Lot Gordon lived about half a mile away in the old Gordon homestead
alone, except for an old servant-woman and her husband, who managed
his house for him and took care of the farm. Lot himself did not work
in the common acceptance of the term. His father had left him quite a
property, and he did not need to toil for his bread. People called
him lazy. He owned nearly as many books as the parson and the lawyer.
He often read all night it was said, and he roamed the woods in all
seasons. Under low-hanging winter boughs and summer arches did Lot
Gordon pry and slink and lie in wait, his fine, sharp face peering
through snowy tunnels or white spring thickets like a white fox,
hungrily intent upon the secrets of nature.
There was a deep mystery in this to the village people. They could
not fathom the reason for a man's haunting wild places like a wild
animal unless he hunted and trapped like the Hautville sons. They
were suspicious of dark motives, upon which they exercised their
imaginations.
Lot Gordon's talk, moreover, was an enigma to them. He was no
favorite, and only his goodly property tempered his ill repute.
People could not help identifying him, in a measure, with his noble
old house, with the stately pillared portico, with his silver-plate
and damask and mahogany, which his great-grandfather had brought from
the old country, with his fine fields and his money in the bank. He
held, moreover, a large mortgage on the house opposite, where Burr
Gordon lived with his mother. Burr's father and Lot's, although sons
of one shrewd father, had been of very different financial abilities.
Lot's father kept his property intact, never wasting, but adding from
others' waste. Burr's plunged into speculation, built a new house,
for which he could not pay, married a wife who was not thrifty, and
when his father died had anticipated the larger portion of his
birthright. So Lot's father succeeded to nearly all the family
estates, and in time absorbed the rest. Lot, at his father's death,
had inherited the mortgage upon the estate of Burr and his mother.
Burr's father had died some time before. Lot was rumored to be
harder, in the matter of exacting heavy interest, than his father had
been. It was said that Burr was far behind in his payments, and that
Lot would foreclose. Burr had a better head than his father's, but he
had terrible odds against him. There was only one chance for his
release from difficulty, people thought. All the property, by a
provision in the grandfather's will, was to fall to him if Lot died
unmarried. Lot was twenty years older than Burr, and he coughed.
"Burr Gordon ain't makin' out much now," people said; "the paint's
all off his house and his land's run down, but there's dead men's
shoes with gold buckles in the path ahead of him."
Burr thought of it sometimes, although he turned his face from the
thought, and Lot considered it when he took the mortgage note out of
his desk and scored another installment of unpaid interest on it. "If
a man's only his own debtor he won't be very hard on himself," he
said aloud, and laughed. Old Margaret Bean, his housekeeper, looked
at him over her spectacles, but she did not know what he meant. She
prepared many a valuable remedy for his cough from herbs and roots,
but Lot would never taste them, and she made her old husband swallow
them all as preventatives of colds, that they should not be wasted.
Lot was coughing harder lately. To-night, after he returned from the
Hautvilles', he had one paroxysm after another. He did not go to bed,
but huddled over the fire wrapped in a shawl, with a leather-bound
book on his knees, all night, holding to his chest when he coughed,
then turning to his book again.
When daylight was fully in the room he blew out the candle, and went
over to the window and looked out across the road at the house
opposite, which had always been called the "new house" to distinguish
it from the old Gordon homestead. It was not so solid and noble as
the other, but it had sundry little touches of later times, which his
father had always characterized as wasteful follies. For one thing,
it was elevated ostentatiously far above the road-level upon terraces
surmounted by a flight of stone steps. It fairly looked down, like
any spirit of a younger age, upon the older house, which might have
been regarded in a way as its progenitor.
The smoke was coming out of the kitchen chimney in the ell. Lot
Gordon looked across. Burr was clearing the snow from the stone steps
over the terraces. There had never been any lack of energy and
industry in Burr to account for his flagging fortunes. He arose
betimes every morning. Lot, standing well behind the dimity curtain,
watched him flinging the snow aside like spray, his handsome face
glowing like a rose.
"I suppose he is going to the party at the tavern to-night," Lot
murmured. Suddenly his face took on a piteous, wistful look like a
woman's; tears stood in his blue eyes. He doubled over with a violent
fit of coughing, then went back to his chair and his book.
This party had been the talk of the village for several weeks. It was
to be an unusually large one. People were coming from all the towns
roundabout. Burr Gordon had been one of the ringleaders of the
enterprise. All day long he worked over the preparations, dragging
out evergreen garlands from under the snow in the woods, cutting
hemlock boughs, and trimming the ball-room in the tavern. Towards
night he heard a piece of news which threatened to bring everything
to a standstill. The dusk was thickening fast; Burr and the two young
men who were working with him were hurrying to finish the decorations
before candlelight when Richard Hautville came in. Burr started when
he saw him. He looked so like his sister in the dim light that he
thought for a moment she was there.
Richard did not notice him at all. He hustled by him roughly and
approached the other two young men. "Louis can't fiddle to-night," he
announced, curtly. The young men stared at him in dismay.
"What's the trouble?" asked Burr.
"He's hurt his arm," replied Richard; but he still addressed the
other two, and made as if he were not answering Burr.
"Broke it?" asked one of the others.
"No; sprained it. He was clearing the snow off the barn roof and the
ladder fell. It's all black-and-blue, and he can't lift it enough to
fiddle to-night."
The three young men looked at each other.
"What's going to be done?" said one.
"I don't know," said Burr. "There's Davy Barrett, over to the Four
Corners--I suppose we might get him if we sent right over."
"You can't get him," said Richard Hautville, still addressing the
other two, as if they had spoken. "Louis said you couldn't. His
wife's got the typhus-fever, and he's up nights watching with
her--won't let anybody else. You can't get him."
"We can't have a ball without a fiddler," one young man said,
soberly.
"Maybe Madelon would lilt for the dancing," Burr Gordon said; and
then he colored furiously, as if he had startled himself in saying
it.
The boy turned on him. "Maybe you think my sister will lilt for you
to dance, Burr Gordon!" cried he, and his face blazed white in Burr's
eyes, and he shook his slender brown fist.
"Nobody wants your sister to lilt if she isn't willing to," Burr
returned, in a hard voice; and he snatched up a hemlock bough, and
went away with it to the other side of the ball-room.
"My sister won't lilt for you, and you can have your ball the best
way you can!" shouted the boy, his angry eyes following Burr. Then he
went out of the ball-room with a leap, and slammed the door so that
the tavern trembled.
The young men chuckled. "Injun blood is up," said one.
"You'll be scalped, Burr," called the other.
Burr came over to them with an angry stride. "Oh, quit fooling!" said
he, impatiently. "What's going to be done?"
"Nothing can be done; we shall have to give the ball up for to-night
unless you can get Madelon Hautville to lilt for the dancing,"
returned one, and the other nodded assent. "That's the state of the
case," said he.
Burr scraped a foot impatiently on the waxed floor. "Go and ask her
yourself, Daniel Plympton," said he. "I don't see why it has all got
to come on to me."
"Can't," replied Daniel Plympton, with a laugh. "Remember the falling
out Eugene and I had at the house-raising? I ain't going to his house
to ask his sister to lilt for my dancing."
"You, then, Abner Little," said Burr, peremptorily, to the other
young man. He had a fair, nervous face, and he was screwing his
forehead anxiously over the situation.
"Can't nohow, Burr," said he. "I've got to drive four miles home, and
milk, and take care of the horses, and shave, and get dressed, and
then drive another three miles for my girl. I'm going to take one of
the Morse girls, over at Summer Falls. I haven't got time to go down
to the Hautvilles', and that's the truth, Burr."
"You'll have to go yourself, Burr," said Daniel Plympton, with a
half-laugh.
"I can't," said Burr, "and I won't, if we give the ball up."
"What will all the out-of-town folks say?"
"I don't care what they say--they can play forfeits."
"Forfeits!" returned Daniel Plympton with scorn. "What's kissing to
dancing?" Daniel Plympton was somewhat stout but curiously light of
foot, and accounted the best dancer in town. As he spoke he sprang up
on his toes as if he had winged heels. "Forfeits!" repeated he,
jerking his great flaxen head.
"Well, you can go yourself, then, and ask Madelon Hautville to lilt,"
said Burr.
"I tell you I can't, Burr--I ain't mean enough."
"Well, I won't, and that's flat."
"I've got to go home, anyway," said Abner Little. "What I want to
know is--is there going to be any ball?"
"Oh, get your girl anyhow, Ab," returned Daniel, with a great laugh;
"there'll be something. If there ain't dancing, there'll be kissing,
and that'll suit her just as well. And if she can't get enough here,
why there's the ride home. Lord, I'd get a girl nearer home! You've
got to drive six miles out of your way to Summer Falls and back. As
for me, the quicker I get a girl off my hands the better. I'm going
to take Nancy Blake because she lives next door to the tavern. Go
along with ye, Ab; Burr and I will settle it some way."
But it looked for some time after Abner Little left as if there would
be no ball that night. They could not have any dance unless Madelon
Hautville would sing for it, and both Daniel Plympton and Burr Gordon
were determined not to ask her.
At half-past seven Madelon was all dressed for the ball, and neither
of them had come to see her about it. She and all her brothers except
Louis were going. They wondered who would play for the dancing, but
supposed some arrangements would be made. "Burr Gordon will put it
through somehow," said Louis. "Maybe he'll ride over to Farnham
Hollow and get Luke Corliss to fiddle." Louis sat discontentedly by
the fire, with his arm soaking in cider-brandy and wormwood.
"Farnham Hollow is ten miles away," said Richard.
"His horse is fast; he'd get him here by eight o'clock," returned
Louis.
Madelon was radiant. In spite of herself, she was full of hope in
going to the ball. She knew Dorothy Fair would not be present, since
her father was the orthodox parson, and she had seen her own face in
her glass. With her rival away, what could not a face like that do
with a heart that leaned towards it of its own nature? Madelon dimly
felt that Burr Gordon had to resist himself as well as her in this
matter. She had tended a monthly rose in the south window all winter,
and she wore two red roses in her black braids. Her cheeks and her
lips were fuller of warm red life than the roses. She lowered her
black eyes before her father and her brothers, for there was a light
in them which she could not subdue, which belonged to Burr Gordon
only. No costly finery had Madelon Hautville, but she had done some
cunning needle-work on an old black-satin gown of her mother's, and
it was fitted as softly over her sweet curves as a leaf over a bud. A
long garland of flowers after her own design had she wrought in
bright-colored silks around the petticoat, and there were knots of
red ribbon to fasten the loopings here and there. And she wore
another red rose in her lace tucker against her soft brown bosom.
Madelon wore, too, trim black-silk stockings with red clocks over her
slender ankles, and little black-satin shoes with steel buckles and
red rosettes. Every one of her brothers, except the youngest,
Richard, must needs compare her in his own heart, to her
disparagement, with some maid not his sister, but they all viewed her
with pride. Old David Hautville's eyes, under his thick, white brows,
followed her and dwelt upon her as she moved around the kitchen.
Madelon had got out her red cloak and her silk hood, and it was
nearly time to start when there was a knock on the door. Madelon's
face was pale in a second, then red again. She pushed Richard aside.
"I'll go to the door," said she.
She knew somehow that it was Burr Gordon, and when she opened the
door he stood there. He looked curiously embarrassed, but she did not
notice that. His mere presence for the moment seemed to fill all her
comprehension. She had no eye for shades of expression.
"Come in," said she, all blushing and trembling before him, and yet
with a certain dignity which never quite deserted her.
"Can I see you a minute?" Burr said, awkwardly.
"Come this way."
Madelon led the way into the best room, where there was no fire. It
had not been warmed all winter, except on nights when Burr had come
courting her. In the midst of it the great curtained bedstead reared
itself, holding its feather-bed like a drift of snow. The floor was
sanded in a fine, small pattern, there were white tasselled curtains
at the windows, and there was a tall chest of drawers that reached
the ceiling. The room was just as Madelon's mother, who had been one
of the village girls, had left it.
Madelon glanced at the hearth, where she had laid the wood
symmetrically--all ready to be kindled at a moment's notice should
Burr come. "I'll light the fire," said she, in a trembling voice.
"No, I can't stop," returned the young man. "I've got to go right up
to the tavern. Look here, Madelon--"
"Well?" she murmured, trembling.
"I want to know if--look here, won't you lilt for the dancing
to-night, Madelon?"
Madelon's face changed. "That's all he came for," she thought. She
turned away from him. "You'd better get Luke Corliss to fiddle," she
said, coldly.
"We can't. I started to go over there, and I met a man that lives
next door to him, and he said it was no use, for Luke had gone down
to Winfield to fiddle at a ball there."
"I don't feel like lilting to-night," said Madelon.
The young man colored. "Well," said he, in a stiff, embarrassed
voice, and he turned towards the door, "we won't have any ball
to-night, that's all," he added.
"Well, you can go visiting instead," returned Madelon, suddenly.
"I'd rather go a-visiting--here!" cried Burr, with a quick fervor,
and he turned back and came close to her.
Madelon looked at him sharply, steeling her heart against his tender
tone, but he met her gaze with passionate eyes.
"Oh, Madelon, you look so beautiful to-night!" he whispered,
hoarsely. Her eyes fell before his. She made, whether she would or
not, a motion towards him, and he put his arms around her. They
kissed again and again, lingering upon each kiss as if it were a
foothold in heaven. A great rapture of faith in her lover and his
love came over Madelon. She said to herself that they had lied--they
had all lied! Burr had never courted Dorothy Fair. She believed, with
her whole heart and soul, that he loved her and her alone. And,
indeed, she was at that time, at that minute, right and not deceived;
for Burr Gordon was one of those who can encompass love in one tense
only, and that the present; and they who love only in the present,
hampered by no memories and no dreams, yield out love's sweetness
fully. All Burr Gordon's soul was in his kisses and his fond eyes,
and her own crept out to meet it with perfect faith.
"I will lilt for the dancing," she whispered.
The Hautvilles were going to the ball on their wood-sled, drawn by
oxen. David was to drive them, and take the team home. It was already
before the door when Burr came out, and Madelon asked him to ride
with them, but he refused. "I've got to go home first," he said, and
plunged off quickly down the old road, the short-cut to his house.
Madelon Hautville, in her red cloak and her great silk hood, stood in
the midst of her brothers on the wood-sled, and the oxen drew them
ponderously to the ball. The tavern was all alight. Many other sleds
were drawn up before the door; indeed, certain of the young men who
had not their especial sweethearts took their ox-sleds and went from
door to door collecting the young women. Many a jingling load slipped
along the snowy road to the tavern that night, and the ball-room
filled rapidly.
At eight o'clock the ball opened. Madelon stood up in the little
gallery allotted to the violins and lilted, and the march began. Two
and two, the young men and the girls swung around the room. Madelon
lilted with her eyes upon the moving throng, gay as a garden in a
wind; and suddenly her heart stood still, although she lilted on.
Down on the floor below Burr Gordon led the march, with Dorothy Fair
on his arm. Dorothy Fair, waving a great painted fan with the
tremulous motion of a butterfly's wing, with her blue brocade
petticoat tilting airily as she moved, like an inverted bell-flower,
with a locket set in brilliants flashing on her white neck, with her
pink-and-white face smiling out with gentle gayety from her fair
curls, stepped delicately, pointing out her blue satin toes, around
the ball-room, with one little white hand on Burr Gordon's arm.