When he had turned in between the cedars, Baird was glad he had come. They were set close and now, in their middle-age, stood with branches interlocked, forming a canopy dense enough to shut out the sun. The soughing gloom through which Baird rode was mournful on a March day, but he had some conception of what it must be like in summer, cool and sweet-scented and perpetually whispering. The branches drooped so low in places that they shut out the country, nooks into which one could crawl and, with a tree-trunk and big roots forming a couch, dream away an entire day. And, protected from the dew, sleep through the night as well.... What a trysting place for lovers, thought Baird.
The gigantic hedge ended abruptly at the foot of what had evidently once been a lawn, but overgrown now and too much shaded by locust trees. The Penniman house showed through the trees, a steep-pitched roof broken by dormer windows. Clumps of lilacs topped the bank which partially hid the road from the house, and, as he came up under their shelter, Baird eyed his surroundings keenly. But there appeared to be no one about.
The road passed within a few yards of the front porch, yet he saw no one. He could see, a short distance ahead, just beyond where the road forked, leading off to the barn, the gate and sign of which Sam had spoken.
Baird had planned this intrusion upon the Pennimans' privacy; he had no intention of going on, at least until he had searched for the person he wanted to see. He went on to the gate, then dismounted, having decided to attempt the barn first. The wide door, the entrance to the wagon-shed, stood open, and Baird looked in. Beyond was another door through which Baird glimpsed a pile of hay. He stood listening for a moment, then tiptoed across to it, for there were sounds here, a voice humming lightly.
It was the hay-loft he had come upon, a wide space half filled with hay; the remainder of the floor swept clean, a sweet-scented, airy space warmed by a broad band of sunlight. Not ten feet from him, beside a basket of eggs, sat a huge collie, forepaws planted, tail impatiently beating the floor, intent on what was passing. Baird looked on also.
It was Ann playing in the sun. She was without her cape and hood now; a slender thing in warm brown, some indeterminate garment without a belt, a sheathe-like apron, possibly. She appeared to be playing with the band of sunlight, moving in and out of it, in time to the minor, negroesque thing she was singing:
"Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',A-hung—a-hung.Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',Sword an' pistol by his side,A-hung—a-hung."
"Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',A-hung—a-hung.Mr. Frog, he went a-courtin',Sword an' pistol by his side,A-hung—a-hung."
The excited collie barked and whined, but Ann went on, absorbed in the joy of motion, a bit of the cake-walk with its suggestion of abandon carrying her the length of the sunlight band; a waltz step backward and forward, from sunshine into shadow; a gliding turn and sweeping courtesy that might have been stolen from the minuet:
"He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,A-hung—a-hung.He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,'I say, Missy Mouse, is you within?'A-hung—a-hung.'Yes, here I sits, an' here I spin,Lift the latch an' do come in.'A-hung—a-hung."
"He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,A-hung—a-hung.He rode right up to Miss Mousey's den,'I say, Missy Mouse, is you within?'A-hung—a-hung.'Yes, here I sits, an' here I spin,Lift the latch an' do come in.'A-hung—a-hung."
Her voice leaped suddenly into a joyful note:
"Suh! He took Miss Mousey on his knee,'Say, Missy Mouse, will you marry me?'A-hung—a-hung!"
"Suh! He took Miss Mousey on his knee,'Say, Missy Mouse, will you marry me?'A-hung—a-hung!"
She had swept into a pirouette that spun her like a top, stopped abruptly at the hay, and clapped her hands teasingly at the quivering collie: "A-hung, suh—a-hung!"
The dog was on her with a bound. The two came down on the hay and rolled over and over, the collie snarling in mock ferocity, Ann rippling with laughter, an ebullition of sheer animal spirits, a child at play, the gaiety Sue deplored.
But Ann was soon spent. She sat up then, flushed, panting and disheveled, the dog held at arm's length. She looked at the animal, for a full moment, into the creature's affectionate eyes, and her laughter died suddenly. She put her arms about the dog's neck and buried her face. "Oh, Prince!" she said, with a sob in her voice, "I reckon you an' Ben are the only ones that love me."
Baird had watched Ann dance with the delight one feels in a stolen pleasure—she was so utterly pretty and graceful, and so unconscious. When she rolled about in sheer abandonment on the hay he almost laughed out, in spite of the warmth that rose to his face. But, at the sob in her voice, he felt ashamed, like one caught eavesdropping. Baird was not overburdened with fine feelings, in some respects he was coarse-fibered, but there was too much genuine sorrow and longing in the girl's voice. It made him uncomfortable; he had no right to be there. He drew back into the wagon-shed, uncertain just how to present himself.
Ann solved the difficulty. She came out carrying the basket of eggs and with the collie at her heels. At sight of Baird, the dog barked furiously, and Ann stopped dead; the look she gave Baird was scarcely more friendly than the dog's bark; she was so evidently startled.
"I'm afraid I'm trespassing," Baird said promptly. "I thought I might come through this way to Westmore, but the gate is locked. I'm sorry I frightened you." He made his apology with the best air possible to him, cap in hand.
Ann quieted the collie, and when she looked at Baird again a smile had dawned in her eyes. "You're a stranger—you couldn't be expected to know about the gate," she said in her soft drawl. "I'll let you through."
"Thank you," Baird said, "but I hate to give you trouble."
Ann said nothing, yet Baird observed that she was not embarrassed. She put down the basket of eggs and led the way, her head carried quite as spiritedly as Judith Westmore bore hers. Not a vestige of the playful child remained; she was collected, polite. And she was lovely. Judith could never have been as pretty—she had never had this girl's ripe lips and warm throat, or her trick of lowered lashes. Baird saw now why her eyes appeared so dark; her lashes were black and the eyelids blue-tinged, giving her eyes both brilliancy and languor. The eyes themselves were a gray-hazel, and, except when surprised or smiling, their expression was wistful, almost melancholy. A facile face, capable of swift changes, and captivating because of it. Baird knew now why he had thought her something more than merely pretty.
He made his observations as he walked on beside her. "It must be a nuisance—having people come through in this way," he remarked, in order to be saying something.
"I don't mind, but grandpa does," Ann answered. "Perhaps when my father comes he will let the gate stay open."
"Your father doesn't live here then?"
"He hasn't been here for a long time—he's coming home to-morrow." There was anticipation in her voice.
"I was thinking this morning that if I owned land about here I'd kick at having my crops ridden over as we were doing."
"It's always been done, you see. Around here the best reason for doin' things is because they've always been done." Her tone was faintly sarcastic; she glanced at him, a swiftly intelligent look.
"She's bright," was Baird's mental comment. Aloud he said, "And in my part of the world the best reason for not doing things is because they've been done before—every one's looking for a newer and better way."
"Your part of the world?" It was the first sign of personal interest she had shown.
Baird was not supersensitive, but he had felt polite antagonism in her manner. He attempted to capture interest. "I came here from Chicago. Before that I was in Wyoming for a time. I've ranched, and done a lot of other things. I spent two years in South America—got rid of fifty thousand dollars down there and nothing but a year of fever to show for it. I could tell you a few tales that would make your hair rise."
He had won her wide look. "Were you on the Amazon? Are there flowers there that catch insects and snakes that make hoops of themselves an' chase animals?"
"Yes, I've been on the Amazon—worse luck. I don't know about the hoop-snakes, but I've seen plenty of insects that are flowers and flowers that are insects—everything in nature preys on something else.... How do you come to know about the Amazon?"
"I read a story about it."
"Do you like to read?"
"I like it better than anything else," she said brightly.
They had come to the gate, and she looked at the bag strapped to his saddle, then laughingly at Baird. "Looks funny, doesn't it?" he remarked. "I'm taking my dress clothes over to Westmore—they're having a dinner-dance to-night."
Ann's smile vanished. "Oh—" she said, her face grown wistful. Then with a flash into gaiety she sprang lightly to a notch in the gate-post, swung herself up by the foothold, and took a key from the niche in which it was hidden.
"Here!" Baird exclaimed. "Why didn't you let me do that?... Let me help you!"
Ann looked at him, innate coquetry in her eyes. "If you'll stand aside, suh, I can step down."
Baird answered the look in the fashion natural to him. He took her by the waist, held her up long enough to prove the strength of his arms, then set her down; his lips pressed her cheek and his breath warmed her neck as he did so. "Arms like mine are made for reaching—and for holding," he said.
The color swept into Ann's face, and her eyes widened into brilliancy. For an instant Baird did not know what to think. Then her lashes dropped and she held the key out to him. "You know where to find it now," she said softly.
"I'll come again—I'm staying at the Hunt Club," he answered swiftly. He took her hand as well as the key; he had flushed as deeply as she.
The tacit invitation had struck Baird as involuntary, and so did her answer, a sudden inclination and as quick a shrinking; the color fled from her face. "No!" she said decidedly, and pulling her hand away sped to the house.
Baird started in pursuit, the first step, before he remembered where he was. Then he stopped. "Whew!" he said, under his breath.
He went back to the gate and unlocked it, led his horse through, and returned the key to its hiding-place. Before he mounted, he gave the house a long scrutiny. "We'll see!" he said, his eyes grayed to coldness, his cheeks still hot.
He rode for half a mile before he regained his usual aspect. Then he laughed shortly: "That was funny—she regularly took hold on me."
Baird thought, when he sat down to dinner that night, that he had never looked on a better favored company or on a more interesting setting.
They were twenty-five in all, with the great mahogany table drawn crosswise of the room to allow passage between silver-laden sideboards and china-cupboards whose aged mahogany was brightened by arrays of dull blue and gold-banded Worcester and the pinky red of platters and plates of Indian Tree pattern which Judith told him had been presented, in 1735, by Lord Westmore to his colonial cousin, the first Westmore of Westmore. From where Baird sat he could look across the hall into the drawing-room, a glimpse of dark paneling, wide fireplace, and above it the two portraits, Edward Stratton Westmore, first Westmore of Westmore, and his cousin, Lord Edward Stratton Westmore, of Stratton House, Hampshire, England.
Westmore was typically a southern colonial mansion, a spacious central building with two wings and with a collection of outbuildings for the housing of servants. The ballroom and the plantation office were in one wing, the kitchens in the other. Westmore's massive brick walls had withstood time, as had the heavy oak paneling of dining-room, hall and drawing-room. There were no modern touches to disturb the Georgian atmosphere; this was 1905, yet Westmore was still the Westmore of 1735.
And with the picturesque additions of frilled wrist-bands, perukes, looped skirts and powdered coiffures, Baird thought this might well have been a clan gathering of a hundred years ago. In the hour before dinner, Baird had met them all, Westmores, Copeleys, Dickensons and Morrisons. The Dickensons were from the city, the others were all of the county—had always been of the county, and all were interrelated.
Conscious of his own too muscular neck and shoulders and massive jaw, Baird had noticed that there was not a paunched or bull-necked man in this family. He was not fat, thank heaven! and did not intend to be, but he would never be able to attain the nice muscles and graceful carriage that, in this family, seemed to be inherent. Even old Colonel Ridley Dickenson had a perfect boot-leg. Most of the younger men were too long-backed for great strength, good horsemen but poor wrestlers, Baird judged, and the two boys of twenty who represented the third generation were inclined to be weedy and hatchet-faced; but, on the whole, they were a clean-limbed and exceedingly well-featured collection.
The women struck Baird as delicately pretty rather than beautiful or handsome. Though in several delicacy was pronounced enough to suggest ill-health, the Westmore features predominated, fine brows, dark hair, clear skin, slimness and roundness combined. The only golden-haired girl of the company was Elizabeth Dickenson, and it was easy to see how she came by her fairness; her mother was not of the clan, a somewhat hard-faced, blonde New Yorker, who had brought money to her husband, and modern social proclivities as well. Elizabeth Dickenson was more like the Chicago girls Baird had met, more striking and self-assertive than her county kin, and far more fashionably gowned.
But Judith Westmore was easily the beauty of the entire collection. There was something joyous about her mien this evening; perhaps because for the first time in many years Westmore was like the Westmore of old. Baird had gathered from the conversation he had over-heard between Mrs. Dickenson and Mrs. Copeley that this was the inauguration of a new era at Westmore.
"Edward's money—" Mrs. Dickenson had said significantly. "Judith will make the best of it."
"And who deserves it more than Judith!" Mrs. Copeley returned warmly. "When I think of all Judith has gone through! Where would Westmore be but for Judith? Sold to some carpetbagger, years ago! It nearly went, I can tell you, Cousin Mary."
"If Garvin would follow Edward's example now, and marry a girl with money," Mrs. Dickenson had remarked.
Mrs. Copeley had said nothing.
"But, then, Garvin Westmore is not Edward—any more than Sarah Westmore is Judith," Mrs. Dickenson had concluded dryly. From the cloud that settled on Mrs. Copeley's face, Baird judged that the reference was not a happy one. Who Sarah Westmore was he did not know; she was not of the assembled party.
Mrs. Dickenson was evidently giving thought to Westmore's new prosperity, for it was she who asked Edward, across the table, "Ed, while you are getting things, why don't you get an automobile? You'd look particularly well in an automobile." She had a carrying voice; it reached Baird at his end of the table.
Edward sat at the head of the table, Judith at the foot; Baird was at Judith's left, with Elizabeth Dickenson as his dinner partner. Garvin was on the other side of the table, and both he and Elizabeth Dickenson ceased to talk and waited for Edward's answer.
Baird thought that he had never seen a more smileless and at the same time a more attentive host than Edward Westmore. The man's white face was carven, his eyes melancholy, yet he talked easily and gracefully. In spite of his pallor, he was the most distinguished-looking man in this gathering of well-favored men, perhaps because he lacked their local flavor. He looked what he was, a much-traveled man with a fund of experience.
He did not smile at Mrs. Dickenson, though he answered pleasantly, "Not for me, Cousin Mary—but Garvin may have a machine if he wants it."
Garvin flushed but said nothing. It was little Priscilla Copeley who exclaimed, "Do you mean it, Cousin Ed?"
"Take him up on it, Garvin! Take him up quick!" Colonel Dickenson cut in mischievously. "By George, suh, you'd be the most popular spark in the county—with the ladies! Every man whose horse you scared could cuss you all the way to limbo. Hot water you'd be in! and that's what you like.... Go ahead, suh!" He might have been hallooing on the hounds. The colonel was a keen sportsman, and a bon-vivant, a member of two hunt clubs and several city clubs—his wife's money had given him both the leisure and the opportunity.
Garvin was not allowed an immediate hearing. "Oh, Garve! I can see you making a Nebuchadnezzar of yourself under that machine!" Elizabeth Dickenson exclaimed, and one of the Copeley boys added: "I'd rather have it than the sorrel, Garve. George Pettee told me there were two hundred automobiles now in the city—every fellow wants one. Yours would be the first out here—unless father'll get us one. Will you, suh?"
Mr. Copeley was a tall white-haired man, second cousin to the Westmores, and markedly a Westmore. He had looked his surprise at Edward's offer, then had looked thoughtful. "No, suh," he said quietly. "I don't like them. If the county's goin' to be overrun with them, I'll move.... Garvin, you'll have to get to work on that two miles of road from here to the Post-Road befo' you can run a machine over it—that would be the most sensible thing you've done in years. I reckon Edward would like you to get to work at something—it doesn't matter much what.... You wouldn't be furnishing a chauffeur, would you, Ed?"
"No," Edward said.
Baird had watched his opportunity. It was only in his sleep that Nickolas Baird lost sight of business, and not always then. "I can get you a good machine, straight from the factory, and at trade price, Garvin."
Garvin had given his, cousin Copeley a flaming glance, but he answered his brother courteously. "Thank you, Ed. I'll take the machine—and I'll put the road in shape."
"Very well—we'll thank Mr. Baird to-morrow for his kind offer."
"Will you take me riding, Garve?" Priscilla Copeley asked softly, under cover of the remarks that followed.
Baird had noticed her, the pretty, dark-eyed girl who sat beside Garvin. She nestled against his elbow for her half-whisper, and Baird saw the look her mother gave her and the sharp gesture that made her daughter straighten and flush. Baird did not know why he felt sorry for Garvin at that moment; possibly his sensing of the general disapproval. He did not like the man, but that was mainly because of his wild act that morning. But it was a little hard on a fellow, having every one down on him. And it was plain that Garvin mourned his horse. The hunt and Garvin's mishap had been thoroughly discussed in the drawing-room, and Garvin had been restless under it. All they knew was that Garvin had had to shoot his horse. There had been a touch of desperation in Garvin's aside to Baird: "God! I wish they'd let up on the subject—I've had about enough for one day!"
And now Mr. Copeley was giving him another thrust. "You're in for it now, Garvin—are you going at the road pick and shovel?"
Judith spoke for the first time since the subject had been introduced. "Bear Brokaw would be the best man to help you, Garvin," she suggested brightly.
She had been watching the serving of dinner, a word now and then to the three negroes who bore around the best viands Baird had ever tasted. Soup had been followed by roast oysters, terrapin and turkey, and accompanying vegetables and hot breads. The evening had turned very mild, as warm as a May night, and the mint-juleps taken in the drawing-room had been soothing. Edward was evidently a connoisseur, the wines were of the best and the array of glasses were not allowed to languish; the men one and all appeared to be good drinkers.
But Judith had evidently not been too absorbed to follow the conversation and to note Garvin's curled lip and angry eyes, for her remark instantly created a diversion. Mrs. Morrison, Judith's aunt, a stately woman with proudly-carried head, spoke from Edward's end of the table. "I'm surprised at you, Judith—after the way that white-trash robbed me! Ben's nothing but a common thief!"
The young people smiled covertly, but Edward asked with genuine concern: "Bear Brokaw rob you, Aunt Carlotta! Why, I remember Bear—I used to go hunting with him. I thought there wasn't an honester man living than Bear Brokaw."
"He is a thief, Edward," Mrs. Morrison reiterated decidedly.
Edward looked his surprise.
"Ben Brokaw bought a tree of Aunt Carlotta Morrison," Judith said demurely. The look she flashed on Baird was a-gleam with mirth.
Edward glanced casually about the table and caught the covert smiles. "Well?" he questioned more equably.
Baird had discovered that the interests of the clan were entirely local and centered in themselves; he had not heard a single remark that ventured beyond their native state. They evidently criticized one another freely, but Baird judged that any stranger who essayed the same freedom would be set upon by the entire connection, with the ferocity of a pack of hounds.
"It was a thoroughly thievish transaction, Edward," Mrs. Morrison maintained warmly. "You know I never approved of the man—a creature that climbs trees like a monkey and sleeps out in the woods like a savage. Your uncle would have known better, but I consented to sell him that tree—you know, one of the big chestnuts down by the cabins. It was dead, and I wanted it down, and I didn't tell Ben I thought he was crazy when he wanted me to sign a slip of paper, just sayin' that I'd sold the tree to him, half shares on the wood. I thought the lumberin' old thing had got some funny notion. But he knew what he was about.... Edward, it was a honey-tree! He'd been watching and had seen the bees goin' in and out. He got forty buckets of honey out of that tree!... If that's not stealing, I don't know what is, and I think the family ought to boycott him."
Edward kept his countenance in spite of the titter about him. "Did he cord his wood according to agreement?" he asked.
"Yes, he did," Mrs. Morrison admitted.
"He was doing up-to-date business—that's all, Aunt Carlotta," Judith remarked.
"Something more than that," Edward said. "I remember Uncle Morrison broke up some of his traps and warned him off the property. You urged him to it, if I remember, Aunt Carlotta."
"But think of such revengefulness—after all these years! And your uncle dead, too!"
"There's a good deal of such undying hatred about," Edward answered evenly. "It's a pity." He looked down at his plate.
But the younger people were still smiling. "Don't worry, Aunt Carlotta, Bear isn't going to work for any of us," one of the Copeley boys said. "I saw him this evenin' on my way here—he's at the Pennimans'.... By the way—he said Coats Penniman was coming home."
It was Judith's perceptible start and Edward's quick lift of the head that arrested Baird's attention. But neither of them spoke; it was Garvin who asked swiftly, "When is he coming?"
"To-morrow, Bear said."
Garvin made no comment, but Mr. Copeley exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell your bit of news sooner, my boy?... It means Coats will take hold of the place. I'm afraid it does, Ed."
His remark had some significance that was evidently not clear to other members of the family, for Mrs. Morrison asked, "Why, what difference does it make to you who runs the Penniman place, Edward?"
Edward paid no attention to her question; he was motioning to one of the servants to bring him more wine, and when his glass was filled he emptied it at a draft. It did not flush him, however; if anything, he looked paler. It struck Baird that the man must be ill, there must be some reason for such persistent pallor.
The dinner was nearing an end, and Baird himself was warmed through and through. He had been well treated. Priscilla Copeley had played prettily with him across the table, and not been reproved by her mother; she had promised to ride with him the next day. And Elizabeth Dickenson had said that his name would be on the list for the next Assembly Ball. Baird was not particularly fond of dancing, and a formal ball was a nuisance, but he welcomed her invitation to the next Fair Field Hunt Club meet. Colonel Dickenson was president of the club, and Baird knew that he would be well presented to a group of sportsmen who would be useful to him.
But it was Judith who stirred him. He was alive to his finger tips with admiration, and fully conscious that he had given himself up to a new experience; delighting in it. In the last few days he had merely touched the fringe of the new thing. He had seen very little of society, nothing at all of people such as these, and Judith was the embodiment of caste. Her ancestry spoke in every atom of her. She was a thoroughbred. She was superb; so truly a part of that old Georgian house with its indelible history.
And Baird loved to see good generalship. Judith had handled that long tableful of people as a gambler would a pack of cards. She had attended to every one's needs, been observant of every face, and at the same time had devoted herself to him. She had furthered the two girls' play with him, and then had drawn him back to her again. She was wonderful and very beautiful. He was giving her the first adoration he had ever experienced.
This was the first time Baird had seen Judith with shoulders bared, the tantalizingly perfect shoulders and bust of a mature woman, but that realization did not stir him half so much as his capture of the brilliant glance with which she swept the table. It softened into intimacy when he caught it; took him into her confidence. When, on their way to the ballroom, the negro fiddlers paused under the dining-room window and played the first bars of a waltz, and the young people sprang up to follow, leaving their elders to coffee and wine, Baird was as eager as any one of them. Judith had promised him the first dance, she would be in his arms for the first time, but Baird was thinking less of that than he was of what she was going to say to him, a favor she had said she meant to ask.
Like most big-framed men who have a sense of rhythm, Baird danced well, though a little lazily. He found Judith an exhilarating partner. A touch of languor would have made her an exquisite dancer, but Baird discovered that her apparently soft curves covered muscles of tempered steel; there was subdued energy and swift grace in every movement of hers; no wonder she was a perfect horsewoman.
During their first dance Baird told Judith, in his downright fashion, that she was the most delightful hostess he had ever known and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; a "wonder-woman" he called her, which, for Nickolas Baird, was a poetic flight. When they danced again, he begged her to set him his task: "What is it you are going to ask of me, Wonder-woman?... I've never had the least inclination to became a knight until I met you. I'm aching to swear allegiance—what is it I'm to do for you?"
Baird was accustomed to making love somewhat roughly and altogether carelessly, he merely yielded a little to habit when he held Judith closely and spoke in her ear. Nevertheless, it was plain to even an onlooker that the spell of profound respect was upon him. It made his rough strength appealing, the sort of appeal a young man of Baird's virile type usually makes to a woman older than himself. What he was asking was how best to please her; his forgetfulness implied restrained impetuosity, not presumption. And evidently he pleased Judith; her occasional upward glance was not disapproving.
So Colonel Dickenson thought as he watched them dance. He had forsaken the dining-room for the moment, and, avoiding the drawing-room where the elder women were gathered, had come by the veranda to the ballroom. He had a jovial remark for each couple as they circled by him, and for Judith and Baird also:
"I couldn't trip it more lightly myself—damme if I could!"
But Judith had caught his eye. "I see Cousin Ridley over there—I'm afraid I'm wanted," she said, when the dance was over. "That's the penalty I pay for being 'a delightful hostess.'" If her lips had been fuller they would have pouted.
"Can't you be allowed a little respite?" Baird exclaimed. "I want another dance—and another after that!"
Judith smiled and shook her head.
"But you haven't told me what I'm to do for you, yet, Wonder-woman?"
"It must wait.... There will be some square dances by and by, and an even number of couples without us."
"And we can go to the porch—somewhere where we can talk—where it is cool?"
Judith made a little affirmative gesture.
"I'll do my duty till then," Baird said bruskly. "I hate dancing—except with you."
She allowed him to capture her intimate glance, but the instant she had turned away her face settled into gravity, an expression both hard and apprehensive. It made her look more nearly her age.
"What is it, Ridley?" she asked sharply. "Anything wrong—up-stairs?"
"No, no!" the colonel said. "I just wanted a word with you befo' I've lost my feet—Edward's goin' to have us all under the table befo' mo'nin'." The colonel usually abbreviated his syllables when warmed.
Judith drew a quick breath. "Oh—well, come out to the veranda—"
The entrance to Westmore was the usual Georgian portico; the veranda crossed the back of the house, a gallery, really, overlooking the terraces and connecting the two wings of the house, affording an entrance to the ballroom at one end, to the kitchens at the other, and a rear entrance to the main hall. There were high-backed benches here, and Judith led the way to one of them. She sighed inaudibly as she sat down.
The colonel began promptly: "I wasn't meaning to spoil your dance, Judith, but Mary's been telling me to ask that young friend of Garvin's to our Fair Field meet. Of co's' you can be relied on to choose your friends sensibly, but Garvin's not so certain. Who is this Nickolas Baird? If I introduce him, I've got to stand fo' him. I want to know a little more about him than Mary could tell me. I'll be damned if I'll present him—knowin' no more about him than I do! What's his family?"
"I doubt if he has any," Judith answered equably. "In fact, I know he hasn't—he told me that both his father and his mother were dead."
"You know what I mean, Judith!" the colonel objected warmly.
"Of course the first question would be, 'What's his family?' and the next, 'Has he money?'" There was amusement in Judith's voice. Then she added more seriously, "I really know very little about him, Ridley—except that he seems to be a nice, clever sort of boy. Edward approves of him, so I asked him here. Edwin Carter can tell you more about him than I can. He put him up at the Hunt Club and introduced him to Edward and Garvin. Edwin Carter spoke highly of him."
The chill of the veranda had cooled the colonel somewhat. "Edwin Carter, eh!" he said more quietly. "Well, he generally knows what he is about. He has more social sense than most of his money-makin' crowd—but then he would have—he's a Carter. He certainly has a deal more business sense than any Westmore born, and if he's back of this young fellow, there's some business reason fo' it. Has he money, Judith?"
"Mr. Baird? I think so. He seems to make money easily, at any rate. He speaks of losing fifty thousand dollars with far more lightness than you would of dining, or of being deprived of the meal. His brain appears to be stored with schemes, and all sorts of useful knowledge as well. He is entertaining, for he has been everywhere and knows all kinds of people. Get him to tell you about South America some time, Ridley, and you'll be repaid for the trouble."
"Well, I hope he's not scheming to relieve Edward of some of his money," was the colonel's frank comment.
"Now, Ridley!"
"Oh, you're a clever woman, Judith, that's sure, but you don't know anything about promoters. I know too much about 'em. I'll wager my best horse this young man's a promoter—in with the Carter gang and out here at the Hunt Club fo' a purpose. What does he mean—givin' away automobiles. He spoke up like a flash at dinner; there's something in it fo' him, I'll wager." The colonel expressed himself with all the astuteness of the man who had never in his life handled a dollar of his own making, and whose business ventures had been confined to a lordly interest in his wife's safety-deposit box.
Judith laughed. "I hope there is something in it for him, I'm sure.... I wish he would teach Garvin his secret," she added with a sigh.
"He'll probably lead Garvin into mischief," the colonel returned severely. "There are too many of this young man's kind bein' received into our first families. I'm continually at odds with Mary over the young men she recommends to Elizabeth. I don't feel inclined to countenance this young man, Judith."
"Would you have Elizabeth marry a cousin?" Judith asked coldly. "There has been a little too much of that in our family, don't you think?"
The colonel said nothing.
Judith continued more brightly: "I'll tell you, Ridley, exactly what I think of Mr. Baird: I think he is a very clever young man, with no family background and not much money, but with influential men behind him. They know he is a financial genius. If you're wagering a horse, I'll wager Black Betty that in ten years Mr. Nickolas Baird will be worth a million.... And your discountenancing him will not make a particle of difference. Christine Carter told Elizabeth that he was going to be asked to the next Assembly Ball, and you know that that places him. If he wants to go to the Fair Field meet, he will go—he is the sort of man who'll always get what he wants. It's just as well for people like ourselves to realize that Mr. Baird's type is becoming plentiful—right here in our stronghold—and adapt ourselves to the inevitable. If we are sensible, we'll draw what advantage we can from it.... I'll tell you what I should do, if I were you, Ridley: I'd ask Mr. Baird to dinner at your club and study him a little—you are an excellent judge of character"—Judith's voice was soothing at this point—"and if you don't like him, drop him.... As for me, I have no intention of dropping him—principally because Edward likes him." She concluded firmly enough.
"It's not so much Edward who likes him, is it?" the colonel blurted out. "The young man's pretty well smitten with you, if I'm any judge, and if I should see Elizabeth at your tricks I'd say that she was something more than flirting."
Judith was plentifully endowed with Westmore temper; the colonel was wont to say that there had never been a more imperious Westmore than his Cousin Judith; he grew uncomfortably warm during the perceptible pause that followed his hasty speech.
Then Judith's laugh rang clearly. "My dear Ridley! You are amusing!... Yes, that clever boy is scheming to take Edward's money, and I am helping him to it! Either that, or he is in love with me and I am forgetting that I am thirty-four and he twenty-six—a little romance snatched at in my old age!" She rippled into more subdued mirth as she rose. "You go on in and talk to Edward—he'll give you the best of reasons forourcountenancing Mr. Baird." She changed then suddenly to sternness. "I'd advise you, though, not to make any such remarks to him as you've just made to me, Cousin Ridley. Edward is head of our family, remember, and you're more Westmore than Dickenson—at least I've always thought so. I'm certainly Westmore enough to set the family interest before everything else—I've always done so in the past, and am likely to do so in the future."
The colonel had been entertaining a jumble of thoughts, among others, that women of thirty-four were sometimes emotionally erratic, particularly if they had had so barren an emotional existence as Judith; and also, that young fellows of twenty-six were apt to be dangerously impressionable. But at Judith's reproof he came up standing:
"I beg your pardon, Cousin Judith," he said, in his old-fashioned, florid manner. "Edward's hospitality has been a little too much fo' me—my tongue has run a little too loose. That happens to me sometimes, as you know. I beg yo' pardon. What I really think is that you are a woman in a million, Judith—a very splendid woman, my dear. Westmo' owes everything to you—we all know that, and I'm on my knees to you—I always have been."
Judith Westmore was not demonstrative, so her answer to his apology surprised and vastly pleased the colonel. She framed his tanned face with her hands and kissed his cheek. "You are a dear," she said brightly. "Now go in to Edward and be nice to him. He's worried over Garvin—and a number of things.... I'm going in now to talk to Cousin Mary, and after that I'll have to go up-stairs. If any one wants to see me, just say I'm busy."
The colonel did as he was bidden; Judith was usually obeyed. She had her own methods with each member of the clan, and it was a rare thing for one of them to venture upon criticism of Judith. The colonel had been, as he said, a little overcome by Edward's hospitality.
But Judith did not go up-stairs.
After nearly an hour spent in the drawing-room, she left her elder cousins engrossed in whist, saying that she was going up until time for supper. She went to the foot of the stairs, then half-way up, to where the stairs made a turn, and stood for a time, listening. Everything was quiet above. In the dining-room the men were still talking, and the drawing-room was silent except for an occasional remark. Smothered by the intervening walls, the music and the stir in the ballroom seemed distant.
Judith listened to the conclusion of a waltz, then to the chatter on the veranda—until it was drawn back again into the ballroom by the less rhythmic measure of a square dance. Then she crept down, went quickly through the hall and out to the veranda.
Baird was there, waiting for her. He sprang up from a bench. "I hoped you'd come!" he said. "I didn't like to go in and ask for you."
They stood for a moment. "Have you been enjoying yourself?" Judith asked.
"No, you didn't come back."
Judith laughed softly. "You are not polite to my party, suh."
"Never mind." He touched her bare arm. "Where can I get something to put around you?"
"My cape is in the hall—behind the stairs—and my overshoes.... It is so warm—we might go down to the walk."
"Down to the terraces," Baird said with the quickness of the man alert to every advantage.
Possibly Judith had the terraces in mind, but she demurred. "Oh, no—the ground is too damp."
Baird's answer was to dive into the hall. When he came out he had Judith's cape on his arm and a pair of overshoes in each hand. He held up the larger pair. "I've jumped some one's claim!... Think any one will want these before we get back?"
"They'll certainly not guess where to look for them.... You know how to surmount a difficulty, don't you?" She had planned for this adventure, and her cheeks were warm.
"By helping myself to some one else's belongings—if there is no other way.... Sit down and let me make sure you will be dry."
Baird had also planned for an hour on the terraces, and was elated. He knelt and put on Judith's overshoes with much care, a caressing clasp for each foot before he planted it on the floor. "They are so small," he said. "There are not many women whose feet are kissable." Then dashed by his temerity, he added quickly, "You must descend on me if I talk—nonsense. I am apt to be forward—I need training badly. I'm in your hands, you know."
Judith thought, as she looked down at his massive jaw with its suggestion of animal force, that undoubtedly he spoke from much predatory experience; his air of deference sat oddly on him; he was most attractive when presumptuous. Her reflections caused her a pang. Retrospective jealousy over affairs that were none of her concern? She shrugged mentally. She was foolish! For the first time in her life she was deliberately tampering with forces which she knew were dangerous.
She thought it best to say gravely, "You are a little—assured, Mr. Baird."
"I'm afraid I am," he assented ruefully; then added with native shrewdness and candor combined, "I suppose because I've usually found it paid."
"I suppose it does—with some people," Judith returned with instant hauteur. She was glad he could not see her flush.
Baird got to his feet. "May I help you with your cape?" he asked so humbly that the prick of his previous remark ceased to smart. Why take offense at his candor; his respect for her was apparent enough.
She regained her usual manner as Baird helped her down the steps and, on reaching the walk, dropped her arm, and vented his discomfort by criticizing the moon. "The stars are doing their best—why doesn't the silly thing choose the end of the month to be full in?" he complained. "I'm afraid you will stumble."
Judith did stumble a few moments afterward, and, as a matter of course, Baird took possession of her arm. Judith judged that he had been sufficiently rebuked and also that she had proved that she needed guidance and yet was not eager to accept it, a truly feminine procedure.
And Baird was evidently bent upon gaining the terraces without offending her by too much urgency. They had come to the verge of the first terrace, and he tested the ground. "It's not muddy," he announced. "The sod is too heavy.... Shan't we go down?"
"I ought not to go so far away—some one will be wanting me," Judith objected.
"That is one reason you should go," Baird said decidedly. "You've been on duty all evening. Come, shunt it all for a few minutes." Baird had regained his assurance; it never deserted him for long.
"I should like to," Judith confessed, and her sigh was genuine enough.
"Of course you would. Isn't there a bench down there—somewhere?"
"On the edge of the last terrace—under those two cedars."
"Let's go to it—please, Wonder-woman! They'll all be out after that dance and I won't have a moment with you. Come!"
He pleaded a little masterfully, Judith thought, but as long as he did not suspect that it was his forcefulness that attracted her, all was well. "I suppose I can hear down there, if any one called," she said doubtfully.
"Certainly you can."
They went down to where the two cedars loomed, a dark mass, and groped their way to the bench. It was dark beneath the trees and quite dry. Below them was a hollow and beyond it a steep slope crowned by a group of trees, their outlines distinct against the sky. In every direction but this the country dropped away from the house, affording views for miles. Except for the music in the house behind them and the occasional snort or stamp of a horse in the stables, it was very still.
"This is splendid," Baird said, "but are you warm enough? You have nothing on your head—there's a hood to your cape ... may I?"
He drew it up over her hair, restraining his impulse to touch her cheek as he did so. The cape reminded him of Ann Penniman and his afternoon's adventure, and he smiled a little to himself. That had been so natural a performance, and this enforced deference was so entirely a new experience. He was enjoying it; he liked the way in which Judith kept the distance between them. She sat well against her corner of the bench. He could see her face now, black and white and rounded into girlishness by the encircling hood, again reminding him of Ann.
"I like those hooded capes," he remarked. "I don't know that I ever saw one till I came here."
"Haven't you? Almost every woman here has one—they are so convenient. Do you know what sun-bonnets are? If you're here in the summer you'll become acquainted with them, too. But I suppose you will be off befo' then." She spoke more lazily than usual, slurred her words more, another reminder of Ann.
"I shan't be able to get away when I go—if you continue to be kind to me."
Judith laughed. "Do you happen to be Irish?"
"Of course I'm Irish! Haven't you noticed my long upper lip? My father was a pretty successful Chicago ward politician and I have the gift of gab and manipulation too. I can talk money out of a man—any hour of the day. Now that I have had enough of adventure, I mean to settle down to handling people and making money. I was born to it.... But that sort of thing is contrary to all your traditions, isn't it?" he added.
Judith thought that he judged himself rightly; his voice alone would accomplish for him; it had both a persuasive and a compelling quality. "It is, but I admire it," she returned decidedly. He had offered her the opportunity she wanted.
"You do?" Baird said, surprised. Then his shrewdness added, "No, you only think you do. I don't believe there is a man in your family who would thrill over making money. I mean, thrill at the fight one must make in order to gain power over men and circumstances, for that is really the thing that buoys the money-maker, sheer joy in the tussle. There is the miser, of course, but he's rarely a genius. Any one can be a miser, if so inclined."
"You are right—the men of my family have very little business ability," Judith answered. "Garvin is the only one who has. He would be a success, if given the opportunity. He is tremendously interested in anything he undertakes and is capable of concentration—and he wants to make money."
It was not Baird's reading of Garvin Westmore, but he answered promptly: "He seems to be an energetic, wide-awake sort." Baird's alertness warned him that there was purpose in Judith's remarks.
Judith continued. "Yes, and I should like Garvin to have his chance.... You see, ever since he was a child he has been tied down to this place. They will tell you about here that I have run the farm—for it is that now—the days of tobacco growing were over long ago—but it is Garvin, really, who has done all the buying and selling. He has made quite an income from his horses, simply because he has been interested in it. He would be just as interested in manufacturing automobiles, for instance—if he could get a position in some promising company."
Baird understood now. He had thought swiftly while Judith talked. So that was the reason he had been welcome at Westmore! That was the favor Judith meant to ask—he was to find a place for Garvin.
It did not trouble Baird in the least that he was expected to make a return for what he received—his experience had taught him that life was run largely on that basis—but he was stung by the thought that Judith had smiled on him for a purpose. He had mentioned his plans to no one; it spoke well for her keenness that she had divined the industry he had selected for his own advancement. But if she expected to gain more from a bargain than he did, she was mistaken.
It was perhaps as well that Judith did not see his expression. His voice did not lose its pleasing quality, however. "Garvin has some capital, I suppose?"
"Very little, I am afraid," Judith said regretfully.
Baird did not say, "But his brother has." He looked down at her, studying her clear-cut features closely. Evidently he had been right when he had decided that she was cold; she had simply unbent for a purpose. Aloud he said, "The manufacture of automobiles is going to be a tremendous industry. I have some automobile connections—I'll talk to Garvin a little."
It was not his voice that acquainted Judith with the chill he felt; she simply sensed it. She looked up at him. "That was the favor I was going to ask of you," she said softly. "Just to talk to Garvin a little and interest him in some plan that will get him away from all this." She indicated their surroundings by a gesture. "The family traditions have very little hold on Garvin—they make him impatient and dissatisfied. You see, I am older than my brother and I have had a great deal of responsibility. I feel more like a mother than a sister to him. His dissatisfaction worries me terribly. It would be doing me a very great favor if you would interest yourself a little in Garvin.... We Westmores rarely ask favors, Mr. Baird, and only of those whom we really like. I have so much confidence in you." Judith's voice was sweet and pleading at the end; her hand stole out from her cape and touched his arm.
She had lifted him quickly out of coldness into something warmer than admiration. His doubts had melted like a fog under sunshine. He took her hand and kissed it. "There are few things I would not do for you, Wonder-woman.... Thank you, dear."
He would have kept her hand, but she drew it away, and Baird was almost instantly glad that she did. He was forgetting himself. The thing he liked best in her was her aloofness. "I've often wanted to thank you for the way you have taken me in and made me feel at home," he declared. "I've never had much of that sort of kindness shown me—I appreciate it."
"I want you to feel at home at Westmore," she answered. "You must come often—and always be nice to me." She had regained her usual graceful vivacity. "Some day we will ride all over the place and you shall become really acquainted with it.... Do you see that group of trees beyond there, against the sky? That is our family burying-ground—generations of Westmores. There are several quaint tombstones up there."
"You keep even your dead to yourselves, don't you? In a way, I like the clannishness of it. You keep everything to yourselves, birth and marriage and death.... I think there's too much fuss and ceremony over all three. The first is generally a misfortune, the second is apt to be no cause for rejoicing, and the end of it all no real reason for mourning."
It was the first time Judith had heard this note from him. "Mr. Baird! How unlike you!... It might be Garvin talking."
Baird did not want to talk about Garvin, so he made no reply. There was silence for a time. For some unaccountable reason Baird was touched by depression. This family with their close interests reminded him that no one would care particularly how he lived or when he died.
He was aroused by Judith's sudden movement. She was sitting taut, her hood flung back. "What is it?" he asked.
Her hand caught his arm, a grip of steel. "Hush!" she said sharply. "Listen!... There are voices at the barn—and don't you hear galloping—on the road? Don't you hear it?"
Baird could hear it distinctly, furious galloping, now a thud on soft ground, then the click of hoofs against stones, and several men's voices at the barn.
"Yes, I hear it—what has happened?"
But Judith was off and away, running up the terraces, and her exclamation of distress reached him indistinctly, "Oh,whydidn't I stay at the house!"
Judith was not running to the house; she cut across the terraces to the stables, and Baird followed her with all the speed possible to him. And yet he did not catch up with her until after she had reached the group of men and horses. When he came up they had just parted, four horsemen off at a gallop down the road in the direction of the Post-Road, two men and Judith left standing beneath the stable lantern.
Baird recognized Edward and the colonel as he came up, and he was near enough to hear Edward's more distinct answer to Judith's indistinct question: "Yes—Garvin—to the Mine Banks.... MyGod!"
"What has happened?" Baird asked breathlessly.
All three turned on him, and Baird saw Judith's white hand grip Edward's arm. He was answered by a curious silence, a portentous silence that conveyed a sense of tragedy. It was Judith who spoke finally:
"They are after Garvin's horse, Mr. Baird," she said evenly and clearly.
Garvin's horse? Baird looked from one to the other, three white faces carven into sudden and violent self-control. There was something in the way in which they faced him that affected Baird queerly. They stood together as if they hid something infinitely painful from him that the light of the lantern failed to reveal; something that hurt and shamed them, and yet about which they rallied determinedly—as Judith had lied, clearly and resolutely; as if they stood guard over a painful secret, and appealed to him to respect it.
Baird heard himself say in a voice that was robbed of everything but assumed relief: "That was what we heard then—the horse making off. Can I help?"
"I think not, Mr. Baird—thank you—Copeley and the others—have gone," Edward answered, his pauses marking the steadiness of each word.
Judith's clear voice followed her brother's effort instantly. "We may as well go in, I think, Edward. There is nothing we can do." She still had her hand on his arm, and she turned with him, as if guiding him, and kept by his side, leaving Baird to follow with the colonel.
The colonel spoke for the first time. "That's true. There's no good of our standin' about—not a bit.... It's a pleasant enough evenin' to be out in, though, Mr. Baird—like May, suh. You'll not know Westmo' by the middle of next week—the trees and the lilacs setting out green. It takes only a few days fo' spring to come here, on the Ridge, and this is an early year—a very early year, suh."
If Baird had not been sobered by a sense of tragedy, he might have been amused by the colonel's attempt to follow Judith's lead. But the old gentleman's determinedly hearty voice failed him sadly, and Baird hoped that he had played the part he had instinctively chosen better than the colonel was playing his. And at the same time Baird's quick brain was trying to solve Edward's agonized, "MyGod!" What had Garvin done? Baird saw the man as he had looked that morning, with pistol raised.
He was answering the colonel. "I have been looking forward to spring here. I suppose you don't hunt after the crops are up."
"No, suh—we do have a little consideration fo' others, though we are not given credit for it. Now at Fair Field—"
The colonel had stopped abruptly. They had come to the veranda and from its lowest step a huddled heap had got to its feet, a big negress whose black hands were torturing her white apron. "Miss Judith—?" she said whimperingly.
Judith stopped dead. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was as sharp as the lash of a whip.
"Miss Judith—I didn't go fo' to do it—" the woman begged humbly.
Judith cut her off. "Go up-stairs and stay there!... Go!"
The woman slunk by them and around the corner of the house like a whipped dog, and Judith went on, her head high, her hand still on Edward's arm. As they went up the steps and the light from the hall shone on her, Baird saw her face distinctly, immobile as a death-mask, but with restless eyes glancing at the ballroom, which was lighted but silent, then searching the hall. The front door stood wide, and on the portico the family were gathered, all except Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, who were in the drawing-room.
If Baird had needed confirmation of his fears, he had it in Mrs. Dickenson's face. She was clinging to her daughter, her face chalk-white and her eyes terror-stricken. The truth might escape from her at any moment; she looked on the verge of hysteria.
But Judith had noticed more quickly than Baird, and she spoke to the colonel in the same clear way in which she had spoken from the beginning. "Take her up-stairs, Ridley. She's frightened at all this galloping about, and no wonder." Then dropping Edward's arm she went straight on to the front door, her voice raised somewhat more, like an officer giving his orders, and at the same time conveying a warning:
"Come on in, all of you, and get ready for supper. I dare say Mr. Baird is hungry—I am—and we can't get Garvin's horse back by staring after it.... Aunt Carlotta Morrison, come help me get every one together. Come!"
It was all for him, Baird knew it—all this bravery. He was the stranger among them; the one person from whom the painful thing, whatever it was, must be kept. They could not gather together in grief or sympathy or council—he was there. And it devolved upon him to play his part; to see nothing; understand nothing; and escape as soon as he could.
Baird would have given much to be able to get his horse and disappear. But that was not possible. He was experiencing the painful embarrassment of a guest whose absence was earnestly, even tragically desired, but whose departure would cause more pain than his presence—so long as he could successfully maintain an air of unconsciousness.
He must stay, but it occurred to Baird that he could give them a few moments in which to remove their masks, in which to consult together. "I'll go wash up," he said to Edward.
Edward stood with hand on the stair-rail, erect but deadly pale. He answered steadily and courteously, "Very well, Baird—it's what I must do in a moment. If you need anything, ring. I suppose some of the servants are about."
"Thanks," Baird said, and escaped.
He washed his hands and smoothed his hair mechanically. He was generally cool when excited, but he muttered to himself, "What in hell can it be? It's serious, whatever it is." His brain had already traversed several possibilities. Had Garvin suddenly gone mad? Or committed murder?... Or had his own brain gone back on him, registered an entirely erroneous set of impressions?... Of course it hadn't. Those people were both terrified and ashamed.
But he must go on with it. He had answered to the spur of Judith's voice. He was a poor sort if he couldn't play his part also.... Baird judged that he had given them time enough in which to consult, and not too much time in which to suspect him. He must go down.
Baird never forgot that supper. They were gathered in the dining-room when he came down, composed, courteous, charming. It was a depleted company, five of the men were absent, and Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, but the colonel was there, and Edward, and again Baird sat by Judith. The younger people were silent; there was a hushed strained air about them, but their elders covered their silence. The beautiful old mahogany table, bared now of linen, had been made smaller to hide vacancies, bringing them together: Edward, with the sharp lines of suffering growing and deepening about his mouth, but with quick attention for everybody; Mrs. Morrison, with her stately white head even more erect than usual; the colonel, with recovered aplomb.
The colonel told stories that Baird guessed the family knew well; Mrs. Morrison reproved every one present and was really amusing, and Judith smiled brilliantly and tossed the conversational ball back and forth. She did not let it rest for a moment. A change had come over her; there was a vivid spot in either cheek and her eyes were shining—nerves strained to breaking point, Baird guessed, and, when he saw how her hands shook, he himself began to talk—of South America, of Wyoming. He dragged forgotten experiences out of obscure corners of his brain and presented them.
He talked as he had never talked before, not even when he talked "money out of a man." He was talking against time, the first moment when he could relieve that proudly secretive company of his undesired presence; talked with the full consciousness that Priscilla Copeley was looking wanly at food she could not touch; that Edward's ear, inclined as if listening to him, was bent to catch every sound from without; that Judith's restless hand was beating a tattoo on the edge of the table while she also listened and waited. Baird did not enjoy what he was doing, but he liked always to play up to a demand. Judith needed what little help he could give her.
It was over at last. Baird knew just when Judith judged that appearances had been sufficiently maintained, and the moment had arrived when the party could break up. He said good night then, but, first, he asked Priscilla Copeley, "You'll not forget our ride to-morrow?"
He wondered what her answer would be, but even in this slip of a girl the family spirit was alive. "No, indeed," she returned through colorless lips. "At four o'clock, Mr. Baird," and she succeeded in smiling.
Judith went with him to the stairs, and Baird thanked her "for one of the pleasantest and most interesting evenings I have ever spent," as he phrased it.
"And I am grateful to you," she said quietly. "You were wonderful at supper." For the moment there was all of Edward's melancholy in her anxious eyes.
So she had guessed. Baird hoped the others had not; he felt almost certain they had not. He took her hand and kissed it—there was nothing he could say.
The color deepened in Judith's face. "Sleep well—" she said softly, and turned away.
Baird had no intention of sleeping. He changed into his riding clothes and lay down fully dressed. He also was waiting and listening; he would sleep as little as any one else in that house; he had never felt less like sleeping.
There were steps and voices for a time; some of the family were taking leave. Then, gradually, the house settled into watchful quiet; now and then carefully silenced movements on the stairs, and the steady ticking of the clock in the hall. Baird had already thought of every possibility, so he was without conjectures, but sometime before daylight those who had ridden away would return. He was waiting for that.
They came during the stillest hour, just after the clock struck three. Baird heard a stir at the stables and went to the window. He could not see the stables, the kitchen wing of the house shut them off, but he could hear cautious voices and the movement of horses. Would they come in by the front or by the veranda?
They rounded the kitchen, a compact group which was in full view for a moment or two, then drew in so close to the house that the veranda roof hid them. They passed along, moving slowly, to the other wing of the house, evidently to what had been the old plantation office. Then sounds ceased.
Baird drew a short breath. He had not been able to see very clearly, but the group kept together in a fashion he knew well; they were carrying some inert burden.
And he had to stay where he was till morning!