Part 2

He was thinking this, with a stinging and humiliating consciousness of his own physical disability, when he finally turned from his post of observation and began to descend the hill which led to Judge Jessup’s office. It was a curious fact that his mental state had an effect on his bodily affliction, and, when his mind was in conflict, his limp--usually no more than a slow, halting step--became almost painful. He was limping very badly and leaning on his cane when he saw an equipage approaching that was as unmistakable as Noah’s ark would have been, had it been harnessed to a couple of stout old dappled grays and started on the turnpike to Ararat. This was an old-fashioned wagonette, drawn by two elderly grays, and driven by George Washington Lucas, old Uncle Plato’s grandson, a coal black negro, attired in a rubbishy bottle-green livery and a white straw hat.

Alone on one of the rear seats, which ran length-wise in the wagonette, was a slim figure in a flowered organdy, with a wide leghorn hat looped down at the sides by the broad pink ribbons that were knotted coquettishly under her chin. It was an old hat, made to do, if the truth be told, but it framed a charming face, and shaded the eyes that were greeting Daniel Carter.

At a word from her Lucas drew rein and she leaned forward, smiling.

“Let me give you a lift, Dan,” she called to him, sweetly.

For the first time in his life Daniel’s heart sank at the sound of Virginia Denbigh’s voice. He came up, hat in hand, to answer her, and Virginia was startled, in her turn, for Daniel was blushing. He was red to his hair and it gave a bizarre effect to his usually pale face. “He’s hurt because he thinks I pity his lameness,” Virginia thought.

“We’re going the same way, Dan. Get in, I feel queer sitting here all by my lonesome,” she said gaily. “Grandpa couldn’t come to-day.”

But he could not get in. The thought of taking advantage of her kindness when he knew what his brother had done, was too much for Daniel.

“Thank you a thousand times, but I’ve only got a few steps to go now, Virginia,” he replied, forcing a smile though his lips felt stiff. “The colonel isn’t ill, is he?”

“No, he’s planting,” she laughed, puzzled by the young man’s manner. What could be the matter with him? she wondered. “I’ve got to do the marketing, get the mail and buy a newspaper. Some one stole ours this morning. Has--have you heard from William yet, Dan?”

Daniel had laid one hand on the edge of the wagonette while they spoke, it tightened now--as something seemed to tighten about his heart. He couldn’t tell her!

“Mother got a letter this morning.”

Virginia’s clear eyes fixed on him, discerning something behind his words. She blushed suddenly and painfully, leaning back in her seat.

“I’m so glad! Mrs. Carter was so anxious. I haven’t heard myself for a long time,” she added steadily, bending another searching look on William’s brother.

Daniel could not meet it; he flinched. “He’s quite well,” he said thickly, “he’s in New York now, I think. He was to sail on the _Britannic_. She ought to be in.”

“Oh!”

Virginia’s exclamation was involuntary, but it died in her throat. What could it mean? No letter and William in New York? Then suddenly she colored with happiness, her heart beating wildly. Of course! She understood it now; it accounted for the silence, too. She leaned forward, her clasped hands on her knees, her eyes--beautiful and soft and caressing--dwelling upon the unhappy Daniel.

“I know--he means to surprise me!” she cried. “Dan, you shouldn’t have told.”

Daniel experienced a feeling of dissolution. He withdrew his hand from the wagonette, and leaned heavily on his cane. To let her think this, and to-morrow----!

“I--I don’t think that’s just the idea, Virginia,” he said gravely.

She met his eyes, still radiant; then, slowly, reluctantly, the light faded from hers, and the color receded from her cheeks, even from her lips. She gasped. Then she glanced around at the stout, unmoved back of George Washington Lucas. To her aroused perception even his ears seemed to move, and she was heavily aware that the nigh horse was stamping an impatient foot, troubled by an insistent fly. She moved nearer to the end of the wagonette and bent over Daniel, her eyes fixed on his face again.

“Did--did he speak of me, Dan?” she asked in a low voice.

Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat. “I--I don’t know--I didn’t see the letter.”

She drew back, blushing as quickly as she had paled. With an odd little groping gesture she put up her hand and pulled at the pink bow under her chin. Then she laughed, and the sound of her laughter hurt him like a blow.

“I’m keeping you,” she said lightly. “Give my love to your mother. I’m sorry you won’t come with me. Drive on, Lucas.”

Daniel stood back, bare-headed, following her with his eyes, his heart in a tumult. He felt as if he had struck her, and yet he had not told her the worst.

As the old horses started, Virginia remembered him. She looked back and waved her hand.

“Goodbye!” she called to him, and, after a moment: “Good luck!”

Daniel stood gazing after her. He found himself, for the moment, unable to move. He watched until the old wagonette, with that slim young figure so erect at the side of it, vanished in a cloud of dust in the distance. It seemed to him that his heart stood still, too, within him. For the first time in his life he felt helpless, he felt physically as if he had been beaten. Why had he been forced to do it? Why, he stormed inwardly, was it his lot to give her the first warning? How she would hate him! Hereafter he would be in the same class with William, she would despise the whole family. He stood there shuddering, and he might have remained there a long time if old Mrs. Payson had not driven past in her new motor-car and shrilled to him that it was a “fine morning,” and she had seen something--he didn’t catch what it was--in the morning paper.

It roused him, he straightened himself and walked on, as fast as his limp permitted.

Judge Jessup was already at his desk when Daniel opened the door. He growled a greeting, sorting his mail. The judge had a high Roman nose and the kind of chin we associate with Benjamin Franklin. Owing to a formidable growth of eyebrow, his expression was sometimes abnormally fierce. But this morning there was a gleam of triumph in his eye.

“We’ve won that Ryan appeal,” he announced in his deep voice. “Judge Loomis handed down his decision just before court adjourned yesterday. Hear about it, Dan?”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge went on opening his letters, while his young pupil and associate took off his coat, hung it up and sat down at his own desk in his shirt sleeves. He was very pale now and he began to work mechanically, scarcely aware of the older man’s fiery way of disposing of his own business.

“Old man Barbour has kicked up another shindy with Allen,” the judge continued. “I reckon we’ll get that case, too. By the way, did you look up that option for Allen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Humph!” the judge rubbed his chin and turned his swivel chair slightly. He could see Daniel now sitting at his desk, his white face set and his hands lying idle on a folded sheet of paper. He was staring straight in front of him. The judge prodded again.

“Kenslaw wants you to handle his case. I reckon you’d like that, eh?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

The judge eyed the young man critically.

“What’s the matter, Dan? Got the pip?”

Daniel, a little startled, smiled and shook his head.

“Nothing the matter, Judge.”

The judge shrugged, turned to his desk and spread out the morning paper. His eye fell suddenly on that item in the column of personal mention which had already smitten the Carter family. He stared at it a moment in silence. Then he began to whistle softly, and his eyes fixed themselves on a spot at the far end of the tree-shaded street. It was a white guide-post and on it was printed, in large black letters, the magic words:

“1½ miles to Denbigh Crossing.”

III

COLONEL DENBIGH was walking to and fro at the back of his house, considering it. There was no doubt at all that it needed a new coat of paint. It needed it almost as much as the colonel needed the extra money to pay for it. He chuckled a little, pulling at the ends of his long white moustache.

“Neither of us likely to get it,” he thought, “and I reckon I look almost as much out of repair as the old place does anyway!”

Then his eye traveled down the long road which led to the town. He was expecting his granddaughter and the morning newspaper. Viewed from this angle, the road was a thing of beauty. It turned a curve above the crossing and passed through a grove of chestnuts. They were yellowish-white now with bloom. Beneath them the road ran like a ribbon, while on either hand the colonel glimpsed the friendly roofs of his neighbors’ houses. The farthest one, set back among the trees, was Johnson Carter’s. Over there was Judge Jessup’s; beyond that was the spire of the oldest church. In the graveyard behind it four generations of Denbighs lay buried. At the corner of Mrs. Payson’s place a blossoming pear tree stood like a lovely ghost. The warm, still atmosphere was filled with the fragrance of early blossomings, here and there a field was pink with clover. There was a warmth, a stirring, the promise of a hundred springs in the rich loam, where the new grass thrust up its strong young blades, and in the old apple-tree that showered the colonel’s shoulder with its falling petals. He found some of them on his sleeve and looked at them musingly; he was thinking of the days when he had gathered apples from that tree for his wife. Mrs. Denbigh had been dead many years, and their only son and his wife. Gone, too! The old man took off his hat and passed his hand absently over his white head, a little sadness in the very gesture. Virginia and he were the only ones left, he reflected, and then he smiled. He always smiled when he thought of Virginia. He was very proud of his young granddaughter.

“There’s a girl for you!” he thought fondly, “pretty as a picture. A straight-thinking kind of a young creature, too, bless her heart!”

He was sorry that his estate did not warrant a little of the old-time style for her. She deserved it, but--the colonel shook his head, eying the house again. It was a rambling, old-fashioned affair with a belvidere on the flat roof and two verandas. It had a beauty of its own, fortunately, for it had lost a good deal of its exterior decorations and it was deplorably weather-stained on the north side.

The colonel was still viewing it when the dogs began to bark at the lower gate. He turned quickly and saw his two big pointers greeting Mr. Carter. But that gentleman did not notice them as much as usual. There was, indeed, something odd about him. His stout, middle-aged figure seemed to sag down a little at the shoulders and his head drooped. He looked, as he came slowly up the path, like the bearer of bad tidings. He shuffled as he walked and seemed interested in his feet.

The colonel, a little surprised at this early visit, shouted a greeting to him.

“Hello, Carter! What’s the matter? You’re walking as if”--the colonel chuckled--“as if you had a bunion.”

Mr. Carter raised his abashed eyes reluctantly to the old man’s fine, smiling face.

“I declare I felt as if I’d been stealing his chickens!” he told Mrs. Carter afterwards. However, he achieved a moment of cordiality as he shook the colonel’s hand.

“I--I was coming this way,” he said a little hoarsely; he wasn’t a good liar. “I thought I’d just drop in. How’s the garden coming on? I’ve put in my limas.”

The colonel, eying him, pulled his moustache.

“They’ll rot. It’s too early. Plato told me that the peas were up well and we’ve got spinach. Sit down, Carter, I’ll call Plato. Have a julep? Or is it too early?”

“Too early altogether. I--the fact is, I can’t stay but a minute. I----” Mr. Carter glanced around wildly, groping for a topic, any topic, to introduce his subject. His choice wasn’t exactly an apt one. “I see that speckled hen of yours gets out of the coop still.”

His host looked around.

“So she does! Can’t keep her in at all. Kind of strong-minded. She’s got fifteen chicks, too. Wanting a setting of leghorn eggs, Carter? I can give you one. Got the finest lot of layers in the county.”

Mr. Carter continued to stare moodily at the speckled hen; she had led him astray.

“I don’t know,” he replied thoughtfully. “I’ll--I’ll ask Mrs. Carter.”

The colonel stared.

Plato, a gray-headed old negro, appeared.

“Wants yo’ juleps, Col’nel?”

“Not now, Plato. Mr. Carter says it’s too early.”

Plato grinned and bowed to the visitor.

“Howdy, suh. Hopes yo’-all is well. Heared from yo’ son, suh?”

Mr. Carter’s heart jumped and then sank with a thud. Plato had achieved it.

“This morning, Plato. He’s in New York now, I hope. He’s well, too, and--and----”

“I’se sho glad t’ heah it, suh,” said Plato and withdrew, still bowing.

Mr. Carter, with his mouth open, stared after him helplessly. He felt now that he should never get his news out unless some one shook it out of him! The colonel did not help him.

“So! Well, I’m glad William’s coming back. We’ve missed him. Judge Jessup was speaking of him last night. A fine fellow, he thinks him. By the way, Carter, Jessup gave me a young apple-tree last spring. There’s something the matter with it. I believe it’s got San José scale. Come here and look at it, will you?”

Mr. Carter trailed the colonel’s tall, thin figure across the lawn, and the two pointers came to meet them.

“Down, Jim! Down, Rover!” ordered the colonel, reaching the tree. “There--if you’ll look close along that lower limb--see?”

His visitor approached the limb indicated and stared at it moodily. Then he swallowed hard.

“Think it’s scale?” the colonel asked anxiously.

“Darned if I know!” said Mr. Carter violently. “Denbigh, I came to tell you---- The fact is, my son’s made an ass of himself. He----”

“Yes?” the colonel stood still, politely amazed. “Which son, Carter?”

“William. He--he’s married!”

There was a little silence and then the colonel laughed dryly.

“Was that what ailed you? On my word, Carter, I began to think you’d got creeping paralysis of the brain. Who’s he married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What!”

“No, I don’t! It’s some French girl--Fanchon--there, I can’t remember! We just heard this morning. The--the young donkey hasn’t known her three months.”

Colonel Denbigh broke off a twig and began to whittle it.

“Case of love at first sight, I presume,” he commented calmly. “I wouldn’t take it so hard, Carter, you may like her.”

Mr. Carter made an inarticulate sound which ended in his throat. His eyes avoided the colonel’s.

“Mrs. Carter’s all broken up,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a shock. Of course we don’t know anything. But--that is--I--I’m afraid, William’s behaved badly. Virginia, you know?”

Colonel Denbigh started slightly. Then he closed his pocket-knife and put it in his pocket.

“What about Virginia?” he asked quietly.

Mr. Carter hesitated, then he reddened. “You know how we all love you and Virginia,” he said hurriedly. “We--we hoped there was something--the fact is, Emily says William was--was engaged to Virginia. I--I want to know, Colonel. I want to know if my boy’s behaved like that?”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Carter,” replied the colonel loftily. “No man who was engaged to Virginia Denbigh could, or would, forget it.”

“But, Colonel, I thought----” Mr. Carter was purple now with embarrassment.

“You’re mistaken, sir,” the colonel held his head high, “entirely mistaken.”

Mr. Carter felt like a gold fish splashed out of its globe. He gasped and swallowed hard. He remembered, too, that his wife had told him not to come. “You’ll only make a mess of it, papa,” she had warned him, between her sobs, “You’re always putting your foot in it!”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I--well, you see--it was because I think so much of her--of Virginia, I mean, that I came. I--I thought if my boy--my boy, William Henry Carter, had done a thing like that-- Well, sir, I’d feel like disowning him!”

The colonel stood still. He had thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and his eyes were fixed on the distant road.

“You were mistaken, sir, that’s all. There comes Jinny now.”

Mr. Carter, following his eyes, saw the ancient wagonette entering the old gateway. Lucas was driving placidly, the old grays were ambling up the broad moss-grown driveway to the front door. Alone in the back sat a slim young figure. Virginia was reading a newspaper. Mr. Carter remembered that fearful item in the personals and cold perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead.

“I’ll have to go,” he said thickly. “I’m late now at the office. We’ve been all upset.”

“Better look at this San José scale,” said the colonel grimly, his eyes still on the wagonette.

Lucas had stopped half-way to the house and Virginia jumped down. She was coming toward them now. In one hand she held the newspaper, in the other some hothouse roses. Mr. Carter, making hot-foot for the gate, came full upon her.

“Why, Mr. Carter!” she smiled radiantly. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I--I stopped by to get a setting of leghorn eggs,” said Mr. Carter, mopping his forehead. “It’s a hot day, Virginia.”

She laughed. “I thought it was cool. Please take this rose to Mrs. Carter from me, won’t you? Mrs. Payson just cut them for me; they’re from her new greenhouse. She calls them ‘Kentucky Sunsets.’”

Mr. Carter took the rose and stumbled blindly for the open. He was suffocating with mortification. If William wasn’t engaged to her, he, Johnson Carter, had made a donkey of himself, and if William was engaged to her! Mr. Carter wiped his forehead again, absently thrust the rose inside the crown of his hat and set the hat firmly on his head with the rose leaves hanging out at the back--like the tail of a kite. They were still fluttering there as he plodded down the road toward his office, his face red and his heart sore.

Meanwhile, Colonel Denbigh had crossed the lawn to meet his granddaughter. Virginia gave him the newspaper without comment and retired to an old stone bench near the rustic table which served her grandfather as a writing-desk and refreshment table in summer time. She was engaged now in arranging Mrs. Payson’s roses while the colonel pretended to read the news. They both heard the horses going around to the stable and Lucas’ voice as he called to them to go into their stalls.

The colonel rustled the newspaper and laid it down. Then he took off his hat and pushed back his white hair. He was a brave man, but he was perspiring at every pore.

“Jinny,” he said at last, so abruptly that she started and looked around. He caught her eye, winced, and plunged in. “Mr. Carter was here just now.”

“Yes?” Virginia listened expectantly, a little flush on her cheeks.

The colonel wiped his forehead. “It’s a hot day!” he observed. Then, casually: “Yes; he’s heard from his son. He’s coming home with----”

“Yes?” Virginia drew her breath quietly, averting her eyes. “Soon, grandpa?”

The colonel choked. He had to go to the table and drain a glass of water. “Yes. He--he’s made a darned fool of himself, Jinny, he’s--he’s married.”

“I know,” Virginia rejoined in a low voice. “I just read it in the newspaper.”

The colonel, looking into the bottom of his tumbler, was aware that the bees had got into the honeysuckle. They sounded like a full brass band in his ears. He could not stand it any longer, he looked sideways at Virginia. She was still sitting on the old stone bench, her roses in her lap. She wasn’t looking at him and he could see her profile. It was very pale now, but she still had an adorable nose. It came from her mother’s side; the Denbighs had long ones with a hump, called politely Roman. Her grandfather, watching her intently, saw her slip a ring from her finger and put it into her pocket. As she said nothing, the colonel got his breath. “She’ll want to know, I’ll tell her the rest now,” he thought. “It’s like pulling a tooth--better get it over.”

“He’s married a French girl. Only known her three months. He’s bringing her home.”

Virginia rose quietly, gathering up her roses. She started to speak, but her lips trembled and she gave it up. She put the roses in the bowl on the colonel’s table and filled the bowl with water. Her hands were quite firm.

“I hope she’s nice,” she said at last, in a low voice.

The colonel, who had caught her eye, made a rash movement, he was going to take her in his arms. But she straightened herself.

“Please d-d-don’t!” she gasped, and ran up the steps into the house.

Colonel Denbigh stood, looking after her, his eyes full. Then he smoothed his hair again and put on his hat. Thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat he walked up and down.

“She’s game!” he thought proudly. “By gum, she’s a Denbigh. God bless her!”

At this moment Plato emerged from the house with a tray.

“It am time fo’ yo’ julep, Col’nel,” he remarked, setting down a glass that showed a green sprig of mint in crushed ice.

“Plato,” said the colonel thoughtfully, “what was it you used to tell me about old Colonel Colfax and his daughter?”

Plato flicked a little dust off the edge of the table and showed his ivories.

“Yo means ’bout Miss Ann an’ dat Mist’ Gibbie?”

The colonel nodded, his eyes on the far end of the sunny path to the orchard.