[Illustration]
Miss India made no exception that morning to her general rule, and
Holly presided over the coffee cups. The table was rather large, and
although Winthrop’s place was in the middle, facing the open door onto
the back porch, there was quite an expanse of emptiness between him
and his hostess. Through the door and across the bridge to the kitchen
Phœbe trotted at minute intervals to bring fresh relays of hot biscuits
and buckwheat cakes. The dining-room was rather shabby. The walls
were papered in dark brown, and the floor was covered with linoleum.
A mahogany sideboard, which took up quite ten feet of one end of the
room, looked sadly out of its element. Three pictures in tarnished gilt
frames hung by thick green cords very close to the ceiling, so that
Winthrop was spared the necessity of close examination, something which
they did not invite. But for all its shabbiness there was something
comfortable about the room, something homey that made the old dishes
with their chipped edges and half-obliterated ornamentation seem
eminently suitable, and that gave Winthrop a distinct sensation of
pleasure.
He found that, in spite of his previous uncertainty, he was very
hungry, and, although he had hard work to keep from grimacing over
the first taste of the coffee, he ate heartily and enjoyed it all.
And while he ate, Holly talked. Sometimes he slipped in a word of
comment or a question, but they were not necessary so far as Holly
was concerned. There was something almost exciting for her in the
situation. To have an audience who was quite fresh and sympathetic was
an event in her life, and there are so many, many things one has to
say at eighteen. And Winthrop enjoyed it almost as much as Holly. Her
_naive_ views of life amused even while they touched him. She seemed
very young for her age, and very unsophisticated after the Northern
girls Winthrop knew. And he found her voice and pronunciation charming,
besides. He loved the way she made “I” sound like “Ah,” the way she
narrowed some vowels and broadened others, her absolute contempt for
the letter “r.” The soft drawl of Southern speech was new to him, and
he found it fascinating. Once Holly stopped abruptly in the middle of
a sentence, laid her left hand palm downwards on the edge of the table
and struck her knuckles sharply with the handle of her knife.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Winthrop, in surprise.
“Punishment,” answered Holly, gravely, the chastised hand held against
her lips. “You see there are three words that Auntie doesn’t like me
to use, and when I do use them I rap my knuckles.”
“Oh,” smiled Winthrop, “and does it help?”
“I don’t reckon it’s helped much yet,” said Holly, “but maybe it will.
It sure does hurt, though.”
“And may I ask what the words are?”
“One is ‘Fiddle.’ Does that sound very bad to you?”
“N-no, I think not. What does it signify, please?”
“Oh, you just say ‘Fiddle’ when――when something happens you don’t like.”
“I see; ‘Fiddle;’ yes, quite expressive. And the others?”
“‘Shucks’ is one of them.”
“Used, I fancy, in much the same sense as ‘Fiddle’?”
Holly nodded.
“Only――only not so much so,” she added.
“Certainly not,” replied Winthrop. “I understand. For instance, if you
fell down stairs you’d say ‘Fiddle!’ but if you merely bumped your
head you’d say ‘Shucks!’”
“Yes,” laughed Holly.
“And the third prohibited word?” asked Winthrop.
“That’s――that’s――――” Holly bent her head very meekly over her
plate――“that’s ‘Darnation!’”
“Expressive, at least,” laughed Winthrop. “That is reserved, I suppose,
for such extraordinary occasions as when you fall from a sixth-story
window?”
“No; I say that when I stick a needle into my finger,” answered Holly.
“It seems to suit better than ‘Fiddle’ or ‘Shucks;’ don’t you think so,
Mr. Winthrop?”
“Well, I don’t remember ever having stuck a needle into my finger, but
I’ll try it some time and give you my candid opinion on the question.”
After breakfast Winthrop wandered out into the garden and from thence
into the grove beyond. There were pines and cedars here, and oaks, and
other trees which he didn’t know the names of. The gray-green Spanish
moss draped an occasional limb, and at times there was some underbrush.
Finding the drive, he followed it toward the gate, but before reaching
the latter he struck off again through a clearing and climbed a little
knoll on the summit of which a small brick-walled enclosure guarded
by three huge oaks attracted his attention and aroused his curiosity.
But he didn’t open the little iron gate when he reached it. Within the
square enclosure were three graves, two close together near at hand,
one somewhat removed. From where he leaned across the crumbling wall
Winthrop could read the inscriptions on the three simple headstones.
The farther grave was that of “John Wayne, born Fairfield, Kentucky,
Feb. 1, 1835; fell at Malvern Hill, July 1, 1862; interred in this spot
July 28, 1862.”
The nearer of the two graves which lay together was that, as Winthrop
surmised, of Holly’s mother. Behind the headstone a rose-bush had been
planted, and this morning one tiny bloom gleamed wanly in the shadow
of the wall. “To the Beloved Memory of Margaret Britton, Wife of Lamar
Wayne; Sept. 3, 1853–Jan. 1, 1881. Aged 27 years. ‘The balmy zephyrs,
silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath.’”
Winthrop’s gaze turned to the stone beside it.
“Here lies,”――he read――“the Body of Captain Lamar Wayne, C. S. A., who
was born in Fairfield, Kentucky, Aug, 4, 1842, and died at Waynewood,
Sept. 21, 1892, aged 50 years. ‘Happier for me that all our hours
assign’d, Together we had lived; ev’n not in death disjoined.’”
Here, thought Winthrop, was hint of a great love. He compared the
dates. Captain Wayne had lived twelve years after his wife’s death.
Winthrop wondered if those years had seemed long to him. Probably not,
since he had Holly to care for――Holly, whom Winthrop doubted not, was
very greatly like her mother. To have the child spared to him! Ah,
that was much. Winthrop’s eyes lifted from the quiet space before him
and sought the distant skyline as his thoughts went to another grave
many hundred miles away. A mocking-bird flew into one of the oaks
and sang a few tentative notes, and then was silent. Winthrop roused
himself with a sigh and turned back down the knoll toward the house,
which stood smiling amidst its greenery a few hundred yards away.
As he entered the hall he heard Holly in converse with Aunt Venus on
the back porch, and as he glanced through the doorway she moved into
sight, her form silhouetted against the sunlight glare. But he gave her
only a passing thought as he mounted the stairs to his room. The spell
of the little graveyard on the knoll and of that other more distant one
was still with him, and remained until, having got his hat and cane, he
passed through the open gate and turned townward on the red clay road.
Major Cass was seated in his cushioned arm-chair with his feet on
his desk and a sheepskin-covered book spread open on his knees when
Winthrop obeyed the invitation to enter.
“Ah, Mr. Winthrop, sir, good-morning,” said the Major, as he tossed the
book on to the desk and climbed to his feet. “Your rest has done you
good, sir; I can see that. Feeling more yourself to-day, eh?”
“Quite well, thanks,” answered Winthrop, accepting the arm-chair which
his host pushed toward him. “I thought I’d come down and hear the
verdict and attend to the matter of the rental.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Major. “Very kind of you, sir.”
He limped to a cupboard in one corner and returned with a jug and two
not overly clean glasses, which he set on the desk, brushing aside
a litter of papers and books. “You will join me, Mr. Winthrop, in a
little liquor, sir, I trust?”
“A very little, then,” answered Winthrop. “I’m still under doctor’s
orders, you know.”
“As little as you like,” rejoined the Major, courteously, “but we
must drink to the success of our conspiracy, sir. The matter is all
arranged. Miss India was――ah――surprisingly complacent, sir.” The Major
handed the glass to Winthrop with a bow. “Your very good health, sir!”
During the subsequent talk, in which the Major explained the terms
of the bargain as Winthrop had already learned them from Holly, the
visitor was able to look about him. The room was small and square
save for the projecting fire-place at one side. A window on the front
overlooked the street which led to Waynewood, while through another on
the side of the building Winthrop could see the court-house behind its
border of oaks, the stores across the square and, peering from behind
the court-house, the end of the Palmetto House with its long gallery.
It was Saturday, and the town looked quite busy. Ox-carts, farm wagons
drawn by mules, and broken-down buggies crawled or jogged past the
window on their way to the hitching-place. In front of the court-house,
in the shade, were half-a-dozen carts loaded with bales of cotton, and
the owners with samples in hand were making the round of the buyers.
The sidewalks were thronged with negroes, and the gay medley of the
voices came through the open window.
[Illustration]
A set of shelves occupied the end of the room beside the door and were
filled to overflowing with yellow law books. The mantel was crowded
with filing cases and a few tin boxes. Beside the front window a
small, old-fashioned safe held more books. Besides these there was
only the plain oak desk, two chairs and the aforementioned cupboard to
be seen, if one excepts the wall decorations in the shape of colored
advertisements and calendars and a box filled with sawdust beside the
arm-chair. The Major had tucked a greenish and very damp cigar in the
corner of his mouth, and Winthrop soon discovered the necessity for the
box.
Presently the new rental agreement was signed and the Major, after
several abortive attempts, flung open the door of the safe and put
it carefully away in one of the compartments. Then he took up his
broad-brimmed black felt hat and reached for his cane.
[Illustration: PRESENTLY THE NEW RENTAL AGREEMENT WAS SIGNED]
“And now, Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “we’ll just take a walk around the
town, sir; I’d like you to meet some of our citizens, sir.”
Winthrop good-naturedly acquiesced and preceded the Major down the
stairs. During the next hour-and-a-half Winthrop was impressively
introduced to and warmly welcomed by some two dozen of Corunna’s
foremost citizens, from ’Squire Parish, whom they discovered buying a
bale of cotton in the dim recess of his hardware store, to Mr. “Cad”
Wilson, who wiped his hand on a towel before reaching it across the bar
to add his welcome.
“Not one of the aristocracy,” explained the Major, as they took their
way out after drinking Winthrop’s health in Bourbon, “but a gentleman
at heart, sir, in spite of his business, sir. When in need of liquid
refreshment, Mr. Winthrop, you will find his place the best in town,
sir, and you may always depend on receiving courteous treatment.”
The post-office, toward which they bent their steps after breasting Mr.
“Cad” Wilson’s swinging doors, proved to be a veritable stamping-ground
for Corunna’s celebrities. There Winthrop was introduced to the
Reverend Mr. Fillock, the Presbyterian minister; to Mr. “Ham” Somes,
the proprietor of the principal drug store; to Colonel Byers, in from
his plantation a few miles outside of town to look up an express
shipment, and the postmaster himself, Major Warren, who displayed an
empty sleeve and, as Winthrop’s guide explained, still never took a
drink without preceding it with the toast, “Secession, sah!”
When Colonel Byers alluded to the missing express package the Major
chuckled.
“Colonel,” he said, “’taint another of those boxes of hardware, is it?”
The Colonel laughed and shook his head, and the Major turned to
Winthrop with twinkling eyes.
“You see, Mr. Winthrop, the Colonel got a box of hardware by express
some years ago; from Savannah, wan’t it, Colonel?”
“Atlanta, sir.”
“Well, anyhow, the Colonel was busy and didn’t get into town right
away, and one day he got a letter from the express agent, saying:
‘Please call for your box of hardware as it’s leaking all over the
floor.’”
The Colonel appeared to enjoy the story quite as much as the Major, and
Winthrop found their mirth quite as laugh-provoking as the tale.
“And I have heard that the Colonel never got to town in as quick time
as he did then!”
“Morning, Harry,” said the Major, turning to the newcomer. “I reckon
you heard just about right, Harry. I want to introduce you to my friend
Mr. Winthrop, of New York, sir. Mr. Winthrop, shake hands with Mr.
Bartow. Mr. Bartow, sir, represents us at the Capital.”
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir,” said the Honorable Mr.
Bartow. “You are staying with us for awhile, sir?”
“Yes, probably for a few months,” replied Winthrop.
“Good, sir; I am pleased to hear it. You must give me the pleasure of
taking dinner with me some day, sir. I’ll get the Major to arrange it
at your convenience.”
“And bring Mr. Winthrop out to Sunnyside, Lucius,” said the Colonel.
“Some Sunday would be best, I reckon.”
Winthrop accepted the invitations――or perhaps the Major did it for
him――and after shaking hands with the Colonel and the Honorable
Harry Bartow he was conducted forth by his guide. Their course along
the sunlit street was often interrupted, and Winthrop’s list of
acquaintances grew with each interruption. It was quite evident that
being vouched for by Major Lucius Quintus Cass stood for a good deal,
and in every case Winthrop’s welcome was impressively courteous.
Once or twice the Major was stopped by men to whom Winthrop was not
introduced. After one such occasion the Major said, as they went on:
“Not one of our kind, Mr. Winthrop; his acquaintance would be of no
benefit, sir.”
Winthrop noticed that not once did the Major in his introductions
allude to the former’s ownership of Waynewood. And evidently the Major
concluded that the fact required elucidation, for when they had finally
returned to the corner where stood the Major’s office the latter said:
“You may have observed, Mr. Winthrop, that I have not mentioned your
ownership of Waynewood. I thought it as well not to, sir, for as you
do not intend to take possession this winter there can be no harm in
allowing folks to remain in ignorance of――ah――the change. It will make
it much easier, sir, for Miss India and her niece. You agree with me?”
“Entirely,” replied Winthrop, suppressing a smile. “We will keep the
fact a secret for awhile, Major.”
“Quite so, sir, quite so. And now, sir, I should be delighted if you
would take dinner with me at the hotel, if you will be so kind.”
But Winthrop declined and, thanking the other for his kindness, shook
hands and turned his steps homeward, or, at least, toward Waynewood; he
had begun to doubt his possession of that place.