gray ruins and the standing kitchen, past the flower garden and the big
woodpile, to the orchard and the small frame house of Harris the overseer.
Big Abel kept at his heels, panting, grunting, calling upon his master to
halt and upon Congo to hurry after.
“You'll skeer dem ter deaf--you'll skeer Ole Miss ter deaf,” cried Congo
from the rear, and drawing a trembling breath, Dan slackened his pace and
went on at a walk. At last, when he reached the small frame house and put
his foot upon the step, he hesitated so long that Congo slipped ahead of
him and softly opened the door. Then his young master followed and stood
looking with blurred eyes into the room.
Before a light blaze which burned on the hearth, the Major was sitting in
an arm chair of oak splits, his eyes on the blossoming apple trees outside,
and above his head, the radiant image of Aunt Emmeline, painted as Venus in
a gown of amber brocade. All else was plain and clean--the well-swept
floor, the burnished andirons, the cupboard filled with rows of blue and
white china--but that one glowing figure lent a festive air to the poorly
furnished room, and enriched with a certain pomp the tired old man, dozing,
with bowed white head, in the rude arm chair. It was the one thing saved
from the ashes--the one vestige of a former greatness that still remained.
As Dan stood there, a clock on the mantel struck the hour, and the Major
turned slowly toward him.
“Bring the lamps, Cupid,” he said, though the daylight was still shining.
“I don't like the long shadows--bring the lamps.”
Choking back a sob, Dan crossed the floor and knelt down by the chair.
“We have come back, grandpa,” he said. “We beg your pardon, and we have
come back--Big Abel and I.”
For a moment the Major stared at him in silence; then he reached out and
felt him with shaking hands as if he mistrusted the vision of his eyes.
“So you're back, Champe, my boy,” he muttered. “My eyes are bad--I thought
at first that it was Dan--that it was Dan.”
“It is I, grandpa,” said Dan, slowly. “It is I--and Big Abel, too. We are
sorry for it all--for everything, and we have come back poorer than we went
away.”
A light broke over the old man's face, and he stretched out his arms with a
great cry that filled the room as his head fell forward on his grandson's
breast. Then, when Mrs. Lightfoot appeared in the doorway, he controlled
himself with a gasp and struggled to his feet.
“Welcome home, my son,” he said ceremoniously, as he put out his quivering
hands, “and welcome home, Big Abel.”
The old lady went into Dan's arms as he turned, and looking over her head,
he saw Betty coming toward him with a lamp shining in her hand.
“My child, here is one of our soldiers,” cried the Major, in joyful tones,
and as the girl placed the lamp upon the table, she turned and met Dan's
eyes.
“It is the second time I've come home like this, Betty,” he said, “only I'm
a worse beggar now than I was at first.”
Betty shook his hand warmly and smiled into his serious face.
“I dare say you're hungrier,” she responded cheerfully, “but we'll soon
mend that, Mrs. Lightfoot and I. We are of one mind with Uncle Bill, who,
when Mr. Blake asked him the other day what we ought to do for our returned
soldiers, replied as quick as that, 'Feed 'em, sir.'”
The Major laughed with misty eyes.
“You can't get Betty to look on the dark side, my boy,” he declared, though
Dan, watching the girl, saw that her face in repose had grown very sad.
Only the old beaming smile brought the brightness now.
“Well, I hope she will turn up the cheerful part of this outlook,” he said,
surrendering himself to the noisy welcome of Cupid and Aunt Rhody.
“We may trust her--we may trust her,” replied the old man as he settled
himself back into his chair. “If there isn't any sunshine, Betty will make
it for us herself.”
Dan met the girl's glance for an instant, and then looked at the old
negroes hanging upon his hands.
“Yes, the prodigal is back,” he admitted, laughing, “and I hope the fatted
calf is on the crane.”
“Dar's a roas' pig fur ter-morrow, sho's you bo'n,” returned Aunt Rhody.
“En I'se gwine to stuff 'im full.” Then she hurried away to her fire, and
Dan threw himself down upon the rug at the Major's feet.
“Yes, we may trust Betty for the sunshine,” repeated the Major, as if
striving to recall his wandering thoughts. “She's my overseer now, you
know, and she actually looks after both places in less time than poor
Harris took to worry along with one. Why, there's not a better farmer in
the county.”
“Oh, Major, don't,” begged the girl, laughing and blushing beneath Dan's
eyes. “You mustn't believe him, Dan, he wears rose-coloured glasses when he
looks at me.”
“Well, my sight is dim enough for everything else, my dear,” confessed the
old man sadly. “That's why I have the lamps lighted before the sun goes
down--eh, Molly?”
Mrs. Lightfoot unwrapped her knitting and the ivory kneedles clicked in the
firelight.
“I like to keep the shadows away myself,” she responded. “The twilight used
to be my favourite hour, but I dread it now, and so does Mr. Lightfoot.”
“Well, the war's given us that in common,” chuckled the Major, stretching
out his feet. “If I remember rightly you once complained that our tastes
were never alike, Molly.” Then he glanced round with hospitable eyes. “Draw
up, my boy, draw up to the fire and tell your story,” he added invitingly.
“By the time Champe comes home we'll have rich treats in store for the
summer evenings.”
Betty was looking at him as he bent over the thin flames, and Dan saw her
warm gaze cloud suddenly with tears. He put out his hand and touched hers
as it lay on the Major's chair, and when she turned to him she was smiling
brightly.
“Here's Cupid with our supper,” she said, going to the table, “and dear
Aunt Rhody has actually gotten out her brandied peaches that she kept
behind her 'jists.' If you ever doubted your welcome, Dan, this must banish
it forever.” Then as they gathered about the fruits of Aunt Rhody's
labours, she talked on rapidly in her cheerful voice. “The silver has just
been drawn up from the bottom of the well,” she laughed, “so you mustn't
wonder if it looks a little tarnished. There wasn't a piece missing, which
is something to be thankful for already, and the port--how many bottles of
port did you dig up from the asparagus bed, Uncle Cupid?”
“I'se done hoed up 'mos' a dozen,” answered Cupid, as he plied Dan with
waffles, “en dey ain' all un um up yit.”
“Well, well, we'll have a bottle after supper,” remarked the Major,
heartily.
“If there's anything that's been improved by this war it should be that
port, I reckon,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, her muslin cap nodding over the high
old urns.
“And Dan's appetite,” finished Betty, merrily.
When they rose from the table, the girl tied on her bonnet of plaited straw
and kissed Mrs. Lightfoot and the Major.
“It is almost mamma's supper time,” she said, “and I must hurry back. Why,
I've been away from her at least two hours.” Then she looked at Dan and
shook her head. “Don't come,” she added, “it is too far for you, and Congo
will see me safely home.”
“Well, I'm sorry for Congo, but his day is over,” Dan returned, as he took
up his hat and followed her out into the orchard. With a last wave to the
Major, who watched them from the window, they passed under the blossoming
fruit trees and went slowly down the little path, while Betty talked
pleasantly of trivial things, cheerful, friendly, and composed. When she
had exhausted the spring ploughing, the crops still to be planted and the
bright May weather, Dan stopped beside the ashes of Chericoke, and looked
at her with sombre eyes.
“Betty, we must have it out,” he said abruptly. “I have thought over it
until I'm almost mad, and I see but one sensible thing for you to do--you
must give me up--my dearest.”
A smile flickered about Betty's mouth. “It has taken you a long time to
come to that conclusion,” she responded.
“I hoped until the end--even after I knew that hope was folly and that I
was a fool to cling to it. I always meant to come back to you when I got
the chance, but not like this--not like this.”
At the pain in his eyes the girl caught her breath with a sob that shook
her from head to foot. Pity moved her with a passion stronger than mere
love, and she put out her protecting arms with a gesture that would have
saved him from the world--or from himself.
“No, like this, Dan,” she answered, with her lips upon his coat.
He kissed her once and drew back.
“I never meant to come home this way, Betty,” he said, in a voice that
trembled from its new humility.
“My dear, my dear, I have grown to think that any way is a good way,” she
murmured, her eyes on the blackened pile that had once been Chericoke.
“It is not right,” he went on; “it is not fair. You cannot marry me--you
must not.”
Again the humour quivered on the girl's lips.
“I don't like to seem too urgent,” she returned, “but will you tell me
why?”
“Why?” he repeated bitterly. “There are a hundred why's if you want them,
and each one sufficient in itself. I am a beggar, a failure, a wreck, a
broken-down soldier from the ranks. Do you think if it were anything less
than pure madness on your part that I should stand here a moment and talk
like this?--but because I am in love with you, Betty, it doesn't follow
that I'm an utter ass.”
“That's flattering,” responded Betty, “but it doesn't explain just what I
want to know. Look me straight in the eyes--no evading now--and answer what
I ask. Do you mean that we are to be neighbours and nothing more? Do you
mean that we are to shake hands when we meet and drop them afterward? Do
you mean that we are to stand alone together as we are standing now--that
you are never to take me in your arms again? Do you mean this, my dear?”
“I mean--just that,” he answered between his teeth.
For a moment Betty looked at him with a laugh of disbelief. Then, biting
the smile upon her lips, she held out her hand with a friendly gesture.
“I am quite content that it should be so,” she said in a cordial voice. “We
shall be very good neighbours, I fancy, and if you have any trouble with
your crops, don't hesitate to ask for my advice. I've become an excellent
farmer, the Major says, you know.” She caught up her long black skirt and
walked on, but when he would have followed, she motioned him back with a
decisive little wave. “You really mustn't--I can't think of allowing it,”
she insisted. “It is putting my neighbours to unheard-of trouble to make
them see me home. Why, if I once begin the custom, I shall soon have old
Rainy-day Jones walking back with me when I go to buy his cows.” Still
smiling she passed under the battle-scarred elms and stepped over the
ruined gate into the road.
Leaning against a twisted tree in the old drive, Dan watched her until her
black dress fluttered beyond the crumbled wall. Then he gave a cry that
checked her hastening feet.
“Betty!” he called, and at his voice she turned.
“What is it, dear friend?” she asked, and, standing amid the scattered
stones, looked back at him with pleading eyes.
“Betty!” he cried again, stretching out his arms; and as she ran toward
him, he went down beside the ashes of Chericoke, and lay with his face half
hidden against a broken urn.
“I am coming,” called Betty, softly, running over the fallen gate and along
the drive. Then, as she reached him, she knelt down and drew him to her
bosom, soothing him as a mother soothes a tired child.
“It shall be as you wish--I shall be as you wish,” she promised as she held
him close.
But his strength had come back to him at her touch, and springing to his
feet, he caught her from the ground as he had done that day beside the
cabin in the woods, kissing her eyelids and her faithful hands.
“I can't do it, Betty, it's no use. There's still some fight left in me--I
am not utterly beaten so long as I have you on my side.”
With a smile she lifted her face and he caught the strong courage of her
look.
“We will begin again,” she said, “and this time, my dear, we will begin
together.”