COLONEL DENBIGH was walking to and fro at the back of his house,
considering it. There was no doubt at all that it needed a new coat
of paint. It needed it almost as much as the colonel needed the extra
money to pay for it. He chuckled a little, pulling at the ends of his
long white moustache.
“Neither of us likely to get it,” he thought, “and I reckon I look
almost as much out of repair as the old place does anyway!”
Then his eye traveled down the long road which led to the town. He
was expecting his granddaughter and the morning newspaper. Viewed
from this angle, the road was a thing of beauty. It turned a curve
above the crossing and passed through a grove of chestnuts. They were
yellowish-white now with bloom. Beneath them the road ran like a
ribbon, while on either hand the colonel glimpsed the friendly roofs
of his neighbors’ houses. The farthest one, set back among the trees,
was Johnson Carter’s. Over there was Judge Jessup’s; beyond that was
the spire of the oldest church. In the graveyard behind it four
generations of Denbighs lay buried. At the corner of Mrs. Payson’s
place a blossoming pear tree stood like a lovely ghost. The warm,
still atmosphere was filled with the fragrance of early blossomings,
here and there a field was pink with clover. There was a warmth, a
stirring, the promise of a hundred springs in the rich loam, where the
new grass thrust up its strong young blades, and in the old apple-tree
that showered the colonel’s shoulder with its falling petals. He found
some of them on his sleeve and looked at them musingly; he was thinking
of the days when he had gathered apples from that tree for his wife.
Mrs. Denbigh had been dead many years, and their only son and his wife.
Gone, too! The old man took off his hat and passed his hand absently
over his white head, a little sadness in the very gesture. Virginia and
he were the only ones left, he reflected, and then he smiled. He always
smiled when he thought of Virginia. He was very proud of his young
granddaughter.
“There’s a girl for you!” he thought fondly, “pretty as a picture. A
straight-thinking kind of a young creature, too, bless her heart!”
He was sorry that his estate did not warrant a little of the old-time
style for her. She deserved it, but--the colonel shook his head,
eying the house again. It was a rambling, old-fashioned affair with
a belvidere on the flat roof and two verandas. It had a beauty of
its own, fortunately, for it had lost a good deal of its exterior
decorations and it was deplorably weather-stained on the north side.
The colonel was still viewing it when the dogs began to bark at the
lower gate. He turned quickly and saw his two big pointers greeting Mr.
Carter. But that gentleman did not notice them as much as usual. There
was, indeed, something odd about him. His stout, middle-aged figure
seemed to sag down a little at the shoulders and his head drooped. He
looked, as he came slowly up the path, like the bearer of bad tidings.
He shuffled as he walked and seemed interested in his feet.
The colonel, a little surprised at this early visit, shouted a greeting
to him.
“Hello, Carter! What’s the matter? You’re walking as if”--the colonel
chuckled--“as if you had a bunion.”
Mr. Carter raised his abashed eyes reluctantly to the old man’s fine,
smiling face.
“I declare I felt as if I’d been stealing his chickens!” he told Mrs.
Carter afterwards. However, he achieved a moment of cordiality as he
shook the colonel’s hand.
“I--I was coming this way,” he said a little hoarsely; he wasn’t a good
liar. “I thought I’d just drop in. How’s the garden coming on? I’ve
put in my limas.”
The colonel, eying him, pulled his moustache.
“They’ll rot. It’s too early. Plato told me that the peas were up well
and we’ve got spinach. Sit down, Carter, I’ll call Plato. Have a julep?
Or is it too early?”
“Too early altogether. I--the fact is, I can’t stay but a minute.
I----” Mr. Carter glanced around wildly, groping for a topic, any
topic, to introduce his subject. His choice wasn’t exactly an apt one.
“I see that speckled hen of yours gets out of the coop still.”
His host looked around.
“So she does! Can’t keep her in at all. Kind of strong-minded. She’s
got fifteen chicks, too. Wanting a setting of leghorn eggs, Carter? I
can give you one. Got the finest lot of layers in the county.”
Mr. Carter continued to stare moodily at the speckled hen; she had led
him astray.
“I don’t know,” he replied thoughtfully. “I’ll--I’ll ask Mrs. Carter.”
The colonel stared.
Plato, a gray-headed old negro, appeared.
“Wants yo’ juleps, Col’nel?”
“Not now, Plato. Mr. Carter says it’s too early.”
Plato grinned and bowed to the visitor.
“Howdy, suh. Hopes yo’-all is well. Heared from yo’ son, suh?”
Mr. Carter’s heart jumped and then sank with a thud. Plato had achieved
it.
“This morning, Plato. He’s in New York now, I hope. He’s well, too,
and--and----”
“I’se sho glad t’ heah it, suh,” said Plato and withdrew, still bowing.
Mr. Carter, with his mouth open, stared after him helplessly. He felt
now that he should never get his news out unless some one shook it out
of him! The colonel did not help him.
“So! Well, I’m glad William’s coming back. We’ve missed him. Judge
Jessup was speaking of him last night. A fine fellow, he thinks him. By
the way, Carter, Jessup gave me a young apple-tree last spring. There’s
something the matter with it. I believe it’s got San José scale. Come
here and look at it, will you?”
Mr. Carter trailed the colonel’s tall, thin figure across the lawn, and
the two pointers came to meet them.
“Down, Jim! Down, Rover!” ordered the colonel, reaching the tree.
“There--if you’ll look close along that lower limb--see?”
His visitor approached the limb indicated and stared at it moodily.
Then he swallowed hard.
“Think it’s scale?” the colonel asked anxiously.
“Darned if I know!” said Mr. Carter violently. “Denbigh, I came to tell
you---- The fact is, my son’s made an ass of himself. He----”
“Yes?” the colonel stood still, politely amazed. “Which son, Carter?”
“William. He--he’s married!”
There was a little silence and then the colonel laughed dryly.
“Was that what ailed you? On my word, Carter, I began to think you’d
got creeping paralysis of the brain. Who’s he married?”
“I don’t know.”
“What!”
“No, I don’t! It’s some French girl--Fanchon--there, I can’t remember!
We just heard this morning. The--the young donkey hasn’t known her
three months.”
Colonel Denbigh broke off a twig and began to whittle it.
“Case of love at first sight, I presume,” he commented calmly. “I
wouldn’t take it so hard, Carter, you may like her.”
Mr. Carter made an inarticulate sound which ended in his throat. His
eyes avoided the colonel’s.
“Mrs. Carter’s all broken up,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a shock. Of
course we don’t know anything. But--that is--I--I’m afraid, William’s
behaved badly. Virginia, you know?”
Colonel Denbigh started slightly. Then he closed his pocket-knife and
put it in his pocket.
“What about Virginia?” he asked quietly.
Mr. Carter hesitated, then he reddened. “You know how we all love
you and Virginia,” he said hurriedly. “We--we hoped there was
something--the fact is, Emily says William was--was engaged to
Virginia. I--I want to know, Colonel. I want to know if my boy’s
behaved like that?”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Carter,” replied the colonel loftily. “No man who
was engaged to Virginia Denbigh could, or would, forget it.”
“But, Colonel, I thought----” Mr. Carter was purple now with
embarrassment.
“You’re mistaken, sir,” the colonel held his head high, “entirely
mistaken.”
Mr. Carter felt like a gold fish splashed out of its globe. He gasped
and swallowed hard. He remembered, too, that his wife had told him not
to come. “You’ll only make a mess of it, papa,” she had warned him,
between her sobs, “You’re always putting your foot in it!”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I--well, you see--it was because I think
so much of her--of Virginia, I mean, that I came. I--I thought if my
boy--my boy, William Henry Carter, had done a thing like that-- Well,
sir, I’d feel like disowning him!”
The colonel stood still. He had thrust his thumbs into the armholes of
his waistcoat, and his eyes were fixed on the distant road.
“You were mistaken, sir, that’s all. There comes Jinny now.”
Mr. Carter, following his eyes, saw the ancient wagonette entering the
old gateway. Lucas was driving placidly, the old grays were ambling
up the broad moss-grown driveway to the front door. Alone in the back
sat a slim young figure. Virginia was reading a newspaper. Mr. Carter
remembered that fearful item in the personals and cold perspiration
stood out in beads on his forehead.
“I’ll have to go,” he said thickly. “I’m late now at the office. We’ve
been all upset.”
“Better look at this San José scale,” said the colonel grimly, his eyes
still on the wagonette.
Lucas had stopped half-way to the house and Virginia jumped down. She
was coming toward them now. In one hand she held the newspaper, in the
other some hothouse roses. Mr. Carter, making hot-foot for the gate,
came full upon her.
“Why, Mr. Carter!” she smiled radiantly. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I--I stopped by to get a setting of leghorn eggs,” said Mr. Carter,
mopping his forehead. “It’s a hot day, Virginia.”
She laughed. “I thought it was cool. Please take this rose to Mrs.
Carter from me, won’t you? Mrs. Payson just cut them for me; they’re
from her new greenhouse. She calls them ‘Kentucky Sunsets.’”
Mr. Carter took the rose and stumbled blindly for the open. He was
suffocating with mortification. If William wasn’t engaged to her,
he, Johnson Carter, had made a donkey of himself, and if William was
engaged to her! Mr. Carter wiped his forehead again, absently thrust
the rose inside the crown of his hat and set the hat firmly on his head
with the rose leaves hanging out at the back--like the tail of a kite.
They were still fluttering there as he plodded down the road toward his
office, his face red and his heart sore.
Meanwhile, Colonel Denbigh had crossed the lawn to meet his
granddaughter. Virginia gave him the newspaper without comment and
retired to an old stone bench near the rustic table which served her
grandfather as a writing-desk and refreshment table in summer time.
She was engaged now in arranging Mrs. Payson’s roses while the colonel
pretended to read the news. They both heard the horses going around
to the stable and Lucas’ voice as he called to them to go into their
stalls.
The colonel rustled the newspaper and laid it down. Then he took off
his hat and pushed back his white hair. He was a brave man, but he was
perspiring at every pore.
“Jinny,” he said at last, so abruptly that she started and looked
around. He caught her eye, winced, and plunged in. “Mr. Carter was here
just now.”
“Yes?” Virginia listened expectantly, a little flush on her cheeks.
The colonel wiped his forehead. “It’s a hot day!” he observed. Then,
casually: “Yes; he’s heard from his son. He’s coming home with----”
“Yes?” Virginia drew her breath quietly, averting her eyes. “Soon,
grandpa?”
The colonel choked. He had to go to the table and drain a glass of
water. “Yes. He--he’s made a darned fool of himself, Jinny, he’s--he’s
married.”
“I know,” Virginia rejoined in a low voice. “I just read it in the
newspaper.”
The colonel, looking into the bottom of his tumbler, was aware that
the bees had got into the honeysuckle. They sounded like a full brass
band in his ears. He could not stand it any longer, he looked sideways
at Virginia. She was still sitting on the old stone bench, her roses
in her lap. She wasn’t looking at him and he could see her profile. It
was very pale now, but she still had an adorable nose. It came from her
mother’s side; the Denbighs had long ones with a hump, called politely
Roman. Her grandfather, watching her intently, saw her slip a ring from
her finger and put it into her pocket. As she said nothing, the colonel
got his breath. “She’ll want to know, I’ll tell her the rest now,” he
thought. “It’s like pulling a tooth--better get it over.”
“He’s married a French girl. Only known her three months. He’s bringing
her home.”
Virginia rose quietly, gathering up her roses. She started to speak,
but her lips trembled and she gave it up. She put the roses in the bowl
on the colonel’s table and filled the bowl with water. Her hands were
quite firm.
“I hope she’s nice,” she said at last, in a low voice.
The colonel, who had caught her eye, made a rash movement, he was going
to take her in his arms. But she straightened herself.
“Please d-d-don’t!” she gasped, and ran up the steps into the house.
Colonel Denbigh stood, looking after her, his eyes full. Then he
smoothed his hair again and put on his hat. Thrusting his thumbs into
the armholes of his waistcoat he walked up and down.
“She’s game!” he thought proudly. “By gum, she’s a Denbigh. God bless
her!”
At this moment Plato emerged from the house with a tray.
“It am time fo’ yo’ julep, Col’nel,” he remarked, setting down a glass
that showed a green sprig of mint in crushed ice.
“Plato,” said the colonel thoughtfully, “what was it you used to tell
me about old Colonel Colfax and his daughter?”
Plato flicked a little dust off the edge of the table and showed his
ivories.
“Yo means ’bout Miss Ann an’ dat Mist’ Gibbie?”
The colonel nodded, his eyes on the far end of the sunny path to the
orchard.
“Mist’ Gibbie was courtin’ Miss Ann, suh. He warn’t no ’count at all,
no, suh, but Miss Ann, I reckon she thought a heap of him. Anyways,
Col’nel Colfax, he didn’t say noffin much, no, suh, he jest kinder
watched ’em. Den, ’bout six months after Mist’ Gibbie come courtin’,
jest when we was all expectin’ a weddin’, come t’ find out Mist’ Gibbie
was hangin’ round widder lady. Yes, suh, she’d come t’ town from New
York, an’ she hab a heap ob money. Dey got talkin’ round at de clubs
an’ de hotels an’ so on, suh, ’bout how Mist’ Gibbie done gib Miss
Ann Colfax de mitten ’long ob dis lady. De col’nel--yo’ remembers him,
suh? Well, de col’nel comes in one day, walkin’ kinder ob straight-like
an’ sets down on de porch. ’Peared like to us, suh, we was all down
in de kitchen, an’ de kitchen got a bead righ’ on de side porch--it
’peared like t’ us dat de col’nel was expectin’ company. Miss Ann,
she was up-stairs, way back, lyin’ down wid a headache. Been cryin’,
so Sally Johnson, her maid, say. Well, suh, it got on t’ ’bout two
o’clock, an’ it was one ob dese yere white dust days. De rooster out
in de road, he’d been dustin’ himself righ’ smart. Mr. Gibbie comes
up. He comes ’long quiet-like, suh, expectin’ t’ see Miss Ann, an’
we was watchin’ because we done know de col’nel had seed him out wid
de widow. De col’nel gits up, suh, an’ stands wid his hands in his
pockets, awaitin’, terr’ble quiet. An’ Mist’ Gibbie, he comes up an’
asks fer Miss Ann. De col’nel, he look him up an’ down an’ he done say
noffin, noffin at all. Den Mist’ Gibbie, he comes up de steps an’ he
asks fer Miss Ann agin. Says he: ‘I was engaged t’ yer daughter, suh,
an’ I wants ter see her.’ ‘Yo’ can see me, suh,’ says de col’nel. Den
we didn’t heah what Mist’ Gibbie says. All t’ once, Col’nel, dere was
somet’ing doin’. Col’nel Colfax, he lets fly one foot, suh, an’ Mist’
Gibbie, he lands smack on top of de rooster in de dust an’ dey rolls
ober togedder. Dat was de las’ time Mist’ Gibbie asks fer Miss Ann
Colfax, suh, it sho was.”
Colonel Denbigh pulled his moustache thoughtfully.
“Did he kill the rooster, Plato?” he asked solicitously.
Plato laughed. “No, suh, he was a heap more scared den de rooster.”
The colonel sighed. “Those were great days, Plato.”
“Dey sho’ was, suh!”
“I wish they’d come back,” Colonel Denbigh added regretfully, shaking
his head.