[Illustration: 9253]
HE summer ended, the autumn passed, 'and Christmas approached. Nothing
of much importance had taken place among the characters of this little
history. The Southern Land and Timber Company, and Wilson in particular,
had disappointed Miller and Alan by their reticence in regard to the
progress of the railroad scheme. At every meeting with Wilson they
found him either really or pretendedly indifferent about the matter. His
concern, he told them, was busy in other quarters, and that he really
did not know what they would finally do about it.
“He can' t pull the wool over my eyes,” Miller told his friend, after
one of these interviews. “He simply thinks he can freeze you out by
holding off till you have to raise money.”
“He may have inquired into my father's financial condition,” suggested
Alan, with a long face.
“Most likely,” replied the lawyer.
“And discovered exactly where we stand.”
“Perhaps, but we must not believe that till we know it. I'm going to
try to checkmate him. I don't know how, but I 'll think of something.
He feels that he has the upper hand now, but I 'll interest him some of
these days.”
Alan's love affair had also been dragging. He had had numerous
assurances of Dolly's constancy, but since learning how her father had
acted the night he supposed she had eloped with Alan, her eyes had been
opened to the seriousness of offending Colonel Barclay. She now
knew that her marriage against his will would cause her immediate
disinheritance, and she was too sensible a girl to want to go to Alan
without a dollar and with the doors of her home closed against her.
Besides, she believed in Alan' s future. She, somehow, had more faith in
the railroad than any other interested person. She knew, too, that she
was now more closely watched than formerly. She had, with firm finality,
refused Frank Hillhouse's offer of marriage, and that had not helped her
case in the eyes of her exasperated parent. Her mother occupied neutral
ground; she had a vague liking for Alan Bishop, and, if the whole truth
must be told, was heartily enjoying the situation. She was enjoying it
so subtly and so heartily, in her own bloodless way, that she was at
times almost afraid of its ending suddenly.
On Christmas Eve Adele was expected home from Atlanta, and Alan had come
in town to meet her. As it happened, an accident delayed her train so
that it would not reach Darley till ten o' clock at night instead of six
in the evening, so there was nothing for her brother to do but arrange
for their staying that night at the Johnston House. Somewhat to Alan'
s surprise, who had never discovered the close friendship and constant
correspondence existing between Miller and his sister, the former
announced that he was going to spend the night at the hotel and drive
out to the farm with them the next morning. Of course, it was agreeable,
Alan reflected, but it was a strange thing for Miller to propose.
From the long veranda of the hotel after supper that evening the two
friends witnessed the crude display of holiday fireworks in the street
below. Half a dozen big bonfires made of dry-goods boxes, kerosene and
tar barrels, and refuse of all kinds were blazing along the main street.
Directly opposite the hotel the only confectionery and toy store in the
place was crowded to overflowing by eager customers, and in front of it
the purchasers of fireworks were letting them off for the benefit of the
bystanders. Fire-crackers were exploded by the package, and every now
and then a clerk in some store would come to the front door and fire off
a gun or a revolver.
All this noise and illumination was at its height when Adele's train
drew up in the car-shed. The bonfires near at hand made it as light as
day, and she had no trouble recognizing the two friends.
“Oh, what an awful racket!” she exclaimed, as she released herself from
Alan' s embrace and gave her hand to Miller.
“It's in your honor,” Miller laughed, as, to Alan' s vast astonishment,
he held on to her hand longer than seemed right. “We ought to have had
the brass band out.”
“Oh, I'm so glad to get home,” said Adele, laying her hand on Miller's
extended arm. Then she released it to give Alan her trunk-checks. “Get
them, brother,” she said. “Mr. Miller will take care of me. I suppose
you are not going to drive home to-night.”
“Not if you are tired,” said Miller, in a tone Alan had never heard
his friend use to any woman, nor had he ever seen such an expression
on Miller's face as lay there while the lawyer's eyes were feasting
themselves on the girl's beauty.
Alan hurried away after the trunks and a porter. He was almost blind
with a rage that was new to him. Was Miller deliberately beginning a
flirtation with Adele at a moment's notice? And had she been so spoiled
by the “fast set” of Atlanta during her stay there that she would allow
it--even if Miller was a friend of the family? He found a negro porter
near the heap of luggage that had been hurled from the baggage-car, and
ordered his sister's trunks taken to the hotel. Then he followed the
couple moodily up to the hotel parlor. He was destined to undergo
another shock, for, on entering that room, he surprised Miller and Adele
on a sofa behind the big square piano with their heads suspiciously near
together, and so deeply were they engaged in conversation that, although
he drew up a chair near them, they paid no heed to him further than to
recognize his appearance with a lifting of their eyes. They were talking
of social affairs in Atlanta and people whose names were unfamiliar to
Alan. He rose and stood before the fireplace, but they did not notice
his change of position. Truly it was maddening. He told himself that
Adele's pretty face and far too easy manner had attracted Miller's
attention temporarily, and the fellow was daring to enter one of his
flirtations right before his eyes. Alan would give him a piece of his
mind at the first opportunity, even if he was under obligations to him.
Indeed, Miller had greatly disappointed him, and so had Adele. He had
always thought she, like Dolly Barclay, was different from other girls;
but no, she was like them all. Miller's attention had simply turned her
head. Well, as soon as he had a chance he would tell her a few things
about Miller and his views of women. That would put her on her
guard, but it would not draw out the poisoned sting left by Miller's
presumption, or indelicacy, or whatever it was. Alan rose and stood at
the fire unnoticed for several minutes, and then he showed that he
was at least a good chaperon, for he reached out and drew on the
old-fashioned bell-pull in the chimney-corner. The porter appeared, and
Alan asked: “Is my sister's room ready?”
“Yes, it's good and warm now, suh,” said the negro. “I started the fire
an hour ago.”
Miller and Adele had paused to listen.
“Oh, you are going to hurry me off to bed,” the girl said, with an
audible sigh.
“You must be tired after that ride,” said Alan, coldly.
“That's a fact, you must be,” echoed Miller. “Well, if you have to go,
you can finish telling me in the morning. You know I'm going to spend
the night here, where I have a regular room, and I 'll see you at
breakfast.”
“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Adele. “Yes, I can finish telling you in the
morning.” Then she seemed to notice her brother's long face, and she
laughed out teasingly: “I 'll bet he and Dolly are no nearer together
than ever.”
“You are right,” Miller joined in her mood; “the Colonel still has his
dogs ready for Alan, but they 'll make it up some day, I hope. Dolly is
_next_ to the smartest girl I know.”
“Oh, you _are_ a flatterer,” laughed Adele, and she gave Miller her
hand. “Don't forget to be up for early breakfast. We must start soon in
the morning. I'm dying to see the home folks.”
Alan was glad that Miller had a room of his own, for he was not in
a mood to converse with him; and when Adele had retired he refused
Miller's proffered cigar and went to his own room.
Miller grunted as Alan turned away. “He's had bad news of some sort,”
he thought, “and it's about Dolly Barclay. I wonder, after all, if she
would stick to a poor man. I begin to think some women would. Adele is
of that stripe--yes, she is, and isn't she stunning-looking? She's a
gem of the first water, straight as a die, full of pluck and--she's all
right--all right!”
He went out on the veranda to smoke and enjoy repeating these things
over to himself. The bonfires in the street were dying down to red
embers, around which stood a few stragglers; but there was a blaze of
new light over the young man' s head. Along his horizon had dawned a
glorious reason for his existence; a reason that discounted every reason
he had ever entertained. “Adele, Adele,” he said to himself, and then
his cigar went out. Perhaps, his thoughts ran on in their mad race with
happiness--perhaps, with her fair head on her pillow, she was thinking
of him as he was of her.
Around the corner came a crowd of young men singing negro songs. They
passed under the veranda, and Miller recognized Frank Hillhouse's voice.
“That you, Frank?” Miller called out, leaning over the railing.
“Yes--that you, Ray?” Hillhouse stepped out into view. “Come on; we are
going to turn the town over. Every sign comes down, according to custom,
you know. Old Thad Moore is drunk in the calaboose. They put him in late
this evening. We are going to mask and let him out. It's a dandy racket;
we are going to make him think we are White Caps, and then set him down
in the bosom of his family. Come on.”
“I can't to-night,” declined Miller, with a laugh. “I'm dead tired.”
“Well, if you hear all the church bells ringing, you needn't think it's
fire, and jump out of your skin. We ain't going to sleep to-night, and
we don't intend to let anybody else do it.”
“Well, go it while you are young,” Miller retorted, with a laugh, and
Hillhouse joined his companions in mischief and they passed on singing
merrily.
Miller threw his cigar away and went to his room. He was ecstatically
happy. The mere thought that Adele Bishop was under the same roof with
him, and on the morrow was going to people who liked him, and leaned on
his advice and experience, gave him a sweet content that thrilled him
from head to foot.
“Perhaps I ought to tell Alan,” he mused, “but he 'll find it out soon
enough; and, hang it all, I can' t tell him how I feel about his own
sister, after all the rot I've stuffed into him.”