Battle Ground

by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

  IX

  THE MONTJOY BLOOD

  In the morning Betty was awakened by the tapping of the elm boughs on theroof above her. An autumn wind was blowing straight from the west, and whenshe looked out through the small greenish panes of glass, she saw eddies ofyellowed leaves beating gently against the old brick walls. Overhead lightgray clouds were flying across the sky, and beyond the waving tree-tops awhite mist hung above the dim blue chain of mountains.

  When she went downstairs she found the Major, in his best black broadcloth,pacing up and down before the house. It was Sunday, and he intended todrive into town where the rector held his services.

  "You won't go in with me, I reckon?" he ventured hopefully, when Bettysmiled out upon him from the library window. "Ah, my dear, you're as freshas the morning, and only an old man to look at you. Well, well, age has itsconsolations; you'll spare me a kiss, I suppose?"

  "Then you must come in to get it," answered Betty, her eyes narrowing."Breakfast is getting cold, and Cupid is calling down Aunt Rhody's wrathupon your head."

  "Oh, I'll come, I'll come," returned the Major, hurrying up the steps, andadding as he entered the dining room, "My child, if you'd only take a fancyto Champe, I'd be the happiest man on earth."

  "Now I shan't allow any matchmaking on Sunday," said Betty, warningly, asshe prepared Mrs. Lightfoot's breakfast. "Sit down and carve the chickenwhile I run upstairs with this."

  She went out and came back in a moment, laughing merrily. "Do you know, shethreatens to become bedridden now that I am here to fix her trays," sheexplained, sitting down between the tall silver urns and pouring out theMajor's coffee. "What an uncertain day you have for church," she added asshe gave his cup to Cupid.

  With his eyes on her vivid face the old man listened rapturously to herfresh young voice--the voice, he said, that always made him think of clearwater falling over stones. It was one of the things that came to her fromPeyton Ambler, he knew, with her warm hazel eyes and the sweet, strongcurve of her mouth. "Ah, but you're like your father," he said as hewatched her. "If you had brown hair you'd be his very image."

  "I used to wish that I had," responded Betty, "but I don't now--I'd just assoon have red." She was thinking that Dan did not like brown hair so much,and the thought shone in her face--only the Major, in his ignorance,mistook its meaning.

  After breakfast he got into the coach and started off, and Betty, with thekey basket on her arm, followed Cupid and Aunt Rhody into the storeroom.Then she gathered fresh flowers for the table, and went upstairs to read achapter from the Bible to Mrs. Lightfoot.

  The Major stayed to dinner in town, returning late in a moody humour andexhausted by his drive. As Betty brushed her hair before her bureau, sheheard him talking in a loud voice to Mrs. Lightfoot, and when she went inat supper time the old, lady called her to her bedside and took her hand.

  "He has had a touch of the gout, Betty," she whispered in her ear, "and heheard some news in town which upset him a little. You must try to cheer himup at supper, child."

  "Was it bad news?" asked Betty, in alarm.

  "It may not be true, my dear. I hope it isn't, but, as I told Mr.Lightfoot, it is always better to believe the worst, so if any surprisecomes it may be a pleasant one. Somebody told him in church--and they hadmuch better have been attending to the service, I'm sure,--that Dan hadgotten into trouble again, and Mr. Lightfoot is very angry about it. He hada talk with the boy before he went away, and made him promise to turn overa new leaf this year--but it seems this is the most serious thing that hashappened yet. I must say I always told Mr. Lightfoot it was what he had toexpect."

  "In trouble again?" repeated Betty, kneeling by the bed. Her hands wentcold, and she pressed them nervously together.

  "Of course we know very little about it, my dear," pursued Mrs. Lightfoot."All we have heard is that he fought a duel and was sent away from theUniversity. He was even put into gaol for a night, I believe--a Lightfootin a common dirty gaol! Well, well, as I said before, all we can do now isto expect the worst."

  "Oh, is that all?" cried Betty, and the leaping of her heart told her thehorror of her dim foreboding. She rose to her feet and smiled brightly downupon the astonished old lady.

  "I don't know what more you want," replied Mrs. Lightfoot, tartly. "If heever gets clean again after a whole night in a common gaol, I must say Idon't see how he'll manage it. But if you aren't satisfied I can only tellyou that the affair was all about some bar-room wench, and that the paperswill be full of it. Not that the boy was anything but foolish," she addedhastily. "I'll do him the justice to admit that he's more of a fool than avillain--and I hardly know whether it's a compliment that I'm paying him ornot. He got some quixotic notion into his head that Harry Maupin insultedthe girl in his presence, and he called him to account for it. As if thehonour of a barkeeper's daughter was the concern of any gentleman!"

  "Oh!" cried Betty, and caught her breath. The word went out of her in asudden burst of joy, but the joy was so sharp that a moment afterwards shehid her wet face in the bedclothes and sobbed softly to herself.

  "I don't think Mr. Lightfoot would have taken it so hard but for Virginia,"said the old lady, with her keen eyes on the girl. "You know he has alwayswanted to bring Dan and Virginia together, and he seems to think that theboy has been dishonourable about it."

  "But Virginia doesn't care--she doesn't care," protested Betty.

  "Well, I'm glad to hear it," returned Mrs. Lightfoot, relieved, "and I hopethe foolish boy will stay away long enough for his grandfather to cool off.Mr. Lightfoot is a high-tempered man, my child. I've spent fifty years inkeeping him at peace with the world. There now, run down and cheer him up."

  She lay back among her pillows, and Betty leaned over and kissed her withcold lips before she dried her eyes and went downstairs to find the Major.

  With the first glance at his face she saw that Dan's cause was hopeless forthe hour, and she set herself, with a cheerful countenance, to a discussionof the trivial happenings of the day. She talked pleasantly of the rector'ssermon, of the morning reading with Mrs. Lightfoot, and of a great hawkthat had appeared suddenly in the air and raised an outcry among theturkeys on the lawn. When these topics were worn threadbare she bethoughtherself of the beauty of the autumn woods, and lamented the ruined gardenwith its last sad flowers.

  The Major listened gloomily, putting in a word now and then, and keepinghis weak red eyes upon his plate. There was a heavy cloud on his brow, andthe flush that Betty had learned to dread was in his face. Once when shespoke carelessly of Dan, he threw out an angry gesture and inquired if she"found Mrs. Lightfoot easier to-night?"

  "Oh, I think so," replied the girl, and then, as they rose from the table,she slipped her hand through his arm and went with him into the library.

  "Shall I sit with you this evening?" she asked timidly. "I'd be so glad toread to you, if you would let me."

  He shook his head, patted her affectionately upon the shoulder, and smileddown into her upraised face. "No, no, my dear, I've a little work to do,"he replied kindly. "There are a few papers I want to look over, so run upto Molly and tell her I sent my sunshine to her."

  He stooped and kissed her cheek; and Betty, with a troubled heart, wentslowly up to Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber.

  The Major sat down at his writing table, and spread his papers out beforehim. Then he raised the wick of his lamp, and with his pen in his hand,resolutely set himself to his task. When Cupid came in with the decanter ofBurgundy, he filled a glass and held it absently against the light, but hedid not drink it, and in a moment he put it down with so tremulous a handthat the wine spilled upon the floor.

  "I've a touch of the gout, Cupid," he said testily. "A touch of the goutthat's been hanging over me for a month or more."

  "Huccome you ain' fit hit, Ole Marster?"

  "Oh, I've been fighting it tooth and nail," answered the old gentleman,"but there are some things that always get the better of you in the end,Cupid, and the gout's one of th
em."

  "En rheumaticks hit's anurr," added Cupid, rubbing his knee.

  He rolled a fresh log upon the andirons and went out, while the Majorreturned, frowning, to his work.

  He was still at his writing table, when he heard the sound of a horsetrotting in the drive, and an instant afterwards the quick fall of the oldbrass knocker. The flush deepened in his face, and with a look at onceangry and appealing, he half rose from his chair. As he waited the outsidebars were withdrawn, there followed a few short steps across the hall, andDan came into the library.

  "I suppose you know what's brought me back, grandpa?" he said quietly as heentered.

  The Major started up and then sat down again.

  "I do know, sir, and I wish to God I didn't," he replied, choking in hisanger.

  Dan stood where he had halted upon his entrance, and looked at him witheyes in which there was still a defiant humour. His face was pale and hishair hung in black streaks across his forehead. The white dust of theturnpike had settled upon his clothes, and as he moved it floated in alittle cloud about him.

  "I reckon you think it's a pretty bad thing, eh?" he questioned coolly,though his hands trembled.

  The Major's eyes flashed ominously from beneath his heavy brows.

  "Pretty bad?" he repeated, taking a long breath. "If you want to know whatI think about it, sir, I think that it's a damnable disgrace. Prettybad!--By God, sir, do you call having a gaol-bird for a grandson prettybad?"

  "Stop, sir!" called Dan, sharply. He had steadied himself to withstand theshock of the Major's temper, but, in the dash of his youthful folly, he hadforgotten to reckon with his own. "For heaven's sake, let's talk about itcalmly," he added irritably.

  "I am perfectly calm, sir!" thundered the Major, rising to his feet. Theterrible flush went in a wave to his forehead, and he put up one quiveringhand to loosen his high stock. "I tell you calmly that you've done adamnable thing; that you've brought disgrace upon the name of Lightfoot."

  "It is not my name," replied Dan, lifting his head. "My name is Montjoy,sir."

  "And it's a name to hang a dog for," retorted the Major.

  As they faced each other with the same flash of temper kindling in bothfaces, the likeness between them grew suddenly more striking. It was as ifthe spirit of the fiery old man had risen, in a finer and younger shape,from the air before him.

  "At all events it is not yours," said Dan, hotly. Then he came nearer, andthe anger died out of his eyes. "Don't let's quarrel, grandpa," he pleaded."I've gotten into a mess, and I'm sorry for it--on my word I am."

  "So you've come whining to me to get you out," returned the Major, shakingas if he had gone suddenly palsied.

  Dan drew back and his hand fell to his side.

  "So help me God, I'll never whine to you again," he answered.

  "Do you want to know what you have done, sir?" demanded the Major. "Youhave broken your grandmother's heart and mine--and made us wish that we hadleft you by the roadside when you came crawling to our door. And, on myoath, if I had known that the day would ever come when you would try tomurder a Virginia gentleman for the sake of a bar-room hussy, I would haveleft you there, sir."

  "Stop!" said Dan again, looking at the old man with his mother's eyes.

  "You have broken your grandmother's heart and mine," repeated the Major, ina trembling voice, "and I pray to God that you may not break VirginiaAmbler's--poor girl, poor girl!"

  "Virginia Ambler!" said Dan, slowly. "Why, there was nothing between us,nothing, nothing."

  "And you dare to tell me this to my face, sir?" cried the Major.

  "Dare! of course I dare," returned Dan, defiantly. "If there was everanything at all it was upon my side only--and a mere trifling fancy."

  The old gentleman brought his hand down upon his table with a blow thatsent the papers fluttering to the floor. "Trifling!" he roared. "Would youtrifle with a lady from your own state, sir?"

  "I was never in love with her," exclaimed Dan, angrily.

  "Not in love with her? What business have you not to be in love with her?"retorted the Major, tossing back his long white hair. "I have given her tounderstand that you are in love with her, sir."

  The blood rushed to Dan's head, and he stumbled over an ottoman as heturned away.

  "Then I call it unwarrantable interference," he said brutally, and wenttoward the door. There the Major's flashing eyes held him back an instant.

  "It was when I believed you to be worthy of her," went on the old man,relentlessly, "when--fool that I was--I dared to hope that dirty bloodcould be made clean again; that Jack Montjoy's son could be a gentleman."

  For a moment only Dan stood motionless and looked at him from thethreshold. Then, without speaking, he crossed the hall, took down his hat,and unbarred the outer door. It slammed after him, and he went out into thenight.

  A keen wind was still blowing, and as he descended the steps he felt itlifting the dampened hair from his forehead. With a breath of relief hestood bareheaded in the drive and raised his face to the cool elm leavesthat drifted slowly down. After the heated atmosphere of the library therewas something pleasant in the mere absence of light, and in the softrustling of the branches overhead. The humour of his blood went suddenlyquiet as if he had plunged headlong into cold water.

  While he stood there motionless his thoughts were suspended, and hissenses, gaining a brief mastery, became almost feverishly alert; he feltthe night wind in his face, he heard the ceaseless stirring of the leaves,and he saw the sparkle of the gravel in the yellow shine that streamed fromthe library windows. But with his first step, his first movement, therecame a swift recoil of his anger, and he told himself with a touch ofyouthful rhetoric, "that come what would, he was going to the devil--andgoing speedily."

  He had reached the gate and his hand was upon the latch, when he heard thehouse door open and shut behind him and his name called softly from thesteps.

  He turned impulsively and stood waiting, while Betty came quickly throughthe lamplight that fell in squares upon the drive.

  "Oh, come back, Dan, come back," she said breathlessly.

  With his hand still on the gate he faced her, frowning.

  "I'd die first, Betty," he answered.

  She came swiftly up to him and stood, very pale, in the faint starlightthat shone between the broken clouds. A knitted shawl was over hershoulders, but her head was bare and her hair made a glow around her face.Her eyes entreated him before she spoke.

  "Oh, Dan, come back," she pleaded.

  He laughed angrily and shook his head.

  "I'll die first, Betty," he repeated. "Die! I'd die a hundred times first!"

  "He is so old," she said appealingly. "It is not as if he were young andquite himself, Dan--Oh, it is not like that--but he loves you, and he is soold."

  "Don't, Betty," he broke in quickly, and added bitterly, "Are you, too,against me?"

  "I am for the best in you," she answered quietly, and turned away from him.

  "The best!" he snapped his fingers impatiently. "Are you for the shot atMaupin? the night I spent in gaol? or the beggar I am now? There's an equalchoice, I reckon."

  She looked gravely up at him.

  "I am for the boy I've always known," she replied, "and for the man who washere two weeks ago--and--yes, I am for the man who stands here now. Whatdoes it matter, Dan? What does it matter?"

  "O, Betty!" he cried breathlessly, and hid his face in his hands.

  "And most of all, I am for the man you are going to be," she went onslowly, "for the great man who is growing up. Dan, come back!"

  His hands fell from his eyes. "I'll not do that even for you, Betty," heanswered, "and, God knows, there's little else I wouldn't do foryou--there's nothing else."

  "What will you do for yourself, Dan?"

  "For myself?" his anger leaped out again, and he steadied himself againstthe gate. "For myself I'll go as far as I can from this damned place. Iwish to God I'd fallen in the road before I came here. I wish I'd gonea
fter my father and followed in his steps. I'll live on no man's charity,so help me God. Am I a dog to be kicked out and to go whining back when thedoor opens? Go--I'll go to the devil, and be glad of it!" For a momentBetty did not answer. Her hands were clasped on her bosom, and her eyeswere dark and bright in the pallor of her face. As he looked at her therage died out of his voice, and it quivered with a deeper feeling.

  "My dear, my dearest, are you, too, against me?" he asked.

  She met his gaze without flinching, but the bright colour swept suddenly toher cheeks and dyed them crimson.

  "Then if you will go, take me with you," she said.

  He fell back as if a star had dropped at his feet. For a breathless instantshe saw only his eyes, and they drew her step by step. Then he opened hisarms and she went straight into them.

  "Betty, Betty," he said in a whisper, and kissed her lips.

  She put her hands upon his shoulders, and stood with his arms about her,looking up into his face.

  "Take me with you--oh, take me with you," she entreated. "I can't be left.Take me with you."

  "And you love me--Betty, do you love me?"

  "I have loved you all my life--all my life," she answered; "how can I beginto unlove you now--now when it is too late? Do you think I am any the lessyours if you throw me away? If you break my heart can I help its stillloving you?"

  "Betty, Betty," he said again, and his voice quivered.

  "Take me with you," she repeated passionately, saying it over and overagain with her lips upon his arm.

  He stooped and kissed her almost roughly, and then put her gently away fromhim.

  "It is the way my mother went," he said, "and God help me, I am my father'sson. I am afraid,--afraid--do you know what that means?"

  "But I am not afraid," answered the girl steadily.

  He shivered and turned away; then he came back and knelt down to kiss herskirt. "No, I can't take you with me," he went on rapidly, "but if I liveto be a man I shall come back--I _will_ come back--and you--"

  "And I am waiting," she replied.

  He opened the gate and passed out into the road.

  "I will come back, beloved," he said again, and went on into the darkness.

  Leaning over the gate she strained her eyes into the shadows, crying hisname out into the night. Her voice broke and she hid her face in her arm;then, fearing to lose the last glimpse of him, she looked up quickly andsobbed to him to come back for a moment--but for a moment. It seemed toher, clinging there upon the gate, that when he went out into the darknesshe had gone forever--that the thud of his footsteps in the dust was thelast sound that would ever come from him to her ears.

  Had he looked back she would have gone straight out to him, had he raised afinger she would have followed with a cheerful face; but he did not lookback, and at last his footsteps died away upon the road.

  When she could see or hear nothing more of him, she turned slowly and crepttoward the house. Her feet dragged under her, and as she walked she castback startled glances at the gate. The rustling of the leaves made herstand breathless a moment, her hand at her bosom; but it was only the wind,and she went step by step into the house, turning upon the threshold tothrow a look behind her.

  In the hall she paused and laid her hand upon the library door, but theMajor had bolted her out, and she heard him pacing with restless strides upand down the room. She listened timidly awhile, then, going softly by, wentup to Mrs. Lightfoot.

  The old lady was asleep, but as the girl entered she awoke and sat up, verystraight, in bed. "My pain is much worse, Betty," she complained. "I don'texpect to get a wink of sleep this entire night."

  "I thought you were asleep when I came in," answered Betty, keeping awayfrom the candlelight; "but I am so sorry you are in pain. Shall I make youa mustard plaster?"

  Though she smiled, her voice was spiritless and she moved with an effort.She felt suddenly very tired, and she wanted to lie down somewhere alone inthe darkness.

  "I'd just dropped off when Mr. Lightfoot woke me slamming the doors,"pursued the old lady, querulously. "Men have so little consideration thatnothing surprises me, but I do think he might be more careful when he knowsI am suffering. No, I won't take the mustard plaster, but you may bring mea cup of hot milk, if you will. It sometimes sends me off into a doze."

  Betty went slowly downstairs again and heated the milk on the dining-roomfire. When it was ready she daintily arranged it upon a tray and carried itupstairs. "I hope it will do you good," she said gently as she gave it tothe old lady. "You must try to lie quiet--the doctor told you so."

  Mrs. Lightfoot drank the milk and remarked amiably that it was "very nicethough a little smoked--and now, go to bed, my dear," she added kindly. "Imustn't keep you from your beauty sleep. I'm afraid I've worn you out as itis."

  Betty smiled and shook her head; then she placed the tray upon a chair, andwent out, softly closing the door after her.

  In her own room she threw herself upon her bed, and cried for Dan until themorning.