Title: Holly: The Romance of a Southern Girl
Author: Barbour, Ralph Henry
Language: English
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                                 HOLLY



[Illustration: HOLLY PLACED HER HAND IN HIS AND LEAPED LIGHTLY TO THE
GROUND]



                      [Illustration: title page]



                                 HOLLY

                   _The Romance of a Southern Girl_


                                  BY
                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

                 AUTHOR OF “A MAID IN ARCADY,” “KITTY
                      OF THE ROSES,” “AN ORCHARD
                            PRINCESS,” ETC.


                        _With illustrations by_
                            EDWIN F. BAYHA


                            [Illustration]


                         PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
                       J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
                                 1907



                            COPYRIGHT, 1907
                   BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

                            COPYRIGHT, 1907
                      BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY


                        Published October, 1907


         _Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
         The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._



                                  TO
                          JESSIE LATSHAW KING



                             ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                PAGE

 HOLLY PLACED HER HAND IN HIS AND LEAPED LIGHTLY TO THE
     GROUND                                   _Frontispiece_

 PRESENTLY THE NEW RENTAL AGREEMENT WAS SIGNED                   144

 THE MAJOR HELD THE LITTLE BUNCH OF LEAVES AND BERRIES OVER
     HOLLY’S HEAD                                                217

 “KEEP AWAY! YOU’VE KILLED HIM”                                  258



                                 HOLLY



I.


Holly’s eighteenth birthday was but a fortnight distant when the quiet
stream of her life, which since her father’s death six years before had
flowed placidly, with but few events to ripple its tranquil surface,
was suddenly disturbed....

To the child of twelve years death, because of its unfamiliarity
and mystery, is peculiarly terrible. At that age one has become too
wise to find comfort in the vague and beautiful explanations of
tearfully-smiling relatives――explanations in which Heaven is pictured
as a material region just out of sight beyond the zenith; too selfishly
engrossed with one’s own loneliness and terror to be pacified by the
contemplation of the radiant peace and beatitude attained by the
departed one in that ethereal and invisible suburb. And at twelve one
is as yet too lacking in wisdom to realize the beneficence of death.

Thus it was that when Captain Lamar Wayne died at Waynewood, in his
fiftieth year, Holly, left quite alone in a suddenly empty world save
for her father’s sister, Miss India Wayne, grieved passionately and
rebelliously, giving way so abjectly to her sorrow that Aunt India,
fearing gravely for her health, summoned the family physician.

[Illustration]

“There is nothing physically wrong with her,” pronounced the Old
Doctor, “nothing that I can remedy with my poisons. You must get her
mind away from her sorrow, my dear Miss India. I would suggest that
you take her away for a time; give her new scenes; interest her in new
affairs. Meanwhile ... there is no harm....” The Old Doctor wrote a
prescription with his trembling hand ... “a simple tonic ... nothing
more.”

So Aunt India and Holly went away. At first the thought of deserting
the new grave in the little burying-ground within sight of the house
moved Holly to a renewed madness of grief. But by the time Uncle
Randall had put their trunk and bags into the old carriage interest
in the journey had begun to assuage Holly’s sorrow. It was her first
journey into the world. Save for visits to neighboring plantations and
one memorable trip to Tallahassee while her father had served in the
State Legislature, she had never been away from Corunna. And now she
was actually going into another State! And not merely to Georgia, which
would have been a comparatively small event since the Georgia line ran
east and west only a bare half-dozen miles up the Valdosta road, but
away up to Kentucky, of which, since the Waynes had come from there in
the first part of the century, Holly had heard much all her life.

As the carriage moved down the circling road Holly watched with
trembling lips the little brick-walled enclosure on the knoll. Then
came a sudden gush of tears and convulsive sobs, and when these had
passed they were under the live-oaks at the depot, and the train of
two cars and a rickety, asthmatic engine, which ran over the six-mile
branch to the main line, was posing importantly in front of the
weather-beaten station.

Holly’s pulses stirred with excitement, and when, a quarter of an hour
later,――for Aunt India believed in being on time,――she kissed Uncle Ran
good-bye, her eyes were quite dry.

That visit had lasted nearly three months, and for awhile Holly had
been surfeited with new sights and new experiences against which no
grief, no matter how poignant, could have been wholly proof. When,
on her return to Waynewood, she paid her first visit to her father’s
grave, the former ecstasy of grief was absent. In its place was a
tender, dim-eyed melancholy, something exaltedly sacred and almost
sweet, a sentiment to be treasured and nourished in reverent devotion.
And yet I think it was not so much the journey that accomplished this
end as it was a realization which came to her during the first month of
the visit.

[Illustration]

In her first attempts at comforting the child, and many times since,
Aunt India had reminded Holly that now that her father had reached
Heaven he and her mother were together once more, and that since they
had loved each other very dearly on earth they were beyond doubt very
happy in Paradise. Aunt India assured her that it was a beautiful
thought. But it had never impressed Holly as Miss India thought it
should. Possibly she was too self-absorbed in her sorrow to consider
it judicially. But one night she had a dream from which she awoke
murmuring happily in the darkness. She could not remember very clearly
what she had dreamed, although she strove hard to do so. But she knew
that it was a beautiful dream, a dream in which her father and her
mother,――the wonderful mother of whom she had no recollection,――had
appeared to her hand in hand and had spoken loving, comforting words.
For the first time she realized Aunt India’s meaning; realized how
very, very happy her father and mother must be together in Heaven,
and how silly and selfish she had been to wish him back. All in the
instant there, in the dim silence, the dull ache of loneliness which
had oppressed her for months disappeared. She no longer seemed alone;
somewhere,――near at hand,――was sympathy and love and heart-filling
comradeship. Holly lay for awhile very quiet and happy in the great
four-poster bed, and stared into the darkness with wide eyes that swam
in grateful tears. Then she fell into a sound, calm sleep.

She did not tell Aunt India of her dream; not because there was any
lack of sympathy between them, but because to have shared it would have
robbed it of half its dearness. For a long, long time it was the most
precious of her possessions, and she hugged it to her and smiled over
it as a mother over her child. And so I think it was the dream that
accomplished what the Old Doctor could not,――the dream that brought,
as dreams so often do, Heaven very close to earth. Dreams are blessed
things, be they day-dreams or dreams of the night; and even the ugly
ones are beneficent, since at waking they make by contrast reality more
endurable.

If Aunt India never learned the cause she was at least quick to note
the result. Holly’s thin little cheeks borrowed tints from the Duchess
roses in the garden, and Aunt India graciously gave the credit to
Kentucky air, even as she drew her white silk shawl more closely about
her slender shoulders and shivered in the unaccustomed chill of a
Kentucky autumn.

Then followed six tranquil years in which Holly grew from a small,
long-legged, angular child to a very charming maiden of eighteen,
dainty with the fragrant daintiness of a southern rosebud; small of
stature, as her mother had been before her, yet possessed of a gracious
dignity that added mythical inches to her height; no longer angular but
gracefully symmetrical with the soft curves of womanhood; with a fair
skin like the inner petal of a La France rose; with eyes warmly, deeply
brown, darkened by large irises; a low, broad forehead under a wealth
of hair just failing of being black; a small, mobile mouth, with lips
as freshly red as the blossoms of the pomegranate tree in the corner
of the yard, and little firm hands and little arched feet as true to
beauty as the needle to the pole. God sometimes fashions a perfect
body, and when He does can any praise be too extravagant?

For the rest, Holly Wayne at eighteen――or, to be exact, a fortnight
before――was perhaps as contradictory as most girls of her age.
Warm-hearted and tender, she could be tyrannical if she chose;
dignified at times, there were moments when she became a breath-taking
madcap of a girl,――moments of which Aunt India strongly but patiently
disapproved; affectionate and generous, she was capable of showing a
very pretty temper which, like mingled flash of lightning and roar of
thunder, was severe but brief; tractable, she was not pliant, and from
her father she had inherited settled convictions on certain subjects,
such for instance as Secession and Emancipation, and an accompanying
dash of contumacy for the protection of them.

She was fond of books, and had read every sombre-covered volume of
the British Poets from fly-leaf to fly-leaf. She preferred poetry to
prose, but when the first was wanting she put up cheerfully with the
latter. The contents of her father’s modest library had been devoured
with a fine catholicity before she was sixteen. Recent books were few
at Corunna, and had Holly been asked to name her favorite volume of
fiction she would have been forced to divide the honor between certain
volumes of The Spectator, St. Elmo, and The Wide, Wide World. She was
intensely fond of being out of doors; even in her crawling days her
negro mammy had found it a difficult task to keep her within walls; and
so her reading had ever been _al fresco_. Her favorite place was under
the gnarled old fig-tree at the end of the porch, where, perched in
a comfortable crotch of trunk and branch, or asway in a hammock, she
spent many of her waking hours. When the weather kept her indoors,
she never thought of books at all. Those stood with her for filtered
sunlight, green-leaf shadows, and the perfume-laden breezes.

Her education, begun lovingly and sternly by her father, had ended with
a four-years’ course at a neighboring Academy, supplying her with as
much knowledge as Captain Wayne would have considered proper for her.
He had held to old-fashioned ideas in such matters, and had considered
the ability to quote aptly from Pope or Dryden of more appropriate
value to a young woman than a knowledge of Herbert Spencer’s absurdities
or a bowing acquaintance with Differential Calculus. So Holly graduated
very proudly from the Academy, looking her sweetest in white muslin and
lavender ribbons, and was quite, quite satisfied with her erudition and
contentedly ignorant of many of the things that fit into that puzzle
which we are pleased to call Life.

And now, in the first week of November in the year 1898, the tranquil
stream of her existence was about to be disturbed. Although she could
have no knowledge of it, as yet, Fate was already poising the stone
which, once dropped into that stream, was destined to cause disquieting
ripples, perplexing eddies, distracting swirls and, in the end, the
formation of a new channel. And even now the messenger of Fate was
limping along with the aid of his stout cane, coming nearer and nearer
down the road from the village under the shade of the water-oaks, a
limp and a tap for every beat of Holly’s unsuspecting heart.



II.


Holly sat on the back porch, her slippered feet on the topmost step
of the flight leading to the “bridge” and from thence to the yard.
She wore a simple white dress and dangled a blue-and-white-checked
sun-bonnet from the fingers of her right hand. Her left hand was very
pleasantly occupied, since its pink palm cradled Holly’s chin. Above
the chin Holly’s lips were softly parted, disclosing the tips of three
tiny white teeth; above the mouth, Holly’s eyes gazed abstractedly
away over the roofs of the buildings in the yard and the cabins behind
them, over the tops of the Le Conte pear-trees in the back lot, over
the fringe of pines beyond, to where, like a black speck, a buzzard
circled and dropped and circled again above a distant hill. I doubt if
Holly saw the buzzard. I doubt if she saw anything that you or I could
have seen from where she sat. I really don’t know what she did see, for
Holly was day-dreaming, an occupation to which she had become somewhat
addicted during the last few months.

The mid-morning sunlight shone warmly on the back of the house. Across
the bridge, in the kitchen, Aunt Venus was moving slowly about in
the preparation of dinner, singing a revival hymn in a clear, sweet
falsetto:

    “Lord Gawd of Israel,
     Lord Gawd of Israel,
     Lord Gawd of Israel,
       I’s gwan to meet you soon!”

To the right, in front of the disused office, a half-naked morsel of
light brown humanity was seated in the dirt at the foot of the big
sycamore, crooning a funny little accompaniment to his mother’s song,
the while he munched happily at a baked sweet potato and played a
wonderful game with two spools and a chicken leg. Otherwise the yard
was empty of life save for the chickens and guineas and a white cat
asleep on the roof of the well-house. Save for Aunt Venus’s chant and
Young Tom’s crooning (Young Tom to distinguish him from his father),
the morning world was quite silent. The gulf breeze whispered in the
trees and scattered the petals of the late roses. A red-bird sang a
note from the edge of the grove and was still. Aunt Venus, fat and
forty, waddled to the kitchen door, cast a stern glance at Young Tom
and a softer one at Holly, and disappeared again, still singing:

    “Lord Gawd of Israel,
     Lord Gawd of Israel,
     Lord Gawd of Israel,
       Wash all mah sins away!”

Back of Holly the door stood wide open, and at the other end of the
broad, cool hall the front portal was no less hospitably placed. And so
it was that when the messenger of Fate limped and thumped his way up
the steps, crossed the front porch and paused in the hall, Holly heard
and leaped to her feet.

“Is anyone at home in this house?” called the messenger.

Holly sped to meet him.

“Good-morning, Uncle Major!”

Major Lucius Quintus Cass changed his cane to his left hand and shook
hands with Holly, drawing her to him and placing a resounding kiss on
one soft cheek.

“The privilege of old age, my dear,” he said; “one of the few things
which reconcile me to gray hairs and rheumatism.” Still holding her
hand, he drew back, his head on one side and his mouth pursed into a
grimace of astonishment. “Dearie me,” he said ruefully, with a shake
of his head, “where’s it going to stop, Holly? Every time I see you I
find you’ve grown more radiant and lovely than before! ’Pears to me, my
dear, you ought to have some pity for us poor men. Gad, if I was twenty
years younger I’d be down on my knees this instant!”

Holly laughed softly and then drew her face into an expression of
dejection.

“That’s always the way,” she sighed. “All the real nice men are either
married or think they’re too old to marry. I reckon I’ll just die an
old maid, Uncle Major.”

“Rather than allow it,” the Major replied, gallantly, “I’ll dye my hair
and marry you myself! But don’t you talk that way to me, young lady; I
know what’s going on in the world. They tell me the Marysville road’s
all worn out from the travel over it.”

Holly tossed her head.

“That’s only Cousin Julian,” she said.

“Humph! ‘Only Cousin Julian,’ eh? Well, Cousin Julian’s a fine-looking
beau, my dear, and Doctor Thompson told me only last week that he’s
doing splendidly, learning to poison folks off real natural and saw
off their legs and arms so’s it’s a genuine pleasure to them. I reckon
that in about a year or so Cousin Julian will be thinking of getting
married. Eh? What say?”

“He may for all of me,” laughed Holly. But her cheeks wore a little
deeper tint, and the Major chuckled. Then he became suddenly grave.

“Is your Aunt at home?” he asked, in a low voice.

“She’s up-stairs,” answered Holly. “I’ll tell her you’re here, sir.”

“Just a moment,” said the Major, hurriedly. “I――oh, Lord!” He rubbed
his chin slowly, and looked at Holly in comical despair. “Holly, pity
the sorrows of a poor old man.”

“What have you been doing, Uncle Major?” asked Holly, sternly.

“Nothing, ’pon my word, my dear! That is――well, almost nothing. I
thought it was all for the best, but now――――” He stopped and shook
his head. Then he threw back his shoulders, surrendered his hat and
stick to the girl, and marched resolutely into the parlor. There he
turned, pointed upward and nodded his head silently. Holly, smiling but
perplexed, ran up-stairs.

Left alone in the big, square, white-walled room, dim and still, the
Major unbuttoned his long frock coat and threw the lapels aside with a
gesture of bravado. But in another instant he was listening anxiously
to the confused murmur of voices from the floor above and plucking
nervously at the knees of his trousers. Presently a long-drawn sigh
floated onto the silence, and――

“Godamighty!” whispered the Major; “I wish I’d never done it!”

The Major was short in stature and generous of build. Since the war,
when a Northern bullet had almost terminated the usefulness of his
right leg, he had been a partial cripple and the enforced quiescence
had resulted in a portliness quite out of proportion to his height. He
had a large round head, still well covered with silky iron-gray hair,
a jovial face lit by restless, kindly eyes of pale blue, a large,
flexible mouth, and an even more generous nose. The cheeks had become
somewhat pendulous of late years and reminded one of the convenient
sacks in which squirrels place nuts in temporary storage. The Major
shaved very closely over the whole expanse of face each morning and
by noon was tinged an unpleasant ghastly blue by the undiscouraged
bristles.

Although Holly called him “Uncle” he was in reality no relation. He
had ever been, however, her father’s closest friend and on terms of
greater intimacy than many near relations. Excepting only Holly, none
had mourned more truly at Lamar Wayne’s death. The Captain had been the
Major’s senior by only one year, but seeing them together one would
have supposed the discrepancy in age much greater. The Major always
treated the Captain like an older brother, accepting his decisions with
unquestioning loyalty, and accorded him precedence in all things. It
was David and Jonathan over again. Even after the war, in which the
younger man had won higher promotion, the Major still considered the
Captain his superior officer.

The Major pursued an uncertain law practice and had served for some
time as Circuit Judge. Among the negroes he was always “Major
Jedge.” That he had never been able to secure more than the simplest
comforts of life in the pursuit of his profession was largely due to
an unpractical habit of summoning the opposing parties in litigation
to his office and settling the case out of court. Add to this that
fully three-fourths of his clients were negroes, and that “Major
Jedge” was too soft-hearted to insist on payment for his services when
the client was poorer than he, and you can readily understand that
Major Lucius Quintus Cass’s fashion of wearing large patches on his
immaculately-shining boots was not altogether a matter of choice.

[Illustration]

The Major had not long to wait for an audience. As he adjusted his
trouser-legs for the third time the sound of soft footfalls on the bare
staircase reached him. He glanced apprehensively at the open door,
puffed his cheeks out in a mighty exhalation of breath, and arose
from his chair just as Miss India Wayne swept into the room. I say
swept advisedly, for in spite of the lady’s diminutive stature she was
incapable of entering a room in any other manner. Where other women
walked, Miss India swept; where others bowed, Miss India curtseyed;
where others sat down, Miss India subsided. Hers were the manners and
graces of a half-century ago. She was fifty-four years old, but many
of those years had passed over her very lightly. Small, perfectly
proportioned, with a delicate oval face surmounted by light brown hair,
untouched as yet by frost and worn in a braided coronet, attired in a
pale lavender gown of many ruffles, she was for all the world like a
little Chelsea figurine. She smiled upon the Major a trifle anxiously
as she shook hands and bowed graciously to his compliments. Then
seating herself erectly on the sofa――for Miss India never lolled――she
folded her hands in her lap and looked calmly expectant at the visitor.
As the visitor exhibited no present intention of broaching the subject
of his visit she took command of the situation, just as she was
capable of and accustomed to taking command of most situations.

“Holly has begged me not to be hard on you, Major,” she said, in her
sweet, still youthful voice. “Pray what have you been doing now? You
are not here, I trust, to plead guilty to another case of reprehensible
philanthropy?”

“No, Miss Indy, I assure you that you have absolutely reformed me,
ma’am.”

Miss India smiled in polite incredulity, tapping one slender hand upon
the other as she might in the old days at the White Sulphur have tapped
him playfully, yet quite decorously, with her folded fan. The Major
chose not to observe the incredulity and continued:

“The fact is, my dear Miss Indy, that I have come on a matter of
more――ah――importance. You will recollect――pardon me, pray, if I recall
unpleasant memories to mind――you will recollect that when your brother
died it was found that he had unfortunately left very little behind him
in the way of worldly wealth. He passed onward, madam, rich in the
love and respect of the community, but poor in earthly possessions.”

The Major paused and rubbed his bristly chin agitatedly. Miss India
bowed silently.

“As his executor,” continued the Major, “it was my unpleasant duty
to offer this magnificent estate for sale. It was purchased, as you
will recollect, by Judge Linderman, of Georgia, a friend of your
brother’s――――”

“Pardon me, Major; an acquaintance.”

“Madam, all those so fortunate as to become acquainted with Captain
Lamar Wayne were his friends.”

Miss India bowed again and waived the point.

“Judge Linderman, as he informed me at the time of the purchase,
bought the property as a speculation. He was the owner of much real
estate throughout the South. At his most urgent request you consented
to continue your residence at Waynewood, paying him rent for the
property.”

“But nevertheless,” observed Miss India, a trifle bitterly, “being to a
large extent an object of his charity. The sum paid as rent is absurd.”

“Nominal, madam, I grant you,” returned the Major. “Had our means
allowed we should have insisted on paying more. But you are unjust to
yourself when you speak of charity. As I pointed out――or, rather, as
Judge Linderman pointed out to me, had you moved from Waynewood he
would have been required to install a care-taker, which would have cost
him several dollars a month, whereas under the arrangement made he drew
a small but steady interest from the investment. I now come, my dear
Miss Indy, to certain facts which are――with which you are, I think,
unacquainted. That that is so is my fault, if fault there is. Believe
me, I accept all responsibility in the matter and am prepared to bear
your reproaches without a murmur, knowing that I have acted for what I
have believed to be the best.”

Miss India’s calm face showed a trace of agitation and her crossed
hands trembled a little.

The Major paused as though deliberating.

“Pray continue, Major,” she said. “Whatever you have done has been
done, I am certain, from motives of true friendship.”

The Major bowed gratefully.

“I thank you, madam. To resume, about four years ago Judge Linderman
became bankrupt through speculation in cotton. That, I believe,
you already knew. What you did not know was that in meeting his
responsibilities he was obliged to part with all his real estate
holdings, Waynewood amongst them.”

The Major paused, expectantly, but the only comment from his audience,
if comment it might be called, was a quivering sigh of apprehension
which sent the Major quickly on with his story.

“Waynewood fell into the hands of a Mr. Gerald Potter, of New York, a
broker, who――――”

“A Northerner!” cried Miss India.

“A Northerner, my dear lady,” granted the Major, avoiding the lady’s
horrified countenance, “but, as I have been creditably informed, a
thorough gentleman and a representative of one of the foremost New York
families.”

“A gentleman!” echoed Miss India, scornfully. “A Northern gentleman!
And so I am to understand that for four years I and my niece have been
subsisting on the charity of a Northerner! Is that what you have come
to inform me, Major Cass?”

“The former arrangement was allowed to continue,” answered the Major,
evenly, “being quite satisfactory to the new owner of the property. I
regret, if you will pardon me, the use of the word charity, Miss India.”

“You may regret it to your soul’s content, Major Cass,” replied Miss
India, with acerbity. “The fact remains――the horrible, dishonoring
fact! I consider your course almost――and I had never thought to use
the word to you, sir――insulting!”

“It is indeed a harsh word, madam,” replied the Major, gently and
sorrowfully. “I realize that I have been ill-advised in keeping
the truth from you, but in a calmer moment you will, I am certain,
exonerate me from all intentions unworthy of my love for your dead
brother and of my respect for you.” There was a suggestive tremble in
the Major’s voice.

Miss India dropped her eyes to the hands which were writhing agitatedly
in her lap. Then:

“You are right, my dear friend,” she said, softly. “I was too hasty.
You will forgive me, will you not? But――this news of yours――is so
unexpected, so astounding――――!”

“Pray say no more!” interposed the Major, warmly. “I quite understand
your agitation. And since the subject is unpleasant to you I will
conclude my explanation as quickly as possible.”

“There is more?” asked Miss India, anxiously.

“A little. Mr. Potter kept the property some three years and then――I
learned these facts but a few hours since――then became involved in
financial troubles and――pardon me――committed suicide. He was found at
his desk in his office something over a year ago with a bullet in his
brain.”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Miss India, but――and may I in turn be pardoned
if I do the lady an injustice――there was something in her tone
suggesting satisfaction with the manner in which a just Providence had
dealt with a Northerner so presumptuous as to dishonor Waynewood with
his ownership. “And now?” she asked.

“This morning I received a letter from a gentleman signing himself
Robert Winthrop, a business partner of the late unfortunate owner of
the property. In the letter he informs me that after arranging the
firm’s affairs he finds himself in possession of Waynewood and is
coming here to look it over and, if it is in condition to allow of it,
to spend some months here. He writes――let me see; I have his letter
here. Ah, yes. H’m:

    “‘My health went back on me after I had got affairs fixed up,
    and I have been dandling my heels about a sanitarium for three
    months. Now the physician advises quiet and a change of scene,
    and it occurs to me that I may find both in your town. So I am
    leaving almost at once for Florida. Naturally, I wish to see my
    new possessions, and if the house is habitable I shall occupy
    it for three or four months. When I arrive I shall take the
    liberty of calling on you and asking your assistance in the
    matter.’”

The Major folded the letter and returned it to the cavernous pocket of
his coat.

“I gather that he is――ah――uninformed of the present arrangement,” he
observed.

“That, I think, is of slight importance,” returned Miss India, “since
by the time he arrives the house will be quite at his disposal.”

“You mean that you intend to move out?” asked the Major, anxiously.

“Most certainly! Do you think that I――that either Holly or I――would
continue to remain under this roof a moment longer than necessary now
that we know it belongs to a――a Northerner?”

“But he writes――he expresses himself like a gentleman, my dear lady,
and I feel certain that he would be only too proud to have you remain
here――――”

“I have never yet seen a Northern gentleman, Major,” replied Miss
India, contemptuously, “and until I do I refuse to believe in the
existence of such an anomaly.”

The Major raised his hands in a gesture of helpless protestation.

“Madam, I had the honor of fighting the Northerners, and I assure you
that many of them are gentlemen. Their ways are not ours, I grant you,
nor are their manners, but――――”

“That is a subject upon which, I recollect, you and my brother were
never able to agree.”

The Major nodded ruefully. The momentary silence was broken at last by
Miss India.

“I do not pretend to pit my imperfect knowledge against yours, Major.
There may be Northerners who have gentlemanly instincts. That, as may
be, I refuse to be beholden to one of them. They were our enemies and
they are still _my_ enemies. They killed my brother John; they brought
ruin to our land.”

“The killing, madam, was not all on their side, I take satisfaction in
recalling. And if they brought distress to the South they have since
very nobly assisted us to restore it.”

“My brother has said many times,” replied the lady, “that he might in
time forgive the North for knocking us down but that he could never
forgive it for helping us up. You have heard him say that, Major?”

“I have, my dear Miss India, I have. And yet I venture to say that had
the Lord spared Lamar for another twenty years he would have modified
his convictions.”

“Never,” said Miss India, sternly; “never!”

“You may be right, my dear lady, but there was something else I have
often heard him say.”

“And pray what is that?”

“A couplet of Mr. Pope’s, madam:

    “‘Good nature and good sense must ever join;
      To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”

“I reckon, however,” answered the lady, dryly, “that you never heard
him connect that sentiment with the Yankees.”

The Major chuckled.

“Deftly countered, madam!” he said. And then, taking advantage of the
little smile of gratification which he saw: “But this is a subject
which you and I, Miss India, can no more agree upon than could your
brother and myself. Let us pass it by. But grant me this favor. Remain
at Waynewood until this Mr. Winthrop arrives. See him before you judge
him, madam. Remember that if what he writes gives a fair exposition of
the case, he is little better than an invalid and so must find sympathy
in every woman’s heart. There is time enough to go, if go you must,
afterwards. It is scarcely likely that Mr. Winthrop could find better
tenants. And no more likely that you and Holly could find so pleasant a
home. Do this, ma’am.”

And Miss India surrendered; not at once, you must know, but after a
stubborn defence, and then only when mutineers from her own lines made
common cause with the enemy. Before the allied forces of the Major’s
arguments and her own womanly sympathy she was forced to capitulate.
And so when a few moments later Holly, after a sharp skirmish of her
own in which she had been decisively beaten by Curiosity, appeared
at the door, she found Aunt India and the Major amicably discussing
village affairs.



III.


Robert Winthrop, laden with bag, overcoat and umbrella, left the
sleeping-car in which he had spent most of the last eighteen hours and
crossed the narrow platform of the junction to the train which was to
convey him the last stage of his journey. It was almost three o’clock
in the afternoon――for the Florida Limited, according to custom, had
been two hours late――and Winthrop was both jaded and dirty; and I might
add that, since this was his first experience with Southern travel, he
was also somewhat out of patience.

Choosing the least soiled of the broken-springed, red-velveted seats
in the white compartment of the single passenger car, he set his bag
down and sank weariedly back. Through the small window beside him he
saw the Limited take up its jolting progress once more, and watched
the station-agent deposit his trunk in the baggage-car ahead, which,
with the single passenger-coach, comprised the Corunna train. Then
followed five minutes during which nothing happened. Winthrop sighed
resignedly and strove to find interest in the view. But there was
little to see from where he sat; a corner of the station, a section of
platform adorned with a few bales of cotton, a crate of live chickens,
and a bag of raw peanuts, a glimpse of the forest which crept down
to the very edge of the track, a wide expanse of cloudless blue sky.
Through the open door and windows, borne on the lazy sun-warmed air,
came the gentle wheezing of the engine ahead, the sudden discordant
chatter of a bluejay, and the murmurous voices of two negro women in
the other compartment. There was no hint of Winter in the air, although
November was almost a week old; instead, it was warm, languorous,
scented with the odors of the forest and tinged at times with the
pleasantly acrid smell of burning pitch-pine from the engine. It
was strangely soft, that air, soft and soothing to tired nerves, and
Winthrop felt its influence and sighed. But this time the sigh was not
one of resignation; rather of surrender. He stretched his legs as well
as he might in the narrow space afforded them, leaned his head back and
closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized until this moment how tired he was!
The engine sobbed and wheezed and the negroes beyond the closed door
murmured on.

“Your ticket, sir, if you please.”

Winthrop opened his eyes and blinked. The train was swaying along
between green, sunlit forest walls, and at his side the conductor was
waiting with good-humored patience. Winthrop yielded the last scrap of
his green strip and sat up. Suddenly the wood fell behind on either
side, giving place to wide fields which rolled back from the railroad
to disappear over tiny hills. They were fertile, promising-looking
fields, chocolate-hued, covered with sere, brown cotton-plants to which
here and there tufts of white still clung. Rail fences zigzagged
between them, and fire-blackened pine stumps marred their neatness.
At intervals the engine emitted a doleful screech and a narrow road
crossed the track to amble undecidedly away between the fields. At
such moments Winthrop caught glimpses of an occasional log cabin with
its tipsy, clay-chinked chimney and its invariable congress of lean
chickens and leaner dogs. Now and then a commotion along the track drew
his attention to a scurrying, squealing drove of pigs racing out of
danger. Then for a time the woods closed in again, and presently the
train slowed down before a small station. Winthrop reached tentatively
toward his bag, but at that instant the sign came into sight, “Cowper,”
he read, and settled back again.

[Illustration]

Apparently none boarded the train and none got off, and presently the
journey began once more. The conductor entered, glanced at Winthrop,
decided that he didn’t look communicative and so sat himself down in
the corner and leisurely bit the corner off a new plug of tobacco.

The fields came into sight again, and once a comfortable-looking
residence gazed placidly down at the passing train from the crest of
a nearby hill. But Winthrop saw without seeing. His thoughts were
reviewing once more the chain of circumstances which had led link by
link to the present moment. His thoughts went no further back than
that painful morning nearly two years before when he had discovered
Gerald Potter huddled over his desk, a revolver beside him on the
floor, and his face horrible with the stains of blood and of ink from
the overturned ink-stand. They had been friends ever since college
days, Gerald and he, and the shock had never quite left him. During the
subsequent work of disentangling the affairs of the firm the thing
haunted him like a nightmare, and when the last obligation had been
discharged, Winthrop’s own small fortune going with the rest, he had
broken down completely. Nervous prostration, the physician called it.
Looking back at it now Winthrop had a better name for it, and that
was, Hell. There had been moments when he feared he would die, and
interminable nights when he feared he wouldn’t, when he had cried like
a baby and begged to be put out of misery. There had been two months
of that, and then they had bundled him off to a sanitarium in the
Connecticut hills. There he, who a few months before had been a strong,
capable man of thirty-eight, found himself a weak, helpless, emaciated
thing with no will of his own, a mere sleeping and waking automaton,
more interested in watching the purple veins on the backs of his thin
hands than aught else in his limited world. At times he could have wept
weakly from self-pity.

But that, too, had passed. One sparkling September morning he lay
stretched at length in a long chair on the uncovered veranda, a flood
of inspiriting sunlight upon him, and a little breeze, brisk with the
cool zest of Autumn, stirring his hair. And he had looked up from the
white and purple hands and had seen a new world of green and gold and
blue spread before him at his feet, a twelve-mile panorama of Nature’s
finest work retouched and varnished overnight. He had feasted his eyes
upon it and felt a glad stirring at his heart. And that day had marked
the beginning of a new stage of recovery; he had asked, “How long?”

The last week in October had seen his release. He had returned to his
long-vacant apartment in New York fully determined to start at once
the work of rebuilding his fallen fortunes. But his physician had
interposed. “I’ve done what I can for you,” he said, “and the rest is
in your own hands. Get away from New York; it won’t supply what you
need. Get into the country somewhere, away from cities and tickers.
Hunt, fish, spend your time out of doors. There’s nothing organically
wrong with that heart of yours, but it’s pretty tired yet; nurse it
awhile.”

“The programme sounds attractive,” Winthrop had replied, smilingly,
“but it’s expensive. Practically I am penniless. Give me a year to
gather the threads up again and get things a-going once more, and I’ll
take your medicine gladly.”

The physician had shrugged his shoulders with a grim smile.

“I have never heard,” he replied, “that the hunting or fishing was
especially good in the next world.”

“What do you mean?” asked Winthrop, frowning.

“Just this, sir. You say you can’t afford to take a vacation. I say you
can’t afford not to take it. I’ve lived a good deal longer than you and
I give you my word I never saw a poor man who wasn’t a whole lot better
off than any dead one of my acquaintance. I don’t want to frighten
you, but I tell you frankly that if you stay here and buckle down to
rebuilding your business you’ll be a damned poor risk for any insurance
company inside of two weeks. It’s better to live poor than to die rich.
Take your choice.”

Winthrop had taken it. After all, poverty is comparative, and he
realized that he was still as well off as many a clerk who was
contentedly keeping a family on his paltry twenty or thirty dollars
a week. He sub-rented his apartment, paid what bills he owed out of
the small balance standing to his name at the bank, and considered
the question of destination. It was then that he had remembered the
piece of property in Florida which he had taken over for the firm and
which, having been the least desirable of the assets, had escaped the
creditors. He went to the telephone and called up the physician.

“How would Florida do?” he had asked. “Good place to play invalid,
isn’t it?”

“I don’t care where you go,” was the response, “so long as there’s pure
air and sunshine there, and as long as you give your whole attention
to mending yourself.”

He had never been in Florida, but it appealed to him and he believed
that, since he must live economically, there could be no better place;
at least there would be no rent to pay. So he had written to Major
Cass, whose name he had come across in looking over his partner’s
papers, and had started South on the heels of his letter. The trip
had been a hard one for him, but now the soft, fragrant air that blew
against his face through the open car window was already soothing him
with its caressing touch and whispering fair promises of strengthening
days. A long blast of the whistle moved the conductor to a return of
animation and Winthrop awoke from his thoughts. The train was slowing
down with a grinding of hand-brakes. Through the window he caught
glimpses of gardens and houses and finally of a broad, tree-lined
street marching straight away from the railroad up a sloping hill to
a gray stone building with a wooden cupola which seemed to block its
path. Then the station threw its shadow across him and the train, with
many jerks and much rattling of coupling, came to a stop.

[Illustration]

“Corunna,” drawled the conductor.

Outside, on the platform which ran in front of the station on a level
with the car floors, Winthrop looked about him with mingled amusement
and surprise. In most places, he thought, the arrival of the daily
train was an event of sufficient importance to people the station
platform with spectators. But here he counted just three persons
beside himself and the train crew. These were the two negresses who
had travelled with him and the station agent. There was no carriage in
sight; not even a dray for his trunk. He applied to the agent.

“Take that street over yonder,” said the agent, “and it’ll fetch you
right square to the Major’s office, sir. I’ll look after your bag until
you send for it. You tell the nigger to ask me for it, sir.”

[Illustration]

So Winthrop yielded the bag, coat and umbrella and started forth. The
station and the adjoining freight-shed stood, neutral-hued, under the
wide-spreading branches of several magnificent live-oaks, in one of
which, hidden somewhere in the thick greenery, a thrush was singing.
This sound, with that of the panting of the tired engine, alone stirred
the somnolent silence of mid-afternoon. A road, deep with white sand,
ambled away beneath the trees in the direction of the wide street which
Winthrop had seen from the car and to which he had been directed. It
proved to be a well-kept thoroughfare lined with oaks and bordered
by pleasant gardens in front of comfortable, always picturesque and
sometimes handsome houses. The sidewalks were high above the street,
and gullies of red clay, washed deep by the heavy rains, divided the
two. In front of the gates little bridges crossed the gullies. The
gardens were still aflame with late flowers and the scent of roses was
over all. Winthrop walked slowly, his senses alert and enravished.
He drew in deep breaths of the fragrant air and sighed for very
contentment.

“Heavens,” he said under his breath, “the place is just one big rest
cure! If I can’t get fixed up here I might as well give up trying. I
wonder,” he added a moment later, “if every one is asleep.”

There was not a soul in sight up the length of the street, but from one
of the houses came the sound of a piano and, as he glanced toward its
embowered porch, he thought he caught the white of a woman’s gown.

“Someone’s awake, anyhow,” he thought. “Maybe she’s a victim of
insomnia.”

The street came to an end in a wide space surrounded by one- and
two-story stores and occupied in the centre by a stone building which
he surmised to be the court-house. He bore to the right, his eyes
searching the buildings for the shingle of Major Cass. A few teams
were standing in front of the town hitching-rails, and perhaps a dozen
persons, mostly negroes, were in view. He had decided to appeal for
information when he caught sight of a modest sign on a corner building
across the square. “L. Q. Cass, Counsellor at Law,” he read. The
building was a two-story affair of crumbling red brick. The lower part
was occupied by a general merchandise store, and the upper by offices.
A flight of wooden steps led from the sidewalk along the outside of
the building to the second floor. Winthrop ascended, entered an open
door, and knocked at the first portal. But there was no reply to his
demands, and, as the other rooms in sight were evidently untenanted, he
returned to the street and addressed himself to a youth who sat on an
empty box under the wooden awning of the store below. The youth was in
his shirt-sleeves and was eating sugar-cane, but at Winthrop’s greeting
he rose to his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
answered courteously:

“Waynewood is about three-quarters of a mile, sir,” he replied to the
stranger’s inquiry. “Right down this street, sir, until you cross the
bridge over the branch. Then it’s the first place.”

He was evidently very curious about the questioner, but strove politely
to restrain that curiosity until the other had moved away along the
street.

The street upon which Winthrop now found himself ran at right angles
with that up which he had proceeded from the station. Like that, it was
shaded from side to side by water-oaks and bordered by gardens. But
the gardens were larger, less flourishing, and the houses behind them
smaller and less tidy. He concluded that this was an older part of the
village. Several carriages passed him, and once he paused in the shade
to watch the slow approach and disappearance of a creaking two-wheeled
cart, presided over by a white-haired old negro and drawn by a pair
of ruminative oxen. It was in sight quite five minutes, during which
time Winthrop leaned against the sturdy bole of an oak and marvelled
smilingly.

[Illustration]

“And in New York,” he said to himself, “we swear because it takes us
twenty minutes to get to Wall Street on the elevated!”

He went on, glad of the rest, passing from sunlight to shadow along the
uneven sidewalk and finally crossing the bridge, a tiny affair over a
shallow stream of limpid water which trickled musically over its bed
of white sand. Beyond the bridge the sidewalk ceased and he went on
for a little distance over a red clay road, rutted by wheels and baked
hard by the sun. Then a picket fence which showed evidence of having
once been whitewashed met him and he felt a sudden stirring within him.
This was Waynewood, doubtless, and it belonged to him. The thought was
somehow a very pleasant one. He wondered why. He had possessed far
more valuable real estate in his time but he couldn’t recollect that he
had ever thrilled before at the thought of ownership.

[Illustration]

“Oh, there’s magic in this ridiculous air,” he told himself whimsically.
“Even a toad would look romantic here, I dare say. I wonder if there is
a gate to my domain.”

Behind the fence along which he made his way was an impenetrable mass
of shrubbery and trees. Of what was beyond, there was no telling. But
presently the gate was before him, sagging wide open on its rusted
hinges. From it a straight path, narrow and shadowy, proceeded for some
distance, crossed a blur of sunlight and continued to where a gleam of
white seemed to indicate a building. The path was set between solid
rows of oleander bushes whose lanceolate leaves whispered murmurously
to Winthrop as he trod the firm, moss-edged path.

The blur of sunlight proved to be a break in the path where a driveway
angled across it, curving on toward the house and backward toward
the road where, as Winthrop later discovered, it emerged through a
gate beyond the one by which he had entered. He crossed the drive and
plunged again into the gloom of the oleander path. But his journey was
almost over, for a moment later the sentinel bushes dropped away from
beside him and he found himself at the foot of a flower garden, across
whose blossom-flecked width a white-pillared, double-galleried old
house stared at him in dignified calm. The porches were untenanted and
the wide-open door showed an empty hall. To reach that door Winthrop
had to make a half circuit of the garden, for directly in front of
him a great round bed of roses and box barred his way. In the middle
of the bed a stained marble cupid twined garlands of roses about his
naked body. Winthrop followed the path to the right and circled his
way to the drive and the steps, the pleasure of possession kindling
in his heart. With his foot on the lowest step he paused and glanced
about him. It was charming! Find his health here? Oh, beyond a doubt
he would. Ponce de Leon had searched in this part of the world for the
Fountain of Youth. Who knew but that he, Robert Winthrop, might not
find it here, hidden away in this fragrant, shaded jungle? And just
then his wandering glance fell on a sprawling fig-tree at the end of
the porch, at a white figure perched in its branches, at a girl’s
fresh young face looking across at him with frank and smiling curiosity.

Winthrop took off his hat and moved toward the fig-tree.



IV.


The Major had accomplished his errand and had taken his departure,
accompanied down the oleander path as far as the gate by Holly. He
was very well satisfied with his measure of success. Miss India had
consented to remain at Waynewood until the arrival of the new owner,
and if the new owner proved to be the kind of man the Major hoped him
to be, things would work out quite satisfactory. Of course a good deal
depended on Robert Winthrop’s being as much of an invalid as the Major
had pictured him to Miss India. Let him appear on the scene exhibiting
a sound body and rugged health and all the Major’s plans would be
upset; Miss India’s sympathy would vanish on the instant, and Waynewood
would be promptly abandoned to the enemy.

The Major’s affection for Miss India and Holly was deep and sincere,
and the idea of their leaving Waynewood was intolerable to him. The
thing mustn’t be, and he believed he could prevent it. Winthrop, on
arrival, would of course call upon him at once. Then he would point
out to him the advantage of retaining such admirable tenants, acquaint
him with the terms of occupancy, and prevail upon him to renew the
lease, which had expired some months before. It was not likely that
Winthrop would remain in Corunna more than three months at the most,
and during his stay he could pay Miss India for his board. Yes, the
Major had schemed it all out between the moment of receiving that
disquieting letter and the moment of his arrival at Waynewood. And
his schemes looked beyond the present crisis. In another year or so
Julian Wayne, Holly’s second cousin, would have finished his term with
Doctor Thompson at Marysville and would be ready to begin practice
for himself, settle down and marry Holly. Why shouldn’t Julian buy
Waynewood? To be sure, he possessed very little capital, but it was
not likely that the present owner of Waynewood would demand a large
price for the property. There could be a mortgage, and Julian was
certain to make a success of his profession. In this way Waynewood
would remain with the Waynes and Miss India and Holly could live their
lives out in the place that had always been home to them. So plotted
the Major, while Fate, outwardly inscrutable, doubtless chuckled in her
sleeve.

[Illustration]

At the gate the Major had shaken hands with Holly and made a request.

“My dear,” he had said, “when you return to the house your Aunt will
have something to tell you. Be guided by her. Remember that there are
two sides to every question and that――ah――time alters all things.”

“But, Uncle Major, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holly had
declared, laughing.

“I know you don’t, my dear; I know you don’t. And I haven’t time to
tell you.” He had drawn his big silver watch from his vest and glanced
at it apprehensively. “I promised to be at my office an hour ago. I
really must hurry back. Good-bye, my dear.”

“Good-bye,” Holly had answered. “But I think you’re a most provoking,
horrid old Uncle Major.”

But if the Major had feared mutiny on the part of Holly he might
have spared himself the uneasiness. Holly had heard of the impending
event from Aunt India at the dinner table with relish. Of course it
was disgusting to learn that Waynewood was owned by a Northerner, but
doubtless that was an injustice of Fate which would be remedied in
good time. The exciting thing was that they were to have a visitor, a
stranger, someone from that fearsomely interesting and, if reports were
to be credited, delightfully wicked place called New York; someone who
could talk to her of other matters than the prospects of securing the
new railroad.

“Auntie, is he married?” she had asked, suddenly.

“My dear Holly, what has that to do with it?”

“Well, you see,” Holly had responded, demurely, “I’m not married
myself, and when you put two people together who are not married, why,
something may happen.”

“Holly!” protested Miss India, in horror.

“Oh, I was only in fun,” said Holly, with a laugh. “Do you reckon,
Auntie dear, that I’d marry a Northerner?”

“I should certainly trust not,” replied Miss India, severely.

“Not if he had millions and millions of money and whole bushels of
diamonds,” answered Holly, cheerfully. “But is he married, Auntie?”

“I’m sure I can’t say. The Major believes him to be a man of middle
age, possibly fifty years old, and so it is quite likely that he has a
wife.”

“And he is not bringing her with him?”

“He said nothing of it in his letter, my dear.”

“Then I think she’s a very funny kind of a wife,” replied Holly, with
conviction. “If he is an invalid, I don’t see why she lets him come
away down here all alone. I wouldn’t if I were she. I’d be afraid.”

“I don’t reckon he’s as much of an invalid as all that.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about his health then,” answered Holly. “I’d be
afraid he’d meet someone he liked better than me and I wouldn’t see him
again.”

“Holly, where do you get such deplorable notions?” asked her Aunt
severely. “It must be the books you read. You read altogether too much.
At your age, my dear, I assure you I――――”

“I shall be eighteen in just twelve days,” interrupted Holly. “And
eighteen is grown-up. Besides, you know very well that wives do lose
their husbands sometimes. There was Cousin Maybird Fairleigh――――”

“I decline to discuss such vulgar subjects,” said Miss India,
decisively. “Under the circumstances I think it just as well to forget
the relationship, which is of the very slightest, my dear.”

“But it wasn’t Cousin Maybird’s fault,” protested Holly. “She didn’t
want to lose him, Aunt India. He was a very nice husband; very handsome
and distinguished, you know. It was all the fault of that other woman,
the one he married after the divorce.”

“Holly!”

“Yes?”

“We will drop the subject, if you please.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

Holly smiled at her plate. Presently:

“When is this Mr. Winthrop coming?” she asked.

“He didn’t announce the exact date of arrival,” replied Miss India.
“But probably within a day or two. I have ordered Phœbe to prepare the
West Chamber for him. He will, of course, require a warm room and a
good bed.”

“But, Auntie, the carpet is so awful in the West Room,” deplored Holly.

“That is his affair,” replied Aunt India, serenely, as she arose from
the table. “It is his carpet.”

Holly looked surprised, then startled.

“Do you mean that everything here belongs to him?” she asked,
incredulously. “The furniture and pictures and books and――and
everything?”

“Waynewood was sold just as it stood at the time, my dear. Everything
except what is our personal property belongs to Mr. Winthrop.”

“Then I shall hate him,” said Holly, with calm decision.

“You must do nothing of the sort, my dear. The place and the furnishings
belong to him legally.”

“I don’t care, Auntie. He has no right to them. I shall hate him. Why,
he owns the very bed I sleep in and my maple bureau and――――”

“You forget, Holly, that those things were bought after your father
died and do not belong to his estate.”

“Then they’re really mine, after all? Very well, Auntie dear, I shan’t
hate him, then; at least, not so much.”

“I trust you will not hate him at all,” responded Miss India, with a
smile. “Being an invalid, as he is, we must――――”

“Shucks!” exclaimed Holly. “I dare say he’s just making believe so we
won’t put poison in his coffee!”

In the middle of the afternoon, what time Miss India composed herself
to slumber and silence reigned over Waynewood, Holly found a book and
sought the fig-tree. The book, for having been twice read, proved
none too enthralling, and presently it had dropped unheeded to the
ground and Holly, leaning comfortably back against the branches, was
day-dreaming once more. The sound of footsteps on the garden path
roused her, and she peered forth just as the intruder began his half
circuit of the rose-bed.

Afterwards Holly called herself stupid for not having guessed the
identity of the intruder at once. And yet, it seems to me that she was
very excusable. Robert Winthrop had been pictured to her as an invalid,
and invalids in Holly’s judgment were persons who lay supinely in easy
chairs, lived on chicken broth, guava jelly and calomel, and were
alternately irritatingly resigned or maddeningly petulant. The expected
invalid had also been described as middle-aged, a term capable of wide
interpretation and one upon which the worst possible construction is
usually placed. The Major had suggested fifty; Holly with unconscious
pessimism imagined sixty. Add to this that Winthrop was not expected
before the morrow, and that Holly’s acquaintance with the inhabitants
of the country north of Mason and Dixon’s line was of the slightest and
that not of the sort to prepossess her in their favor, and I think she
may be absolved from the charge of stupidity. For the stranger whose
advent in the garden had aroused her from her dreams looked to be under
forty, was far from matching Holly’s idea of an invalid, and looked
quite unlike the one or two Northerners she had seen. To be sure the
man in the garden walked slowly and a trifle languidly, but for that
matter so did many of Holly’s townsfolk. And when he paused at last
with one foot on the lower step his breath was coming a bit raggedly
and his face was too pale for perfect health. But these facts Holly
failed to observe.

What she did observe was that the stranger was rather tall, quite
erect, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, somewhat too thin for the
size of his frame, with a pleasant, lean face of which the conspicuous
features were high cheek-bones, a straightly uncompromising nose and a
pair of nice eyes of some shade neither dark nor light. He wore a brown
mustache which, contrary to the Southern custom, was trimmed quite
short; and when he lifted his hat a moment later Holly saw that his
hair, dark brown in color, had retreated well away from his forehead
and was noticeably sprinkled with white at the temples. As for his
attire, it was immaculate; black derby, black silk tie knotted in a
four-in-hand and secured with a small pearl pin, well-cut grey sack
suit and brown leather shoes. In a Southerner Holly would have thought
such carefulness of dress foppish; in fact, as it was, she experienced
a tiny contempt for it even as she acknowledged that the result was far
from displeasing. Further observations and conclusions were cut short
by the stranger, who advanced toward her with hat in hand and a puzzled
smile.

“How do you do?” said Winthrop.

“Good evening,” answered Holly.

There was a flicker of surprise in Winthrop’s eyes ere he continued.

“I’m afraid I’m trespassing. The fact is, I was looking for a place
called Waynewood and from the directions I received in the village I
thought I had found it. But I guess I’ve made a mistake?”

“Oh, no,” said Holly; “this is Waynewood.”

Winthrop was silent a moment, striving to reconcile the announcement
with her presence: evidently there were complications ahead. At last:

“Oh!” he said, and again paused.

“Would you like to see my Aunt?” asked Holly.

“Er――I hardly know,” answered Winthrop, with a smile for his own
predicament. “Would it sound impolite if I asked who your Aunt is?”

“Why, Miss India Wayne,” answered Holly. “And I am Holly Wayne. Perhaps
you’ve got the wrong place, after all?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply. “You say this is Waynewood, and of course
there can’t be two Waynewoods about here.”

Holly shook her head, observing him gravely and curiously. Winthrop
frowned. Apparently there were complications which he had not surmised.

“Will you come into the house?” suggested Holly. “I will tell Auntie
you wish to see her.” She prepared to descend from the low branch upon
which she was seated, and Winthrop reached a hand to her.

“May I?” he asked, courteously.

Holly placed her hand in his and leaped lightly to the ground, bending
her head as she smoothed her skirt that he might not see the ridiculous
little flush which had suddenly flooded her cheeks. Why, she wondered,
should she have blushed. She had been helped in and out of trees and
carriages, up and down steps, all her life, and couldn’t recollect that
she had ever done such a silly thing before! As she led the way along
the path which ran in front of the porch to the steps, she discovered
that her heart was thumping with a most disconcerting violence. And
with the discovery came a longing for flight. But with a fierce
contempt for her weakness she conquered the panic and kept her flushed
face from the sight of the man behind her. But she was heartily glad
when she had reached the comparative gloom of the hall. Laying aside
her bonnet, she turned to find that her companion had seated himself in
a chair on the porch.

“You won’t mind if I wait here?” he asked, smiling apologetically. “The
fact is――the walk was――――”

Had Holly not been anxious to avoid his eyes she would have seen that
he was fighting for breath and quite exhausted. Instead she turned
toward the stairs, only to pause ere she reached them to ask:

“What name shall I say, please?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! Winthrop, please; Mr. Robert Winthrop, of New
York.”

Holly wheeled about.

“Mr. Winthrop!” she exclaimed.

“If you please,” answered that gentleman, weakly.

“Why,” continued Holly, in amazement, “then you aren’t an invalid,
after all!” She had reached the door now and was looking down at him
with bewilderment. Winthrop strove to turn his head toward her, gave up
the effort and smiled strainedly at the marble Cupid, which had begun
an erratic dance amongst the box and roses.

“Oh, no,” he replied in a whisper. “I’m not――an invalid――at all.”

Then he became suddenly very white and his head fell back over the side
of the chair. Holly gave one look and, turning, flew like the wind up
the broad stairway.

[Illustration]

“Auntie!” she called. “Aunt India! Come quickly! He’s fainted!”

“Fainted? Who has fainted?” asked Miss India, from her doorway. “What
are you saying, child?”

“Mr. Winthrop! He’s on the porch!” cried Holly, her own face almost as
white as Winthrop’s.

“Mr. Winthrop! Here? Fainted? On the porch?” ejaculated Miss India,
dismayedly. “Call Uncle Ran at once. I’ll get the ammonia. Tell Phœbe
to bring some feathers. And get some water yourself, Holly.”

In a moment Miss India, the ammonia bottle in hand, was――I had almost
said scuttling down the stairs. At least, she made the descent without
wasting a moment.

“The poor man,” she murmured, as she looked down at the white face and
inert form of the stranger. “Holly! Phœbe! Oh, you’re here, are you?
Give me the water. There! Now bathe his head, Holly. Mercy, child, how
your hand shakes! Have you never seen any one faint before?”

“It was so sudden,” faltered Holly.

“Fainting usually is,” replied Miss India, as she dampened her tiny
handkerchief with ammonia and held it under Winthrop’s nose. “Do not
hold his head too high, Holly; that’s better. What do you say, Phœbe?
Why, you’ll just stand there and hold them until I want them, I reckon.
Dead? Of course he isn’t dead, you foolish girl. Not the least bit
dead. There, his eyelids moved; didn’t you see them? He will be all
right in a moment. You may take those feathers away, Phœbe, and tell
Uncle Ran to come and carry Mr. Winthrop up to his room. And do you go
up and start the fire and turn the bed down.”

Winthrop drew a long breath and opened his eyes.

“My dear lady,” he muttered, “I am so very sorry to bother you. I
don’t――――”

“Sit still a moment, sir,” commanded Miss India, gently. “Holly, I told
you to hold his head. Don’t you see that he is weak and tired? I fear
the journey was too much for you, sir.”

Winthrop closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head assentingly.
Then he sat up and smiled apologetically at the ladies.

“It was awfully stupid of me,” he said. “I have not been very well
lately and I guess the walk from the station was longer than I thought.”

“You walked from the depot!” exclaimed Miss India, in horror. “It’s
no wonder then, sir. Why, it’s a mile and a quarter if it’s a step! I
never heard of anything so――so――――!”

Miss India broke off and turned to the elderly negro, who had arrived
hurriedly on the scene.

“Uncle Ran, carry Mr. Winthrop up to the West Chamber and help him to
retire.”

“My dear lady,” Winthrop protested. “I am quite able to walk. Besides,
I have no intention of burdening you with――――”

“Uncle Ran!”

“Yes’m.”

“You heard what I said?”

“Yes’m.”

Uncle Randall stooped over the chair.

“Jes’ you put yo’ ahms roun’ my neck, sir, an’ I’ll tote you mighty
cahful an’ comfable, sir.”

“But, really, I’d rather walk,” protested Winthrop. “And with your
permission, Miss――Miss Wayne, I’ll return to the village until――――”

“Uncle Ran!”

“Yes, Miss Indy, ma’am, I heahs you. Hol’ on tight, sir.”

And in this ignoble fashion Winthrop took possession of Waynewood.

[Illustration]



V.


True to his promise, Uncle Ran bore Winthrop “careful and comfortable”
up the wide stairs, around the turn and along the upper hall to the
West Chamber, lowering him at last, as tenderly as a basket of eggs,
into a chair. In spite of his boasts, Winthrop was in no condition to
have walked up-stairs unaided. The fainting spell, the first one since
he had left the sanitarium, had left him feeling limp and shaky. He was
glad of the negro’s assistance and content to have him remove his shoes
and help him off with his coat, the while he examined his quarters with
lazy interest.

The room was very large, square, high-ceilinged. The walls were white
and guiltless of both paper and pictures. Four large windows would have
flooded the room with light had not the shades been carefully drawn to
within two feet of the sills. As it was, from the windows overlooking
the garden and opening onto the gallery the afternoon sunlight slanted
in, throwing long parallelograms of mellow gold across the worn and
faded carpet. The bed was a massive affair of black walnut, the
three chairs were old and comfortable, and the big mahogany-veneer
table in the centre of the room was large enough to have served for
a banquet. On it was a lamp, a plate of oranges whose fragrance was
pleasantly perceptible, and a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress bound in the
“keepsake” fashion of fifty years ago. The fire-place and hearth were
of soft red bricks and a couple of oak logs were flaring brightly. A
formidable wardrobe, bedecked with carved branches of grapes, matched
the bed, as did a washstand backed by a white “splasher” bearing a
design of cat-tails in red outline. The room seemed depressingly bare
at first, but for all of that there was an air of large hospitality
and plain comfort about it that was somewhat of a relief after the
over-furnished, over-decorated apartments with which Winthrop was
familiar.

As his baggage had not come Miss India’s command could not be literally
obeyed, and Uncle Ran had perforce to be satisfied with the removal of
Winthrop’s outer apparel and his installation on the bed instead of in
it.

“I’ll get yo’ trunk an’ valise right away, sir,” he said, “before they
close the depot. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Winthrop?
Can I fetch you a lil’ glass of sherry, sir?”

“Nothing, thanks. Yes, though, you might open some of those windows
before you go. And look in my vest pocket and toss me a cigarette case
you’ll find there. I saw matches on the mantel, didn’t I? Thanks.
That’s all. My compliments to Miss Wayne, and tell her I am feeling
much better and that I will be down to dinner――that is, supper.”

“Don’t you pay no ’tention to the bell,” said Uncle Ran, soothingly.
“Phœbe’ll fetch yo’ supper up to you, sir. I’ll jes’ go ’long now and
get yo’ trunk.”

Uncle Ran closed the door softly behind him and Winthrop was left
alone. He pulled the spread over himself, gave a sigh of content, and
lighted a cigarette with fingers that still trembled. Then, placing
his hands beneath his head, he watched the smoke curl away toward the
cracked and flaking ceiling and gave himself up to his thoughts.

What an ass he had made of himself! And what a trump the little lady
had been! He smiled as he recalled the manner in which she had bossed
him around. But who the deuce was she? And who was the young girl with
the big brown eyes? What were they doing here at Waynewood, in his
house? He wished he had not taken things for granted as he had, wished
he had made inquiries before launching himself southward. He must get
hold of that Major Cass and learn his bearings. Perhaps, after all,
there was some mistake and the place didn’t belong to him at all! If
that was the case he had made a pretty fool of himself by walking in
and fainting on the front porch in that casual manner! But he hoped
mightily that there was no mistake, for he had fallen in love at first
sight with the place. If it was his he would fix it up. Then he sighed
as he recollected that until he got firmly on his feet again such a
thing was quite out of the question.

The cigarette had burned itself down and he tossed it onto the hearth.
The light was fading in the room. Through the open windows, borne on
the soft evening air, came the faint tinkling of distant cow-bells.
For the rest the silence held profoundly save for the gentle singing
of the fire. Winthrop turned on to his side, pillowed his head in his
hand and dropped to sleep. So soundly he slept that when Uncle Ran
tiptoed in with his trunk and bag he never stirred. The old negro
nodded approvingly from the foot of the bed, unstrapped the trunk, laid
a fresh log on the fire, and tiptoed out again. When Winthrop finally
awoke he found a neat colored girl lighting the lamp, while beside it
on the table a well-filled tray was laid.

“I fetched your supper, Mr. Winthrop,” said Phœbe.

[Illustration]

“Thank you, but I really meant to go down. I――I think I fell asleep.”

“Yes, sir. Miss Indy say good-night, and she hopes you’ll sleep
comfable, sir.”

“Much obliged,” muttered Winthrop.

“I’ll be back after awhile to fetch away the tray, sir.”

“All right.”

When he was once more alone he arose and laughed softly.

“Confound the woman! She’s a regular tyrant. I wonder if she’ll let
me get up to-morrow. Oh, well, maybe she’s right. I don’t feel much
like making conversation. Hello! there’s my trunk; I must have slept
soundly, and that’s a fact!”

Unlocking the trunk, he rummaged through it until he found his
dressing-gown and slippers. With those on he drew a chair to the table
and began his supper.

“Nice diet for an invalid,” he thought, amusedly, as he uncovered the
hot biscuits.

But he didn’t object to them, for he found himself very hungry; spread
with the white, crumbly unsalted butter which the repast provided he
found them extremely satisfactory. There was cold chicken, besides,
and egg soufflé, fig preserve and marble cake, and a glass of milk.
Winthrop’s gaze lingered on the milk.

“No coffee, eh?” he muttered. “Not suitable for invalids, I suppose;
milk much better.”

But when he had finished his meal the glass of milk still remained
untouched and he observed it thoughtfully. “I fancy Miss Wayne will
see this tray when it goes down and she’ll feel hurt because I haven’t
drunk that infernal stuff.” His gaze wandered around the room until it
encountered the washstand. “Ah!” he said, as he arose. When he returned
to the table the glass was quite empty. Digging his pipe and pouch from
his bag he filled the former and was soon puffing enjoyably, leaning
back in the easy-chair and watching the smouldering fire.

“Even if I have to get out of here,” he reflected, “I dare say there’s
a hotel or boarding-house in the village where I could put up. I’m
not going back North yet awhile, and that’s certain. But if there’s
anything wrong with my title to Waynewood why shouldn’t they let me
stay here now that I’m established? That’s a good idea, by Jove! I’ll
get my trunk unpacked right away; possession is nine points, they say.
I dare say these folks aren’t so well off but what they’d be willing to
take a respectable gentleman to board.”

A fluttering at his heart warned him and he laid aside his half-smoked
pipe regretfully and began to unpack his trunk and bag. In the midst of
the task Phœbe appeared to rearrange his bed and bear away the tray,
bidding him good-night in her soft voice as she went.

By half-past seven his things were in place and, taking up one of the
books which he had brought with him, he settled himself to read.
But voices in the hall below distracted his attention, and presently
footsteps sounded on the stairway, there was a tap at his door and
Phœbe appeared again.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Phœbe, “but Major Cass say can he see you――――”

“Phœbe!” called the Major from below.

“Yes, sir?”

“You tell Mr. Winthrop that if he’s feeling too tired to see me
to-night I’ll call again to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Phœbe turned to Winthrop. “The Major say――――”

“All right. Ask the Major to come up,” interrupted Winthrop, tossing
aside his book and exchanging dressing-gown for coat and waistcoat. A
moment later the Major’s halting tread sounded outside the open door
and Winthrop went forward to meet him.

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winthrop,” said the Major,
as they shook hands.

“Glad to know you, Major,” replied Winthrop. “Come in, please; try the
arm-chair.”

The Major bowed his thanks, laid his cane across the table and accepted
the chair which Winthrop pushed forward. Winthrop drew a second chair
to the other side of the fire-place.

“A fire, Mr. Winthrop,” observed the Major, “is very acceptable these
cool evenings.”

“Well, I haven’t felt the need of it myself,” replied Winthrop, “but it
was here and it seemed a shame to waste it. I’ll close the windows if
you like.”

“Not at all, not at all; I like fresh air. I couldn’t have too much of
it, sir, if it wasn’t for this confounded rheumatism of mine. With your
permission, sir.” The Major leaned forward and laid a fresh log on the
fire. Winthrop arose and quietly closed the windows.

“Do you smoke, Major? I have some cigars here somewhere.”

“Thank you, sir, if they’re right handy.” He accepted one, held it to
his nose and inhaled the aroma, smiled approvingly and tucked it into
a corner of his mouth. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t light it,” he said.

“Certainly,” replied Winthrop.

“I never learned to smoke, Mr. Winthrop,” explained the Major, “and I
reckon I’m too old to begin now. But when I was a boy, and afterwards,
during the war, I got a lot of comfort out of chewing, sir. But it’s a
dirty habit, sir, and I had to give it up. The only way I use tobacco
now, sir, is in this way. It’s a compromise, sir.” And he rolled the
cigar around enjoyably.

“I see,” replied Winthrop.

“I trust you are feeling recovered from the effects of your arduous
journey?” inquired the Major.

“Quite, thank you. I dare say Miss Wayne told you what an ass I made of
myself when I arrived?”

“You refer to your――ah――momentary indisposition? Yes, Miss India
informed me, and I was very pleased to learn of it.” Winthrop stared
in surprise. “You are feeling better now, sir?”

“Oh, yes; quite fit, thank you.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. I must apologize for not being at the
station to welcome you, sir, but I gathered from your letter that you
would not reach Corunna before to-morrow, and I thought that perhaps
you would telegraph me again. I was obliged to drive into the country
this afternoon on business, and only learned of your visit to my office
when I returned. I then took the liberty of calling at the earliest
moment.”

“And I’m very glad you did,” answered Winthrop, heartily. “There’s a
good deal I want to talk to you about.”

“I am quite at your service, sir.”

“Thanks, Major. Now, in the first place, where am I?”

“Your pardon, Mr. Winthrop?” asked the Major, startledly.

“I mean,” answered the other, with a smile, “is this Waynewood and does
it belong to me?”

“This is certainly Waynewood, sir, and I have gathered from your letter
that you had come into possession of it.”

“All right. Then who, if I may ask the question without seeming
impertinent, who are the ladies down-stairs?”

“Ah, Mr. Winthrop, I understand your question now,” returned the Major.
“Allow me to explain. I would have done so before had there been
opportunity, but your letter said that you were leaving New York at
once and I presumed that there would be no time for an answer to reach
you.”

“Quite right, Major.”

“The ladies are Miss India Wayne and her niece, Miss Holly Wayne,
sister and daughter respectively of my very dear and much lamented
friend Captain Lamar Wayne, whose home this was for many years. At his
death I found myself the executor of his will, sir. He left this estate
and very little else but debts. I did the best I could, Mr. Winthrop,
but Waynewood had to go. It was sold to a Judge Linderman of Georgia,
a very estimable gentleman and a shining light of the State Bar. As he
had no intention of living here I made an arrangement with him whereby
Miss India and her niece might remain here in their home, sir, paying
a――a nominal rent for the place.”

“A very convenient arrangement, Major.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied the Major, almost eagerly.
“Judge Linderman, however, was a consarned fool, sir, and couldn’t
let speculation alone. He was caught in a cotton panic and absolutely
ruined. Waynewood then passed to your late partner, Mr. Potter. The
arrangement in force before was extended with his consent, and the
ladies have continued to reside here. They are paying”――(the Major
paused and spat voluminously into the fire)――“they are paying, Mr.
Winthrop, the sum of five dollars a month rent.”

“A fair figure, I presume, as rents go hereabouts,” observed Winthrop,
subduing a smile.

The Major cleared his throat. Then he leaned across and laid a large
hand on Winthrop’s knee.

“A small price, Mr. Winthrop, and that’s the truth. And I don’t deny
that after the property fell into Mr. Potter’s hands I was troubled
right smart by my conscience. As long as it was Judge Linderman it was
all right; he was a Southerner, one of us, and could understand. No
offense intended, Mr. Winthrop. But afterwards when I wrote Mr. Potter
of the arrangement in force and――ah――suggested its continuance, I felt
that maybe I was taking advantage of his absence from the scene. To
be sure the amount was all that the ladies could afford to pay, and
it isn’t likely that Mr. Potter could have found more satisfactory
tenants. Still, I dare say it was my place to tell him that the figure
was pretty cheap, and let him try and do better with the property. I
reckon I allowed my interest in my clients to sway my judgment, Mr.
Winthrop. But I made up my mind when I got your letter and learned you
were coming here that I’d explain things to you, sir, and let you do as
you thought best.”

“In regard to――――?”

“In regard to re-renting, sir.”

“But I had intended occupying the house myself, Major.”

“So I gathered, sir, so I gathered. But of course you couldn’t know
what the circumstances were, Mr. Winthrop. It isn’t as though the
place was family property, sir, with you; not as though it was your
birthplace and home. It’s just a house and a few acres of ground to
you, sir; it has no――ah――sentimental value. You follow me, sir?”

“Yes, and you are beginning to make me feel like an interloper, Major
Cass.”

“God forbid, sir! I had no such intention, I assure you, sir. I am sure
no one could be more welcome at any time to Waynewood, and I trust,
sir, that we shall often have the pleasure of seeing you here, sir.”

Winthrop’s laugh held a touch of exasperation.

“But, Great Scott! Major, you’re proposing to turn me out of my own
house!”

“Bless your soul, sir, don’t say that! Dear, dear! Does it sound that
way to you? My apologies, Mr. Winthrop! I won’t say another word, sir!”

The Major rolled the cigar agitatedly about in the corner of his loose
mouth.

“Look here,” said Winthrop, “let’s understand each other, Major. I have
come into possession of this property and we’ll allow for the sake of
the argument that it holds no sentimental value for me. Now what do you
propose I should do? Sign a new rental and pack up my things and go
home again?”

“Nothing of the kind, sir, I assure you! What I meant to convey was
that as you were intending to stay here in Corunna only two or three
months, you could perhaps be quite as comfortable in the Palmetto House
as at Waynewood. The Palmetto House, sir, is a very well-managed hotel,
sir, and you would receive the most hospitable treatment.”

“Thanks for your frankness, Major. This Palmetto House is in the
village?”

“It is, sir. It faces the court-house on the south.”

“And it has a large garden in front of it, with trees and vines and
roses and a marble Cupid dancing in a bed of box?”

The Major shook his head regretfully.

“Well, Major, the place I’ve taken a fancy to boasts of just those
attractions. Don’t you think that perhaps we could somehow arrange it
so that I could stay there?”

“Do you mean, sir, that you would be willing to remain here as――as a
paying guest?” asked the Major, eagerly.

Winthrop shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not? If the ladies are agreeable. At first sight there may be
something a trifle anomalous in the idea of the owner of a property who
has journeyed several hundred miles to occupy it petitioning for the
privilege of being allowed to remain as a boarder, but, of course, I
have the limitations of the Northerner and doubtless fail to get the
correct point of view.”

But Winthrop’s irony was quite lost on the Major.

“My dear sir, you have taken a great load from my mind,” exclaimed the
latter. “I had hoped that the difficulty might be surmounted in just
the way you propose, but somehow I gathered after meeting you that
you――ah――resented the presence of the ladies.”

“Nonsense!” said Winthrop, a trifle impatiently. “Miss Wayne and her
niece are quite welcome to remain here as long as they like. I was,
however, naturally surprised to find anyone in possession. By all
means let us renew the rental agreement. Meanwhile, if the ladies are
agreeable, I will remain here and pay board and room-rent. I dare say
my visit will not cover more than three months. And I will try to be as
little trouble as possible.”

“Then the matter is settled,” answered the Major, with a gratified
smile. “Unless――――” He paused.

“More difficulties?” asked Winthrop, patiently.

“I hope not, sir, but I won’t deny that Miss India may spoil our plans.”

[Illustration]

“You mean that she may not want to take a boarder?”

“Well, it’s this way, Mr. Winthrop.” The Major cleared his throat.
“Miss Wayne has always been prejudiced against Northerners, but――――”

“Really? But she seemed kindness itself this afternoon.”

“I’m delighted to hear it, sir, delighted! And allow me to say, Mr.
Winthrop, sir, that you couldn’t have played a stronger card than you
did.”

“Card? What do you mean, Major?”

“I mean that in losing consciousness as you did, sir, you accomplished
more than I could have accomplished in an hour’s argument. It was very
well done, sir, for I assure you that it was only by representing you
as an invalid that I was able to prevail on Miss India to remain here,
sir, until your arrival. When I found that I had missed you at the
office I feared that you would perhaps unwittingly give the impression
of being a――a well man, sir, and thus prejudice the lady against you.
But as it happened, sir, you played just the card calculated to win the
trick.”

“But, Great Scott!” exclaimed Winthrop, exasperatedly; “you don’t think
for a moment, do you, that I deliberately simulated illness in order
to work on her sympathies?”

“Of course not,” said the Major, earnestly. “How could you have known?
No, no; I merely congratulated you on the fortunate――ah――coincidence,
sir.”

“Oh! Then I am to understand that as a well man Miss Wayne will refuse
to harbor me, but as an invalid she will consent to do so――for a
consideration?”

“Exactly, Mr. Winthrop; that is just how it stands, sir.”

“And having once been accepted will it be necessary for me to continue
to pose as an invalid for the rest of my stay?” he asked dryly.

“We-ell,” answered the Major, hesitatingly, “I don’t deny that it would
help, but I don’t reckon it’ll be absolutely necessary, sir.”

Winthrop smiled.

“I’m glad to hear it, for I’m rather tired of being an invalid, and I
don’t think I should enjoy even making believe for very long. May I
ask whether Miss Wayne’s dislike for persons from my section of the
country is ineradicable, Major?”

“I sincerely hope not, sir!” replied the Major, earnestly. “Her
brother’s views on the subject were very――ah――settled, sir, and Miss
India had the highest respect for his opinions. But she has never had
the fortune, I believe, to meet with a real Northern gentleman, Mr.
Winthrop.” And the Major bowed courteously.

“And the niece? Miss――――?”

“Holly, sir. Well, she is guided largely by her Aunt, Mr. Winthrop,
and doubtless clings to many of her father’s convictions, but she has
a well-developed sense of justice and a warm heart, sir, and I believe
her prejudices can be dispelled.”

“Well, I appear to be in the enemy’s country, with a vengeance,” said
Winthrop. “How about you, Major? Are you also down on us?”

“No, Mr. Winthrop. I don’t deny, sir, that shortly after the war I felt
resentment, but that sentiment has long since disappeared. I am honored
with the friendship of several very estimable Northern gentlemen, sir.
Nor must you think the sentiment hereabouts prejudicial to your people,
Mr. Winthrop. Corunna is off the track of the tourist, to be sure; we
have no special attractions here; no big hotels, sir, to cater to him;
but once in a while a Northerner wanders to our town and we have grown
to appreciate his many very excellent qualities, sir.”

“That’s comforting. I had begun to feel like a pariah.”

“My dear sir!” expostulated the Major. “Disabuse your mind of such
wrong ideas, Mr. Winthrop. I shall take pleasure in convincing you that
any ill-feeling engendered by the late unpleasantness has quite passed
away. I shall esteem it a great privilege to be allowed to introduce
you to some of our more prominent citizens, sir.”

“Thank you very much,” answered Winthrop. “The privilege will be mine,
Major. Must you go?”

“Yes, we mustn’t forget that you are not yet as strong as we hope to
have you after you have been under the treatment of our climate for
awhile, sir. Good-night, Mr. Winthrop. I have enjoyed our little talk,
and it has been a pleasure to meet a gentleman of your attainments,
sir.”

“You are very good,” Winthrop replied. “It has been a pleasure to meet
you, Major. And may I leave the negotiations in your hands?”

“You may, sir. I hope to be able to inform you to-morrow that our plan
is successful.”

“Yes. And in regard to the price to be paid, Major; I’ll leave that
entirely with you as I haven’t any idea what is right.”

“You may do so, sir. And possibly some day at your convenience you will
drop in at my office and we will attend to the matter of the new lease?”

“With pleasure, Major. Good-night, sir.”

Winthrop remained at the door until the Major had reached the lower
hall. Then he closed it and, hands in his pockets, returned to the
fire-place and stared frowningly into the coals. Mechanically he
reached his pipe from the mantel and lighted it with an ember. And
presently, as he smoked, the frown disappeared and he laughed softly.

“Of all the ridiculous situations!” he muttered.



VI.


Holly came softly down the stairs, one small hand laid upon the
broad mahogany rail to steady her descent, her little slippered feet
twinkling in and out from beneath the hem of her gingham skirt, her
lithe young body swaying in unconscious rhythm with the song she was
singing under her breath. It was not yet seven o’clock, and no one
save the servants was astir. Holly had always been an early riser, and
when the weather permitted the hour before breakfast was spent by her
in the open air. On warm mornings she kept to the grateful shade of
the porch, perching herself on the joggling-board and gently jouncing
herself up and down the while she stared thoughtfully out across the
garden into the cool green gloom of the grove, an exercise undoubtedly
beneficial to the liver but one which would have resulted with most
persons in a total disinclination for breakfast. On those terribly cold
winter mornings when the water-pail on the back porch showed a film of
ice, she slipped down the oleander path and out on to the road for a
brisk walk or huddled herself in a sun-warmed corner at the back of the
house. But this morning, which held neither the heat of summer nor the
tang of frost, when, after unlatching the front door and swinging it
creakingly open, she emerged on to the porch, she stood for a moment
in the deep shadow of it, gazing happily down upon the pleasant scene
before her.

[Illustration]

Directly in front of her spread the fragrant quadrangle of the garden,
the paths, edged with crumbling bricks set cantwise in the dark soil,
curving and angling between the beds in formal precision. In the
centre, out of a tangle of rose-bushes and box, the garlanded Cupid,
tinged to pale gold by the early sunlight, smiled across at her. About
him clustered tender blooms of old-fashioned roses, and the path was
sprinkled with the fallen petals. Beyond, the long tunnel between the
oleanders was still filled with the lingering shadows of dawn. To right
and left of the centre bed lay miniature jungles of overgrown shrubs;
roses, deutzias, cape jasmines, Japan quinces, sweet shrubs and all
the luxuriant hodge-podge of a Southern garden somewhat run to seed,
a little down at the heels maybe, but radiantly beautiful in its very
disorder.

[Illustration]

On the far side, the garden was bordered with taller
shrubs――crépe-myrtles, mimosas, camelias, which merged imperceptibly
into the trees of the grove. To the right, beyond the bordering path,
a few pear-trees showed their naked branches and a tall frankincense
tree threw delicate shadow-tracery over the corner bed. To the left
were Japan plums and pomegranates and figs, half hiding the picket
fence, and a few youthful orange-trees, descendants of sturdy ancestors
who had lost their lives in the freeze three years before. A huge
magnolia spread its shapely branches over one of the beds, its trunk
encircled by a tempting seat. Ribbon-grass swayed gently here and there
above the rioting shrubbery, and at the corner of the porch, where a
gate gave on to the drive, a clump of banana-trees, which had almost
but not quite borne fruit that year, reared their succulent green stems
in a sunny nook and arched their great broad leaves, torn and ribboned
by the winds, with tropical effect. Near at hand, against the warm red
chimney, climbed a Baltimore Belle, festooning the end of the house for
yards with its tiny, glossy leaves. The shadow of the house cut the
garden sharply into two triangles, the dividing line between sunlight
and shade crossing the pedestal of the smiling Cupid. Everywhere
glistened diamonds of dew, and over all, growing more intense each
instant as the sunlight and warmth grew in ardor, was the thrilling
fragrance of the roses and the box, of damp earth and awakening leaves.

[Illustration]

While Holly’s mother had lived the garden had been her pride and
delight. It had been known to fame all through that part of the State
and the beauty of the Wayne roses was a proverb. But now the care of
it fell to Uncle Ran, together with the care of a bewildering number
of other things, and Uncle Ran had neither the time nor the knowledge
to maintain its former perfection. Holly loved it devotedly, knew it
from corner to corner. At an earlier age she had plucked the blossoms
for dolls and played with them for long hours on the seat under the
magnolia. The full-blown roses were grown-up ladies, with beautiful
outspread skirts of pink, white or yellow, and little green waists.
The half-opened roses were young ladies, and tiny white violets, or
waxen orange-blooms or little blossoms of the deutzia were the babies.
For the men, although Holly seldom bothered much with men, there were
the jonquils or the oleanders. She knew well where the first blue
violets were to be found, where the white jonquils broke first from
their green calyces, where the little yellow balls of the opopanax
were sweetest, what rose-petals were best adapted to being formed into
tiny sacs and exploded against the forehead, and many other wonderful
secrets of that fair domain. But in spite of all this, Holly was no
gardener.

[Illustration]

She loved flowers just as she loved the deep blue Florida sky with
its hazy edges, the soft wind from the Gulf, the golden sunlight, the
birds and bees and butterflies――just as she loved everything that was
quickened with the wonderful breath of Nature. There was something of
the pagan in Holly when it came to devotion to Nature. And yet she had
no ability to make things grow. From her mother she had inherited the
love of trees and plants and flowers but not the gift of understanding
them. Doubtless the Druids, with all their veneration for the oak and
mistletoe, would have been sorely puzzled had they had to rear their
leafy temples from planted acorns.

[Illustration]

Holly went down the steps and, holding her gown away from the
moisture-beaded branches, buried her face in a cluster of pink roses.
Then, struck by a thought, she returned to the house, reappearing
a moment later with her hands encased in a pair of old gloves, and
carrying scissors.

Aunt India didn’t believe in bringing flowers into the house. “If the
Lord had intended us to have them on the tables and mantels,” she said,
“He’d have put them there. But He didn’t; He meant them to be out
of doors and we ought to be satisfied to admire them where He’s put
them.” Usually Holly respected her Aunt’s prejudice, but to-day seemed
in a way a special occasion. The Cloth of Gold roses seemed crying to
be gathered, and their stems snipped gratefully under the scissors as
she made her way along the edge of the bed. Her hands were almost full
of the big yellow blooms when footsteps sounded on the porch and she
glanced up to see Winthrop descending the steps. She wondered with
sudden dismay whether she was going to blush as she had yesterday, and,
for fear that she was, leaned far over the refractory cluster she was
cutting. Winthrop’s footsteps approached along the sandy walk, and――

[Illustration]

“Good-morning, Miss Holly,” he said.

“Good-morning,” answered Holly, and, having won her prize started to
straighten up. “I hope――――”

But instead of finishing the polite inquiry she said “_Oh!_” A branch
of the rose-bush had caught in her hair, and the more she tugged the
more firmly it held.

“Still a moment,” said Winthrop. He leaned over and disentangled the
thorns. “There you are. I hope I didn’t pull very hard?”

“Thank you,” murmured Holly, raising a very red face. Winthrop, looking
down into it, smiled; smiled for no particular reason, save that the
morning air was very delightful, the morning sunlight very warm and
cheering, and the face before him very lovely to look at. But Holly,
painfully aware of her burning cheeks, thought he was smiling at her
blushes. “What a silly he must think me!” she reflected, angrily.
“Blushing every time he comes near!” She busied herself with the roses
for a moment.

“You’ve got more than you can manage, haven’t you?” asked Winthrop.
“Suppose you entrust them to me; then you’ll have your hands free.”

“I can manage very nicely, thank you,” answered Holly, a trifle
haughtily.

Winthrop’s smile deepened.

“Do you know what I think, Miss Holly?” he asked.

“No,” said Holly, looking about her in a very preoccupied way in search
of more blossoms.

“I think you’re a little bit resentful because I’ve come to share your
Eden. I believe you were playing that you were Eve and that you were
all alone here except for the serpent.”

“Playing!” said Holly, warmly. “Please, how old do you think I am, Mr.
Winthrop?”

“My dear young lady,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “I wouldn’t think
of even speculating on so serious a subject. But supposing you are
very, very old, say seventeen――or even eighteen!――still you haven’t,
I hope, got beyond the age of make-believe. Why, even I――and, as you
will readily see, I have one foot almost in the grave――even I sometimes
make-believe.”

“Do you?” murmured Holly, very coldly.

There was silence for a moment during which Holly added further prizes
to her store and Winthrop followed her and watched her in mingled
admiration and amusement――admiration for the grace and beauty and sheer
youth of her, amusement at her evident resentment.

“I’m sorry,” he said presently, slowly and thoughtfully.

“At what?” Holly allowed herself a fleeting look at his face. It was
very serious and regretful, but the smile still lurked in the dark
eyes, and Holly’s vanity flew to arms again.

“Sorry that I’ve said something to displease you,” returned Winthrop.
“You see, I was hoping to make friends with you, Miss Holly.”

Holly thought of a dozen questions to ask, but heroically refrained.

“I gathered from Major Cass last evening,” continued Winthrop, “that
Northerners are not popular at Waynewood. But you seemed a very kind
young lady, and I thought that if I could only win you over to my side
you might intercede for me with your aunt. You see, I’d like very much
to stay here, but I’m afraid Miss Wayne isn’t going to take to the
idea. And now I’ve gone and antagonized the very person I meant to win
for an ally.”

“I don’t see why you can’t stay here if you want to,” answered Holly.
“Waynewood belongs to you.”

“But what would I do here all alone?” asked Winthrop. “I’m a frightfully
helpless, ignorant chap. Why, I don’t even know how to cook a beefsteak!
And as for beaten biscuit――――!”

Holly smiled, in spite of herself.

“But you could hire some servants, I reckon.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t know how to manage them, really. No, the only way in
which I can remain here is as your guest, Miss Holly. I’ve asked Major
Cass to tell Miss Wayne that, and I’ve no doubt but what he will do
all he can for me, but I fancy that a word from you would help a lot,
Miss Holly. Don’t you think you could tell your aunt that I am a very
respectable sort of a fellow, one who has never been known to give any
trouble? I have been with some of the best families and I can give
references from my last place, if necessary.”

“I reckon you don’t know Aunt India,” laughed Holly. “If she says you
can’t stay, you can’t, and it wouldn’t do a mite of good if I talked
myself black in the face.”

Holly turned toward the house and he followed.

“You think, then,” he asked, “that there’s nothing more we can do to
influence Fate in my behalf?”

[Illustration]

Holly ran lightly up the steps, tossed the flowers in a heap on the
porch, and sat down with her back against a pillar. Then she pointed
to the opposite side of the steps.

“Sit down there,” she commanded.

[Illustration]

Winthrop bowed and obeyed. Holly clasped her hands about her knees, and
looked across at him with merry eyes.

“Mr. Winthrop.”

“Madam?”

“What will you give me if I let you stay?”

“Pardon my incredulity,” replied Winthrop, “but is your permission all
that is necessary?”

Holly nodded her head many times.

“If I say you can stay, you can,” she said, decisively.

“Then in exchange for your permission I will give you half my kingdom,”
answered Winthrop, gravely.

“Oh, I don’t think I could use half a kingdom. It would be like owning
half a horse, wouldn’t it? Supposing I wanted my half to go and the
other half wouldn’t?”

“Then take it all.”

“No, because I reckon your kingdom’s up North, and I wouldn’t want
a kingdom I couldn’t live in. It will have to be something else, I
reckon.”

“And I have so little with me,” mourned Winthrop. “I dare say you
wouldn’t have any use for a winter overcoat or a pair of patent-leather
shoes? They’re about all I have to offer.”

“No,” laughed Holly; “anyhow, not the overcoat. Do you think the shoes
would fit me?”

She advanced one little slippered foot from beyond the hem of her
skirt. Winthrop looked, and shook his head.

“Honestly, I’m afraid not,” he said. “I don’t believe I ever saw a shoe
that would fit you, Miss Holly.”

Holly acknowledged the compliment with a ceremonious bow and a little
laugh.

“I didn’t know you Northerners could pay compliments,” she said.

“We are a very adaptable people,” answered Winthrop, “and pride
ourselves on being able to face any situation.”

“But you haven’t told me what you’ll give me, Mr. Winthrop.”

“I have exhausted my treasures, Miss Holly. There remains only myself.
I throw myself at your feet, my dear young lady; I will be your slave
for life.”

“Oh, I thought you Northerners didn’t believe in slavery,” said Holly.

“We don’t believe in compulsory slavery, Miss Holly. To be a slave to
Beauty is always a pleasure.”

“Another compliment!” cried Holly. “Two before breakfast!”

“And the day is still young,” laughed Winthrop.

“Oh, I won’t demand any more, Mr. Winthrop; you’ve done your duty
already.”

“As you like; I am your slave.”

“How lovely! I never had a slave before,” said Holly, reflectively.

“I fear your memory is poor, Miss Holly. I’ll wager you’ve had, and
doubtless still have, a score of them quite as willing as I.”

Holly blushed a little, but shook her head.

“Not I. But it’s a bargain, Mr. Winthrop. I won’t keep you for life,
though; when you leave here I’ll give you your ‘freedance,’ as the
negroes say. But while you are here you are to do just as I tell you.
Will you?” she added, sternly.

“I obey implicitly,” answered Winthrop. “And now?”

“Why, you may stay, of course. Besides, it was all arranged last
evening. Uncle Major and Auntie fixed it all up between them after he
came down from seeing you. You are to have the room you are in and the
one back of it, if you want it, and you are to pay three dollars and
a-half a week; one dollar for your room and two dollars and a-half for
your board.”

“But――isn’t that――――?”

“Please don’t!” begged Holly. “I don’t know anything about it. If it’s
too much, you must speak to Aunt India or Major Cass.”

“I was about to suggest that it seemed ridiculously little,” said
Winthrop. “But――――”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Holly. “Uncle Major thought it ought to be more,
but Auntie wouldn’t hear of it. Do you think it should be?”

“Well, I’m scarcely a disinterested party,” laughed Winthrop, “but it
doesn’t sound much, does it?”

“Three dollars and a-half!” said Holly, slowly and thoughtfully. Then
she nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, it sounds a whole lot.” She
laughed softly. “It’s very funny, though, isn’t it?”

“What?” he asked, smiling in sympathy.

“Why, that you should be paying three dollars and a-half a week for the
privilege of being a slave!”

“Ah, but that’s it,” answered Winthrop. “It is a privilege, as you say.”

“Oh!” cried Holly, in simulated alarm. “You’re at it again, Mr.
Winthrop!”

“At it? At what?”

“Compliments, compliments, sir! You’ll have none left for this evening
if you don’t take care. Just think; you might meet a beautiful young
lady this evening and not have any compliments for her! Wouldn’t that
be dreadful?”

“Horrible,” answered Winthrop. “I shudder.”

“Are you hungry?” asked Holly, suddenly.

“Hungry? No――yes――I hardly know.”

“You’re probably starving, then,” said Holly, jumping up and sweeping
the roses into her arms. “I’ll see if breakfast isn’t nearly ready.
Auntie doesn’t come down to breakfast very often, and it’s my place to
see that it’s on time. But I never do, and it never is. Do you love
punctuality, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Can’t bear it, Miss Holly.”

She stood a little way off, smiling down at him, a soft flush in her
cheeks.

“You always say just the right thing, don’t you?” She laughed. “How do
you manage it?”

“Long practice, my dear young lady. When you’ve lived as long as I have
you will have discovered that it is much better to say the right thing
than the wrong――even when the right thing isn’t altogether right.”

“Yes, I reckon so, but――sometimes it’s an awful temptation to say the
wrong, isn’t it? Are you awfully old? May I guess?”

“I shall be flattered.”

“Then――forty?”

Winthrop sighed loudly.

“Too much? Wait! Thirty――thirty-seven?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Is that very old? I shall be eighteen in a few days.”

“Really? Then, you see, I have already lived twice as long as you have.”

“Yes,” Holly nodded, thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t think I want
to live to be real, real old; I think I’d rather die before――before
that.”

“And what do you call real, real old?” asked Winthrop.

“Oh, I don’t know; fifty, I reckon.”

“Then I have twelve years longer to live,” said Winthrop, gravely.

Holly turned a pair of startled eyes upon him.

“No, no! It’s different with you; you’re a man.”

“Oh, that makes a difference?”

“Lots! Men can do heaps of things, great, big things, after they’re
old, but a woman――――” She paused and shrugged her shoulders in a funny,
exaggerated way that Winthrop thought charming. “What is there for a
woman when she’s that old?”

“Much,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “if she has been a wise woman.
There should be her children to love and to love her, and if she has
married the right man there will be that love, too, in the afternoon of
her life.”

“Children,” murmured Holly. “Yes, that would be nice; but they wouldn’t
be children then, would they? And――supposing they died before? The
woman would be terribly lonely, wouldn’t she――in the afternoon?”

Winthrop turned his face away and looked out across the sunlit garden.

“Yes,” he said, very soberly; “yes, she would be lonely.”

Something in his tones drew Holly’s attention. How deep the lines about
his mouth were this morning, and how gray the hair was at his temples;
she had not noticed it before. Yes, after all, thirty-eight was quite
old. That thought or some other moved her to a sudden sentiment of
pity. Impulsively she tore one of the big yellow roses from the bunch
and with her free hand tossed it into his lap.

“Do you know, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, softly, “I reckon we’re going to
be friends, you and I,――that is, if you want to.”

Winthrop sprang to his feet, the rose in his hand.

“I do want to, Miss Holly,” he said, earnestly. Somehow, before she
realized it, Holly’s hand was in his. “I want it very much. I haven’t
very many friends, I guess, and when one gets toward forty he doesn’t
find them as easily as he did. Is it a bargain, then? We are to be
friends, very good friends, Miss Holly?”

“Yes,” answered Holly, simply, “very good friends.”

Her dark eyes looked seriously into his for a moment. Then she withdrew
her hand, laughed softly under her breath and turned toward the door.
But on the threshold she looked back over her shoulder, the old
mischief in her face.

“But don’t you go and forget that you’re my slave, Mr. Winthrop,” she
said.

“Never! You have fettered me with roses.”



VII.


[Illustration]

Miss India made no exception that morning to her general rule, and
Holly presided over the coffee cups. The table was rather large, and
although Winthrop’s place was in the middle, facing the open door onto
the back porch, there was quite an expanse of emptiness between him
and his hostess. Through the door and across the bridge to the kitchen
Phœbe trotted at minute intervals to bring fresh relays of hot biscuits
and buckwheat cakes. The dining-room was rather shabby. The walls
were papered in dark brown, and the floor was covered with linoleum.
A mahogany sideboard, which took up quite ten feet of one end of the
room, looked sadly out of its element. Three pictures in tarnished gilt
frames hung by thick green cords very close to the ceiling, so that
Winthrop was spared the necessity of close examination, something which
they did not invite. But for all its shabbiness there was something
comfortable about the room, something homey that made the old dishes
with their chipped edges and half-obliterated ornamentation seem
eminently suitable, and that gave Winthrop a distinct sensation of
pleasure.

He found that, in spite of his previous uncertainty, he was very
hungry, and, although he had hard work to keep from grimacing over
the first taste of the coffee, he ate heartily and enjoyed it all.
And while he ate, Holly talked. Sometimes he slipped in a word of
comment or a question, but they were not necessary so far as Holly
was concerned. There was something almost exciting for her in the
situation. To have an audience who was quite fresh and sympathetic was
an event in her life, and there are so many, many things one has to
say at eighteen. And Winthrop enjoyed it almost as much as Holly. Her
_naive_ views of life amused even while they touched him. She seemed
very young for her age, and very unsophisticated after the Northern
girls Winthrop knew. And he found her voice and pronunciation charming,
besides. He loved the way she made “I” sound like “Ah,” the way she
narrowed some vowels and broadened others, her absolute contempt for
the letter “r.” The soft drawl of Southern speech was new to him, and
he found it fascinating. Once Holly stopped abruptly in the middle of
a sentence, laid her left hand palm downwards on the edge of the table
and struck her knuckles sharply with the handle of her knife.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Winthrop, in surprise.

“Punishment,” answered Holly, gravely, the chastised hand held against
her lips. “You see there are three words that Auntie doesn’t like me
to use, and when I do use them I rap my knuckles.”

“Oh,” smiled Winthrop, “and does it help?”

“I don’t reckon it’s helped much yet,” said Holly, “but maybe it will.
It sure does hurt, though.”

“And may I ask what the words are?”

“One is ‘Fiddle.’ Does that sound very bad to you?”

“N-no, I think not. What does it signify, please?”

“Oh, you just say ‘Fiddle’ when――when something happens you don’t like.”

“I see; ‘Fiddle;’ yes, quite expressive. And the others?”

“‘Shucks’ is one of them.”

“Used, I fancy, in much the same sense as ‘Fiddle’?”

Holly nodded.

“Only――only not so much so,” she added.

“Certainly not,” replied Winthrop. “I understand. For instance, if you
fell down stairs you’d say ‘Fiddle!’ but if you merely bumped your
head you’d say ‘Shucks!’”

“Yes,” laughed Holly.

“And the third prohibited word?” asked Winthrop.

“That’s――that’s――――” Holly bent her head very meekly over her
plate――“that’s ‘Darnation!’”

“Expressive, at least,” laughed Winthrop. “That is reserved, I suppose,
for such extraordinary occasions as when you fall from a sixth-story
window?”

“No; I say that when I stick a needle into my finger,” answered Holly.
“It seems to suit better than ‘Fiddle’ or ‘Shucks;’ don’t you think so,
Mr. Winthrop?”

“Well, I don’t remember ever having stuck a needle into my finger, but
I’ll try it some time and give you my candid opinion on the question.”

After breakfast Winthrop wandered out into the garden and from thence
into the grove beyond. There were pines and cedars here, and oaks, and
other trees which he didn’t know the names of. The gray-green Spanish
moss draped an occasional limb, and at times there was some underbrush.
Finding the drive, he followed it toward the gate, but before reaching
the latter he struck off again through a clearing and climbed a little
knoll on the summit of which a small brick-walled enclosure guarded
by three huge oaks attracted his attention and aroused his curiosity.
But he didn’t open the little iron gate when he reached it. Within the
square enclosure were three graves, two close together near at hand,
one somewhat removed. From where he leaned across the crumbling wall
Winthrop could read the inscriptions on the three simple headstones.
The farther grave was that of “John Wayne, born Fairfield, Kentucky,
Feb. 1, 1835; fell at Malvern Hill, July 1, 1862; interred in this spot
July 28, 1862.”

The nearer of the two graves which lay together was that, as Winthrop
surmised, of Holly’s mother. Behind the headstone a rose-bush had been
planted, and this morning one tiny bloom gleamed wanly in the shadow
of the wall. “To the Beloved Memory of Margaret Britton, Wife of Lamar
Wayne; Sept. 3, 1853–Jan. 1, 1881. Aged 27 years. ‘The balmy zephyrs,
silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath.’”

Winthrop’s gaze turned to the stone beside it.

“Here lies,”――he read――“the Body of Captain Lamar Wayne, C. S. A., who
was born in Fairfield, Kentucky, Aug, 4, 1842, and died at Waynewood,
Sept. 21, 1892, aged 50 years. ‘Happier for me that all our hours
assign’d, Together we had lived; ev’n not in death disjoined.’”

Here, thought Winthrop, was hint of a great love. He compared the
dates. Captain Wayne had lived twelve years after his wife’s death.
Winthrop wondered if those years had seemed long to him. Probably not,
since he had Holly to care for――Holly, whom Winthrop doubted not, was
very greatly like her mother. To have the child spared to him! Ah,
that was much. Winthrop’s eyes lifted from the quiet space before him
and sought the distant skyline as his thoughts went to another grave
many hundred miles away. A mocking-bird flew into one of the oaks
and sang a few tentative notes, and then was silent. Winthrop roused
himself with a sigh and turned back down the knoll toward the house,
which stood smiling amidst its greenery a few hundred yards away.

As he entered the hall he heard Holly in converse with Aunt Venus on
the back porch, and as he glanced through the doorway she moved into
sight, her form silhouetted against the sunlight glare. But he gave her
only a passing thought as he mounted the stairs to his room. The spell
of the little graveyard on the knoll and of that other more distant one
was still with him, and remained until, having got his hat and cane, he
passed through the open gate and turned townward on the red clay road.

Major Cass was seated in his cushioned arm-chair with his feet on
his desk and a sheepskin-covered book spread open on his knees when
Winthrop obeyed the invitation to enter.

“Ah, Mr. Winthrop, sir, good-morning,” said the Major, as he tossed the
book on to the desk and climbed to his feet. “Your rest has done you
good, sir; I can see that. Feeling more yourself to-day, eh?”

“Quite well, thanks,” answered Winthrop, accepting the arm-chair which
his host pushed toward him. “I thought I’d come down and hear the
verdict and attend to the matter of the rental.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Major. “Very kind of you, sir.”

He limped to a cupboard in one corner and returned with a jug and two
not overly clean glasses, which he set on the desk, brushing aside
a litter of papers and books. “You will join me, Mr. Winthrop, in a
little liquor, sir, I trust?”

“A very little, then,” answered Winthrop. “I’m still under doctor’s
orders, you know.”

“As little as you like,” rejoined the Major, courteously, “but we
must drink to the success of our conspiracy, sir. The matter is all
arranged. Miss India was――ah――surprisingly complacent, sir.” The Major
handed the glass to Winthrop with a bow. “Your very good health, sir!”

During the subsequent talk, in which the Major explained the terms
of the bargain as Winthrop had already learned them from Holly, the
visitor was able to look about him. The room was small and square
save for the projecting fire-place at one side. A window on the front
overlooked the street which led to Waynewood, while through another on
the side of the building Winthrop could see the court-house behind its
border of oaks, the stores across the square and, peering from behind
the court-house, the end of the Palmetto House with its long gallery.
It was Saturday, and the town looked quite busy. Ox-carts, farm wagons
drawn by mules, and broken-down buggies crawled or jogged past the
window on their way to the hitching-place. In front of the court-house,
in the shade, were half-a-dozen carts loaded with bales of cotton, and
the owners with samples in hand were making the round of the buyers.
The sidewalks were thronged with negroes, and the gay medley of the
voices came through the open window.

[Illustration]

A set of shelves occupied the end of the room beside the door and were
filled to overflowing with yellow law books. The mantel was crowded
with filing cases and a few tin boxes. Beside the front window a
small, old-fashioned safe held more books. Besides these there was
only the plain oak desk, two chairs and the aforementioned cupboard to
be seen, if one excepts the wall decorations in the shape of colored
advertisements and calendars and a box filled with sawdust beside the
arm-chair. The Major had tucked a greenish and very damp cigar in the
corner of his mouth, and Winthrop soon discovered the necessity for the
box.

Presently the new rental agreement was signed and the Major, after
several abortive attempts, flung open the door of the safe and put
it carefully away in one of the compartments. Then he took up his
broad-brimmed black felt hat and reached for his cane.

[Illustration: PRESENTLY THE NEW RENTAL AGREEMENT WAS SIGNED]

“And now, Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “we’ll just take a walk around the
town, sir; I’d like you to meet some of our citizens, sir.”

Winthrop good-naturedly acquiesced and preceded the Major down the
stairs. During the next hour-and-a-half Winthrop was impressively
introduced to and warmly welcomed by some two dozen of Corunna’s
foremost citizens, from ’Squire Parish, whom they discovered buying a
bale of cotton in the dim recess of his hardware store, to Mr. “Cad”
Wilson, who wiped his hand on a towel before reaching it across the bar
to add his welcome.

“Not one of the aristocracy,” explained the Major, as they took their
way out after drinking Winthrop’s health in Bourbon, “but a gentleman
at heart, sir, in spite of his business, sir. When in need of liquid
refreshment, Mr. Winthrop, you will find his place the best in town,
sir, and you may always depend on receiving courteous treatment.”

The post-office, toward which they bent their steps after breasting Mr.
“Cad” Wilson’s swinging doors, proved to be a veritable stamping-ground
for Corunna’s celebrities. There Winthrop was introduced to the
Reverend Mr. Fillock, the Presbyterian minister; to Mr. “Ham” Somes,
the proprietor of the principal drug store; to Colonel Byers, in from
his plantation a few miles outside of town to look up an express
shipment, and the postmaster himself, Major Warren, who displayed an
empty sleeve and, as Winthrop’s guide explained, still never took a
drink without preceding it with the toast, “Secession, sah!”

When Colonel Byers alluded to the missing express package the Major
chuckled.

“Colonel,” he said, “’taint another of those boxes of hardware, is it?”

The Colonel laughed and shook his head, and the Major turned to
Winthrop with twinkling eyes.

“You see, Mr. Winthrop, the Colonel got a box of hardware by express
some years ago; from Savannah, wan’t it, Colonel?”

“Atlanta, sir.”

“Well, anyhow, the Colonel was busy and didn’t get into town right
away, and one day he got a letter from the express agent, saying:
‘Please call for your box of hardware as it’s leaking all over the
floor.’”

The Colonel appeared to enjoy the story quite as much as the Major, and
Winthrop found their mirth quite as laugh-provoking as the tale.

“And I have heard that the Colonel never got to town in as quick time
as he did then!”

“Morning, Harry,” said the Major, turning to the newcomer. “I reckon
you heard just about right, Harry. I want to introduce you to my friend
Mr. Winthrop, of New York, sir. Mr. Winthrop, shake hands with Mr.
Bartow. Mr. Bartow, sir, represents us at the Capital.”

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir,” said the Honorable Mr.
Bartow. “You are staying with us for awhile, sir?”

“Yes, probably for a few months,” replied Winthrop.

“Good, sir; I am pleased to hear it. You must give me the pleasure of
taking dinner with me some day, sir. I’ll get the Major to arrange it
at your convenience.”

“And bring Mr. Winthrop out to Sunnyside, Lucius,” said the Colonel.
“Some Sunday would be best, I reckon.”

Winthrop accepted the invitations――or perhaps the Major did it for
him――and after shaking hands with the Colonel and the Honorable
Harry Bartow he was conducted forth by his guide. Their course along
the sunlit street was often interrupted, and Winthrop’s list of
acquaintances grew with each interruption. It was quite evident that
being vouched for by Major Lucius Quintus Cass stood for a good deal,
and in every case Winthrop’s welcome was impressively courteous.
Once or twice the Major was stopped by men to whom Winthrop was not
introduced. After one such occasion the Major said, as they went on:

“Not one of our kind, Mr. Winthrop; his acquaintance would be of no
benefit, sir.”

Winthrop noticed that not once did the Major in his introductions
allude to the former’s ownership of Waynewood. And evidently the Major
concluded that the fact required elucidation, for when they had finally
returned to the corner where stood the Major’s office the latter said:

“You may have observed, Mr. Winthrop, that I have not mentioned your
ownership of Waynewood. I thought it as well not to, sir, for as you
do not intend to take possession this winter there can be no harm in
allowing folks to remain in ignorance of――ah――the change. It will make
it much easier, sir, for Miss India and her niece. You agree with me?”

“Entirely,” replied Winthrop, suppressing a smile. “We will keep the
fact a secret for awhile, Major.”

“Quite so, sir, quite so. And now, sir, I should be delighted if you
would take dinner with me at the hotel, if you will be so kind.”

But Winthrop declined and, thanking the other for his kindness, shook
hands and turned his steps homeward, or, at least, toward Waynewood; he
had begun to doubt his possession of that place.



VIII.


Winthrop had been at Waynewood a week――a week of which one day had
been so like the next that Winthrop remembered them all with impartial
haziness and content. It was delightful to have nothing more startling
to look forward to than a quail-shoot, a dinner at Sunnyside, or a game
of whist in town; to have each day as alike in mellowness and sunshine
as they were similar in events, pass softly across the garden, from
shadow to shadow, the while he watched its passage with tranquilly
smiling eyes and inert body from the seat under the magnolia or a chair
on the quiet porch.

The past became the flimsiest of ghosts, the future a mere insignificant
speck on the far horizon. What mattered it that once his heart had
ached? That he was practically penniless? That somewhere men were
hurrying and striving for wealth? The sky was hazily blue, the sunlight
was wine of gold, the southern breeze was the soothing touch of a soft
and fragrant hand that bade him rest and sleep, for there was no
yesterday and no morrow, and the taste of lotus was sweet in his mouth.
The mornings danced brightly past to the lilt of bird song; the
afternoons paced more leisurely, crossing the tangled garden with
measured, somnolent tread so quiet that not a leaf stirred, not a bird
chirped in the enfolding silence; the evenings grew from purple haze,
fragrant with wood-smoke, to blue-black clarity set with a million
silver stars whose soft radiance bathed the still world with tender
light. Such days and such nights have a spell, and Winthrop was bound.

And Holly? Fate, although she was still unsuspecting of the fact,
had toppled the stone into the stream and the ripples were already
widening. Winthrop’s coming had been an event. Holly had her friends,
girls of her own age, who came to Waynewood to see her and whom she
visited in town, and young men in the early twenties who walked or
drove out in the evenings, when their duties in the stores and offices
were over, and made very chivalrous and distant love to her in the
parlor. But for all that many of the days had been long with only
Aunt India, who was not exactly chatty, and the servants to talk to.
But now it was different. This charming and delightfully inexplicable
Northerner was fair prey. He was never too busy to listen to her;
in fact, he was seldom busy at all, unless sitting, sometimes with
a closed book in one’s lap, and gazing peacefully into space may be
termed being busy. They had quite exciting mornings together very
often, exciting, at least, for Holly, when she unburdened herself of
a wealth of reflections and conclusions and when he listened with the
most agreeable attention in the world and always said just the right
thing to tempt her tongue to more brilliant ardor.

And then in the afternoons, while Aunt India slept and Holly couldn’t,
just because the blood ran far too fast in her young veins, there
were less stimulating but very comforting talks in the shade of the
porch. And sometimes they walked, but,――for Holly had inherited
the characteristic disinclination for overindulgence in that form
of exercise,――not very frequently. Holly would have indorsed the
proverb――Persian, isn’t it?――which says, in part, that it is easier to
sit than to stand and easier to lie down than to sit. And Winthrop at
this period would have agreed with her. Judged by Northern standards,
Holly might have been deemed lazy. But we must remember that Holly came
of people who had never felt the necessity of physical exertion, since
there had always been slaves at hand to perform the slightest task, and
for whom the climate had prohibited any inclination in that direction.
Holly’s laziness was that of a kitten, which seldom goes out to walk
for pleasure but which will romp until its breath is gone or stalk a
sparrow for an hour untiringly.

By the end of the first week she and Winthrop had become the very good
friends they had agreed to be. They had reached the point where it was
no longer necessary to preface their conversation with an introduction.
Now when Holly had anything to say――and she usually did――she plunged
right in without any preliminary shivers. As this morning when,
having given out the supplies for the day to Aunt Venus, she joined
Winthrop under the magnolia, settling her back against the trunk and
clasping her hands about her knees, “I reckon there are two sides to
everything,” she said, with the air of one who is announcing the result
of long study.

Winthrop, who had arisen at her approach and remained standing until
she had seated herself, settled back again and smiled encouragingly.
He liked to hear her talk, liked the soft coo of her voice, liked the
things she said, liked, besides, to watch the play of expression on her
face.

“Father always said that the Yankees had no right to interfere with
the South and that it wasn’t war with them, it was just homicide.
Homicide’s where you kill someone else, isn’t it? I always get it mixed
up with suicide.”

Winthrop nodded.

“That’s what he used to say, and I’m sure he believed it or he’d never
have said it. But maybe he was mistaken. Was he, do you think?”

“He might have been a trifle biased,” said Winthrop.

Holly was silent a moment. Then――――

“Uncle Major,” she continued, “used to argue with him, but father
always had the best of it. I reckon, though, you Northerners are sorry
now, aren’t you?”

“Sorry that there was war, yes,” answered Winthrop, smilingly; “but not
sorry for what we did.”

“But if it was wrong?” argued Holly. “’Pears to me you ought to be
sorry! Just see the heaps and heaps of trouble you made for the South!
Julian says that you ought to have paid us for every negro you took
away from us.”

“Indeed? And who, may I ask, is Julian?”

“Julian Wayne is my cousin, my second cousin. He graduated from medical
college last year. He lives in Marysville, over yonder.” Holly nodded
vaguely toward the grove.

“Practising, is he?”

“He’s Dr. Thompson’s assistant,” said Holly. “He’s getting experience.
After awhile he’s going to come to Corunna.” There was a pause. “He’s
coming over to-morrow to spend Sunday.”

“Really? And does he make these trips very often?”

“Oh, every now and then,” answered Holly, carelessly.

“Perhaps there is an attraction hereabouts,” suggested Winthrop.

“Maybe it’s Aunt India,” said Holly, gravely.

Winthrop laughed.

“Is he nice, this Cousin Julian?” he asked.

Holly nodded.

“He’s a dear boy. He’s very young yet, only twenty-three.”

“And eighteen from twenty-three leaves five,” teased Winthrop. “I’ve
heard, I think, that ten is the ideal disparity in years for purposes
of marriage, but doubtless five isn’t to be sneezed at.”

Holly’s smooth cheeks reddened a little.

“A girl ought to marry a man much older than herself,” she said,
decisively.

“Oh! Then Julian won’t do?”

“I haven’t decided,” Holly laughed. “Maybe. He’s nice. I wonder if
you’ll like him. Will you try to, please? He――he’s awfully down on
Northerners, though.”

“That’s bad,” said Winthrop, seriously. “Perhaps he won’t approve of
me. Do you think I’d better run away over Sunday? I might go out to
visit Colonel Byers; he’s asked me.”

“Silly!” said Holly. “He won’t eat you!”

“Well, that’s comforting. I’ll stay, then. The dislike of Northerners
seems to be a strong trait in your family, Miss Holly.”

“Oh, some Northerners are quite nice,” she answered, with a challenging
glance.

“I wonder,” he asked, with intense diffidence, “I wonder――if I’m
included among the quite nice ones?”

“What do you think, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Well, I’ve always thought rather well of myself until I came to
Corunna. But now that I have learned just how poor a lot Northerners
are, I find myself rather more modest.”

Winthrop sighed depressedly.

“I’ll change it,” said Holly, her eyes dancing. “I’ll say instead that
_one_ Northerner is very nice.”

“You said ‘quite nice’ before.”

“That just shows that I like you better every minute,” laughed the girl.

Winthrop sighed.

“It’s a dangerous course you’re pursuing, Miss Holly,” he said, sadly.
“If you aren’t awfully careful you’ll lose a good slave and find a poor
admirer.”

“My admirers must be my slaves, too,” answered Holly.

“I am warned. I thank you. I could never play a dual rôle, I fear.”

Holly pouted.

“Then which do you choose?” she asked, aggrievedly.

“To be your slave, my dear young lady; I fancy that rôle would be more
becoming to middle-age and, at all events, far less hazardous.”

“But if I command you to admire me you’ll have to, you see; slaves must
obey.”

“I haven’t waited for the command,” replied Winthrop.

“You blow hot and cold, sir. First you refuse to be my admirer and then
you declare that you do admire me. What am I to believe?”

“That my heart and brain are at war, Miss Holly. My heart says: ‘Down
on your knees!’ but my brain says: ‘Don’t you do it, my boy; she’ll
lead you a dance that your aged limbs won’t take kindly to, and in the
end she’ll run out of your sight, laughing, leaving you to sorrow and
liniment!”

“You have as good as called me a coquette, Mr. Winthrop,” charged
Holly, severely.

“Have I? And, pray, what have you been doing for the last ten minutes
but coquetting with me, young lady? Tell me that.”

“Have I?” asked Holly, with a soft little laugh. “Do you mind?”

“Mind? On the contrary, do you know, I rather like it? So go right
ahead; you are keeping your hand in, and at the same time flattering
the vanity of one who has reached the age when to be used even for
target practice is flattering.”

“Your age troubles you a great deal, doesn’t it?” asked Holly,
ironically. “Please, why do you always remind me of it? Are you afraid
that I’ll lose my heart to you and that you’ll have to refuse me?”

“Well, you have seen me for a week,” answered Winthrop, modestly, “and
know my irresistible charm.”

Holly was silent a moment, her brown eyes fixed speculatively on the
man’s smiling face. Then――――

“You must feel awfully safe,” she said, with conviction, “to talk the
way you do. And I reckon I know why.”

“And may I know, too?”

“No; that is, you do know already, and I’m not going to tell you. Oh,
what time is it, please?”

Winthrop drew out his watch and then, with a shrug, dropped it back
into his pocket.

“I can’t tell you. The fact is, I forgot to wind it last night. Why
should I wind it, anyhow? What does it matter what time it is in this
place? If the sun is there, I know it’s morning; if it’s somewhere
overhead, I know it’s noon; when it drops behind the trees, I know
it’s evening; when it disappears, I know it’s night――and I go to
sleep. Watches and clocks are anachronisms here. Like arctics and fur
overcoats.”

“I shall go and find out,” said Holly, rising.

“Why waste time and effort in the pursuit of unprofitable knowledge?”
sighed Winthrop. But he received no answer, for his companion was
already making her way through the garden. Winthrop laid his head
back against the tree and, with half-closed eyes, smiled lazily and
contentedly up into the brown-and-green leafage above. And as he did
so a thought came to him, a most ridiculous, inappropriate thought, a
veritable serpent-in-Eden thought; he wondered what “A. S. common” was
selling for! He drove the thought away angrily. What nonsense! If he
wasn’t careful he’d find himself trying to remember the amount of his
balance in bank! Odd what absurd turns the mind was capable of! Well,
the only way to keep his mind away from idle speculation was to turn
his thoughts toward serious and profitable subjects. So he wondered why
the magnolia leaves were covered with green satin on top and tan velvet
beneath. But before he had arrived at any conclusion Holly came back,
bearing a glass containing a milky-white liquid and a silver spoon.

[Illustration]

“It’s past the time,” she said.

“Then you shouldn’t have bothered to bring it,” answered Winthrop,
regretfully. “But never mind; we’ll try and remember it at supper time.”

“But you must take it now,” persisted Holly, firmly.

“But I fear it wouldn’t do any good. You see, your Aunt said distinctly
an hour before meals. The psychological moment has passed, greatly to
my rel――regret.”

“Please!” said Holly, holding the glass toward him. “You know it’s
doing you heaps of good.”

“Yes, but that’s just it, don’t you see, Miss Holly? If I continue to
take it I’ll be quite well in no time, and that would never do. Would
you deprive your Aunt of the pleasure she is now enjoying of dosing me
thrice a day with the most nauseous mixture that was ever invented?”

“Shucks! It isn’t so terribly bad,” laughed Holly.

Winthrop observed her sternly.

“Have you sampled it, may I ask?”

Holly shook her head.

“Then please do so. It will do you lots of good, besides preventing you
from making any more well-meant but inaccurate remarks. And you have
been looking a bit pale the last day or two, Miss Holly.”

Holly viewed the mixture dubiously, hesitatingly.

“Besides, you said ‘Shucks,’ and you owe yourself punishment.”

“Well――――” Holly swallowed a spoonful, tried not to shiver, and
absolutely succeeded in smiling brightly afterwards.

“Well?” asked Winthrop, anxiously.

“I――I think it has calomel in it,” said Holly.

“I feared it.” He shook his head and warded off the proffered glass. “I
am a homœopath.”

“You’re a baby, that’s what you are!” said Holly, tauntingly.

“Ha! No one shall accuse me of cowardice.” He clenched his hands.
“Administer it, please.”

Holly moved toward him until her skirt brushed his knees. As she dipped
the spoon a faint flush crept into her cheeks. Winthrop saw, and
understood.

“No, give it to me,” he said. “I will feed myself. Then, no matter what
happens――and I fear the worst!――you will not be implicated.”

Holly yielded the glass and moved back, watching him sympathetically
while he swallowed two spoonfuls of the medicine.

“Was it awfully bad?” she asked, as he passed the glass to her with a
shudder.

Winthrop reflected. Then:

“Frankly, it was,” he replied. “But it’s a good deal like having your
teeth filled; it’s almost worth it for the succeeding glow of courage
and virtue and relief it brings. Put it out of sight, please, and let
us talk of pleasant things.”

“What?” asked Holly, as she sat down once more on the bench.

“Well, let me see. Suppose, Miss Holly, you tell me how you came to
have such a charming and unusual name.”

“My mother gave it to me,” answered Holly, softly. “She was very fond
of holly.”

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Winthrop. “It was an impertinent
question.”

“Oh, no. My mother only lived a little while after I was born――about
five weeks. She died on New Year’s morning. On Christmas Day father
picked a spray of holly from one of the bushes down by the road. It
was quite full of red berries and so pretty that he took it in to my
mother. Father said she took it in her hands and cried a little over
it, and he was sorry he had brought it to her. They had laid me beside
her in the bed and presently she placed the holly sprig over me and
kissed me and looked at father. She couldn’t talk very much then.
But father understood what she meant. ‘Holly?’ he asked, and mother
smiled, and――and that was ‘how come.’” Holly, her hands clasped between
her knees, looked gravely and tenderly away across the sunny garden.
Winthrop kept silence for a moment. Then――――

“I fancy they loved each other very dearly, your father and mother,” he
said.

“Oh, they did!” breathed Holly. “Father used to tell me――about it. He
always said I was just like my mother. It――it must have been beautiful.
Do you reckon,” she continued wistfully, “people love that way
nowadays?”

“To-day, yesterday, and to-morrow,” answered Winthrop. “The great
passions――love, hate, acquisitiveness――are the same now as in the
beginning, and will never change while the earth spins around. I hope,
Miss Holly, that the years will bring you as great a love and as happy
a one as your mother’s.”

Holly viewed him pensively a moment. Then a little flush crept into her
cheeks and she turned her head away.

“No,” she said, “I’m not dear and sweet and gentle like my mother.
Besides, maybe I’d never find a man like my father.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Winthrop, “although I hope you will. But even
if not, I wouldn’t despair. Love is a very wonderful magician, who
transmutes clay into gold, transforms baseness into nobility, and
changes caitiffs into kings.” He laughed amusedly. “Great Scott! I’m
actually becoming rhetorical! It’s this climate of yours, Miss Holly;
there is something magical about it; it creeps into one’s veins like
wine and makes one’s heart thump at the sound of a bird’s song. Why,
hang it, in another week I shall find myself singing love songs under
your window on moonlight nights!”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Holly, clapping her hands. “I haven’t
been serenaded for the longest time!”

“Do you mean that such things are really done here?”

“Of course! The boys often serenade. When I came home from the
Academy, Julian and a lot of them serenaded me. It was a white, white
night and they stood over there under my windows; I remember how black
their shadows were on the path. Julian and Jim Stuart played guitars
and some of the others had banjos, and it was heavenly!”

“And such things still happen in this prematurely-aged, materialistic
world!” marvelled Winthrop. “It sounds like a fairy tale!”

“I reckon it sounds silly to you,” said Holly.

“Silly! Oh, my dear young lady, if you could only realize how very,
very rich you are!”

“Rich?”

“Yes, rich and wise with the unparalleled wealth and wisdom of
Youth! Hearken to the words of Age and Experience, Miss Holly,” he
continued, half jestingly, half seriously. “The world belongs to
you and your kind; it is the Kingdom of Youth. The rest of us are
here on sufferance; but you belong. The world tolerates Age, but to
Youth it owes allegiance and love. But your days are short in your
kingdom, O Queen, so make the most of them; laugh and play and love
and _live_; above all, live! And above all be extravagant, extravagant
of laughter――and of tears; extravagant of affection; run the gamut of
life every hour; be mad, be foolish――but _live_! And so when the World
thrusts you to one side, saying: ‘The King is dead! Long live the
King!’ you will have no regrets for a wasted reign, but can say: ‘While
I ruled, I lived!’”

“I――I don’t understand――quite!” faltered Holly.

“Because you are too wise.”

“I reckon you mean too stupid,” mourned Holly.

“Too wise. You are Youth, and Youth is Perfect Wisdom. When you grow
old you will know more but be less wise. And the longer you live the
more learning will come to you and the more wisdom will depart. And
in proof of this I point to myself as an example. For no wise person
would try to convince Youth of its wisdom.” Winthrop stopped and drew
his cigarette-case from his pocket. When he had lighted a cigarette he
smiled quizzically across at the girl’s sober, half-averted face. “It’s
very warm, isn’t it?” he asked, with a little laugh.

But Holly made no reply for a minute. Then she turned a troubled face
toward him.

“Why did you say that?” she cried. “You’ve made me feel sad!”

With a gesture of contrition Winthrop reached across and laid his hand
for an instant on hers.

“My dear, I am sorry; forget it if it troubles you; I have been talking
nonsense, sheer nonsense.”

But she shook her head, examining his face gravely.

“No, I don’t reckon you have; but――I don’t understand quite what you
mean. Only――――” She paused, and presently asked:

“Didn’t you live when you ruled? Are you regretting?”

Winthrop shrugged his shoulders.

“That,” he answered, smilingly, “is the sorry part of it; one always
regrets. Come, let’s go in to dinner. I heard the bell, didn’t I?”



IX.


Winthrop thought that he could like Julian Wayne if that youth would
let him. But it was evident from the moment of their first meeting
that Julian wasn’t going to allow anything of the sort. He arrived
at Waynewood Saturday night, and Winthrop, who had spent the evening
with the Major at ’Squire Parish’s house, did not meet him until
Sunday morning. He was tall, dark haired and sallow complexioned,
and as handsome as any youth Winthrop had ever seen. His features
were regular, with a fine, straight nose, wide eyes, a strong chin
and a good, somewhat tense, mouth that matched with the general air
of imperiousness he wore. Winthrop soon discovered that Julian Wayne
retained undiminished the old Southern doctrine of caste and that he
looked upon the new member of the Waynewood household with a polite
but very frank contempt. He was ardent, impetuous, and arrogant, but
they were traits of youth rather than of character, and Winthrop,
for his part, readily forgave them. That he was head-over-heels in
love with Holly was evident from the first, and Winthrop could have
liked him the more for that. But Julian’s bearing was discouraging
to any notions of friendship which Winthrop might have entertained.
For Winthrop breakfast――which Miss India attended, as was her usual
custom on Sundays――was an uncomfortable meal. He felt very much like an
intruder, in spite of the fact that both Miss India and Holly strove to
include him in the conversation, and he was relieved when it was over.

Julian imperiously claimed Holly’s companionship and the two went
out to the front porch. Miss India attended to the matter of dinner
supplies, and then returned to her room to dress for church. Being cut
off from the porch, Winthrop went up-stairs and took a chair and a
book out on to the gallery. But the voices of the two below came up to
him in a low, eager hum, interspersed with occasional words, and drew
his mind from the book. He was a little disappointed in Julian Wayne,
he told himself. He could have wished a different sort of a man for
Holly’s husband. And then he laughed at himself for inconsistency. Only
two days before he had been celebrating just the youthful traits which
Julian exhibited. Doubtless the boy would make her a very admirable
mate. At least, he was thoroughly in love with her. Winthrop strove to
picture the ideal husband for Holly and found himself all at sea on the
instant, and ended by wondering whimsically how long he would allow
Julian undisputed possession of her if he were fifteen――even ten――years
younger!

Later they all walked to church, Julian and Holly leading the way, as
handsome a couple as had ever passed under the whispering oak-trees,
and Winthrop and Miss India pacing staidly along behind――at a discreet
interval. Miss India’s bearing toward him amused Winthrop even while
it piqued him. She was the most kind, most courteous little woman in
the world to him, displaying a vast interest in and sympathy for his
invalidism, and keeping an anxious watch over his goings and comings
in the fear that he would overtax his strength. And yet all the while
Winthrop knew as well as he knew his name that she resented his
ownership of her home and would be vastly relieved at his departure.
And knowing this, he, on every possible occasion, set himself to win
the little lady’s liking, with, he was forced to acknowledge, scant
prospect of success.

Winthrop sat between Miss India and Holly, with Julian at the end of
the pew. It was his first sight of the little, unadorned Episcopal
church, for he had not accompanied the ladies the previous Sunday. It
was a plain, uncompromising interior in which he found himself. The
bare white walls were broken only by big, small-paned windows of plain
glass. The pews were of yellow pine and the pulpit and stiff chairs on
either side were of the same. The only note of decoration was found in
the vase of roses which stood beside the big closed Bible. A cottage
organ supplied the music. But there was color in the congregation,
for the younger women wore their best dresses and finest hats, and
Winthrop concluded that all Corunna was at church. For awhile he
interested himself in discovering acquaintances, many of them scarcely
recognizable to-day in their black coats and air of devoutness. But
the possibilities of that mode of amusement were soon exhausted, since
the Wayne pew was well past the middle of the church. After the sermon
began Winthrop listened to it for awhile. Probably it was a very
excellent and passably interesting sermon, but the windows were wide
open and the languorous air waved softly, warmly in, and Winthrop’s
eyes grew heavier and heavier and the pulpit mistier and mistier and
the parson’s voice lower and lower and....

He opened his eyes very suddenly, for Holly had reached forth and
brought the toe of her shoe into sharp contact with his ankle. He
turned to find her watching him with grave face and laughing eyes, and
he looked his thanks. Then his eyes roved by to encounter the hostile
stare of Julian, who had witnessed the incident and was jealously
resenting the intimacy it denoted.

After church the party delayed at the door to greet their friends.
Julian, with the easy courtesy that so well became him, shook hands
with fully half the congregation, answering and asking questions in his
pleasant, well-bred drawl. Winthrop wondered pessimistically if he had
in mind the fact that in another year or so he would be dependent on
these persons for his bread and butter. But Julian’s punctiliousness
gave Winthrop his chance. Miss India and Holly had finished their share
of the social event and had walked slowly out on to the porch, followed
by Winthrop. Presently Julian emerged through the door in conversation
with Mrs. Somes, and Winthrop turned to Holly.

“There comes your cousin,” he said. “Shall we start on ahead and let
them follow?”

There was a little flicker of surprise in the brown eyes, followed by
the merest suggestion of a smile. Then Holly moved toward the steps and
Winthrop ranged himself beside her.

“A little discipline now and then has a salutary effect, Miss Holly,”
he remarked, as they passed out through the gate.

“Oh, are you doing this for discipline?” asked Holly, innocently.

“I am doing it to please myself, discipline your cousin, and――well, I
don’t know what the effect on you may be.”

“I believe you’re hinting for compliments, Mr. Winthrop!”

“Maybe; I’ve been feeling strangely frivolous of late. By the way,
please accept my undying gratitude for that kick.”

“You ought to be grateful,” answered Holly, with a laugh. “In another
moment your head would have been on Auntie’s shoulder and――I hope you
don’t snore, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Heavens! Was it as bad as that? I _am_ grateful! Fancy your Aunt’s
horror!” And Winthrop laughed at the thought.

“Oh, Auntie would have just thought you’d fainted and had you carried
home and put to bed,” said Holly.

“I wonder how much you know?” mused Winthrop, turning to look down into
her demure face.

“About what, Mr. Winthrop?”

“About my――my invalidism.”

“Why, you’re a very sick man, of course,” replied Holly. “Auntie is
quite worried about you at times.”

Winthrop laughed.

“But you’re not, I suspect. I fancy you have guessed that I am
something of an impostor. Have you?”

“Mh-mh,” assented Holly, smilingly.

“I thought so; you’ve been so fearfully attentive with that――lovely
medicine of late. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself to cause me so much
affliction?”

“Aren’t you ashamed to impose on two unsuspecting ladies?”

“Well, seeing that I haven’t fooled you I don’t think you need to
say ‘two.’ But I’m not altogether to blame, Miss Holly. It was that
scheming Uncle Major of yours that beguiled me into it. He declared up
and down that if I wanted to remain at Waynewood the only thing to do
was to continue being an invalid. And now――well, now I don’t dare get
well!”

Holly laughed gayly.

“If you had owned up before, you would have been spared a good many
doses of medicine,” she said. “It was lots of fun to make you take it!
But now I don’t reckon I’ll have the heart to any more.”

“Bless you for those words!” said Winthrop, devoutly. “That infernal
medicine has been the one fly in my ointment, the single crumbled leaf
in my bed of roses. Hereafter I shall be perfectly happy. That is, if I
survive the day. I fancy your cousin may call me out before he leaves
and put a bullet into me.”

“Why?” asked Holly, innocently.

“Jealousy, my dear young lady. Haven’t I carried you off from under his
nose?”

“I don’t reckon I’d have gone if I hadn’t wanted to,” said Holly, with
immense dignity.

“That makes it all the worse, don’t you see? He is convinced by this
time that I have designs on you and looks upon me as a hated rival. I
can feel his eyes boring gimlet-holes in my back this moment.”

“It will do him good,” said Holly, with a little toss of her head.

“That’s what I thought,” said Winthrop. “But I doubt if he is capable
of taking the same sensible view of it.”

“I’m afraid you don’t like him,” said Holly, regretfully.

“My dear Miss Holly,” he expostulated, “he doesn’t give me a chance.
I am as dirt under his feet. I think I might like him if he’d give me
chance. He’s as handsome a youngster as I’ve ever seen, and I fancy
I can trace a strong resemblance between him and the portrait of your
father in the parlor; the eyes are very like.”

“Others have said that,” answered Holly, “but I never could see the
resemblance; I wish I could.”

“I assure you it’s there.”

“Julian is very silly,” said Holly, warmly. “And I shall tell him so.”

“Pray don’t,” begged Winthrop. “He doubtless already dislikes me quite
heartily enough.”

“He has no right to be rude to you.”

Winthrop smiled ruefully.

“But he isn’t; that’s the worst of it! He’s scrupulously polite――just
as one would be polite to the butler or the man from the butcher’s!
No, don’t call him to account, please; we shall get on well enough, he
and I. Maybe when he discovers that I am not really trying to steal
you away from him he will come off his high horse. I suppose, however,
that the real reason for it all is that he resents my intrusion at
Waynewood――quite in the popular manner.”

He regretted the latter remark the instant he had made it, for Holly
turned a distressed countenance toward him.

“Oh, have we been as bad as all that?” she cried, softly. “I’m so
sorry! But really and really you mustn’t think that we don’t like you
to be at Waynewood! You won’t, will you? Please don’t! Why, I――I have
been so happy since you came!”

“Bless you,” answered Winthrop, lightly, “I really meant nothing. And
if you are willing to put up with me, why, the others don’t matter at
all. But I’m awfully glad to know that you haven’t found me a bother,
Miss Holly.”

“How could I? You’ve been so nice and――and chummy! I shan’t want you
to go away,” she added, sorrowfully. “I feel just as though you were a
nice, big elder brother.”

“That’s just what I am,” replied Winthrop, heartily, “a big elder
brother――_and_ a slave――and _always_ an admirer.”

“And I shall tell Julian so,” added Holly.

“I wouldn’t, really.”

“But why?”

“Oh, well, you’ll just make him more jealous and unhappy, my dear. Or,
at least, that’s the effect it would have on me were I in his place,
and I fancy lovers are much the same North and South.”

“Jealousy is nasty,” said Holly, sententiously.

“Many of our most human sentiments are,” responded Winthrop dryly, “but
we can’t help them.”

Holly was silent a moment. Then――――

“Would you mind not calling me ‘my dear’?” she asked.

“Have I done that? I believe I have. I beg your pardon, Miss Holly!
Really, I had no intention of being――what shall I say?――familiar.”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” replied Holly earnestly, “but it makes me feel so
terribly young! If you’d like to call me Holly, you may.”

“Thank you,” answered Winthrop as they entered the gate and passed into
the noonday twilight of the oleander path. “But that is a privilege I
don’t deserve, at all events, not yet. Perhaps some day, maybe the day
I dance at your wedding, I’ll accept the honor.”

“Just see how many, many roses are out!” cried Holly.

They went on to the house in silence.

Dinner was a pleasanter meal for Winthrop than breakfast had been,
principally because the Major and a Miss Virginia Parish, a maiden lady
of uncertain age and much charm of manners, were present. The Major
observed and resented Julian’s polite disregard of Winthrop and after
dinner took him to task for it. The ladies were in the parlor, Winthrop
had gone up-stairs to get some cigars, and the Major and Julian were at
the end of the porch. It was perhaps unfortunate that Winthrop should
have been forced to overhear a part of the conversation under his
window.

“You don’t treat the gentleman with common civility,” remonstrated the
Major, warmly.

“I am not aware that I have been discourteous to him,” responded Julian
in his drawling voice.

The Major spluttered.

“Gad, sir, what do you mean by discourteous? You can’t turn your back
on a man at his own table without being discourteous! Confound it, sir,
remember that you’re under his roof!”

“I do remember it,” answered Julian quickly. “I’m not likely to forget
it, sir. But how did it become his roof? How did he get hold of it?
Some damned Yankee trick, I’ll wager; stole it, as like as not!”

“Tut, tut, sir! What language is that, Julian? Mr. Winthrop――――”

But Winthrop waited to hear no more. With the cigars he joined them
on the porch, finding the Major very red of face and looking somewhat
like an insulted turkey-cock, and Julian with a sombre sneer on his
dark face. Julian declined the proffered cigar and presently left the
others alone, taking himself off in search of Holly. The Major waved a
hand after him, and scowled angrily.

“Just like his father,” he grunted. “Hot-headed, stubborn, badly
balanced, handsome as the devil and bound to come just such a cropper
in the end.”

“You mean that his father was unfortunate?” asked Winthrop idly, as he
lighted his cigar.

“Shot himself for a woman, sir. Most nonsensical proceeding I ever
heard of. The woman wasn’t worth it, sir.”

“They seldom are,” commented Winthrop, gravely, “in the opinion of
others.”

“She was married,” continued the Major, unheeding the remark, “and had
children; fine little tots they were, too. Husband was good as gold to
her. But she had to have Fernald Wayne to satisfy her damned vanity. I
beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrop, but I have no patience with that sort of
women, sir!”

“You don’t understand them.”

“I don’t want to, sir.”

“You couldn’t if you did,” replied Winthrop.

The Major shot a puzzled glance at him, rolling his unlighted cigar
swiftly around in the corner of his mouth. Then he deluged the
Baltimore Bell with tobacco-juice and went on:

“Fernald was plumb out of his head about her. His own wife had been
dead some years. Nothing would do but she must run away with him.
Well――――”

“Did the lady live here?” asked Winthrop.

“Godamighty, no, sir! We don’t breed that kind here, sir! She lived
in New Orleans; her husband was a cotton factor there. Well, Fernald
begged her to run away with him, and after a lot of hemming and hawing
she consented. They made an appointment for one night and Fernald was
there waiting. But the lady didn’t come. After awhile he went back to
his hotel and found a note. She was sorry, but her husband had bought
tickets for the opera for that evening. Eh? What? There was soul for
you, Mr. Winthrop!”

Winthrop nodded.

“So the lover blew his brains out, eh?”

“Shot a hole in his chest; amounted to about the same thing, I reckon,”
answered the Major, gloomily. “Now what do you think of a woman that’ll
do a thing like that?”

“Well, I don’t know but what a good opera is to be preferred to an
elopement,” answered Winthrop. “There, there, Major, I don’t mean to be
flippant. The fact is we hear of so many of these ‘crimes of passion’
up our way nowadays that we take them with the same equanimity that we
take the weather predictions. The woman was just a good sample of her
sort as the man was doubtless a good sample of his. He was lucky to be
out of it, only he didn’t realize it and so killed himself. That’s the
deuce of it, you see, Major; a man who can look a thousand fathoms into
a woman’s eyes and keep his judgment from slipping a cog is――well, he
just isn’t; he doesn’t exist! And if he did you and I, Major, wouldn’t
have anything to do with him.”

“Shucks!” grunted the Major, half in agreement, half in protest.

“But I hope this boy won’t follow his father’s lead, just the same,”
said Winthrop.

“No, no,” answered the Major, energetically; “he won’t, he won’t.
He――he’s better fitted for hard knocks than his dad was. I――we had just
had a few words and I was――ah――displeased. Shall we join the ladies
inside, Mr. Winthrop?”

The Major drove back to town in his side-bar buggy behind his aged
gray mule at sunset, taking Miss Parish with him. Miss India retired
to her room, and Julian and Holly strolled off together down the
road. Winthrop drew the arm-chair up to the fireplace in his room and
smoked and read until supper time. At that meal only he and Holly and
Julian were present, and the conversation was confined principally
to the former two. Julian was plainly out of sorts and short of
temper; his wooing, Winthrop concluded, had not gone very well that
day. Holly seemed troubled, but whether over Julian’s unhappiness or
his impoliteness Winthrop could not guess. After supper they went
out to the porch for a while together, but Winthrop soon bade them
good-night. For some time through the opened windows he could hear the
faint squeaking of the joggling-board and the fainter hum of their low
voices. At ten Julian’s horse was brought around, and he clattered away
in the starlit darkness toward Marysville. He heard Holly closing the
door down-stairs, heard her feet patter up the uncarpeted stairway,
heard her humming a little tune under her breath. The lamp was still
lighted on his table, and doubtless the radiance of it showed under
the door, for Holly’s footsteps came nearer and nearer along the hall
until――

“Good-night, slave!” she called, softly.

“Good-night, Miss Holly,” he answered.

He heard her footsteps dying away, and finally the soft closing of a
door. Thoughtfully he refilled his pipe and went back to the chair in
front of the dying fire....

The ashes were cold and a chill breeze blew through the open casements.
Winthrop arose with a shiver, knocked the ashes from his pipe and
dropped it on the mantel.

“There’s no fool like an old――like a middle-aged fool,” he muttered, as
he blew out the lamp.



X.


[Illustration]

Holly’s birthday was quite an event at Waynewood. Aunt Venus outdid
herself and there never was such a dinner, from the okra soup to the
young guineas and on to the snowy syllabub and the birthday cake with
its eighteen flaring pink candles. Uncle Major was there, as were
two of Holly’s girl friends, and the little party of six proved most
congenial. Holly was in the highest spirits; everyone she knew had
been so kind to her. Aunt India had given her dimity for a new dress
and a pair of the gauziest white silk stockings that ever crackled
against the ear. The dimity was white sprinkled with little Dresden
flowers of deep pink. Holly and Rosa and Edith had spent fully an hour
before dinner in enthusiastic planning and the fate of the white dimity
was settled. It was to be made up over pale pink, and the skirt was to
be quite plain save for a single deep flounce at the bottom. Rosa had
just the pattern for it and Holly was to drive out to Bellair in a day
or so and get it. The Major had brought a blue plush case lined with
maroon satin and holding three pairs of scissors, a bodkin, and two
ribbon-runners.

[Illustration]

“I don’t know what those flat gimcracks are for, Holly,” he said, as
she kissed him, “but ‘Ham’ he said he reckoned you’d know what to do
with them. I told him, ‘Ham, you’re a married man and I’m a bachelor,
and don’t you go and impose on my ignorance. If there’s anything
indelicate about those instruments you take ’em out.’ But he said as
long as I didn’t see ’em in use it was all right and proper.”

Julian had sent a tiny gold brooch and Winthrop had presented a
five-pound box of candy. Of the two the candy made the more pronounced
hit. It had come all the way from New York, and was such an imposing
affair with its light blue moire-paper box and its yards of silk
ribbon! And then the wonderful things inside! Candied violets and
rose- and chrysanthemum-petals, grapes hidden in coverings of white
cream, little squares of fruit-cake disguised as plebeian caramels,
purple raisins and white almonds buried side by side in amber glacé,
white and lavender pellets that broke to nothing in the mouth and left
a surprising and agreeable flavor of brandy, little smooth nuggets of
gold and silver and a dozen other fanciful whims of the confectioner.
The girls screamed and laughed with delight, and the Major pretended
to feel the effects of three brandy-drops and insisted on telling
Miss India about his second wife. There had been other gifts besides.
Holly’s old “mammy” had walked in, three miles, with six-guinea-eggs in
a nest of gray moss; Phœbe had gigglingly presented a yard of purple
silk “h’ar ribbon,” Aunt Venus had brought a brown checked sun-bonnet
of her own making, and even Young Tom, holding one thumb tightly
between his teeth and standing embarrassedly on one dusty yellow foot,
had brought his gift, a bundle of amulets rolled out of newspaper and
artistically dyed in beet juice. Yes, everyone had been very kind to
Holly, and her eighteenth birthday was nothing short of an occasion.

In the afternoon Holly and Rosa and the Major piled into his buggy and
went for a ride, while Miss India retired for her nap, and Winthrop
and Edith sat on the porch. Miss Bartram was a tall, graceful,
golden-haired beauty of nineteen, with sentimental gray eyes and an
affectation of world-weariness which Winthrop found for a time rather
diverting. They perched on the joggling-board together and discussed
Holly, affinities, Julian Wayne, love, Richmond, New York, Northern
customs――which Miss Edith found very strange and bizarre――marriage in
the abstract, marriage in the concrete as concerned with Miss Edith,
flowers, Corunna, Major Cass, milk-shakes, and many other subjects.
The girl was a confirmed flirt, and Winthrop tired of her society
long before relief came in the shape of a laughing trio borne into
sight behind a jogging gray mule. After supper they played hearts,
after a fashion introduced by Miss Bartram. Whoever held the queen
of spades when a game was ended received a smudge on the face from
each of the other players, whose privilege it was to rub one finger
in the soot of the fireplace and inscribe designs on the unfortunate
one’s countenance. As the queen of spades and Major Cass developed an
affinity early in the evening the latter was a strange and fearsome
sight when the party broke up. The Major was to take Miss Edith back
to town with him, and the latter entered the buggy to a chorus of
remonstrances from the other girls.

“Oh, don’t you go with him!” cried Rosa. “Your face will be a perfect
sight by the time you reach home!”

“I really think, Major,” laughed Winthrop, “that maybe you’d better
wash the side of your face next to Miss Bartram.”

“Don’t you-all worry so much,” responded the Major. “Miss Edith isn’t
saying anything, is she? She knows it’s dark and no one’s going to see
her face when she gets home. I don’t know what’s coming to the ladies
these days. When I was younger they didn’t let a little thing like a
grain of smut interfere with a kiss or two.”

“Then don’t you let him have more than two, Edith,” said Holly. “You
heard what he said.”

“Merely a figure of speech, ladies,” replied the Major. “I’ve heard
there wasn’t such a thing as a single kiss and I reckon there ain’t
such a thing as a pair of ’em; eh, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Always come by the dozen, as I understand it,” answered Winthrop.

Miss Edith gave a shriek.

“I’m powerful glad I’m not riding home with you, Mr. Winthrop!”

“Oh, it washes off quite easily, really!”

The buggy trundled out of sight around the corner of the drive to
an accompaniment of laughter and farewells. Miss Rosa was to spend
the night at Waynewood, and she and Holly and Winthrop returned to
the joggling-board, the girls spreading wraps over their shoulders.
There were clouds in the sky, and the air held promise of rain.
Holly was somewhat silent and soon dropped out of the conversation
altogether. Winthrop and Rosa talked of books. Neither, perhaps, was
a great reader, but they had read some books in common and these they
discussed. Winthrop liked Miss Rosa far better than Miss Bartram.
She was small, pretty in a soft-featured way, quiet of voice and
manner, and all-in-all very girlish and sweet. She was a few months
younger than Holly. She lived with her brother, Phaeton Carter, on his
plantation some eight miles out on the Quitman road. Her parents were
dead, but before their deaths, she told him wistfully, she had been all
through the North and knew Washington well. Her father had served as
Representative for two terms. She aroused Winthrop’s sympathies; there
seemed so little ahead of her; marriage perhaps some day with one of
their country neighbors, and after that a humdrum existence without any
of the glad things her young heart craved. His sympathy showed in his
voice, which could be very soft and caressing when it wanted to, and
if Rosa dreamed a little that night of an interesting Northerner with
sympathetic voice and eyes it wasn’t altogether her fault. Meanwhile
they were getting on very well, so well that they almost forgot Holly’s
existence. But they were reminded of it very suddenly. Holly jumped off
the board and seized Rosa by the hand.

“Bed time,” she announced, shortly.

“Oh, Holly!” cried the girl, in dismay. “Why, it can’t be half-past ten
yet!”

“It’s very late,” declared Holly, severely. “Come along!”

Rosa allowed herself to be dragged off the seat and into the house.
Winthrop followed. At the foot of the stairs he said good-night,
shaking hands as the custom was.

“Good-night, Mr. Winthrop,” said Rosa, regretfully, smiling a trifle
shyly at him across the rail.

“Good-night, Miss Carter. We’ll settle our discussion when there is no
ogress about to drag you away. Good-night, Miss Holly. I hope there’ll
be many, many more birthdays as pleasant as this one.”

“Good-night,” answered Holly, carelessly, her hand lying limply
in his. “I’m not going to have any more birthdays――ever; I don’t
like birthdays.” The glance which accompanied the words was hard,
antagonistic. “Will you please lock the door, Mr. Winthrop?”

“I’m sorry,” thought Winthrop, as he made his way to his room. “She’s
only a child, and a child’s friendship is very jealous. I should have
remembered that.”

[Illustration]

Miss Rosa returned to Bellair the next afternoon, and with her
departure Holly’s spirits returned. Winthrop smiled and sighed at the
same time. It was all so palpable, so childish and――so sweet. There was
the disturbing thought. Why should he find his heart warming at the
contemplation of Holly’s tiny fit of jealousy? Was he really going to
make a fool of himself and spoil their pleasant comradeship by falling
in love with her? What arrant nonsense! It was the silly romantic
atmosphere that was doing the mischief! Hang it all, a man could fall
in love with an Alaskan totem-pole here if he was in company with
it for half an hour! There were three very excellent reasons why he
mustn’t let himself fall in love with Holly Wayne, and it was plainly
his duty to keep a watch on himself. With that thought in mind he
spent more time away from Waynewood than theretofore, throwing himself
on the companionship of the Major, who was always delighted to have
him drop in at his office or at the Palmetto House, where he lived;
or riding out to Sunnyside to spend the day with Colonel Byers. The
Major had loaned him a shotgun, an antiquated 12-bore, and with this
and ’Squire Parish’s red setter Lee, he spent much time afield and had
some excellent sport with the quail. Holly accused him many times of
being tired of her company, adding once that she was sorry she wasn’t
as entertaining as Rosa Carter, whereupon Winthrop reiterated his vows
of fealty, but declared that his lazy spell had passed, that he was at
last acclimated and no longer satisfied with sweet inaction. And Holly
professed to believe him, but in her heart was sure that the fault lay
with her and decided that when she was married to Julian she would make
him take her travelling everywhere so that she could talk as well as
Rosa.

[Illustration]

December came in with a week of rainy days, during which the last of
the roses were beaten from their stalks and the garden drooped dank and
disconsolate. Blue violets, moist and fragrant under their dripping
leaves, were the only blooms the garden afforded those days. Holly, to
whose pagan spirit enforced confinement in-doors brought despair, took
advantage of every lift of the clouds to don a linen cluster, which
she gravely referred to as her rain-coat, and her oldest sun-bonnet,
and get out amidst the drenched foliage. Those times she searched the
violet-beds and returned wet and triumphant to the house. Winthrop
coming back from a tramp to town one afternoon rounded the curve of
the carriage-road just as she regained the porch.

“Violets?” he asked, his eyes travelling from the little cluster of
blossoms and leaves in her hand to the soft pink of her cool, moist
cheeks.

“Yes, for the guest chamber,” answered Holly.

“You are expecting a visitor?” he asked, his thoughts turning to Julian
Wayne.

“Stupid!” said Holly. “Your room is the guest room. Didn’t you know it?
Wait, please, and I’ll put them in water for you.”

[Illustration]

She came back while Winthrop was taking off his rain-coat. The violets
were nodding over the rim of a little glass. Winthrop thanked her and
bore them up-stairs. The next morning Holly came from her Aunt’s room,
the door of which was opposite Winthrop’s across the broad hall. His
door was wide open and on the bureau stood the violets well in the
angle of a two-fold photograph frame of crimson leather. Holly paused
in the middle of the hall and looked. It was difficult to see the
photographs, but one was the likeness of a child, while the other, in
deeper shadow, seemed to be that of a woman. She had never been in
the room since Winthrop had taken possession, but this morning the
desire to enter was strong. She listened, glancing apprehensively at
the closed door of her Aunt’s room. There was no danger from that
direction, and she knew that Winthrop had gone to the village.
Fearsomely, with thumping heart and cheeks that alternately paled and
flushed, she stole across the floor to the bureau. Clasping her hands
behind her, lest they should unwittingly touch something, she leaned
over and examined the two portraits. The one on the left was that
of a young woman of perhaps twenty-two years. So beautiful was the
smiling oval face with its great dark eyes that Holly almost gasped
as she looked. The dress, of white shimmering satin, was cut low, and
the shoulders and neck were perfect. A rope of small pearls encircled
the round throat and in the light hair, massed high on the head, an
aigrette tipped with pearls lent a regal air to beauty. Holly looked
long, sighing she scarcely knew why. Finally she drew her eyes away and
examined the other photograph, that of a sturdy little chap of four or
five years, his feet planted wide apart and his chubby hands holding
tight to the hoop that reached to his breast. Round-faced, grave-eyed
and curly-haired, he was yet a veritable miniature of Winthrop. But
the eyes were strongly like those in the other picture, and Holly had
no doubts as to the identity of each subject. Holly drew away, gently
restored a fallen violet, and hurried guiltily from the room.

Winthrop did not return for dinner that day, but sent a note by a
small colored boy telling them that he was dining with the Major.
Consequently the two ladies were alone. When the dessert came on Miss
India said:

“I think Mr. Winthrop would relish some of this clabber for his supper,
Holly. It will do him good. I’ll put it in the safe, my dear, and don’t
let me forget to get it out for him this evening.”

“I don’t reckon he cares much for clabber, Auntie.”

“Not care for clabber! Nonsense, my dear; everyone likes clabber.
Besides, it’s just what he ought to have after taking dinner at the
hotel; I don’t reckon they’ll give him a thing that’s fit to eat. When
your father was alive he took me to Augusta with him once and we
stopped at a hotel there, and I assure you, Holly, there wasn’t a thing
I could touch! Such tasteless trash you never saw! I always pity folks
that have to live at hotels, and I do wish the Major would go to Mrs.
Burson’s for his meals.”

“But the Bursons live mighty poorly, Auntie.”

“Because they have to, my child. If the Major went there Mrs. Burson
could spend more on her table. She has one of the best cooks in the
town.” Holly made no reply and presently Miss India went on: “Have you
noticed,” she asked, “how Mr. Winthrop has improved since he came here,
Holly?”

“Yes, Auntie. He says himself that he’s much better. He was wondering
the other day whether it wasn’t time to stop taking the medicine.”

“The tonic? Sakes, no! Why, that’s what’s holding him up, my dear,
although he doesn’t realize it. I reckon he’s a much sicker man than he
thinks he is.”

“He appears to be able to get around fairly well,” commented Holly.
“He’s always off somewhere nowadays.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid he’s overdoing it, my dear. I must speak to him
about it.”

“Then we mightn’t get any more quail or doves, Auntie.”

“It would be just as well. Why he wants to kill the poor defenceless
creatures I don’t see.”

“But you know you love doves, Auntie,” laughed Holly.

“Well, maybe I do; but it isn’t right to kill them, _I_ know.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange,” asked Holly presently, her eyes on the bread
she was crumbling between her fingers, “that Mr. Winthrop never says
anything about his wife?”

“I’ve never yet heard him say he had a wife,” answered Miss India.

“Oh, but we know that he has. Uncle Major said so.”

“I don’t reckon the Major knows very much about it. Maybe his wife’s
dead.”

“Oh,” said Holly, thoughtfully. Then: “No, I don’t think she could be
dead,” she added, with conviction. “Do you――do you reckon he has any
children Auntie?”

“Sakes, child, how should I know? It’s no concern of ours, at any rate.”

“I reckon we can wonder, though. And it is funny he never speaks of
her.”

“Northerners are different,” said Miss India sagely. “I reckon a wife
doesn’t mean much to them, anyhow.”

“Don’t you think Mr. Winthrop is nice, Auntie?”

“I’ve seen men I liked better and a heap I liked worse,” replied her
Aunt, briefly. “But I’ll say one thing for Mr. Winthrop,” she added,
as she arose from her chair and drew her shawl more closely around her
shoulders, “he has tact; I’ve never heard him allude to the War. Tact
and decency,” she murmured, as she picked her keys from the table.
“Bring the plates, Phœbe.”

Four Sundays passed without the appearance of Julian. Winthrop
wondered. “Either,” he reflected, “they have had a quarrel or he is
mighty sure of her. And it can’t be a quarrel, for she gets letters
from him at least once a week. Perhaps he is too busy at his work to
spare the time, although――――” Winthrop shook his head. He had known
lovers who would have made the time.

The rainy weather passed northward with its draggled skirts, and a
spell of warm days ushered in the Christmas season. The garden smiled
again in the sunlight, and a few of the roses opened new blooms.
Winthrop took a trip to Jacksonville a week before Christmas, spent
two days there, and purchased modest gifts for Miss India, Holly,
and the Major. The former had flatteringly commissioned him to make
a few purchases for her, and Winthrop, realizing that this showed a
distinct advance in his siege of the little lady’s liking, spent many
anxious moments in the performance of the task. When he returned he was
graciously informed that he had purchased wisely and well. Christmas
fell on Saturday that year and Julian put in an appearance Friday
evening. Christmas morning they went to church and at two o’clock sat
down to a dinner at which were present besides the family and Winthrop,
Major Cass, Edith Bartram, and Mr. and Mrs. Burson. Burson kept the
livery stable and was a tall, awkward, self-effacing man of fifty or
thereabouts, who some twenty years before had in an unaccountable
manner won the toast of the county for his bride. A measure of Mrs.
Burson’s former beauty remained, but on the whole she was a faded,
depressing little woman, worn out by a long struggle against poverty.

The Major, who had been out in the country in the morning, arrived late
and very dusty and went up to Winthrop’s room to wash before joining
the others. When he came down and, after greeting the assembled party,
tucked his napkin under his ample chin, he turned to Winthrop with
twinkling eyes.

“Mr. Winthrop, sir,” he said, “I came mighty near not getting out of
your room again, sir. I saw that picture on your bureau and fell down
and worshipped. Gad, sir, I don’t know when I’ve seen a more beautiful
woman, outside of the present array! Yes, sir, I came mighty near
staying right there and feasting my eyes instead of my body, sir. And a
fine-looking boy, too, Mr. Winthrop. Your family, I reckon, sir?”

“My wife and son,” answered Winthrop, gravely.

The conversation had died abruptly and everyone was frankly attentive.

“I envy you, sir, ’pon my word, I do!” said the Major emphatically,
between spoonfuls of soup. “As handsome a woman and boy as ever I saw,
sir. They are well, I trust, Mr. Winthrop?”

“The boy died shortly after that portrait was taken,” responded
Winthrop. There were murmurs of sympathy.

“Dear, dear, dear,” said the Major, laying down his spoon and looking
truly distressed. “I had no idea, Mr. Winthrop――――! You’ll pardon me,
sir, for my――my unfortunate curiosity.”

“Don’t apologize, Major,” answered Winthrop, smilingly. “It has been
six years, and I can speak of it now with some degree of equanimity.
He was a great boy, that son of mine; sometimes I think that maybe the
Lord was a little bit envious.”

“The picture of you, sir,” said the Major, earnestly. “But your lady,
sir? She is――ah――well, I trust?”

“Quite, I believe,” answered Winthrop.

“I am glad to hear it. I trust some day, sir, you’ll bring her down and
give us the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Thank you,” Winthrop replied, quietly.

Holly began an eager conversation with Julian and the talk became
general, the Major holding forth on the subject of Cuban affairs, which
were compelling a good deal of attention in that winter of 1897–8.
After dinner they went out to the porch, but not before the Major had,
unnoticed, stationed himself at the dining-room door with a sprig of
mistletoe in his hand. Holly and Julian reached the door together
and with a portentous wink at Julian the Major held the little bunch
of leaves and berries over Holly’s head. Winthrop, the last to leave
the room, saw what followed. Julian imprisoned Holly’s hands in front
of her, leaned across her shoulder and pressed a kiss on her cheek.
There was a little cry of alarm from Holly, drowned by the Major’s
chuckle and Julian’s triumphant laugh. Holly’s eyes caught sight of the
mistletoe, the blood dyed her face, and she smiled uncertainly.

[Illustration: THE MAJOR HELD THE LITTLE BUNCH OF LEAVES AND BERRIES
OVER HOLLY’S HEAD]

“He caught you, my dear,” chuckled the Major.

“You’re a traitor, Uncle Major,” she answered, indignantly. With a
quick gesture she seized the mistletoe from his grasp and threw it
across the room. As she turned, her head in air, her eyes encountered
Winthrop’s and their glances clung for an instant. He wondered
afterwards what she had read in his eyes for her own grew large and
startled ere the lids fell over them and she turned and ran out
through the hall. The rest followed laughing. Winthrop ascended to his
room, closed his door, lighted a pipe and sat down at an open window.
From below came the sound of voices, rising and falling, and the harsh
song of a red-bird in the magnolia-tree. From the back of the house
came the sharp explosions of firecrackers, and Winthrop knew that
Young Tom was beatifically happy. The firecrackers had been Winthrop’s
“Chrismus gif.” But his thoughts didn’t remain long with the occupants
of the porch or with Young Tom, although he strove to keep them there.
There was something he must face, and so, tamping the tobacco down in
his pipe with his finger, he faced it.

He was in love with Holly.

The sudden rage of jealousy which had surged over him down there in
the dining-room had opened his eyes. He realized now that he had been
falling in love with her, deeper and deeper every day, ever since his
arrival at Waynewood. He had been blinding himself with all sorts of
excuses, but to-day they were no longer convincing. He had made a
beastly mess of things. If he had only had the common sense to look
the situation fairly in the face a month ago! It would have been so
simple then to have beat a retreat. Now he might retreat as far as he
could go without undoing the damage. Well, thank Heaven, there was no
harm done to anyone save himself! Then he recalled the startled look in
Holly’s brown eyes and wondered what she had read in his face. Could
she have guessed? Nonsense; he was too old to parade his emotions like
a school-boy. Doubtless he had looked annoyed, disgusted, and Holly
had seen it and probably resented it. That was all. Had he unwittingly
done anything to cause her to suspect? He strove to remember. No, the
secret was safe. He sighed with relief. Thank Heaven for that! If she
ever guessed his feelings what a fool she would think him, what a
middle-aged, sentimental ass! And how she would laugh! But no, perhaps
she wouldn’t do just that; she was too kind-hearted; but she would be
amused. Winthrop’s cheeks burned at the thought.

Granted all this, what was to be done? Run away? To what end? Running
away wouldn’t undo what was done. Now that he realized what had
happened he could keep guard on himself. None suspected, none need ever
suspect, Holly least of all. It would be foolish to punish himself
unnecessarily for what, after all, was no offense. No; he would stay at
Waynewood; he would see Holly each day, and he would cure himself of
what, after all, was――could be――only a sentimental attachment evolved
from propinquity and idleness. Holly was going to marry Julian; and
even were she not――――. Winthrop glanced toward the photograph frame on
the bureau――there were circumstances which forbade him entering the
field. Holly was not for him. Surely if one thoroughly realized that
a thing was unobtainable he must cease to desire it in time. That was
common sense. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and arose.

“That’s it, Robert, my boy,” he muttered. “Common sense. If you’ll just
stick to that you’ll come out all right. There’s nothing like a little,
hard, plain common sense to knock the wind out of sentiment. Common
sense, my boy, common sense!”

He joined the others on the porch and conducted a very creditable
flirtation with Miss Edith until visitors began to arrive, and the
big bowl of eggnog was set in the middle of the dining-room table and
banked with holly. After dark they went into town and watched the
fireworks on the green surrounding the school-house. Holly walked ahead
with Julian, and Winthrop thought he had never seen her in better
spirits. She almost seemed to avoid him that evening, but that was
perhaps only his fancy. Returning, there were only Holly and Julian and
Winthrop, for Miss Bartram and the Bursons returned to their homes and
the Major had been left at Waynewood playing bezique with Miss India.
For awhile the conversation lagged, but Winthrop set himself the task
of being agreeable to Julian and by the time they reached the house
that youth had thawed out and was treating Winthrop with condescending
friendliness. Winthrop left the young pair on the porch and joined the
Major and Miss India in the parlor, watching their play and hiding his
yawns until the Major finally owned defeat.



XI.


Holly had grown older within the last two months, although no one but
Aunt India realized it. It was as though her eighteenth birthday had
been a sharp line of division between girlhood and womanhood. It was
not that Holly had altered either in appearance or actions; she was the
same Holly, gay or serious, tender or tyrannical, as the mood seized
her; but the change was there, even if Miss India couldn’t quite put
her finger on it. Perhaps she was a little more sedate when she was
sedate, a little more thoughtful at all times. She read less than she
used to, but that was probably because there were fewer moments when
she was alone. She was a little more careful of her attire than she had
been, but that was probably because there was more reason to look well.
Miss India felt the change rather than saw it.

I have said that no one save Miss India realized it, but that is not
wholly true. For Holly herself realized it in a dim, disquieting way.
The world in which she had spent her first eighteen years seemed, as
she looked back at it, strangely removed from the present one. There
had been the same sky and sunshine, the same breezes and flowers, the
same pleasures and duties, and yet there had been a difference. It
was as though a gauze curtain had been rolled away; things were more
distinct, sensations more acute; the horizon was where it always had
been, but now it seemed far more distant, giving space for so many
details which had eluded her sight before. It was all rather confusing.
At times it seemed to Holly that she was much happier than she had
been in that old world, and there were times when the contrary seemed
true, times when she became oppressed with a feeling of sorrowfulness.
At such moments her soft mouth would droop at the corners and her eyes
grow moist; life seemed very tragic in some indefinable way. And yet,
all the while, she knew in her heart that this new world――this broader,
vaster, clearer world――was the best; that this new life, in spite of
its tragedy which she felt but could not see, was the real life. Sorrow
bit sharper, joy was more intense, living held a new, fierce zest. Not
that she spent much time in introspection, or worried her head with
over-much reasoning, but all this she felt confusedly as one groping
in a dark room feels unfamiliar objects without knowing what they may
be or why they are there. But Holly’s groping was not for long. The
door of understanding opened very suddenly, and the light of knowledge
flooded in upon her.

[Illustration]

January was a fortnight old and Winter held sway. The banana-trees
drooped blackened and shrivelled, the rose-beds were littered with
crumpled leaves, and morning after morning a film of ice, no thicker
than a sheet of paper, but still real ice, covered the water-pail on
its shelf on the back porch. Uncle Ran groaned with rheumatism as he
laid the morning fires, and held his stiffened fingers to the blaze
as the fat pine hissed and spluttered. To Winthrop it was the veriest
farce of a winter, but the other inhabitants of Waynewood felt the cold
keenly. Aunt India kept to her room a great deal, and when she did
appear down-stairs she seemed tinier than ever under the great gray
shawl. Her face wore a pinched and anxious expression, as though she
were in constant fear of actually freezing to death.

“I don’t understand what has gotten into our winters,” she said one day
at dinner, drawing her skirts forward so they would not be scorched by
the fire which blazed furiously at her back. “They used to be at least
temperate. Now one might as well live in Russia or Nova Zembla! Phœbe,
you forgot to put the butter on the hearth and it’s as hard as a rock.
You’re getting more forgetful every day.”

[Illustration]

It was in the middle of the month, one forenoon when the cold had
moderated so that one could sit on the porch in the sunshine without
a wrap and when the southerly breeze held a faint, heart-stirring
promise of Spring――a promise speedily broken,――that Winthrop came back
to the house from an after-breakfast walk over the rutted clay road and
found Holly removing the greenery from the parlor walls and mantel.
She had spread a sheet in the middle of the room and was tossing the
dried and crackling holly and the gummy pine plumes onto it in a heap.
As Winthrop hung up his hat and looked in upon her she was standing
on a chair and, somewhat red of face, was striving to reach the bunch
of green leaves and red berries above the half-length portrait of her
father.

“You’d better let me do that,” suggested Winthrop, as he joined her.

“No,” answered Holly, “I’m――――going to――――get it――――There!”

Down came the greenery with a shower of dried leaves and berries, and
down jumped Holly with a triumphant laugh.

“Please move the chair over there,” she directed.

Winthrop obeyed, and started to step up onto it, but Holly objected.

“No, no, no,” she cried, anxiously. “I’m going to do it myself. It
makes me feel about a foot high and terribly helpless to have folks
reach things down for me.”

Winthrop smiled and held out his hand while she climbed up.

“There,” said Holly. “Now I’m going to reach that if I――have
to――stretch myself――out of――shape!” It was a long reach, but she finally
accomplished it, laid hold of one of the stalks and gave a tug. The
tug achieved the desired result, but it also threw Holly off her
balance. To save herself she made a wild clutch at Winthrop’s shoulder,
and as the chair tipped over she found herself against his breast, his
arms about her and her feet dangling impotently in air. Perhaps he held
her there an instant longer than was absolutely necessary, and in that
instant perhaps his heart beat a little faster than usual, his arms
held her a little tighter than before, and his eyes darkened with some
emotion not altogether anxiety for her safety. Then he placed her very
gently on her feet and released her.

“You see,” he began with elaborate unconcern, “I told you――――”

Then he caught sight of her face and stopped. It was very white, and in
the fleeting glimpse he had of her eyes they seemed vast and dark and
terrified.

“It startled you!” he said, anxiously.

She stood motionless for a moment, her head bent, her arms hanging
straight. Then she turned and walked slowly toward the door.

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice; “it――――I feel――――faint.”

[Illustration]

Very deliberately she climbed the stairs, passed along the hall, and
entered her room. She closed the door behind her and walked, like one
in a dream, to the window. For several minutes she stared unseeingly
out into the sunlit world, her hands strained together at her breast
and her heart fluttering chokingly. The door of understanding had
opened and the sudden light bewildered her. But gradually things took
shape. With a little sound that was half gasp, half moan, she turned
and fell to her knees at the foot of her bed, her tightly-clasped hands
thrown out across the snowy quilt and her cheek pillowed on one arm.
Tears welled slowly from under her closed lids and seeped scorchingly
through her sleeve.

“Don’t let me, dear God,” she sobbed, miserably, “don’t let me! You
don’t want me to be unhappy, do you? You know he’s a married man and
a Northerner! And I didn’t know, truly I didn’t know until just now!
It would be wicked to love him, wouldn’t it? And you don’t want me to
be wicked, do you? And you’ll take him away, dear God, where I won’t
see him again, ever, ever again? You know I’m only just Holly Wayne
and I need your help. You mustn’t let me love him! You mustn’t, you
mustn’t....”

She knelt there a long time, feeling very miserable and very
wicked,――wicked because in spite of her prayers, which had finally
trailed off into mingled sobs and murmurs, her thoughts flew back to
Winthrop and her heart throbbed with a strange, new gladness. Oh, how
terribly wicked she was! It seemed to her that she had lied to God!
She had begged Him to take Winthrop away from her and yet her thoughts
sought him every moment! She had only to close her own eyes to see his,
deep and dark, looking down at her, and to read again their wonderful,
fearsome message; to feel again the straining clasp of his arms about
her and the hurried thud of his heart against her breast! She felt
guilty and miserable and happy.

She wondered if God would hear her prayer and take him away from
her. And suddenly she realized what that would mean. Not to see him
again――ever! No, no; she couldn’t stand that! God must help her to
forget him, but He mustn’t take him away. After all, was it so horribly
wicked to care for him as long as she never let him know? Surely no one
would suffer save herself? And she――well, she could suffer. It came to
her, then, that perhaps in this new world of hers it was a woman’s lot
to suffer.

Her thoughts flew to her mother. She wondered if such a thing had ever
happened to her. What would she have done had she been in Holly’s
place? Holly’s tears came creeping back again; she wanted her mother
very much just then....

As she sat at the open window, the faint and measured tramp of steps
along the porch reached her. It was Winthrop, she knew. And at the
very thought her heart gave a quick throb that was at once a joy and
a pain. Oh, why couldn’t people be just happy in such a beautiful
world? Why need there be disappointments, and heartaches? If only she
could go to him and explain it all! He would take her hand and look
down at her with that smiling gravity of his, and she would say quite
fearlessly: “I love you very dearly. I can’t help it. It isn’t my
fault, nor yours. But you must make it easy for me, dear. You must go
away now, but not for ever; I couldn’t stand that. Sometimes you must
come back and see me. And when you are away you will know that I love
you more than anything in the world, and I will know that you love me.
Of course, we must never speak again of our love, for that would be
wicked. And you wouldn’t want me to be wicked. We will be such good,
good friends always. Good-bye.”

You see, it never occurred to her that Winthrop’s straining arms, his
quickening heart-throbs, and the words of his eyes, might be only the
manifestation of a quite temporal passion. She judged him by herself,
and all loves by that which her father and mother had borne for each
other. There were still things in this new world of hers which her eyes
had not discerned.

She wondered if Winthrop had understood her emotion after he had
released her from his arms. For an instant, she hoped that he had. Then
she clasped her hands closely to her burning cheeks and thought that
if he had she would never have the courage to face him again! She hoped
and prayed that he had not guessed.

Suddenly, regretfully for the pain she must cause him, she recollected
Julian. She could never marry him now. She would never, never marry
anyone. She would be an old maid, like Aunt India. The prospect seemed
rather pleasing than otherwise. With such a precious love in her
heart she could never be quite lonely, no matter if she lived to be
very, very old! She wondered if Aunt India had ever loved. And just
then Phœbe’s voice called her from below and she went to the door and
answered. She bathed her hot cheeks and wet eyes in the chill water,
and with a long look about the big square room, which seemed now to
have taken on the sacredness of a temple of confession, she went
down-stairs.

Winthrop had not guessed. She knew that at once when she saw him. He
was eagerly anxious about her, and blamed himself for her fright.

“I ought never to have let you try such foolishness,” he said,
savagely. “You might have hurt yourself badly.”

“Oh,” laughed Holly, “but you were there to catch me!”

There was a caressing note in her voice that thrilled him with longing
to live over again that brief moment in the parlor. But he only
answered, and awkwardly enough, since his nerves were taut: “Then
please see that I’m there before you try it again.”

They sat down at table with Miss India, to whom by tacit consent no
mention was made of the incident, and chattered gayly of all things
save the one which was crying at their lips to be spoken. And Holly
kept her secret well.



XII.


January and Winter had passed together. February was nearly a week old.
Already the garden was astir. The violet-beds were massed with blue,
and the green spikes of the jonquils showed tiny buds. There was a new
balminess in the air, a new languor in the ardent sunlight. The oaks
were tasseling, the fig-trees were gowning themselves in new green
robes of Edenic simplicity, the clumps of Bridal Wreath were sprinkled
with flecks of white that promised early flowering and the pomegranates
were unfolding fresh leaves. On the magnolia burnished leaves of tender
green squirmed free from brown sheaths like moths from their cocoons.
The south wind blew soft and fresh from the Gulf, spiced with the aroma
of tropic seas. Spring was dawning over Northern Florida.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Holly was perched in the fig-tree at the
end of the porch, one rounded arm thrown back against the dusky trunk
to pillow her head, one hand holding her forgotten book, one slender
ankle swinging slowly like a dainty pendulum from under the hem of
her skirt. Her eyes were on the green knoll where the oaks threw deep
shadow over the red-walled enclosure, and her thoughts wandered like
the blue-jay that flitted restlessly through garden and grove. Life was
a turbid stream, these days, filled with perplexing swirls――a stream
that rippled with laughter in the sunlight, and sighed in its shadowed
depths, and all the while flowed swiftly, breathlessly on toward――what?

[Illustration]

The sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road aroused Holly from her dreams.
She lifted her head and listened. The hoof-beats slackened at the gate,
and then drew nearer up the curving drive. The trees hid the rider,
however, and Holly could only surmise his identity. It could scarcely
be Mr. Winthrop, for he had gone off in the Major’s buggy early in the
forenoon for an all-day visit to Sunnyside. Then it must be Julian,
although it was unlike him to come so early. She slipped from her seat
in the tree and walked toward the steps just as horse and rider trotted
into sight. It was Julian――Julian looking very handsome and eager as he
threw himself from the saddle, drew the reins over White Queen’s head
and strode toward the girl.

“Howdy, Holly?” he greeted. “Didn’t expect to see me so early, I
reckon.” He took her hand, drew her to him, and had kissed her cheek
before she thought to deny him. She had grown so used to having him
kiss her when he came and departed, and his kisses meant so little,
that she forgot. She drew herself away gravely.

“I’ll call Uncle Ran,” she said.

“All right, Holly.” Julian threw himself on to the steps and lighted
a cigarette, gazing appreciatively about him. How pretty it was here
at Waynewood! Some day he meant to own it. He was the only male
descendant of the old family, and it was but right and proper that the
place should be his. In a year or two that interloping Yankee would be
glad enough to get rid of it. Then he would marry Holly, succeed to the
Old Doctor’s practice and―――― Suddenly he recollected that odd note of
Holly’s and drew it from his pocket. Nonsense, of course, but it had
worried him a bit at first. She had been piqued, probably, because he
had not been over to see her. He flicked the letter with his finger and
laughed softly. The idea of Holly releasing him from their engagement!
Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure that there was any engagement; for
the last three years there had been a tacit understanding that some
day they were to be married and live at Waynewood, but Julian couldn’t
remember that he had ever out-and-out asked Holly to marry him. He
laughed again. That was a joke on Holly. He would ask her how she could
break what didn’t exist. And afterwards he would make sure that it did
exist. He had no intention of losing Holly. No, indeed! She was the
only girl in the world for him. He had met heaps of pretty girls, but
never one who could hold a candle to his sweetheart.

Holly came back followed by Uncle Ran. The horse was led away to the
stable, and Holly sat down on the top step at a little distance from
Julian. Julian looked across at her, admiration and mischief in his
black eyes.

“So it’s all over between us, is it, Holly?” he asked, with a soft
laugh. Holly looked up eagerly, and bent forward with a sudden lighting
of her grave face.

“Oh, Julian,” she cried, “it’s all right, then? You’re not going to
care?”

Julian looked surprised.

“Care about what?” he asked, suspiciously.

“But I explained it all in my note,” answered Holly, sinking back
against the pillar. “I thought you’d understand, Julian.”

“Are you talking about this?” he asked, contemptuously, tapping the
letter against the edge of the step. “Do you mean me to believe that
you were in earnest?”

“Yes, quite in earnest,” she answered, gently.

“Shucks!” said Julian. But there was a tone of uneasiness in his
contempt. “What have I done, Holly? If it’s because I haven’t been
getting over here to see you very often, I want you to understand that
I’m a pretty busy man these days. Thompson’s been getting me to do
more and more of his work. Why, he never takes a night call any more
himself; passes it over to me every time. And I can tell you that that
sort of thing is no fun, Holly. Besides,”――he gained reassurance from
his own defence――“you didn’t seem very particular about seeing me the
last time I was here. I reckoned that maybe you and the Yankee were
getting on pretty well without me.”

“It isn’t that,” said Holly. “I――I told you in the letter, Julian.
Didn’t you read it?”

“Of course I read it, but I couldn’t understand it. You said you’d made
a mistake, and a lot of foolishness like that, and had decided you
couldn’t marry me. Wasn’t that it?”

“Yes, that was it――in a way,” answered Holly. “Well, I mean it, Julian.”

Julian stared across impatiently.

“Now don’t be silly, Holly! Who’s been talking about me? Has that
fellow Winthrop been putting fool notions into your head?”

“No, Julian.”

“Then what―――― Oh, well, I dare say I’ll be able to stand it,” he said,
petulantly.

“Don’t be angry, Julian, please,” begged Holly. “I want you to
understand it, dear.”

Holly indulged in endearments very seldom, and Julian melted.

“But, hang it, Holly, you talk as though you didn’t care for me any
more!” he exclaimed.

“No, I’m not talking so at all,” she answered, gently. “I do care for
you――a heap. I always have and always will. But I――I don’t love you
as――as a girl loves the man who is to be her husband, Julian. I tried
to explain that in my letter. You see, we’ve always been such good
friends that it seemed sort of natural that we should be sweethearts,
and then I reckon we just fell into thinking about getting married. I
don’t believe you ever asked me to marry you, Julian; I――I just took it
for granted, I reckon!”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t reckon you ever did,” she persisted, with a little smile for
his polite disclaimer. “But I’ve always thought of marrying you, and
it seemed all right until――until lately. I don’t reckon I ever thought
much about what it meant. We’ve always been fond of each other and so
it――it seemed all right, didn’t it?”

“It _is_ all right, Holly,” he answered, earnestly. He changed his seat
to where he could take her hand. “You’ve been thinking about things
too much,” he went on. “I reckon you think that because I don’t come
over oftener and write poetry to you and all that sort of thing that I
don’t love you. Every girl gets romantic notions at some time or other,
Holly, and I reckon you’re having yours. I don’t blame you, Sweetheart,
but you mustn’t get the notion that I don’t love you. Why, you’re the
only woman in the world for me, Holly!”

“I don’t reckon you’ve known so very many women, Julian,” said Holly.

“Haven’t I, though? Why, I met dozens of them when I was at college.”
There was a tiny suggestion of swagger. “And some of them were mighty
clever, too, and handsome. But there’s never been anyone but you,
Holly, never once.”

Holly smiled and pressed the hand that held hers captive.

“That’s dear of you, Julian,” she answered. “But you must get over
thinking of me――in that way.”

He drew back with an angry flush on his face and dropped her hand.
There was an instant’s silence. Then:

“You mean you won’t marry me?” he demanded, hotly.

“I mean that I don’t love you in the right way, Julian.”

“It’s that grinning Yankee!” he cried. “He’s been making love to you
and filling your head with crazy notions. Oh, you needn’t deny it! I’m
not blind! I’ve seen what was going on every time I came over.”

“Julian!” she cried, rising to her feet.

“Yes, I have!” he went on, leaping up and facing her. “A fine thing to
do, isn’t it?” he sneered. “Keep me dangling on your string and all the
while accept attentions from a married man! And a blasted Northerner,
too! Mighty pleased your father would have been!”

“Julian! You forget yourself!” said Holly, quietly. “You have no right
to talk this way to me!”

“It’s you who forget yourself,” he answered, slashing his riding-whip
against his boots. “And if I haven’t the right to call you to account
I’d like to know who has! Miss Indy’s blind, I reckon, but I’m not!”

Holly’s face had faded to a white mask from which her dark eyes flashed
furiously. But her voice, though it trembled, was quiet and cold.

“You’ll beg my pardon, Julian Wayne, for what you’ve said before I’ll
speak to you again. Mr. Winthrop has never made love to me in his life.”

She turned toward the door.

“You don’t dare deny, though, that you love him!” cried Julian, roughly.

“I don’t deny it! I won’t deny it!” cried Holly, facing him in a blaze
of wrath. “I deny nothing to you. You have no right to know. But if I
did love Mr. Winthrop, married though he is, I’d not be ashamed of it.
He is at least a gentleman!”

She swept into the house.

“By God!” whispered Julian, the color rushing from his face. “By God!
I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” He staggered down the steps, beating the
air with his whip. A moment later, Holly, sitting with clenched hands
and heaving breast in her room, heard him shouting for Uncle Ran and
his horse. Ten minutes later he was riding like a whirlwind along the
Marysville road, White Queen in an ecstasy of madness as the whip rose
and fell.

But by the time the distance was half covered Julian’s first anger had
cooled, leaving in its place a cold, bitter wrath toward Winthrop,
to whom he laid the blame not only of Holly’s defection but of his
loss of temper and brutality. He was no longer incensed with Holly;
it was as plain as a pikestaff that the sneaking Yankee had bewitched
her with his damned grinning face and flattering attentions, all the
while, doubtless, laughing at her in his sleeve! His smouldering rage
blazed up again and with a muttered oath Julian raised his whip.
But at Queen’s sudden snort of terror he let it drop softly again,
compunction gripping him. He leaned forward and patted the wet, white
neck soothingly.

“Forgive me, girl,” he whispered. “I was a brute to take it out on
you. There, there, easy now; quiet, quiet!”

On Monday Holly received a letter from him. It was humbly apologetic,
and self-accusing. It made no reference to Winthrop, nor did it refer
to the matter of the broken engagement; only――

[Illustration]

“Try and forget my words, Holly,” he wrote, “and forgive me and let us
be good friends again just as we always have been. I am going over to
see you Saturday evening to ask forgiveness in person, but I shan’t
bother you for more than a couple of hours.”

Holly, too, had long since repented, and was anxious to forgive and
be forgiven. The thought of losing Julian’s friendship just now when,
as it seemed, she needed friendship so much, had troubled and dismayed
her, and when his letter came she was quite prepared to go more than
halfway to effect a reconciliation. Her answer, written in the first
flush of gratitude, represented Holly in her softest mood, and Julian
read between the lines far more than she had meant to convey. He folded
it up and tucked it away with the rest of her letters and smiled his
satisfaction.

[Illustration]

At Waynewood in those days life for Holly and Winthrop was an
unsatisfactory affair, to say the least. Each strove to avoid the
other without seeming to do so, with the result that each felt
piqued. In Winthrop’s case it was one thing to keep out of Holly’s
presence from motives of caution, and quite another to find that she
was avoiding him. He believed that his secret was quite safe, and so
Holly’s apparent dislike for his society puzzled and disturbed him.
When they were together the former easy intimacy was absent and in its
place reigned a restlessness that made the parting almost a relief.
So affairs stood when on the subsequent Saturday Julian rode over to
Waynewood again.

It was almost the middle of February, and the world was aglow under
a spell of warm weather that was quite unseasonable. The garden was
riotous with green leaves and early blossoms. Uncle Ran confided to
Winthrop that “if you jes’ listens right cahful you can hear the leaves
a-growin’ an’ the buds a-poppin’ open, sir!” Winthrop had spent a
restless day. Physically he was as well as he had ever been, he told
himself; three months at Waynewood had worked wonders for him; but
mentally he was far from normal. Of late he had been considering more
and more the advisability of returning North. It was time to get back
into harness. He had no doubt of his ability to retrieve his scattered
fortune, and it was high time that he began. And then, too, existence
here at Waynewood was getting more complex and unsatisfactory every
day. As far as Miss India’s treatment of him was concerned, he had only
cause for congratulation, for his siege of that lady’s heart had been
as successful as it was cunning; only that morning she had spoken to
him of Waynewood as “your property” without any trace of resentment;
but it was very evident that Holly had wearied of him. That should
have been salutary knowledge, tending to show him the absurdity and
hopelessness of his passion, but unfortunately it only increased his
misery without disturbing the cause of it. Yes, it was high time to
break away from an ungraceful position, and get back to his own
world――high time to awake from dreams and face reality.

So his thoughts ran that Saturday afternoon, as he walked slowly out
from town along the shaded road. As he came within sight of Waynewood
a horse and rider turned in at the gate, and when Winthrop left the
oleander path and reached the sun-bathed garden he saw that Julian and
Holly were seated together on the porch, very deep in conversation――so
interested in each other, indeed, that he had almost gained the steps
before either of them became aware of his presence. Holly looked
anxiously at Julian. But that youth was on his good behavior. He arose
and bowed politely, if coldly, to Winthrop. Something told the latter
that an offer to shake hands would not be a happy proceeding. So he
merely returned Julian’s bow as he greeted him, remained for a moment
in conversation, and then continued on his way up-stairs. Once in his
room he lighted a pipe and, from force of habit, sank into a chair
facing the empty fireplace. Life to-day seemed extremely unattractive.
After ten minutes he arose, knocked out the ashes briskly, and dragged
his trunk into the center of the room. He had made up his mind.

Supper passed pleasantly enough. Julian was resolved to reinstall
himself in Holly’s good graces, even if it entailed being polite to
the Northerner. Holly was in good spirits, while Winthrop yielded to
an excitement at once pleasant and perturbing. Now that he had fully
decided to return North he found himself quite eager to go; he wondered
how he could have been content to remain in idleness so long. Miss
India was the same as always, charming in her simple dignity, gravely
responsive to the laughter of the others, presiding behind the teapot
with the appropriate daintiness of a Chelsea statuette. Winthrop said
nothing of his intended departure to-morrow noon; he would not give
Julian that satisfaction. After Julian had gone he would inform Holly.
They must be alone when he told her. He didn’t ask himself why. He
only knew that the blood was racing in his veins to-night, that the air
seemed tinged with an electrical quality that brought pleasant thrills
to his heart, and that it was his last evening at Waynewood. One may be
pardoned something on one’s last evening.

Contrary to his custom, and to all the laws of Cupid’s Court, Winthrop
joined Julian and Holly on the porch after supper. He did his best to
make himself agreeable and flattered himself that Holly, at least,
did not resent his presence. After his first fit of resentment at the
other’s intrusion Julian, too, thawed out and, recollecting his rôle,
was fairly agreeable to Winthrop. A silver moon floated above the house
and flooded the world with light. The white walls shone like snow,
and the shadows were intensely black and abrupt. No air stirred the
sleeping leaves, and the night was thrillingly silent, save when a
Whippoorwill sang plaintively in the grove.

At nine Julian arose to take his leave. White Queen had been brought
around by Uncle Ran and was pawing the earth restively beside the
hitching-post outside the gate at the end of the house. Doubtless
Julian expected that Winthrop would allow him to bid Holly good-night
unmolested. But if so he reckoned without the spirit of recklessness
which controlled the Northerner to-night. Winthrop arose with the
others and accompanied them along the path to the gate, returning
Julian’s resentful glare with a look of smiling insouciance. Julian
unhitched White Queen and a moment of awkward silence followed. Holly,
dimly aware of the antagonism, glanced apprehensively from Julian to
Winthrop.

“That’s a fine horse you have there,” said Winthrop, at last.

“Do you think so?” answered Julian, with a thinly-veiled sneer. “You
know something about horses, perhaps?”

“Not much,” replied Winthrop, with a good-natured laugh. “I used to
ride when I was at college.”

“Perhaps you’d like to try her?” suggested Julian.

“Thanks, no.”

“I reckon you had better not,” Julian drawled. “A horse generally knows
when you’re afraid of her.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” said Winthrop. “I dare say I’d manage to stick
on, but it is some time since I’ve ridden and my efforts would only
appear ridiculous to one of your grace and ability.”

“Your modesty does you credit, if your discretion doesn’t,” replied
the other, with a disagreeable laugh. “I hadn’t done you justice, Mr.
Winthrop, it seems.”

“How is that?” asked Winthrop, smilingly.

“Why, it seems that you possess two virtues I had not suspected you of
having, sir.”

“You wound me, Mr. Wayne. I pride myself on my modesty. And as for
discretion――――”

“You doubtless find it useful at such times as the present,” sneered
Julian.

“I really almost believe you are suspecting me of cowardice,” said
Winthrop, pleasantly.

“I really almost believe you are a mind-reader,” mocked Julian.

Their eyes met and held in the moonlight. Julian’s face was white and
strained. Winthrop’s was smiling, but the mouth set hard and there was
a dangerous sparkle in the eyes. Challenge met challenge. Winthrop
laughed softly.

“You see, Miss Holly,” he said, turning to her, “I am forced to exhibit
my deficiencies, after all, or stand accused of cowardice. I pray you
to mercifully turn your eyes away.”

“Please don’t,” said Holly, in a troubled voice. “Really, Queen isn’t
safe, Mr. Winthrop.”

“The advice is good, sir,” drawled Julian. “The mare isn’t safe.”

“Oh, pardon me, the mare is quite safe,” replied Winthrop, as he took
the bridle reins from Julian’s hand; “it’s I who am not safe. But we
shall see. At least, Miss Holly, credit me with the modesty which Mr.
Wayne seems to begrudge me, for here on the verge of the sacrifice I
acknowledge myself no horseman.”

He placed his foot in the stirrup and sprang lightly enough into the
saddle. White Queen flattened her ears as she felt a new weight on her
back, but stood quite still while Winthrop shortened the reins.

“Come on, Queen,” he said. The mare moved a step hesitatingly and shook
her head. At that moment there was a sharp cry of warning from Holly.
Julian raised the whip in his hand and brought it down savagely, and
the mare, with a cry of terror, flung herself across the narrow roadway
so quickly that Winthrop shot out of the saddle and crashed against the
picket fence, to lie crumpled and still in the moonlight. Holly was
beside him in the instant and Julian, tossing aside his whip, sprang
after her.

Holly turned blazing eyes upon him.

“No, no!” she cried, wildly. “You shan’t touch him! Keep away!
You’ve killed him. I won’t let you touch him!” She threw one arm
across Winthrop’s breast protectingly, and with the other sought to
ward Julian away.

[Illustration: “KEEP AWAY! YOU’VE KILLED HIM”]

“Hush!” he cried, tensely. “I must look at him. He is only stunned. His
head struck the fence. Let me look at him.”

“I won’t! I won’t!” sobbed the girl. “You have done enough! Go for
help!”

“Don’t be a fool!” he muttered, kneeling beside the still form and
running a hand under the vest. “You don’t want him to die, do you?
Here, hold his head up――so; that’s it.” There was an instant’s silence
broken only by Holly’s dry, choking sobs. Then Julian arose briskly to
his feet. “Just as I said,” he muttered. “Stunned. Find Uncle Ran and
we’ll take him into the house and attend to him!”

“No, no! I’ll stay here,” said Holly, brokenly. “Hurry! Hurry!”

For an instant Julian hesitated, scowling down upon her. Then, with
a muttered word, he turned abruptly and ran toward the house. Holly,
huddled against the fence with Winthrop’s head on her knee, held
tightly to one limp hand and watched with wide, terrified eyes. The
face was so white and cold in the moonlight! There was a little
troubled frown on the forehead, as though the soul was wondering and
perplexed. Had Julian spoken the truth? Was he really only stunned, or
was this death that she looked on? Would they never come? She gripped
his hand in a sudden panic of awful fear. Supposing death came and took
him away from her while she sat there impotent! She bent closer above
him, as though to hide him, and as she did so he gave a groan. Her
heart leaped.

“Dear,” she whispered, “it’s Holly. She wants you. You won’t die, will
you? When you know that I want you, you won’t leave me, will you? What
would I do without you, dear? I’ve so long to live!”

Footsteps hurried across the porch and down the steps. Very gently
Holly yielded her burden to Uncle Ran, and Winthrop was carried into
the house, where Aunt India, in a pink flowered wrapper, awaited them
at the head of the stairs. They bore Winthrop into his room and laid
him, still unconscious, on his bed. Holly’s gaze clung to the white
face.

“Get on Queen, Uncle Ran, and ride in for the Old Doctor,” Julian
directed. “Tell him there’s a collar-bone to set. You had better leave
us, Holly.”

“No, no!” cried Holly, new fear gripping her heart.

“Holly!” said her aunt. “Go at once, girl. This is no place for you.”
But Holly made no answer. Her eyes were fixed on the silent form on the
bed. Julian laid his hand on her arm.

“Come,” he said. She started and tore away from him, her eyes ablaze.

“Don’t touch me!” she whispered, hoarsely, shudderingly. “Don’t touch
me, Julian! You’ve killed him! I want never to see you again!”

“Holly!” exclaimed Miss India, astoundedly.

“I am going, Auntie.”

Julian held the door open for her, looking troubledly at her as she
passed out. But she didn’t see him. The door closed behind her. She
heard Julian’s quick steps across the floor and the sound of murmuring
voices.

A deep sob shook her from head to feet. Falling to her knees she laid
her forehead against the frame of the door, her hands clasping and
unclasping convulsively.

“Dear God,” she moaned, “I didn’t mean this! I didn’t mean this!”

[Illustration]



XIII.


The effects of striking the head against a well-built fence may vary
in severity, ranging all the way from a simple contusion through
concussion of the brain to a broken neck. If unconsciousness results it
may last from a fraction of a second to――eternity. In Winthrop’s case
it lasted something less than ten minutes, at the end of which time he
awoke to a knowledge of a dully aching head and an uncomfortable left
shoulder. Unlike some other injuries, a broken collar-bone is a plain,
open-and-above-board affliction, with small likelihood of mysterious
complications. It is possible for the surgeon to tell within a day or
two the period of resulting incapacity. The Old Doctor said two weeks.
Sunday morning Uncle Ran unpacked Winthrop’s trunk, arranging the
contents in the former places with evident satisfaction. On Monday
Winthrop was up and about the house, quite himself save for the
temporary loss of his left arm and a certain stiffness of his neck.

[Illustration]

Miss India was once more in her element. As an invalid, Winthrop had
been becoming something of a disappointment, but now he was once again
in his proper rôle. Miss India kept an anxiously watchful eye on him,
and either Uncle Ran or Phœbe was certain to be hovering about whenever
he lifted his eyes. The number of eggnoggs and other strengthening
beverages which Winthrop was compelled to drink during the ensuing week
would be absolutely appalling if set down in cold print.

Of Holly he caught but brief glimpses those first days of his
disability. She was all soft solicitude, but found occupations that
kept her either at the back of the house or in her chamber. She feared
that Winthrop was awaiting a convenient moment when they were alone
to ask her about the accident. As a matter of fact, he had little
curiosity about it. He was pretty certain that Julian had in some
manner frightened the horse, but he had not heard the sound of the
whip, since Holly’s sudden cry and the mare’s instant start had drowned
it. It seemed a very slight matter, after all. Doubtless Julian’s rage
had mastered him for the instant, and doubtless he was already heartily
ashamed of himself. Indeed his ministrations to Winthrop pending the
arrival of the Old Doctor had been as solicitous as friendship could
have demanded. Winthrop was quite ready to let by-gones be by-gones.

“Besides,” Winthrop told himself, “I deliberately led him on to lose
control of himself. I’m as much to blame as he is. I wasn’t in my right
mind myself that night; maybe the evening ended less disastrously than
it might have. I dare say it was the moonlight. I’ve blamed everything
so far on the weather, and the moonlight might as well come in for
its share. Served me right, too, for wanting to make a holy show of
myself on horseback. Oh, I was decidedly mad that night; moon-mad,
that’s it.” He reflected a moment, then―― “The worst thing about being
knocked unconscious,” he went on, “is that you don’t know what happens
until you come to again. Now I’d like to have looked on at events. For
instance, I’d give a thousand dollars――if I still possess that much――to
know what Holly did or said, or didn’t do. I think I’ll ask her.”

He smiled at the idea. Then――

“Why not?” he said, half aloud. “I want to know; why not ask? Why,
hang it all, I will ask! And right now, too.”

He arose from the chair in the shade of the Baltimore Belle and walked
to the door.

“Miss Holly,” he called.

“Yes?” The voice came from up-stairs.

“Are you very, very busy?”

“N-no, not very, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Then will you grant a dying man the grace of a few moments of your
valuable time?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation, broken by the anxious voice of
Miss India.

“Holly!” called her aunt, indignantly, “go down at once and see what
Mr. Winthrop wants. I reckon Phœbe has forgotten to take him his negus.”

Winthrop smiled, and groaned. Holly’s steps pattered across the hall
and he went back to the end of the porch, dragging a second chair with
him and placing it opposite his own. When Holly came he pointed to it
gravely. Holly’s heart fell. Winthrop had a right to know the truth,
but it didn’t seem fair that the duty of confessing Julian’s act
should fall to her. The cowardice of it loomed large and terrible to
her.

[Illustration]

“Miss Holly,” said Winthrop, “I am naturally curious to learn what
happened the other night. Now, as you were an eye-witness of the
episode, I come to you for information.”

“You mean that I’ve come to you,” answered Holly, smiling nervously.

“True; I accept the correction.”

“What――what do you want to know?” asked Holly.

“All, please.”

Holly’s eyes dropped, and her hands clutched each other desperately in
her lap.

“I――he――oh, Mr. Winthrop, he didn’t know what he was doing; truly he
didn’t! He didn’t think what might happen!”

[Illustration]

“He? Who? Oh, you mean Julian? Of course he didn’t think; I understand
that perfectly. And it’s of no consequence, really, Miss Holly. He was
angry; in fact, I’d helped make him so; he acted on the impulse.”

“Then you knew?” wondered Holly.

“Knew something was up, that’s all. I suppose he flicked the mare with
the whip; I dare say he only wanted to start her for me.”

Holly shook her head.

“No, it wasn’t that. He――he cut her with the whip as hard as he could.”
Winthrop smiled at her tragic face and voice.

“Well, as it happens there was little harm done. I dare say he’s quite
as regretful about it now as you like. What I want to know is what
happened afterwards, after I――dismounted.”

“Oh,” said Holly. Her eyes wandered from Winthrop’s and the color crept
slowly into her face.

“Well,” he prompted, presently. “You are not a very good chronicler,
Miss Holly.”

“Why, afterwards――――oh, Julian examined you and found that you weren’t
killed――――”

“There was doubt about that, then?”

“I――we were frightened. You were all huddled up against the fence and
your face was so white――――”

Holly’s own face paled at the recollection. Winthrop’s smile faded, and
his heart thrilled.

“I’m sorry I occasioned you uneasiness, Miss Holly,” he said, earnestly.
“Then they carried me into the house and up to my room, I suppose. And
that was all there was to it,” he added, regretfully and questioningly.
It had been rather tame and uninteresting, after all.

“Yes――――no,” answered Holly. “I――stayed with you while Julian went for
Uncle Ran. I thought once you were really dead, after all. Oh, I was
so――so frightened!”

“He should have stayed himself,” said Winthrop, with a frown. “It was a
shame to put you through such an ordeal.”

There was a little silence. Then Holly’s eyes went back to Winthrop’s
quite fearlessly.

“I wouldn’t let him,” she said. “I was angry. I told him he had
killed you, and I wouldn’t let him touch you――at first. I――I was so
frightened! Oh, you don’t know how frightened I was!”

She knew quite well what she was doing. She knew that she was laying
her heart quite bare at that moment, that her voice and eyes were
telling him everything, and that he was listening and comprehending!
But somehow it seemed perfectly right and natural to her. Why should
she treat her love――their love――as though it was something to be
ashamed of, to hide and avoid? Surely the very fact that they could
never be to each other as other lovers, ennobled their love rather than
degraded it!

And as they looked at each other across a little space her eyes
read the answer to their message and her heart sang happily for a
moment there in the sunlight. Then her eyes dropped slowly before
the intensity of his look, a soft glow spread upward into her smooth
cheeks, and she smiled very gravely and sweetly.

“I’ve told you, haven’t I!” she said, tremulously.

“Holly!” he whispered. “Holly!”

He stretched his hand toward her, only to let it fall again as the
first fierce joy gave place to doubt and discretion. He strove to
think, but his heart was leaping and his thoughts were in wild
disorder. He wanted to fall on his knees beside her, to take her in his
arms, to make her look at him again with those soft, deep, confessing
eyes. He wanted to whisper a thousand endearments to her, to sigh
“Holly, Holly,” and “Holly” again, a thousand times. But the moments
ticked past, and he only sat and held himself to his chair and was
triumphantly happy and utterly miserable in all his being. Presently
Holly looked up at him again, a little anxiously and very tenderly.

“Are you sorry for me!” she asked, softly.

“For you and for myself, dear,” he answered, “unless――――”

“Will it be very hard?” she asked. “Would it have been easier if I
hadn’t――hadn’t――――”

“No, a thousand times no, Holly! But, dear, I never guessed――――”

Holly shook her head, and laughed very softly.

“I didn’t mean you to know, I reckon; but somehow it just――just came
out. I couldn’t help it. I reckon I ought to have helped it, but you
see I’ve never――cared for anyone before, and I don’t know how to act
properly. Do you think I am awfully――awfully――you know; do you?”

“I think you’re the best, the dearest――――” He stopped, with something
that was almost a sob. “I can’t tell you what I think you are, Holly; I
haven’t the words, dear.”

“I don’t suppose you ought to, anyhow,” said Holly, thoughtfully.

“Holly, have I――have I been to blame?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “It was just――just me, I reckon. I prayed
God that He wouldn’t let me love you, but I reckon He has to look after
so many girls that――that care for the wrong people that He didn’t
have time to bother with Holly Wayne. Anyhow, it didn’t seem to do
much good. Maybe, though, He wanted me to love you――in spite of――of
everything. Do you reckon He did?”

“Yes,” said Winthrop, fiercely, “I reckon He did. And He’s got to take
the consequences! Holly, I’m not fit for you; I’m twenty years older
than you are; I’ve been married and I’ve had the bloom brushed off of
life, dear; but if you’ll take me, Holly, if you’ll take me, dear――――”

“Oh!” Holly arose to her feet and held a hand toward him appealingly.
“Please don’t! Please!” she cried. “Don’t spoil it all!”

“Spoil it?” he asked, wonderingly.

He got slowly to his feet and moved toward her.

“You know what I mean,” said Holly, troubledly. “I do love you, and you
love me――――you do love me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, simply.

“And we can’t be happy――that way. But we can care for each
other――always――a great deal, and not make it hard to――to――――”

She faltered, the tears creeping one by one over her lids. A light
broke upon Winthrop.

“But you don’t understand!” he cried.

“What?” she faltered, looking up at him anxiously, half fearfully, from
swimming eyes as he took her hand.

“Dear, there’s no wrong if I――――”

Sounds near at hand caused him to stop and glance around. At the gate
Julian Wayne was just dismounting from White Queen. Holly drew her
hand from Winthrop’s and with a look, eager and wondering, hurried
in-doors just as Julian opened the gate. Winthrop sank into his chair
and felt with trembling fingers for his cigarette-case. Julian espied
him as he mounted the steps and walked along the porch very stiffly and
determinedly.

[Illustration]

“Good-morning,” said Winthrop.

“Good-morning, sir,” answered Julian. “I have come to apologize for
what occurred――for what I did the other night. I intended coming
before, but it was impossible.”

“Don’t say anything more about it,” replied Winthrop. “I understand.
You acted on a moment’s impulse and my poor horsemanship did the rest.
It’s really not worth speaking of.”

“On the contrary I did it quite deliberately,” answered Julian. “I
meant to do it, sir. But I had no thought of injuring you. I――I
only wanted Queen to cut up. If you would like satisfaction, Mr.
Winthrop――――”

Winthrop stared.

“My dear fellow,” he ejaculated, “you aren’t proposing a duel, are you?”

“I am quite at your service, sir,” replied Julian, haughtily. “If the
idea of reparation seems ridiculous to you――――”

“I beg your pardon, really,” said Winthrop, gravely and hurriedly. “It
was only that I had supposed duelling to be obsolete.”

“Not among gentlemen, sir!”

“I see. Nevertheless, Mr. Wayne, I’m afraid I shall have to refuse you.
I am hardly in condition to use either sword or pistol.”

“If that is all,” answered Julian, eagerly, “I can put my left arm in a
sling, too. That would put us on even terms, I reckon, sir.”

Winthrop threw out his hand with a gesture of surrender, and laughed
amusedly.

“I give in,” he said. “You force me to the unromantic acknowledgment
that I’ve never used a sword, and can’t shoot a revolver without
jerking the barrel all around.”

“You find me mighty amusing, it seems,” said Julian, hotly.

“My dear fellow――――”

“I don’t know anything more about swords or pistols than you do, I
reckon, sir, but I’ll be mighty glad to――to――――”

“Cut my head off or shoot holes through me? Thanks, but I never felt
less like departing this life than I do now, Mr. Wayne.”

“Then you refuse?”

“Unconditionally. The fact is, you know, I, as the aggrieved party, am
the one to issue the challenge. As long as I am satisfied with your
apology I don’t believe you have any right to insist on shooting me.”

Julian chewed a corner of his lip and scowled.

“I thought maybe you weren’t satisfied,” he suggested hopefully.

Winthrop smiled.

“Quite satisfied,” he answered. “Won’t you sit down?”

Julian hesitated and then took the chair indicated, seating himself
very erect on the edge, his riding-whip across his knees.

“Will you smoke?” asked Winthrop, holding forth his cigarette-case.

“No, thanks,” replied Julian, stiffly.

There was a moment’s silence while Winthrop lighted his cigarette and
Julian observed him darkly. Then――

“Mr. Winthrop,” said Julian, “how long do you intend to remain here,
sir?”

“My plans are a bit unsettled,” answered Winthrop, tossing the burnt
match onto the walk. “I had intended leaving Sunday, but my accident
prevented. Now I am undecided. May I enquire your reason for asking,
Mr. Wayne?”

“Because I wanted to know,” answered Julian, bluntly. “Your presence
here is――is distasteful to me and embarrassing to Miss India and Miss
Holly.”

“Really!” gasped Winthrop.

“Yes, sir, and you know it. Anyone but a Northerner would have more
feeling than to force himself on the hospitality of two unfortunate
ladies as you have done, Mr. Winthrop.”

“But――but――――!” Winthrop sighed, and shook his head helplessly. “Oh,
there’s no use in my trying to get your view, I guess. May I ask,
merely as a matter of curiosity, whether the fact that Waynewood is my
property has anything to do with it in your judgment.”

“No, sir, it hasn’t! I don’t ask how you came into possession of the
place――――”

“Thank you,” murmured Winthrop.

“But in retaining it you are acting abominably, sir!”

“The deuce I am! May I ask what you would advise me to do with it?
Shall I hand it over to Miss India or Miss Holly as――as a valentine?”

“Our people, sir, don’t accept charity,” answered Julian, wrathfully.

“So I fancied. Then what would you suggest? Perhaps you are in a
position to buy it yourself, Mr. Wayne?”

Julian frowned and hesitated.

“You had no business taking it,” he muttered.

“Granted for the sake of argument, sir. But, having taken it, now what?”

Julian hesitated for a moment. Then――

“At least you’re not obliged to stay here where you’re not wanted,” he
said, explosively.

Winthrop smiled deprecatingly.

“Mr. Wayne, I’d like to ask you one question. Did you come here this
morning on purpose to pick a quarrel with me?”

“I came to apologize for what happened Saturday night. I’ve told you so
already.”

“You have. You have apologized like a gentleman and I have accepted
your apology without reservations. That is finished. And now I’d like
to make a suggestion.”

“Well?” asked Julian, suspiciously.

“And that is that if your errand is at an end you withdraw from my
property until you can address me without insults.”

Julian’s face flushed; he opened his lips to speak, choked back the
words, and arose from his chair.

“Don’t misunderstand me, please,” went on Winthrop, quietly. “I am not
turning you out. I should be glad to have you remain as long as you
like. Only, if you please, as long as you are in a measure my guest,
you will kindly refrain from impertinent criticisms of my actions. I’d
dislike very much to have you weaken my faith in Southern courtesy, Mr.
Wayne.”

Julian’s reply was never made, for at that instant Holly and Miss India
came out on the porch. Holly’s first glance was toward Winthrop. Then,
with slightly heightened color, she greeted Julian kindly. He seized
her hand and looked eagerly into her smiling face.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, in an anxious whisper.

“Hush,” she answered, “it is I who should ask that. But we’ll forgive
each other.” She turned to Winthrop, who had arisen at their appearance,
and Julian greeted Miss India.

“What have you gentlemen been talking about for so long?” asked Holly,
gayly.

“Many things,” answered Winthrop. “Mr. Wayne was kind enough to express
his regrets for my accident. Afterwards we discussed”――he paused and
shot a whimsical glance at Julian’s uneasy countenance――“Southern
customs, obsolete and otherwise.”

“It sounds very uninteresting,” laughed Holly. Then――“Why, Uncle Ran
hasn’t taken your horse around, Julian,” she exclaimed.

“I didn’t call him. I am going right back.”

“Nonsense, Julian, dinner is coming on the table now,” said Holly.

“It’s much too warm to ride in the middle of the day,” said Miss India,
decisively. “Tell Phœbe to lay another place, Holly.” Julian hesitated
and shot a questioning glance at Winthrop.

“You are quite right, Miss India,” said Winthrop. “This is no time to
do twelve miles on horseback. You must command Mr. Wayne to remain. No
one, I am sure, has ever dared disregard a command of yours.”

“I’ll tell Phœbe and call Uncle Ran,” said Holly. But at the door she
turned and looked across the garden. “Why, here is Uncle Major! We’re
going to have a regular dinner party, Auntie.”

The Major, very warm and somewhat breathless, was limping his way
hurriedly around the rose-bed, his cane tapping the ground with
unaccustomed force.

“Good-morning, Miss India,” he called. “Good-morning, Holly;
good-morning, gentlemen. Have you heard the news?”

“Not a word of it,” cried Holly, darting to the steps and pulling him
up. “Tell me quick!”

The Major paused at the top of the little flight, removed his hat,
wiped his moist forehead, and looked impressively about the circle.

“The battleship _Maine_ was blown up last night in Havanna harbor by
the damned――I beg your pardon, ladies――by the pesky Spaniards and
nearly three hundred officers and men were killed.”

“Oh!” said Holly, softly.

“I never!” gasped Miss India.

“It is known that the Spanish did it?” asked Winthrop, gravely.

“There can be no doubt of it,” answered the Major. “They just got the
news half an hour ago at the station and particulars are meager, but
there’s no question about how it happened.”

“But this,” cried Julian, “means――――!”

“It means intervention at last!” said the Major. “And intervention
means war, by Godfrey!”

“War!” echoed Julian, eagerly.

“And if it wasn’t for this da――this trifling leg of mine, I’d volunteer
to-morrow,” declared the Major.

“How awful!” sighed Miss India. “Think of all those sailors that are
killed! I never did like the Spanish, Major.”

“It may be,” said Winthrop, “that the accident will prove to have been
caused by an explosion on board.”

“Shucks!” said Julian. “That’s rubbish! The Spaniards did it, as sure
as fighting, and, by Jupiter, if they think they can blow up our ships
and kill our men and not suffer for it―――― How long do you reckon it’ll
be, Major, before we declare war on them?”

“Can’t say; maybe a week, maybe a month. I reckon Congress will have to
chew it over awhile. But it’s bound to come, and――well, I reckon I’m
out of it, Julian,” concluded the Major, with a sigh.

“But I’m not!” cried the other. “I’ll go with the hospital corps. It’s
the chance of a lifetime, Major! Why, a man can get more experience in
two weeks in a field hospital than he can in two years anywhere else!
Why――――”

“The bell has rung,” interposed Miss India. “You must take dinner with
us, Major, and tell us everything you know. Dear, dear, I feel quite
worked up! I remember when the news came that our army had fired on
Fort Sumter――――”

Winthrop laid his hand on the Major’s arm and halted him.

“Major,” he said, smiling slightly, “don’t you think you ought to
explain to them that the _Maine_ wasn’t a Confederate battleship, that
she belonged to the United States and that probably more than half her
officers and men were Northerners?”

“Eh? What?” The Major stared bewilderedly a moment. Then he chuckled
and laid one big knotted hand on Winthrop’s shoulder. “Mr. Winthrop,
sir,” he said, “I reckon all that doesn’t matter so much now.”



XIV.


“I’m going for a walk with Mr. Winthrop, Auntie,” said Holly. She
fastened a broad-brimmed hat on her head and looked down at Miss India
with soft, shining eyes. Dinner was over and Miss India, the Major and
Julian were sitting in a shady spot on the porch. Winthrop awaited
Holly at the steps.

“Well, my dear,” answered Miss India. “But keep Mr. Winthrop away from
those dark, damp places, Holly. It’s so easy to get the feet wet at
this time of year.”

“You see, Uncle Major,” laughed Holly, “she doesn’t care whether I
catch cold or not; it’s just Mr. Winthrop!”

“Holly!” expostulated her Aunt.

“She knows, my dear,” said the Major, gallantly, “that those little
feet of yours will skim the wet places like swallows!”

“Thank you, sir!” She made a face at the Major. “You will be here when
we get back, won’t you, Julian?”

“I don’t know,” answered Julian, dismally.

“We won’t be long.” She nodded to the trio and joined Winthrop, and
side by side they went down the steps, wound through the garden and
disappeared into the oleander path. Julian watched them with a pain
at his heart until they were out of sight, and for several minutes
afterwards he sat silent, thinking bitter thoughts. Then a remark of
the Major’s aroused him and he leaped impetuously into the conversation.

“Trouble!” he exclaimed. “Why, we can clear the Spaniards out of Cuba
in two weeks. Look at our ships! And look at our army! There isn’t a
better one in the world! Trouble! Why, it’ll be too easy; you’ll see;
it’ll be all over before we know it!”

“I dread another war, Major,” said Miss India, with a little shudder.
“The last one was so terrible.”

“It was, ma’am, it was. It was brother kill brother. But this one will
be different, Miss Indy, for North and South will stand together and
fight together, and, by Godfrey, there’ll be no stopping until Spanish
dominion in Cuba is a thing of the past!”

“That’s right,” cried Julian. “This is the whole country together this
time; it’s the United States of America, by Jupiter!”

“Let us thank God for that,” said Miss India, devoutly.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Winthrop and Holly were rather silent until they had left the red clay
road behind and turned into the woods. There, in a little clearing,
Winthrop led the way to the trunk of a fallen pine and they seated
themselves upon it. The afternoon sunlight made its way between the
branches in amber streams. Above them festoons of gray-green moss
decked the trees. The woods were very silent and not even a bird-call
broke the silence. Holly took her hat off and laid it beside her on the
gray bark. Then she turned gravely to Winthrop and met his eyes.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I’ve brought you here, Holly, to ask you to marry me,” he answered.
Holly’s hand flew to her heart, and her eyes grew big and dark.

“I don’t understand,” she faltered.

“No, and before I do ask you, dear, I’ve got something to tell you.
Will you listen?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Holly, simply.

“I was married when I was twenty-four years old,” began Winthrop, after
a moment. “I had just finished a course in the law school. The girl
I married was four years younger than I. She was very beautiful and
a great belle in the little city in which she lived. We went to New
York and I started in business with a friend of mine. We were stock
brokers. A year later my wife bore me a son; we called him Robert. For
five years we were very happy; those years were the happiest I have
ever known. Then the boy died.” He was silent a moment. “I loved him
a great deal, and I took it hard. I made a mistake then. To forget my
trouble I immersed myself too deeply, perhaps, in business. Well, two
years later I made the discovery that I had failed to keep my wife’s
love. If our boy had lived it would have been different but his death
left her lonely and――I was thoughtless, selfish in my own sorrow, until
it was too late. I found that my wife had grown to love another man. I
don’t blame her; I never have. And she was always honest with me. She
told me the truth. She sued me for divorce and I didn’t contest. That
was six years ago. She has been married for five years and I think, I
pray, that she is very happy.”

He paused, and Holly darted a glance at his face. He was looking
straight ahead down the woodland path, and for an instant she felt very
lonely and apart. Then――

“You see, dear,” he continued, “I have failed to keep one woman’s love.
Could I do better another time? I think so, but――who knows? It would
be a risk for you, wouldn’t it?”

He turned and smiled gently at her, and she smiled tremulously back.

“There,” he said. “Now you know what I am. I am thirty-eight years old,
twenty years older than you, and a divorced man into the bargain. Even
if you were willing to excuse those things, Holly, I fear your aunt
could not.”

“If I were willing,” answered Holly, evenly, “nothing else would
matter. But――you will tell me one thing? Do you――are you quite, quite
sure that you do not still love her――a little?”

“Quite, Holly. The heart I offer, dear, is absolutely free.”

“I think God did mean me to love you, then, after all,” said Holly,
thoughtfully.

Winthrop arose and stood before her, and held out his hand. She placed
hers in it and with her eyes on his allowed him to raise her gently
toward him.

“Then, Holly,” he said, “I ask you to be my wife, for I love you more
than I can ever tell you. Will you, Holly, will you?”

“Yes,” sighed Holly.

Very gently he strove to draw her to him but, with her hands against
his breast, she held herself at the length of his arms.

“Wait,” she said. “Don’t kiss me until you are sure that you mean what
you’ve said, Robert――quite, quite sure. Because”――her eyes darkened,
and her voice held a fierceness that thrilled him――“because, dear,
after you have kissed me it will be too late to repent. I’ll never let
you go then, never while I live! I’ll fight for you until――until――――!”

Her voice broke, and the lashes fell tremblingly over her eyes.
Winthrop, awed and stirred, raised the bowed head until her eyes, grown
soft and timid, glanced up at him once more.

“Dear,” he said, very low and very humbly, “such as I am I am yours as
long as God will let me live for you.”

He bent his head until his lips were on hers.

The next instant she had buried her face against his shoulder, and he
felt her body shaking in his arms.

“Holly!” he cried. “Holly! You’re crying! What is it, dear? What have I
done, Sweetheart?”

For an instant she ceased to quiver, and from against his coat came a
smothered voice.

“What’s the good of be-being happy,” sobbed Holly, “if you can’t
cr-cr-cry?”

A breath of wind from the south swept through the wood, stirring the
tender leaves to rustling murmurs. And the sound was like that of a
little stream which, obstructed in its course, finds a new channel and
leaps suddenly on its way again, laughing joyously.


[Illustration: THE END]



 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.




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