The overseer came to supper that night, looking very uncomfortable in
his “party clothes,” and added fifty per cent. to the gaiety of the
occasion. He had a wealth of good stories which, while familiar to
the others, were new to John, and told them deliciously, with many
a “Gingeration!” and “By doggie, sir!” John was sensible of a quite
unaccustomed feeling of exhilaration, and his high spirits plainly
surprised Phillip. Mrs. Ryerson coquetted ceremoniously and impartially
with both guests, while Margaret’s animation verged almost on frivolity.
“It seems to do you good to be run away with,” Phillip told her.
“It does,” she smiled. “I like it!”
“If I was some younger, Miss Margey,” cried Markham with a courtly bow,
“I’d take yo’ at yo’ word! By doggie, yes, ma’am!”
“Oh, dear! I so wish you were!” Margaret sighed.
Phillip’s eyebrows went up. This was a new Margey.
But if she was all graciousness to Markham she was but calm, unadorned
politeness to John North. He was never for a moment allowed to forget
that she hated him. When he spoke to her the smiles disappeared and she
replied in the fewest number of words consistent with courtesy. Her
manner said: “You are my hated foe; but you are also my guest!”
And John throve on her displeasure and grew merrier with every proof of
it.
Arrangements for the fox hunt were completed ere they left the table,
and afterward they played whist before the drawing-room fire, Margaret
and John against Phillip and Tom Markham. John watched Margaret’s
efforts to avoid playing with him with carefully concealed amusement.
In the end she defeated her own purpose.
“I’m such a frightfully poor player,” she lamented, “it would be a
shame to spoil Mr. North’s pleasure by making us partners.”
“That’s just it,” cried Phillip. “You are pretty rotten, Margey, but
John’s one of the crack members of the Harvard Whist Club, and so that
evens it up. Come along, now.”
So Margaret accepted the inevitable and took the place opposite John,
where he could look into her face every time he raised his eyes from
his cards. They had foemen worthy of their trumps. Phillip was a good
player, while Markham went in for whist as he went in for everything
else, with a concentration and singleness of purpose that was
delightful to behold and which made him a formidable antagonist. It is
to be feared that Margaret purposely vindicated the reputation she had
claimed. Surely, never before were so many good cards wasted, so many
aces trumped, such a blind disregard of science and signals exhibited!
But if her purpose was to ruffle, her partner’s temper, she won not the
slightest vestige of success. John’s tranquillity remained impervious.
Phillip wondered and exclaimed:
“Good heavens, Margey! What were you up to then? You’re playing fifty
times worse than I ever knew you to――and that’s saying a heap!”
“Thank you, Phil, dear!”
“John will think you were raised in――in――I don’t know what――where!”
“I am very sorry,” answered Margaret very gravely, “but I warned Mr.
North of what to expect.”
“Really, I think your playing is very good, Miss Ryerson,” interposed
John, with equal gravity. “For my part, I am quite satisfied. And if
you’re satisfied and I’m satisfied, where does Phil come in? Nowhere.
Your lead, Mr. Markham.”
Now there was a bit of polite perjury that should have won the thanks
and admiration of any one in Margaret’s place. Yet, for some reason,
the effect on Margaret was quite the reverse of pleasing and did not
soften her heart and move her to reform; on the contrary, she played
worse than before and exasperated Phillip to fresh remonstrance.
“Margey! You did it again that hand!”
“Did what, Phil?”
“Why, trumped his ace!”
“Did I? Did I trump your ace, Mr. North?”
“I believe you did,” John answered calmly. “But I don’t think Phil
understands your play.”
“No, hanged if I do!” muttered Phillip.
“While I do――perfectly.”
Margaret frowned suspiciously and had the grace to blush. And John
saw the blush and thought it lovely and played a card that caused
Tom Markham’s hands to tremble with triumph. Yet, despite all
handicaps――not the least of which was his inability to keep his eyes
on the game――John won out at the end, and Markham drew his long length
carefully from his chair and sighed enviously.
“Gingeration, Mr. No’th, sir! I just wish I could play the game the
way you can. I never saw anything like it! It’s a pleasure, sir, to be
defeated by you, sir! By doggie, yes, sir!”
John sat for a full half-hour in front of the fire in his bedroom,
attired only in a suit of red-and-white pajamas, and smoked his pipe
and watched the flames. He didn’t always see the flames, however,
and his thoughts were at least the length of the house from them.
He reviewed the day’s events and grew cold at recollection of that
frightful and anxious race down Pine Top, and warm at the memory
of what had followed. He wondered whether he had made a mistake in
“showing his hand” so early in the game, and believed he hadn’t. On its
face it appeared a reckless, impossible, even frivolous thing to make
a declaration of love――even an off-hand one――twenty-four hours after
first meeting a woman. But John found extenuating circumstances. In the
first place, it had been entirely unpremeditated. In the second place,
his acquaintanceship with Margaret was not limited to twenty-four
hours; he had known her ever since he had known Phillip. Corliss’
allusion to her had aroused his curiosity and sympathy and appealed to
his imagination. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen
her picture on Phillip’s mantel. His passion――not a very deep one then,
perhaps――had been fed by their short correspondence and by the constant
mention of her name and news of her doings doled out by Phillip. And
then he had seen her in the flesh! And now it was all confirmed,
established, irrevocable!
No, he didn’t believe he had hurt his chances by his impulsive words.
He was not an expert in affairs of the heart. Had he ever felt the
slightest desire to do so――which he never did――he could have counted
his love affairs on the fingers of one hand and still, perhaps, have
a thumb left untapped. He had never made a study of the pleasant art
of making love, yet he had learned somehow that interest must precede
affection, and had a strong suspicion that no woman can fail to feel
interest in a man who has declared his love for her, no matter how
indifferent to his passion she may be.
No; on the whole he was very well satisfied with his second day at
Elaine. It did not occur to him as among the possibilities that
Margaret could really cherish resentment against him for what he had
done. She was beautiful to him in every way, and he loved her. Then why
not tell her so? It was the natural thing to do, and he had done it. To
be sure, she was justified in finding fault with his method; he owned
to himself that he had been rather crude, almost discourteous; and on
that score she was right to show displeasure. But in the end――――
He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pulled himself erect, yawning
cavernously. The fire was low and little chills were sporting up and
down his back. He blew out the light and crawled into the four-poster.
In the end she must love him. His college career would come to an end
in June; after that should come another career in which his curriculum
should be Margaret and of which the degree should be Margaret’s love.
But suddenly his pleasant confidence received a shock. What if there
should be――was――some one else?
He sat up and blinked in consternation at the firelight. What about
that other chap, that cousin? What was his name? Willis? Who the deuce
was this Willis and where did he come in? He dropped his head back
on the pillow. He would find out about this Nate――that was it!――Nate
Willis. He would――ask Phillip――in――the morn――――
Then he commenced snoring peacefully.
Sunday came and went, and Monday, and Tuesday, with untroubled skies,
brisk, mellow noons and frosty nights. The ice formed hard on the
little ponds and they went skating. And they shot more partridges, and
rode and drove; and to John every moment was filled with pleasure. And
yet his love affair progressed not at all. Strive as he might to find
or beguile Margaret away from the companionship of Mrs. Ryerson or
Phillip or from the mysterious duties that kept her so much of the time
in that impenetrable region of the house reigned over by Aunt Cicely,
he was always unsuccessful. To be sure――and here was doubtful cause for
self-gratulation――Margaret’s manner toward him was what it had been of
old, before she had found it necessary to hate him. But John wasn’t
satisfied.
Meanwhile he had disposed of Nate Willis――or, rather, Phillip had done
it for him. And no other pretender had appeared on the horizon. John
found encouragement in these facts. But meanwhile, too, his stay at
Elaine was already half over, for he had promised David to come to
him in New York the next Sunday. He sighed dolefully and for a minute
entertained the wild idea of telegraphing David that he was dead and
couldn’t join him. But, as he realized with a grin the next moment,
that wouldn’t do, for Davy would be certain to come down to the funeral.
The fox hunt had been highly successful. That is to say, from certain
viewpoints. Margaret and Phillip and the indefatigable Colonel
Brownell――who looked every minute of his sixty-eight years and rode
to hounds like a youngster――had been in at the death, while John,
accompanied by Tom Markham, whose courtesy and hospitality would not
allow him to leave the guest behind, had plodded unexcitedly along
some half-mile in the rear. John’s clothes bore streaks and large
expanses of brown earth on one side, as did Ruby’s knees, that all who
rode might read. John did not mind the spill over a tumble-down fence
onto a frost-cracked ground, but he did mind seeing his hopes of a
talk――desultory, perchance, but still a talk――with Margaret come to
naught. For that is just what had happened. As soon as ever they were
off Cardinal had sprung to the front of the field of some dozen horses,
and John’s efforts to come up to her on Ruby were unavailing. He had
urged on the mare vigourously, but she was no match for Cardinal, and
the hurry accomplished only a sudden tumble of horse and rider, luckily
without painful results.
The hunters rode homeward in a bunch, Colonel Brownell and two younger
men from the village completely frustrating any designs John may have
entertained of riding beside Margaret. He fell back on the society of
Phillip and Tom Markham, and, since their route lay over the better
part of three adjoining estates, learned much of interest regarding
farming methods, soil qualities, cattle-grazing and land values. From
a hill his companions indicated the confines of Elaine on three sides,
and for the first time he began to have some conception of what the
care of 1,600 acres meant. He viewed Markham with increased interest
and new respect.
“Can this cattle business be made to pay, Mr. Markham?” he asked, as
they rode onward toward the home farm, which was just in sight toward
the north.
“Yes, sir, by doggie, Mr. No’th! But yo’ need money, sir. Yo’ got to
buy when cattle are cheap an’ yo’ got to have ready cash to do it.
That’s the trouble with a heap of folks ’round here, Mr. No’th; they
ain’t got the cash ready to plank right down when it’s needed.”
“It’s going to pay for us, isn’t it, Tom?” asked Phillip. “You wait
until I get through college and you’ll see! I’m going to make a
different place of Elaine!”
John was silent, and Markham looked away and worked his long jaws
hurriedly, generously decorating the roadside with tobacco juice.
“There’s most too much land here, Phil,” he said presently.
“I don’t think so, Tom; the more land the more grass, and the more
grass the more cattle we can handle. Besides, it wouldn’t do to sell
any part of Elaine. Why, I’d rather――rather let it grow up in timber
again!”
“There’s going to be money in timber ’round here mighty soon,” said the
overseer. “Everybody’s cuttin’ it down like all git out.”
“What does lumber cost around here?” asked John. Markham looked over at
him gratefully and the conversation turned into new channels.
Christmas Day dawned bright and clear but colder than any since John
had been there. Uncle Casper made his appearance rather late, rubbing
his hands briskly, and wearing a half-frozen appearance.
“Pow’ful cold, sir, this mawnin’,” he volunteered as he laid the fire.
“Ev’ything’s friz up tight; yes, sir. Reckon, though, you folkses up
No’th has it a heap colder’n this, sir?”
“Yes, Uncle, we wouldn’t call this anything where I come from. I see
your wood lights all right?”
“Sir? Yes, sir.”
“Oh, well, it isn’t really cold then. When it gets so that the wood
freezes and won’t catch fire we call it chilly up North.”
The darky paused with a flaring pine splinter in his benumbed fingers
and stared with round eyes.
“’Fore Gawd, Mister No’th!” he ejaculated finally. “I never heard tell
of that. Whoo――_ee_! No, sir, I reckon we jus’ don’t know what cold is,
sir. My nephew he works up in New Yo’k; he’s a waiter in a mons’rous
big hotel up there. He done tol’ me that they fust winter he was there
he come mighty nigh perishin’ with they cold; yes, sir. But, Lordie,
sir, I didn’t s’pect it was like that!” He ambled out, shaking his head
and muttering volubly.
When Will returned from Melville with the mail he also bore two
packages, one addressed to Mrs. Ryerson and one to Margaret. When
opened they divulged great, long-stemmed red roses and in the little
envelopes were John’s cards; he had ordered the blossoms by mail from
Washington. Margaret loved flowers, and the gift dispelled the last of
her resentment toward John, a resentment which during the past two days
she had experienced much difficulty in keeping alive. John surmised
his complete forgiveness and was comforted. Somehow, despite that in
the kitchen preparation of a big Christmas dinner was going forward,
Margaret found more leisure from household duties that day than on any
day since John had transgressed, and she made no efforts to avoid his
society.
The mail brought letters to John and one to Phillip――at least, it
resembled a letter in outward appearance. But when, in the seclusion of
his room, Phillip tore it madly open, he found only a small photograph.
But he didn’t seem disappointed. On the back of the picture were the
words, penned in large, stylish and very illegible characters, “Phillip
from Betty.” Although he kept it in the breast pocket of his jacket all
day――and for many days thereafter――and referred to it surreptitiously
whenever occasion allowed, it was not exhibited to any one, not even to
John. The latter’s letters were from his mother and David. The former
spoke encouragingly of his father’s health. The letter was written from
Mentone.
“The doctor spent Friday and Saturday with us here and was
much pleased with your father’s condition. He says that if the
improvement continues until spring there will be no good reason
for staying abroad longer than April. Of course your father is
delighted; he is already busy planning for the trip home. I
hope the excitement will not undo any of the good work, and I
do hope above all else that he won’t be disappointed. I, too,
dearest, will be glad to get home once more. It seems ages and
ages since we left. The doctor even thinks that next winter
your father can safely remain there, in some mild climate
like Asheville or Aiken. That seems almost too much to hope
for, doesn’t it? But we shall see. I think we shall close up
the Worcester house, John, for it seems scarcely worth while
keeping it up unless you expect to be there for any length
of time in the Summer. Your father talks of going into the
Adirondacks, and if we do, of course we shall want you to be
with us all the time, or as much of the time as you can give
us. He sends his love and a little present, which must do
for both of us, since I really don’t know what to give you,
dearest, that you would care for. I hope you are enjoying your
visit in Virginia. Your father wants you to write and tell him
about the country there, and says you’re to stop and see Mr.
Corliss on your way back.”
John placed the check in his pocketbook and thoughtfully nibbled
a corner of the letter, staring out of the hall window across
the pleasant, peaceful prospect of sunny hill and valley. It was
mid-morning, and the frozen crust of earth was softening under the
warmth of the sun; the file of turkeys as they picked their way across
the drive left three-pronged footprints on the gravel. In the trees the
birds were chirping busily.
“Coming back,” John muttered. “Jove, that’s good news! And――yes, I
think I can manage it!” He smiled as though well pleased with his
thoughts, and opened David’s epistle. This was characteristically brief
and to the point. Life had been going very slowly with the writer
and he blamed it all on John’s absence. He wished the latter a Merry
Christmas, and informed him that he had bought a present for him――it
didn’t amount to much――and that he would have sent it if he hadn’t
misplaced it somewhere.
“But I’ll look it up and have it ready for you when you
arrive,” he wrote. “You’re coming Sunday. Don’t forget. If you
don’t come I swear I’ll go down to Virginia and bring you back
bodily. Also I’ll give you a damned good hiding.
“Yours faith’ly,
“DAVID.”
“P. S.――The governor has presented me with a dangerous-looking
automobile thing. It is a lovely crimson. You pull things and
it goes. I can make it go finely, but I haven’t found out yet
how to stop it. When you come we’ll try it in the park.
“P. S. No. 2.――How’s Margaret?”
Dinner was an event that day. The overseer was there and a certain
“Uncle Bob,” a younger brother of Mrs. Ryerson, who lived in Richmond.
In the evening a handful of young persons of both sexes came out from
Melville and there was an informal dance, and, what pleased “Uncle Bob”
much more, a monstrous bowl of punch which stood in the hall wreathed
with holly and mistletoe.
John danced with Margaret as often as she would allow, and amazedly
wondered why dancing had never really appealed to him before that
evening. No mention was made on either side of the incident of
Saturday’s ride. John understood that he had been forgiven and that
Margaret had reinstated him in her good graces, but that there
was to be no repetition of the offense under penalty of renewed
excommunication. And to this decree John for the present bowed
submissively.
About midnight the visitors left, professing great consternation at
a thin veneer of snow which covered the drive, and talking muck of
being snowed in on the way to town, and John and “Uncle Bob” formed
themselves into a rescue party, protesting their readiness to do battle
against the element with brooms and dust pans. Afterward the rescue
party and Phillip and Tom Markham retired to the library to smoke.
“Uncle Bob” insisted upon taking the still undepleted punch bowl with
him, and at half past one John and Phillip assisted the Richmond
relative to his room. Markham took himself off intensely serious and
dignified, but it was noticeable that he experienced unaccustomed
difficulty in climbing into his saddle.
Phillip, with the memory of that famous affair at the theatre in mind,
had followed John’s example and had spared the punch.