VII
IF THIS BE LOVE
An hour later, Cephas, son of Cupid, gathering his basketful of chips atthe woodpile, beheld his young master approaching by the branch road, andstarted shrieking for the house. "Hi! hit's Marse Dan! hit's Marse Dan!" heyelled to his father Cupid in the pantry; "I seed 'im fu'st! Fo' de Lawd, Iseed 'im fu'st!" and the Major, hearing the words, appeared instantly atthe door of his library.
"It's the boy," he called excitedly. "Bless my soul, Molly, the boy hascome!"
The old lady came hurriedly downstairs, pinning on her muslin cap, and bythe time Dan had dismounted at the steps the whole household was assembledto receive him.
"Well, well, my boy," exclaimed the Major, moving nervously about, "this isa surprise, indeed. We didn't look for you until next week. Well, well."
He turned away to wipe his eyes, while Dan caught his grandmother in hisarms and kissed her a dozen times. The joy of these simple souls touchedhim with a new tenderness; he felt unworthy of his grandmother's kisses andthe Major's tears. Why had he stayed away when his coming meant so much?What was there in all the world worth the closer knitting of these strongblood ties?
"By George, but I'm glad to get here," he said heartily. "There's nothingI've seen across the water that comes up to being home again; and the sightof your faces is better than the wonders of the world, I declare. Ah,Cupid, old man, I'm glad to see you. And Aunt Rhody and Congo, how are youall? Why, where's Big Abel? Don't tell me he isn't here to welcome me."
"Hyer I is, young Marster, hyer I is," cried Big Abel, stretching out hishand over Congo's head, and "Hyer I is, too," shouted Cephas from behindhim. "I seed you fu'st, fo' de Lawd, I seed you fu'st!"
They gathered eagerly round him, and with a laugh, and a word for one andall, he caught the outstretched hands, scattering his favours like a youngJove. "Yes, I've remembered you--there, don't smother me. Did you think I'ddare to show my face, Aunt Rhody, without the gayest neckerchief in Europe?Why, I waited over in New York just to see that it was safe. Oh, don'tsmother me, I say." The dogs came bounding in, and he greeted them withmuch the same affectionate condescension, caressing them as they sprangupon him, and pushing away the one that licked his face. When the overseerran in hastily to shake his hand, there was no visible change in hismanner. He greeted black and white with a courtesy which marked the socialline, with an affability which had a touch of the august. Had the gulfbetween them been less impassable, he would not have dared the heartyhandshake, the genial word, the pat upon the head--these were a tributewhich he paid to the very humble.
When the servants had streamed chattering out through the back door, he puthis arms about the old people and led them into the library. "Why, what'sbecome of Champe?" he inquired, glancing complacently round the book-linedwalls.
"Ah, you mustn't expect to see anything of Champe these days," replied theMajor, waiting for Mrs. Lightfoot to be seated before he drew up his chair."His heart's gone roving, I tell him, and he follows mighty closely afterit. If you don't find him at Uplands, you've only to inquire at PowellHall."
"Uplands!" exclaimed Dan, hearing the one word. "What is he doing atUplands?"
The Major chuckled as he settled himself in his easy chair and stretchedout his slippered feet. "Well, I should say that he was doing a verycommendable thing, eh, Molly?" he rejoined jokingly.
"He's losing his head, if that's what you mean," retorted the old lady.
"Not his head, but his heart, my dear," blandly corrected the Major, "and Irepeat that it is a very commendable thing to do--why, where would you beto-day, madam, if I hadn't fallen in love with you?"
Mrs. Lightfoot sniffed as she unwound her knitting. "I don't doubt that Ishould be quite as well off, Mr. Lightfoot," she replied convincingly.
"Ah, maybe so, maybe so," admitted the Major, with a sigh; "but I'm verysure that I shouldn't be, my dear."
The old lady softened visibly, but she only remarked:--
"I'm glad that you have found it out, sir," and clicked her needles.
Dan, who had been wandering aimlessly about the room, threw himself into achair beside his grandmother and caught at her ball of yarn.
"It's Virginia, I suppose," he suggested.
The Major laughed until his spectacles clouded.
"Virginia!" he gasped, wiping the glasses upon his white silk handkerchief."Listen to the boy, Molly, he believes every last one of us--myself toboot, I reckon--to be in love with Miss Virginia."
"If he does, he believes as many men have done before him," interposed Mrs.Lightfoot, with a homely philosophy.
"Well, isn't it Virginia?" asked Dan.
"I tell you frankly," pursued the Major, in a confidential voice, "that ifyou want a rival with Virginia, you'll be apt to find a stout one in JackMorson. He was back a week ago, and he's a fine fellow--a first-ratefellow. I declare, he came over here one evening and I couldn't begin asingle quotation from Horace that he didn't know the end of it. On my word,he's not only a fine fellow, but a cultured gentleman. You may remember,sir, that I have always maintained that the two most refining influencesupon the manners were to be found in the society of ladies and a knowledgeof the Latin language."
Dan gave the yarn an impatient jerk. "Tell me, grandma," he besought her.
As was her custom, the old lady came quickly to the point and appeared totransfix the question with the end of her knitting-needle. "I really thinkthat it is Betty, my child," she answered calmly.
"What does he mean by falling in love with Betty?" demanded Dan, while herose to his feet, and the ball of yarn fell upon the floor.
"Don't ask me what he means, sir," protested the Major. "If a man in lovehas any meaning in him, it takes a man in love to find it out. Maybe you'llbe better at it than I am; but I give it up--I give it up."
With a gloomy face Dan sat down again, and resting his arms on his knees,stared at the vase of golden-rod between the tall brass andirons. Cupidcame in to light the lamps, and stopped to inquire if Mrs. Lightfoot wouldlike a blaze to be started in the fireplace. "It's a little chilly, mydear," remarked the Major, slapping his arm. "There's been a sharp changein the weather;" and Cupid removed the vase of golden-rod and laid anarmful of sticks crosswise on the andirons.
"Draw up to the hearth, my boy," said the Major, when the fire burned."Even if you aren't cold, it looks cheerful, you know--draw up, draw up,"and he at once began to question his grandson about the London streets,evoking as he talked dim memories of his own early days in England. Heasked after St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey half as if they were personalfriends of whose death he feared to hear; and upon being answered that theystill stood unchanged, he pressed eagerly for the gossip of the Strand andFleet Street. Was Dr. Johnson's coffee-house still standing? and did Danremember to look up the haunts of Mr. Addison in his youth? "I've gotten agood deal out of Champe," he confessed, "but I like to hear it again--Ilike to hear it. Why, it takes me back forty years, and makes me younger."
And when Champe came in from his ride, he found the old gentleman upon thehearth-rug, his white hair tossing over his brow, as he recited from Mr.Addison with the zest of a schoolboy of a hundred years ago.
"Hello, Beau! I hope you got your clothes," was Champe's greeting, as heshook his cousin's hand.
"Oh, they turned up all right," said Dan, carelessly, "and, by-the-way,there was an India shawl for grandma in that very trunk."
Champe crossed to the fireplace and stood fingering one of the tall vases."It's a pity you didn't stop by Uplands," he observed. "You'd have foundVirginia more blooming than ever."
"Ah, is that so?" returned Dan, flushing, and a moment afterward he addedwith an effort, "I met Betty in the turnpike, you know."
Six months ago, he remembered, he had raved out his passion for Virginia,and to-day he could barely stammer Betty's name. A great silence; seemed tosurround the thought of her.
"So she told me," replied Champe, looking steadily at Dan. For a moment heseemed about to speak agai
n; then changing his mind, he left the room witha casual remark about dressing for supper.
"I'll go, too," said Dan, rising from his seat. "If you'll believe me, Ihaven't spoken to my old love, Aunt Emmeline. So proud a beauty is not tobe treated with neglect."
He lighted one of the tall candles upon the mantel-piece, and taking it inhis hand, crossed the hall and went into the panelled parlour, whereGreat-aunt Emmeline, in the lustre of her amber brocade, smiled herchangeless smile from out the darkened canvas. There was wit in her curvedlip and spirit in her humorous gray eyes, and the marble whiteness of herbrow, which had brought her many lovers in her lifetime, shone undimmedbeneath the masses of her chestnut hair. With her fair body gone to dust,she still held her immortal apple by the divine right of her rememberedbeauty.
As Dan looked at her it seemed to him for the first time that he found alikeness to Betty--to Betty as she smiled up at him from the hearth in AuntAilsey's cabin. It was not in the mouth alone, nor in the eyes alone, butin something indefinable which belonged to every feature--in the kindlyfervour that shone straight out from the smiling face. Ah, he knew now whyAunt Emmeline had charmed a generation.
He blew out the candle, and went back into the hall where the front doorstood half open. Then taking down his hat, he descended the steps andstrolled thoughtfully up and down the gravelled drive.
The air was still moist, and beyond the gray meadows the white cloudshuddled like a flock of sheep upon the mountain side. From the branches ofthe old elms fell a few yellowed leaves, and among them birds were flyingback and forth with short cries. A faint perfume came from the high urnsbeside the steps, where a flowering creeper was bruised against the marblebasins.
With a cigar in his mouth, Dan passed slowly to and fro against the lightedwindows, and looked up tenderly at the gray sky and the small flying birds.There was a glow in his face, for, with a total cessation of time, he wasback in Aunt Ailsey's cabin, and the rain was on the roof.
In one of those rare moods in which the least subjective mind becomes thatof a mystic, he told himself that this hour had waited for him from thebeginning of time--had bided patiently at the crossroads until he came upwith it at last. All his life he had been travelling to meet it, not inignorance, but with half-unconscious knowledge, and all the while the firehad burned brightly on the hearth, and Betty had knelt upon the flat stonesdrying her hair. Again it seemed to him that he had never looked into awoman's face before, and the shame of his wandering fancies was heavy uponhim. He called himself a fool because he had followed for a day the flutterof Virginia's gown, and a dotard for the many loves he had sworn to longbefore. In the twilight he saw Betty's eyes, grave, accusing, darkened withreproach; and he asked himself half hopefully if she cared--if it werepossible for a moment that she cared. There had been humour in her smile,but, for all his effort, he could bring back no deeper emotion than pity ordisdain--and it seemed to him that both the pity and the disdain were forhimself.
The library window was lifted suddenly, as the Major called out to him that"supper was on its way"; and, with an impatient movement of the shoulders,he tossed his cigar into the grass and went indoors.
The next afternoon he rode over to Uplands, and found Virginia alone in thedim, rose-scented parlour, where the quaint old furniture stood in thegloom of a perpetual solemnity. The girl, herself, made a bright spot ofcolour against the damask curtains, and as he looked at her he felt thesame delight in her loveliness that he felt in Great-aunt Emmeline's.Virginia had become a picture to him, and nothing more.
When he entered she greeted him with her old friendliness, gave him bothher cool white hands, and asked him a hundred shy questions about thecountries over sea. She was delicately cordial, demurely glad.
"It seems an age since you went away," she said flatteringly, "and so manythings have happened--one of the big trees blew down on the lawn, and JackPowell broke his arm--and--and Mr. Morson has been back twice, you know."
"Yes, I know," he answered, "but I rather think the tree's the biggestthing, isn't it?"
"Well, it is the biggest," admitted Virginia, sweetly. "I couldn't get myarms halfway round it--and Betty was so distressed when it fell that shecried half the day, just as if it were a human being. Aunt Lydia has beentrying to build a rockery over the root, and she's going to cover it withportulaca." She went to the long window and pointed out the spot where ithad stood. "There are so many one hardly misses it," she added cheerfully.
At the end of an hour Dan asked timidly for Betty, to hear that she hadgone riding earlier with Champe. "She is showing him a new path over themountain," said Virginia. "I really think she knows them all by heart."
"I hope she hasn't taken to minding cattle," observed Dan, irritably. "Ibelieve in women keeping at home, you know," and as he rose to go he toldVirginia that she had "an Irish colour."
"I have been sitting in the sun," she answered shyly, going back to thewindow when he left the room.
Dan went quickly out to Prince Rupert, but with his foot in the stirrup, hesaw Miss Lydia training a coral honeysuckle at the end of the portico, andturned away to help her fasten up a broken string. "It blew downyesterday," she explained sadly. "The storm did a great deal of damage tothe flowers, and the garden looked almost desolate this morning, but Bettyand I worked there until dinner. I tell Betty she must take my place amongthe flowers, she has such a talent for making them bloom. Why, if you willcome into the garden, you will be surprised to see how many summer plantsare still in blossom."
She spoke wistfully, and Dan looked down on her with a tender reverencewhich became him strangely. "Why, I shall be delighted to go with you," heanswered. "Do you know I never see you without thinking of your roses? Youseem to carry their fragrance in your clothes." There was a touch of theMajor's flattery in his manner, but Miss Lydia's pale cheeks flushed withpleasure.
Smiling faintly, she folded her knitted shawl over her bosom, and hefollowed her across the grass to the little whitewashed gate of the garden.There she entered softly, as if she were going into church, her light stepsbarely treading down the tall grass strewn with rose leaves. Beyond thehigh box borders the gay October roses bent toward her beneath a lightwind, and in the square beds tangles of summer plants still flowereduntouched by frost. The splendour of the scarlet sage and the delicateclusters of the four-o'clocks and sweet Williams made a single blur ofcolour in the sunshine, and under the neatly clipped box hedges, blossomsof petunias and verbenas straggled from their trim rows across the walk.
As he stood beside her, Dan drew in a long breath of the fragrant air. "Ideclare, it is like standing in a bunch of pinks," he remarked.
"There has been no hard frost as yet," returned Miss Lydia, looking up athim. "Even the verbenas were not nipped, and I don't think I ever had thembloom so late. Why, it is almost the first of October."
They strolled leisurely up and down the box-bordered paths, Miss Lydiatalking in her gentle, monotonous voice, and Dan bending his head as heflicked at the tall grass with his riding-whip.
"He is a great lover of flowers," said the old lady after he had gone, andthought in her simple heart that she spoke the truth.
For two days Dan's pride held him back, but the third being Sunday, he wentover in the afternoon with the pretence of a message from his grandmother.As the day was mild the great doors were standing open, and from the drivehe saw Mrs. Ambler sitting midway of the hall, with her Bible in her handand her class of little negroes at her feet. Beyond her there was a stripof green and the autumn glory of the garden, and the sunlight coming fromwithout fell straight upon the leaves of the open book.
She was reading from the gospel of St. John, and she did not pause untilthe chapter was finished; then she looked up and said, smiling: "Shall Iask you to join my class, or will you look for the girls out of doors?Virginia, I think, is in the garden, and Betty has just gone riding downthe tavern road."
"Oh, I'll go after Betty," replied Dan, promptly, and with a gay "good-by"he untied Pri
nce Rupert and started at a canter for the turnpike.
A quarter of a mile beyond Uplands the tavern road branched off under adeep gloom of forest trees. The white sand of the turnpike gave place to aheavy clay soil, which went to dust in summer and to mud in winter,impeding equally the passage of wheels. On either side a thick wood ran forseveral miles, and the sunshine filtered in bright drops through the greenarch overhead.
When Dan first caught sight of Betty she was riding in a network of sun andshade, her face lifted to the bit of blue sky that showed between thetree-tops. At the sound of his horse she threw a startled look behind her,and then, drawing aside from the sunken ruts in the "corduroy" road,waited, smiling, until he galloped up.
"Why, it's never you!" she exclaimed, surprised.
"Well, that's not my fault, Betty," he gayly returned. "If I had my way, Iassure you it would be always I. You mustn't blame a fellow for his illluck, you know." Then he laid his hand on her bridle and faced her sternly.
"Look here, Betty, you haven't been treating me right," he said.
She threw out a deprecating little gesture. "Do I need to put on morehumility?" she questioned, humbly. "Is it respect that I have failed in,sir?"
"Oh, bosh!" he interposed, rudely. "I want to know why you went ridingthree afternoons with Champe--it wasn't fair of you, you know."
Betty sighed sadly. "No one has ever asked me before why I went riding withChampe," she confessed, "and the mighty secret has quite gnawed into myheart."
"Share it with me," begged Dan, gallantly, "only I warn you that I shallhave no mercy upon Champe."
"Poor Champe," said Betty.
"At least he went riding with you three afternoons--lucky Champe!"
"Ah, so he did; and must I tell you why?"
He nodded. "You shan't go home until you do," he declared grimly.
Betty reached up and plucked a handful of aspen leaves, scattering themupon the road.
"By what right, O horse-taming Hector (isn't that the way they talk inHomer?)"
"By the right of the strongest, O fair Helena (it's the way they talk intranslations of Homer)."
"How very learned you are!" sighed Betty.
"How very lovely you are!" sighed Dan.
"And you will really force me to tell you?" she asked.
"For your own sake, don't let it come to that," he replied.
"But are you sure that you are strong enough to hear it?"
"I am strong enough for anything," he assured her, "except suspense."
"Well, if I must, then let me whisper it--I went because--" she drew back,"I implore you not to uproot the forest in your wrath."
"Speak quickly," urged Dan, impatiently.
"I went because--brace yourself--I went because he asked me."
"O Betty!" he cried, and caught her hand.
"O Dan!" she laughed, and drew her hand away.
"You deserve to be whipped," he went on sternly. "How dare you play withthe green-eyed monster I'm wearing on my sleeve? Haven't you heard hisgrowls, madam?"
"He's a pretty monster," said Betty. "I should like to pat him."
"Oh, he needs to be gently stroked, I tell you."
"Does he wake often--poor monster?"
Dan lowered his abashed eyes to the road.
"Well, that--ah, that depends--" he began awkwardly.
"Ah, that depends upon your fancies," finished Betty, and rode on rapidly.
It was a moment before he came up with her, and when he did so his face wasflushed.
"Do you mind about my fancies, Betty?" he asked humbly.
"I?" said Betty, disdainfully. "Why, what have I to do with them?"
"With my fancies? nothing--so help me God--nothing."
"I am glad to hear it," she replied quietly, stroking her horse. Her cheekswere glowing and she let the overhanging branches screen her face. As theyrode on silently they heard the rustling of the leaves beneath the horses'feet, and the soft wind playing through the forest. A chain of lights andshadows ran before them into the misty purple of the distance, where thedim trees went up like gothic spires.
Betty's hands were trembling, but fearing the stillness, she spoke in acareless voice.
"When do you go back to college?" she inquired politely.
"In two days--but it's all the same to you, I dare say."
"Indeed it isn't. I shall be very sorry."
"You needn't lie to me," he returned irritably. "I beg your pardon, but alie is a lie, you know."
"So I suppose, but I wasn't lying--I shall be very sorry."
A fiery maple branch fell between them, and he impatiently thrust it aside.
"When you treat me like this you raise the devil in me," he said angrily."As I told you before, Betty, when I'm not Lightfoot I'm Montjoy--it may bethis that makes you plague me so."
"O Dan, Dan!" she laughed, but in a moment added gravely: "When you'reneither Lightfoot nor Montjoy, you're just yourself, and it's then, afterall, that I like you best. Shall we turn now?" She wheeled her horse abouton the rustling leaves, and they started toward the sunset light shiningfar up the road.
"When you like me best," said Dan, passionately. "Betty, when is that?" Hisardent look was on her face, and she, defying her fears, met it with herbeaming eyes. "When you're just yourself, Dan," she answered and gallopedon. Her lips were smiling, but there was a prayer in her heart, for itcried, "Dear God, let him love me, let him love me."
Battle Ground Page 13