Down in the Blue-grass a handsome saddle-horse was hitched at the stile
in front of Colonel Pendleton's house and the front door was open to
the pale gold of the early sun. Upstairs Gray was packing for his last
year away from home, after which he too would go to Morton Sanders'
mines, on the land Jason's mother once had owned. Below him his father
sat at his desk with two columns of figures before him, of assets and
liabilities, and his face was gray and his form seemed to have shrunk
when he rose from his chair; but he straightened up when he heard his
boy's feet coming down the stairway, forced a smile to his lips, and
called to him cheerily. Together they walked down to the stile.
"I'm going to drive into town this morning, dad," said Gray. "Can I do
anything for you?"
"No, son--nothing--except come back safe."
In the distance a tree crashed to the earth as the colonel was climbing
his horse, and a low groan came from his lips, but again he quickly
recovered himself at the boy's apprehensive cry.
"Nothing, son. I reckon I'm getting too fat to climb a horse--good-by."
He turned and rode away, erect as a youth of twenty, and the lad looked
after him puzzled and alarmed. One glance his father had turned toward
the beautiful woodland that had at last been turned over to axe and saw
for the planting of tobacco, and it was almost the last tree of that
woodland that had just fallen. When the first struck the earth two
months before, the lad now recalled hearing his father mutter:
"This is the meanest act of my life."
Suddenly now the boy knew that the act was done for him--and his eyes
filled as he looked after the retreating horseman upon whose shoulders
so much secret trouble weighed. And when the elder man passed through
the gate and started down the pike, those broad shoulders began to
droop, and the lad saw him ride out of sight with his chin close to his
breast. The boy started back to his packing, but with a folded coat in
his hand dropped in a chair by the open window, looking out on the
quick undoing in that woodland of the Master's slow upbuilding for
centuries, and he began to recall how often during the past summer he
had caught his father brooding alone, or figuring at his desk, or had
heard him pacing the floor of his bedroom late at night; how frequently
he had made trips into town to see his lawyer, how often the lad had
seen in his mail, lately, envelopes stamped with the name of his bank;
and, above all, how often the old family doctor had driven out from
town, and though there was never a complaint, how failing had been his
father's health, and how he had aged. And suddenly Gray sprang to his
feet, ordered his buggy and started for town.
Along the edge of the bleeding stumps of noble trees the colonel rode
slowly, his thoughts falling and rising between his boy in the room
above and his columns of figures in the room below. The sacrilege of
destruction had started in his mind years before from love of the one,
but the actual deed had started under pressure of the other, and now it
looked as though each motive would be thwarted, for the tobacco war was
on in earnest now, and again the poor old commonwealth was rent as by a
forked tongue of lightning. And, like the State, the colonel too was
pitifully divided against himself.
Already many Blue-grass farmers had pooled their crops against the
great tobacco trust--already they had decided that no tobacco at all
should be raised that coming year just when the colonel was deepest in
debt and could count only on his tobacco for relief. And so the
great-hearted gentleman must now go against his neighbor, or go to
destruction himself and carry with him his beloved son. Toward noon he
reined in on a little knoll above the deserted house of the old
general, the patriarchal head of the family--who had passed not many
years before--the rambling old house, stuccoed with aged brown and
still in the faithful clasp of ancient vines. The old landmark had
passed to Morton Sanders, and on and about it the ruthless hand of
progress was at work. The atmosphere of careless, magnificent luxury
was gone. The servants' quarters, the big hen-house, the old stables
with gables and sunken roofs, the staggering fences, the old
blacksmith-shop, the wheelless windmill--all were rebuilt or torn away.
Only the arched gate-way under which only thoroughbreds could pass was
left untouched, for Sanders loved horses and the humor of that
gate-way, and the old spring-house with its green dripping walls. No
longer even were the forest trees in the big yard ragged and
storm-torn, but trimmed carefully, their wounds dressed, and sturdy
with a fresh lease on life; only the mournful cedars were unchanged and
still harping with every passing wind the same requiem for the glory
that was gone. With another groan the old colonel turned his horse
toward home--the home that but for the slain woodlands would soon pass
in that same way to house a Sanders tenant or an overseer.
When he reached his front door he heard his boy whistling like a happy
lark in his room at the head of the stairway. The sounds pierced him
for one swift instant and then his generous heart was glad for the
careless joy of youth, and instead of going into his office he slowly
climbed the stairs. When he reached the door of the boy's room, he saw
two empty trunks, the clothes that had been in them tossed in a
whirlwind over bed and chair and floor, and Gray hanging out of the
window and shouting to a servant:
"Come up here, Tom, and help put my things back--I'm not going away."
A joyous whoop from below answered:
"Yassuh, yassuh; my Gord, but I IS glad. Why, de colonel--"
Just then the boy heard a slight noise behind him and he turned to see
his father's arms stretched wide for him.
Gray remained firm. He would not waste another year. He had a good
start; he would go to the mines and begin work, and he could come home
when he pleased, if only over Sunday. So, as Mavis had watched Jason
leave to be with Marjorie in the Blue-grass, so Marjorie now watched
Gray leave to be with Mavis in the hills. And between them John Burnham
was again left wondering.