The next day our hero, having hired a capital saddle-horse, a little
the worse for age, was finding his way eastward along the sandy roads.
The country was full of color; the sassafras and gum trees and oaks
were all ablaze with red and yellow. Now and then he caught a glimpse
of a sail on one of the wide reaches of the river which lay to the
northward; now and then he passed a broken gateway or the ruins of a
cabin. He carried a light gun before him across the saddle, and a
game-bag hung slack and empty at his shoulder except for a single
plump partridge in one corner, which had whirred up at the right
moment out of a vine-covered thicket. Something small and heavy in his
coat pocket seemed to correspond to the bird, and once or twice he
unconsciously lifted it in the hollow of his hand. The day itself, and
a sense of being on the road to fulfill his mission, a sense of
unending leisure and satisfaction under that lovely hazy sky, seemed
to leave no place for impatience or thought of other things. He rode
slowly along, with his eye on the roadside coverts, letting the horse
take his own gait, except when a ragged negro boy, on an unwilling,
heavy-footed mule, slyly approached and struck the dallying steed from
behind. It was past the middle of the October afternoon.
"'Mos' thar now, Cun'l," said the boy at last, eagerly. "See them
busted trees pas' thar, an' chimblies? You tu'n down nax' turn; ride
smart piece yet, an' you come right front of ol' Mars Bell'my's house.
See, he comin' 'long de road now. Yas, 'tis Mars Bell'my shore, an' 's
gun."
Tom had been looking across the neglected fields with compassion, and
wondering if such a plantation could ever be brought back to its days
of prosperity. As the boy spoke he saw the tall chimneys in the
distance, and then, a little way before him in the shadow of some
trees, a stately figure that slowly approached. He hurriedly
dismounted, leading his horse until he met the tall old man, who
answered his salutation with much dignity. There was something royal
and remote from ordinary men in his silence after the first words of
courteous speech.
"Yas, sir; that's Mars Bell'my, sir," whispered the boy on the mule,
reassuringly, and the moment of hesitation was happily ended.
"I was on my way to call upon you, Colonel Bellamy; my name is
Burton," said the younger man.
"Will you come with me to the house?" said the old gentleman, putting
out his hand cordially a second time; and though he had frowned
slightly at first at the unmistakable Northern accent, the light came
quickly to his eyes. Tom gave his horse's bridle to the boy, who
promptly transferred himself to the better saddle, and began to lead
the mule instead.
"I have been charged with an errand of friendship," said Tom. "I
believe that you and my grandfather were at Harvard together." Tom
looked boyish and eager and responsive to hospitality at this moment.
He was straight and trim, like a Frenchman. Colonel Bellamy was much
the taller of the two, even with his bent shoulders and relaxed
figure.
"I see the resemblance to your grandfather, sir. I bid you welcome to
Fairford," said the Colonel. "Your visit is a great kindness."
They walked on together, speaking ceremoniously of the season and of
the shooting and Tom's journey, until they left the woods and
overgrown avenue at the edge of what had once been a fine lawn, with
clusters of huge oaks; but these were shattered by war and more or
less ruined. The lopped trunks still showed the marks of fire and
shot; some had put out a fresh bough or two, but most of the ancient
trees stood for their own monuments, rain-bleached and gaunt. At the
other side of the wide lawn, against young woodland and a glimpse of
the river, were the four great chimneys which had been seen from the
highroad. There was no dwelling in sight at the moment, and Tom stole
an apprehensive look at the grave face of his companion. It appeared
as if he were being led to the habitation of ghosts, as if he were
purposely to be confronted with the desolation left in the track of
Northern troops. It was not so long since the great war that these
things could be forgotten.
The Colonel, however, without noticing the ruins in any way, turned
toward the right as he neared them, and passing a high fragment of
brick wall topped by a marble ball or two--which had been shot at for
marks--and passing, just beyond, some huge clumps of box, they came to
a square brick building with a rude wooden addition at one side, and
saw some tumble-down sheds a short distance beyond this, with a negro
cabin.
They came to the open door. "This was formerly the billiard-room. Your
grandfather would have kept many memories of it," said the host
simply. "Will you go in, Mr. Burton?" And Tom climbed two or three
perilous wooden steps and entered, to find himself in a most homelike
and charming place. There was a huge fireplace opposite the door, with
a thin whiff of blue smoke going up, a few old books on the high
chimney-piece, a pair of fine portraits with damaged frames, some old
tables and chairs of different patterns, with a couch by the square
window covered with a piece of fine tapestry folded together and still
showing its beauty, however raveled and worn. By the opposite window,
curtained only by vines, sat a lady with her head muffled in lace, who
greeted the guest pleasantly, and begged pardon for not rising from
her chair. Her face wore an unmistakable look of pain and sorrow. As
Tom Burton stood at her side, he could find nothing to say in answer
to her apologies. He was not wont to be abashed, and a real court
could not affect him like this ideal one. The poor surroundings could
only be seen through the glamour of their owner's presence--it seemed
a most elegant interior.
"I am sorry to have the inconvenience of deafness," said Madam
Bellamy, looking up with an anxious little smile. "Will you tell me
again the name of our guest?"
"He is my old classmate Burton's grandson, of Boston," said the
Colonel, who now stood close at her side; he looked apprehensive as he
spoke, and the same shadow flitted over his face as when Tom had
announced himself by the oak at the roadside.
"I remember Mr. Burton, your grandfather, very well," said Madam
Bellamy at last, giving Tom her hand for the second time, as her
husband had done. "He was your guest here the autumn before we were
married, my dear; a fine rider, I remember, and a charming gentleman.
He was much entertained by one of our hunts. I saw that you also
carried a gun. My dear," and she turned to her husband anxiously, "did
you bring home any birds?"
Colonel Bellamy's face lengthened. "I had scarcely time, or perhaps I
had not my usual good fortune," said he. "The birds have followed the
grain-fields away from Virginia, we sometimes think."
"I can offer you a partridge," said Tom eagerly. "I shot one as I rode
along. I am afraid that I stopped Colonel Bellamy just as he was going
out."
"I thank you very much," said Madam Bellamy. "And you will take supper
with us, certainly. You will give us the pleasure of a visit? I regret
very much my granddaughter's absence, but it permits me to offer you
her room, which happens to be vacant." But Tom attempted to make
excuse. "No, no," said Madam Bellamy, answering her own thoughts
rather than his words. "You must certainly stay the night with us; we
shall make you most welcome. It will give my husband great pleasure;
he will have many questions to ask you."
Tom went out to search for his attendant, who presently clattered away
on the mule at an excellent homeward pace. An old negro man servant
led away the horse, and Colonel Bellamy disappeared also, leaving the
young guest to entertain himself and his hostess for an hour, that
flew by like light. A woman who is charming in youth is still more
charming in age to a man of Tom Burton's imagination, and he was
touched to find how quickly the first sense of receiving an antagonist
had given way before a desire to show their feeling of kindly
hospitality toward a guest. The links of ancient friendship still held
strong, and as Tom sat with his hostess by the window they had much
pleasant talk of Northern families known to them both, of whom, or of
whose children and grandchildren, he could give much news. It seemed
as if he should have known Madam Bellamy all his life. It is
impossible to say how she illumined her poor habitation, with what
dignity and sweetness she avoided, as far as possible, any reference
to the war or its effects. One could hardly remember that she was
poor, or ill, or had suffered such piteous loss of friends and
fortune.
Later, when Tom was walking toward the river through the woods and
overgrown fields of the plantation, he came upon the ruins of the old
cabins of what must have been a great family of slaves. The crumbling
heaps of the chimneys stood in long lines on either side of a
weed-grown lane; not far beyond he found the sinking mounds of some
breastworks on a knoll which commanded the river channel. The very
trees and grass looked harrowed and distressed by war; the silence of
the sunset was only broken by the cry of a little owl that was begging
mercy of its fears far down the lonely shore.