking firelight she saw Lottie lying
asleep, her hand upon the pillow of her younger child, who slept beside
her. The pretty, nerveless hand, even in sleep, tremored like a caress,
for whatever Lottie's wifely failings, as a mother she was without
reproach. Lottie--vain, hysterical, bewailing her wrongs--was the same
Lottie now resting with a protecting arm thrown out--this Eugenia
admitted thoughtfully as she looked into the darkened room where the
thin blue flame cast a spectral light upon the sleepers. From this
shallow rooted nature had bloomed the maternal ardour of the Southern
woman, in whom motherhood is the abiding grace.

Eugenia closed the door and crossed the hall to Miss Chris, who was
reading her Bible as she seeded raisins into a small yellow bowl. The
leaves of the Bible were held open by her spectacle case which she had
placed between them; for while her hands were busy with material matters
her placid eyes followed the text.

"I thought I'd get these done to-night," she remarked as Eugenia
entered. "I'm going to make a plum pudding for Dudley to-morrow. Where
is he now?"

"A political barbecue, I believe," responded Eugenia indifferently as
she knotted the cord of her flannel dressing-gown. She yawned and threw
herself into a chair. "I wonder why everybody spoils Dudley so," she
added. "Even I do it. I am sitting up for him to-night simply because I
know he'll want to tell me about it all when he comes in."

"It's a good habit for a wife to cultivate," returned Miss Chris,
shaking the raisins together. "If my poor father stayed out until four
o'clock in the morning he found my mother up and dressed when he came
in."

"I should say it was 'poor' grandmamma," commented Eugenia drily. "But
Dudley won't find me after midnight." Then she regarded Miss Chris
affectionately. "What a blessing that you didn't marry, Aunt Chris," she
said. "You'd have prepared some man to merit damnation."

"My dear Eugie," protested Miss Chris, half shocked, half flattered at
the picture. "But you're a good wife, all the same, like your mother
before you. The only fault I ever saw in poor Meely was that she
wouldn't put currants in her fruit cake. Tom was always fond of
currants--" in a moment she abruptly recalled herself. "My dear, I don't
say you haven't had your trials," she went on. "Dudley isn't a saint,
but I don't believe even the Lord expects a man to be that. It doesn't
seem to set well on them."

"Oh, I am not blaming Dudley," returned Eugenia as leniently as Miss
Chris. "We live and let live--only our tastes are different. Why, the
chief proof of his affection for me is that he always describes to me
the object of his admiration--which means that his eyes stray, but his
heart does not, and the heart's the chief thing, after all."

"I'm glad you aren't jealous," said Miss Chris. "I used to think you
were--as a child."

"Oh, I was--as a child," replied Eugenia. Her kindly face clouded. It
was borne in upon her with a twinge of conscience that the absence of
jealousy which had become the safeguard of Dudley's peace proved her own
lack of passion. What a hell some women--good women--might have made of
Dudley's life--that genial life that flowed as smoothly as a song. In
the flights and pauses of his temperament what discord might have
shocked the decent measure of their marriage? Persistent passion would
have bored him; exacting love would have soured the charm of his radiant
egotism. It was because she was not in love with him, that her love had
wisely meted out to him only so much or so little of herself as he
desired--and with a sudden arraignment of Fate she admitted that because
she had failed in the first requirement of the marriage sacrament, she
had made that sacrament other than a mockery. Out of her own
unfulfilment Dudley's happiness was fulfilled.

"Yes, Dudley suits me," she said absently, "and, what's the main thing,
I suit Dudley."

"Well, well, I'm glad of it," returned Miss Chris, but in a moment
Eugenia was kneeling beside her, her hand upon the open Bible.

"Dear Aunt Chris, you haven't told me all," she said.

"All?" Miss Chris wavered. "You mean about Bernard?"

"I mean about the governor." She closed the. Bible and pushed it from
her. "Do you think he is quite, quite happy?"

Miss Chris laughed in protest.

"Do I believe him to be pining of hopeless love? No, I don't," she
retorted.

"Oh, not that!" exclaimed Eugenia impatiently. She appeared vaguely to
resent Miss Chris's assurance. She was feminine enough to experience an
irrational jealousy at the idea of a vacancy which she had done her best
to create. It destroyed an example of the permanence of love.

"I don't suppose anybody could be happy on politics," observed Miss
Chris. "It doesn't seem natural." And she slowly added: "I wish some
good woman would marry him."

"I don't!" said Eugenia sharply. She rose with a spring from the rug,
and left Miss Chris to her reflections and her raisins. In her own room
she sat down before the fire and loosened her hair from the low coil on
her neck. She drew out the hairpins one by one, until her hands were
full, and the thick black rope fell across her bosom. Then she tossed
the pins upon her bureau and shook a veil over her face and shoulders.
As she settled herself into her chair she glanced impatiently at the
clock. Dudley was late, and she listened for his footsteps with the
composure of a woman from whom the flush of marriage has passed away.
His footsteps were as much a part of her days as the ticking of the
clock upon the mantel. If the clock were to stop, she would miss the
accustomed sound, but so long as it went on she was almost unconscious
of its presence. Her affection for Dudley had grown so into her nature
that it was like the claim of kinship--quiet, unimpassioned, full of
service--the love that is the end of many happy marriages, the beginning
of few.

As she sat there she fell vaguely to wondering what her lot would have
been had her pulses fluttered to his footsteps as they came and went.
She would have known remorseless waitings and the long agony of jealous
nights--all the passionate self-torture that she had missed--that she
had missed, thank God! She made the best of her life to-day, as she
would have made the best of blows and bruises. It was the old buoyant
instinct of the Battle blood--the fighting of Fate on its ground with
its own weapons. She had insisted strenuously upon her own
happiness--and she had found it not in the great things of life, but in
the little ones. She was happy because happiness is ours in the cradle
or not at all--because it is of the blood and not of the environment.

During the first years of her marriage she had intensely sought the
relief of outside interests. She had worked zealously on hospital boards
and had exhausted herself in the service of the city mission. Then a new
call had quivered in her life, and she had let these things go. With the
passion of her nature she had pledged herself to motherhood, and that,
too, had foiled her--for the child had died. Looking back upon the years
she saw that those months of tranquil waiting were the happiest of her
life--those monotonous months when each day was as the day before it,
when her hands were busy for the love that would come to her, and her
heart warmed itself before the future. The child was hers for a single
week, and afterwards she had put her grief away and gone back to the old
beginning. She had given herself to little kindnesses and trivial
interests, for the fulfilment of her nature had withered in the bud.

The key turned in the door downstairs and in a moment she heard Dudley
in the hall. As her door opened she looked up brightly. "Up, old girl?"
he asked cheerfully, and as he came to the fire he bent to kiss her.

"Did you make a speech? and what did you say?" she inquired.

"Oh, they got a good deal out of me," he responded with a genial
recollection which he proceeded to unfold. His eyes shone and his face
was flushed. As he stood on the hearth rug before her she admitted with
a sigh of satisfaction his physical splendour. The glow of his
personality warmed her into an emotion half maternal. She regarded him
with the eyes of tolerant affection.

"Oh, yes, I think I made a friend of Diggs," he was adding complacently
as he flecked a particle of cigar ash from his coat. "He got off a
capital story, by the way. I'd give it to you, but I'm half
afraid--you're so squeamish."

"His jokes don't amuse me," returned Eugenia indifferently. "Who else
was there?"

"Well, the governor was very much there. He did some stiff talking. I
say, Eugie, do you know, I believe he used to have a pretty strong fancy
for you--didn't he?"

Eugenia looked at him with a laugh. "Oh, a fancy?" she repeated.

She moved away, gathering her hair from her shoulders; but in a moment
she came back again and rubbed her cheek against Dudley's arm as she
used to rub it against General Battle's old linen sleeve. "Dudley," she
said with a sudden break, "the baby would have been ten years old
to-night--do you remember?"

Dudley was looking into the fire; his face grew grave, and he patted
Eugenia's head. "You don't say so! Poor little chap!" he exclaimed.

They were both silent. Dudley's eyes were still on the flame, but the
shadow lifted from his brow. Eugenia's lips quivered and grew firm. She
gently drew herself away and began braiding her hair, but her hands were
unsteady.

In a moment Dudley spoke again. "It was a great pity I lost that
governorship," he said abstractedly.

A week after this Eugenia went with Juliet Galt to the Capitol to hear a
speech in which Dudley was interested. The Senate Chamber was crowded,
and as the atmosphere grew oppressive while Dudley's gentleman held the
floor, she rose and went out into the lobby where a noisy circle pulsed
round Houdon's Washington. She had spoken to several acquaintances, and
her hand was in the clasp of a house member from her old county, when
she started at the sound of a shrill voice rising above the persistent
hum of the legislators and the lobbyists.

"I'm a-lookin' for the governor, Nick Burr," it said.

"I didn't know the governor posed as a cavalier," laughed the house
member, and as a wave of humour lighted the faces around her, Eugenia
turned to find Marthy Burr standing in the doorway. She wore a stiff
alpaca dress, and beneath the green veil above her bonnet she cast
alert, nervous glances from side to side. Her hands clutched, in a
deathlike grip, a cotton umbrella and a small, covered basket.

Eugenia hesitated for a single instant, and then took a step forward
with outstretched hand, a kindly glow in her face; but as she did so the
crowd parted and Nicholas Burr reached his stepmother's side.

"Why, this is a treat, ma!" he said heartily, and he took the umbrella
and the basket from her reluctant hands, despite her warning whisper,
"thar's new-laid eggs in thar!"

"My dear Mrs. Burr!" exclaimed Eugenia. She lifted her gaze from the
homely figure in its awkward finery, to the man who stood beside her.
Then she stooped and kissed Marthy Burr on the cheek.

"Do let her come home with me," she said.

Her eyes fell and a wave of colour beat into her face. An instant before
she had felt her act to be entirely admirable; now it flamed before her
in a mental revelation that she was a sycophant who sought the reward of
an assumed virtue. With the reward had come the knowledge--she had found
both in Nicholas's eyes; and as she felt the thrust of self-abasement,
she felt also that for the sake of that look she would have kissed a
dozen Burrs a dozen times.

"You are very kind," said the governor. "But you know I have an empty
house."

Then he put his arm about Marthy Burr and assisted her down the steps to
the walk below. She looked about her with half-frightened, half-defiant
eyes, and clung grimly to his powerful figure.

As Eugenia watched them, a quick remembrance shot before her. She saw
Nicholas Burr as she had seen him in his youth--ardent, assured, holding
out his arms to the future, which was to be love, love, love. Now the
future had become the present, and the one affection that remained to
him was that of the old, illiterate woman, with the rasping voice. He
had lost the thing he had lived for--and he was happy.




BOOK V

THE HOUR AND THE MAN




I


On one of the closing days of the legislative session, Ben Galt lounged
into the anteroom of the governor's office and cornered the private
secretary. "Look here, Dickson, what's the latest demonstration of Old
Nickism? I hear he's giving Rann trouble about that bill of his."

Dickson nodded significantly towards the closed door. "Rann's with him
now," he replied; "they're having it hot in there. Rann may bluster till
he's blue, but he won't make the governor give an inch. That bill's as
dead as a door nail. The governor's got a fit of duty on."

"Or his everlasting obstinacy," returned Galt irritably. "His duty does
more harm than most men's devilment--it stands like a stone wall between
him and his ambition. Of course, that bill is a political swindle, but
there isn't another politician in the State who would interfere in
Rann's little game."

"Oh, between us, I think Rann's honest enough. He believes he's up to a
good thing, but the governor disagrees with him--there's where the row
begins."

"What does the governor say about it?"

"Say?" laughed Dickson. "Why, I asked him if he would approve the
measure and he said 'No!' That's the beginning and the end of his
discourse--a 'No' long drawn out."

The door opened abruptly, and Rann put out his head. "Will you step in
here, Mr. Galt?" he asked, and his voice was husky with anger. "With
pleasure, my dear Major," responded Galt easily, as he crossed the
threshold and closed the door after him. "I am always at your service as
a peacemaker."

The governor was standing before his desk, his eyes upon Rann, who faced
him, red and trembling. Galt had seen Burr wear this impassive front
before, and it had always meant trouble. His eyes were opaque and
leaden, his face as expressionless as a mask. He was motionless save for
the movement of one hand that drummed upon the desk. "If you possess any
influence with the governor," said Rann to Galt, "will you tell him that
his course is ruinous--ruinous to imbecility? If he thinks I am going to
throw away a winter's work on that bill he's mistaken his man. It's
taken me the whole session to get that measure through the legislature,
and I'm not going to have it defeated now by any crack-brained moralist.
He'll sign that bill or--"

Burr spoke at last. "Am I the governor of this State or are you?" he
thundered. His face did not change, but his powerful voice rang to the
full.

Rann gave an ugly little sneer, his cheek purpling. "I may not be
governor, but I made you so," he retorted.

"Your mistake, my dear Major, was that you neglected to create him in
your own likeness," put in Galt coolly.

"By the people's will I am governor, and governor I'll be," said
Nicholas grimly; "as for this bill you speak of, I might have saved you
the trouble of working for your pitiable majority. Since you have seen
fit to deride my motive, it is sufficient for me to say that the measure
will not become a law over my opposition, and I shall oppose it to the
death."

Rann was shaking on his short legs and his hands were trembling. "So you
defy me, do you, Governor?" he demanded.

"Defy you?" the governor laughed shortly, "I don't trouble to defy you.
I laugh at you--the whole lot of you who come to cozen me with party
promises. So long as I spoke your speech and did your bidding I might
have the senatorship for the asking. I was honest Nick Burr, though I
might belie my convictions at every step. So long as I wore the collar
of your machine upon my neck my honesty was the hall-mark of the party.
Where is my honesty, the first instant that I dare to stand against you?
Defy you? Pshaw! You aren't worth defying!"

"Hold on!" said Galt hastily. "Nick, for God's sake, leave our friend
alone. You're both good fellows--too good to quarrel--"

"Oh, there's no use," protested Rann, wiping his flaming brow. "I've
offered a dozen compromises--but compromise I won't without that bill.
Bear witness that I've upheld him from the start. I'd have run him for
the presidency itself if I'd had the power, and when I ask a little
friendly return he talks about his damned duty. But I tell you, he's
signed his own warrant. He's as dead in this State as if his grave was
dug. He's held his last office in the Democratic Party."

"I shall certainly not owe my second to you," responded the governor;
then he looked vacantly before him. "I have the pleasure to wish you
good morning," he said.

When Rann had gone, and the door had slammed after him, Galt turned,
with a laugh.

"Shake!" he exclaimed, and as Nicholas grasped his hand, added lightly,
"My dear friend, you may as well have a quiet conscience, since you'll
never have the senatorship."

Nicholas drew his hand away impatiently. "I'm not beaten yet," he said.
"I'll fight and I'll win, or my name's not Burr! Do you think I'm afraid
of a sneak like that? Why, he offered me the senatorship as coolly as if
he had it in his pocket!"

Galt laughed. "I'm not sure he hasn't; at any rate he's the power of the
ring, and the ring's the power of the party."

"Then I'll fight the ring," said Nicholas, "and, if need be, I'll fight
the party. So long as right and the people are with me the party may go
hang."

"My dear old Nick, history teaches us that the party hangs the people.
By the way, you've done Webb a good turn; Rann is going to fight you
fair and foul--mostly foul."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Rann, or of Webb."

"Or yet of the devil!" added Galt. "When I come to think of it, I never
called you timid. But wait a few days and Rann will have this little
passage reported to his credit. I'll get ahead of him with the story, or
I'll find some cocked-up account of it circulating in the lobby. It's
easier to blacken the best man than to whiten the worst. Well, I'm
going. Good day!"

When the door closed, the governor crossed to the window and stood
looking down upon the gray drive beneath the leafless trees. The sun was
obscured by a sinister cloud that had blotted out all the fugitive
brightness of the morning. A fine moisture was in the air, and the
atmosphere hung heavily down the naked slopes, where the grass was
colourless and dead. Beyond the gates, the city was lost in a blurred
and melancholy distance, from which several indistinct church spires
rose and sank in a sea of fog.

But blue and gray were as one to Nicholas. He was not exhilarated by
sunshine nor was he depressed by gloom; only the inner forces of his
nature had power to quicken or control his moods. His inspiration, like
his destiny, lay within, and so long as he maintained his wonted
equilibrium of judgment and desire it was, perhaps, impossible that an
outside assault should severely shake the foundations of his life.

Now, while the glow of his anger still lingered in his brain, it was
characteristic of the man that he was feeling a pity for Rann's
disappointment--for the discomfiture of one whose methods he despised.
In Rann's place, he felt that he should probably have risen to the
charge as Rann rose--implacable, unswerving; but he was not in Rann's
place, nor could he be so long as personal reward was less to him than
personal honour. Yes, he could pity Rann even while he condemned him.
For an instant--a single instant--he had found himself shrinking from
the combat, and in the shock of self-contempt which followed he had
hurled the shock of his resentment upon the tempter. In that moment of
weakness it had seemed to him an easy thing to let one's self go; to
yield to a friendly, if distrusted force; to place gratified ambition
above the sting of wounded scruples. Was he infallible that he should
make his judgment a law, or without reproach that he should set his
conscience as an arbiter?

Then in a sudden illumination he had seen the betrayal of his sophistry,
and he had stood his ground--for the strong man is not he who is
impervious to weaknesses, but he who, scorning his failures, towers over
them. He had felt the temptation and he had wavered, but not for long.
In all his periods of storm and stress he had found that his nature
rebounded in the end. Disquietude might waste his ardour; but give him
time to reorganise his forces, and his moral energy would triumph at the
last.

As he looked out upon the great bronze Washington against the
sad-coloured sky, he realised, with a pang like the thrust of
homesickness, the isolation in which he stood. An instinctive need to
justify himself had risen within him, and with it awoke the knowledge
that beyond that uncertain abstraction which he called "the People," he
was an alien among his kind. Galt was his friend, Tom Bassett he could
count on, a score of others would stand or fall in his service, but
where was the single emotion which bound him to humanity? Where the
common claim of kinship which belonged to Galt, to Bassett, and to all
mankind? He had known many men, but he knew not one who was not drawn by
some connecting link that was apart from patriotism, or ambition, or
desire. Then quickly there came to him, not the judge, who was the
parent of his intellect, but the withered little woman, who was not even
the mother of his body. The only happiness that rose and set in him was
that pitiable happiness that could not think his thoughts or speak his
speech. It had never occurred to him that he loved Marthy Burr--his
kindness had been wholly compassionate--it was the knowledge that she
loved him that now illuminated her image. It was the old blind craving
born again, to be first with somebody--for there are moods in which it
is better to be adored by a dog than to adore a divinity. He beheld
Eugenia's womanhood as "A sword afar off"; but with him was the eternal
commonplace--his stepmother's sharp, pained eyes and shrivelled hands.
He had loved Eugenia until there was nothing left; now he wanted to be
loved, if by a dog.

He raised his head and smiled upon the bronze Washington and the
sad-coloured sky. In the drive below men were passing, and from time to
time he recognised a figure. He saw only men down there, and the thought
came to him that his was a man's world--only in the outside circle might
he catch the flutter of a woman's dress. He turned and went back to his
desk and his work.

Two days later the papers chronicled without comment his opposition to
Rann's bill. He was aware that Rann possessed no uncertain influence
with the editors of the "Morning Standard," and he was surprised at the
apparent indifference displayed by the curt announcement. Did Rann's
resentment hang fire? Or was the press prepared to uphold the governor?

On the morning of the same day a member of the legislature with whom he
was slightly acquainted came in to congratulate him upon his stand. His
name was Saunders, and he was a man of some ability, whom Nicholas had
always regarded as a partisan of Webb.

"I've been fighting that bill this whole session," he said emphatically,
"and I'd given up all hope of defeating it when you had the pluck to
knock it over. You've made enemies, Governor, but you've made friends,
and I'm one of them. Give me the man who dares!" He held out his hand as
he rose, and Nicholas responded with a hearty grip. Before the
legislature closed he found that Saunders spoke the truth--he had made
friends as well as enemies. The inborn Anglo-Saxon love of "the man who
dares" was with him--a regard for daring for its own heroic sake. The
hour was his, and he braved his shifting popularity as he would brave
its final outcome.




II


One afternoon in early May, Dudley Webb came out upon his front steps
and paused to light a cigar before descending to the street. A spring of
happy promise was unfolding, for overhead the poplars bloomed against an
enchanted sky. In the shadow of the church across the way, children were
romping, their ecstatic trebles floating like bird-song on the air.

With the cigar between his teeth, Dudley heaved a sudden reminiscent
sigh--the sigh of a man who possesses an excellent digestion and a
complacent conscience. Things had gone well with him of late--the fact
that a trivial domestic interest darkened for the moment his serene
horizon proved it to be the solitary cloud of a clear day. The cloud in
question had gathered in the shape of no less a person than Mrs. Jane
Dudley Webb. She had been on a visit to Richmond, and he had seen her
only two hours before safely started on her homeward journey. The truth
was that Mrs. Webb and Eugenia had asserted for the past two days an
implacable hostility, and Dudley's genial efforts at pacification had
resulted merely in diverting a share of the unpleasantness upon his own
head. It was a lamentable fact that Eugenia, who was amiable to the
point of weakness where members of the Battle family were concerned,
found it impossible to harmonise with the elder Mrs. Webb. They had
disagreed upon such important subjects as Miss Chris's housekeeping and
Dudley's moral welfare, until Eugenia, after an inglorious defeat, had
relapsed into silence--a silence broken only upon Dudley's return from
the station, when she had unbosomed herself of the declaration that she
"couldn't stand his mother, and it was as much as she could do to stand
him." Dudley had met this alarming outburst with its logical retort,
"Hadn't you better see a doctor, Eugie?" whereupon Eugenia had protested
that "if she wasn't fit for an asylum, he needn't thank Mrs. Webb," and
had dissolved in tears.

At the moment Dudley had experienced a warm recognition of his
generosity in refraining from the use of his own endurance of many
Battles, as an illustration of the opposite and virtuous course; but
upon later reflection he frankly admitted that the cases were by no
means similar. It had not occurred to him, he recalled, to deny that
Mrs. Webb was singularly trying, though he wondered, half resentfully,
why Eugenia could not be brought to regard that lady's foibles from his
own gently humorous point of view. He was not in the least disconcerted
by his mother's solicitude as to the condition of his soul, or by the
fact that she still felt constrained to allude to the governor of the
State as "a person of low antecedents." Personally, he was inclined to
admire--and frankly to admit it--the ability which had brought Burr into
prominence from a position of evident obscurity, while he regarded Mrs.
Webb's eccentric attitude as a kind of antedated comedy. What he
objected to was his wife's inability to grasp the keynote of the
situation.

It was pleasant to reflect, however, as he leisurely descended the
steps, that he had brought Eugenia round by less heroic measures than an
assault upon her family altars. He was glad to think that he had given
her a cup of tea instead.

Crossing slowly to Franklin Street, he hesitated an instant on the
corner, and turned finally in the direction of his office. There was a
nearer way down town, but he always chose this one because experience
had taught him that if pretty women were abroad here they would be
found. With the same instinct of enjoyment he might have gone out of his
way daily to pass the window of a florist.

As he walked on in the spring sunshine he held his handsome head erect,
blowing the smoke of his cigar in the scented air. He moved leisurely,
finding life too good to be wasted in rushing. The soft atmosphere; the
fragrance of his fine cigar; the beauty of the women he passed--these
sufficed to bring the glow of animation to his smooth, full face.

Once he stopped to shake hands with pretty Emma Carr, detaining her by a
jest and a laugh--and again he paused to exchange a word with Juliet
Galt, who was at her window. It was only when he turned into the
business street again that he brought his mind to bear upon less
engaging subjects.

Then it was that he remembered he had delivered the evening before his
most successful oration. He had spoken to a large audience upon
"Personal Morality in Politics," and he had received an appreciation
that was prolonged and thundering. When it was over some one had called
him a "greater orator than Withers," to add quickly, "and a better
Democrat than Burr." He could still see the whimsical smile Burr had
turned upon the speaker, and he could still feel his own sense of
elation.

Well, as for that matter, he was a better Democrat than Burr--if to be a
better Democrat meant to place the party will above his personal
opinion. After all, what was a party for if not to unite individual
effort and to combine individual differences? If organisation was not
worth the sacrifice of personal prejudices it might as well dissolve
before the next election day. It was, of course, a pity that a man like
Burr should dissent from the views of important politicians, but one
might as well talk of a ship without officers as of a party without
organised leaders. It was a pity from Burr's point of view, he was
willing to admit, but so long as Burr would make trouble it was just as
well that the ill wind should blow his own side good--he was honestly
glad that it had blown Rann's influence in his direction. He had never
felt more hopeful of anything in his life than he now felt of the
senatorship. Indeed, he was inclined to think that he might have
something very like a "walk over."

"Hold on, Webb," a voice called behind him, and a moment later he was
joined by Diggs, who congratulated him upon his speech of the evening
before. Webb tossed back the congratulations with a laugh. "Yes, it's a
popular subject just now," he said. "Since the negroes have stopped
voting in large numbers we're even going in for honest elections."

"Well, I reckon it's as well," admitted Diggs. "We used to have some
rampant rascality under the old system, I dare say; it took clever
trickery to bring in the white rule sometimes. We have a large negro
majority down my way, that obliged us to devise original methods of
disposing of it. It was fighting the devil with fire, I suppose; but
self-preservation was a law long before Universal Suffrage was heard of.
At any rate, I had my hand in it now and then. Once, I remember, on an
election day when every darkey in the neighbourhood had turned out to
vote, I hit on the idea that the man who was to carry the returns across
the river should pretend to get drunk and upset the boat. It was a
pretty scheme and would have worked all right, but, will you believe it,
the blamed fool got drunk in earnest, and when the boat upset he was
caught under it and drowned." He paused an instant and complacently
added: "But we lost those returns, all the same."

Webb threw his cigar stump in the gutter and turned to Diggs with a
laugh. "That reminds me," he began, and started a story which he
finished on his office steps.

When he went home some hours later he found that Eugenia had regained
her high good-humour. She was sitting before the fire in her bedroom,
her hair flowing in the hands of Delphy, who had moved up from
Kingsborough, and was doing a thriving trade as a shampooer. It was her
fortnightly custom to pass from head to head in a round of the
Kingsborough colony, promoting an intimate trend of gossip among her
patrons.

As Dudley entered, she was seeking to induce Eugenia to consent to an
application from one of the many bottles she carried in an ancient
travelling bag, which had long since descended to her from General
Battle.

"Lawd, Miss Euginny, dis yer ain' gwineter hu't you. Hit ain' nuttin but
ker'sene oil nohow. Miss Sally Burwell des let me souse her haid in it
de udder day. Hit'll keep you f'om gittin' gray, sho's I live."

"You shan't touch me with it, Delphy. And you ought to be ashamed--I
haven't a gray hair. Have I, Dudley?"

Delphy returned the bottle with a sigh, and applied herself to a
vigorous brushing of Eugenia's hair.

"You sho is filled out sence I see you, Marse Dudley," she observed at
last.

"Yes, I'm getting fat, Delphy," returned Dudley with a laugh. "It's old
age, you know. It's a long time since the days when you spanked me with
a heavy hand."

"Go 'way f'om yer, Marse Dudley; you know I ain' never spank you none
ter hu't. En you ain' er bit too fat ter fit yo' skin, nohow."

Dudley regarded her with a kindly, patriarchal eye as he straightened
himself against the mantel. "Any news from down your way, Delphy?" he
inquired with interest. "What's become of Moses? Moses was always a
friend of mine. He used to bring me a pocketful of peanuts from every
picking he went to."

Delphy shook her head, her huge lips tightening. "He's down wid de
purple headache," she replied gloomily, "twel he can't smell de
diff'ence between er 'possum en er polecat. Yes, suh, Mose he's moughty
low down, en' ter dis yer day he ain' never got over Marse Nick Burr's
ous'in' you en Miss Euginny outer de cheer you all oughter had down
yonder at de cap'tol. I ain' got much use fer Marse Nick myse'f. He's
monst'ous hard on po' folks. I ain' been able to rent out mo'n oner my
rooms sence he's been down dar. Dat's right, Miss Euginny, yo' hyar's
des es dry es I kin git it."

When Delphy had gone, Dudley leaned down and put his arm about Eugenia
as he kissed her. "All right, Eugie?" he asked cheerfully. Eugenia
returned his caress with a startled pleasure, looking up at him
affectionately, fascinated by the glow which hung about him.

"Oh, I really don't think I could do without you, Dudley," she said
quickly.

"Well, it's a good thing you don't have to," responded Dudley as he
kissed her again.

It was several days after this that Eugenia came to him one evening as
he stood before the fire and laid her cool cheek against his arm.

"Oh, Dudley," she said breathlessly, "I am so happy--so absurdly happy."

She raised her head and Dudley, looking at her in the firelight, found
her more beautiful than she had been even in the radiant days of her
girlhood. He had seen that high resolve in her face but once before, and
he grasped the meaning now as then--it was the dawn of motherhood that
enveloped her. She had heard the call of the generations in the end--the
appeal of the race that moved her nature more profoundly than did the
erratic ardours of the individual. There was a clear light in her eyes,
and her features had taken an almost marble-like nobility. The look in
her face reminded him of moments in the old days at Battle Hall, when
she had wrapped the wandering general in a tenderness that was maternal.
With a sudden penetrant insight into her heart, he realised that her
natural emotions were her nobler ones--that as child and mother the
greatness of her nature assumed its visible form. He drew her closer,
the best in him responding to the mystery he beheld dimly in her eyes.
For ten years they had not touched natures so nearly; it was the vital
breath needed to vivify a union which was not rooted in the permanence
of an enduring passion.

And as the months went on the wonder deepened in Eugenia's eyes. The old
restlessness was gone; she was like one who, having looked into the holy
of holies, keeps the inward memory clear. She was in the supreme mental
state--attained only by religious martyrs or maternal, yet childless,
women long married--when physical pain loses its relative values before
the exaltation of an abiding vision. And, above all, she was what each
woman of her race had been before her--a mother from her birth?




III


From the day of the child's birth it did not leave Eugenia's sight. Her
eyes followed it when it was carried about the room, and she watched
wistfully the dressing and undressing of the round little body. She knew
each separate frock that she had made before its coming, and each day
she called for a different and a daintier one. "I must make new ones,"
she said at last, "he is such a beauty!" And she would hold out her arms
for him, half dressed as he was, and, as he lay beside her, fresh and
cool and fragrant as a cowslip ball, she would cover the soft pink flesh
with passionate kisses. Her motherhood was an obsession, jealous,
intense, unreasoning.

They had named him after the general--Thomas Battle Webb, but to Eugenia
he was "the baby," the solitary baby in a universe where birth is as
common as death. And, indeed, he was a thing of joy--the nurse, Dudley,
Miss Chris, all admitted it. There was never so round, so rosy, so
altogether marvellous a baby, and never one that laughed so much or
cried so little. "He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,"
declared Miss Chris. "I can see his luck already in his eyes."

At first Eugenia had been tortured by a fear that the little life would
go out as the other had done; but, as the weeks went on and he lived and
fed and fattened, her fear was lost in the wondering rapture of
possession. Nothing so perfectly alive could cease to be.

When she was well again she dismissed the nurse and took, herself,
entire charge of the child. "There are no mammies these days," she had
said in reply to Dudley's remonstrances, "and I can't trust him with one
of the new negroes--I really can't. Why, I saw one slap a baby once." So
she bathed and dressed him in the mornings and rocked him to sleep at
midday and at dark, and in the brightness of the forenoon gave him an
airing on the piazza that overlooked the back garden. From the time of
her getting up to her lying down he left her arms only when he was laid
asleep in the little crib beside her bed.

But, for all this, he was a healthy, hearty baby, with a round bald
head, great blue eyes like china marbles, and a ridiculous mouth that
would not shut over the pink gums and hide the dimples at the corners.
He did not cry because, as yet, he hadn't seen the moon, and the lamp
had been carefully emptied and given to him as soon as he was big enough
to hold out his hands. Pins had not stuck him, because Eugenia had
guarded against the danger by sewing ribbons on his tiny innumerable
slips. And he was as amiable as his elders are apt to be so long as they
are permitted to regard the visible universe as a possible plaything.

At this time it was Eugenia's custom to hold him on her lap while she
ate her meals, or to leave Miss Chris in charge if the small tyrant
chanced to be asleep. Miss Chris had become a willing servitor; but she
occasionally felt it to be her duty to put a modest check upon Eugenia's
maternal frenzy.

"My dear, there were ten of us," she remarked one day, "and I am sure we
never required as much attention as this one."

"And nine of you died," Eugenia solemnly retorted.

Miss Chris was compelled to assent; but she immediately added: "Not
until we had reached middle age. Belinda died youngest, and it was of
pneumonia, at the age of forty-one. You don't think neglect during her
infancy had anything to do with it, do you? Nobody ever accused my poor
dear mother of not looking after her children."

But Eugenia stood her ground. "One can never tell," was all she said,
though a moment later she wiped her eyes and sobbed: "Oh, papa! If papa
could only see him! He would be so proud."

"Of course, darling," said Miss Chris. "He was always fond of children.
I remember distinctly the way he carried on when his first child was
born--but he lost him of croup before he was a month old."

She left the room to see after the housekeeping, and Eugenia hugged the
baby to her bosom, and cried over him and kissed him, and thought his
eyes were like her father's--though, for that matter, the general's were
gray and watery, with weak red lids that blinked. The baby gurgled and
showed his gums still more and clutched the lace upon his mother's
breast until it hung in shreds. It was a new gown, but neither Eugenia
nor the baby cared for that--if he had wanted to pull her hair out,
strand by strand, she would have submitted rather than have brought a
wrinkle to his cloudless brow.

A little later she took him out upon the sidewalk, after swathing him
from head to foot in a light-blue veil that floated about her like a
strip of sky. It was here that Juliet Galt found her, as she was
passing, and, throwing back her pretty head, she laughed until the tears
came.

"O Eugie, Eugie, if you had six!" she gasped.

Eugenia flinched slightly at her merriment. "But, Juliet, I can't trust
him with a nurse. Why, you told me only the other day that your faithful
old Fanny called Elizabeth an 'imp of Satan.'"

Juliet only wrung her hands and laughed the more. "It's too funny," she
panted at last; "but I'm sure if Fanny said it about Elizabeth it was
true--she never tells stories." Then she rippled off again. "Oh, my poor
Dudley! How does he endure it? Why, Ben would ship the babies off to
boarding school if I attempted this."

"Dudley tries to be good about it," replied Eugenia, "but he hates it
awfully."

Juliet went by, and Eugenia kept up her slow promenade until Dudley came
up to dinner. Then she followed him into the house and upstairs to her
room, where he turned upon her reproachfully:

"I say, Eugie, I wish you'd stop this sort of thing. It isn't fair to
me, you know."

"How absurd, Dudley!"

"But it isn't. People will begin to say that I'm bankrupt or a beast. If
you will go parading round like this, for heaven's sake hire a servant
or two to follow after; it'll look more decent."

Eugenia's response was far from satisfactory, and the next morning,
before going to his office, he drew Miss Chris aside and unburdened
himself into her sympathetic ear. "You don't think Eugie's a--a--exactly
crazy, do you, Aunt Chris?" he wound up with, for Miss Chris was on his
side, and he knew it.

"I don't wonder you ask, Dudley, I really don't," was her comforting
rejoinder. "Why, she actually had the face to tell me yesterday that I'd
never had any children, so I couldn't advise her. It is provoking. I
don't pretend to deny it."

Dudley took up his hat and carefully examined the inside lining. "Well,
I'll settle it," he said at last, and went out.

The next day, when Eugenia went upstairs from dinner, she found Delphy
in a nurse's cap and apron, installed in a low chair before the fire,
jolting the baby on her knees with a peculiar rhythmic motion.

Eugenia fell back, regarding her with blank amazement. "Why, Delphy,
where did you come from?" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you were in
service. Whom are you nursing for?"

Delphy responded with a passive nod. "I'se nussin' for Marse Dudley,"
she retorted.

"But I don't want a nurse, Delphy. I take care of the baby myself. I
like to do it."

Delphy kept up her drowsy jolting, shaking at the same time an
unrelenting head. "Go 'long wid you, honey," she returned. "I ain' oner
yo' new-come niggers. I'se done riz mo' chillun den you'se got teef in
yo' haid, en I ain' gwine ter have Marse Dudley's chile projecked wid
'fo' my eyes. You ain' no mo' fitten ter nuss dis chile den Marse
Dudley hisse'f is."

"O Delphy!" gasped Eugenia reproachfully. She made a dart at the baby,
but he raised a shrill protest, which caused her hopelessly to desist.
"O Delphy, you've come between us!" she cried.

"I 'low ef I hadn't you'd 'a' run plum crazy," was Delphy's
justification. "Dis yer chile's my bizness, en yourn it's down yonder in
de parlour wid Marse Dudley."

Eugenia wavered and stood irresolute. Delphy's authority, rooted in
superior knowledge, appeared to be unshakable, but she made a last
desperate effort. "Suppose he should get sick without me, Delphy?"

Delphy positively snorted. "Ef you wanter raise dis yer chile, Miss
Euginny," she replied, "you'd des better let me alont. Hit's a won'er
you ain' been de deaf er him 'fo' I got yer wid yo' sto' physicks en yo'
real doctahs es dunno one baby f'om anur when dey meet 'im in de street.
I reckon, ef he'd got de colic you'd have kilt 'im terreckly, you en yo'
sto' physicks en yo' real doctahs! Now, you'd des better dress yo'se'f
an' go down yonder ter de parlour."

But as she finished Dudley strolled in and stood beaming down upon his
offspring as it lay, round and pinkly impressive, in Delphy's lap. "Fine
boy, eh, Delphy?" he inquired proudly.

"Dat 'tis, suh," responded Delphy heartily, "an' he's des de spit er you
dis we'y minit."

The following morning Dudley went to Washington for several days, and
Eugenia was left with Miss Chris and the child. Lottie and the little
girls were with Bernard, who was dragging to a tedious end in Florida,
where he had been ordered as a last resource. Poor, pretty, ineffectual
Lottie had succumbed to the unrelenting pressure of her duty. She had
sacrificed herself from sheer lack of the force necessary to withstand
fate.

During Dudley's absence Eugenia gave herself up to as much of the baby
as Delphy grudgingly allowed her, sewing, in the long intervals, on tiny
slips as delicate as cobwebs. Even this occupation was not wholly a
peaceful one. "Des wait twel he begin ter crawl, en' den whar'l dose
spider webs be?" propounded Delphy in the afternoon of the third day.
"Dey'll be in de ash-ba'r'l er at de back er de fireplace, en dat's whar
dey b'long. Marse Dudley ain' never wo' no sech trash ner is you
yo'se'f."

Eugenia did not respond. She seated herself beside the window, and with
one eye on her child and one on her work sewed silently, her white hands
gleaming amid the laces in her lap. The training of her slave-holding
ancestors was strong upon her, and she regarded Delphy's liberty of
speech as an inherent right of her position. The Battle servants had
always spoken their minds to their mistresses in a manner which caused
them to become hopeless failures when they hired themselves into strange
families, where the devotion of their lives could not be offered in
extenuation of the freedom of their tongues.

So when Eugenia spoke, after a placid pause, it was merely to suggest
that the baby's head was hanging too far over Delphy's knee. "That can't
be healthful, Delphy," she said, half timidly. Delphy grunted and
adjusted matters with a protest. "Hit's de way yourn done hung en Miss
Meely's done hung befo' you," she muttered. Eugenia turned to the window
and looked out upon the back yard, where the horse-chestnut tree was a
mass of bloom, delicate as a cloud. In the beds below, roses were out in
red and white, and against the gray wall of the stable at the end of the
brick walk purple flags were flaunting in the shadow. Across the city,
beyond the tin roofs and the chimney-pots, the sun was going down in a
mist as sheer as gauze, and the surrounding atmosphere was charged with
opalescent lights.

Her eyes rested upon it with a quick sense of its beauty; then the
sunset lost itself in the round of her thoughts. She had missed Dudley,
and she was glad that he was coming home to-night. For the first time
during the fifteen years of her marriage she experienced a vague
uneasiness at his absence. A year ago she had not known a tremor of
loneliness when he was away--but then the child was unborn. Now, in some
subtle way, the child's existence was bound and rebound in Dudley's. The
two stood together in her thoughts; she could not separate them--the
child was but a smaller, a closer, a dearer Dudley--a Dudley of her
dreams and visions, the ideal ending to life's realities.

As she sat beside the window, her eyes wandering from the sunset to the
baby asleep in Delphy's lap, she wondered that she had never before
suffered this incipient thrill of nervous fear. Was it that her
affection for her child had revivified all lesser emotions? Or was it
that with supreme love came the vague, invincible perception of supreme
loss? Did great happiness bear within itself the visible reflection of
great sorrow? Her life before this had been more peaceful--it had been
also less complete. With the coming of her heart's desire had awakened
her heart's inquietude--both had dawned after years of restless waiting
and uncertain wandering. It was borne in upon her, with something like a
pang, that the fulness of life had blossomed for her only when her first
youth was withered, when she had long since relinquished high
expectations or keen desire. She had set her young mind and her quick
passion on a far-away good, she had shed vain tears over the lack of it;
yet, in the end, she found compensation where she would least have
sought it--in the things which made up her destiny. She had learned the
wisdom of acceptance, and Fate had rewarded her, not by yielding to her
what she had called her heart's necessity, but by fitting her heart to
the necessity that was already hers. She had not known the fulfilment of
her young ideals, but she was content at last with an existence which
was a personal surrender to older realities. For herself she asked now
only busy days of domestic interests and the unbroken serenity of middle
age--but, despite herself, another life was before her, for she lived
again in her child.

The twilight fell. She put her work aside, and, coming to the hearth
rug, took the baby from Delphy's arms. He was in his night-dress, and
his big blue eyes were drugged with sleep. As Eugenia took him he gave a
whimpering cry and clutched her with his little hands before he nestled
into the lace at her bosom.

Some hours later, while Eugenia awaited Dudley in the dining-room, Miss
Chris came in to see that his late supper was in preparation. "The train
is over-due," she said, with a glance at the clock. "He will be hungry
when he gets in. He always is."

Eugenia looked up anxiously. "I am beginning to feel alarmed," she
replied. "Can anything have happened, do you think? He is an hour late."

Miss Chris shook her head as she refilled the sugar-bowl. "Why, he's
often late," she rejoined. "I never knew you to be nervous before. What
is it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Eugenia. She rose and stood looking at the
clock, her brow wrinkling. "If he isn't here in five minutes I'm going
to the station," she added, and went upstairs for her wraps.

When she returned Miss Chris resorted to argument. "Don't be absurd,
Eugie," she urged. "You can't go alone. It's too late and too far."

"But I sent for a carriage," replied Eugenia decisively. "If anything
happens to the baby come after me," and a moment later she rolled away,
leaving Miss Chris transfixed upon the doorstep.

As the carriage passed along the lighted streets she smiled at the
recollection of the face Miss Chris had turned upon her. Well, she was
absurd, of course, but one couldn't go through life being reasonable.
And if anything were to happen to Dudley she would always remember that
she had refused to go to walk with him the afternoon before he went
away, because the baby was crying for the flames and couldn't be left
with Delphy. Dudley was provoked about it, but men never understood
these matters. He had even gone so far as to declare that his son would
get only his deserts if he were to cry himself hoarse; and she had felt
impelled to resent so hard-hearted an utterance. How could the baby know
that the fire was the only thing in the world he couldn't have for his
own?

When she drew up at the station the train was just coming in, and she
rushed through the waiting-room to the gate from which the passengers
were streaming. As she reached it Dudley came through, talking
animatedly to the man who walked beside him. "That was the very point,
my dear sir--" he was saying, when he caught sight of Eugenia, and
paused abruptly, domestic affairs asserting their supremacy in his mind.
"Why, Eugie!" he gasped. "What's happened?"

Eugenia seized his arm impatiently. "Oh, you were so late, Dudley," she
cried, half angrily. "You made me miserable--it wasn't right of you!"

She hesitated an instant and, looking up, found that his companion was
Nicholas Burr. His eyes were upon her, and he lifted his hat without
speaking, but Dudley at once turned to him.

"You are old friends with Mrs. Webb, Governor," he said lightly, "but
you don't know the ways of a woman who thinks her husband may lose
himself between Washington and Richmond."

Nicholas met the impatient flicker in Eugenia's eyes and laughed.

"Oh, she hardly fancied you had fallen overboard," he returned. "It's
too difficult in these days. I trust you have had no great anxiety,
Mrs. Webb."

And he passed on, his bag in his hand.

When Dudley and Eugenia were in the carriage she held herself erect and
attacked him with asperity. "You might at least not laugh at me," she
said.

For reply he smiled and flung his arm about her. "My darling girl, it's
one of the things that make life worth living," he retorted. "When I
cease to laugh at you I'll cease to love you--and that's a long way
off."




IV


The campaign which would decide the election of a United States Senator
was warming to white heat. On the last day of October Tom Bassett,
dropping into Galt's office, greeted him with the exclamation: "So
you've taken to the stump!"

Galt put aside his papers and rose with a laugh, holding out his hand.
"My dear fellow, may I ask where you have spent the last fortnight? Is
it possible that my oratorical fame has just penetrated to your
retreat?"

Tom sat down, and taking off his hat, ran his hand through his hair with
an exhausted gesture. "Oh, I've been West. I got back last night, and
I'm off to New York in an hour. So it's a fact that you've been on the
stump?"

"It is! I don't mean to allow the Webb men to do all the talking. You
heard about my joint debate with Diggs at Amelia Court-house, didn't
you? That, my dear Tom, was the culminating point of my glorious career.
I squared him off as nicely as you please, and with no rough edges
either."

But Tom refused to be impressed. "Oh, anybody could do up Diggs," he
said. "I hear, however, that you had some hot words between you."

Galt shook his head. "Ah, the words were as nothing to the drinks that
followed," he sighed. "Diggs mayn't be much on speeches, but he's great
on cocktails. It was a glorious day!" Then he grew serious. "When he
was fairly wound up I got a good deal out of him," he said. "We came
down on the train together, and I found out that he was against Burr
simply because the Webb men had told him that he pledged himself to them
when he allowed them to send him to the Legislature. It's all rot, of
course; his constituents are strong for Burr, but he's a good deal of a
fool, and Rann has put it into his head that he must do the 'honest
thing' by coming out for Webb. He has a great idea of party honour, so
out he's come."

"Rann's a born organiser," commented Tom.

"Ah, there's where we aren't even with him. He and his assistants have
been drilling their forces ever since he had that clash with Burr, and
the discipline's so good they are beginning to convince the people that
the opinions of a dozen men represent the principles of the party. What
Burr aims at, of course, is to organise the mass of Democratic voters as
effectively as Rann has organised the ring."

"That's a tough job," said Tom, "but if it's to be done, Burr's the man
to do it. As it is, I haven't a doubt that the majority is with us."

"Well, I live in hope," returned Galt easily. "It seems to me there's a
clear chance of our having a good deal over half the votes in the
caucus. Now, grant that there'll be a hundred and twenty regular
Democratic votes--"

"Of which Webb already claims sixty-five."

"Claims!" growled Galt. "He may claim the whole confounded lot if he
wants to. The question is--will he get them?"

"He will if Rann can manage it. It isn't mere party bitterness that
actuates that man--there's a good deal of personal spite mixed with it.
He hates Burr."

"Oh, I dare say. But he overreached himself when he tried to get
control of the committee. They decided in favour of Saunders in the last
Southside contest, and Saunders is pledged to Burr."

Tom drew out his watch and moved towards the door, but having reached
it, he swung round with a question: "Seen Webb since your debate?" he
inquired.

Galt nodded. "I had a chat with him in the lobby at the 'Royal' last
night, and I must admit that, so far as Webb's concerned, this campaign
is a particularly decent one. He can't help being a gentleman any more
than he can help being a demagogue. Both instincts are in the blood."

"Yes, I rather think you're right. Well, good-bye. I'll see you
Tuesday."

He ran downstairs, breaking into a whistle on the way, and Galt, after a
moment's hesitation, took up his hat and followed him. He had an
appointment with Burr's campaign manager, who had his headquarters at
the Royal Hotel.

It was there that Galt found him, holding a jubilant gathering in his
rooms. He was absolutely sanguine of success, and when Galt left an hour
later, he sought to impart to him his emphatic confidence. "My dear sir,
I can conclusively prove to you that we shall win," he said, one eye on
Galt and one on a reporter who had just entered. "I can prove it to you
in figures--and figures never lie. There is not the faintest doubt that
Burr will have seventy votes by the meeting of the caucus."

"Glad to hear it," was Galt's response; but in passing through the lobby
on his way out he encountered an equal assurance in the opposite camp.
Rann, who was the centre of a small group, broke away and came towards
him.

"I suppose the governor has reconciled himself to defeat, eh, Mr. Galt?"

Galt shook his head with a laugh. "Defeat! Why, Major, we're just
beginning to enjoy our triumph. Burr has his seventy votes in his hand
and he keeps it closed."

Rann flushed angrily, his mouth twitching. "If you will come this way,
sir, I can prove to you on paper--on paper, sir--that Webb has his
majority as plain as if the caucus was over. Seventy votes! Why, bless
my soul, he must have counted in every Republican and Independent that
will be sent up. Seventy votes! I tell you he won't have forty--not
forty, sir!"

"Ah, he laughs best that laughs last, my dear Major."

And he left the hotel, walking rapidly in the direction of the Capitol.
Once or twice he stopped to speak to an acquaintance who wanted his
opinion of Burr's chances, and to such inquiries his response was
invariably an expression of perfect conviction. But when alone his
uncertainty appeared--and he acknowledged to himself that he was afraid
of Rann's last card. What it was he did not know, but he knew that when
the time came it would be well played. Bassett was right--it was not
party bitterness that moved Rann, it was personal hatred.

The square was flooded with sunshine, and down the green slopes gray
squirrels were feeding from the hands of children. Overhead the elms
were russet from a sharp frost, and the golden leaves of the sycamores
shone against the leprous whiteness of the branches.

Near a fountain he came upon his own small daughter building huts of
pebbles. As she saw him she gave a shrill scream and caught his knees in
a tight embrace. He raised her in his arms for a kiss, and then spoke
cordially to the old negro janitor of the Capitol, who was watching him.
"Is that you, Carter? Good-morning!"

"Well, I declar, boss, I ain' seen you fur a mont' er Sundays."

"You must have been looking at the clouds, Carter."

"Naw, suh, I'se been lookin' right out yer, an' I ain' seen you. Is you
gwine ter 'lect de gov'nor?"

Galt was holding his daughter high enough to reach the branches of an
elm. "I'm trying to, Carter," he returned good-humouredly, "but I can't
do it by myself. Won't you lend a hand?"

"I'll len' 'em bofe, if you want 'em, boss. I'se been stedyin' 'bout dis
bizness, an' I'se got a plan all laid out in my haid. Dey's a lot er
coloured folks in dis State, suh."

"That's so, man."

"An' dey's all got a vote des de same es de white?"

Galt laughed. "Sure's you live," he replied.

"Well, I'se gwine ter git my friend Bob Viars ter git up er meetin' er
all de coloured folks roun' in Cumberland County, an' I'se gwine ter put
on de bes' I'se got an' git up on de platform an' Bob's gwine tell 'em
I'se de janitor er de Capitol dat knows all de ways de laws are
made--an' when Bob says dat, I'se gwine ter bow an' flirt my hank'chif."

Galt nodded. "Oh, I see," he said.

"Den I'se gwine say I'se come ter tell 'em ter 'lect de gov'nor 'case
he's de bes' man in de State an' de greates' gent-man dey's ever lay
eyes on--an' I'se gwine flirt my hank'chif some mo'."

"What else?" said Galt.

"I'se gwine tell 'em I kin prove de gov'nor's de bes' man in de State
by'splainin' er de tarif--dat I kin prove it by'splainin' er de tarif so
dey'll unnerstan' it ev'y word--an' when I flirt my hank'chif dat time,
Bob's gwine call out 'Yo' time's up, boss!' an' I'se gwine answer back,
'Naw 'tain't, Bob, des lemme 'splain de tarif. I'se got de
'splanification er de tarif right on de tip er my tongue,' an' Bob's
gwine holler out, 'Not anudderword, boss, not anudder word!' an' he
gwine shuffle me right spang out."

Galt put down his daughter and shook Carter's hand. "If you ever get out
of a job, my man," he said, "go into politics. Is the governor in his
office?"

"I'se des dis minit seen him come out fer dinner."

"All right, I'll find him," and he went on to the governor's house.

Nicholas was in his library, a law-book open before him. When he saw
Galt he turned from his desk and motioned to a chair beside him. "Come
in, Ben, and sit down. I'm glad to see you."

Galt threw himself into the chair. "I've just seen Ryan," he said, "and
I never met a more sanguine man. He doesn't give Webb a chance."

"Ah, is that so?" asked the governor; his tone was almost indifferent,
but in a moment he leaned forward and spoke rapidly:

"I fear there's trouble in Kingsborough, Ben. They've brought a negro
there to the gaol from' Hagersville, where there were threats of a
lynching."

"The devil! Well, you aren't afraid that Kingsborough will turn lawless?
My dear friend, there isn't enough vitality down there to make one
first-class savage."

Nicholas fell back again, his vivid hair drawings the superb outline of
his head on the worn leather against which he leaned.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Kingsborough," he returned, "but Hagersville is
only three miles distant, and the country people are much wrought up.
God knows they have reason to be."

"Ah, the usual thing."

"I don't know the details--but there is sufficient evidence against the
man, they say, to hang him twenty times. He's as dead as if the noose
had left his neck--but he must die by law. There hasn't been a lynching
in the State since I've been in office."

He spoke quietly, but Galt saw the anxiety in his face and met it
bravely.

"Nonsense, my dear Nick, don't let your hobby run away with you. If
there had been any danger they'd have got the wretch away. By the bye,
Tom Bassett has gone to New York. I saw him this morning."

"Yes, he dropped in last night. You haven't seen this, I dare say--it's
a copy of Diggs's' speech at Danville. So they have fallen on my private
life at last."

He handed Galt a typewritten sheet, watching him closely as he read it.
"This looks as if they feared me, doesn't it?" he asked.

Galt's reply was an oath of sudden anger. "This is Rann!" he cried. "I
see his mark!" A flush of red rose to his face and his voice came again
in a long-drawn whistle of helpless rage. "The scoundrel!" he said
sharply. "He's raked up that old Kingsborough scandal of Bernard
Battle's and made you the man. Oh, the sneaking scoundrel!"

His passion appeared in quick contrast to the other's composure. He was
resenting the slander with a violence that he would not have wasted on
it had it touched himself--for the fame of his friend was a cause for
which his easy-going nature would spring at once into arms.

Burr came over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "When you come to
think of it, Ben," he said, "it's no great matter."

"Then what steps have you taken about it?"

Nicholas's arm fell to his side. "I have done nothing. What's the use?"

Galt strode to the window and back again to the fireplace. His eyes were
blazing. "The use? Why, man, use or no use, I'll send the last one of
them to hell, but they'll stop it! It's Rann--Rann from the beginning.
I'd take my oath on it--but I'm his match, and he'll find it out. I'll
have Diggs retract this lie by six o'clock this evening or I'll--"

He checked himself abruptly. "How long have you had this?"

"A half-hour. The speech goes in the evening papers."

"A half-hour! And you sit here snivelling about your lynching. Why, what
are the necks of ten such devils worth to your good name? When I come to
think of it, I'd like to lend a hand at a lynching myself. If I had Rann
here--"

The governor laughed dryly. "To tell the truth, my dear fellow, I don't
take it seriously. The people know me."

Galt uttered an angry exclamation and flung out his hand. "Oh, give
over, Nick," he implored. "Don't drive me to frenzy! I can't stand much
more."

He took up a sheet of paper and wrote several lines in pencil. "After
all, I've been thinking to some purpose," he said. "Judge Bassett is the
man we need. I'll telegraph to him from your office, and I'll have his
reply scattered broadcast. If it riddles Webb like shot, I'll have it
out."

"Oh, it isn't Webb," said Nicholas. He was looking into the fire, but as
the door closed behind Galt he turned and seated himself at his desk.
The law-book he had been reading lay to one side, and he opened it and
followed up the question that perplexed him. His face was grave, but his
eyes were shot with light. When Galt came back he entered slowly and
hesitated an instant before speaking, then he said:

"There's bad news, Nick. The judge has had a stroke of paralysis. He is
now unconscious. Tom can't be reached, and you--"

Nicholas took out his watch. "I have fifteen minutes in which to make
that train," was his answer. "Will you tell Dickson to repeat all
messages?" Then, as Galt followed him into the hall, he looked back and
spoke again. "Until to-morrow," he said, and went out.

Galt delivered the message to Dickson and walked uptown to Webb's house,
where he expected to find him. He had not lunched, and he remembered
suddenly that Nicholas had also gone hungry; but the thought brought a
smile as he rang Webb's bell. "Oh, for once in a lifetime a man may be
heroic," he said. Then he entered the house and found, not Dudley, but
Eugenia.

At the sound of his name she had risen and come swiftly forward with
outstretched hand. Her face was white and her eyes heavy with anxiety,
but he felt then, as always, the calm nobility of her carriage. In the
added fulness of her figure her beauty showed majestic.

He took her hand, holding it warmly in his own. "My dear Eugenia, if you
are in trouble, remember that I am an ignoble edition of Juliet."

"Oh, I want you, not Juliet," she said. "I have sent for Dudley, but he
has not come--I took the paper at the door by chance--and I find that
Colonel Diggs has brought up that old dead lie about the governor. He
dares to say that the people of Kingsborough believe it--the coward!
They never believed it--it is false--as false as the lie itself. Oh, if
I were a man I would kill him for it, but I am a woman, and you--"

"Kill him!" He laughed harshly. "We don't kill men who blacken our
friend's honour; we wait till they attack our own lives--that's our code
for you. If it were otherwise, I should act upon it with pleasure. But I
came to see Webb about this thing. Where is he?"

"Oh, he is coming."

She sat down, keeping her excited eyes upon him. "It was Bernard, my own
brother," she said passionately. "You know this, and the world must know
it. The world shall know it if I have to utter it from the housetops.
Oh, I have sinned enough in ignorance; now I will speak."

She bit her lips to keep back the quick tears, tapping her foot upon the
floor. The red was in her cheeks and her eyes were as black as night.
Her bosom quivered from the lash of her scorn.

"But you must keep out of it, my dear Eugie. Dudley and I will manage
it. We'll see Diggs and get a retraction from him--that's sensible and
simple. There's no scandal the better for dragging a woman into it."

She stopped him fiercely. "Then I give you fair warning. If you do not
stop it, I shall. Ah, here's Dudley!"

She met him as he entered the room, clasping her hands upon his arm.
"Dudley, have you seen it--this falsehood?"

He let her hands fall from his arm and drew her with him to the
fireside. "Yes; I have seen it," he answered, and as he shook hands
heartily with Galt he made a casual remark about the weather.

"Oh, Dudley, what does the weather matter?" cried Eugenia. "No, don't
sit down. You are to go at once to Colonel Diggs and tell him
everything--and not spare any one--and you may tell him also that--I
despise him!"

He smiled at her vehemence--it was so unlike Eugenia. "I didn't know you
took so much interest in these things," he said lightly. "I thought the
baby had cured you."

But she caught his hand and held it in her own. "Don't, Dudley," she
implored. "You know what it means to me. You know all."

His face softened as he met her eyes; but instead of replying to her
appeal he turned with a question to Galt. "Can I do any good?" he asked.
"I am willing, of course, to do what I can."

"I was going to ask you to see Diggs," said Galt quietly. "We shall
endeavour to keep his speech out of the morning papers, but it has
already appeared in the evening issue. You might secure a card from him
retracting his statements. I hardly think he knew them to be false."

"I'll go at once," replied Dudley. He went into the hall and took up his
hat, but as Galt opened the door he lingered an instant and looked at
his wife. She came to him, her eyes shining, and in a flash he realised
that to Eugenia it was a question of his own honour as well as of the
governor's. With a smile he lifted her chin and met her gaze. "Are you
satisfied, my lady?" he asked; but before she could respond he had
joined Galt upon the pavement.

There he paused to light a cigar, while Galt hesitated and looked at his
watch. "I suppose I may leave it in your hands," suggested the older
man. "Diggs isn't on the best of terms with me, you know."

Dudley took the cigar from his mouth and threw the match over the
railing into the grass. "Oh, I'll do my best," he answered readily, "and
I'll see that the statements are delivered to the newspapers at once. I
am as much interested in it as you are. It was a dirty piece of work."
And leaving Galt, he quickened his pace as he crossed the street.

Diggs was at his hotel and somewhat relieved at the sudden turn of
affairs. "Honestly, I hated it," he frankly admitted. "It's the kind of
job I'd like to wash my hands of. But Major Rann took oath on the truth
of the story, and he convinced me that I owed it to the community to
expose Burr's character. I don't know why I believed it, except that it
never occurs to one to doubt evil. However, I'm glad you called. I
assure you I'll take more pleasure in retracting the statements than I
did in making them."

He wrote the notes and gave them into Dudley's hands. "If they don't get
in to-morrow's issue, they must wait over till election day. It's a pity
this is Saturday--but you'll have them in, I dare say."

"Yes; I'll take them down," said Dudley. He descended in the elevator,
walking rapidly when he reached the pavement. Diggs's parting words came
back to him and he repeated them as he went. Tomorrow's was the last
paper before election day. If the speech were reported in the morning
issue and Burr's friends made no denial, there would be, as far as the
country voters were concerned, a silence of two days. The contest was
not yet decided, this he knew--it would be a close one, and a straw's
weight might turn the scales of public favour. Rann realised this too,
for he did not fling slime at men for nothing--there was a serious
purpose underneath the last act of his play. He was doing it for the
sake of those Democrats whose constituents were divided against
themselves, and he was trusting to himself to hold the votes that came
his way when the cloud should have passed from Burr again. It was all so
evident that Dudley held his breath for one brief instant. The whole
scheme lay bare before him--he had but to drop these letters into the
nearest box, and Rann's purpose would be fulfilled. In the howl of
reprobation that followed the hounding of Burr his own hour would come.
And granted that the governor was cleared before the meeting of the
caucus--well, men are easier to keep than to win--and he might not be
cleared after all.

A clock near at hand struck the hour. He raised his head and saw the
"Standard" office across the street--and the temptation passed as
swiftly as it had come. The instinct of generations was stronger than
the appeal of the moment--he might sin a great sin, but he could never
commit a meanness.

With sudden energy he crossed the street and ran up the stairs.




V


Again he was returning to Kingsborough. The familiar landscape rushed by
him on either side--green meadow and russet woodland, gray swamp and
dwarfed brown hill, unploughed common and sun-ripened field of corn. It
was like the remembered features of a friend, when the change that
startles the unaccustomed eye seems to exist less in the well-known face
than in the image we have carried in our thoughts.

It was all there as it had been in his youth--the same and yet not the
same. The old fields were tilled, the old lands ran waste in broomsedge,
but he himself had left his boyhood far behind--it was his own vision
that was altered, not the face of nature. The commons were not so wide
as he had thought them, the hills not so high, the hollows not so
deep--even the blue horizon had drawn a closer circle.

A man on his way to the water-cooler stopped abruptly at his side.
"Well, I declar, if 'tain't the governor!"

Nicholas looked up, and recognising Jerry Pollard, shook his
outstretched hand. "When did you leave Kingsborough?" he inquired.

"Oh, I jest ran up this morning to lay in a stock of winter goods.
Trade's thriving this year, and you have to hustle if you want to keep
up with the tastes of yo' customers. Times have changed since I had you
in my sto'."

"I dare say. I am glad to hear that you are doing well. Was the judge
taken ill before you left Kingsborough?"

"The judge? Is he sick? I ain't heard nothin' 'bout it. It wa'n't more'n
a week ago that I told him he was lookin' as young as he did befo' the
war. It ain't often a man can keep his youth like that but his Cęsar is
just such another. Cęsar was an old man as far back as I remember, and,
bless you, he's spryer than I am this minute. He'll live to be a hundred
and die of an accident."

"That's good," said the governor with rising interest. "Kingsborough's a
fine place to grow old in. Did you bring any news up with you?"

"Well, I reckon not. Things were pretty lively down there last night,
but they'd quieted down this morning. They brought a man over from
Hagersville, you know, and befo' I shut up sto' last evening Jim Brown
came to town, talkin' mighty big 'bout stringin' up the fellow. Jim
always did talk, though, so nobody thought much of it. He likes to get
his mouth in, but he's right particular 'bout his hand. The sheriff said
he warn't lookin' for trouble."

"I'm glad it's over," said the governor. The train was nearing
Kingsborough, and as it stopped he rose and followed Jerry Pollard to
the station.


There was no one he knew in sight, and, with his bag in his hand, he
walked rapidly to the judge's house. His anxiety had caused him to
quicken his pace, but when he had opened the gate and ascended the
steps he hesitated before entering the hall, and his breath came
shortly. Until that instant he had not realised the strength of the tie
that bound him to the judge.

The hall was dim and cool, as it had been that May afternoon when his
feet had left tracks of dust on the shining floor. Straight ahead he saw
the garden, lying graceless and deserted, with the unkemptness of
extreme old age. A sharp breeze blew from door to door, and the dried
grasses on the wall stirred with a sound like that of the wind among a
bed of rushes.

He mounted the stairs slowly, the weight of his tread creaking the
polished wood. Before the threshold of the judge's room again he
hesitated, his hand upraised. The house was so still that it seemed to
be untenanted, and he shivered suddenly, as if the wind that rustled the
dried grasses were a ghostly footstep. Then, as he glanced back down the
wide old stairway, his own childhood looked up, at him--an alien figure,
half frightened by the silence.

As he stood there the door opened noiselessly, and the doctor came out,
peering with shortsighted eyes over his lowered glasses. When he ran
against Nicholas he coughed uncertainly and drew back. "Well, well, if
it isn't the governor!" he said. "We have been looking for Tom--but our
friend the judge is better--much better. I tell him he'll live yet to
see us buried."

A load passed suddenly from Nicholas's mind. The ravaged face of the old
doctor--with its wrinkled forehead and its almost invisible
eyes--became at once the mask of a good angel. He grasped the
outstretched hand and crossed the threshold.

The judge was lying among the pillows of his bed, his eyes closed, his
great head motionless. There was a bowl of yellow chrysanthemums on a
table beside him, and near it Mrs. Burwell was measuring dark drops into
a wineglass. She looked up with a smile of welcome that cast a cheerful
light about the room. Her smile and the colour of the chrysanthemums
were in Nicholas's eyes as he went to the bed and laid his hand upon the
still fingers that clasped the counterpane.

The judge looked at him with a wavering recognition. "Ah, it is you,
Tom," he said, and there was a yearning in his voice that fell like a
gulf between him and the man who was not his son. At the moment it came
to Nicholas with a great bitterness that his share of the judge's heart
was the share of an outsider--the crumbs that fall to the beggar that
waits beside the gate. When the soul has entered the depths and looks
back again it is the face of its own kindred that it craves--the
responsive throbbing of its own blood in another's veins. This was Tom's
place, not his.

He leaned nearer, speaking in an expressionless voice. "It's I,
sir--Nicholas--Nicholas Burr."

"Yes, Nicholas," repeated the judge doubtfully; "yes, I remember, what
does he want? Amos Burr's son--we must give him a chance."

For a moment he wandered on; then his memory returned in uncertain
pauses. He looked again at the younger man, his sight grown stronger.
"Why, Nicholas, my dear boy, this is good of you," he exclaimed. "I had
a fall--a slight fall of no consequence. I shall be all right if Cęsar
will let me fast a while. Cęsar's getting old, I fear, he moves so
slowly."

He was silent, and Nicholas, sitting beside the bed, kept his eyes on
the delicate features that were the lingering survival of a lost type.
The splendid breadth of the brow, the classic nose, the firm, thin lips,
and the shaven chin--these were all downstairs on faded canvases,
magnificent over lace ruffles, or severe above folded stocks. Over the
pillows the chrysanthemums shed a golden light that mingled in his mind
with the warm brightness of Mrs. Burwell's smile--giving the room the
festive glimmer of an autumn garden.

A little later Cęsar shuffled forward, the wineglass in his hand. The
judge turned towards him. "Is that you, Cęsar?" he asked.

The old negro hurried to the bedside. "Here I is, Marse George; I'se
right yer."

The judge laughed softly. "I wouldn't take five thousand dollars for
you, Cęsar," he said. "Tom Battle offered me one thousand for you, and I
told him I wouldn't take five. You are worth it, Cęsar--every cent of
it--but there's no man alive shall own you. You're free, Cęsar--do you
hear, you're free!"

"Thanky, Marse George," said Cęsar. He passed his arm under the judge's
head and raised him as he would a child. As the glass touched his lips
the judge spoke in a clear voice. "To the ladies!" he cried.

"He is regaining the use of his limbs," whispered Mrs. Burwell softly.
"He will be well again," and Nicholas left the room and went downstairs.
At the door he gave his instructions to a woman servant. "I shall return
to spend the night," he said. "You will see that my room is ready. Yes,
I'll be back to supper." He had had no dinner, but at the moment this
was forgotten. In the relief that had come to him he wanted solitude and
the breadth of the open fields. He was going over the old ground
again--to breathe the air and feel the dust of the Old Stage Road.

He passed the naked walls of the church and followed the wide white
street to the college gate. Then, turning, he faced the way to his
father's farm and the distant pines emblazoned on the west.

A clear gold light flooded the landscape, warming the pale dust of the
deserted road. The air was keen with the autumn tang, and as he walked
the quick blood leaped to his cheeks. He was no longer conscious of his
forty years--his boyhood was with him, and middle age was a dream, or
less than a dream.

In the branch road a fall of tawny leaves hid the ruts of wheels, and
the sun, striking the ground like a golden lance, sent out sharp, fiery
sparks as from a mine of light. Overhead the red trees rustled.

It was here that Eugenia had ridden beside him in the early
morning--here he had seen her face against the enkindled branches--and
here he had placed the scarlet gum leaves in her horse's bridle. The
breeze in the wood came to him like the echo of her laugh, faded as the
memory of his past passion. Well, he had more than most men, for he had
the ghost of a laugh and the shadow of love.

Passing his father's house, he went on beyond the fallen shanty of
Uncle Ish into the twilight of the cedars. At the end of the avenue he
saw the rows of box--twisted and tall with age--leading to the empty
house, where the stone steps were wreathed in vines. Did Eugenia ever
come back, he wondered, or was the house to crumble as Miss Chris's
rockery had done? On the porch he saw the marks made by the general's
chair, which had been removed, and on one of the long green benches
there was an E cut in a childish hand. At a window above--Eugenia's
window--a shutter hung back upon its hinges, and between the muslin
curtains it seemed to him that a face looked out and smiled--not the
face of Eugenia, but a ghost again, the ghost of his old romance.

He went into the garden, crossing the cattle lane, where the footprints
of the cows were fresh in the dust. Near at hand he heard a voice
shouting. It was the voice of the overseer, but the sound startled him,
and he awoke abruptly to himself and his forty years. The spell of the
past was broken--even the riotous old garden, blending its many colours
in a single blur, could not bring it back. The chrysanthemums and the
roses and the hardy zenias that came up uncared for were powerless to
reinvoke the spirit of the place. If Eugenia, in her full-blown
motherhood, had risen in an overgrown path he might have passed her by
unheeding. His Eugenia was a girl in a muslin gown, endowed with
immortal youth--the youth of visions unfulfilled and desire unquenched.
His Eugenia could never grow old--could never alter--could never leave
the eternal sunshine of dead autumns. In his nostrils was the keen
sweetness of old-fashioned flowers, but his thoughts were not of them,
and, turning presently, he went back as he had come. It was dark when at
last he reached the judge's house and sat down to supper.

He was with the judge until midnight, when, before going to his room, he
descended the stairs and went out upon the porch. He had been thinking
of the elections three days hence, and the outcome seemed to him more
hopeful than it had done when he first came forward as a candidate. The
uncertainty was almost as great, this he granted; but behind him he
believed to be the pressure of the people's will--which the schemes of
politicians had not turned. Tuesday would prove nothing--nor had the
conventions that had been held; when the meeting of the caucus came, he
would still be in ignorance--unaware of traps that had been laid or
surprises to be sprung. It was the mark to which his ambition had
aimed--the end to which his career had faced--that now rose before him,
and yet in his heart there was neither elation nor distrust. He had done
his best--he had fought fairly and well, and he awaited what the day
might bring forth.

Above him a full moon was rising, and across the green the crooked path
wound like a silver thread, leading to the glow of a night-lamp that
burned in a sick-room. The night, the air, the shuttered houses were as
silent as the churchyard, where the tombstones glimmered, row on row.
Only somewhere on the vacant green a hound bayed at the moon.

He looked out an instant longer, and was turning back, when his eye
caught a movement among the shadows in the distant lane. A quick thought
came to him, and he kept his gaze beneath the heavy maples, where the
moonshine fell in flecks. For a moment all was still, and then into the
light came the figure of a man. Another followed, another, and another,
passing again into the dark and then out into the brightness that led
into the little gully far beyond. There was no sound except the baying
of the dog; the figures went on, noiseless and orderly and grim, from
dark to light and from light again to dark. There were at most a dozen
men, and they might have been a band of belated workmen returning to
their homes or a line of revellers that had been sobered into silence.
They might have been--but a sudden recollection came to him, and he
closed the door softly and went out. There was but one thing that it
meant; this he knew. It meant a midnight attack on the gaol, and a man
dead before morning, who must die anyway--it meant vengeance so quiet
yet so determined that it was as sure as the hand of God--and it meant
the defiance of laws whose guardian he was.

He broke into a run, crossing the green and following the path that rose
and fell into the gullies as it led on to the gaol. As he ran he saw the
glow of the night-lamp in the sick-room, and he heard the insistent
baying of the hound.

The moonlight was thick and full. It showed the quiet hill flanked by
the open pasture; and it showed the little whitewashed gaol, and the
late roses blooming on the fence. It showed also the mob that had
gathered--a gathering as quiet as a congregation at prayer. But in the
silence was the danger--the determination to act that choked back
speech--the grimness of the justice that walks at night--the triumph of
a lawless rage that knows control.

As he reached the hill he saw that the men he had followed had been
enforced by others from different roads. It was not an outbreak of swift
desperation, but a well-planned, well-ordered strategy; it was not a mob
that he faced, but an incarnate vengeance.

He came upon it quickly, and as he did so he saw that the sheriff was
ahead of him, standing, a single man, between his prisoner and the rope.
"For God's sake, men, I haven't got the keys," he called out.

Nicholas swung himself over the fence and made his way to the entrance
beneath the steps that led to the floor above. He had come as one of the
men about him, and they had not heeded him. Now, as he faced them from
the shadow he saw here and there a familiar face--the face of a boy he
had played with in childhood. Several were masked, but the others raised
bare features to the moonlight--features that were as familiar as his
own.

Then he stood up and spoke. "Men, listen to me. In the name of the Law,
I swear to you that justice shall be done--I swear."

A voice came from somewhere. "We ain't here to talk--you stand aside,
and _we'll_ show you what we're here for."

Again he began. "I swear to you--"

"We don't want no swearing." On the outskirts of the crowd a man
laughed. "We don't want no swearing," the voice repeated.

The throng pressed forward, and he saw the faces that he knew crowding
closer. A black cloud shut out the moonlight. Above the pleading of the
sheriffs tones he heard the distant baying of the hound.

He tried to speak again. "We'll be damned, but we'll get the nigger!"
called some one beside him. The words struck him like a blow. He saw
red, and the sudden rage upheld him. He knew that he was to fight--a
blind fight for he cared not what. The old savage instinct blazed within
him--the instinct to do battle to death--to throttle with, his single
hand the odds that opposed. With a grip of iron he braced himself
against the doorway, covering the entrance.

"I'll be damned if you do!" he thundered.

A quick shot rang out sharply. The flash blinded him, and the smoke hung
in his face. Then the moon shone and he heard a cry--the cry of a
well-known voice.

"By God, it's Nick Burr!" it said. He took a step forward.

"Boys, I am Nick Burr," he cried, and he went down in the arms of the
mob.

They raised him up, and he stood erect between the leaders. There was
blood on his lips, but a man tore off a mask and wiped it away. "By God,
it's Nick Burr!" he exclaimed as he did so.

Nicholas recognised his voice and smiled. His face was gray, but his
eyes were shining, and as he steadied himself with all his strength, he
said with a laugh. "There's no harm done, man." But when they laid him
down a moment later he was dead.

He lay in the narrow path between the doorstep and the gate where roses
bloomed. Some one had started for the nearest house, but the crowd stood
motionless about him. "By God, it's Nick Burr!" repeated the man who had
held him.

The sheriff knelt on the ground and raised him in his arms. As he folded
his coat about him he looked up and spoke.

"And he died for a damned brute," was what he said.




VI


It was the afternoon of election day, and Eugenia sat in her
drawing-room with Sally Bassett.

Outside there was the sound of tramping feet, for the people were giving
him burial. They had been passing so for half an hour and they still
went on, on, on--he was going to his grave in state.

"There are the drums," said Sally, turning her ear. "All Virginia has
come to town, I believe. The whole city is in mourning, and by and by
they will put up his statue in the Capitol Square--but if he had lived,
would he have had the senatorship?"

"Ah, who knows?" said Eugenia. She played idly with the spoon of her
teacup, her eyes on the coals.

"As you say--who knows?" murmured the other. "And, after all, it is
perhaps better that he died just now. He would have tried to lift us too
high, and we should have fallen back. He was a hero, and the public
can't always keep to the heroic level."

There were tears in her voice.

Eugenia turned from her and said nothing.

After, Sally had gone she still sat with her cup in her hand before the
fire. Her child was rolling on the floor at her feet, but she did not
stoop to him. She was not thinking--she was merely resting from
emotion--as she would rest for the remainder of her days.

The sound of tramping feet died away. The cars passed once more, and
along the block a boy went whistling a tune. Everything was beginning
again--everything would go on as it had gone since the dawn of time, and
she would go with it. The best or the worst of it was that she would go
happily--neither regretting nor despairing, but filled to the
finger-tips with the cheerful energy of a busy life.

Suddenly she caught up her child with a frantic rapture and held him to
her bosom, kissing the small hands that reached up to her lips. This was
her portion, and even to-day she was content.

An hour later Dudley found her sitting there when he entered, and as he
straightened himself against the mantel he looked down on her with an
affectionate gaze.

"He was a great man," he said simply, and his generous spirit rang in
his voice.

"Yes, he was a great man," repeated Eugenia. She looked up at her
husband as he stood before her--buoyant with expectation, mellowed by
the glow of assured success. He smiled into her face, and she smiled
back again with quick tenderness. Then she bent above her child and
kissed his lips, and the sunlight coming from the day without shone in
her eyes.





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