thinking of it made her unhappy. She moved nearer and put her hand on
Ben's great hairy paw, stroking it as she would have stroked the collie.
"You stay, Ben?" she pleaded softly. "Just stay a while and see how it
will be. Stay 'cause I want you to. What'll I do without you to talk
to--if my father doesn't care about me?... An' maybe he won't, you
know--I can't tell.... You think he will, though, don't you, Ben?" It
was the anxiety uppermost in Ann and must out.
Ben's little animal eyes were very bright as he looked down at her, and,
whatever his thoughts, his expression was not unkindly.
"You reckon if you smiled at the spring the water would run up hill to
you?" he asked. "You sure could bring the birds down from the trees,
Ann." This was certainly one way of avoiding her question.
Ann knew Bear Brokaw as well as he knew her. She knew she had won. "And
we'll make the swimmin'-pool down in the woods--soon as it's warm," she
coaxed. "We'll have fun this spring, Ben." This was a project that lay
close to Ben's heart. His room might be redolent of animal skins, but
Ben himself was not; he had a beaver's love for the water.
"Um!" he growled, his eyes twinkling.
It was complete surrender, and Ann sprang up. "I've got to help Aunt Sue
now," she announced brightly. "And, Ben, I didn't put the horse out."
"Want I should, I reckon."
Ann only laughed as she pirouetted out and danced up the stairs to the
kitchen.
She did not go back to Sue, however; not immediately. She caught up her
cape and a bucket and, as soon as Ben was on his way to the barn,
started for the spring. But it was evidently not her ultimate
destination, for she dropped the bucket there and, after a cautious
study of the barn and the house, sped like a rabbit across the field and
into the woods.
From their shelter she again studied her surroundings, then darted for
the dead chestnut tree. She climbed as agilely as she had run, and
quickly gained the split crotch. The flicker's hole was bored deep in
the dead wood, and Ann brought up from its depth a folded slip of paper.
She curled up in the crotch and read it:
"DEAR ANN:
"You are the sweetest and the most beautiful thing I know. Did
you mean what you said when you promised to be friends? I hope
you did. I've been living on that hope for the last two weeks.
Will you come to the Crest Cave at the Banks on Sunday
afternoon, at four, and tell me again that our
great-grandfathers' quarrels don't matter to us? Please come,
dear! Please!
"GARVIN."
Though the color came warmly in Ann's cheeks and a smile lifted the
corners of her mouth, she looked grave enough when she sat thinking over
what she had read. So far her meetings with Garvin Westmore had had the
excuse of chance; he knew on what days she drove to the village, and the
chestnut tree had treasured only notes expressive of pleasure over the
meeting of the day before. But this was different.
Sue Penniman had done her duty; Ann was not altogether ignorant; less
ignorant and far more imaginative; more eager for life and at the same
time more certain of herself than most of the girls on the Ridge.
Beneath her coquetry, the new and intoxicating realization of her
allure, was the craving for the certain something that distinguished the
Westmores from the Pennimans; a "niceness" Ann called it, for want of a
clearer understanding. She had been immediately at home with Garvin, and
with his brother also. They were not beyond her intelligence. Something
in her had arisen and met, on a footing of equality, the thing in them
that delighted her.
In her ignorance of much that would have been clearer to a more
sophisticated girl, Ann was not nearly so self-conscious or so afraid of
this more plainly revealed attitude of the lover, and of the sanction
she would be giving to secrecy, as she was doubtful of her duty to the
Penniman cause. It was that troubled her most. She felt no great sense
of duty to her grandfather, and Sue's blind clinging to the family
quarrel seemed senseless. But there was her father? Ann wanted his love
more than she wanted anything else in the world; the tenderness that
would cherish her, against which she could nestle and that would caress
her in return. She longed for it, and would joyfully give implicit
obedience in return.
Ann thought the matter out as she sat there. When she put the note in
the bosom of her dress and climbed soberly down from her perch, she had
decided: if her father loved her--and she would know instantly if there
was about him the something that had always held her apart from her
grandfather and even from her Aunt Sue--she would not meet Garvin
Westmore. She would tell her father every circumstance, and if he willed
that it must be so, his quarrel would be hers.
But if he failed her? Ann's full lips set and she put her hand over the
note in her bosom.
V
IN COLONIAL FASHION
The Westmores were giving a dinner after the hunt, as had been customary
in the days when Westmore was noted for lavish hospitality. It was by no
means a Hunt Club dinner, however, for, according to Westmore standards,
the Hunt Club had become a lax institution. In order to exist it had
taken in members, excellent people, of course, who, because of their
money or because of prominence acquired during the last few years, had
partially compelled their way into Ridge society. The men affiliated
fairly well, their clan spirit rarely stood in the way of sociability,
perhaps because many of them had been forced into the city, into
business relations with the newcomers.
But the feminine aristocracy of the Ridge still clung to traditional
usage. Changed conditions had partly demolished traditional barriers;
they were forced to countenance, in a formal way, women who were not of
"the family connection," but as every member of the old Fox-Ridge
aristocracy was related to every other member, Fox-Ridge society was
quite sufficient unto itself.
And the newcomers on the Ridge bore their partial exclusion from the
intimate circle with equanimity. As a general thing they possessed more
money than the old Ridge families and had numerous friends in the city
whom they entertained at their Ridge homes. They were the gayest element
on the Ridge, nearly all of them merely summer residents; in the winter
appearing only at the Hunt Club meets.
Nickolas Baird, who had been "put up" at the Hunt Club by a city member,
and who, for reasons of his own, meant to remain where he was for some
time, was decidedly gratified by his invitation to the Westmore dinner.
He had formed a casual friendship with Garvin Westmore which had been
furthered by his purchase of a Westmore horse. Then he had met Judith
Westmore, and from that moment had been welcome at Westmore.
"It will be just a family gathering," Judith had explained to him the
week before, as she stood on the top step of the entrance to Westmore,
whipping her riding-skirt lightly with her gold-handled crop. "You, of
course, will find it endlessly dull, Mr. Baird--still we want you."
Baird had assured her that no gathering of which she was a part would be
dull; that he was beyond measure pleased.
"You are to bring your dress clothes strapped to your saddle, in true
colonial fashion, and spend the night here," Judith had continued. "Be
sure to bring your dancing shoes," and, with a lithe turn and a smiling
nod, had vanished into Westmore.
Baird had cantered off down the two miles of impossible road that led
across Westmore to the Post-Road, smiling to himself, or, rather, at
himself. How old was Judith Westmore, anyway? Certainly in the thirties.
"Bo'n sho'tly after de war," the old negro who curried his horse at the
Hunt Club had told him, for Baird had his own methods of making
discoveries. She looked possibly--twenty-eight; slim, with the bust of a
young Venus and the hips of a Diana. She certainly carried her head like
a goddess. Baird had never seen a more graceful creature on horseback.
And she walked as she rode, gracefully, spiritedly. Hers were the
Westmore features at their best: a face not too long to be beautiful;
arched brows, straight nose, a very perfectly molded chin, eyes a dark
hazel and thickly lashed, a dainty head bound about by ink-black hair.
Time had barely touched her. She was vivacious, yes ... but a little
cold?
Baird was not certain. He thought, with slightly heightened color, of
that quick turn at the door that had drawn her riding-skirt taut over
the curves of hip and leg; and of her easily dilated eyes. Hers was not
a warm mouth, too perfectly chiseled for that, but her hand was a live
warm thing. Why in heaven's name hadn't she married?
Baird was twenty-six. He had reached the age when youth's first missteps
lay in retrospect; the turning point, when analysis enters into the
pursuit of the feminine. That he would endeavor to capture masterfully
and in headlong fashion was legibly scrolled upon him. Whether
faithfulness was any part of his composition was not so easy to
determine. Certainly there was far more admiration than desire in his
thoughts of Judith Westmore. What imagination he possessed had been
busied with her for the last three weeks. She was wonderful! A belle
that would have swayed three states--in colonial days. She had told him
that the gold handle of her riding-whip had been presented to her
grandmother by Henry Clay, and that the comb which sometimes topped her
black coronet had frequently courtesied to General Washington. She had
simply not had her grandmother's opportunities.
It amused Baird that his hard sense had been captured by the glamour of
it. Backgrounded by Chicago or Wyoming the thing would have been
ridiculous. But where people rode to the hounds and talked easily of
governors and generals, their great-grandfathers, it was quite a natural
thing.
"'In true colonial fashion,'" Baird quoted, on the afternoon of the
hunt, as he prepared to strap his Gladstone bag to the back of his
saddle. "The damned thing'll bounce about like hell and I'll have a
runaway if I'm not careful. Wonder how Mistress Judith's ancestors
managed it? Saddle-bags, of course.... Hey, Sam?" he called to the old
negro who was leading two of the returned hunters up to the stable,
"haven't got any colonial saddle-bags about the place, have you?"
"Yes, suh, suttenly, suh," Sam assented promptly. He came up with face
beaming. Baird's joking, accompanied as it was by shining half-dollars,
delighted every negro on the place.
"Let's have them, then."
"Yes, suh--dey sho' is about de place, suh--tho' I don't 'zactly knows
where."
Baird laughed. "Of course.... Take in those horses and bring me a piece
of rope--I don't trust these straps."
Sam came back with a hitching-strap and between them they did their best
to make the bag fast.
"Where does that road between the cedars come out?" Baird asked when he
had mounted. "Can't I get to Westmore if I go that way?"
Sam looked dubious. "Yes, suh--hit comes out to de County Road, an' from
there am de road thro' de woods to Westmo'. Hit's the shortest way, but
hit goes thro' de Penniman place."
"I thought it did--I'll go that way."
"But ole Mr. Penniman, he done built a gate by his house, suh, an' put
on a padlock an' set up a sign. He don't 'low Hunt Club folks ridin'
thro'."
"But he wouldn't mind my going through, would he?"
Sam looked grave. "I dunno, suh. He done had Mr. Garvin 'rested 'cos he
rode thro'. He had him up to co't--yes, suh."
"Fined him, did he?" Baird asked with interest.
"Yes, _suh_! He done fin' him, an' when Mr. Garvin paid, Mr. Penniman,
he refuse' to take de money. He give hit back to de co't, an' tol' 'em
to give hit to the first orphan they seen, dat he don' want no Westmo'
money."
"He did!"
"Yes, suh.... I reckon tho' 'twas mostly 'cos of Mr. Garvin bein' a
Westmo'," Sam added cautiously.
"Well, I'm not a Westmore--I'll chance it," Baird said decidedly.
VI
BAIRD RECONNOITERS
When he had turned in between the cedars, Baird was glad he had come.
They were set close and now, in their middle-age, stood with branches
interlocked, forming a canopy dense enough to shut out the sun. The
soughing gloom through which Baird rode was mournful on a March day, but
he had some conception of what it must be like in summer, cool and
sweet-scented and perpetually whispering. The branches drooped so low in
places that they shut out the country, nooks into which one could crawl
and, with a tree-trunk and big roots forming a couch, dream away an
entire day. And, protected from the dew, sleep through the night as
well.... What a trysting place for lovers, thought Baird.
The gigantic hedge ended abruptly at the foot of what had evidently once
been a lawn, but overgrown now and too much shaded by locust trees. The
Penniman house showed through the trees, a steep-pitched roof broken by
dormer windows. Clumps of lilacs topped the bank which partially hid the
road from the house, and, as he came up under their shelter, Baird eyed
his surroundings keenly. But there appeared to be no one about.
The road passed within a few yards of the front porch, yet he saw no
one. He could see, a short distance ahead, just beyond where the road
forked, leading off to the barn, the gate and sign of which Sam had
spoken.
Baird had planned this intrusion upon the Pennimans' privacy; he had no
intention of going on, at least until he had searched for the person he
wanted to see. He went on to the gate, then dismounted, having decided
to attempt the barn first. The wide door, the entrance to the
wagon-shed, stood open, and Baird looked in. Beyond was another door
through which Baird glimpsed a pile of hay. He stood listening for a
moment, then tiptoed across to it, for there were sounds here, a voice
humming lightly.
It was the hay-loft he had come upon, a wide space half filled with hay;
the remainder of the floor swept clean, a sweet-scented, airy space
warmed by a broad band of sunlight. Not ten feet from him, beside a
basket of eggs, sat a huge collie, forepaws planted, tail impatiently
beating the floor, intent on what was passing. Baird looked on also.
It was Ann playing in the sun. She was without her cape and hood now; a
slender thing in warm brown, some indeterminate garment without a belt,
a sheathe-like apron, possibly. She appeared to be playing with the band
of sunlight, moving in and out of it, in time to the minor, negroesque
thing she was singing:
"Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',
A-hung--a-hung.
Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',
Sword an' pistol by his side,
A-hung--a-hung."
The excited collie barked and whined, but Ann went on, absorbed in the
joy of motion, a bit of the cake-walk with its suggestion of abandon
carrying her the length of the sunlight band; a waltz step backward and
forward, from sunshine into shadow; a gliding turn and sweeping courtesy
that might have been stolen from the minuet:
"He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,
A-hung--a-hung.
He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,
'I say, Missy Mouse, is you within?'
A-hung--a-hung.
'Yes, here I sits, an' here I spin,
Lift the latch an' do come in.'
A-hung--a-hung."
Her voice leaped suddenly into a joyful note:
"Suh! He took Miss Mousey on his knee,
'Say, Missy Mouse, will you marry me?'
A-hung--_a-hung_!"
She had swept into a pirouette that spun her like a top, stopped
abruptly at the hay, and clapped her hands teasingly at the quivering
collie: "A-hung, suh--_a-hung_!"
The dog was on her with a bound. The two came down on the hay and rolled
over and over, the collie snarling in mock ferocity, Ann rippling with
laughter, an ebullition of sheer animal spirits, a child at play, the
gaiety Sue deplored.
But Ann was soon spent. She sat up then, flushed, panting and
disheveled, the dog held at arm's length. She looked at the animal, for
a full moment, into the creature's affectionate eyes, and her laughter
died suddenly. She put her arms about the dog's neck and buried her
face. "Oh, Prince!" she said, with a sob in her voice, "I reckon you an'
Ben are the only ones that love me."
Baird had watched Ann dance with the delight one feels in a stolen
pleasure--she was so utterly pretty and graceful, and so unconscious.
When she rolled about in sheer abandonment on the hay he almost laughed
out, in spite of the warmth that rose to his face. But, at the sob in
her voice, he felt ashamed, like one caught eavesdropping. Baird was not
overburdened with fine feelings, in some respects he was coarse-fibered,
but there was too much genuine sorrow and longing in the girl's voice.
It made him uncomfortable; he had no right to be there. He drew back
into the wagon-shed, uncertain just how to present himself.
Ann solved the difficulty. She came out carrying the basket of eggs and
with the collie at her heels. At sight of Baird, the dog barked
furiously, and Ann stopped dead; the look she gave Baird was scarcely
more friendly than the dog's bark; she was so evidently startled.
"I'm afraid I'm trespassing," Baird said promptly. "I thought I might
come through this way to Westmore, but the gate is locked. I'm sorry I
frightened you." He made his apology with the best air possible to him,
cap in hand.
Ann quieted the collie, and when she looked at Baird again a smile had
dawned in her eyes. "You're a stranger--you couldn't be expected to know
about the gate," she said in her soft drawl. "I'll let you through."
"Thank you," Baird said, "but I hate to give you trouble."
Ann said nothing, yet Baird observed that she was not embarrassed. She
put down the basket of eggs and led the way, her head carried quite as
spiritedly as Judith Westmore bore hers. Not a vestige of the playful
child remained; she was collected, polite. And she was lovely. Judith
could never have been as pretty--she had never had this girl's ripe lips
and warm throat, or her trick of lowered lashes. Baird saw now why her
eyes appeared so dark; her lashes were black and the eyelids
blue-tinged, giving her eyes both brilliancy and languor. The eyes
themselves were a gray-hazel, and, except when surprised or smiling,
their expression was wistful, almost melancholy. A facile face, capable
of swift changes, and captivating because of it. Baird knew now why he
had thought her something more than merely pretty.
He made his observations as he walked on beside her. "It must be a
nuisance--having people come through in this way," he remarked, in order
to be saying something.
"I don't mind, but grandpa does," Ann answered. "Perhaps when my father
comes he will let the gate stay open."
"Your father doesn't live here then?"
"He hasn't been here for a long time--he's coming home to-morrow." There
was anticipation in her voice.
"I was thinking this morning that if I owned land about here I'd kick at
having my crops ridden over as we were doing."
"It's always been done, you see. Around here the best reason for doin'
things is because they've always been done." Her tone was faintly
sarcastic; she glanced at him, a swiftly intelligent look.
"She's bright," was Baird's mental comment. Aloud he said, "And in my
part of the world the best reason for not doing things is because
they've been done before--every one's looking for a newer and better
way."
"Your part of the world?" It was the first sign of personal interest she
had shown.
Baird was not supersensitive, but he had felt polite antagonism in her
manner. He attempted to capture interest. "I came here from Chicago.
Before that I was in Wyoming for a time. I've ranched, and done a lot of
other things. I spent two years in South America--got rid of fifty
thousand dollars down there and nothing but a year of fever to show for
it. I could tell you a few tales that would make your hair rise."
He had won her wide look. "Were you on the Amazon? Are there flowers
there that catch insects and snakes that make hoops of themselves an'
chase animals?"
"Yes, I've been on the Amazon--worse luck. I don't know about the
hoop-snakes, but I've seen plenty of insects that are flowers and
flowers that are insects--everything in nature preys on something
else.... How do you come to know about the Amazon?"
"I read a story about it."
"Do you like to read?"
"I like it better than anything else," she said brightly.
They had come to the gate, and she looked at the bag strapped to his
saddle, then laughingly at Baird. "Looks funny, doesn't it?" he
remarked. "I'm taking my dress clothes over to Westmore--they're having
a dinner-dance to-night."
Ann's smile vanished. "Oh--" she said, her face grown wistful. Then with
a flash into gaiety she sprang lightly to a notch in the gate-post,
swung herself up by the foothold, and took a key from the niche in
which it was hidden.
"Here!" Baird exclaimed. "Why didn't you let me do that?... Let me help
you!"
Ann looked at him, innate coquetry in her eyes. "If you'll stand aside,
suh, I can step down."
Baird answered the look in the fashion natural to him. He took her by
the waist, held her up long enough to prove the strength of his arms,
then set her down; his lips pressed her cheek and his breath warmed her
neck as he did so. "Arms like mine are made for reaching--and for
holding," he said.
The color swept into Ann's face, and her eyes widened into brilliancy.
For an instant Baird did not know what to think. Then her lashes dropped
and she held the key out to him. "You know where to find it now," she
said softly.
"I'll come again--I'm staying at the Hunt Club," he answered swiftly. He
took her hand as well as the key; he had flushed as deeply as she.
The tacit invitation had struck Baird as involuntary, and so did her
answer, a sudden inclination and as quick a shrinking; the color fled
from her face. "_No!_" she said decidedly, and pulling her hand away
sped to the house.
Baird started in pursuit, the first step, before he remembered where he
was. Then he stopped. "Whew!" he said, under his breath.
He went back to the gate and unlocked it, led his horse through, and
returned the key to its hiding-place. Before he mounted, he gave the
house a long scrutiny. "We'll see!" he said, his eyes grayed to
coldness, his cheeks still hot.
He rode for half a mile before he regained his usual aspect. Then he
laughed shortly: "That was funny--she regularly took hold on me."
VII
THE WESTMORES OF WESTMORE
Baird thought, when he sat down to dinner that night, that he had never
looked on a better favored company or on a more interesting setting.
They were twenty-five in all, with the great mahogany table drawn
crosswise of the room to allow passage between silver-laden sideboards
and china-cupboards whose aged mahogany was brightened by arrays of dull
blue and gold-banded Worcester and the pinky red of platters and plates
of Indian Tree pattern which Judith told him had been presented, in
1735, by Lord Westmore to his colonial cousin, the first Westmore of
Westmore. From where Baird sat he could look across the hall into the
drawing-room, a glimpse of dark paneling, wide fireplace, and above it
the two portraits, Edward Stratton Westmore, first Westmore of Westmore,
and his cousin, Lord Edward Stratton Westmore, of Stratton House,
Hampshire, England.
Westmore was typically a southern colonial mansion, a spacious central
building with two wings and with a collection of outbuildings for the
housing of servants. The ballroom and the plantation office were in one
wing, the kitchens in the other. Westmore's massive brick walls had
withstood time, as had the heavy oak paneling of dining-room, hall and
drawing-room. There were no modern touches to disturb the Georgian
atmosphere; this was 1905, yet Westmore was still the Westmore of 1735.
And with the picturesque additions of frilled wrist-bands, perukes,
looped skirts and powdered coiffures, Baird thought this might well have
been a clan gathering of a hundred years ago. In the hour before dinner,
Baird had met them all, Westmores, Copeleys, Dickensons and Morrisons.
The Dickensons were from the city, the others were all of the
county--had always been of the county, and all were interrelated.