Holly came softly down the stairs, one small hand laid upon the
broad mahogany rail to steady her descent, her little slippered feet
twinkling in and out from beneath the hem of her gingham skirt, her
lithe young body swaying in unconscious rhythm with the song she was
singing under her breath. It was not yet seven o’clock, and no one
save the servants was astir. Holly had always been an early riser, and
when the weather permitted the hour before breakfast was spent by her
in the open air. On warm mornings she kept to the grateful shade of
the porch, perching herself on the joggling-board and gently jouncing
herself up and down the while she stared thoughtfully out across the
garden into the cool green gloom of the grove, an exercise undoubtedly
beneficial to the liver but one which would have resulted with most
persons in a total disinclination for breakfast. On those terribly cold
winter mornings when the water-pail on the back porch showed a film of
ice, she slipped down the oleander path and out on to the road for a
brisk walk or huddled herself in a sun-warmed corner at the back of the
house. But this morning, which held neither the heat of summer nor the
tang of frost, when, after unlatching the front door and swinging it
creakingly open, she emerged on to the porch, she stood for a moment
in the deep shadow of it, gazing happily down upon the pleasant scene
before her.
[Illustration]
Directly in front of her spread the fragrant quadrangle of the garden,
the paths, edged with crumbling bricks set cantwise in the dark soil,
curving and angling between the beds in formal precision. In the
centre, out of a tangle of rose-bushes and box, the garlanded Cupid,
tinged to pale gold by the early sunlight, smiled across at her. About
him clustered tender blooms of old-fashioned roses, and the path was
sprinkled with the fallen petals. Beyond, the long tunnel between the
oleanders was still filled with the lingering shadows of dawn. To right
and left of the centre bed lay miniature jungles of overgrown shrubs;
roses, deutzias, cape jasmines, Japan quinces, sweet shrubs and all
the luxuriant hodge-podge of a Southern garden somewhat run to seed,
a little down at the heels maybe, but radiantly beautiful in its very
disorder.
[Illustration]
On the far side, the garden was bordered with taller
shrubs――crépe-myrtles, mimosas, camelias, which merged imperceptibly
into the trees of the grove. To the right, beyond the bordering path,
a few pear-trees showed their naked branches and a tall frankincense
tree threw delicate shadow-tracery over the corner bed. To the left
were Japan plums and pomegranates and figs, half hiding the picket
fence, and a few youthful orange-trees, descendants of sturdy ancestors
who had lost their lives in the freeze three years before. A huge
magnolia spread its shapely branches over one of the beds, its trunk
encircled by a tempting seat. Ribbon-grass swayed gently here and there
above the rioting shrubbery, and at the corner of the porch, where a
gate gave on to the drive, a clump of banana-trees, which had almost
but not quite borne fruit that year, reared their succulent green stems
in a sunny nook and arched their great broad leaves, torn and ribboned
by the winds, with tropical effect. Near at hand, against the warm red
chimney, climbed a Baltimore Belle, festooning the end of the house for
yards with its tiny, glossy leaves. The shadow of the house cut the
garden sharply into two triangles, the dividing line between sunlight
and shade crossing the pedestal of the smiling Cupid. Everywhere
glistened diamonds of dew, and over all, growing more intense each
instant as the sunlight and warmth grew in ardor, was the thrilling
fragrance of the roses and the box, of damp earth and awakening leaves.
[Illustration]
While Holly’s mother had lived the garden had been her pride and
delight. It had been known to fame all through that part of the State
and the beauty of the Wayne roses was a proverb. But now the care of
it fell to Uncle Ran, together with the care of a bewildering number
of other things, and Uncle Ran had neither the time nor the knowledge
to maintain its former perfection. Holly loved it devotedly, knew it
from corner to corner. At an earlier age she had plucked the blossoms
for dolls and played with them for long hours on the seat under the
magnolia. The full-blown roses were grown-up ladies, with beautiful
outspread skirts of pink, white or yellow, and little green waists.
The half-opened roses were young ladies, and tiny white violets, or
waxen orange-blooms or little blossoms of the deutzia were the babies.
For the men, although Holly seldom bothered much with men, there were
the jonquils or the oleanders. She knew well where the first blue
violets were to be found, where the white jonquils broke first from
their green calyces, where the little yellow balls of the opopanax
were sweetest, what rose-petals were best adapted to being formed into
tiny sacs and exploded against the forehead, and many other wonderful
secrets of that fair domain. But in spite of all this, Holly was no
gardener.
[Illustration]
She loved flowers just as she loved the deep blue Florida sky with
its hazy edges, the soft wind from the Gulf, the golden sunlight, the
birds and bees and butterflies――just as she loved everything that was
quickened with the wonderful breath of Nature. There was something of
the pagan in Holly when it came to devotion to Nature. And yet she had
no ability to make things grow. From her mother she had inherited the
love of trees and plants and flowers but not the gift of understanding
them. Doubtless the Druids, with all their veneration for the oak and
mistletoe, would have been sorely puzzled had they had to rear their
leafy temples from planted acorns.
[Illustration]
Holly went down the steps and, holding her gown away from the
moisture-beaded branches, buried her face in a cluster of pink roses.
Then, struck by a thought, she returned to the house, reappearing
a moment later with her hands encased in a pair of old gloves, and
carrying scissors.
Aunt India didn’t believe in bringing flowers into the house. “If the
Lord had intended us to have them on the tables and mantels,” she said,
“He’d have put them there. But He didn’t; He meant them to be out
of doors and we ought to be satisfied to admire them where He’s put
them.” Usually Holly respected her Aunt’s prejudice, but to-day seemed
in a way a special occasion. The Cloth of Gold roses seemed crying to
be gathered, and their stems snipped gratefully under the scissors as
she made her way along the edge of the bed. Her hands were almost full
of the big yellow blooms when footsteps sounded on the porch and she
glanced up to see Winthrop descending the steps. She wondered with
sudden dismay whether she was going to blush as she had yesterday, and,
for fear that she was, leaned far over the refractory cluster she was
cutting. Winthrop’s footsteps approached along the sandy walk, and――
[Illustration]
“Good-morning, Miss Holly,” he said.
“Good-morning,” answered Holly, and, having won her prize started to
straighten up. “I hope――――”
But instead of finishing the polite inquiry she said “_Oh!_” A branch
of the rose-bush had caught in her hair, and the more she tugged the
more firmly it held.
“Still a moment,” said Winthrop. He leaned over and disentangled the
thorns. “There you are. I hope I didn’t pull very hard?”
“Thank you,” murmured Holly, raising a very red face. Winthrop, looking
down into it, smiled; smiled for no particular reason, save that the
morning air was very delightful, the morning sunlight very warm and
cheering, and the face before him very lovely to look at. But Holly,
painfully aware of her burning cheeks, thought he was smiling at her
blushes. “What a silly he must think me!” she reflected, angrily.
“Blushing every time he comes near!” She busied herself with the roses
for a moment.
“You’ve got more than you can manage, haven’t you?” asked Winthrop.
“Suppose you entrust them to me; then you’ll have your hands free.”
“I can manage very nicely, thank you,” answered Holly, a trifle
haughtily.
Winthrop’s smile deepened.
“Do you know what I think, Miss Holly?” he asked.
“No,” said Holly, looking about her in a very preoccupied way in search
of more blossoms.
“I think you’re a little bit resentful because I’ve come to share your
Eden. I believe you were playing that you were Eve and that you were
all alone here except for the serpent.”
“Playing!” said Holly, warmly. “Please, how old do you think I am, Mr.
Winthrop?”
“My dear young lady,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “I wouldn’t think
of even speculating on so serious a subject. But supposing you are
very, very old, say seventeen――or even eighteen!――still you haven’t,
I hope, got beyond the age of make-believe. Why, even I――and, as you
will readily see, I have one foot almost in the grave――even I sometimes
make-believe.”
“Do you?” murmured Holly, very coldly.
There was silence for a moment during which Holly added further prizes
to her store and Winthrop followed her and watched her in mingled
admiration and amusement――admiration for the grace and beauty and sheer
youth of her, amusement at her evident resentment.
“I’m sorry,” he said presently, slowly and thoughtfully.
“At what?” Holly allowed herself a fleeting look at his face. It was
very serious and regretful, but the smile still lurked in the dark
eyes, and Holly’s vanity flew to arms again.
“Sorry that I’ve said something to displease you,” returned Winthrop.
“You see, I was hoping to make friends with you, Miss Holly.”
Holly thought of a dozen questions to ask, but heroically refrained.
“I gathered from Major Cass last evening,” continued Winthrop, “that
Northerners are not popular at Waynewood. But you seemed a very kind
young lady, and I thought that if I could only win you over to my side
you might intercede for me with your aunt. You see, I’d like very much
to stay here, but I’m afraid Miss Wayne isn’t going to take to the
idea. And now I’ve gone and antagonized the very person I meant to win
for an ally.”
“I don’t see why you can’t stay here if you want to,” answered Holly.
“Waynewood belongs to you.”
“But what would I do here all alone?” asked Winthrop. “I’m a frightfully
helpless, ignorant chap. Why, I don’t even know how to cook a beefsteak!
And as for beaten biscuit――――!”
Holly smiled, in spite of herself.
“But you could hire some servants, I reckon.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t know how to manage them, really. No, the only way in
which I can remain here is as your guest, Miss Holly. I’ve asked Major
Cass to tell Miss Wayne that, and I’ve no doubt but what he will do
all he can for me, but I fancy that a word from you would help a lot,
Miss Holly. Don’t you think you could tell your aunt that I am a very
respectable sort of a fellow, one who has never been known to give any
trouble? I have been with some of the best families and I can give
references from my last place, if necessary.”
“I reckon you don’t know Aunt India,” laughed Holly. “If she says you
can’t stay, you can’t, and it wouldn’t do a mite of good if I talked
myself black in the face.”
Holly turned toward the house and he followed.
“You think, then,” he asked, “that there’s nothing more we can do to
influence Fate in my behalf?”
[Illustration]
Holly ran lightly up the steps, tossed the flowers in a heap on the
porch, and sat down with her back against a pillar. Then she pointed
to the opposite side of the steps.
“Sit down there,” she commanded.
[Illustration]
Winthrop bowed and obeyed. Holly clasped her hands about her knees, and
looked across at him with merry eyes.
“Mr. Winthrop.”
“Madam?”
“What will you give me if I let you stay?”
“Pardon my incredulity,” replied Winthrop, “but is your permission all
that is necessary?”
Holly nodded her head many times.
“If I say you can stay, you can,” she said, decisively.
“Then in exchange for your permission I will give you half my kingdom,”
answered Winthrop, gravely.
“Oh, I don’t think I could use half a kingdom. It would be like owning
half a horse, wouldn’t it? Supposing I wanted my half to go and the
other half wouldn’t?”
“Then take it all.”
“No, because I reckon your kingdom’s up North, and I wouldn’t want
a kingdom I couldn’t live in. It will have to be something else, I
reckon.”
“And I have so little with me,” mourned Winthrop. “I dare say you
wouldn’t have any use for a winter overcoat or a pair of patent-leather
shoes? They’re about all I have to offer.”
“No,” laughed Holly; “anyhow, not the overcoat. Do you think the shoes
would fit me?”
She advanced one little slippered foot from beyond the hem of her
skirt. Winthrop looked, and shook his head.
“Honestly, I’m afraid not,” he said. “I don’t believe I ever saw a shoe
that would fit you, Miss Holly.”
Holly acknowledged the compliment with a ceremonious bow and a little
laugh.
“I didn’t know you Northerners could pay compliments,” she said.
“We are a very adaptable people,” answered Winthrop, “and pride
ourselves on being able to face any situation.”
“But you haven’t told me what you’ll give me, Mr. Winthrop.”
“I have exhausted my treasures, Miss Holly. There remains only myself.
I throw myself at your feet, my dear young lady; I will be your slave
for life.”
“Oh, I thought you Northerners didn’t believe in slavery,” said Holly.
“We don’t believe in compulsory slavery, Miss Holly. To be a slave to
Beauty is always a pleasure.”
“Another compliment!” cried Holly. “Two before breakfast!”
“And the day is still young,” laughed Winthrop.
“Oh, I won’t demand any more, Mr. Winthrop; you’ve done your duty
already.”
“As you like; I am your slave.”
“How lovely! I never had a slave before,” said Holly, reflectively.
“I fear your memory is poor, Miss Holly. I’ll wager you’ve had, and
doubtless still have, a score of them quite as willing as I.”
Holly blushed a little, but shook her head.
“Not I. But it’s a bargain, Mr. Winthrop. I won’t keep you for life,
though; when you leave here I’ll give you your ‘freedance,’ as the
negroes say. But while you are here you are to do just as I tell you.
Will you?” she added, sternly.
“I obey implicitly,” answered Winthrop. “And now?”
“Why, you may stay, of course. Besides, it was all arranged last
evening. Uncle Major and Auntie fixed it all up between them after he
came down from seeing you. You are to have the room you are in and the
one back of it, if you want it, and you are to pay three dollars and
a-half a week; one dollar for your room and two dollars and a-half for
your board.”
“But――isn’t that――――?”
“Please don’t!” begged Holly. “I don’t know anything about it. If it’s
too much, you must speak to Aunt India or Major Cass.”
“I was about to suggest that it seemed ridiculously little,” said
Winthrop. “But――――”
“Gracious!” exclaimed Holly. “Uncle Major thought it ought to be more,
but Auntie wouldn’t hear of it. Do you think it should be?”
“Well, I’m scarcely a disinterested party,” laughed Winthrop, “but it
doesn’t sound much, does it?”
“Three dollars and a-half!” said Holly, slowly and thoughtfully. Then
she nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, it sounds a whole lot.” She
laughed softly. “It’s very funny, though, isn’t it?”
“What?” he asked, smiling in sympathy.
“Why, that you should be paying three dollars and a-half a week for the
privilege of being a slave!”
“Ah, but that’s it,” answered Winthrop. “It is a privilege, as you say.”
“Oh!” cried Holly, in simulated alarm. “You’re at it again, Mr.
Winthrop!”
“At it? At what?”
“Compliments, compliments, sir! You’ll have none left for this evening
if you don’t take care. Just think; you might meet a beautiful young
lady this evening and not have any compliments for her! Wouldn’t that
be dreadful?”
“Horrible,” answered Winthrop. “I shudder.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Holly, suddenly.
“Hungry? No――yes――I hardly know.”
“You’re probably starving, then,” said Holly, jumping up and sweeping
the roses into her arms. “I’ll see if breakfast isn’t nearly ready.
Auntie doesn’t come down to breakfast very often, and it’s my place to
see that it’s on time. But I never do, and it never is. Do you love
punctuality, Mr. Winthrop?”
“Can’t bear it, Miss Holly.”
She stood a little way off, smiling down at him, a soft flush in her
cheeks.
“You always say just the right thing, don’t you?” She laughed. “How do
you manage it?”
“Long practice, my dear young lady. When you’ve lived as long as I have
you will have discovered that it is much better to say the right thing
than the wrong――even when the right thing isn’t altogether right.”
“Yes, I reckon so, but――sometimes it’s an awful temptation to say the
wrong, isn’t it? Are you awfully old? May I guess?”
“I shall be flattered.”
“Then――forty?”
Winthrop sighed loudly.
“Too much? Wait! Thirty――thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Is that very old? I shall be eighteen in a few days.”
“Really? Then, you see, I have already lived twice as long as you have.”
“Yes,” Holly nodded, thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t think I want
to live to be real, real old; I think I’d rather die before――before
that.”
“And what do you call real, real old?” asked Winthrop.
“Oh, I don’t know; fifty, I reckon.”
“Then I have twelve years longer to live,” said Winthrop, gravely.
Holly turned a pair of startled eyes upon him.
“No, no! It’s different with you; you’re a man.”
“Oh, that makes a difference?”
“Lots! Men can do heaps of things, great, big things, after they’re
old, but a woman――――” She paused and shrugged her shoulders in a funny,
exaggerated way that Winthrop thought charming. “What is there for a
woman when she’s that old?”
“Much,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “if she has been a wise woman.
There should be her children to love and to love her, and if she has
married the right man there will be that love, too, in the afternoon of
her life.”
“Children,” murmured Holly. “Yes, that would be nice; but they wouldn’t
be children then, would they? And――supposing they died before? The
woman would be terribly lonely, wouldn’t she――in the afternoon?”
Winthrop turned his face away and looked out across the sunlit garden.
“Yes,” he said, very soberly; “yes, she would be lonely.”
Something in his tones drew Holly’s attention. How deep the lines about
his mouth were this morning, and how gray the hair was at his temples;
she had not noticed it before. Yes, after all, thirty-eight was quite
old. That thought or some other moved her to a sudden sentiment of
pity. Impulsively she tore one of the big yellow roses from the bunch
and with her free hand tossed it into his lap.
“Do you know, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, softly, “I reckon we’re going to
be friends, you and I,――that is, if you want to.”
Winthrop sprang to his feet, the rose in his hand.
“I do want to, Miss Holly,” he said, earnestly. Somehow, before she
realized it, Holly’s hand was in his. “I want it very much. I haven’t
very many friends, I guess, and when one gets toward forty he doesn’t
find them as easily as he did. Is it a bargain, then? We are to be
friends, very good friends, Miss Holly?”
“Yes,” answered Holly, simply, “very good friends.”
Her dark eyes looked seriously into his for a moment. Then she withdrew
her hand, laughed softly under her breath and turned toward the door.
But on the threshold she looked back over her shoulder, the old
mischief in her face.
“But don’t you go and forget that you’re my slave, Mr. Winthrop,” she
said.
“Never! You have fettered me with roses.”