It was Christmas eve night, and General Basil Prince, who had hurriedly
changed to evening dress after his arrival by a late train, halted for a
moment at the stairhead to look down. On his distinguished face played a
quiet smile. In these rapidly changing times, pride of lineage and
deference for tradition were things less openly voiced than in other
days which he could remember.
Probably that was as it should be, he reflected, yet an elderly fellow
might enjoy the fragrance of old lavender or the bouquet of memory's
vintage.
When he came here to the country house of his friend Wallifarro, it
seemed to him that he stepped back into those days when gracious
ceremonies held and dancers trod the measured figures of the minuet.
He wondered if in many places one could find just such another coterie
of intimates as the little group of older men who gathered here: men who
had been boyhood comrades in the Orphan Brigade, or Morgan's Cavalry:
men who had, since the reconstruction, distinguished themselves in
civilian life, weaving into a new pattern the regathered threads of
fortune.
Gazing down upon the broad hall, with the parquetry of its floors
cleared for dancing, Basil Prince warmed to a glow of pride in these
people who were his people. Aristocracies had risen and tottered since
history had kept its score, but here, surviving all change, remained a
simple graciousness, and a stamina of great heartedness like that which
royal breeding had instilled into those satin-coated horses out there in
their barns; steadfastness of courage and a high spirit.
Holly and mistletoe festooned the doorways, logs roared on brass
andirons, and silver-sconced candles glowed against an ivory softness of
white wainscoting and the waxed darkness of mahogany. He loved it all;
the simple uncrowded elegance; the chaste designs of silver, upon which
the tempered lights found rebirth; the ripe age of the family portraits.
It stood for a worthy part of America--a culture that had ripened in the
early wilderness.
Morgan Wallifarro was home from Harvard for his first vacation, and as
General Prince eyed the boy his brows puckered in the momentary ghost of
a frown. This lad, alone of all the young folk in the laughing groups,
struck him as one to whom he could not accord an unreserved approval--as
one whose dress and manner grated ever so slightly with their marring
suspicion of pose. But this, he told himself, was only the conceit of
extreme youth. Morgan was named for his old chieftain of the partisan
cavalry. He was Tom Wallifarro's boy, and if there was anything in blood
he must ultimately develop into worthiness.
"He's the best stock in the world," mused the General. "He's like a
fractious colt just now--but when he's had a bit of gruelling, he'll run
true to form."
The fiddles swung into a Sousa march, and couples drifted out upon the
floor. General Prince stood against the wall, teasing and delighting a
small girl with short skirts and beribboned hair. It was Anne Masters,
that bewitching child who in a few years more would have little leisure
for gray-heads when the violins sang to waltz-time.
The music ran its course and stopped, as all music must, and the couples
stood encoring. Some one, flushed with dancing, threw open the front
door, and a chilly gust swept in from the night. Then quite suddenly
General Prince heard Morgan Wallifarro's laugh break out over the hum of
conversation.
"Well, in Heaven's name," satirically inquired that young gentleman,
"what have we here?"
It was a strange picture for such a framing, yet into the eyes of
General Prince flashed a quick indignant light and under his breath he
muttered, "That young cub, Morgan! He disappoints me."
Seen across the sparkling shoulders and the filmy party gowns of the
girls, beyond the black and white of the men's evening dress, was the
parallelogram of the wide entrance-door, and centred on its threshold,
against the night-curtain, bulked a figure which hesitated there in
momentary indecision and grotesque inappropriateness.
It was a boy, whose long mop of red-brown hair was untrimmed and whose
eyes were just now dazzled by the unaccustomed light and sparkle upon
which they looked. His shirt was of blue cotton, his clothes patched and
shoddy, but under a battery of amused glances he sensed a spirit of
ridicule and stiffened like a ramrod. A drifting peal of laughter from
somewhere brought his chin up, and a red tide flooded into his cheeks.
The soft and dusty hat which he clasped in his hand was crumpled under
the pressure of his tightening fingers.
Then Boone Wellver's voice carried audibly over the hall and into the
rooms at the side.
"I heered tell thet thar war a dancin' party goin' forward hyar," he
announced simply, "an' I 'lowed I'd jest as lieve as not fare over fer a
spell."
Boone had intended no comedy effect. He spoke in decorous gravity, and
he knew of no reason why an outburst of laughter should sweep the place
as he finished. Prince caught an unidentified voice from his back. It
was low pitched, but it fell on the silence that succeeded the laugh,
and he feared that the boy must have caught it too.
"One of the tobacco-yaps from the back of the place, I expect."
At once General Prince stepped forward and laid his hand on Boone's
shoulder. Under his palm he felt a tremor of anger and hurt pride, and
he spoke clearly.
"This young gentleman," he said--and though his eyes were twinkling with
a whimsical light, his voice carried entire and calculated gravity--"is
a friend of mine, Mr. Boone Wellver of Marlin County. I've enjoyed the
hospitality of his people." There was a puzzled pause, and the General,
whose standing here was as secure as that of Petronius at Nero's court,
continued.
"In the mountains when a party is given no invitations are issued. Word
simply goes out as to time and location, and whoever cares to
come--comes."
The explanation was meant for those inside, but the boy in the doorway
caught from it a clarifying of matters for his own understanding as
well. Obviously here one did _not_ come without being bidden, and that
left him in the mortifying attitude of a trespasser. It came with a
flash of realization and chagrin.
He yearned to blot himself into the kindly void of the night behind
him--yet that rude type of dignity which was bred in him forbade the
humiliation of unexplained flight. Such a course would indeed stamp him
as a "yap," and however shaggy and unkempt his appearance might be in
this ensemble of silk and broadcloth he was as proud as Lucifer.
Heretofore a "dancing-party" had meant to him, shuffling brogans where
shadows leaped with firelight and strings of fiddle and "dulcimore"
quavered out the strains of "Turkey-in-the-straw" or "I've got a gal at
the head of the hollow."
He had expected this to be different, but not _so_ different, and he had
need to blink back tears of shame.
But, all the more for that, he drew himself straight and stiff and spoke
resolutely, though his voice carried the suspicion of a tremor.
"I fear me I've done made a fool mistake an' I reckon I'll say farewell
ter you-all, now."
Even then he did not wheel precipitately, under the urge of his anxiety
to be gone, but paused with a forced deliberation, and, as he tarried,
little Anne Masters stepped impulsively forward.
Anne had reigned with a captivating absolutism from her cradle on. Swift
impulses and ready sympathies governed much of her conduct, and they
governed her now.
"This is _my_ party," she declared. "Uncle Tom told me so at dinner, and
I specially invite you to come in." She spoke with the haste of one
wishing to forestall the possible thwarting of elderly objection, and
ended with a dancing-school curtsey before the boy in hodden gray. Then
the music started up again, and she added, "If you like, I'll give you
this waltz."
But Boone Wellver only shifted from one uneasy foot to the other,
fingering his hat brim and blinking owlishly. "I'm obleeged ter ye," he
stammered with a sudden access of awkwardness, "but I hain't never run a
set in my life. My folks don't hold hit ter be godly. I jest came ter
kinderly look on."
"Anne, dear," translated Basil Prince, "in the mountains they know only
the square dances. Isn't that correct?" The boy nodded his head.
"Thet's what I aimed ter say," he corroborated. "An' I'm beholden ter
ye, little gal, none-the-less."
"And now, come with me, Boone," suggested the old soldier,
diplomatically steering the unbidden guest across the hall and into the
library where over their cigars and their politics sat the circle of
devoted veterans.
Colonel Tom Wallifarro was standing before the fire with his hands
clasped at his back. "I had hoped against hope," he was indignantly
asserting, "that when the man's own hand-made triumvirate denied him
endorsement, he would end his reign of terror and acknowledge defeat."
"A knowledge of the candidate should have sufficed to refute that idea,"
came the musical voice of a gentleman, whose snow-white hair was like a
shock of spun silver.
"I was in Frankfort some days ago when Mr. Goebel sat there in
conference with his favoured lieutenants. It was reported that he
declared himself indifferent as to the outcome, but that he would abide
by the decision of his party whips. The reporters were besieging those
closed doors, and at the end you all know what verdict went over the
wires: 'Being a loyal Democrat I shall obey the mandate of my party--and
make a contest before the legislature for the office of governor, to
which I was legally elected.'"
Just then Basil Prince came forward, leading his protege. Possibly a
wink passed over Boone Wellver's head. At all events the circle of
gentlemen rose and shook hands as sedately as though they had been
awaiting him--and Boone, hearing the titles, colonel, senator, governor,
was enthralled beyond measure.
A half hour later, Morgan Wallifarro burst tempestuously in, carrying a
large package, and wearing an expression of excited enthusiasm.
"General," he exclaimed, "I have disobeyed orders and opened one
Christmas gift before tomorrow. I suspected what it was, sir--and I
couldn't wait."
Forgetful of the pretty girls in the rooms beyond, he ripped open the
parcel and laid on the centre table a pair of beautifully chased and
engraved fencing foils, and the masks that went with them.
"I simply had to come in and thank you at once, sir," he added
delightedly. "Father, bend that blade and feel the temper! Look at the
engraving too! My monogram is on the guard."
While his elders looked indulgently on, the lad made a pass or two at an
imagined adversary, and then he laughed again.
"By George, I wish I had one of the fencing-class fellows here now."
Boone bent forward in his chair, his eyes eagerly fixed on the
glittering beauty of the slender, rubber-tipped blades. His lips parted
to speak, but closed again without sound, while Morgan lunged and
parried at nothing on the hearth-rug. "'We're the cadets of Gascogny,'"
the son of the house quoted lightly. "'At the envoy's end I touch.'"
Then regretfully he added, "I wish there was some one to have a go with.
Are there any challengers, gentlemen?"
The boy in hodden-gray slipped from his chair.
"I reckon ef ye're honin' fer a little sward-fightin' I'll aim ter
convenience ye," he quietly invited.
For an instant Morgan gazed at him in silence. Without discourtesy, it
was difficult to reply to such an absurd invitation, and even the older
men felt their reserve of dignity taxed with the repression of mirth as
they contemplated the volunteer.
"I'm sorry," apologized Morgan, when the silence had become oppressive,
"but these foils are delicate things. For all their temper, they snap
like glass in hands that aren't accustomed to them. It takes a bit of
practice, you see."
The note of condescension stung Boone painfully and his eyes narrowed.
"All right. Hev hit yore own way," he replied curtly. "I thought ye
wanted some sward-practice."
With a sudden flash of memory there came back to Basil Prince's mind the
picture of Victor McCalloway's cabin and Dinwiddie's sword--and, with
the memory, an idea. "Morgan," he suavely suggested, "your challenge was
general, as I understood it, and I don't see how you can gracefully
decline. If a blade breaks, I'll see that it's replaced."
The young college man could hesitate no longer, though he felt that he
was being forced into a ludicrous position, as he bowed his unwilling
acquiescence.
But when the two adversaries took their places where the furniture had
been hastily cleared away, the men widened their eyes and bent forward
absorbed. The mountain lad had suddenly shed his grotesqueness. He
dropped his blade and lifted it in salute, not like a bumpkin but with
the finished grace of familiarity--the sweeping confidence of perfect
ease. As he stepped back, saying "On guard," his left hand came up at
balance and his poise was as light as though he had been reared in the
classroom of a fencing-school.
Morgan went into that contest with the disadvantage of utter
astonishment. He had received some expensive instruction and was on the
way toward becoming a skilled hand with the rapier, but the "tobacco
yap" had been schooled by one of the first swords of Europe.
At the first sharp ring of steel on steel one or two persons
materialized in the library door, and they were speedily augmented by
fresh arrivals, until the circle of bare-shouldered girls and attendant
cavaliers pressed close on the area of combat. Backward and forward,
warily circling with a delicate and musical clatter of engaging steel
between them, went the lad in broadcloth and the boy in homespun.
It was, at best, unequal, but Morgan gave the most that he had, and
against a lesser skill he would have acquitted himself with credit.
After a little there came a lunge, a hilt pressed to lower blade, a
swift twist of a wrist, and young Wallifarro's foil flew clear of his
hand and clattered to the floor. He had been cleanly disarmed.
Boone drew the mask from his tousled head and shuffled his feet. That
awkwardness which had been so absent from his moments of action
descended upon him afresh as he awoke to the many watching eyes. Morgan
held out a hand, which was diffidently received, and acknowledged
frankly, "You're much the better man--but where in Heaven's name did you
learn to fence like that?"
The mountain boy flushed, suddenly realizing that this too was a matter
included in his pledge of confidence to Victor McCalloway.
"Oh," he evasively responded, "I jest kinderly picked hit up--hyar an'
thar as I went along."
As soon as possible after that, Boone made his escape, and it was
characteristic of his close-mouthed self-containment that at Saul
Fulton's cabin he said nothing as to where he had spent his Christmas
eve.