Holly sat on the back porch, her slippered feet on the topmost step
of the flight leading to the “bridge” and from thence to the yard.
She wore a simple white dress and dangled a blue-and-white-checked
sun-bonnet from the fingers of her right hand. Her left hand was very
pleasantly occupied, since its pink palm cradled Holly’s chin. Above
the chin Holly’s lips were softly parted, disclosing the tips of three
tiny white teeth; above the mouth, Holly’s eyes gazed abstractedly
away over the roofs of the buildings in the yard and the cabins behind
them, over the tops of the Le Conte pear-trees in the back lot, over
the fringe of pines beyond, to where, like a black speck, a buzzard
circled and dropped and circled again above a distant hill. I doubt if
Holly saw the buzzard. I doubt if she saw anything that you or I could
have seen from where she sat. I really don’t know what she did see, for
Holly was day-dreaming, an occupation to which she had become somewhat
addicted during the last few months.
The mid-morning sunlight shone warmly on the back of the house. Across
the bridge, in the kitchen, Aunt Venus was moving slowly about in
the preparation of dinner, singing a revival hymn in a clear, sweet
falsetto:
“Lord Gawd of Israel,
Lord Gawd of Israel,
Lord Gawd of Israel,
I’s gwan to meet you soon!”
To the right, in front of the disused office, a half-naked morsel of
light brown humanity was seated in the dirt at the foot of the big
sycamore, crooning a funny little accompaniment to his mother’s song,
the while he munched happily at a baked sweet potato and played a
wonderful game with two spools and a chicken leg. Otherwise the yard
was empty of life save for the chickens and guineas and a white cat
asleep on the roof of the well-house. Save for Aunt Venus’s chant and
Young Tom’s crooning (Young Tom to distinguish him from his father),
the morning world was quite silent. The gulf breeze whispered in the
trees and scattered the petals of the late roses. A red-bird sang a
note from the edge of the grove and was still. Aunt Venus, fat and
forty, waddled to the kitchen door, cast a stern glance at Young Tom
and a softer one at Holly, and disappeared again, still singing:
“Lord Gawd of Israel,
Lord Gawd of Israel,
Lord Gawd of Israel,
Wash all mah sins away!”
Back of Holly the door stood wide open, and at the other end of the
broad, cool hall the front portal was no less hospitably placed. And so
it was that when the messenger of Fate limped and thumped his way up
the steps, crossed the front porch and paused in the hall, Holly heard
and leaped to her feet.
“Is anyone at home in this house?” called the messenger.
Holly sped to meet him.
“Good-morning, Uncle Major!”
Major Lucius Quintus Cass changed his cane to his left hand and shook
hands with Holly, drawing her to him and placing a resounding kiss on
one soft cheek.
“The privilege of old age, my dear,” he said; “one of the few things
which reconcile me to gray hairs and rheumatism.” Still holding her
hand, he drew back, his head on one side and his mouth pursed into a
grimace of astonishment. “Dearie me,” he said ruefully, with a shake
of his head, “where’s it going to stop, Holly? Every time I see you I
find you’ve grown more radiant and lovely than before! ’Pears to me, my
dear, you ought to have some pity for us poor men. Gad, if I was twenty
years younger I’d be down on my knees this instant!”
Holly laughed softly and then drew her face into an expression of
dejection.
“That’s always the way,” she sighed. “All the real nice men are either
married or think they’re too old to marry. I reckon I’ll just die an
old maid, Uncle Major.”
“Rather than allow it,” the Major replied, gallantly, “I’ll dye my hair
and marry you myself! But don’t you talk that way to me, young lady; I
know what’s going on in the world. They tell me the Marysville road’s
all worn out from the travel over it.”
Holly tossed her head.
“That’s only Cousin Julian,” she said.
“Humph! ‘Only Cousin Julian,’ eh? Well, Cousin Julian’s a fine-looking
beau, my dear, and Doctor Thompson told me only last week that he’s
doing splendidly, learning to poison folks off real natural and saw
off their legs and arms so’s it’s a genuine pleasure to them. I reckon
that in about a year or so Cousin Julian will be thinking of getting
married. Eh? What say?”
“He may for all of me,” laughed Holly. But her cheeks wore a little
deeper tint, and the Major chuckled. Then he became suddenly grave.
“Is your Aunt at home?” he asked, in a low voice.
“She’s up-stairs,” answered Holly. “I’ll tell her you’re here, sir.”
“Just a moment,” said the Major, hurriedly. “I――oh, Lord!” He rubbed
his chin slowly, and looked at Holly in comical despair. “Holly, pity
the sorrows of a poor old man.”
“What have you been doing, Uncle Major?” asked Holly, sternly.
“Nothing, ’pon my word, my dear! That is――well, almost nothing. I
thought it was all for the best, but now――――” He stopped and shook
his head. Then he threw back his shoulders, surrendered his hat and
stick to the girl, and marched resolutely into the parlor. There he
turned, pointed upward and nodded his head silently. Holly, smiling but
perplexed, ran up-stairs.
Left alone in the big, square, white-walled room, dim and still, the
Major unbuttoned his long frock coat and threw the lapels aside with a
gesture of bravado. But in another instant he was listening anxiously
to the confused murmur of voices from the floor above and plucking
nervously at the knees of his trousers. Presently a long-drawn sigh
floated onto the silence, and――
“Godamighty!” whispered the Major; “I wish I’d never done it!”
The Major was short in stature and generous of build. Since the war,
when a Northern bullet had almost terminated the usefulness of his
right leg, he had been a partial cripple and the enforced quiescence
had resulted in a portliness quite out of proportion to his height. He
had a large round head, still well covered with silky iron-gray hair,
a jovial face lit by restless, kindly eyes of pale blue, a large,
flexible mouth, and an even more generous nose. The cheeks had become
somewhat pendulous of late years and reminded one of the convenient
sacks in which squirrels place nuts in temporary storage. The Major
shaved very closely over the whole expanse of face each morning and
by noon was tinged an unpleasant ghastly blue by the undiscouraged
bristles.
Although Holly called him “Uncle” he was in reality no relation. He
had ever been, however, her father’s closest friend and on terms of
greater intimacy than many near relations. Excepting only Holly, none
had mourned more truly at Lamar Wayne’s death. The Captain had been the
Major’s senior by only one year, but seeing them together one would
have supposed the discrepancy in age much greater. The Major always
treated the Captain like an older brother, accepting his decisions with
unquestioning loyalty, and accorded him precedence in all things. It
was David and Jonathan over again. Even after the war, in which the
younger man had won higher promotion, the Major still considered the
Captain his superior officer.
The Major pursued an uncertain law practice and had served for some
time as Circuit Judge. Among the negroes he was always “Major
Jedge.” That he had never been able to secure more than the simplest
comforts of life in the pursuit of his profession was largely due to
an unpractical habit of summoning the opposing parties in litigation
to his office and settling the case out of court. Add to this that
fully three-fourths of his clients were negroes, and that “Major
Jedge” was too soft-hearted to insist on payment for his services when
the client was poorer than he, and you can readily understand that
Major Lucius Quintus Cass’s fashion of wearing large patches on his
immaculately-shining boots was not altogether a matter of choice.
[Illustration]
The Major had not long to wait for an audience. As he adjusted his
trouser-legs for the third time the sound of soft footfalls on the bare
staircase reached him. He glanced apprehensively at the open door,
puffed his cheeks out in a mighty exhalation of breath, and arose
from his chair just as Miss India Wayne swept into the room. I say
swept advisedly, for in spite of the lady’s diminutive stature she was
incapable of entering a room in any other manner. Where other women
walked, Miss India swept; where others bowed, Miss India curtseyed;
where others sat down, Miss India subsided. Hers were the manners and
graces of a half-century ago. She was fifty-four years old, but many
of those years had passed over her very lightly. Small, perfectly
proportioned, with a delicate oval face surmounted by light brown hair,
untouched as yet by frost and worn in a braided coronet, attired in a
pale lavender gown of many ruffles, she was for all the world like a
little Chelsea figurine. She smiled upon the Major a trifle anxiously
as she shook hands and bowed graciously to his compliments. Then
seating herself erectly on the sofa――for Miss India never lolled――she
folded her hands in her lap and looked calmly expectant at the visitor.
As the visitor exhibited no present intention of broaching the subject
of his visit she took command of the situation, just as she was
capable of and accustomed to taking command of most situations.
“Holly has begged me not to be hard on you, Major,” she said, in her
sweet, still youthful voice. “Pray what have you been doing now? You
are not here, I trust, to plead guilty to another case of reprehensible
philanthropy?”
“No, Miss Indy, I assure you that you have absolutely reformed me,
ma’am.”
Miss India smiled in polite incredulity, tapping one slender hand upon
the other as she might in the old days at the White Sulphur have tapped
him playfully, yet quite decorously, with her folded fan. The Major
chose not to observe the incredulity and continued:
“The fact is, my dear Miss Indy, that I have come on a matter of
more――ah――importance. You will recollect――pardon me, pray, if I recall
unpleasant memories to mind――you will recollect that when your brother
died it was found that he had unfortunately left very little behind him
in the way of worldly wealth. He passed onward, madam, rich in the
love and respect of the community, but poor in earthly possessions.”
The Major paused and rubbed his bristly chin agitatedly. Miss India
bowed silently.
“As his executor,” continued the Major, “it was my unpleasant duty
to offer this magnificent estate for sale. It was purchased, as you
will recollect, by Judge Linderman, of Georgia, a friend of your
brother’s――――”
“Pardon me, Major; an acquaintance.”
“Madam, all those so fortunate as to become acquainted with Captain
Lamar Wayne were his friends.”
Miss India bowed again and waived the point.
“Judge Linderman, as he informed me at the time of the purchase,
bought the property as a speculation. He was the owner of much real
estate throughout the South. At his most urgent request you consented
to continue your residence at Waynewood, paying him rent for the
property.”
“But nevertheless,” observed Miss India, a trifle bitterly, “being to a
large extent an object of his charity. The sum paid as rent is absurd.”
“Nominal, madam, I grant you,” returned the Major. “Had our means
allowed we should have insisted on paying more. But you are unjust to
yourself when you speak of charity. As I pointed out――or, rather, as
Judge Linderman pointed out to me, had you moved from Waynewood he
would have been required to install a care-taker, which would have cost
him several dollars a month, whereas under the arrangement made he drew
a small but steady interest from the investment. I now come, my dear
Miss Indy, to certain facts which are――with which you are, I think,
unacquainted. That that is so is my fault, if fault there is. Believe
me, I accept all responsibility in the matter and am prepared to bear
your reproaches without a murmur, knowing that I have acted for what I
have believed to be the best.”
Miss India’s calm face showed a trace of agitation and her crossed
hands trembled a little.
The Major paused as though deliberating.
“Pray continue, Major,” she said. “Whatever you have done has been
done, I am certain, from motives of true friendship.”
The Major bowed gratefully.
“I thank you, madam. To resume, about four years ago Judge Linderman
became bankrupt through speculation in cotton. That, I believe,
you already knew. What you did not know was that in meeting his
responsibilities he was obliged to part with all his real estate
holdings, Waynewood amongst them.”
The Major paused, expectantly, but the only comment from his audience,
if comment it might be called, was a quivering sigh of apprehension
which sent the Major quickly on with his story.
“Waynewood fell into the hands of a Mr. Gerald Potter, of New York, a
broker, who――――”
“A Northerner!” cried Miss India.
“A Northerner, my dear lady,” granted the Major, avoiding the lady’s
horrified countenance, “but, as I have been creditably informed, a
thorough gentleman and a representative of one of the foremost New York
families.”
“A gentleman!” echoed Miss India, scornfully. “A Northern gentleman!
And so I am to understand that for four years I and my niece have been
subsisting on the charity of a Northerner! Is that what you have come
to inform me, Major Cass?”
“The former arrangement was allowed to continue,” answered the Major,
evenly, “being quite satisfactory to the new owner of the property. I
regret, if you will pardon me, the use of the word charity, Miss India.”
“You may regret it to your soul’s content, Major Cass,” replied Miss
India, with acerbity. “The fact remains――the horrible, dishonoring
fact! I consider your course almost――and I had never thought to use
the word to you, sir――insulting!”
“It is indeed a harsh word, madam,” replied the Major, gently and
sorrowfully. “I realize that I have been ill-advised in keeping
the truth from you, but in a calmer moment you will, I am certain,
exonerate me from all intentions unworthy of my love for your dead
brother and of my respect for you.” There was a suggestive tremble in
the Major’s voice.
Miss India dropped her eyes to the hands which were writhing agitatedly
in her lap. Then:
“You are right, my dear friend,” she said, softly. “I was too hasty.
You will forgive me, will you not? But――this news of yours――is so
unexpected, so astounding――――!”
“Pray say no more!” interposed the Major, warmly. “I quite understand
your agitation. And since the subject is unpleasant to you I will
conclude my explanation as quickly as possible.”
“There is more?” asked Miss India, anxiously.
“A little. Mr. Potter kept the property some three years and then――I
learned these facts but a few hours since――then became involved in
financial troubles and――pardon me――committed suicide. He was found at
his desk in his office something over a year ago with a bullet in his
brain.”
“Horrible!” ejaculated Miss India, but――and may I in turn be pardoned
if I do the lady an injustice――there was something in her tone
suggesting satisfaction with the manner in which a just Providence had
dealt with a Northerner so presumptuous as to dishonor Waynewood with
his ownership. “And now?” she asked.
“This morning I received a letter from a gentleman signing himself
Robert Winthrop, a business partner of the late unfortunate owner of
the property. In the letter he informs me that after arranging the
firm’s affairs he finds himself in possession of Waynewood and is
coming here to look it over and, if it is in condition to allow of it,
to spend some months here. He writes――let me see; I have his letter
here. Ah, yes. H’m:
“‘My health went back on me after I had got affairs fixed up,
and I have been dandling my heels about a sanitarium for three
months. Now the physician advises quiet and a change of scene,
and it occurs to me that I may find both in your town. So I am
leaving almost at once for Florida. Naturally, I wish to see my
new possessions, and if the house is habitable I shall occupy
it for three or four months. When I arrive I shall take the
liberty of calling on you and asking your assistance in the
matter.’”
The Major folded the letter and returned it to the cavernous pocket of
his coat.
“I gather that he is――ah――uninformed of the present arrangement,” he
observed.
“That, I think, is of slight importance,” returned Miss India, “since
by the time he arrives the house will be quite at his disposal.”
“You mean that you intend to move out?” asked the Major, anxiously.
“Most certainly! Do you think that I――that either Holly or I――would
continue to remain under this roof a moment longer than necessary now
that we know it belongs to a――a Northerner?”
“But he writes――he expresses himself like a gentleman, my dear lady,
and I feel certain that he would be only too proud to have you remain
here――――”
“I have never yet seen a Northern gentleman, Major,” replied Miss
India, contemptuously, “and until I do I refuse to believe in the
existence of such an anomaly.”
The Major raised his hands in a gesture of helpless protestation.
“Madam, I had the honor of fighting the Northerners, and I assure you
that many of them are gentlemen. Their ways are not ours, I grant you,
nor are their manners, but――――”
“That is a subject upon which, I recollect, you and my brother were
never able to agree.”
The Major nodded ruefully. The momentary silence was broken at last by
Miss India.
“I do not pretend to pit my imperfect knowledge against yours, Major.
There may be Northerners who have gentlemanly instincts. That, as may
be, I refuse to be beholden to one of them. They were our enemies and
they are still _my_ enemies. They killed my brother John; they brought
ruin to our land.”
“The killing, madam, was not all on their side, I take satisfaction in
recalling. And if they brought distress to the South they have since
very nobly assisted us to restore it.”
“My brother has said many times,” replied the lady, “that he might in
time forgive the North for knocking us down but that he could never
forgive it for helping us up. You have heard him say that, Major?”
“I have, my dear Miss India, I have. And yet I venture to say that had
the Lord spared Lamar for another twenty years he would have modified
his convictions.”
“Never,” said Miss India, sternly; “never!”
“You may be right, my dear lady, but there was something else I have
often heard him say.”
“And pray what is that?”
“A couplet of Mr. Pope’s, madam:
“‘Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”
“I reckon, however,” answered the lady, dryly, “that you never heard
him connect that sentiment with the Yankees.”
The Major chuckled.
“Deftly countered, madam!” he said. And then, taking advantage of the
little smile of gratification which he saw: “But this is a subject
which you and I, Miss India, can no more agree upon than could your
brother and myself. Let us pass it by. But grant me this favor. Remain
at Waynewood until this Mr. Winthrop arrives. See him before you judge
him, madam. Remember that if what he writes gives a fair exposition of
the case, he is little better than an invalid and so must find sympathy
in every woman’s heart. There is time enough to go, if go you must,
afterwards. It is scarcely likely that Mr. Winthrop could find better
tenants. And no more likely that you and Holly could find so pleasant a
home. Do this, ma’am.”
And Miss India surrendered; not at once, you must know, but after a
stubborn defence, and then only when mutineers from her own lines made
common cause with the enemy. Before the allied forces of the Major’s
arguments and her own womanly sympathy she was forced to capitulate.
And so when a few moments later Holly, after a sharp skirmish of her
own in which she had been decisively beaten by Curiosity, appeared
at the door, she found Aunt India and the Major amicably discussing
village affairs.