IN THE GARDEN
In the forenoon of the next day Rand closed, for the second time that
morning, the door of the blue room behind him, descended the stairs,
and, passing through the quiet house, went out into the flower garden.
He was going away that afternoon. Breakfast had been taken in his own
room, but afterward, with some dubitation, he had gone downstairs. There
Colonel Churchill met him heartily enough, but presently business with
his overseer had taken the Colonel away. Rand found himself cornered by
Major Edward and drawn into a discussion of the impeachment of Judge
Chase. Rand could be moved to the blackest rage, but he had no surface
irritability of temper. To his antagonists his self-command was often
maddening. Major Churchill was as disputatious as Arthur Lee, and an
adept at a quarrel, but the talk of the impeachment went tamely on. The
Republican would not fight at Fontenoy, and at last the Major in a cold
rage went away to the library--first, however, watching the young man
well on his way up the stairs and toward the blue room. But Rand had not
stayed in the blue room. Restless and unhappy, the garden, viewed
through his window, invited him. He thought: "I'll walk in it once
again; I'll find the summer-house where I sat beside her," and he had
acted upon his impulse. No one was about. Within and without, the house
seemed lapped in quiet. He had been given to understand that the ladies
were busy with household matters, and he believed the Carys to have
ridden to Greenwood. That afternoon he would mount Selim, and with Joab
would go home to the house on the Three-Notched Road.
After the rain of the night before the garden was cool and sweet. The
drops yet lay on the tangle of old-fashioned flowers, on the box and
honeysuckle and the broad leaves of the trees where all the birds were
singing. The gravel paths were wet and shining. Rand walked slowly, here
and there, between the lines of box or under arching boughs, his mind
now trying to bring back the day when he had walked there as a boy, now
wondering with a wistful passion if he was to leave Fontenoy without
again seeing Jacqueline. He meant to leave without one word that the
world might not hear, but he thought it hard that he must go without a
touch of the hand, without a "From my heart I thank you for your
kindness. Good-bye, good-bye!" That would not be much; Fontenoy might
give him that.
He reached an edge of the garden where a thread-like stream trickled
under a bank of periwinkle, phlox, and ivy, and on through a little wood
of cedars. The air was cool beneath the trees, and Rand raised his
forehead to the blowing wind. The narrow pathway turned, and he came
upon Deb and Miranda seated upon the bare, red earth and playing with
flower dolls.
Deb had before her a parade of morning-glories, purple and white, pink
and blue, while Miranda sat in a ring of marigolds and red columbines.
Each was slowly swaying to and fro, murmuring to herself, and
manipulating with small, darting fingers her rainbow throng of ladies.
Rand, unseen, watched the manoeuvres for a while, then coughed to let
them know he was there, and presently sat down upon a root of cedar, and
gave Deb his opinion of the flower people. Children and he were always
at their ease together.
"Hollyhocks make the finest ladies," he announced gravely. "Little Miss
Randolph puts snapdragon caps upon them and gives them scarfs of ribbon
grass."
"Hollyhocks are not in bloom," said Deb. "I use snapdragon for caps,
too.--Now she has on a red and gold cap. This is a currant-leaf shawl."
"Do you name them?" asked Rand, poising a columbine upon the back of his
hand.
"Of course," answered Deb. "All people have names. That is Sapphira."
Miranda advanced a flourishing zinnia. "Dishyer Miss
Keren-Happuch--Marse Job's daughter."
Deb regarded with shining eyes a pale blue morning-glory with a little
cap of white. "This is Ruth--I love her! The dark one is Hagar--she was
dark, you know--and those two are Rachel and Leah."
"Ol' Miss Babylon!" said Miranda succinctly, and put forth a
many-petalled red lady.
"Babylon, Babylon,
Red an' sinnin' Babylon,
Wash her han's in Jordan flood,
Still she's sinnin' Babylon!"
"And, these three?" asked Rand.
"Faith, Hope, and Charity," answered Deb. "Faith is blue, Hope is pink,
and that white one is Charity."
"She has a purple edge to her gown."
"Yes," said Deb, "and I am going to give her a crown, 'for the greatest
of these is Charity!' That yellow lily is the Shulamite. Miranda and I
are going now to gather more ladies." She looked at Rand with large
child's eyes. "If you want somebody to talk to, my sister Jacqueline is
reading over there in the summer-house."
The blood rushed to Rand's face. His heart beat so loud and fast that it
stifled a voice within him. He did not even hear the voice. He rose at
once, turned, and took the path that Deb's brown finger indicated. Had
he been another man, had he been, perhaps, Ludwell Cary, he might not
have gone. But he was Lewis Rand, the product and effect of causes
inherited and self-planted, and his passion, rising suddenly, mastered
him with a giant's grip. The only voice that he heard was the giant's
urgent cry, and he went without protest.
The summer-house was a small, latticed place, overgrown with the Seven
Sisters rose, and set in a breast-high ring of box opening here and
there to the garden paths. A tulip tree towered above the gravel space
before it, and two steps led to a floor chequered with light and shade,
and to a rustic chair and table. Jacqueline was not within the
summer-house; she sat in the doorway, upon the step. She was not
reading. She sat bowed together, her head upon her folded arms, a figure
still and tragic as a sphinx or sibyl. Rand's eyes upon her roused her
from her brooding. She lifted her head, saw him, and her face, which had
been drawn and weary, became like the face of the young dawn.
As Rand crossed the space between them, she rose. He saw the colour and
the light, and he uttered only her name--"Jacqueline, Jacqueline!" A
moment, and they were in each other's arms.
It was their golden hour. Neither thought of right or wrong, of the
conditions of life beyond their ring of box, of wisdom or its contrary.
It was as though they had met in the great void of space, the marvel
called man and the wonder that is woman, each drawn to each over the
endless fields and through the immeasurable ages. Each saw the other
transfigured, and each wished for lover and companion the other shining
one.
They moved to the summer-house, and sat down upon the step. About them
was the Seven Sisters rose, and above towered the tulip tree with a
mockingbird singing in its branches. The place was filled with the odour
of the box. To the end of their lives the smell of box brought back that
hour in the Fontenoy garden. The green walls hid from view all without
their little round. They had not heard step or voice when suddenly,
having strolled that way by accident, there emerged from the winding
path into the space about the summer-house Colonel Churchill and Ludwell
Cary. There was a second's utter check, then, "Sir!" cried the Colonel,
in wrathful amazement.
The hands of the lovers fell apart. Rand rose, but Jacqueline sat still,
looking at her uncle with a paling cheek and a faint line between her
brows. The mockingbird sang on, but the garden appeared to darken and
grow cold. The place seemed filled with difficult breathing. Then,
before a word was spoken, Cary turned, made a slight gesture with his
hand, and went away, disappearing between the lines of box. The sound of
his footsteps died in the direction of the stream and the dark wood.
Colonel Churchill moistened his lips and spoke in a thick voice. "You
scoundrel! Was it for this? You are a scoundrel, sir!"
"I have asked Miss Churchill to be my wife," said Rand, with steadiness.
"She has consented. I love your niece, sir, with all my heart, most
truly, most dearly! I will ask you to believe that it was not in my mind
to speak to her to-day, or to speak at all without your knowledge. I
confess the impropriety of my course. But we met unawares. It is not to
be helped. In no way is she to blame."
Jacqueline rose, came to her uncle, and tried to take his hand. He
repulsed her. "Is this true--what this man says?"
"Yes, yes," said Jacqueline. "It is true. Oh, forgive him!"
The Colonel struck down her outstretched hands. "I do not believe you
are Henry's child! Your mother was a strange woman. You are not a
Churchill. My God! Henry's child talking of marrying this--this--this
_gentleman_. You are mad, or I am mad. Come away from him, Jacqueline!"
"I love him!" cried Jacqueline. "Oh, Uncle Dick, Uncle Dick!--"
"I loved your niece, sir, when I was a boy," said Rand; "and I love her
now that I am a man. I grant that I should not have spoken to her
to-day. I ask your pardon for what may seem to you insult and
thanklessness. But the thing itself--is it so impossible? Why is it
impossible that I should wed where I love with all my heart?" He broke a
piece of the box beside him and drew it through his hands, then threw it
away, and squarely faced the elder man. "I had my way to make in life.
Well, I am making it fast. I am making it faster, perhaps, than any
other man in the county, be he who he may! I am poor, but I am not so
poor as once I was, and I shall be richer yet. My want of wealth is
perhaps the least--why should I not say that I know it is the least
objection in your mind? My party? Well, I shall become a leader of my
party--and Republicans are white as well as Federalists. It is not
forgery or murder to detest Pitt and George the Third, or to believe in
France! Is it so poor a thing to become a leader of a party that has
gained an empire, that has put an end to the Algerine piracy, that has
reduced the debt, that has made easier every man's condition, and that
stands for freedom of thought and deed and advance of all knowledge?
Party! Now and then, even in Virginia, there is a marriage between the
parties! My family--or my lack of family? The fact that my father rolled
tobacco, and that now and then I broke a colt for you?" He smiled.
"Well, you must allow that I broke them thoroughly--and Goldenrod was a
very demon! Pshaw! This is America, and once we had an ideal! For the
rest, though I do not go to church, I believe in God, and though I have
been called an unscrupulous lawyer, I take no dirty money. Some say that
I am a demagogue--I think that they are wrong. I love your niece, sir,
and more than that--oh, much more than that!--she says that she loves
me. She says that she will share my life. If I make not that sharing
sweet to her, then indeed--But I will! I will give her wealth and name
and place, and a heart to keep. Again I say that the fault of this
meeting is all mine. I humbly beg your pardon, Colonel Churchill, and I
beg your consent to my marriage with your niece--"
[Illustration: YOU ARE A SCOUNDREL, SIR!]
The Colonel, who had heard so far in stormy silence, broke in with,
"Marry my niece, sir! I had rather see my niece dead and laid in her
grave! Consent! I'd as soon consent to her death or dishonour! Name and
place! you neither have them nor will have them!" He turned upon
Jacqueline. "I'll forgive you," he said, breathing heavily, "there in
the library, when you have written and signed a letter to Mr. Lewis Rand
explaining that both he and you were mistaken in your sentiments towards
him. I'll forgive you then, and I'll do my best to forget. But not else,
Jacqueline, not else on God's earth! That's sworn. As for you, sir, I
should think that your awakened sense of propriety might suggest--"
"I am going, sir," answered Rand. "I return to the house but to take my
papers from the blue room. Joab shall saddle my horse at once. You shall
not anger me, Colonel Churchill. I owe you too much. But your niece has
said that she will be my wife, and before God, she shall be! And that's
sworn, too, sir! I leave Fontenoy at once, as is just, but I shall
write to your niece. Part us you cannot--"
"Jacqueline," cried the Colonel, "the sight of you there beside that man
is death to my old heart. You used to care--you used to be a good child!
I command you to leave him; I command you to say good-bye to him now, at
once and forever! Tell him that you have been dreaming, but that now you
are awake. God knows that I think that I am dreaming! Come, come, my
little Jack!"
"Will you tell me that?" asked Rand. "Will you tell me that,
Jacqueline?"
"No!" cried Jacqueline; "I will tell you only the truth! I love
you--love you. Oh, my heart, my heart!" She turned from them both, sank
down upon the summer-house step, and lay with her forehead on her arm.
There was a moment's silence, then, "You see," said Rand, not without
gentleness, to the elder man.
Colonel Churchill leaned on his walking-stick, and his breath came
heavily. He wondered where Edward was--Edward could always find words
that would hurt. At last, "We part, Mr. Rand," he said, with dignity.
"In parting I have but to say that your conduct has been such as I might
have expected, and that I conceive it to be my duty to protect my
misguided niece from the consequences of her folly. I warn you neither
to write to her nor to attempt to see her. If she writes to you
otherwise than as I shall dictate; if she does not, when she has
bethought herself, break with you once and forever,--all's over between
us! She is no niece of mine. She is dead to me. I'll not speak to her,
nor willingly look upon her face again. I am a man of my word. I have
the honour, sir, to bid you a very good-day." He drew out and looked at
his ponderous watch. "I shall remain here with my niece for an hour.
Perhaps in that time she will awaken to her old truth, her old duty;
and perhaps you will require no more in which to gather your papers and
remove yourself from Fontenoy?"
"I shall not need the hour," answered Rand. "I will be gone presently.
God knows, sir, I had not thought to go this way." He turned from his
host and bent for a moment over Jacqueline. "Good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye for a little while! My heart is in your hands. I trust you for
constancy. Good-bye--good-bye!"
He was gone, moving rapidly toward the house. Colonel Churchill drew a
long sigh, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and looked miserably up
to the green boughs where the mockingbird was singing. He wished again
for Edward, and he wished that Henry had not died. He believed in
Heaven, and he knew that Henry was there, but then the thought came into
his mind that Henry was here, too, in the person of his child, prone on
the summer-house steps. Henry, also, had been a man of his word, had
known his own mind, and exercised his will. There, too, had been the
veil of sweetness! The Colonel sighed more heavily, wished again
impatiently for Edward, then marched to the summer-house, and, sitting
down, began to reason with Henry's daughter.
Rand passed through the Fontenoy garden, in his heart a pain that was
triumph, an exaltation that was pain. Mounting the porch steps, he found
himself in the presence of Major Edward playing Patience in the shade of
the climbing rose. The player started violently. "I thought, sir," he
said, wheeling in his chair, "I thought you yet in the blue room! How
the deuce!--I was on guard--" the Major caught himself. "I was waiting
to renew our very interesting discussion. Where have you been?"
"I have been in the garden," said Rand. He hesitated, standing by the
table. There was a debate in his mind. "Should I speak to him, too? What
is the use? He'll be no kinder to her!" He put out his hand uncertainly,
and touched one of the Major's cards. "Is it an interesting game?"
"I find it so," answered the other dryly. "Else I should not play it."
"Why do you like it? It is poor amusement to play against yourself."
"I like it, sir," snapped the Major, "because I am assured of playing
against a gentleman."
Rand let his hand fall from the table. "Major Churchill, I am leaving
Fontenoy immediately. Perhaps I ought to tell you what I have just told
your brother: I love Miss Churchill--"
The Major rose from his chair. "Have you spoken to her?"
"Yes, I have asked her to marry me."
"Indeed!" said the Major huskily. "May I ask what Miss Churchill
replied?"
"Miss Churchill loves me," answered Rand. "She will do what I wish."
The silence grew painful. The words, acid and intolerable, that Rand
expected, did not seem to come easily to the Major's dry lips. He looked
small, thin, and frozen, grey and drawn of face, as though the basilisk
had confronted him. When at last he spoke, it was in a curiously remote
voice, lucid and emotionless. "Well, why not? All beliefs die--die and
rot! A vain show--and this, too, was of the charnel!"
He turned upon Rand as if he would have struck him, then drew back, made
in the air an abrupt and threatening gesture, and with a sound like a
stifled cry passed the other and entered the house. Rand heard him go
down the hall, and the closing of the library door.
The young man's heart was hot and sore. He went up to the blue room,
where he found Joab packing his portmanteau. A few peremptory words sent
the man to the stables, while his master with rapid fingers collected
and laid together the papers with which the room was strewn. The task
finished, he threw himself for a moment into the great chair and looked
about him. He was capable of great attachment to place, and he had loved
this room. Now the mandarin smiled obliquely on him, and the moon-clock
ticked the passing moments, the impossible blue roses flowered on
thornless stems, and the picture of Washington looked calmly down from
the opposite wall. He put his hand over his eyes, and sat still, trying
to calm the storm within him. There were in his mind joy and gratitude,
hurt pride and bitter indignation, and a thousand whirling thoughts as
to ways and means, the overcoming of obstacles, and the building of a
palace fit to shelter his happiness. The clock struck, and he started
up. Not for much would he have overstayed his hour.
He left the room and passed through the silent house, mounted his horse,
and rode away. A crowd had witnessed his arrival there; only a few
wondering servants were gathered to see him depart. He gave them gold,
but though they thanked him, they thanked him with a difference. He felt
it, and that more keenly than he might have felt a greater thing. Could
he not even give largesse like one to the manner born, or was it only
that all the air was hostile? He rode away. From the saddle he could
have seen the distant summer-house, but he forced himself not to look.
The lawn fell away behind him, and the trees hid the house. The gleam of
a white pillar kept with him for a while, but the driveway bent, and
that too was hidden. With Joab behind him on the iron grey, he passed
through the lower gate, and took the way that led to Mrs. Jane Selden's
on the Three-Notched Road.