Vickers strode off through the meadow that morning in the hope of finding
familiar things, and indulging in old memories. The country roads had been
widened and improved, and many of the farm-houses had given way to more or
less pretentious "places." Motors whirled past him. The hill that he
remembered as a veritable mountain was a mere rise in the straightened road
over which a fast car plunged at full speed, covering him with dust and
leaving behind a sickening odor. He struck off into a wood-lot; here and in
the pastures and meadows he found himself again. It was nearly noon before
he came up the lane that led to the Ed Price farm.
This was off the beat of the motors, away from the new "estates," at the
end of a grassy road bordered by gray birches. The ample old house he
remembered very well with its square central chimney and stretch of
outbuildings that joined the yellow barn. At his knock a broad-shouldered,
smiling woman came to the door, and after a moment's hesitation
exclaimed:--
"Why, Vick,--can it be you?"
"Yes, Cousin Alice."
She led him to the orchard in the rear, where with the aid of two little
boys she was preparing vegetables for dinner. Tying on a large apron, she
said:--
"You see we all have to take a hand. Won't you have a bib and dip in, too?
... Children, this is your uncle--cousin. Which is it, Vickers?"
It was pleasant in the long grass under the apple tree, looking across the
orchard of gnarled and stubby trees to the lane. Mrs. Johnston worked and
talked, while the little boys with furtive glances pecked at the peas like
two birds.
"I heard you were coming--I did not know just when. It is good to see you
back, Vick!"
There was a comfortable largeness in the atmosphere of this woman, which
suited the homely background of the square farm-house and the peaceful
orchard. And there was a pleasant warmth in her tone.
"How do you find it?" she asked; "or perhaps you haven't had time yet to
know."
"It hardly seems like being home," Vickers admitted, "everything is so
changed--everything but this!" he added gratefully, thinking of Alice as
well as the farm.
"Yes,--the country has changed, so many rich people have bought places. And
your old home--" She hesitated to complete her sentence.
"I can't find my way around there." Vickers laughed. "What would the
Colonel say!"
Alice looked as if she preferred not to think what the Colonel might say of
his daughter's alterations.
"I suppose Isabelle had to have more room,--she has so many people with
her. And you will find that life has changed over here in ten years."
"Nothing but change!"
"Except among the poor! ... No, Tot, you can't eat the pods. There, boys,
take sister and run out to the barn to help Charlie wash the buggy.... How
does Isabelle seem to you?"
"I scarcely know--I haven't made up my mind. How does she seem to _you_?"
"She does too much,--she's not strong enough," Alice replied evasively.
"No, she doesn't seem strong; but she can't keep still!"
"She gets so little comfort out of anything,--that is the worst of it.
Sometimes I wish John weren't so strong,--that he would have an illness, so
that Isabelle would have something definite to do."
"She would have a trained nurse!" Vickers suggested with a laugh.
"She is such a dear,--I wish she were happier!"
"Perhaps that isn't in the blood."
"But I never saw a happier creature than she was the day she was married!
And John is a fine fellow, and she has everything a woman could want."
"A woman wants a good many things these days."...
They chatted on about Isabelle and her love of people, and then about St.
Louis and the old days at Grafton. For the first time since he had landed,
it seemed to Vickers, he was permitted to ignore his failure,--he was at
home. When he rose to go, Alice protested:--
"But you aren't going back,--it is just our dinner-time, and we haven't
said half what we have to say!"
So he dined with the brood of children in the large front room, and
afterwards Alice walked down the lane with him.
"I hope you are going to stay here?" she asked warmly.
"Oh, I don't know! America doesn't seem to need me," he replied,
endeavoring to joke; "not that I know any place which does. I am waiting to
be called."
In spite of the joking manner there was sadness in the voice. Alice was
silent for a time and then replied earnestly:--
"Perhaps you are called here--for the present."
"You mean over there?" he asked quickly, nodding in the direction of
Grafton.
"Yes!"
"Why do you think so?"
"You know Isabelle really cares for you as she doesn't for any one else in
the world!"
"Yes,--we have always been close."
"But she cares for what you _think_--"
Vickers made a gesture, as if it were impossible that any one could do
that.
"Yes," Alice continued gently; "a woman never gets wholly away from the
influence of one she has admired as Isabelle admired you."
"But one's experience," he mused, "no matter how costly it has been, never
seems to be of any use to any one else."
"Can you tell--until the end? ... What we don't see in life is so much more
than what we see!"
Vickers looked at her gratefully. He would like to feel that he was needed
somewhere in this hurried world. Presently there was a childish uproar
behind them, and Alice turned back.
"My brood is getting tempestuous; I must say good-by!"
She held Vickers's hand in her warm, firm grasp.
"I hope we shall see you often.... I think that you are called here!"
Vickers returned to the Farm, thinking of Alice Johnston. She had given him
of her peace, of her confidence, her large way of taking the issues of
life. 'And I used to say that she was a commonplace dumpy country girl!' he
mused. He pondered what she had spoken,--the suggestion, vague but
comforting, of purpose, of a place for him in the world to fill. Just what
was she thinking of? "We'll see," he murmured, as he mounted the steps of
the terrace. As Alice had said, the unseen in life was so much more than
the seen.
* * * * *
In the formal garden the pretty little English governess was conducting the
social game for the two girls. Marian Lane, having shown Delia her pony and
her rabbits without eliciting much enthusiasm, now sat and stared at her
with politely suppressed scorn for the dull red frock that Vickers had
designed for his charge.
"Have you been to dancing school?" she demanded.
"What is that?" Delia asked.
She was dully uncomfortable in the company of this very dainty little
creature, who was always dressed in delicate, light fabrics, and seemed to
have many possessions. And Miss Betterton had a well-bred manner of putting
the stranger outside the little social game. So when Delia spied Vickers,
she cried, "There's father!" and ran towards him.
"Uncle Vickers is not Mabel's father," Marian asserted to Miss Betterton.
"Hush, dearie!" the well-bred Miss Betterton replied; "we mustn't talk
about that."
When Isabelle and Cairy came up to the house from their afternoon ride,
they found Vickers playing croquet with Miss Betterton and the two little
girls, who in his society were approaching something like informality in
their manner of addressing each other.
"He looks quite domestic," Cairy jeered.
"Hello, Vick! Come over and see the horses," Isabelle called.
At the stable Marian's new pony that Cairy had selected was exhibited. Lane
drove up with a friend he had brought from the city for the week end, and
the party played with the pony and laughed at his tricks, which Cairy
showed off.
"He looks like a cross between an Angora cat and a Newfoundland dog," Cairy
remarked, leaning down to feel of his legs. As he stooped the ivory handle
of a small revolver pushed out of the hip pocket of his riding breeches.
"What's that, Uncle Tom?" Marian asked, pointing to the pistol.
Cairy drew out the pistol and held it up, with a slight flourish,--"A
family weapon!"
Holding the pony with one hand and pointing the revolver at a blossom on a
magnolia tree a few paces away, he fired and the white petals came
fluttering down. A second report and another blossom fell. The pony jumped
and snorted, but it did not disturb Cairy's aim. A third blossom fell, and
then he quickly shot the descending bud which had been cut by the previous
shot.
"Steady hand!" Lane commented.
"It's an old habit of mine to carry it and practise when I have a chance,"
Cairy remarked, breaking the revolver. After extracting the shells, he
handed the pistol to Isabelle.
"Made in Paris," she read from the chased plate.
"Yes; it's a pretty toy, don't you think?"
"It's a curious shell," Lane remarked, picking up one of the empty shells
from the ground.
"Yes, I have to have them specially made," replied Cairy. The toy was
handed around and much admired.
"But, Uncle Tom," Marian asked, "why do you carry a pistol?"
"In the South gentlemen always carry pistols."
"Is it very dangerous in the South?" the little girl inquired. Then the
older people laughed, and Cairy looked rather foolish.