The Major had accomplished his errand and had taken his departure,
accompanied down the oleander path as far as the gate by Holly. He
was very well satisfied with his measure of success. Miss India had
consented to remain at Waynewood until the arrival of the new owner,
and if the new owner proved to be the kind of man the Major hoped him
to be, things would work out quite satisfactory. Of course a good deal
depended on Robert Winthrop’s being as much of an invalid as the Major
had pictured him to Miss India. Let him appear on the scene exhibiting
a sound body and rugged health and all the Major’s plans would be
upset; Miss India’s sympathy would vanish on the instant, and Waynewood
would be promptly abandoned to the enemy.
The Major’s affection for Miss India and Holly was deep and sincere,
and the idea of their leaving Waynewood was intolerable to him. The
thing mustn’t be, and he believed he could prevent it. Winthrop, on
arrival, would of course call upon him at once. Then he would point
out to him the advantage of retaining such admirable tenants, acquaint
him with the terms of occupancy, and prevail upon him to renew the
lease, which had expired some months before. It was not likely that
Winthrop would remain in Corunna more than three months at the most,
and during his stay he could pay Miss India for his board. Yes, the
Major had schemed it all out between the moment of receiving that
disquieting letter and the moment of his arrival at Waynewood. And
his schemes looked beyond the present crisis. In another year or so
Julian Wayne, Holly’s second cousin, would have finished his term with
Doctor Thompson at Marysville and would be ready to begin practice
for himself, settle down and marry Holly. Why shouldn’t Julian buy
Waynewood? To be sure, he possessed very little capital, but it was
not likely that the present owner of Waynewood would demand a large
price for the property. There could be a mortgage, and Julian was
certain to make a success of his profession. In this way Waynewood
would remain with the Waynes and Miss India and Holly could live their
lives out in the place that had always been home to them. So plotted
the Major, while Fate, outwardly inscrutable, doubtless chuckled in her
sleeve.
[Illustration]
At the gate the Major had shaken hands with Holly and made a request.
“My dear,” he had said, “when you return to the house your Aunt will
have something to tell you. Be guided by her. Remember that there are
two sides to every question and that――ah――time alters all things.”
“But, Uncle Major, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holly had
declared, laughing.
“I know you don’t, my dear; I know you don’t. And I haven’t time to
tell you.” He had drawn his big silver watch from his vest and glanced
at it apprehensively. “I promised to be at my office an hour ago. I
really must hurry back. Good-bye, my dear.”
“Good-bye,” Holly had answered. “But I think you’re a most provoking,
horrid old Uncle Major.”
But if the Major had feared mutiny on the part of Holly he might
have spared himself the uneasiness. Holly had heard of the impending
event from Aunt India at the dinner table with relish. Of course it
was disgusting to learn that Waynewood was owned by a Northerner, but
doubtless that was an injustice of Fate which would be remedied in
good time. The exciting thing was that they were to have a visitor, a
stranger, someone from that fearsomely interesting and, if reports were
to be credited, delightfully wicked place called New York; someone who
could talk to her of other matters than the prospects of securing the
new railroad.
“Auntie, is he married?” she had asked, suddenly.
“My dear Holly, what has that to do with it?”
“Well, you see,” Holly had responded, demurely, “I’m not married
myself, and when you put two people together who are not married, why,
something may happen.”
“Holly!” protested Miss India, in horror.
“Oh, I was only in fun,” said Holly, with a laugh. “Do you reckon,
Auntie dear, that I’d marry a Northerner?”
“I should certainly trust not,” replied Miss India, severely.
“Not if he had millions and millions of money and whole bushels of
diamonds,” answered Holly, cheerfully. “But is he married, Auntie?”
“I’m sure I can’t say. The Major believes him to be a man of middle
age, possibly fifty years old, and so it is quite likely that he has a
wife.”
“And he is not bringing her with him?”
“He said nothing of it in his letter, my dear.”
“Then I think she’s a very funny kind of a wife,” replied Holly, with
conviction. “If he is an invalid, I don’t see why she lets him come
away down here all alone. I wouldn’t if I were she. I’d be afraid.”
“I don’t reckon he’s as much of an invalid as all that.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about his health then,” answered Holly. “I’d be
afraid he’d meet someone he liked better than me and I wouldn’t see him
again.”
“Holly, where do you get such deplorable notions?” asked her Aunt
severely. “It must be the books you read. You read altogether too much.
At your age, my dear, I assure you I――――”
“I shall be eighteen in just twelve days,” interrupted Holly. “And
eighteen is grown-up. Besides, you know very well that wives do lose
their husbands sometimes. There was Cousin Maybird Fairleigh――――”
“I decline to discuss such vulgar subjects,” said Miss India,
decisively. “Under the circumstances I think it just as well to forget
the relationship, which is of the very slightest, my dear.”
“But it wasn’t Cousin Maybird’s fault,” protested Holly. “She didn’t
want to lose him, Aunt India. He was a very nice husband; very handsome
and distinguished, you know. It was all the fault of that other woman,
the one he married after the divorce.”
“Holly!”
“Yes?”
“We will drop the subject, if you please.”
“Yes, Auntie.”
Holly smiled at her plate. Presently:
“When is this Mr. Winthrop coming?” she asked.
“He didn’t announce the exact date of arrival,” replied Miss India.
“But probably within a day or two. I have ordered Phœbe to prepare the
West Chamber for him. He will, of course, require a warm room and a
good bed.”
“But, Auntie, the carpet is so awful in the West Room,” deplored Holly.
“That is his affair,” replied Aunt India, serenely, as she arose from
the table. “It is his carpet.”
Holly looked surprised, then startled.
“Do you mean that everything here belongs to him?” she asked,
incredulously. “The furniture and pictures and books and――and
everything?”
“Waynewood was sold just as it stood at the time, my dear. Everything
except what is our personal property belongs to Mr. Winthrop.”
“Then I shall hate him,” said Holly, with calm decision.
“You must do nothing of the sort, my dear. The place and the furnishings
belong to him legally.”
“I don’t care, Auntie. He has no right to them. I shall hate him. Why,
he owns the very bed I sleep in and my maple bureau and――――”
“You forget, Holly, that those things were bought after your father
died and do not belong to his estate.”
“Then they’re really mine, after all? Very well, Auntie dear, I shan’t
hate him, then; at least, not so much.”
“I trust you will not hate him at all,” responded Miss India, with a
smile. “Being an invalid, as he is, we must――――”
“Shucks!” exclaimed Holly. “I dare say he’s just making believe so we
won’t put poison in his coffee!”
In the middle of the afternoon, what time Miss India composed herself
to slumber and silence reigned over Waynewood, Holly found a book and
sought the fig-tree. The book, for having been twice read, proved
none too enthralling, and presently it had dropped unheeded to the
ground and Holly, leaning comfortably back against the branches, was
day-dreaming once more. The sound of footsteps on the garden path
roused her, and she peered forth just as the intruder began his half
circuit of the rose-bed.
Afterwards Holly called herself stupid for not having guessed the
identity of the intruder at once. And yet, it seems to me that she was
very excusable. Robert Winthrop had been pictured to her as an invalid,
and invalids in Holly’s judgment were persons who lay supinely in easy
chairs, lived on chicken broth, guava jelly and calomel, and were
alternately irritatingly resigned or maddeningly petulant. The expected
invalid had also been described as middle-aged, a term capable of wide
interpretation and one upon which the worst possible construction is
usually placed. The Major had suggested fifty; Holly with unconscious
pessimism imagined sixty. Add to this that Winthrop was not expected
before the morrow, and that Holly’s acquaintance with the inhabitants
of the country north of Mason and Dixon’s line was of the slightest and
that not of the sort to prepossess her in their favor, and I think she
may be absolved from the charge of stupidity. For the stranger whose
advent in the garden had aroused her from her dreams looked to be under
forty, was far from matching Holly’s idea of an invalid, and looked
quite unlike the one or two Northerners she had seen. To be sure the
man in the garden walked slowly and a trifle languidly, but for that
matter so did many of Holly’s townsfolk. And when he paused at last
with one foot on the lower step his breath was coming a bit raggedly
and his face was too pale for perfect health. But these facts Holly
failed to observe.
What she did observe was that the stranger was rather tall, quite
erect, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, somewhat too thin for the
size of his frame, with a pleasant, lean face of which the conspicuous
features were high cheek-bones, a straightly uncompromising nose and a
pair of nice eyes of some shade neither dark nor light. He wore a brown
mustache which, contrary to the Southern custom, was trimmed quite
short; and when he lifted his hat a moment later Holly saw that his
hair, dark brown in color, had retreated well away from his forehead
and was noticeably sprinkled with white at the temples. As for his
attire, it was immaculate; black derby, black silk tie knotted in a
four-in-hand and secured with a small pearl pin, well-cut grey sack
suit and brown leather shoes. In a Southerner Holly would have thought
such carefulness of dress foppish; in fact, as it was, she experienced
a tiny contempt for it even as she acknowledged that the result was far
from displeasing. Further observations and conclusions were cut short
by the stranger, who advanced toward her with hat in hand and a puzzled
smile.
“How do you do?” said Winthrop.
“Good evening,” answered Holly.
There was a flicker of surprise in Winthrop’s eyes ere he continued.
“I’m afraid I’m trespassing. The fact is, I was looking for a place
called Waynewood and from the directions I received in the village I
thought I had found it. But I guess I’ve made a mistake?”
“Oh, no,” said Holly; “this is Waynewood.”
Winthrop was silent a moment, striving to reconcile the announcement
with her presence: evidently there were complications ahead. At last:
“Oh!” he said, and again paused.
“Would you like to see my Aunt?” asked Holly.
“Er――I hardly know,” answered Winthrop, with a smile for his own
predicament. “Would it sound impolite if I asked who your Aunt is?”
“Why, Miss India Wayne,” answered Holly. “And I am Holly Wayne. Perhaps
you’ve got the wrong place, after all?”
“Oh, no,” was the reply. “You say this is Waynewood, and of course
there can’t be two Waynewoods about here.”
Holly shook her head, observing him gravely and curiously. Winthrop
frowned. Apparently there were complications which he had not surmised.
“Will you come into the house?” suggested Holly. “I will tell Auntie
you wish to see her.” She prepared to descend from the low branch upon
which she was seated, and Winthrop reached a hand to her.
“May I?” he asked, courteously.
Holly placed her hand in his and leaped lightly to the ground, bending
her head as she smoothed her skirt that he might not see the ridiculous
little flush which had suddenly flooded her cheeks. Why, she wondered,
should she have blushed. She had been helped in and out of trees and
carriages, up and down steps, all her life, and couldn’t recollect that
she had ever done such a silly thing before! As she led the way along
the path which ran in front of the porch to the steps, she discovered
that her heart was thumping with a most disconcerting violence. And
with the discovery came a longing for flight. But with a fierce
contempt for her weakness she conquered the panic and kept her flushed
face from the sight of the man behind her. But she was heartily glad
when she had reached the comparative gloom of the hall. Laying aside
her bonnet, she turned to find that her companion had seated himself in
a chair on the porch.
“You won’t mind if I wait here?” he asked, smiling apologetically. “The
fact is――the walk was――――”
Had Holly not been anxious to avoid his eyes she would have seen that
he was fighting for breath and quite exhausted. Instead she turned
toward the stairs, only to pause ere she reached them to ask:
“What name shall I say, please?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Winthrop, please; Mr. Robert Winthrop, of New
York.”
Holly wheeled about.
“Mr. Winthrop!” she exclaimed.
“If you please,” answered that gentleman, weakly.
“Why,” continued Holly, in amazement, “then you aren’t an invalid,
after all!” She had reached the door now and was looking down at him
with bewilderment. Winthrop strove to turn his head toward her, gave up
the effort and smiled strainedly at the marble Cupid, which had begun
an erratic dance amongst the box and roses.
“Oh, no,” he replied in a whisper. “I’m not――an invalid――at all.”
Then he became suddenly very white and his head fell back over the side
of the chair. Holly gave one look and, turning, flew like the wind up
the broad stairway.
[Illustration]
“Auntie!” she called. “Aunt India! Come quickly! He’s fainted!”
“Fainted? Who has fainted?” asked Miss India, from her doorway. “What
are you saying, child?”
“Mr. Winthrop! He’s on the porch!” cried Holly, her own face almost as
white as Winthrop’s.
“Mr. Winthrop! Here? Fainted? On the porch?” ejaculated Miss India,
dismayedly. “Call Uncle Ran at once. I’ll get the ammonia. Tell Phœbe
to bring some feathers. And get some water yourself, Holly.”
In a moment Miss India, the ammonia bottle in hand, was――I had almost
said scuttling down the stairs. At least, she made the descent without
wasting a moment.
“The poor man,” she murmured, as she looked down at the white face and
inert form of the stranger. “Holly! Phœbe! Oh, you’re here, are you?
Give me the water. There! Now bathe his head, Holly. Mercy, child, how
your hand shakes! Have you never seen any one faint before?”
“It was so sudden,” faltered Holly.
“Fainting usually is,” replied Miss India, as she dampened her tiny
handkerchief with ammonia and held it under Winthrop’s nose. “Do not
hold his head too high, Holly; that’s better. What do you say, Phœbe?
Why, you’ll just stand there and hold them until I want them, I reckon.
Dead? Of course he isn’t dead, you foolish girl. Not the least bit
dead. There, his eyelids moved; didn’t you see them? He will be all
right in a moment. You may take those feathers away, Phœbe, and tell
Uncle Ran to come and carry Mr. Winthrop up to his room. And do you go
up and start the fire and turn the bed down.”
Winthrop drew a long breath and opened his eyes.
“My dear lady,” he muttered, “I am so very sorry to bother you. I
don’t――――”
“Sit still a moment, sir,” commanded Miss India, gently. “Holly, I told
you to hold his head. Don’t you see that he is weak and tired? I fear
the journey was too much for you, sir.”
Winthrop closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head assentingly.
Then he sat up and smiled apologetically at the ladies.
“It was awfully stupid of me,” he said. “I have not been very well
lately and I guess the walk from the station was longer than I thought.”
“You walked from the depot!” exclaimed Miss India, in horror. “It’s
no wonder then, sir. Why, it’s a mile and a quarter if it’s a step! I
never heard of anything so――so――――!”
Miss India broke off and turned to the elderly negro, who had arrived
hurriedly on the scene.
“Uncle Ran, carry Mr. Winthrop up to the West Chamber and help him to
retire.”
“My dear lady,” Winthrop protested. “I am quite able to walk. Besides,
I have no intention of burdening you with――――”
“Uncle Ran!”
“Yes’m.”
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes’m.”
Uncle Randall stooped over the chair.
“Jes’ you put yo’ ahms roun’ my neck, sir, an’ I’ll tote you mighty
cahful an’ comfable, sir.”
“But, really, I’d rather walk,” protested Winthrop. “And with your
permission, Miss――Miss Wayne, I’ll return to the village until――――”
“Uncle Ran!”
“Yes, Miss Indy, ma’am, I heahs you. Hol’ on tight, sir.”
And in this ignoble fashion Winthrop took possession of Waynewood.
[Illustration]