“Put it under the tree in the corner,” Burton directed, “and then bring
me a chair.”
“Mos’ pow’ful warm out hyar, sah,” remonstrated the negro.
“Warm? Nonsense, Robert! Feel that breeze fresh from the river. Isn’t
that cool enough?”
“Ah ain’ feelin’ no breeze; an’ anyways it doan come from no river,
sah; river’s over that a-ways.”
“Robert, I fear you’re deficient in imagination,” answered Burton,
shaking his head. “I insist that there is a breeze and that it is
coming from the river. Geography mustn’t interfere with imagination;
if it does, why, so much the worse for geography, Robert.”
[Illustration]
“Yessah.” Having set table and chair in place, Robert retired, only
pausing at the side door long enough to throw a last dubious glance
behind him. “He’s plum’ crazy,” he muttered with a shake of the head.
[Illustration]
Burton spread his papers over the table, looked to pens and pencils,
lighted a cigarette, thrust his hands in his pockets, and, tilting
backward in the kitchen chair, surveyed the scene contentedly. Above
him the contorted branches of the Daphne-tree spread out and upward,
making a leafy canopy through which the morning sunlight dripped in
great, golden globules. Birds were singing happily in the garden and
in the dense oaks that lined the wide street beyond. To his right was
the old brick wall; before him ran the iron fence through which yellow
and crimson and white climbing roses thrust their cool green leaves
and dew-sprinkled blossoms. Beyond was the Enchanted Garden. Straight
before him ran a narrow, red-gravel walk, box-walled and flower-draped,
to the back door of the Castle. Burton smiled; he was highly pleased
with his generalship. Yesterday’s position was commanding, but to-day’s
was impregnable! He took up a sketch-book and idly turned its leaves,
scanning the bold pencil-strokes that reproduced pillar and pediment,
cornice and gable, with appreciative eyes. Yet he was not so much
absorbed but that he heard the sound of an opening door. Keeping his
head bent over his book, he looked towards the Castle.
On the steps stood the girl. She wore the same white muslin gown with
the lavender ribbon and carried the same basket. And, as yesterday, she
stood, lithe and graceful, on the top step and surveyed the riot of
color before her. Yet, ere she stepped down to the gravel, she raised
her eyes in a fleeting glance towards a certain window in the other
house. Burton chuckled.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“Ah, Kitty,” he murmured, “you’re only human, after all!”
She took the farther path, a choice he applauded silently, since she
would not discover him until she turned at the bottom of the garden,
when flight with dignity would be out of the question. Now and then he
caught fleeting glimpses of her hat above the bushes as she moved along
and heard the clipping of the scissors. As she neared the corner he
dipped pen in ink and wrote industriously:
“BELLE HARBOUR, VIRGINIA, June 3.
“She’s coming; she’s almost in sight. I don’t quite know what
I am writing. The situation grows intense. Will she retreat or
advance? I can see the white of her gown through the leaves.
She is almost at the corner of the path. My courage is ebbing
fast; if she delays much longer, I shall beat a disordered
retreat myself. Now! She’s coming, coming, coming--she’s
here....”
The girl came around the corner.
[Illustration]
She was humming softly to herself and swinging her basket. Burton’s
head was bent over the table. She stopped and added a cluster of damask
roses to her store. When she raised her head her eyes sought the window
that had harbored the foe the previous day; it was empty. Undoubtedly
she was vastly relieved, even if her countenance didn’t express it.
Alas! little did she think that the enemy was entrenched almost beside
her. Unsuspectingly, carelessly, still humming her little air, she
drew nearer and nearer to his position.
[Illustration]
Suddenly the humming ceased abruptly. Burton’s heart gave a leap and
he brought his artillery into action. He raised his eyes calmly--they
belied the tumult in his breast--and gazed with polite surprise
into hers. She returned his look with one expressive of amaze
and--yes--appreciation; ere she turned her head away and bent over a
bush the ghost of a smile, a roguish and demure smile, crept around her
mouth. Then the abominable hat hid her.
Burton was grateful for the respite; his forces were becoming
disorganized. He took a long breath and--
“... She scorns retreat! Despite the superiority of my
position I cannot congratulate myself upon having had the
advantage in the first skirmish. At present we are both out
of action. Had I the courage I would ask for a parley, but
alas! I am already wavering along my entire line; I can only
put up a brave front and rely upon awing her. She is delicious,
simply delicious. Her eyes....”
Ah! what heroism! What impudent daring! What magnificent bravery!
The girl came to the fence just in front of the table--not six yards
distant!--and calmly snipped two bunches of pink roses with the
coolest, most composed, and most unconscious air in the world! She
even hummed a little! Burton stared most impolitely and strove to
think of something to say. “Good-morning” sounded so idiotic, so
puerile! “How do you do?” was out of the question! To ask for a
rose would have been absolutely impertinent! The psychological moment
passed; the girl turned away! Burton sighed regretfully and blamed
his faint-heartedness. Up the centre path she went, stooping here and
there, humming more assuredly now--a sweet, dainty, charming figure. He
leaned his chin in his palm and gazed his fill. The basket was so laden
that the blossoms spilled upon the path, but still she gathered more.
Burton smiled appreciatingly.
[Illustration: CALMLY SNIPPED TWO BUNCHES OF PINK ROSES]
“Yes, yes, I understand, my dear,” he muttered beneath his breath. “In
the best of order; horse, foot, and artillery intact; such a retirement
is a victory!”
At the foot of the steps she paused and deliberately gazed about her
over the wealth of leaf and bud and blossom. But she did not bestow a
glance upon the discomfited enemy. Then, gathering her skirts daintily
about her, she tripped up the steps and entered the house. With the
closing of the door Burton sighed again. He lighted a fresh cigarette
and with a whimsical smile read what he had written. Then he again
dipped pen in ink and wrote:
“... It is all over! I have met the enemy and I am hers! I
have retained my position, but at what a cost! I have lost my
heart and my self-possession; my self-esteem is sorely wounded.
And, alas, I glory in defeat! My only regret is that in her
clemency she has refrained from taking me prisoner. Ah, Kitty
of the Roses, come back and make your victory complete!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
He tossed aside the pen, placed his hands behind his head, and blew
smoke-rings up into the branches. A little wind crept in gustily from
the street and fluttered the papers on the table. Burton took his
cigarette from his mouth and pursed his lips.
“How did it go?” he muttered, striving to recall and re-render the air
that the girl had been humming. But his memory failed him and he gave
up the attempt. A stronger breeze caught up the paper upon which he had
written and blew it to the grass beside the fence. He watched it lazily
as it turned over and over until caught by the iron pickets. Presently,
he told himself, he would rescue it. Then his gaze, travelling beyond,
caught sight of a cluster of scarlet roses lying upon the path just
inside the fence. He glanced rapidly, stealthily, towards the Castle.
There was no one in sight. His roaming eyes fell upon his cane. The
next moment he had seized it and was thrusting it between the pickets
of the fence, squatting most ungracefully with the mid-morning sun
beating remorselessly down upon his back.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The cane was long enough for his purpose and its crooked handle seemed
fashioned for just such an emergency. But the low branches of a
rose-bush were between him and the prize, and every time he tried to
drag the latter towards the fence they interposed and foiled him. The
leaves of the Daphne-tree rustled in the gathering breeze and murmured
“Thief! Thief!” At his side a sheet of paper escaped from the pickets
and, all unseen, bounded merrily into the Enchanted Garden. Burton’s
face grew redder and redder and the sun seemed resolved on burning his
back through the light shirt. The perspiration gathered on his forehead
and slipped down his straight, long nose in little drops that tickled
excruciatingly. Again and again the cluster of roses was almost within
reach of his outstretched brown hand, and again and again the faithful
branches whipped it back. Burton paused, wiped the drops from his
face, viewed the somewhat bedraggled bunch of flowers exasperatedly,
and summed up the situation mildly and satisfactorily in a clearly
enunciated and temper-relieving “Damn!”
Then he poked the cane again through the pickets and past the branches.
And then,--
“Perhaps I can help you?” said a voice almost overhead.
He looked up into the amused brown eyes of the girl.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]