DANIEL CARTER, having left the family conclave so abruptly, descended
the steps to the garden-path and walked slowly--almost painfully, it
appeared--to the gate.
He was a tall young man of twenty-five, thin from long suffering,
and a little angular, and he was lame. He was not using a crutch
now. Dr. Barbour had succeeded in alleviating the old trouble and
Daniel could do very well with a walking-stick. But his face, pale
and hollow-cheeked, showed the lines of old suffering, and to-day
there were dark rings around his fine eyes. The fact was that, at that
moment, his heart was beating so heavily that its clamor seemed to fill
his ears. A strange thing had befallen him. He had been stricken with
horror and anguish at an insult to one he loved, and--almost at the
same instant--he had felt a wild, unreasoning relief. It would not do,
he must not let his mind dwell upon it. The habit of repression, the
habit of endurance, the older habit of suffering, came to his aid. He
set his teeth and walked straight out of the front gate and down to
the end of the street. Then he paused almost unconsciously, because
this spot, at the side of a hill, gave him a wide view of the town, and
he often stopped here a moment on his way to and from Judge Jessup’s
office, just to catch this glimpse of his native hills. The poet in
Daniel loved this view.
The sun was on the hills to-day, except where the shadow of a passing
cloud moved across the wide vista like a pillar of smoke to guide the
wayfarers toward the Promised Land. The sun shone, too, on the roofs
of the houses that clustered at Daniel’s feet, and it caught the gilt
on a cross-crowned spire and flashed it against the background of the
trees. The only vivid thing, it seemed, in the whole scene, where the
gray of old shingled roofs and the sober tints of the time-worn houses
blended with the greens and browns of nature. For it’s an old town,
nestled in the hills, at the southern edge of one of the Middle States.
A State, by the way, that is a good deal more southern than middle.
So old is the town, indeed, that its tree-embowered streets have been
trodden by the valiants of other days. The early settlers came here
and found the spot fair, Indian traders bartered here, and heroes of
the Revolution lie buried in the quaint old cemetery. The place has
been long asleep, napping sweetly in the southern sunshine, drowsy
and fragrant and restful--of a summer day. But lately the stirring
of greater things has begun in the town. Life has grown busier, more
noisy, more insistent. The ancient aristocracy has begun to feel the
wave of democracy at its threshold, the old kernel is bursting and the
strong young oak is thrusting its tap-root down into the rich black
loam of the ages. But the background is unchanged, the fond heart can
still dwell on the lovely profile of the blue hills, melting at noon
into the more ineffable blue of the sky, and upon the dark green cloak
of verdure that enfolds the foot-hills, and unrolls its ample edges to
the very rim of the meadows.
The grape-vines still blossom fragrantly in the backyards of the
old-fashioned dwellings, where negro slaves used to flit in and out,
and, at evening still, sweet negro melodies float along the highways.
Awhile ago, when Johnson Carter was a child, turbaned mammies used
to fry chickens and make beaten biscuits to sell at the railway
station--then a mere wayside shed with a platform. They saved many
a famished traveler in the days when dining-cars were few and far
between. Though, curiously enough, there were never any parts to a
chicken but its legs. Tradition paints them as chicken centipedes,
though hunger relished even a drumstick and a soggy, beaten biscuit.
Little pickaninnies hung about, too, peddling chincapins, while an
elderly matron of a sow disported herself in the adjacent gutter.
But behind them, and in spite of them, the town stood enfolded in
its lovely verdure and its blossomings, like an ancient bride in a
constantly rejuvenated wedding garment, smiling and peaceful and secure.
Daniel Carter loved the town. Ambition might lead him elsewhere, but
his heart would linger affectionately here. There was an unbreakable
tie--he had suffered here, both in the flesh and in the spirit. He
had lived his happy childhood here, whole and sound. He had climbed
the hills and raced across the meadows. Then came his accident, the
long interval of pain, and the deadly certainty, at last, that he was
crippled. But through it all the trees had rustled their new leaves and
the heavenly hills had lifted up their heads. Pain forges a tie deeper
than the ties of joy. Dan loved the town.
As he walked down the old street to-day its familiarity eased the pang
at his heart. His pain was vicarious, he imagined how Virginia Denbigh
would suffer when she knew. He raged, too, against his brother--the
brother whom he had always loved and trusted! For there had been a bond
between the two elder Carter boys, cemented by the death of the two
children who came between Daniel and Leigh. Now, a reflection of his
father’s anger at William sent the blood up to Daniel’s pale forehead.
He was very sensitive for the honor of the Carters, and William’s
conduct--in Daniel’s eyes--constituted a high breach of honor, it was
conduct, in fact, unbecoming a gentleman.
And Virginia Denbigh----?
Words failed; a kind of blind fury seized him; he longed to cross
the ocean, or to meet the steamer in New York, and drag the strong,
powerfully built William all the way upon his knees to Virginia’s feet,
to beg her pardon.
He was thinking this, with a stinging and humiliating consciousness of
his own physical disability, when he finally turned from his post of
observation and began to descend the hill which led to Judge Jessup’s
office. It was a curious fact that his mental state had an effect
on his bodily affliction, and, when his mind was in conflict, his
limp--usually no more than a slow, halting step--became almost painful.
He was limping very badly and leaning on his cane when he saw an
equipage approaching that was as unmistakable as Noah’s ark would have
been, had it been harnessed to a couple of stout old dappled grays and
started on the turnpike to Ararat. This was an old-fashioned wagonette,
drawn by two elderly grays, and driven by George Washington Lucas,
old Uncle Plato’s grandson, a coal black negro, attired in a rubbishy
bottle-green livery and a white straw hat.
Alone on one of the rear seats, which ran length-wise in the wagonette,
was a slim figure in a flowered organdy, with a wide leghorn hat
looped down at the sides by the broad pink ribbons that were knotted
coquettishly under her chin. It was an old hat, made to do, if the
truth be told, but it framed a charming face, and shaded the eyes that
were greeting Daniel Carter.
At a word from her Lucas drew rein and she leaned forward, smiling.
“Let me give you a lift, Dan,” she called to him, sweetly.
For the first time in his life Daniel’s heart sank at the sound of
Virginia Denbigh’s voice. He came up, hat in hand, to answer her, and
Virginia was startled, in her turn, for Daniel was blushing. He was
red to his hair and it gave a bizarre effect to his usually pale face.
“He’s hurt because he thinks I pity his lameness,” Virginia thought.
“We’re going the same way, Dan. Get in, I feel queer sitting here all
by my lonesome,” she said gaily. “Grandpa couldn’t come to-day.”
But he could not get in. The thought of taking advantage of her
kindness when he knew what his brother had done, was too much for
Daniel.
“Thank you a thousand times, but I’ve only got a few steps to go now,
Virginia,” he replied, forcing a smile though his lips felt stiff. “The
colonel isn’t ill, is he?”
“No, he’s planting,” she laughed, puzzled by the young man’s manner.
What could be the matter with him? she wondered. “I’ve got to do the
marketing, get the mail and buy a newspaper. Some one stole ours this
morning. Has--have you heard from William yet, Dan?”
Daniel had laid one hand on the edge of the wagonette while they spoke,
it tightened now--as something seemed to tighten about his heart. He
couldn’t tell her!
“Mother got a letter this morning.”
Virginia’s clear eyes fixed on him, discerning something behind his
words. She blushed suddenly and painfully, leaning back in her seat.
“I’m so glad! Mrs. Carter was so anxious. I haven’t heard myself for
a long time,” she added steadily, bending another searching look on
William’s brother.
Daniel could not meet it; he flinched. “He’s quite well,” he said
thickly, “he’s in New York now, I think. He was to sail on the
_Britannic_. She ought to be in.”
“Oh!”
Virginia’s exclamation was involuntary, but it died in her throat.
What could it mean? No letter and William in New York? Then suddenly
she colored with happiness, her heart beating wildly. Of course! She
understood it now; it accounted for the silence, too. She leaned
forward, her clasped hands on her knees, her eyes--beautiful and soft
and caressing--dwelling upon the unhappy Daniel.
“I know--he means to surprise me!” she cried. “Dan, you shouldn’t have
told.”
Daniel experienced a feeling of dissolution. He withdrew his hand from
the wagonette, and leaned heavily on his cane. To let her think this,
and to-morrow----!
“I--I don’t think that’s just the idea, Virginia,” he said gravely.
She met his eyes, still radiant; then, slowly, reluctantly, the light
faded from hers, and the color receded from her cheeks, even from her
lips. She gasped. Then she glanced around at the stout, unmoved back of
George Washington Lucas. To her aroused perception even his ears seemed
to move, and she was heavily aware that the nigh horse was stamping an
impatient foot, troubled by an insistent fly. She moved nearer to the
end of the wagonette and bent over Daniel, her eyes fixed on his face
again.
“Did--did he speak of me, Dan?” she asked in a low voice.
Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat. “I--I don’t know--I didn’t see
the letter.”
She drew back, blushing as quickly as she had paled. With an odd little
groping gesture she put up her hand and pulled at the pink bow under
her chin. Then she laughed, and the sound of her laughter hurt him like
a blow.
“I’m keeping you,” she said lightly. “Give my love to your mother. I’m
sorry you won’t come with me. Drive on, Lucas.”
Daniel stood back, bare-headed, following her with his eyes, his heart
in a tumult. He felt as if he had struck her, and yet he had not told
her the worst.
As the old horses started, Virginia remembered him. She looked back and
waved her hand.
“Goodbye!” she called to him, and, after a moment: “Good luck!”
Daniel stood gazing after her. He found himself, for the moment, unable
to move. He watched until the old wagonette, with that slim young
figure so erect at the side of it, vanished in a cloud of dust in the
distance. It seemed to him that his heart stood still, too, within him.
For the first time in his life he felt helpless, he felt physically
as if he had been beaten. Why had he been forced to do it? Why, he
stormed inwardly, was it his lot to give her the first warning? How she
would hate him! Hereafter he would be in the same class with William,
she would despise the whole family. He stood there shuddering, and he
might have remained there a long time if old Mrs. Payson had not driven
past in her new motor-car and shrilled to him that it was a “fine
morning,” and she had seen something--he didn’t catch what it was--in
the morning paper.
It roused him, he straightened himself and walked on, as fast as his
limp permitted.
Judge Jessup was already at his desk when Daniel opened the door. He
growled a greeting, sorting his mail. The judge had a high Roman nose
and the kind of chin we associate with Benjamin Franklin. Owing to a
formidable growth of eyebrow, his expression was sometimes abnormally
fierce. But this morning there was a gleam of triumph in his eye.
“We’ve won that Ryan appeal,” he announced in his deep voice. “Judge
Loomis handed down his decision just before court adjourned yesterday.
Hear about it, Dan?”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge went on opening his letters, while his young pupil and
associate took off his coat, hung it up and sat down at his own desk
in his shirt sleeves. He was very pale now and he began to work
mechanically, scarcely aware of the older man’s fiery way of disposing
of his own business.
“Old man Barbour has kicked up another shindy with Allen,” the judge
continued. “I reckon we’ll get that case, too. By the way, did you look
up that option for Allen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph!” the judge rubbed his chin and turned his swivel chair
slightly. He could see Daniel now sitting at his desk, his white face
set and his hands lying idle on a folded sheet of paper. He was staring
straight in front of him. The judge prodded again.
“Kenslaw wants you to handle his case. I reckon you’d like that, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
The judge eyed the young man critically.
“What’s the matter, Dan? Got the pip?”
Daniel, a little startled, smiled and shook his head.
“Nothing the matter, Judge.”
The judge shrugged, turned to his desk and spread out the morning
paper. His eye fell suddenly on that item in the column of personal
mention which had already smitten the Carter family. He stared at it a
moment in silence. Then he began to whistle softly, and his eyes fixed
themselves on a spot at the far end of the tree-shaded street. It was
a white guide-post and on it was printed, in large black letters, the
magic words:
“1½ miles to Denbigh Crossing.”