Long we sat there in a calm, after the General left us; and the two
girls, on a bench in a corner, whispered to each other. How wild had
been my guessing at the character of Millie! How could one so shy, so
gentle, so fond of showing her dimples, cast off all timidity and set
herself in opposition to her father's authority and pride? I could but
argue that she was wrong, that she had forgotten her duty, thus to stand
out and violently defy him, and yet I admired her for the spirit she had
shown. And I believed that Guinea was just as determined, just as
passionate. But she was wiser.
I told the old man what Alf had requested me to tell him, that he must
sell his farm and go away, and he replied that he would. "I don't think,
though, that I can get very much for it. Parker's land joins mine, and
may be I can strike a trade with him. Of course, I don't want to live
here any longer, for no matter what may come now we've got the name.
Susan, I never saw a woman behave better than you have to-night. The old
stock--and I'm with the book from kiver to kiver. And now, Millie, let
me say a word to you. Of course, I know exactly how you feel, and all
that--how that you couldn't help yourself--but to-morrow mornin' after
breakfast I would, if I was in your place, go right home and ask my
father's forgiveness. I say if I was in your place, for if you do you
won't have half so much to be sorry for, and in this life I hold that
we're doin' our best when we do the fewest things to regret. What do you
think?"
"I'm sorry I talked that way, and he's getting old, too. But I had a
cause. He made me stay in the house, and he ought to remember that I am
of the same blood he is and that it's awful to be humiliated. But
there's one thing I'm going to do. When Alf's tried again, I'm going to
tell them what Stuart said. I would have done it this time, but I was
ashamed to say anything about it. I have been nearly crazy, but I'm
awfully sorry that I talked that way. And, oh, suppose he were to die
to-night? I never could forgive myself. I must go home now, Mr. Jucklin.
Yes, I can't stay another minute. You'll go with me, won't you, Mr.
Hawes?"
"I will gladly do so," I answered.
"And I will go, too," said Guinea.
We took a lantern, but the night was so dark that we went round by the
road, rather than over the meadows. Millie said that she scarcely
remembered how she had come, but she thought that she had run the most
of the way. And over and over as we walked along she repeated: "I'm
awfully sorry."
As we came out of the woods, where the road bent in toward the big gate,
we saw a light burning in the library. Millie stopped suddenly and
clutched my arm. "Suppose he won't let me come back?" she said. "I don't
know in what sort of a humor I may find him. Mr. Hawes, you go on and
see him first, please?"
"And I will wait out here," Guinea spoke up, and her voice trembled. "Of
course, I can't go into the house after what has happened. Nobody must
know that I am here."
I left them standing in the dark, and when I stepped upon the porch I
heard some one walking heavily and slowly up and down the library. On
the door was a brass knocker, and when I raised it and let it fall, the
foot-steps came hastily to the door. A hanging lamp was burning in the
hall, and I saw that the old General himself had opened the door.
"Oh, it's you Mr. Hawes. I couldn't tell at first. My old eyes are
getting flat, sir. Step into the library."
"No, I thank you. I have but a moment to stay."
"Step in, sir," he insisted, almost commanded, and I obeyed. Chyd was
under a lamp, reading a sheep-skin covered book. He looked up as I
entered, nodded, and then resumed his reading.
"Sit down," said the General.
"No, I thank you, for, as I say, I have but a moment to remain. Your
daughter is exceedingly sorry that she acted----"
"Where is she, sir?"
"She has come with me, but fearing that your resentment----"
"What, is she out there waiting in the dark? What, my child out there
waiting to know whether she can come into her father's house? I will go
to her, sir. Come, Chyd, let us both go."
I stepped to the door and stood confronting the old man and his son.
"You can go, General, if you will, but your son must remain where he
is."
"What, I don't understand you, sir. How dare you--what do you mean,
sir?"
"Your son must not come with us. That is what I mean."
"Not go to welcome his sister home. Get out of my way, sir!"
"Wait, General. He should not go out there, for the reason that some one
else, out of kindness, has accompanied your daughter and me."
"Ah, I beg your pardon," said the old man, bowing. "Chyd, stay where you
are."
Millie was inside the yard, but Guinea was in the road, standing at the
gate. "Come, my child!" the old man called. Millie ran to him and he
took her in his arms. And he lifted her off the ground, slight creature
that she was, and carried her up the steps.
Guinea took my arm and homeward we went, and not a word was spoken until
we entered the dark woods.
"You saw Chyd?" she said.
"Yes, and the old gentleman wanted him to come out."
"To kneel at my feet so soon?"
"No, to welcome his sister. Are you so anxious for the time to come?"
"Yes," she answered, without hesitation.
"And is it because you love him?" I asked bitterly.
"You and I are to be the best of friends, Mr. Hawes, and you must not
reproach me."
"Forgive me if I have hurt you," I said, stupidly.
"But you must not keep on wounding me merely to be forgiven. I said that
he would kneel at my feet, and this may sound foolish to you, but he
will. How do I know? I feel it; I don't know why, but I do. And we are
to leave the old home if father can sell the land. It's better to go,
but it will be still better to come back, and we will. Do you think that
I am merely a simple girl without ambition? I am not; I dream."
"I know that you are a noble woman."
"Oh, don't flatter me now. It's first reproach, and then flattery. But
have you thought of the real nobility of some one else--yourself?"
I strove to laugh, but I know that it must have been a miserable croak.
"I have done nothing to merit that opinion," I replied.
"Oh, it is a part of your nature to suppress yourself. Do you know that
I expect great things of you? I do."
"I know one thing that I'm going to do--I am going to buy the old house
and a narrow strip of land--the path and the spring. That's all I
want--the house, the path and the spring, with just a little strip
running a short distance down the brook where the moss is so thick. I
have the promise of money from Perdue, and I think that I can borrow
some of Conkwright. Yes, I must have the house and the path and the
spring and the strip of moss-land that lies along the branch. It will be
merely a poetic possession, but such possessions are the richest to one
who has a soul; and no one with a soul will bid against me. It is a mean
man that would bid against a sentiment."
"You must be nearly worn out," she said, when for some distance we had
walked in silence.
"I may be, but I don't know it yet. And so long as I don't know it, why,
of course, I don't care."
For a long time we said nothing. Her hand was on my arm, but I scarcely
felt its weight, except when we came upon places where the road was
rough; and I wished that the way were rougher, that I might feel her
dependence upon me. Once she stepped into a deep rut, and I caught her
about the waist, but when I had lifted her out, she gently released
herself. She said that the road was rougher than she had ever before
found it, and I was ready to swear that it was the most delightful
highway that my feet had trod; indeed, I did swear it, but she warned me
not to use such strong language when I meant to convey but a weak
compliment.
"Let us walk faster," she said. "It is away past midnight. I do believe
it's nearly day. Can you see your watch?"
"Yes, but I can't see the time."
"Nobody can see time, Mr. Teacher of Children."
"But I could not tell the time even if I were to hold the lantern to the
watch."
"Oh, of course you could. Why do you talk that way?"
"I am moved to talk that way because I know that the watch, being in
sympathy with me, refuses to record time when I am with you--it
frightens off the minutes in an ecstasy."
"Nonsense, Mr. Hawes. I do believe daylight is coming. What a night we
have passed, and here I am unable to realize it, and mother is
heart-broken over our disgrace. But I suppose it will fall upon me and
crush me when we have gone away. My brother sentenced to the
penitentiary! To myself I have repeated these words over and over and
yet they don't strike me."
"Perhaps it is because your mind is on some one else," I replied, with a
return of my feeling of bitterness.
With a pressure gentle and yet forgetful her hand had been resting on my
arm, but in an instant the pressure was gone like a bird fluttering from
a bough, and out in the road she was walking alone.
"I earnestly beg your pardon. I scarcely knew what I was saying. Won't
you please take my arm?"
"To be compelled to drop it again before we have gone a hundred yards?"
"No, to drop it when we have reached the gate. Won't you, please? I
don't deny that I am a fool. I have always been a fool. My father said
so and he was right. Everybody made fun of me because I was so easily
cheated; and you ought to be willing to forgive a man who was born a
failure. Whenever there has been a mistake to be made I have made it.
Once I was caught in a storm and when I came in dripping, my father said
that I hadn't sense enough to come in out of the rain. But I am stronger
with every one else than I am with you, and----"
She was laughing at me; but it was a laugh of sympathy, of forgiveness,
and I caught her hand and placed it upon my arm. And so we walked along
in silence, she pressing my arm when the road was rough. Daylight was
coming and we could see the house, dark and lonesome beyond the black
ravine.
"What a peculiar man the General is," I said, feeling the growing
heaviness of the silence. "I can hardly place him; but I believe he has
a kind heart."
"Yes," she replied, "he is kind and brave and generous, but over it all
is a weakness."
"And he is of a type that is fast disappearing," said I. "A few years
more and his class will be but a memory, and then will come almost a
forgetfulness, but later on he will reappear as a caricature from the
pen of some careless and unsympathetic writer."
We had crossed the ravine and were now at the gate, and here I halted.
"What, aren't you going in?" she asked, looking up at me, and in the
dim light I could see her face, pale and sad.
"No," I answered, "I am going to town."
"At this hour, and when you are so tired?"
"The horse is rested, and as for myself, my duty must give me vigor."
"I don't understand you. What can you do in town?"
"I can bear the divinest of tidings--I can tell Alf that Millie loves
him."
She stood looking down, and, bending over her, I kissed her hair, and
oh, the heaven of that moment, at the gate, in the dawn; and oh, the
thrilling perfume of her hair, damp with the dew brushed from the vine
and the leaf of the spice-wood bush. And there, without a word, I left
her, her white hands clasped on her bosom; and over the roadway I
galloped with a message on my lips and incense in my soul.