He was unprepared for the size and magnificence of the Overton house.
If he had been an older resident of Hilltop, he would have known that
to visit the daughter of Balby Overton was a thing not to be done
unadvisedly or lightly. It was an occasion to be dressed for, and
mentioned afterward, with a casualness only apparent.
But Vickers knew nothing of this,--only knew that a pretty girl had
asked him to visit her, and that an evening had soon presented itself
when he found it convenient to go. Nor would he, for his nature lacked
reverence, have been very much impressed at knowing that Overton was
thought a great man in the neighborhood. He had begun life like all
the other men in Hilltop, had skated and swum in the river with the
rest, had gone to school with the other boys, and had not, as they
delighted to remember, been very wise or very industrious. Afterward
he had studied law and then gone into a law-office in the nearest
large town. From that moment he had begun to rise; so that the old
conservative firm which had consented to receive him as a clerk was
now generally spoken of as “Overton’s partners.” He was considered the
first lawyer in the state, and spoken of as the next senator. He was
known, too, to have made money.
And yet he had never moved away from Hilltop. Hilltop itself expected
it, and waited anxiously for the first symptom; waited to hear him
complain of the heat of summer, or the exigencies of his daughter’s
education. He never spoke of either. Perhaps political reasons chained
him, or perhaps he was not above enjoying the position of a big man
in a small place, or possibly he was bound by an affection for the
neighborhood where he was born and bred. In any case, he built himself
a new house, and an anomalous being, whose position Hilltop never
clearly understood, came and laid out the grounds--a “lands_cape_
gardener” was understood to be his official title. Hilltop on the whole
disapproved of him. He planted strange trees, and they asked each other
why it was, “if Balby wanted trees so bad, he didn’t build his house
down in the woods.”
But Overton himself remained unchanged--unchanged at least as far as
any one could judge. He still came to town meetings and quarreled with
Dr. Briggs just as he had always done. It is true that certain people
who had always called him “Balby,” or even “Scrawny” (for he was thin),
began now to let slip an occasional “Mr. Overton,” but he still took
the 8.12 train in the morning, and the 5.37 in the afternoon; his
daughter still went among them like all the other daughters of Hilltop;
and if he had not had a big house, and strange, obscure, but very
expensive objects understood to be “first editions,” no one could have
laid a finger on any alteration in him.
Vickers did not, of course, know anything of all this, did not notice
the impressive gate, or the iron palings, or anything until a large
stone house loomed up before him in the moonlight. Then, after he
had rung the bell, he turned to look at the view, and as he withdrew
his eyes from the soft shadowy rolling country, he saw that in the
foreground was a long marble balustrade, and beyond this, marble seats
and fountains that stood out sharply against a background of cedars.
The servant who answered the door said that Miss Overton was on the
piazza, and led the way to the back of the house, where Vickers found
that he had been anticipated by two young men, who were sitting on the
steps of the piazza, looking up at the girl in her low wicker chair.
It struck Vickers that the conversation had languished, for there was
a decided pause as he approached. But this illusion was dispelled by
Miss Overton’s greeting, which was so markedly constrained, so totally
different from the manner in which she had invited him to come, that
Vickers did not need much perception to guess that she had been warned
he was not a desirable acquaintance.
He did not allow that knowledge, however, to chill his pleasant
manner. He took his place on the steps, although there were a number
of luxurious looking chairs standing about. He was punctiliously
introduced to both of the young men, and he remarked at once that it
was very kind in Miss Overton to let him come, as he seemed to be in
the way at home.
“Oh, I suppose Mr. Emmons was there,” said Miss Overton; and it
presently appeared that Miss Overton did not think Mr. Emmons half
good enough for Nellie. One of the young men said rather gruffly that
he did not think so either, and was greeted by so many sly giggles and
innuendoes that Vickers gathered that he too had had pretensions in
this direction.
Vickers contented himself by remarking that Emmons did not seem to him
a romantic figure, and Miss Overton burst out:
“And Nellie of all people, who might have married so many nice men.”
“The deuce you say,” cried Vickers, and was rewarded for his interest
by hearing all the gossip of Nellie’s love-affairs for the last six
years.
He turned to Miss Overton. “And why did not Nellie accept any of these
eligible proposals?” he asked.
There was a short but awkward pause, and then Miss Overton replied in a
low voice that she understood Nellie did not feel she could leave her
uncle.
The answer, though not painful for the reason they thought, was
nevertheless painful to Vickers. It seemed to set a new obstacle
between him and Nellie. A woman might forgive you for overworking
her, even for robbing her, but for coming between her and a man she
fancied--never. No wonder he had not found it easy to establish
pleasant relations with her. The task looked harder than ever.
He had no difficulty in thawing little Miss Overton’s manner. She was
a type he understood better. She giggled so delightedly every time he
opened his mouth, that he felt emboldened to stay even after the two
young men had risen together. As soon as they had gone the former
constraint returned to the girl’s manner. She asked stiffly:
“Do you find Hilltop much changed, Mr. Lee?”
“I find myself changed,” answered Vickers. He had no intention of
losing any of the advantages of his position, nor was he going until he
had drawn her back to a more friendly tone. “You see I have been living
among another people. Did it ever strike you, Miss Overton, what is the
distinguishing trait of the Anglo-Saxon race?”
Miss Overton, who was not quite sure what the Anglo-Saxon race was,
answered that it had not.
“Why, their ability to pick out another person’s duty. Ever since I’ve
been here every one has been telling me what my duty is--except you.”
“But isn’t that a help, sometimes, Mr. Lee?” the girl asked shyly. She
had heard that her visitor was sometimes in need of a little advice in
this matter.
“Ah, but how do they know my duty, Miss Overton? They all think they
do; but do they? There are so many different kinds of duty, just as
there are so many different kinds of virtue.”
“But are there many?” asked Miss Overton, trying to think how many she
had learned there were at school. Was it nine virtues, or nine Muses?
She was sure about the seven deadly sins.
“Oh, all sorts and kinds. I had a servant once in Central America,
who was the kindest little chap to animals. When my macaw was ill,
he insisted on sitting up all night with it, and yet I found out
afterward that just before he came to me he had murdered his mother and
grandmother, because he said they nagged him.”
“What an interesting life you must have had, Mr. Lee,” said the girl,
for this casual mention of crimes was startling to Hilltop notions.
“And courage is a queer thing,” Vickers went on; “I knew a native down
there who cried when an American knocked him down, and yet when it came
to sheer crazy courage----”
Just at this moment a tall figure came through the window.
“What a beautiful night,” said a quiet voice.
“Father, this is Mr. Lee,” said the girl, and there was a something
anxious, almost appealing, in her tone.
The anxiety seemed unnecessary, for Overton answered pleasantly: “What,
Bob Lee? glad to see you here!” As he spoke he stepped out into the
moonlight, and Vickers saw his long, thin, clever Yankee face. “Just
going?” he went on, glancing at his guest, who as a matter of fact had
no such intention. “I’ll walk a little way with you.”
Vickers was surprised at the Great Man’s cordiality, but his surprise
was short-lived. Indeed it lasted no further than the corner of the
piazza.
“I always think, Mr. Lee,” Overton began at once, “that if a
disagreeable thing has to be said, the sooner the better. Now I hope
you will come and see me again, come and see me as often as you feel
like it; but I do not desire your friendship for my daughter.”
In his day Vickers had knocked men down for less, but there was
something so calm and friendly and reasonable in Overton’s manner that
it never occurred to him to do more than ask quite mildly:
“And why this difference, sir?”
“Oh,” said Overton, “I allow myself a great many things I don’t
permit Louisa--whiskey and cigars, and acquaintances with reformed
characters. I assume that you have reformed, Mr. Lee, or else you would
not have come to see us at all.”
“There is something very frank about the way you assume that I needed
to,” retorted Vickers.
“I make it a point even in court,” said Overton, “not to dispute the
obvious.”
It struck Vickers that there was no use in resenting insults to a past
with which he was so little connected that he was in complete ignorance
of its dark places. Hoping to throw a little light upon the subject he
began:
“Perhaps you will tell which incident or incidents of my past you----”
Overton cut him short with a smile. “No,” he said, “I won’t. In the
first place I don’t mean to walk so far, and in the second it wouldn’t
be pertinent. The point is that you are a reformed character. In
my experience there is nothing so dangerous to the young. Their
admiration for the superb spectacle of Satan trodden underfoot is too
apt to include an admiration of Satan himself. In short, my dear sir, I
don’t think you have any ground for quarreling with me because I think
you a dangerous fellow for young girls.”
“It is not exactly a compliment,” said Vickers.
“Either of those young sparks who have just gone would have given ten
years of his life for such an accusation.” Both men laughed at the
incontestable truth of this assertion, but Vickers felt it necessary to
say:
“But I am a good deal older than they are.”
“And a good many other things as well.” They had reached the impressive
gate-post, and Overton stopped. “Suppose you come and dine with me
to-morrow night,” and he added, in exactly the same tone, “Louisa is
dining with a friend.”
Vickers looked at him a moment and then exclaimed candidly: “Now I
wonder why in thunder you asked me to dinner.”
Overton smiled. “Let me tell you,” he answered. “I must confess I was
an eavesdropper this evening. Sitting in the house I could hear your
voice, and I amused myself trying to guess who you could be that I
could not place in Hilltop. I could not even guess your family. It was
principally to satisfy my curiosity that I came out.”
“Do you remember me, Mr. Overton, before I went away?” asked Vickers
eagerly.
“I have an excellent memory,” answered the lawyer briefly.
“Do I seem to you to have changed?”
“Physically changed, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Overton looked at him reflectively in the moonlight.
“More than physically,” he returned at length.
“Mentally?”
“Mentally, if you like. It seems to me, Lee, that you have changed your
soul, and you will forgive my saying that it seems to me a damned good
thing. Good-night.”
Vickers went on his way whistling. The interview had raised his spirits
with its suggestion that his own personality might yet triumph over
Lee’s. It seemed a very fitting climax to the evening, when he saw
Nellie standing at the door, most evidently looking for him.
“Ah, Nellie,” he said, “you were afraid I had bolted.”
“I was not,” she answered firmly; “only I did not want to lock up the
house, until you were in.”
“Nellie,” he said again, “you were most mortally afraid in the depths
of that hard little heart of yours that I had run away.”
“I don’t know whether I am most afraid you will run away, or disgrace
us by staying. Where have you been, Bob?”
Vickers looked down at her and felt inclined to refuse her the
information, but seeing possibilities in telling her, he almost
instantly answered:
“I have been most safely engaged in a visit to Miss Overton.”
“Louisa Overton? Oh, Bob, how could you?”
“But why not? I had supposed it one of the very most respectable----”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
“Perhaps you will tell me what you do mean.”
“You must not go and see little Louisa. She is a perfect child. She has
seen nothing, and knows no one. I do not think she would even amuse you
very much, Bob. She is too simple and innocent. I can not think what
put it into your head to go.”
“Well, one thing was that she asked me.”
“You must not go again.”
“I can hardly avoid it. I am dining there to-morrow night.”
“She _asked_ you to dinner?”
“Certainly I did not invite myself.”
There was a short pause, and then Nellie said, with determination:
“Bob, I am to a certain degree responsible for your being here at all.”
“You are entirely responsible.”
“I feel the responsibility. I feel it is my duty to make you behave
rightly while you are here. It is not behaving rightly to try and
acquire an influence over an inexperienced child like Louisa Overton.”
“My dear Nellie, how women jump to conclusions! Is an evening visit a
sure prelude to acquiring an influence?”
“Yes, for a man like you.”
“Be careful, or I shall interpret that as a compliment, if you don’t
change the form of your sentence.”
“You may interpret it as you like,” returned she. “I repeat that
it is quite possible that your looks, your size, your manner, and
your adventures might be very dazzling to a girl, who,” she added
relentlessly, “did not know much about you.”
“But every one here seems to know everything about me, to judge by
their disapproving glances.”
“I don’t believe that Louisa does. But I tell you frankly, Bob, if you
go there again----”
“Another threat, Nellie? I never knew any one who believed so
completely in government by threat.”
“How else can I treat you?”
“Well, you might try being a little bit nice to me. Don’t you think
that would be rather more likely to make me stay at home? But to be
left alone in the garden, while you and Emmons----”
“You do not need to be told that you were at liberty to join us.”
“Ay, there’s a prospect to keep a man at home. Three of us, so
congenial, sitting up making conversation. A dangerously alluring
proposition, Nellie, upon my word!”
“You can hardly expect me to refuse to see Mr. Emmons because you have
come home.”
“I do not say what I expect: I ask you to be a little more civil to me.
I don’t make it a business proposition, and I don’t make it a threat,
like you; but if you really want me to stay at home, and behave myself,
there is only one way to do it.”
Nellie looked very grave and then began to smile.
“You know that sounds rather like a threat to me,” she said.
“Then you see the force of bad example. I did not use to threaten my
friends.”
“I am not your friend,” she answered quickly.
“What are you?”
If he had expected to hear her reply “your enemy,” he was wrong.
“It seems to me that for six years I have been your slave----”
“I wish I had known it.”
“And now I intend that you shall be mine.”
He laughed. “Well, you are frank, at least. But let me tell you that
it has never been found good commercial policy to treat even slaves
too badly. Your whole position is based on the assumption that I shall
always prefer this house to State’s Prison. But be careful. There is
many a good criminal whom I should prefer to Emmons as a companion,
and a warder is tender and human compared to you, Nellie. Have a little
common sense, my dear girl. If I am to stay, you must be civil.”
She turned sharply away from him, and he made no effort to detain
her. They walked side by side across the hall, absorbed in their own
thoughts. Nellie’s were obvious. She was plainly weighing the claims of
an excellent _fiancé_ against those of a worthless cousin. Vickers was
asking himself, for the first time, whether, after all, he any longer
wanted to prove to her that he was not Lee. If he had the proofs in
his hand at that moment, would he show them to her? There would be one
splendid scene, one instant of triumph. It would be worth a great deal
to see Nellie humble; but would it be worth going away for all time?
He had to choose between leaving her, a rehabilitated character, or at
least partially rehabilitated, but still leaving her; or remaining
to be despised. It struck him with some force that on the whole he
preferred to remain.
It was at best a very pretty question.