Bill Jarvis, the young owner of the stable, who had come swinging around
the corner, whistling a lively tune, his hat thrown back on his head, and
who had almost run plump into the carriage, stopped abruptly and stood
staring. He was roused to a realizing sense of his position by Major Cicero
Johnson, editor of the Lexington _Chronicle_ and president of the
association, who was standing beside the barouche, saying, with that
courtliness of manner and amplitude of rhetoric which made him a fixture in
the legislative halls at Frankfort: “Colonel Bill, I want to present you to
General Thomas Anderson Braxton, the hero of two wars, of whom as a
Kentuckian you must be proud, and his sons Matt and Jack, and his daughter,
Miss Sue, the Flower of the Blue-grass. Ladies and gentlemen,” he
continued, with an oratorical wave of his hand towards the Colonel, who had
bowed gravely to each person in turn to whom he was introduced, “this is my
friend Colonel Bill Jarvis, the finest horseman and the most gallant young
turfman between the Ohio River and the Gulf of Mexico.”
While the Major was speaking, Colonel Bill's eyes wandered from the two
young gentlemen on the front seat to the purple-faced old General on the
rear seat, and then rested on Miss Braxton. Her eyes met his, and she
smiled. It was such a pleasant, gracious, encouraging smile, and there was
so much kindliness in the depths of the soft brown eyes, that the Colonel
was reassured at once.
“We have come to disturb you at this unearthly hour,” said Miss Braxton,
apologetically, “because I wanted to see the horses at their work, and
father and my brothers were good enough to come with me.”
Colonel Bill explained that his horses had finished their morning exercise,
but that it would afford him great pleasure to show them in their stalls.
Miss Braxton was sure that they were putting him to a great deal of
trouble, and she was also convinced that to see horses in their stalls must
be delightful; so presently the party was marching along under the shed,
looking at the calm-eyed thoroughbreds in their narrow little homes, the
Colonel and Miss Braxton leading the way.
With the wisdom of her sex, Miss Braxton concealed her lack of special
knowledge by a generous general enthusiasm which captivated her
simple-hearted host.
“And that is really Beau Brummel!” she cried, with sparkling eyes, pointing
to a splendid deep-chested animal, who was regarding them with mild
curiosity. “And that is Queen of Sheba next to him! What lovely heads they
have, and how very proud you must be to own them!” One would have thought
her days and nights had been given to a study of these two thoroughbreds.
“They are the best long-distance horses in the country,” said the Colonel,
flushing with pleasure. And then, in reply to her eager questioning, he
gave their pedigrees and performances, all their battles and victories, in
detail--a list as long and glorious as the triumphs of Napoleon, and
perhaps as useful. At each stall she had fresh questions to ask. Her
brothers, with an eye to the coming meeting, listened eagerly to the
Colonel's answers, while the Major and the General, lagging behind,
discussed affairs of state. At last the horses were all seen; everybody
shook hands with the Colonel and thanked him, the General with great
pompousness, and Miss Braxton with a smile, and a hope that she might see
him during the meeting; and the old barouche went lumbering away down the
road, until it presently buried itself, like a monstrous cuttlefish, in a
cloud of its own making.
Colonel Bill looked after it with a pleased expression on his face, and
pulling his tawny mustache reflectively, muttered to himself with true
masculine acuteness, “She knew as much about my horses as I did myself.”
* * * * *
The great Lexington meeting was in the full tide of its success.
Peach-cheeked, bright-eyed Blue-grass girls, and their big-boned,
deep-chested admirers, riding and driving in couples and parties, filled
all the white, dusty tumpikes leading to the race-course, and made gay the
quaint old Lexington streets. The grand-stand echoed with their merriment,
and they cheered home the horses with an enthusiasm seen nowhere else in
the world.
The centre of the liveliest of all these merry groups, noticeable for her
grace and beauty even there, where so many lovely girls were gathered, was
Miss Braxton. She was continuously surrounded by a devoted body-guard of
young men, many of whom had ridden miles to catch a glimpse of her
bewitching face, and who felt more than recompensed for their efforts by a
glance from her bright eyes.
On the first day of the meeting Colonel Bill, arrayed with unusual care,
had eagerly scanned the occupants of the grand-stand. His eyes ran
heedlessly over scores of pretty faces, until finally they rested upon the
group around Miss Braxton. Then carefully buttoning up his coat and
straightening out his tall figure, as a brave man might who was about to
lead a forlorn hope or receive his opponent's fire, he bore down upon them.
Miss Braxton welcomed him cordially, and introduced him to the gentlemen
about her. She straightway became so gracious to him that he aroused an
amazing amount of suspicion and dislike in the little circle, to all of
which, however, he was happily oblivious. He was a capital mimic, and under
the inspiration of her applause he told innumerable negro stories with such
lifelike fidelity to nature that even the hostile circle was convulsed, and
Miss Braxton laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.
Time sped so swiftly that the last race was run before the Colonel was
aware that the programme was half over, and he found himself saying
good-bye to Miss Braxton, and wishing with all his heart he were one of the
half-dozen lucky young men who were waiting on their horses outside to
escort her carriage back to Lexington.
It was that same evening old Elias, Colonel Bill's body-servant and general
assistant, noticed a most surprising development in his young employer. One
of the Colonel's most prized possessions was a fiddle. It bad never been
known, in all the years he owned it, to utter aught except the most joyful
sounds. Whenever he picked it up, as he frequently did on winter nights,
when everybody gathered around the big wood fire in his room, the
stable-boys at once made ready to beat time to “Money Musk,” “Old Dan
Tucker,” and other cheerful airs.
On this particular night the Colonel seized the fiddle and strode gloomily
to the end of the stable. Presently there came forth upon the night air
such melancholy and dismal notes as made every stable-boy, from little Pete
to big Mose, shiver. As the lugubrious sounds continued, the boys fled to
their loft, leaving Elias, who had watched over the Colonel from his
infancy, to keep vigil, with a troubled look on his withered face. Many
nights thereafter was this singular proceeding repeated, to the
ever-increasing wonderment of Elias.
Every day during the meeting when Miss Braxton was at the track Colonel
Bill sought her out. Sometimes he had a chance for a long talk, but oftener
he was forced to content himself with shorter interviews. More than once he
noticed General Braxton join his daughter when he approached, and he found
that old warrior's manner growing more and more cold.
“He's a loser,” thought the Colonel, to whom it never for a moment occurred
that his own presence might be disagreeable to any one. “A man oughtn't to
bet when he can't stand a-losing,” he concluded, philosophically, and then
he dismissed the matter from his mind.
On the last day of the races, after waiting for an hour or more to speak
alone to Miss Braxton, and finding her constantly guarded by her father,
who looked fiercer than usual, Colonel Bill was finally compelled to join
her as she and the General were leaving the grand-stand. She saw him
coming, and stopped, a pleased look on her face. The General, with a frigid
nod, moved on a few paces and left them together.
“I have come to ask if I might call on you this evening, Miss Braxton,”
said the Colonel, timidly, “if you have no other engagement.”
“I shall be very glad indeed to have you call,” she replied, cordially,
adding, with a smile, “You know, Lexington is not so wildly gay that we
haven't ample time to see our friends.”
As he walked away the Colonel thought he heard his name mentioned by
General Braxton, and although the words were inaudible, the tone was sharp
and commanding. He turned and glanced back. The girl's face was flushed,
and she looked excited, something unusual to her self-contained, reposeful
manner. As they moved out of hearing, the General was still talking with
great earnestness, and a feeling of uneasiness began to oppress him. This
feeling had not altogether departed when he galloped into Lexington that
night, his long-tailed, white linen duster buttoned up to his chin, the
brim of his soft black hat pulled down over his eyes.
The Elms, a roomy old-fashioned house encircled by wide verandas, the home
of the Braxtons for generations, was one of the landmarks of Lexington. A
long stretch of lawn filled with shrubbery and clumps of trees protected
its inmates from the city's dust and turmoil and almost concealed the house
itself from view. The Colonel, to whom the Elms was perfectly well known,
never drew rein till he was before it, and then, checking his horse so
suddenly that a less intelligent animal would have turned a somersault,
swung himself out of the saddle with the ease of one who had spent the
greater part of his life there, fastened the bridle to a ring in a great
oak-tree by the curbing, and opening the big iron gate, strode up the
gravelled walk which wound through the shrubbery.
Miss Braxton had been sitting at the piano in the drawing-room playing
softly. The long windows looking out on the veranda were opened to admit
the balmy air, and before her visitor arrived she heard his approaching
footsteps.
“I am very glad you have come,” she said, walking out to meet him; “I was
afraid that in the excitement of the race-track you might have forgotten
our engagement. I felt a little depressed this evening, and that is another
reason why I am glad to see you.” She led the way back into the
drawing-room as she talked, and invited the Colonel to sit beside her on
one of the sofas. In the soft glow of the dimly lighted lamps he thought
she had never appeared so beautiful; and the rich fragrance of the
dew-laden roses and honeysuckle wafted in through the open windows seemed
to him to be an atmosphere peculiar to her alone, like the exceeding
sweetness of her soft, low voice and the easy grace of her movements.
In reply to her questions he told her of his adventures on far Southern
tracks, and of the careless, reckless life he had led. He had seen many
strange and stirring sights during his wanderings; and to her, whose young
life lead hitherto flown along as peacefully as a meadow-brook, it seemed
like a new and thrilling romance, with a living being in place of the
printed page. Once he mentioned a woman's name, and she started.
“In all that time,” she inquired, softly, her eyes lowered, “did no woman
ever come into your life?”
“No,” he answered, simply; “I never thought of a woman then.”
She raised her eyes to his, and lowered them instantly, her face flushing.
During a moment's lull in the conversation the hour was struck from a
neighboring steeple. They both started, half-guiltily. It was midnight. He
at once arose to go, apologizing for the lateness of his visit.
“I would like to see you again, Miss Braxton, before I go North,” he said,
as he prepared to leave.
She had risen with him, and they were both standing beside the mantel. Her
face paled. Then she turned her head aside, and said, in a tone that was
almost inaudible, “Father objects.”
He became rigid instantly, and his lips grew white. “I suppose your father
don't know who I am,” he said, proudly. “My family is as good as any in the
State. I loved horses and the life and color of the race-track, and refused
to go to college when I could. Until I met you I never thought of anything
except horses. But that pedigree of my people is straight. There isn't a
cold cross on either side. I know I amount to nothing myself,” he
continued, bitterly, his eyes resting gloomily on the floor; “I'm only a
no-account old selling-plater, and I'll just go back to the stable, where I
belong.” Here an unusual sound interrupted him, and he looked up. The girl,
with her head on her arm, was leaning against the mantel, sobbing quietly.
In a moment he forgot all about himself and snatched up her disengaged
hand.
“Do you really care?” he cried, pressing the fluttering little hand in both
of his.
She lifted up her face, the soft brown eyes swimming in tears. “I wouldn't
mind,” she replied, half laughing and half sobbing--“I wouldn't mind at all
about the pedigree, and I know you're not an old selling-plater; but if you
were, I am very sure that I would care for you.”
The Lexington meeting was over, and the horsemen were scattered far and
wide, from Chicago to Sheepshead Bay. Colonel Bill alone remained behind.
As the days passed and he made no preparation to depart, old Elias's
irritation grew apace, and the lives of the stable-boys under the
increasing rigor of his rule became almost unendurable. The Colonel,
however, saw very little of Elias or the stable-boys. Even his beloved
horses no longer interested him. He passed the days walking the streets of
Lexington, hoping by some chance to meet Miss Braxton, and it was not until
late at night that he returned to the race-track, foot-sore and
disappointed. He had been too deeply wounded and was too proud to make any
further effort to visit the Elms, and he thought it would be unmanly and
ungenerous to ask Miss Braxton to meet him away from her father's house.
In the mean time the old General's wrath increased as the days passed. He
was unused to any kind of opposition, and the Colonel's persistence
irritated him beyond measure. The dream of his life was a brilliant
marriage for his daughter, and no amount of argument could alter his
opinion that Colonel Bill was a rude, unlettered stable-man.
“Why, sir,” he would exclaim, over a mint-julep, to his friend Major
Johnson, who always defended the Colonel vigorously, “the idea of such
attentions to my daughter is preposterous--ludicrous! I will not permit it,
sir--not for one moment. If he persists in annoying my family, sir,” and
the purple hue of the General's face deepened, “I would no more hesitate to
shoot him--no more, by gad!--than I would a rattlesnake.” After the fourth
or fifth julep he did not always confine his conversation to his friend,
and so his threats often found their way back to the object of his wrath,
losing nothing by the journey. Although the Colonel's disposition was the
sunniest, the strain to which he was being subjected was telling on his
nerves, and once or twice he replied sharply to the tale-bearers. The
little city was soon excited over the quarrel, and every movement of the
principals was eagerly noted.
“My money goes on Bill,” said Jule Chinn, the proprietor of the Blue-grass
Club, when the matter came up for discussion there between deals. “I saw
him plug that creole down in Orleans. First he throws him down the steps of
the St. Charles for insultin' a lady. When Frenchy insists on a duel an'
Bill gets up in front of him, he says, in that free-an'-easy way of his,
'We mark puppies up in my country by cutting their ears, and that's what
I'm going to do to you, for you ain't fit to die,' an' blame me if he don't
just pop bullets through that fellow's ears like you'd punch holes in a
piece of cheese!” After that the Colonel ruled a strong favorite in the
betting.
When this condition of affairs had existed for two weeks, the Colonel arose
one morning from a sleepless bed with a fixed idea in his mind. He sat down
to a table in his room, pulled out some writing-paper, and set to work.
After many sheets had been covered and destroyed, he finally decided upon
the following:
“DEAR MISS BRAXTON,--I am going away from Lexington to-morrow, probably
never to return. Will you be at your father's gate at three o'clock this
afternoon, as I would like to say good-bye to you before I go?
“Your sincere friend,
“WILLIAM JARVIS”
After he had finished this epistle it seemed to him entirely too cold; but
the others, which he had written in a more sentimental vein, had appeared
unduly presumptuous. He finally sealed it and gave it to Pete, with
terrific threats of personal violence in case of anything preventing its
prompt delivery. While Pete was galloping off to Lexington at breakneck
speed, the Colonel was wondering what the answer would be.
“I'll just say good-bye to her,” he muttered, moodily, “and then I'll never
see her again. I suppose I belong with the horses, anyhow, and that old
bottle-nosed General has me classed all right!”
When Pete returned he handed the Colonel a dainty little three-cornered
note. It was addressed to “My dear friend,” and the writer was _so sorry_
he was going away so _very soon_, and had hoped he would stay _ever_ so
much longer, and then signed herself cordially his, Susan Burleigh Braxton.
At the bottom was a postscript--“I will expect you at three o'clock.”
An hour before the appointed time the Colonel was striding impatiently up
and down before the Elms, incessantly consulting his watch or wistfully
gazing up the gravelled walk. It still lacked several minutes of three,
when his heart gave a great jump as he saw Miss Braxton's graceful figure
flitting in and out through the shrubbery. She stopped to pluck some roses
from a bush that hung over the walk, bending down the richly laden bough so
that the flowers made a complete circle about her bright young face, and as
she raised her eyes she caught the Colonel gazing at her with such a look
of abject idolatry that she laughed and blushed. “You see I am on time,”
she cried, gayly, hastening down to the gate and handing him one of her
roses. “I am going to the post-office, and you may walk with me if you care
to.” If he cared to! Her mere presence beside him, the feeling that he
could reach out his hand and touch her, the music of her voice, filled him
with a joy of which he had never before dreamed.
After they had left the post-office, by mutual direction their footsteps
turned from the more crowded thoroughfares, and they walked down a quiet
and deserted street where the stones were covered with moss, and where
solemn gnarled old trees lined the way on either side and met above their
heads, the fresh green leaves murmuring softly together like living things.
They reached the end of the old street, and were almost in the country. A
wide-spreading chestnut-tree stood before them, around whose giant bole a
rustic seat had been built. They walked towards it in silence and sat down
side by side.
They were entirely alone. A gay young red-bird, his head knowingly cocked
on one side, perched in the branches just above them. A belated bumblebee,
already heavy laden, hung over a cluster of wild flowers at their feet. A
long-legged garrulous grasshopper, undismayed by their presence, uttered
his clarion notes on the seat beside them.
The inquisitive young red-bird looking down could only see a soft black hat
and a white straw hat with flowers about its broad brim. He heard the black
hat wondering if any one ever thought of him, to which the straw hat
replied softly that it was sure some one did think of him very often. Then
the black hat wondered if some one, when it was away, would continue to
think of it, and the flowered straw, still more softly, was very, very sure
some one would.
Then the red-bird saw such a remarkable thing happen that his bright eyes
almost popped out of his little head. He saw a hand and a powerful arm
suddenly steal out from below the black hat and move in the direction of
the flowered straw--not hurriedly, but stealthily and surely. Having
reached it, the hand and the arm drew the unresisting flowered straw in the
direction of the black hat, until presently the hats came together. And
then the red-bird, himself desperately in love, knew what it all meant, and
burst into jubilant song. And the hard-working bumblebee, who also had a
sweetheart, took a moment's rest in honor of the event and buzzed his
delight; and even the long-legged grasshopper, an admirer of the sex, but a
confirmed bachelor, shouted his approbation until he was fairly hoarse.
It was some time before the adventurous hand could be put back where it
properly belonged, and the face beneath the straw, when it came into view,
was a very flushed face, but the brown eyes shone like stars. As they
walked through the old street, the setting sun filling the air with a
golden glory, they passed a sweet-faced old lady cutting flowers in her
garden, and she smiled an indulgent smile, and they nodded and smiled back
at her.
“I want you to promise me something,” Miss Braxton said, suddenly stopping
and looking up at him. “I want you to promise me,” she continued, not
waiting for his reply, “that you will not quarrel with my father. He is the
best father in the world. My mother died when I was a child, and since then
he has been father and mother and the whole world to me. I could never
forgive myself if you exchanged a harsh word with him.”
“If all the stories I hear are true,” replied the Colonel, with a
good-humored laugh, “your father is the one for you to see.”
“My father says a great deal which he frequently regrets the moment
afterwards,” she responded, earnestly. “He is a warm-hearted and an
impulsive man, and the dearest and best father in the world.” The Colonel
gave the desired promise, and they walked on in silence. When they reached
the Elms, and her hand was on the big iron gate, she turned to him, an
appealing look in her eyes. “Must you really go to-morrow?” she asked.
“I am compelled to go,” he replied, sadly. “I have already remained here
too long. I must start to-morrow night.”
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am that you are going away,” she said,
softly, extending her hand. He caught it up passionately.
“I must see you again!” he cried. “I can't go away until I do. It is hard
enough to leave even then. I won't ask you to come away from your father's
house to meet me, but you could be here, couldn't you?”
“When shall I come?” she asked, simply.
“The train leaves to-morrow night at twelve. Could you be here at eleven?”
“I will be here at eleven,” she said; and then, with a brave attempt to
smile, she turned away. Just at that moment General Braxton rounded the
neighboring corner and came straight towards them.
In the hotel across the way the loungers leaning back in their
cane-bottomed chairs straightened up with keenest interest and delight.
Jule Chinn in the Blue-grass Club up-stairs, happening to glance out of the
window, turned his box over, and remarked that if any gentleman cared to
bet, he would lay any part of $5000 on Bill. When the General was directly
opposite him Colonel Bill gravely and courteously lifted his hat. For an
instant the old man hesitated, and then, with a glance at his daughter, he
lifted his own hat and passed through the gate.
“Well, I'll be----!” cried Jule, with a whistle of infinite amazement.
“Things is changed in Kentucky!”
“That,” said Major Cicero Johnson, who had exchanged several hundred
subscriptions to his paper for an ever-decreasing pile of Jule's blue
chips--“that is the tribute which valor pays to beauty. Their pleasure has
only been postponed. Colonel Chinn, you have overlooked that small wager on
the ace. Thanks.”
Ten minutes later Colonel Bill was galloping out to the race-track, gayly
singing a popular love-song. Suddenly something occurred to him and he
stopped, reached back into his hip-pocket, and drew out a long pistol. He
threw it as far as he could into a neighboring brier-patch, and once more
giving rein to his horse, began to sing with renewed enthusiasm.
When he reached the track he called old Elias into his room, and they
remained together for a long time in whispered conference. That night any
one who happened to have been belated on the Versailles 'pike might have
passed Elias jogging along on his horse, looking very important, and an air
of mystery enveloping him like a garment.