With a backward flashing glance, she went into the kitchen, and Van
Alen, lighting a cigarette, started to explore the old house.
Except for the wing, occupied by the caretaker, nothing had been
disturbed since the family, seeking new fortunes in the city, had left
the old homestead to decay among the desolate fields that yielded now a
meagre living for Mrs. Brand and her four strapping sons.
In the old parlor, where the ancient furniture showed ghostlike shapes
in the dimness, and the dead air was like a tomb, Van Alen found a
picture of his great-grandfather.
The little man had been painted without flattery. There he
sat--Lilliputian on the great charger! At that moment Van Alen hated
him--that Hop-o'-my-Thumb of another age, founder of a pigmy race, who,
by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his
descendants the scorn of a woman.
And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a
candle lighting her vivid face.
"I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon."
As he took the candle from her, he said abruptly: "I shall not sleep in
the canopy bed; there is a couch in the room."
"Oh," her tone was startled, "you shouldn't have taken all that I said
in earnest."
"But you meant it?"
"In a way, yes. I have been in here so often and have looked at your
grandfather's picture. He was a great little man--you can tell from his
eyes--they seem to speak at times."
"To you?"
"Yes. Of how he hated to be little, and how he triumphed when fame came
at last."
"I hate to be little--"
It was the first time that he had ever owned it. Even as a tiny boy he
had brazened it out, boasting of his mental achievements and slurring
the weakness of his stunted body.
"I know," she had shut the kitchen door behind her, and they were
standing in the hallway alone, "I know. Every man must want to be big."
She was only the girl who had waited on the table, but as she stood
there, looking at him with luminous eyes, he burned with dull
resentment, envying the blond boy who had sprawled at the head of the
supper table. After all, it was to such a man as Otto Brand that this
woman would some day turn.
He spoke almost roughly: "Size isn't everything." She flushed. "How rude
you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in
dissecting your grandfather that I forgot--you--"
Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive
impulse that was not in line with his usual repression.
"I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that
there was a startled silence. And then she went away.
As he passed the sitting-room on his way up-stairs, he looked in, and
spoke to Otto Brand.
More than any of the other brothers, Otto typified strength and beauty,
but in his eyes was never a dream, his brain had mastered nothing. He
was playing idly with the yellow cat, but he stopped at Van Alen's
question.
"Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors," the boy said, with his
cheeks flushing; "they own the next farm."
"The Wetherells?" Van Alen inquired.
The boy nodded. "They ain't got a cent. They're land poor. That's why
she's here. But she don't need to work."
"Why not?"
"There's plenty that wants to marry her round about," was the boy's
self-conscious summing up.
With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room
with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl
who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles
and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness.
And her name was Mazie Wetherell.
He threw himself on the couch, and the night winds, coming in through
the open window, stirred the curtains of the canopy bed with the light
touch of a ghostly hand.
Then dreams came, and through them ran the thread of his hope of seeing
Mazie Wetherell in the morning.
But even with such preparation, her beauty seemed to come upon him
unawares when he saw her at breakfast. And again at noon, and again at
night. But it was the third day before he saw her alone.
All that day he had explored the length and breadth of the family
estate, finding it barren, finding that the population of the little
village at its edge had decreased to a mere handful of laggards, finding
that there was no lawyer within miles and but one doctor; gaining a
final impression that back here in the hills men would come no more
where once men had thronged.
It was almost evening when he followed a furrowed brown road that led
westward. Above the bleak line of the horizon the sun hung, a red gold
disk. There were other reds, too, along the way--the sumac flaming
scarlet against the gray fence-rails; the sweetbrier, crimson-spotted
with berries; the creeper, clinging with ruddy fingers to dead
tree-trunks; the maple leaves rosy with first frosts.
And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and
her flaming cheeks and copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the
autumn landscape.
She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her.
"You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me
better than that when you were a little girl."