IX

Frances stood astounded at the sudden anger in his face as he turned on

his heel and strode away, leaving her in the cold, dusky room alone.

When she went across the hall and into "the chamber" he was gone by the

other way; Mrs. Randall and her father were deep in a discussion of his

affairs, farm and household. Frances was left to her own reflections;

they held a vague feeling of having stumbled somewhere and failed to

measure to a greatness. She was quiet for the rest of their visit,

beyond the custom of that cheerful young woman. As there was more time

for thought she became conscience-stricken; she felt she knew where she

had offended, she had derided the home of which young Montague was so

proud and that while a guest within it; she strove to make her peace,

but he gave her no chance, until they waited on the steps in the

moonlight for the trap.

Mrs. Randall was down on the walk, the professor was looking anxiously

to Starlight's harness; Frances had lingered purposely.

The road home was rough, ruts and steep hills darkened by thick woods.

Mr. Holloway was looking carefully to the fastenings of Starlight's

harness, unwilling to trust too much to the hands of the boy who had

brought him to the door. Mrs. Randall waited near him, Frances lingered

purposely on the broad high steps of the porch.

The moonlight flooded the world; its white light gleamed on the drive

about the circle where the tangled shrubbery cast weird shadowings; the

dusk under the trees on the further lawn lay heavy and black; far-off

loomed the oaks above the graves of those who had lived and died in the

old house on whose steps they stood. The air of the autumn night was

chill and still, save for the restless movements of Starlight. With the

shadowed, unreal face of the night a feeling of awe touched Frances. She

made a step nearer to the young man standing by her, his tall figure

towering above her, his fair face shadowed by his big soft hat.

"We have had a lovely visit," she said softly.

"I am glad."

"And it's such a beautiful old place--beautiful; you must trim up your

roses and--"

"I know nothing of flowers," coldly.

"But I do; I will show you when we come again."

There was no answer, and the young woman began to realize this was not a

case for cajolery, but for open candid speech.

"You must think me very, very--" she could not bring herself to say

"flippant" no matter what self-accusation said. "You know I was only

jesting, and we have thoroughly enjoyed our visit. I want to come again

if you wish us," plainly throwing herself on his mercy and bidding for

kind speech.

"If I wish you--" began the young man hurriedly.

"We will come and show you about the flowers in the spring," briskly.

"The spring!"

"Frances," called her father.

"You are not angry?" she questioned quickly and softly, as they went

down the steps.

"No!" was all he said, yet Frances was quite satisfied with his

friendliness as he put them in the trap and tucked the robes about them.

"Mind the old hill," he cautioned her father; "there's a new road

through the wood to the left now--"

"I remember."

"And a tree is cut down across the old way; but it's dark in there and

you might get into it."

"No danger!" assured the professor; "but Edward," as if in sudden

remembrance, "there's another danger in the road to town--the freshet."

"Freshet?"

"Has no one cautioned you? The streams flood the country after a heavy

rain. The one below the big hill is especially dangerous. Don't forget

it when the heavy rains set in, and don't be venturesome; there have

been some dreadful accidents there."

"I had not heard," said Edward carelessly.

"Then you had better heed," declared the professor sententiously, as he

stepped into the vehicle, "and when the water is out over the bridge,

stay on the side you happen to be caught on."

"I'll remember, thank you."

"All right! Good night! When are you coming in?"

"Not for a day or two," owned the young man reluctantly, as he stood,

his hand still on the wheel; "there's the ploughing for spring wheat."

"It's time that was done!"

"But I have had so much else."

"Yes, yes." Starlight was twisting restlessly across the drive from one

side to the other. "Good night, we've enjoyed it immensely."

"Good night!" called the women, and they left him there in the circling

drive, the great empty house looming behind him, a light in one

window--the window of his own room. He went up the wide, high steps

slowly. The evening had not been all he dreamed it might be, nor had it

been a failure; and they were coming again. She had said she wished it.

He threw himself into the chair the professor had lounged in and began

to live over again the hours of her visit, leaving out the bitter and

hugging to his memory the sweet. He recalled her supple figure, her gay

words as they wandered about the old place; he remembered their tour of

the house and reddened at the thought of his rudeness. It was only a

careless speech, she could not have known how it jarred upon other

deeper feelings. He recalled with a wave of tenderness, the subdued

young woman of the evening, and smiled at the memory; it was a mood he

had never seen before, and it won upon his heart; and dwelling on the

thought of it, he began once more to dream what the old house would be

were it full of life, to plan what could be done here and there,

without and within, for cheer and comfort and beautiful living.

It would be several days he had said, before he could come to town

again; it was ten. The Sabbath had been promised to a neighbor back in

the country. The ploughing took longer than he thought. A field which

had been allowed to run to waste must be burned over; and while the

weather held fair and windless, the undergrowth encroaching from the

woodland must be cut and burned. The fodder was not yet stacked, and all

the work was pressing upon him. Good hard work in the clear, pure air,

sound sleep, and contented thoughts made the days speed by.

When the Sabbath, his holiday, came again, he was abroad in the red

frosty dawn, hurrying from stable to breakfast and away. When he rode

into town he still had time to go up to the University before the

service. He left his horse at the stable and hastened up Main street.

The town was yet quiet. On the bridge above the railroad he paused a

second looking down at the station below. A train was pulling out. The

shriek of the locomotive echoed shrilly among the hills, the smoke hung

in billowy clouds close about the smoke-stack, and the tops of the

coaches gliding away were white and glistering with frost. Edward had a

comfortable feeling of home and cheer as, standing there, he looked down

and beyond on spires and housetops and chimney-tops smoke-wreathed; but

as he turned to hasten on, he saw, coming slowly along the platform, the

professor. Edward hurried back to the flight of steps sunk in the

hillside.

The very look of Mr. Holloway gave him a feeling of dismay. His coat

collar was turned high about his face, and the pallor of his clear white

skin, bitten into purple and red by the chill of the morning, showed

clearly framed against it and by his thick black hair streaked with

gray. His dark eyes looked solemnly thoughtful. He had an air altogether

desolate and distraught. Edward called to him. He started, looked up,

and brightened wonderfully.

"Ah! I am glad to see you." He had reached the head of the stairway.

"Frances," he added dolefully, "has gone away; I have just been to see

her off."

Fool! While he had been standing there happy with dreaming of seeing

her, she had been slipping away from him in the glistening coaches he

had watched so idly.

He had not a word to say.

"Don't know what possessed her. It was a sudden fancy. Last night she

took it into her head all at once. It isn't like Frances to do such

things! She was going this morning, she said, and she had us up by

daybreak; she was bent on making this early train."

"Where has she gone?" asked Edward, dully.

"Keswick! Her cousin, you know; she can telephone to the store near his

farm and have them send out for her. But," he repeated, "I can't think

what possessed her."

Had the professor been able to think, to know what sent his daughter

running away from him, his wrath had been hard for some one that day.

The day before had been the match game. Frances, though some vague,

half-delicious instinct of fear and distrust had made her keep from the

old friendly footing with Lawson, had grown wildly enthusiastic at each

day's practice. At three o'clock of that afternoon she had been driving

out towards the ground. An orange and blue rosette was pinned in the

breast of her smart brown jacket, and an orange and blue pennant lay at

her feet in the trap.

Carriage after carriage was winding up the road already in the

enclosure. The wind was soft, the sunshine of Indian Summer brooding

over the land; the blue haze of the mountains, intensified, hung about

their slopes and peaks. Here and there the late leaves still clung,

blackberry and sumach flaunted their scarlet in the fence corners, and

on the bit of rock-fence bordering a field the poison oak and ivy

flecked the dull hue with red and bronze. Far below, where the land

dipped to the valley, the country shimmered in the sunlight.

Inside the grounds, Frances pulled up close beside the ropes. The grand

stand had scarce an occupant, but all the enclosure outside the ropes

about the arena was filled with carriages, the young women calling from

one to the other. The University men were crowded close on the other

sides of the ropes, calling, hurrahing, yelling, or, more sociably

inclined, lounging around the barriers and talking to the young women in

the carriages.

One of them came up to Frances and imperturbably possessed himself of

the seat by her side. It was far more fun in his code, to be sitting by

a pretty young woman, than to be crowded with the fellows over there.

They were envying him he knew, and he leaned back in enjoyment of his

unlooked-for position.

Frances was giving him scant heed.

The reins were thrown across the dash-board, trusting Starlight's scant

sagacity. In the whip-stand was thrust the stick of her pennant. It

fluttered in the soft air, the first unfurled, and the boys beyond the

barriers cheered it lustily. It was not destined to stay there. Before

the game was half over, Frances, standing on her feet, was waving it

wildly above her head.

The home team was playing magnificently. The visiting eleven had beaten

them the year before: they were not doing so now. The field was wild.

Call after call, college yell, keen irony, a cheer for this play, a jeer

for that, urged on the University men. The visitors held stolidly to

their work. The boys beyond the barriers were doing everything to rattle

them, but the game went close. The home team made one score, the

visitors had nothing, the field went wild with cheering; the visitors

scored, there was silence. Once more the home team made a point; the

umpire snapped his watch, called time; there was a pandemonium of yells.

Frances, standing, the pennant in her hand, watched the team jump the

ropes, spent, worn, but happy with victory. Lawson was still in the

arena, easing the defeat of the visitors by skilful flattery of their

play, when she drove out. She watched the men, as she drove down the

road, running along the field path through the sere grasses, their arms

close to their sides, their sweaters up to their chins, the hair on

their foreheads heavy with sweat. Lawson overtook them just where the

path came out into the road. He was the last. His play had gone far to

winning the day. Frances with quick fingers unfastened the rosette on

her breast and flung it to him as she went spinning by.

Lawson crushed it in his hand and ran on; his bath, his clothes, they

cost him short time. He slipped from his room, down the quadrangle

before the crowd was well back.

As it chanced, Frances, when he rang the bell of the professor's house,

was half-way up the stair. An open door and drawn portière showed an

empty room beyond, the firelight shining in the library darkened by the

coming twilight. The hall was dusky. Frances' supple figure leaned over

the banister.

"Bravo!" she called gayly down to him.

Susan banged the door as she went through. She was not yet won to

"fur-awayers."

"It was splendid, splendid!" cried Frances, coming slowly down, her hand

slipping along the banister.

He stood at the foot, silent, looking up at her, his hair damp and

tossed into heavy locks on his forehead, his face ruddy with work and

haste--strong, alert, nerved to forgetfulness of everything save one

feeling. His eyes, masterful, drew her to him, slowly, steadfastly, step

by step; on the last stair she paused, her hand trembling about the

carving on the newel post, she could not look in his eyes, she saw

instead her rosette in his button-hole.

For him, the cap he held in his hand fluttered to his feet; he held out

both hands.

"Frances!" he whispered.

His eyes met hers. Her breast rose in a long breath. The dusky hall, his

face shining there, the world empty save for themselves; it was the

setting of fate. In one whirling thought the pages of all the old

romances she had dreamed over held and impelled her, she was one of

them. She was throbbing, sentient with the spirit they rhymed. It was

this that beat to suffocation in heart and pulse, and held her helpless.

She leaned heavily against the banister. And just below, his face on a

level with hers, his eyes, with neither laughter nor triumph, but

passionate pleading, searching her face, he stood. He put his arms about

her gently, closed them around her passionately, and kissed her,--a joy

he had not dreamed he or any man could feel, surging through him; and

then she had wrenched herself from him and sped upward.

X

Frances sped upward to her room. Susan had lighted a fire in the grate.

She flung herself into the chair before it and covered her face with her

hands.

It was unbelievable! Without the excuse of one word of love-making she

had allowed what even the Beauty would have fenced gayly against and

held off, for a time, at least. All her training, the traditions of her

childhood and maidenhood, beat against her fiercely. She slid from the

chair to the rug, pressed her face into it, her arms close flung about

her head, shutting out the accusations the dusky room was pulsing with;

but she shut them the more closely in her heart and they rang there.

They were wordless, but she knew them, was conscious of them from head

to foot.

All her sweet dignity and gay ease--though she thought not of herself in

such manner, only in hot, resentful scorn--were set at naught, and she

had played to its full the part she had strenuously held herself from,

the love of an hour of a University man.

She was suffocated with shame, hot with anger. There was no memory of a

swift sudden joy, such as swept over Lawson that moment, standing in his

room alone; remembrance was burnt out by angry resentment at herself and

him. She hated him for the agony she felt. It was against such an hour

as this her first instincts had warned her and she had not heeded. She

would heed now. She would never see him again, were it possible; and,

that being impossible, she would find ways of putting days before the

evil moment.

When she heard her father in the hall she stumbled to her feet, she

bathed her hot face and straightened her stock and smoothed her rumpled

hair; but when she flashed the electric light into the bulb above her

mirror, she shrank back affrighted from the face pictured there. She

could never go down with such a tale written on it as she herself could

read. She began slowly walking up and down her long, high-ceilinged

room, pressing back her tormented thoughts behind the doors of resolve.

Had she been given to headaches or sudden small illnesses, how gladly

would she have pleaded them, but such would have been so abnormal as to

demand a physician. She smiled as she thought of her father's and

Susan's dismay and Dr. Randall's swift summons; and, thinking of others,

she won self-control.

She went down the stair, slowly at first, and then, near the foot, with

swift step and eyes averted from the spot there beneath the circle of

white light.

Her father looked up with dreamy eyes. He was absorbed in his books.

Frances drew a little sobbing breath of relief. She would not be called

upon to make any effort. She picked up a well-thumbed and well-loved

copy of Burroughs and slipped into her chair. The book lay open on her

knees; she knew her father was heedless of the unturned leaves.

But at the supper table, a cup clattered against a saucer as she handed

them, Susan saw; the food on her plate was untouched, jealous black eyes

from the half-opened pantry door watched--she was white, her gray eyes

were dark and troubled--jealous eyes of an old bent darkey who would

have shut every trouble from her, heeded, and keenly enough contrasted

them with the brilliant laughing face she had looked into when she

opened the door in the dusk of the afternoon. There had been one visitor

since then; she knew at whose door to lay the blame.

When Frances came into the kitchen an hour later with a great pretence

of gayety the old woman read her through and through.

"Susan, just think," she cried, "I'm going away on an early train

to-morrow!"

"'Fore Gawd!" said Susan to herself, "it's wuss than I thought."

"You'll give me an early breakfast?" coaxingly.

"Think I'm gwine let yuh go widout anything ter eat," snapped Susan,

cross in her anxiety. "Whar yuh gwine?"

"Down to Cousin Tom's; he says he wants me to come; he wrote to father

to-day." Frances was making powerful use of a casual invitation at the

end of a business note. "Father has just told me. I'm going to-morrow.

It's the very time, the weather is lovely. We'll gather walnuts and--and

persimmons."

The constrained manner had no effect in fooling Susan. "Plenty walnuts

up de road," she grumbled, "and as for 'simmons, '_simmons_! I don't see

nuthin' else in de fence corners anywhars, myself."

"Oh, Susan, it isn't that," half tearfully. "I want to go."

"Em--hm! So I thought, wants to go!" Susan opened the stove door and

flung in a piece of wood--she could never be persuaded to cook with

coal--and banged the door wrathfully. "What yo' pa gwine do widout you?

How's I gwine get erlong?"

"You will get along all right. You know a lot more about housekeeping

than I do. What I know you taught me."

This was one of Susan's prides--her own skill and her ready pupil's.

"How's dat young man foreber trapsin' aroun' hyar gwine git erlong?"

"Who?" asked the girl faintly.

"Who? Who dat I open de do' for dis ebenin', I wants ter know?"

Frances drooped. A tide of red swept her face from chin to forehead.

"Dat's it, dog-gone him!" said Susan, in her jealous old heart.

The young girl straightened herself proudly and looked her tormentor

straight in the eye.

"He's never been 'trapsing,' as you call it," she said with cold

haughtiness, "and there'll be neither getting along with or without him

as far as I am concerned." She turned and walked out of the room, head

high, shoulders straight; and she banged the door a trifle behind her.

"Hi--yi!" chuckled Susan, delighted, "dat's de stuff! Aint gwine git

erlong wid or widout him! Aint no dy-away-ed-ness 'bout dat!"

She showed her favor by the hot delicious breakfast she had ready early

next morning, and she went cheerily about coaxing Frances to eat and

taking no notice of her pale languor except to say, "it was suttenly

hard to start abroad befo' sun-up dese mornin's," and altogether

bolstering and buoying up Frances.

"Don't stay too long, honey, don't stay too long; I's gwine take good

care o' Marse Robert, but don't stay too long," she urged at last, as

Frances stood on the low step leading down to the corridor, looking

furtively up and down. It was deserted. Susan's one swift glance had

told her that, and the quadrangle looked cold and bare: frost glistened

on the grass and on the naked branches of the maples, the vine rustled

its dry tendrils about the pillar.

"Hurry erlong, chile, or yuh'll miss de train," warned Susan, watching

them hastening across the campus before she went back to her work.

The professor, with discomfiture besetting him, had hurried on with

Frances. It was altogether too cold and uncomfortable for talk. They

caught a car, just made the train; he had scarce had time to think when

he came slowly up the stair in the hillside to meet young Montague at

the top.

"What are you going to do?" Edward asked after a second's silence.

"I suppose we'll get along somehow. Susan--"

"I meant now," said the young man with a short laugh; "there's scarce

time to get out home," he added briskly. "Come, walk down town and we'll

go to church after a while."

"Well!" the professor turned townward with a strange and unwonted

distaste for the empty house back there facing the quadrangle. "You will

come back out with me," he insisted, thinking of the loneliness.

The young man nodded his assent. Once there, however, if the loneliness

did not so much oppress the professor it was like a weight to his guest.

The theories of agriculture and stock-raising had lost the flavor of

their charm. They needed the bright face across the hearth sometimes

listening in amusement, sometimes lost in dreamings, but always with the

happy curve of the lip, the kindliness of her innocent eyes. He found

himself listening for the sound of light footsteps in the hall or the

tones of a low, musical voice. The place was haunted with memories. It

was insupportable. As soon after dinner as he dared, he rose to go.