The news reached Colonel Pendleton late one afternoon while he was
sitting on his porch--pipe in mouth and with a forbidden mint julep
within easy reach. He had felt the reticence of Gray's letters, he knew
that the boy was keeping back some important secret from him as long as
he could, and now, in answer to his own kind, frank letter Gray had,
without excuse or apology, told the truth, and what he had not told the
colonel fathomed with ease. He had hardly made up his mind to go at
once to Gray, or send for him, when a negro boy galloped up to the
stile and brought him a note from Marjorie's mother to come to her at
once--and the colonel scented further trouble in the air.
There had been a turmoil that afternoon at Mrs. Pendleton's. Marjorie
had come home a little while before with Jason Hawn and, sitting in the
hallway, Mrs. Pendleton had seen Jason on the stile, with his hat in
one hand and his bridle reins in the other, and Marjorie halting
suddenly on her way to the house and wheeling impetuously back toward
him. To the mother's amazement and dismay she saw that they were
quarrelling--quarrelling as only lovers can. The girl's face was
flushed with anger, and her red lips were winging out low, swift,
bitter words. The boy stood straight, white, courteous, and
unanswering. He lifted his chin a little when she finished, and
unanswering turned to his horse and rode away. The mother saw her
daughter's face pale quickly. She saw tears as Marjorie came up the
walk, and when she rose in alarm and stood waiting in the doorway, the
girl fled past her and rushed weeping upstairs.
Mrs. Pendleton was waiting in the porch when the colonel rode to the
stile, and the distress in her face was so plain even that far away,
that the colonel hurried up the walk, and there was no greeting between
the two:
"It's Marjorie, Robert," she said simply, and the old gentleman, who
had seen Jason come out of the yard gate and gallop toward John
Burnham's, guessed what the matter was, and he took the slim white
hands that were clenched together and patted them gently:
"There--there! Don't worry, don't worry!"
He led her into the house, and at the top of the steps stood Marjorie
in white, her hair down and tears streaming down her face:
"Come here, Marjorie," called Colonel Pendleton, and she obeyed like a
child, talking wildly as she came:
"I know what you're going to say, Uncle Bob--I know it all. I'm tired
of all this talk about family, Uncle Bob, I'm tired of it."
She had stopped a few steps above, clinging with one trembling hand to
the balcony, as though to have her say quite out before she went
helplessly into the arms that were stretched out toward her:
"Dead people are dead, Uncle Bob, and only live people really count.
People have to be alive to help you and make you happy. I want to be
happy, Uncle Bob--I want to be happy. I know all about the Pendletons,
Uncle Bob. They were Cavaliers--I know all that--and they used to ride
about sticking lances into peasants who couldn't afford a suit of
armor, but they can't do anything for me now, and they mustn't
interfere with me now. Anyhow, the Sudduths were plain people and I'm
not a bit ashamed of it, mother. Great-grandfather Hiram lived in a log
cabin. Grandfather Hiram ate with his knife. I've SEEN him do it, and
he kept on doing it when he knew better just out of habit or
stubbornness, but Jason's people ate with their knives because they
didn't HAVE anything but TWO-pronged forks--I heard John Burnham say
that. And Jason's family is as good as the Sudduths, and maybe as the
Pendletons, and he wouldn't know it because his grandfathers were out
of the world and were too busy, fighting Indians and killing bears and
things for food. They didn't have TIME to keep their family trees
trimmed, and they didn't CARE anything about the old trees anyhow, and
I don't either. John Burnham has told me--"
"Marjorie!" said the colonel gently, for she was getting hysterical. He
held out his arms to her, and with another burst of weeping she went
into them.
Half an hour later, when she was calm, the colonel got her to ride over
home with him, and what she had not told her mother Marjorie on the way
told him--in a halting voice and with her face turned aside.
"There's something funny and deep about him, Uncle Bob, and I never
could reach it. It piqued me and made me angry. I knew he cared for me,
but I could never make him tell it."
The colonel was shaking his old head wisely and comprehendingly.
"I don't know why, but I flew into a rage with him this afternoon about
nothing, and he never answered me a word, but stood there
listening--why, Uncle Bob, he stood there like--like a--a
gentleman--till I got through, and then he turned away--he never did
say anything, and I was so sorry and ashamed that I nearly died. I
don't know what to do now--and he won't come back, Uncle Bob--I know he
won't."
Her voice broke again, and the colonel silenced her by putting one hand
comfortingly on her knee and by keeping still himself. His shoulders
drooped a little as they walked from the stile toward the house, and
Marjorie ran her arm through his:
"Why, you're a little tired, aren't you, Uncle Bob?" she said tenderly,
and he did not answer except to pat her hand, against which she
suddenly felt his heart throb. He almost stumbled going up the steps,
and deadly pale he sank with a muffled groan into a chair. With a cry
the girl darted for a glass of water, but when she came back,
terrified, he was smiling:
"I'm all right--don't worry. I thought thas sun to-day was going to be
too much for me."
But still Marjorie watched him anxiously, and when the color came back
to his face she went behind him and wrapped her arms about his neck and
put her mouth to his ear:
"I'm just a plain little fool, Uncle Bob, and, as Gray says, I talk
through my aigrette. Now, don't you and mother worry--don't worry the
least little bit," and she tightened her arms and kissed him several
times on his forehead and cheek. "I must go now--and if you don't take
better care of yourself I'm going to come over here and take care of
you myself."
She was in front of him now and looking down fondly; and a wistfulness
that was almost childlike had come into the colonel's face:
"I wish you could, little Marjorie--I wish you would."
He watched her gallop away--turning to wave her whip to him as she went
over the slope, her tears gone and once more radiant and gay--and the
sadness of the coming twilight slowly overspread the colonel's face. It
was the one hope of his life that she would one day come over to take
care of him--and Gray. On into the twilight he sat still and
thoughtful. It looked serious for her and Gray. Back his mind flashed
to that night of the dance in the mountains, when the four were
children, and his wonder then as to what might take place if that
mountain boy and girl should have the chance in the world that had
already come to them. He began to wonder how much of her real feeling
Marjorie might have concealed--how much Gray in his letters was keeping
back of his. Such a union was preposterous. He realized too late now
the danger to youth of simple proximity--he knew the exquisite
sensitiveness of Gray in any matter that meant consideration for others
and for his own honor, the generous warmhearted impulsiveness of
Marjorie, and the appeal that any romantic element in the situation
would make to them both. Perhaps he ought to go to the mountains. There
was much he might say to Gray, but what to Jason, or to Marjorie, with
that life-absorbing motive of his own--and his affairs at such a
crisis? The colonel shook his head helplessly. He was very tired, and
wished he could put the matter off till morning when he was rested and
his head was clear, but the questions had sunk talons into his heart
and brain that would not be unloosed, and the colonel rose wearily and
went within.
Marjorie looked serious after she told her mother that night that she
feared her uncle was not well, for Mrs. Pendleton became very grave:
"Your Uncle Robert is very far from well. I'm afraid sometimes he is
sicker than any of us know."
"Mother!"
"And he is in great trouble, Marjorie."
The girl hesitated:
"Money trouble, mother?" she asked at last, "Why, you--we--why don't--"
The mother interrupted with a shake of her head:
"He would go bankrupt first."
"Mother?"
The older woman looked up with apprehension, so suddenly charged with
an incredible something was the girl's tone:
"Why don't you marry Uncle Robert?"
The mother clutched at her heart with both hands, for an actual spasm
caught her there. Every trace of color shot from her face, and with a
rush came back--fire. She rose, gave her daughter one look that was
almost terror, and quickly left the room.
Marjorie sat aghast. She had caught with careless hand the veil of some
mystery--what long-hidden shrine was there behind it, what sacred deeps
long still had she stirred?