“I TELL you, David Royall, I can’t understand I how you ever let
that man come to your house,” Mrs. Eaton said; “a common man in the
first place, and now--why, there can’t be any doubt at all about Jean
Bartlett! Hasn’t he got the child?”
Colonel Royall tilted his chair against the pillar of the veranda and
looked at her mildly. “That’s where the doubt comes in, Jinny,” he
remarked.
“I can’t understand you!” she retorted tartly, dropping a stitch in her
crocheting and struggling blindly to pick it up. “I can’t in the least
understand your doubts--it’s obvious.”
“Which?” said the colonel, “the doubt or Sammy?”
“Both!” said she.
“Well, Dr. Cheyney told me about it,” said the colonel, “and I’m not
sure that I believe all the other things I hear. Give him the benefit
of the doubt, Jinny.”
“There isn’t any doubt,” declared Mrs. Eaton; “everybody says he’s the
father of that child.”
Colonel Royall shook his head slowly. “It isn’t like the male critter,
Jinny,” he argued mildly, “to take in the child; he’d most likely ship
it.”
“Some women do that!” said Mrs. Eaton sharply, shutting her thin lips.
The colonel turned a terrible face upon her. “Jinny!”
Mrs. Eaton reddened and her hands shook, but she went on without
regarding his anger. “At least, he’s the father of the Cresset
speech, you’ll admit that, and, if you please, here is this duel with
Jacob--with my son!”
“I believe Jacob was the challenger,” said Colonel Royall.
“He couldn’t stand being insulted by such trash!” said the indignant
mother.
The colonel smiled broadly. “Come, Jinny, why did he go there?”
“How should I know?” she retorted hotly; “some political reason, of
course, and Trench took advantage of it, as a common man would.”
The colonel began to whittle a stick, man’s resource from time
immemorial. “Jinny,” he said, “you’re the greatest partisan on earth;
if you could lead a political party you’d cover your antagonist with
confusion. When I see Jacob beating his head against a wall I always
remember he’s your son.”
Mrs. Eaton’s face relaxed a little. “Jacob takes after my family,” she
admitted, smiling; “he’s like them in looks and he has all their charm.”
“Why don’t you say yours, Jinny?” asked the colonel, twinkling.
“I don’t think you half appreciate that,” she replied, with a touch of
coquetry; “if you did, you wouldn’t quarrel with me about Caleb Trench.”
“Do I?” said the colonel.
She let her crochet work drop in her lap and looked at him attentively.
“Do you mean to say you agree with me?” she demanded.
The colonel laughed. “I’m not a violent man, Jinny; since the war I’ve
been a man of peace. I’m not sure that I’ve got all the faith I ought
to have in these young iconoclasts.”
“Faith in that man!” Mrs. Eaton threw up her hands. “If you had, David,
I wouldn’t have any in you!”
“Your conversation has rather led me to assume that you had lost faith
in my opinions,” he retorted, amused.
“Well, sometimes, Cousin David, I think you’re too willing to have
the wool combed over your eyes!” she said severely; “you’re so
broad-minded, I suppose, that you don’t think enough of the natural
prejudices of our own class.”
“Well, Jinny,” said the colonel dryly, “I’m a little tired of our
class.”
Mrs. Eaton raised her head to reply with indignation, but utterance was
suspended by Diana’s approach. Her appearance always had the effect of
breaking off a conversation in the middle. She was still a vision in
pink muslin, with a wide straw hat trimmed with roses. She swept out,
fresh and sweet and buoyant.
“What are you two quarreling about?” she asked. “I can’t leave you
alone together any more; you fight like game cocks. Of course it’s
politics or social customs; you haven’t got to religion yet, thank
heaven! When you do I shall have to send for the bishop.”
“It’s about that wretched man,” said Mrs. Eaton fretfully. “I told
David that he ought not to be received here!”
“Well,” said the colonel thoughtfully, “I’m not sure he could be after
this fight with Jacob; blood’s thicker than water. But do you know,
Jinny, I don’t believe he’ll come?”
“Come!” cried Mrs. Eaton; “dear me, do you imagine that a poor creature
like that would lose the chance?”
Colonel Royall smiled whimsically. “Jinny,” said he, “your grandfather
made his money selling molasses in New Orleans.”
She gazed at him coldly. “It was wholesale,” she said, with withering
contempt.
The colonel shook with silent laughter.
All this time Diana had not opened her lips; she stepped down from the
piazza into the grass now and unfurled her parasol.
“I hope you’re not going to make my unfortunate grandfather a reason
for inviting Caleb Trench here,” said Mrs. Eaton bitingly, her eyes
fixed on the colonel’s flushed face.
“Cousin Jinny, he won’t come,” said Diana suddenly.
Both her father and Mrs. Eaton looked at her astonished. “How do you
know?” the latter asked unconvinced.
“I asked him,” said Diana, and blushed.
Mrs. Eaton was amazed. “You asked that man--that person--and he refused
your invitation?”
“Yes,” replied Diana, scarlet now.
Her elderly cousin dropped her hands helplessly in her lap. “Diana
Royall, I’m ashamed of you!”
“I was ashamed of myself,” said Diana.
The colonel rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “I reckon he had
a reason, Di,” he said at last.
“I have a reason for not asking him again,” replied his daughter.
“Thank heaven!” ejaculated Mrs. Eaton devoutly.
The girl turned away and walked slowly across the lawn. Two of the
setters followed her half-way, but, unencouraged, fell back lazily
to lie in the cool grass. As she went the murmur of indignant voices
died away, and she passed into the cool shadow of the horse-chestnuts.
Her face still burned with the blush of vexation that Mrs. Eaton had
summoned, and her heart beat a little faster at the thought that she
had never asked any man to accept their hospitality before in vain.
It was preposterous and rude, yet, in her heart, she respected Caleb
Trench for refusing it. Even at Kitty Broughton’s ball he had been
accepted only on tolerance and because of Judge Hollis. She had seen
him slighted, and then the prejudice had been against his poor little
shop at the village Cross-Roads and his black Republicanism, in a
section that was rankly Democratic. Now they had a greater cause,
the Cresset speech, the attacks upon Eaton, the duel at Little Neck
Meadow--of which no one could get the truth, for no one knew socially
Peter Mahan or Aaron Todd--and last of all the scandal of the child.
The story of poor Jean Bartlett had passed from lip to lip now that
Sammy played on the door-step of the most unique figure in local
politics.
Gossips had promptly decided that Sammy was Caleb’s child, and Jean’s
had been a peculiarly sad case. The story lost nothing in transmission,
and Diana tried not to recall details as she walked. Why should she?
The man was nothing to her! Her father did not believe all he heard,
and neither did she, but she was more tormented than if she had
believed the worst. Certainty carries healing in its wings; doubt is
more cruel than a whip of scorpions. She had tried to understand the
man and she could not; one thing contradicted another, but he was
strong, his figure loomed above the others, and the storm was gathering
about it, as the clouds sweep around the loftiest peak.
The hottest contest for years was brewing in the conventions, and it
was known--and well-known--that Caleb Trench had an immense influence
with the largest element of the party. He was convinced that Aylett’s
government was weak and permeated with corruption, and he was
making his conviction public, with a force and certainty that were
bewildering far older politicians. In fact, the man was no politician
at all; he was a born reformer, and he was making himself felt.
Diana, too, had felt his force and resented it. She resented also his
duel with her cousin. The cheap sensationalism of a duel irritated her,
and she did not place the whole blame upon Jacob, for she knew--Aunt
Charity had spread it--that Caleb had knocked Jacob down. She was
ashamed that she almost tingled with joy at the thought of him towering
in wrath over Jacob, for she could divine the insulting tone that must
have provoked him beyond endurance. She could divine it, but she would
not accept it. Jacob was her own relation, and Jacob had been knocked
down. It was maddening from that point of view, and Diana felt that
nothing but blood could have atoned to her for being laid in the dust.
Yet she thrilled at the thought that Caleb Trench had dealt the blow,
that the son of the Philadelphia Quaker was a man. Thus contradictory
is the heart of woman!
Meanwhile, she had left the confines of Broad Acres and was walking
slowly up the trail to Angel Pass. Not far away was the spot where
she had stood and talked with Caleb in the sweet twilight. Below her,
as the path climbed, was the long slope of rolling meadows which lay
between this spot and Paradise Ridge. Around her the tree trunks stood
in serried ranks, and here and there, where the wild grapevines hung
in long festoons, she noticed the tight clusters of green grapes. She
wished devoutly that she could think of something beside the slightly
awkward figure, the sharp lines of the clean-cut face, as it had looked
in the twilight. Since then they had met more than once, but it was
that picture of him which haunted her, and she was scarcely startled
when she turned the corner by the pines and saw him ahead of her with
Shot.
He heard her footstep, and when she would have turned to avoid him, he
prevented it by facing about and greeting her. Both were conscious of
constraint. Jacob Eaton’s bullet had not broken the bone of his arm,
but the arm was still bandaged under the sleeve and stiff, and the fact
of the duel seemed to materialize between them. The other thought,
the thought of Jean Bartlett and her child, sprang up unbidden in her
heart, and she was woman enough to wince. A torrent of feeling swept
through her like a whirlpool, and she would not have told what it was,
or whence it came. Her face crimsoned, and unconsciously she drew back.
Something in his face, in the compelling light in his eyes, made her
catch her breath. On his side, he saw only reluctance and repulsion,
and mistook it for rebuke. He remembered that report said she was to
marry Jacob Eaton, and he had knocked Jacob Eaton down. He would have
been less than human had he not experienced then one instant of unholy
joy to think that he had done it. Neither spoke for a full moment, then
he did ceremoniously.
“Pardon me,” he said, “I ought not to intrude upon you, Miss Royall. I
see that I am doubly unfortunate, both unexpected and unwelcome.”
Diana struggled with herself. “Unexpected, certainly,” she said,
conscious that it was a falsehood, for had he not haunted her? “but
unwelcome--why? This is a public place, Mr. Trench.”
He smiled bitterly. “Fairly answered,” he said; “you can be cruel, Miss
Royall. I am aware that to you--I merely cumber the earth.”
“I believe you refused an invitation to come to our house,” she
retorted.
He swung around in the path, facing her fully, and she felt his
determination, with almost a thrill of pride in him.
“Miss Royall--I have no right to say a word,” he said, “but do you
think--for one instant--that if you gave that invitation sincerely I
would refuse it? You know I would not. I would come with all my heart.
But--because I know how absurd it is, because I know how you feel, I
will not. I am too proud to be your unwelcome guest. Yet I am not too
proud to speak to-night. God knows I wish I could kill it in my heart,
but I will say it. I love you.”
Diana stretched her hand out involuntarily and rested it against the
slender stem of a young pine; she clung to it to feel reality, for the
world seemed to be turning around. She never opened her lips and she
dared not look at him; she had met that light in his eyes once and
dared not raise hers. If she had! But she did not--and he went on.
“It is madness, I know it,” he said bitterly, “and if I could strangle
it--as a living thing--I would, but I cannot. I love you and have loved
you from the first. It would be mockery indeed to accept your chary
invitations. I suppose you think that it is an insult for me to speak
to you, but”--he smiled bitterly--“to myself I should seem a little
less than a man if I did not. However, I beg your pardon, if it seems
an affront.”
Diana tried twice to speak before she could utter a word. Then she
seemed to hear her own voice quite calm. “I do not consider it so. I--I
am sorry.”
He turned away. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, “I would like to be, at
least, your friend.” He added this with a reluctance that told of a
bitter struggle with his own pride.
Diana held out her hand with a gesture as sweet as it was involuntary.
“You are,” she said, quite simply. “Mr. Trench, I--I take it as an
honor.”
He held her hand, looking at her with an amazement that made her blush
deeply. She felt her emotion stifling her, tears were rushing to her
eyes. How dreadful it was for him to force her into this position. They
were as widely sundered as the poles, and yet she no sooner met his
eyes than she wavered and began to yield; she snatched her hand away.
“Thank you a thousand times for saying that!” he murmured.
She fled; she was half-way up the path; the sunshine and the breeze
swept down from Angel Pass. She was conscious of him still standing
there and turned and looked back. “Good-bye!” she called softly over
her shoulder, and was gone.