The next morning Burton waked early in his tiny sleeping-room. The
fragrance of ripe grapes and the autumn air blew in at the window, and
he hastened to dress, especially as he could hear the footstep and
imperious voice of Colonel Bellamy, who seemed to begin his new day
with zest and courage in the outer room. Milton, the old gray-headed
negro, was there too, and was alternately upbraided and spoken with
most intimately and with friendly approval. It sounded for a time as
if some great excitement and project were on foot; but Milton
presently appeared, eager for morning offices, and when Tom went out
to join the Colonel he was no longer there. There were no signs of
breakfast. The birds were singing in the trees outside, and the sun
shone in through the wide-opened door. It was a poor place in the
morning light. As he crossed the room he saw an old-fashioned
gift-book lying on the couch, as if some one had just laid it there
face downward. He carried it with him to the door; a dull collection
enough, from forgotten writers of forgotten prose and verse, but the
Colonel had left it open at some lines which, with all their faults,
could not be read without sympathy. He was always thinking of his
wife; he had marked the four verses because they spoke of her.
Tom put the old book down just as Colonel Bellamy passed outside, and
hastened to join him. They met with pleasure, and stood together
talking. The elder man presently quoted a line or two of poetry about
the beauty of the autumn morning, and his companion stood listening
with respectful attention, but he observed by contrast the hard,
warriorlike lines of the Colonel's face. He could well believe that,
until sorrow had softened him, a fiery impatient temper had ruled this
Southern heart. There was a sudden chatter and noise of voices, and
they both turned to see a group of negroes, small and great, coming
across the lawn with bags and baskets, and after a few muttered words
the old master set forth hurriedly to meet them, Tom following.
"Be still, all of you!" said the Colonel sternly. "Your mistress is
still asleep. Go round to Milton, and he will attend to you. I'll come
presently."
They were almost all old people, many of them were already infirm, and
it was hard to still their requests and complaints. One of the smaller
children clasped Colonel Bellamy about the knees. There was something
patriarchal in the scene, and one could not help being sure that some
reason for the present poverty of Fairford was the necessity for
protecting these poor souls. The merry, well-fed colored people, who
were indulging their late-won liberty of travel on the trains, had
evidently shirked any responsibilities for such stray remnants of
humanity. Slavery was its own provider for old age. There had once
been no necessity for the slaves themselves to make provision for
winter, as even a squirrel must. They were worse than children now,
and far more appealing in their helplessness.
The group slowly departed, and Colonel Bellamy led the way in the
opposite direction, toward the ruins of the great house. They crossed
the old garden, where some ancient espaliers still clung to the broken
brick-work of the walls, and a little fruit still clung to the knotted
branches, while great hedges of box, ragged and uncared for, traced
the old order of the walks. The heavy dew and warm morning sun brought
out that antique fragrance,--the faint pungent odor which wakes the
utmost memories of the past. Tom Burton thought with a sudden thrill
that the girl with the sweet eyes yesterday had worn a bit of box in
her dress. Here and there, under the straying boughs of the shrubbery,
bloomed a late scarlet poppy from some scattered seed of which such
old soil might well be full. It was a barren, neglected garden enough,
but still full of charm and delight, being a garden. There was a fine
fragrance of grapes through the undergrowth, but the whole place was
completely ruined; a little snake slid from the broken base of a
sun-dial; the tall chimneys of the house were already beginning to
crumble, and birds and squirrels lived in their crevices and flitted
about their lofty tops. At some distance an old negro was singing,--it
must have been Milton himself, still unbesought by his dependents, and
the song was full of strange, monotonous wails and plaintive cadences,
like a lament for war itself, and all the misery that follows in its
train.
Colonel Bellamy had not spoken for some moments, but when they reached
the terrace which had been before the house there were two flights of
stone steps that led to empty air, and these were still adorned by
some graceful railings and balusters, bent and rusty and broken.
"You will observe this iron-work, sir," said the Colonel, stopping to
regard with pride almost the only relic of the former beauty and state
of Fairford. "My grandfather had the pattern carefully planned in
Charleston, where such work was formerly well done by Frenchmen." He
stopped to point out certain charming features of the design with his
walking-stick, and then went on without a glance at the decaying
chimneys or the weed-grown cellars and heaps of stones beneath.
The lovely October morning was more than half gone when Milton brought
the horse round to the door, and the moment came to say farewell. The
Colonel had shown sincere eagerness that the visit should be prolonged
for at least another day, but a reason for hurry which the young man
hardly confessed to himself was urging him back along the way he had
come. He was ready to forget his plans for shooting and wandering
eastward on the river shore. He had paid a parting visit to Madam
Bellamy in her own room, where she lay on a couch in the sunshine, and
had seen the silver cup--a lucky cup he devoutly hoped it might indeed
be--on a light stand by her side. It held a few small flowers, as if
it had so been brought in to her in the early morning. Her eyes were
dim with weeping. She had not thought of its age and history, neither
did the sight of such pathetic loot wake bitter feelings against her
foes. It was only the cup that her little children had used, one after
another, in their babyhood; the last and dearest had kept it longest,
and even he was dead--fallen in battle, like the rest.
She wore a hood and wrapping of black lace, which brought out the
delicacy of her features like some quaint setting. Her hand trembled
as she bade her young guest farewell. As he looked back from the
doorway she was like some exiled queen in a peasant's lodging, such
dignity and sweet patience were in her look. "I think you bring good
fortune," she said. "Nothing can make me so happy as to have my
husband find a little pleasure."
As the young man crossed the outer room the familiar eyes of the old
portrait caught his own with wistful insistency. He suddenly suspected
the double reason: he had been dreaming of other eyes, and knew that
his fellow-traveler had kept him company. "Madam Bellamy," he said,
turning back, and blushing as he bent to speak to her in a lower
voice,--"the portrait; is it like any one? is it like your
granddaughter? Could I have seen her on my way here?"
Madam Bellamy looked up at his eager face with a light of unwonted
pleasure in her eyes. "Yes," said she, "my granddaughter would have
been on her way to Whitfields. She has always been thought extremely
like the picture: it is her great-grandmother. Good-by; pray let us
see you at Fairford again;" and they said farewell once more, while
Tom Burton promised something, half to himself, about the Christmas
hunt,
_"Je vous en prie, Belle amie,"_
he whispered, and a most lovely hope was in his heart.
"You have been most welcome," said the Colonel at parting. "I beg that
you will be so kind as to repeat this visit. I shall hope that we may
have some shooting together."
"I shall hope so too," answered Tom Burton, warmly. Then, acting from
sudden impulse, he quickly unslung his gun, and begged his old friend
to keep it--to use it, at any rate, until he came again.
The old Virginian did not reply for a moment. "Your grandfather would
have done this, sir. I loved him, and I take it from you both. My own
gun is too poor a thing to offer in return." His voice shook; it was
the only approach to a lament, to a complaint, that he had made.
This was the moment of farewell; the young man held the Colonel's hand
in a boyish eager grasp. "I wish that I might be like a son to you,"
he said. "May I write, sometimes, and may I really come to Fairford
again?"
The old Colonel answered him most affectionately, "Oh yes; we must
think of the Christmas hunt," he said, and so they parted.
Tom Burton rode slowly away, and presently the fireless chimneys of
Fairford were lost to sight behind the clustering trees. The noonday
light was shining on the distant river; the road was untraveled and
untenanted for miles together, except by the Northern rider and his
Southern steed.