The first of May, and spring had come on the Ridge. A young green lay upon pasture and woodland, upon every spot where nature was allowed her way—except the bald patches on the Mine Banks. They still glared a sullen red, defiantly barren, when even the plowed earth glistened and was warm, impatient under man's restraining hand, eager to quicken the seed being entrusted to it, a civilized mother as intent on bearing fruit as was her uncultured sister.
Those three weeks had brought the stir of life, both restlessness and joy, to Sue, to Ann, to Judith Westmore; and, as spring quickens man as well as woman, to Edward Westmore, Garvin and Baird the consciousness of things desired and not attained which is the urge to all accomplishment.
Even Coats Penniman, busied about the farm from early morning until night, was stirred by a vague unrest which was not unhappiness nor its opposite. He worked the harder for it; he had cast his net here; he meant to gather in the harvest, a modest harvest, but one that would be sufficient for his family's needs. New horses filled the stalls that had stood empty so long, new farm implements were stored in the wagon-shed, the barn acquired a coat of paint. And the crying shame of water carried by women up three hundred yards to a kitchen without a convenience was abolished. That was Coats' first improvement: pipes were laid to the bubbling spring and a pump installed; the spring-house, unsanitary relic of a past century, would no longer harbor crocks of milk and butter ill-protected from things that crawl and germs that fatten; it housed the pump. And only the weeping willows mourned the change; they no longer stood in a swamp, for a drain carried the seeping water to the creek; they were a pleasant shelter now for any man and maid who chose to sit beneath them.
Coats Penniman had his work and Sue had hers. The old house was being transformed. Many years before, Ann, playing with a forbidden pen-knife, had cut through the half-dozen layers of paper that generations of tasteless Pennimans had laid upon the living-room walls and had come to oak paneling as beautiful as any at Westmore. Sue had not forgotten the discovery. The living-room was stripped of paper and became again what it had been in colonial days, a spacious dining-room paneled from ceiling to floor. The modern front room, the parlor, lost its dingy figured paper, was hung and curtained in white, as were the rooms above. Sue, with Ann to help her, and a sturdy negress to do the heaviest work, labored joyfully. Paint and whitewash had their way with the old house, and it emerged an elderly lady still, but with white hair smoothed and wearing a spotless cap.
Only the lonely farm-woman who toils unaided, her interests bound by four unsightly walls, a veritable prison with a treadmill for diversion, can justly appreciate what those days of transformation were to Sue. She had longed for the two strong black hands that under her direction washed and churned and swept and cooked. But she had longed still more for a little beauty, a touch of fashion, a hint of luxury. Her day's work had always lapped over into the morrow. Now she could appear at supper with hair arranged and wearing a fresh gown. She could go from supper to sit with Coats on the porch and talk to him of her work as he talked to her of his. The delight of it!
And it was not only the house that wore new garments. Sue chose carefully and economically, but she would not have chosen tastefully had Ann not been at her right hand. Ann had an instinct for color, and an observant eye for style. She had insisted on shades of blue for Sue. "You ought to get everything blue, it goes with your eyes, an' it makes you look young and pretty," she had urged. "Have an all-blue suit, Aunt Sue, an' a blue silk drivin' coat, an' a little blue hat with white wings. An' for your house-dresses just have lawn with blue flowers in it." Sue had thought the coat an unpardonable extravagance, until she remembered that she often drove with Coats. Then she did not hesitate.
Ann was too proud to ask for anything for herself, but Sue insisted that whatever she had must be duplicated for Ann, so Ann chose for herself a summer suit of deep cream and a large cream-colored straw hat. Sue had objected to Ann's choice of a red coat. "Your suit's so dark a cream it's 'most yellow, an' your coat's a regular nigger red, Ann."
"I'm black an' white—they're my colors, Aunt Sue. I'll always have to wear rich colors to look best," Ann returned, and she was right. She did not put red roses on her hat, however. She decorated it with water-lilies; their yellow centers blended with hat and gown.
Even Sue did not suspect what pleasure Ann took in her attire, but she did notice that the girl was startlingly beautiful, even in her simple white lawn dresses sprayed with either red or yellow. It was not a glaring effect the girl had produced; she had simply intensified her usual impression of warmth, her hint of the exotic. Coats noticed it; he looked at her in an expressionless way, but Sue knew what he thought, and her father also, when he looked at Ann and then looked away. Ann's new clothes set her more apart from them than ever.
And in spite of her good sense, Sue envied Ann's compelling quality. She would never have it, but Ann thought that since her father's return Sue had grown almost beautiful. Sue's face had grown fuller and now her cheeks almost always had color. She arranged her brown hair carefully and changed her dresses frequently. And she laughed much oftener, softly and with eyes alight. Sue was glad, of course, that Coats had brought better times to them all, but even supreme relief would not account for Sue's air of subdued happiness.
Ann had puzzled over the change in Sue, until one day she saw her watching Coats Penniman while he slept. He had come in tired out and had stretched himself on the couch in the living-room. Sue and Ann were sewing when he came in and Sue had sprung up, brought him a glass of water and begged him to lie down. Then Sue had taken up her sewing again. A little later, when Ann glanced up, wondering how she could slip away without being noticed, she saw that her father was asleep and that Sue sat with hands idle. She was bent forward a little, looking at Coats in utter absorption, her lips parted, her eyes misty and yearning, her heart laid bare for Ann to read. Sue had forgotten her, forgotten everything; there were only they two in the world, she and Coats.
Ann looked long and steadily, and, in those moments of hot surprise and then of clear understanding, she laid down every claim upon her father, became definitely nobody's child. Ann's own experience in love had rapidly taught her; she knew how it was with her father and Sue; Sue loved her father, and he liked Sue better than he liked any one else.
That was what Garvin said to her in the evenings when they met under the willows by the spring: that he loved her madly, and that she only liked him. She let him kiss her when he talked like that. It made her hot and restless to be plead with and urged and caressed. She did love him—the thought of losing his love was terrible—yet she was not happy, partly because she felt that Edward would be shocked if he knew. She had discovered that the brothers did not love each other any more than she and her father loved each other. She never mentioned Edward to Garvin, or Garvin to Edward.
The night before, Garvin had said startling things: that he was going into the city to live; that Nickolas Baird was arranging a city agency for a large automobile firm, and that he would probably have charge of it. Ann had been swept by a feeling of desolation until Garvin had added, "It won't be right away, but when the time comes will you go with me?"
Ann knew that she had been silent so long that he had grown desperate. He had put his arms about her and held her as if he were afraid that she would run from him. She had said, finally, "I couldn't bear it, to have you go away."
"But I shall have to go," he had told her positively. "I can't stay at Westmore—Edward is master of Westmore now.... And you want to go away—will you go with me, Ann?"
Then she had told him the thing that had troubled her from the beginning. "A Westmore marry a Penniman? We can't do it, Garvin—ever."
And Garvin had been silent then, thinking; she had felt his hands grow burning hot. Then he said steadily: "The city is not the Ridge, Ann. If you'll only love me completely, as I love you, what seems impossible here may be possible there. I want you, just mine to love and care for always."
Then she had told him with complete honesty. "I don't know whether I love you enough to marry you, but I can't bear to have you go away from me."
He had made his usual appeal, his own unhappiness, and Ann had almost yielded him her promise. But when she thought it all over she was not happy; she was so doubtful of her own feelings.
And she had another anxiety. Edward Westmore had given her a number of books, and she had seen him several times. Every day there had been a book for her in the chinkapin bushes. With the instinct for making herself doubly desired, she did not always stay to thank him. But sometimes she had waited in the hollow, and Edward came and sat at her feet. Then they talked. They had been less exciting but more satisfying hours than she had with Garvin. Edward told her wonderful things, interesting things. She felt like an ignorant child when she was with him, and yet she knew that he liked whatever she said, and that he loved to look at her, and that he touched her with a certain tender reverence. She thought of him as a very dear friend. It was some time before she told him how things were at the farm. Before she realized, she had told him about it, and he had said:
"Never mind, Ann, be patient. There is the future—you will leave the farm, one of these days."
He had spoken quietly enough, but Ann had seen the color come slowly into his face. Though he had turned to look at the water, she had seen and wondered. Was he beginning to care for her—as Garvin did? Such a possibility had never before occurred to her! He had seemed so much older than Garvin—old enough to be her father. It made her very uncomfortable, the first touch of self-consciousness she had had while with him. For several days after that, she had taken her book and hurried away.
Then Ben Brokaw had added to her anxiety. They talked together as always, she and Ben. Though he had said nothing, Ann knew that he understood about her father and herself. On the evening of that Sunday when she had met her father, she had found on her window-sill a box lined with pine-needles and on them several sprays of arbutus. She knew instantly that Ben had put them there, climbed to the roof to do it. His was the language of the woods: Ann knew from the pine-needles that Ben had been somewhere about when she had lain sobbing beneath the pine trees. And she had known just how to thank him; she had pinned a bit of the arbutus to her dress the next morning, and had smiled at him. "It's sweet," was all she had said. And all Ben said was "Um!"
Ben rarely mentioned Coats Penniman, but occasionally he had been satirical over the changes Coats was making. When the house became redolent of paint, he took his hammock and slept in the woods. "Paint is supposed to be a' awful good thing," he told Ann. "Even the ladies thinks it'll hide old age, but it don't deceive nobody. I never took no stock in paint—wood is one of the prettiest things on earth; why cover it up?"
On the evening when he talked with Ann in a way that made her anxious, he began by saying, "This place an' Westmo' is becomin' too fashionable. All we needs now is a' automobile. Westmo's got one—I seen Garvin scarin' chickens an' niggers all down the Post-Road this mornin', an' that young cool-head who's stayin' at the club an' makin' love to Miss Judith showin' Garvin how to do it. If the president was to travel down the Post-Road in a wheelbarrer, it wouldn't stir up half the sensation Garvin did.... I reckon Edward wanted to give Garvin something to occupy his mind. Well, he's done it—an' a fashionable way to break his neck, too."
Ann knew that Garvin was to have the automobile. He had told her that it was coming, and that, as soon as he could run it, he would take her with him to the city and back in an evening. That now he could show her the city of which she knew so little.
But she did not comment on Garvin's new possession. "You always speak of Garvin in that way, Ben, and differently of Edward Westmore—why do you?" she asked gravely.
"Edward's a gentleman an' Garvin's jes' a Westmo', second generation to his pa," Ben returned.
"I thought every Westmore was a gentleman," Ann said, quite as Judith might have spoken; there was hauteur in the reproof. Her head had lifted.
It was not too dark for Ben to see her face, and he glanced at her, a swift, intensely interested look, a deeply anxious look as well. But his answer was drawled as usual. "Accordin' to the dictionary, they are, Ann. I read up on 'gentleman' once, an' I decided that there dictionary wasted a lot of words. Why didn't it jest say, 'Gentleman: the man who does to others like he'd have them do to him.' Of co'se, if it was necessary to say more, it could jest add that there is those who grows to be gentlemen. A man can train hisself to be one. Edward has growed to be a gentleman—I found that out when he come back.... Now, if there was anything troublin' me, I'd go straight to Edward Westmo'. There ain't anythin' I'd be afraid to tell him. An' that's the advice I'd give to any one who was doubtful in their mind about anything, or who'd got into trouble—jest to talk to Edward about it.... I'm down about the woods a good bit, an' I often see Edward comin' an' goin'. We speaks. There ain't much goes on down there I don't know about; even when I'm not there, my eye's on them woods. If Edward Westmo' sat down a bit on Penniman land, I wouldn't say nothing about it—not I. I'd as soon cut my hand off as set a Penniman on a Westmo'. Coats Penniman has growed, like I tell you some men do, Ann, but he ain't growed enough not to hate a Westmo'. That's one reason I keep my eye on them woods—I wouldn't answer for what would happen if a Westmo' angered Coats Penniman."
Ann had nothing to say to this long speech; she escaped as soon as possible to think it over. Ben had the queer cautious ways of an animal—he had told her several things, in his usual fashion. He had meant to tell her that Garvin was not as fine a man as Edward. Ann was forced to confess that she felt he was not. But Garvin was younger, and impatient and unhappy, just as she was. She loved and pitied Garvin, and nothing Ben could say would make her stop loving him.
And Ben had also meant to tell her that he knew and approved of her talking to Edward; that he stood guard over them. He wanted her to tell Edward about Garvin. She felt certain that Ben knew she cared for Garvin. Possibly he knew that they met, but she was not so certain of that.
Ann's anxiety was principally on Garvin's account. If her father discovered them it would be terrible. They ought not to meet in that way. But Garvin could not take her away now.... And even if he could, did she love him enough to go with him and face all the trouble that would follow? And yet, she would be sick with loneliness if Garvin went away and left her. But if she did not love Garvin—in the way in which he wanted her to love him—she ought to tell him so and not meet him any more. And she could not tell Edward about his brother—not after the way in which Edward had looked at her the last time she saw him—she simply couldn't.
Ann spent a troubled night after her talk with Ben, and she had reached no decision the next day when she went down to the woods to get her book. She did not know whether or not she would wait to see Edward. She ought not to see him. It had not occurred to her that as things were between Garvin and herself, she ought not to see Edward in this way—not until after she had suspected that Edward cared a great deal for her.
Ann did not know how much she wanted to see Edward until she discovered that there was no book left for her. She searched the bushes thoroughly; there was nothing there. Then she paused to think.... She had avoided Edward and he had decided that she did not want to see him; she had lost her friend.
Ann went slowly back to the road and stood hesitating. She did not want to go back to the house; she felt more like going up to the pines, to sit with her trouble where no one would see her.
She had flushed while she searched and found nothing, then grown pale when she felt that she had been forsaken. She brightened into beauty when she heard a horse on the Back Road. He was late in coming, that was all. She waited, her eyes fixed on the turning in the road.
It was Baird who appeared, and, riding with him, Judith Westmore. They were riding so close to each other that their horses almost touched, Judith with head bent and playing with her whip, Baird looking down at her.
Ann would have escaped if she could, but they were upon her before she had recovered from surprise, and Baird had seen her. He straightened instantly, and Ann also stiffened, moving only to give them room to pass. Baird looked at her steadily, for a questioning instant, then suddenly smiled and lifted his cap. He bowed profoundly enough when Ann smiled, though she had merely glanced at him; she was looking at Judith.
Ann's smile and bow should have been claimed by Judith, it was meant for her; but she looked at Ann, at her and through her, a blankly brilliant stare, then touched her horse. Both horses leaped at her flick of the whip, and left Ann standing beside the road.
Ann did not go to the pines and weep; it might have been better for her if she had. She went back to the house, and with head high. Hers had always been an inflammable temper, but never before had she felt the profound anger that held her now. It turned her cold, not hot. With all the family enmity forgotten, she had smiled as she would have smiled at Edward, and had been cut in a manner possible only to as finished a product as Judith. Ann's nerves were always high strung, and for the last weeks she had been under the strain of persistent denial, anxious over the danger to Garvin of their secret meetings, and too inexperienced to realize the still greater danger to herself from the sort of appeal Garvin was making to her; certain only that neither he nor she was happy. Edward's defection had been followed too closely by Judith's act. Ann shivered like one with ague.
She was very quiet at supper. The meal was a hurried one, for Sue and Coats were going to the village, and no one noticed Ann's white face. She was going to meet Garvin that night. She went as soon as it was dark, and waited for him, sitting tensely upright under the willows; usually it was Garvin who waited. She sat so still that a rabbit came in under the willows, almost to her feet, before it leaped and fled.
Garvin came presently, well hidden by the dense growth of elderberry bushes that, matted by foxgrape vines, extended to the creek. He had chosen this spot because he could come all the way from the woods under cover. "Ann!" he said. "You here first!" On the instant his arms were about her.
Ann did not hold him off as usual. She sat quite still and let him kiss her. It was a few moments before he noticed how passive she was. "What is it? What has happened?" he asked.
"Just that I have made up my mind."
"To what?" he asked, not knowing what to expect, for he was accustomed to reluctance and withdrawal.
"That I'll go with you, Garvin—as soon as you can take me away. Then I'll marry you. I'm a Penniman, but I'm fully as good as your sister—or any Westmore lady ever was. I'm not afraid to marry you."
The blood flared in Garvin's face, but he thanked her as tenderly as any Westmore ever uttered the words. "My darling!... You do love me, then! You do love me! Thank you, dear."
Ann's hand drew his face to hers. "You're all I have," she said.
Garvin held her closely while he drew off his seal ring, engraved with the Westmore crest, and put it on her finger. "You can't wear it openly, dear; but every time you look at it it will remind you that you are promised to me."
He kissed her hands and her lips, while he gave her every assurance desire for possession ever invented. And Ann, borne into more perfect trust, gave her future more fully into his keeping.
On the way back to Westmore that night, Garvin met Baird. Baird had been riding with Judith in the afternoon and had dined at Westmore and spent the evening there. When Garvin, saying that he must go to the village, had excused himself and had hurried to Ann, he had left Baird with Edward and Judith. Very soon Edward also had gone out, and Baird and Judith had spent the evening together, as was frequent of late.
Both Garvin and Baird were riding slowly, for both were engrossed by the subject to which, next to his struggle for existence, man gives his intensest interest; Baird had just parted from Judith, Garvin from Ann.
"Hello, Garvin—just back?" Baird asked.
"Yes.... Baird, I think Will Prescott wants a machine. You know he's a sort of third cousin of ours by marriage."
Baird wondered if there was any one of their class in the southeastern states who was not, by marriage or otherwise, cousin to a Westmore. It was an effective argument he had used in persuading Edwin Carter and the others who were combining to form the automobile manufacturing company in which Baird meant to have a large interest, that Garvin would serve them well if given the city agency.
"Good!" he said. "Nail him—or any one else who comes your way. The commission'll be yours."
"How soon do you think I can get back into town and get to work?" Garvin asked. "Is the agency a sure thing?" It was the question to which he had been leading.
Baird had no intention of being hurried in the matter. He meant that Edward should give a guarantee for Garvin that would make his own position in the firm "a sure thing."
"I'll know that in a few days, Garvin. I have to see Edwin Carter again—I can tell you more then. I see no reason why the thing shouldn't go through. I'm going to make every effort to get it for you."
Garvin was forced to curb his impatience. "You're a brick, Baird."
"No—I think you're the man for the place."
They parted, each taking up thoughts that had little to do with business.
Garvin looked up at the long dim line of Westmore. Let Edward have the place if he wanted it; it was rightfully Edward's; it was Edward's money that had bought up the mortgages. He would take Ann and go. Go soon, even if he had to attach himself to Baird's firm merely as a traveling agent.
He unsaddled, stalled his horse, and let himself into the house. The lights were out; Edward and Judith must have gone to bed.
But he saw, as he came up the stairs, that Edward was still up. He was standing in his open door, evidently waiting for him. In his harassed condition, Edward was the last person he wanted to see.
"You up, Ed?" he said casually.
"Yes.... Come in here—I want to speak to you."
Garvin knew instantly that something serious had happened; Edward's manner was so deadly quiet, his voice so ominously even. The apprehension that harried them all was the first thing that settled upon Garvin. "Well, what now?" he said. "Sarah again, I suppose."
Edward closed the door, then faced him. "No.... I wish that every other irresponsible in our family was as safely guarded as poor Sarah is in the place to which I took her.... Garvin Westmore, what's this thing you've been doing? Leading astray a girl who is no more than a child—meeting her at night! How far has it gone? By heaven! if you have harmed her—I'll—" Edward broke off, grasping at the self-control that was leaving him.
Garvin's brain had leaped from thought to thought. Who had spied upon him? How much did Edward know? He could not have been near them that evening. It was not possible for any one to come near the willows and he not detect it. Garvin was capable of perfect coolness, and at unexpected moments. "What girl are you talking about?" he demanded. "I've played with more than one girl on the Ridge—so did you, I reckon, in your time."
Edward drew an uneven breath. "I mean Ann Penniman."
"Yes, I've talked to Ann—what of it?"
"Answer my question!How far has this thing gone?" Edward repeated with such intense passion that Garvin recoiled, surprised rather than angered. Had he not been surprised, he would instantly have flared. "I've done Ann no harm!... But what great difference should it make to you? What's Ann Penniman to you? Why the devil should you come at me in this fashion—even if I had gone the lengths! One would suppose I'd been poaching on your preserves! I'm my own master—neither you nor any other man shall question me about how or with whom I choose to amuse myself!" Garvin had flared finally.
Edward knew well what that sudden high note in Garvin's voice portended. He spoke quickly: "I apologize.... I ought to have got at the thing differently.... Sit down a moment—I want to talk of something else, first ... this matter of your getting the agency.... I've been consulting with Baird—about it.... Sit down—"
Edward had talked with a certain haste, and yet with pauses, quieting his brother while he sought for his own self-control. It was almost beyond him; he had paused, laid hold on the thing, gone on, paused again. He ended with outward calm.
And Garvin had quieted in the sudden way usual with him. Edward had motioned him to a chair, and he took it. Edward sat down opposite to him at the desk; he looked down while he talked. "It seems it depends on me whether Baird's firm will take you on or not. If I take stock in their company, they will give you the agency. I've—"
"I don't want you to sacrifice money on my account," Garvin interrupted. "I mean to go somewhere—away from here—and just as soon as I can. I'll look about for something else, that's all."
Edward continued steadily. "I shall not be doing that. I've looked into the matter—I've had my lawyer do it—for I'm no business man. He says it's a good investment, and I'm willing to go into it. I'd do almost anything to forward either your interests or Judith's. All I can do for Sarah is to see that she has every comfort it's possible to give her at a sanatorium. I made a mistake in taking her out and bringing her here, after she had been shut away from Westmore for twelve years. No wonder her poor brain went wild again and drove her to the Mine Banks. I learned my lesson. I'll never forget that night when you and the rest went after her and we waited here, all of us certain that she had done away with herself. We've Ben Brokaw to thank for having saved us that tragedy." He looked up at his brother. "You see, Garvin, the thing I'm living for now is the Westmore family. I don't want the family to go under. You have splendid blood in you—in spite of the unfortunate inheritance our father gave you. But if you don't give yourself all the help you can, you are done for. I'd give a good deal if you would take hold on life, use your will to create something of a future for yourself. I know how hard it is to do it in this environment, so I'd be glad to have you get out of it, and glad to help you do it."
"Would you advise me to marry and give Westmore an heir?" Garvin asked with bitter sarcasm.
Edward was silent.
"We can cut that possibility out of my future, then. All I want is a more normal sort of life than I've had, and I think I may get it away from here. I mean to get it—it'll save me if anything will. You happened to have been born before father started down hill—you and Judith are the fortunate ones—it's for you to give Westmore an heir." He ended more gravely than bitterly.
"All that lies in the future," Edward returned quietly. He straightened. "Garvin, I'm willing to give you your chance away from here—I'll arrange with Baird to have you go at the earliest possible moment—will you promise in return that you will give up this thing which you have assured me was nothing but play on your part, with Ann?"
Garvin was silent for a moment; then he said, "I want to go as soon as I can. But even if I have to wait around for a while, I promise I'll not go near Ann—that bit of play is ended."
Edward studied him; their eyes met fairly. "Very well," he said. "I will see Baird to-morrow," and he rose.
Garvin got up also, but at the door he stopped. "You've questioned me, Ed—before I go I'd like to ask a question or two."
"Very well."
"Who told you I met Ann?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Did Ann tell you?"
"No—certainly not."
"Then tell me this: What's your especial interest in Ann Penniman?"
Edward's face became expressionless, but he answered clearly, "Your own judgment ought to tell you why I'm horrified at this performance of yours. If Coats Penniman knew, he would draw the same conclusion I did, and he would shoot you on sight. You know how I feel toward the Pennimans, that they have been wronged by our family. Ann deserves the love of an honest man, and it's perfectly evident to me that your intentions do not come under that head. I'll tell you quite frankly that I mean to guard Ann from you—for both your sakes. So, if, in an irrational moment, you should forget your promise to me, I warn you that you will pay dearly for it."
"Save your threats," Garvin returned coolly. "I have no intention of seeing Ann. You seem to feel strongly on the subject, more so than the matter warrants. The best thing will be for me to get away from the Ridge as soon as possible and relieve you of worry," and he went out.
Left alone, Edward paced the floor; there were vivid enough passions beneath the quiet exterior Edward Westmore presented to the world. In his agitation he spoke aloud. "I can't be candid with him, as one would be with aman!" he said passionately. "But if I find he has lied to me! If he has harmed her—!"
When Baird parted from Garvin, he had returned to the thoughts that Garvin's business talk had interrupted; he had been thinking of marriage and of Judith.
Except on the rare occasions when he was touched by depression, Nickolas Baird had always thought of his immunity from family bonds with satisfaction. But to-night he had realized, somewhat suddenly, that he was about to give up his hitherto much-prized freedom, and that Judith Westmore would not object to his doing so.
It had come about so naturally, that intimacy of theirs. He was fully accepted now, on the Ridge; more than that, he was welcomed by Ridge society with the hospitality characteristic of southern people when assured. The night spent at Westmore, when he had borne himself well, had won for Baird the support of every Westmore, and they were a numerous clan. Colonel Dickenson had put Baird forward at the Fair Field Club and in the city. "A gentleman, suh, an' a born financier," was his introduction, "a great friend of my cousins, the Westmores." Baird had the faculty of interesting men much older than himself: business men by his pronounced level-headedness, convivials like the colonel by his apparently inexhaustible supply of anecdotes, related simply and with a humorous zest that was captivating because in no way assumed.
And Baird had not neglected his opportunities. The establishment of an automobile factory important enough to compete with the largest in the United States was now an assured thing. Joseph Dempster, an Indiana near-millionaire, was the nucleus about which Baird had woven his web. Dempster already had an interest in a motor company, and it was Baird who had suggested to him the easy possibility of enlarging the Dempster factory so that it would be one of the biggest concerns in the States. It was he who had pointed out that Edwin Carter's steel interests made him the most eligible man to approach. Dempster had little of Baird's persuasive ability, and knew it, and he also had a high opinion of Baird's gift; the young fellow carried a middle-aged man's head on his shoulders—in matters of business. Baird had been sent east to interest Carter and had captured him.
Baird's reward was to be a high-salaried position and an interest in the company; Dempster had guaranteed him that. Baird regarded his interest in the company as the important thing. He had very little money of his own, the disastrous two years in South America had cleaned him out, so, while he spent the mornings in Carter's office going over Dempster's plans and specifications for the new factory and took charge of the correspondence connected with it, he had been considering ways and means of pushing his own interests.
He wanted a larger interest in the company. Dempster and Carter meant to keep the controlling interest in their own hands, but they would welcome sums of which they might have the handling, additions to the company of men like Edward Westmore who would be content simply to draw dividends and interfere in no way with the management of the concern. If he could capture for them several such men as Edward Westmore, his own reward would be an increased interest in the company. Just let him once get on his feet, have some negotiable paper at his command, and he would outdistance both Dempster and Carter; he had a better business brain than either of them. Baird was not in the least modest about his own capability, and he had learned the wisdom of going slowly.
The two hunt clubs had seemed to him a good field for operations; certainly the best he could command. He would meet there just the sort of men who would be useful to him. Though unacquainted with Baird's reasons, Edwin Carter had willingly put him up at the Ridge Club, and his recommendation of the young man was genuine enough. Baird's good sense had both surprised and pleased him. The young fellow had the qualities of a winner; most young men with the attractions of a city open to them would not care to sleep where the whip-poor-wills held sway.
Things were working out well for Baird. At the Fair Field Club he had secured one man for his company, and when Edward Westmore came forward with his guarantee for Garvin he would present them both to Carter with the certainty of accrued interest in the company.
But Baird was not thinking of business when he rode away from Westmore that night. For the first time he was thinking really seriously of a woman. Until he met Judith Westmore, women had been merely incidents to him, and to-night he had been brought face to face with marriage, the thing he had not intended to consider for years to come.
He and Judith had seen each other frequently during the last weeks. They had ridden together, spent long evenings together, been bidden together to all the Ridge gatherings. And yet, throughout, Judith had maintained a certain distance, attracting him, and yet restraining him. He had struggled against her dominance, as he would always struggle to conquer anything that eluded him. Judith had hovered just beyond his reach, and he had been forced into an impassioned deference, been held to it so determinedly that his capturing instinct had been fully aroused. The eight years' difference in their ages had vanished from his consideration. Was she playing with him, or was she not? What he wanted was a more satisfying response to his love.
For Baird had decided that for the first time in his life he was in love. For the first time a woman had interested him completely, stirred all that was decentest in him, held him to deference while she showed herself supremely attractive. When he had come upon Ann that afternoon, he had been wondering what Judith would say or do if he should suddenly lift her from her horse and kiss her; tell her that he loved her? How much would he learn of the real Judith?
He had been on the very verge of some such avowal when he had looked up and seen Ann. Their little episode had long since been relegated to the background which was studded by such careless incidents; he felt no particular self-consciousness at the sight of Ann, but it did strike him as unnecessarily cruel of Judith to cut the girl. Ann was so appealingly pretty as she stood there, wide-eyed and startled, then so lovely when radiated by her eager smile. "Damn their stupid family quarrel!" had been Baird's inward comment.
The thing had chilled him, and they had ridden in silence until Judith asked brightly, "Who is that pretty girl we just passed? She gave you a brilliant smile, Mr. Baird."
Baird had been surprised into saying, "Ann Penniman—but it was you she was speaking to—she gave me only the tail of her eye," and his annoyance at Judith made him add, "I think she is the prettiest girl I've met on the Ridge."
"Ann Penniman? Why, I don't know her—I never spoke to a Penniman in my life," Judith had returned with a faintly questioning, half-amused, half-regretful note. "If she is the little girl who belongs to the farm beyond the woods there, she has grown up quickly. I'm sorry if I was really included in that smile and didn't realize it."
Judith had done her feminine best to nullify her act and at the same time convey to Baird the status of Ann Penniman. Baird had not fathomed her, or guessed the swift jealousy that had instantly struck at Ann. Ann's smile was certainly meant for Judith, but if Judith had not realized it, it was all right enough. Garvin had told him that no Penniman ever bowed to a Westmore. The odd thing was that Ann should have risked being cut. But why should he think twice about the thing—he had no interest either in their quarrels or their attempts at reconciliation.
Baird promptly forgot the incident, for, throughout the afternoon, Judith was so utterly charming to him. They had had the club to themselves; it was a little as if he were entertaining her at his own house, a new sensation to Baird—every step of his intimacy with Judith had been a new experience.
They had ridden slowly back to Westmore then, through the tender green of the woods, both the languor and the stir of spring having their way with him, his eyes saying to Judith the things his lips did not. Then Westmore had deepened, as it always did, the impression of unattainability that Judith gave. Their walk on the terrace after dinner had softened the impression. Judith had talked about herself, and one admission she made had impressed Baird more than anything she had ever said; she was speaking of Westmore and of Edward:
"I have been mistress of Westmore for a long time, but I realize that Edward will probably marry—he is only thirty-nine.... In a way, it will be a relief to me, and yet I shall feel a little desolate."
"But you will marry," Baird had said.
"If I love a man enough, I will."
Baird did not know why he had not spoken, then and there. Why the thing had come suddenly and in the way in which it had—when his horse had been brought to the front door and Judith stood beside him as he was about to mount. He had tested the saddle, Judith was afraid that it might be loose, they stood together, their hands touching, and suddenly her nearness had pervaded him. He had caught her to him, held her for the instant of yielding, and then their lips had met.
It was a woman's kiss he had received; a woman's clinging embrace, as passionate as the pressure of his own arms—for the long moment before withdrawal. He had tried to keep her. "Judith, we love each other—" he said, but the arms that held him off were like steel.
"It's—Edward—" she whispered breathlessly. "You must let me go—" When he loosed her, she gained the portico. She had heard when he had not Edward's approach around the side of the house.
When Edward came up, Baird stood back to his horse, his grasp already on a degree of composure. He had been conscious that Edward had spoken absently, that he stood absently beside Judith while Baird told Judith that he would see her the next day. He had lifted his cap and ridden away, with only the one very clear impression, that before he saw Judith again he would settle something that was a chaotic uncertainty in his mind.
He was trying to settle it when Garvin met him, and took it up again when they parted: was he ready to marry—even for love? There were minor considerations that occurred to Baird: he had gone far, and Judith was not a woman to be played with; she would be a superb wife; she loved him and he loved her, but did he love her enough to give up his beloved freedom? to settle down to home-building?... He thought he did.
Baird shouldered the thing finally, with an all-pervading sense of responsibility; went soberly to bed with it.
Baird rose early the next morning in the same soberly responsible frame of mind, fully conscious that he was about to enter upon an entirely new phase. He had no joking word for Sam—and no shining half-dollar—he would have to be more careful of his half-dollars after this, a family man had to think of such things.
Though it was Saturday, he had to go into the city that morning, for Edward had promised that if, after considering Baird's proposition over night, he decided that he wanted to close with it, he would come to Carter's office, talk the matter over with him as well, and sign the necessary papers. Halstead, the Fair Field investor whose promise Baird had secured, was also coming. It would be a triumph for Baird, for the two were so exactly the sort of men his firm would welcome.
For the three morning hours Baird was too alertly busy to think of his matrimonial plans. Both Edward and Halstead appeared promptly, settled their business without hesitation, and, when Edward took leave of Baird at noon, Garvin's position was secure. There was already a city agency for the Dempster machines, and as soon as the present agent could be transferred to an agency elsewhere Garvin was to take his place. Carter thought that Garvin could take charge in about a month, and in the meantime he would receive commissions on any Dempsters he might be able to sell.
Baird had the satisfaction of knowing that Carter was well pleased; the extra interest in the company which he craved was certain to be his. Carter lunched him royally at his club when the morning's business was ended, and invited him for the afternoon and for Sunday to his palatial new home in Spring Valley, but Baird had other plans; he meant to go to Westmore that evening.
"An attraction on the Ridge, I suppose," Carter said, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes," Baird confessed, but with the air of the man who meant to say no more.
Carter turned to business. "Dempster says the first thing for us to do is to get out a new model that's something ahead of anything on the market yet."
"We have to compete with the French machines," Baird said. "If we can evolve a model that offers the qualities of the best French traveler, we'll have accomplished something. And there's a big future for the truck, too.... I went into the Gaylord factories after I came back from South America, worked eight months there, on purpose to get ideas for a model car and truck I've had in mind ever since I first saw a motor chugging along in Chicago. It was the trial trip of the orneriest excuse for a car man ever invented. I bought my way on her second trip just to study her. Then I took up mechanical engineering, or, rather, I went on with it. Except for the two years I spent on a ranch in Wyoming, I was always knocking around machine shops; my father couldn't keep me out of them."
Carter was thinking. "You've had a course in engineering, then?" he asked.
"Four years in Chicago University. That's what took me out to South America. I saw a chance to make money there and I made it, fifty thousand in one year—the next year I dropped it, partly because I hadn't experience enough, and partly because I had the Brazilian government against me.... But I've told you that story before."
Carter had followed his line of thought to a conclusion. "How would you like to go to France for a few months, go this autumn, and go the rounds of the factories there, while Dempster is enlarging the plant, and bring us back your ideas?"
It was the thing Baird desired most. He had puzzled over some means of getting to Europe and still keeping in close touch with the company. Here was his opportunity, nevertheless his instant thought was, "If I do you'll pay me well for it—and you won't get my best ideas, either, not unless I get a lion's share of the profits." To Carter he said, "It wouldn't be a bad scheme—it would pay the company in the end, I think."
"I'll suggest it to Dempster when he comes in." Carter relaxed into chuckles then. "I've got a word to say to him about the present Dempster car, too. Spring Valley is duly impressed by the shining thing, which was my object in having it sent on, and I've gladly spent a hundred dollars or so on coats and bonnets and veils for Mrs. Carter and Christine, but, lord, Baird, every damned thing that could go wrong with an engine and four wheels has happened to that thing! I meant to run it myself and take a little quiet joy in doctoring its ills, but no, thank you! I'm done! I've advertised for a first-class chauffeur who'll take charge of it and swear to all the neighbors that the beast is an angel. It probably will sell Dempster cars, but I'll own to you that I'm sorry for the man who buys one."
"They're no good," Baird agreed, "but no make on the market is satisfactory, for that matter. We've simply got to get out a better machine." Then he laughed. "Garvin Westmore is having his trials, too, and keeping quiet about it. Every man will keep as quiet as possible about his engine troubles, keep a debit and credit sheet—debit, temper and money—credit, the envy of his neighbors and the possession of a high-priced convenience. And the credit sheet will win out every time. The craze is on and will go the lengths—until we begin to travel the air."
"I suppose you'll be advocating a flying-machine annex to the factory next," Carter said.
Baird did not say that he had given a great deal of thought to aerial navigation. He bid Carter a laughing good-by and took the first train to the Ridge.
He settled quickly into the gravity that had held him ever since he had parted from Judith.... Judith would enjoy Europe. She had never been to Europe; neither had he.... And when they returned they would have to go west to live; he would have to be near the factory. He thought, with something of a glow, that Judith would be a queen anywhere, beautiful and capable—and a passionately loving woman—her kiss had told him that.
He pondered Judith a little. She was no longer a mystery to him; just a splendid sort of woman who had plenty of will, will enough to have devoted herself to Westmore through the hard years, but, throughout, a woman desirous of love. He had wanted to discover her, and it had led to this. He couldn't ask for a better helpmate than Judith; she was a deal too fine for him, in fact; he would have to live up to Westmore ideals.... There was a lot of planning to do for the future.... It was almost four o'clock—he would fill in the time till evening, then go to Judith.
So Baird had decided when he alighted from the train and went down into the village for his horse which he always left at one of the village stables while he was in the city. He stopped at the little store-post-office for his mail, then rode up the Post-Road, across the railroad track and past the station. A short distance away he noticed a shining new buggy drawn close to the edge of the road, and his next glance told him that the girl in the buggy was Ann Penniman. He had not recognized her at first, in her red coat and big white hat; he had not immediately connected her with the new buggy and capable horse, either.
Baird was in a mood to be regretful for past misdemeanors; never in his life had he felt so solemnly retrospective for so many consecutive hours. He rode directly up to Ann, undeterred by the way in which she looked through him, much as Judith had looked through her on the day before.
Baird brought his horse to a stop beside her. "How do you do?" he said gravely.
Ann's beautiful brows lifted. "I am well, thank you." Baird could not have imagined a more icy greeting.
"Will you endure my presence long enough for me to say something?" he asked with unabated gravity.
"Why—certainly—" Ann's brows were still raised.
"I want to apologize humbly, for the way in which I repaid your kindness the other day. I behaved abominably."
Ann paused an instant for a choice of words. "I reckon I was too—pleasant to a stranger—an' you behaved the way that's natural to you. I haven't thought much about it, so it doesn't matter at all."
"I guess you're right about my being an ill-mannered brute—it's about time I reformed," Baird returned with perfect sincerity. "I'm very sorry I did what I did.... You see, Miss Ann, you're very sweet and pretty, the prettiest girl I've ever seen, I think, and I clean forgot myself—was just abominably natural, as you say."
Baird would not have been Baird had he not added this codicil to his apology and signed it by the look he gave Ann, an appreciative study of the water-lily hat and the flower-like face it framed. Her red coat became her wonderfully, made her clear skin still more white, intensified the gray in her hazel eyes, deepened the black in her hair. She was a study in contrasts, and really very beautiful. And it struck Baird that she looked much more mature. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and her mouth looked firmer, like that of a girl grown rather suddenly into womanhood.
Ann increased the impression by the way in which she disposed of his speech. She shrugged slightly, shelving both his apology and his admiration with utter indifference. "I am waiting for my father—I reckon he must have missed the last train. Do you know what time it is?"
Baird looked at his watch. "The next train will be along in ten minutes."
"As soon as that? I'm glad.... I don't like to go any nearer the station, for we don't know yet whether this horse is train-broke."
Baird repeated his stock phrase. "You ought to have an automobile—it wouldn't take fright."
Ann smiled involuntarily at the thought of a Penniman's investing in an automobile, and also at Baird's business alertness; she had heard much of Baird from Garvin. "You ought to talk to father," she said. When she smiled she looked more like the mischievous child Baird had seen playing in the barn; her eyelids drooped and the corners of her mouth lifted.
"I will," Baird returned promptly. "I'll wait here and meet him, if you don't mind."
Ann decided to offer no objection. She had brought it on herself, but she felt quite capable of enduring his presence with equanimity. And if her father treated him with scant courtesy, so much the better. She settled back in the buggy, and Baird also chose a more negligent attitude. He sat sidewise and surveyed Ann.
She was certainly worth looking at as she sat there, relaxed and with eyes down, an air of self-absorption that was tantalizing. Apparently, she was quite indifferent whether there was any conversation or not.
"Have you seen Garvin Westmore driving his new machine?" he asked at random.
"No," Ann answered, without raising her eyes. She was thinking of Garvin and the night before; she had thought of little else all day.
Baird noted her manner, and launched into an account of Garvin's trial trip down the Post-Road. He exaggerated the dangers they encountered, and Ann woke to new interest, even to terror, when he assured her that it was all a man's life was worth to drive a car over some of the Ridge roads.
"An' Garvin's so reckless—about drivin'," she said, wide-eyed, and added severely, "You ought to tell him to be careful—you sold him the horrid thing."
"He'd pay more attention if you told him, don't you think?" Baird suggested tentatively.
Ann flushed deeply enough, but not so deeply as she did a moment later, when she saw Edward Westmore within a few yards of them. He was riding up from the village, and neither of them had noticed until he was almost upon them, for the soft dirt road had dulled sound. He had seen them as soon as he had crossed the railroad track; looked at them closely and observantly as he came on.
The change in Ann was instantaneous. She grew crimson and sat up abruptly, her whole aspect, for the brief moment until Edward smiled, uncertain and appealing. Then, as if she had won pardon for some fault, the smile that vivified her was sweeter than the May sunshine. Baird thought she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, with her lips a little apart, her eyes shining. No wonder Edward looked at her as if he were absorbing her. Baird felt a sudden envy of Edward; no girl had ever looked at him like that!... But there were not many girls who could look like Ann.
Baird also had straightened, for the look Edward had given him was somewhat coolly level; Baird felt that Edward's smile was entirely for Ann. But it was to him Edward spoke: "Just out from town, Baird?"
"Yes. I'm waiting now to talk Dempsters to Mr. Penniman—Miss Ann thinks I can sell him one." Baird did not know why he explained his presence so promptly; perhaps because Edward's manner made him uncomfortable.
"I thought I would like to see you try," Ann said with an indifference that had nothing to do with the way in which she was looking at Edward. "I'm waiting for father to come on the next train," she explained, and told Edward about the horse. "Ben Brokaw says he's afraid Billy's a runaway horse."
"You ought not to be driving him, then," Edward said with concern.
It struck Baird that Edward's entire manner was anxious and concerned. That he had looked keenly and anxiously at Ann as he had approached. He had been brief enough over their business transaction that morning, as if he had far more important matters on his mind.
"I reckon I shouldn't," Ann agreed. "I'll see how he behaves when the train comes."
"That's reckless. I wish you wouldn't do such things."
Baird was surprised at the intimacy the remark implied. Were both brothers in love with her? If one judged from appearances, Ann favored Edward.... Or was she simply a born coquette? She was certainly enough to turn any man's head, and an infatuation on Garvin's part was natural, he was that sort; but Edward Westmore?
"I won't any more," Ann promised with pretty submission.
Though he looked at Ann, Edward's next speech was directed to Baird. "I was at the club about an hour ago—I went by the Back Road and left some papers for you, Baird. You can look them over and bring them to Westmore this evening—that is if you thought of coming over."
It was a reminder of Judith, though Baird knew Edward did not intend it as such; that would be too unlike him. "Yes, I am coming after dinner," Baird said gravely.
Ann knew just what Edward intended; she saw it in his eyes—that he had left a book for her—and she answered his look.
"There is the train," Edward said warningly. "Be careful, Ann." He brought his horse closer to her. "Keep your eye on the horse, Baird."
Ann sat taut, reins well held, and her eyes watchful. The train had whistled at the junction, and the next moment it roared along below them, making the usual racket as it slowed up, and it was quite plain that Ann's horse was not trustworthy. He quivered, backed and plunged and showed all the signs of fright.
"Don't touch him!" Ann said resolutely. "I can manage him." And to the horse, "You idiot, you! Sho, now, Billy—quiet, suh—quiet—"
She handled him well, and without a particle of nervousness, though for a few moments it seemed likely that the buggy would be overturned; the animal backed perilously near the edge of the road. Edward kept near enough to draw Ann from danger if that should happen, and Baird watched for the runaway that was certain to follow if the buggy overturned. They were tense moments—until the train snorted its onward way around the curve and the horse gradually quieted.
"All right, now," Baird said, "but the brute's not safe, Miss Ann—he's particularly stupid."
Ann looked at Edward, her eyes blazing. "He needed the whip! I'd have given it to him—hard—but I was afraid I'd frighten you." Baird thought she looked rather like Garvin with that flame in her eyes; both her cool handling of the horse and her lift into excitement surprised him; it altered his opinion of Ann Penniman somewhat.
Edward was a little gray about the lips. "Ann, promise me you will never drive that horse again."
"I'm not afraid of him!"
"Promise me," Edward repeated.
Ann drew a long breath, then smiled. "Yes, I promise. I promised before."
Edward gave her a long look, and her eyes dropped under it. He looked then at Baird, who had been silently observant. "Perhaps you'll watch over this reckless young person until Mr. Penniman comes," he said more lightly. "Having scolded, I'll depart.... Good-by, Ann." But there was nothing chiding in the parting look he gave her, Baird noticed.
There was good reason for his somewhat hasty departure, for the man who had just separated from the group on the station platform was Coats Penniman. When he started toward them, Edward had ridden on. As he approached, Coats eyed Baird quite as gravely and observantly as Edward had done. He had a stern face, heavy black brows that lowered easily over blue-gray eyes.
Baird gave him look for look, coolly, returning his nod in like fashion, and Coats transferred his attention to Ann. "Well, Ann?"
"I stopped up here on account of the horse," Ann explained. "He was ugly when the train came—if I'd been nearer, I reckon he'd have run away.... This is Mr. Baird, father—he wanted to meet you—he wants to sell you an automobile." Ann was very certain that her father would promptly dispose of Baird. He knew who Baird was, the whole Ridge knew Baird now—an enterprising young fellow who had been put forward by the Westmores.
Both to her surprise and Baird's, Coats offered his hand. "I'm glad to meet you. I've heard about you—you're a western man, aren't you?"
"Chicago.... Some one was telling me you'd lived out there—long enough to be interested in automobiles, I hope." Baird had rather a taking smile, particularly when it was whimsical.
To Ann's greater surprise, Coats said, "I have been thinking of getting one—if for no other reason than to get some decent roads about here. From what I know of your Dempsters they can be guaranteed to furnish an accident or two that would stir up our county supervisors. The roads they give us are an outrage."
Coats' face softened pleasantly under amusement, and Baird laughed. "Tell me who they are, and I'll go for them—sell each one of them a machine. That's a revenge that ought to satisfy you."
"All right—if you want to ride on with us, I'll tell you. I'm partial to automobiles anyway—even a Dempster's more satisfactory than a brute like this.... Ann, you knew he wasn't safe—why didn't you bring Jinny?"
"Jinny went lame this morning, an' the other horses were working."
Coats frowned. "There's always something wrong with them. The horse is certainly an obsolete way of getting about—I'll be glad when he becomes merely a pet."
Baird agreed with him. He liked to win a man, particularly an intelligent, unassuming man like Coats Penniman. He set himself to do so, and found that Coats, for some unexplainable reason, was willing to be friendly. They found plenty to talk about, even for the length of four miles up the Post-Road, and, when Coats chose the longer way round, by the front road, Baird kept on with them, as far as the club house. He had decided that he liked Coats Penniman, and that it was pleasant riding in this slow way through the leafy scents of May, particularly with anything as lovely to look at as Ann.
Ann had been sufficiently surprised to pay attention to the conversation for a time, to notice that Baird was not at all handsome, not like Garvin or Edward, but broad-shouldered and strong-featured. His eyes were too cold a gray, his nose too aquiline, his cheek-bones too high, and his upper lip too long. And he had entirely too much jaw. Yet, for some reason, he was attractive, at any rate while he talked; his voice was deep but not at all harsh.
So Ann decided, then looked off over the country and thought of the one overwhelming thing, the night before—and of Edward. The Post-Road was shut in by trees in some places, but there were long stretches where the country sloped away on either side, pastures vivid with spring green, alternating with reddish brown plowed fields and orchards that already showed patches of color, cherry and peach bloom. The green of the woods seemed to darken even while she watched, they were growing so rapidly into full leaf. In a few days the woods would be sprayed with white, a riot of dogwood. And the wood-honeysuckle was coming into pink bloom everywhere; and millions of violets and wild pansies. The grass in the groves was thick with forget-me-nots, and the creek hollows white and yellow and pinky-green with blood-root, adder's-tongue and Jack-in-the-pulpit.
Every other spring she had roamed the country; this spring she had forgotten the flowers. She knew where the wild pansies grew the largest and most of them had the velvety upper petals that proclaimed them pansies and not violets; and where the rare white violets were to be found. As they crossed the bridge where, some twenty feet below, the creek that skirted the Mine Banks tumbled over big rocks, Ann remembered in a vague way, as one thinks of something years past, that she used to find white violets in the soft spaces between the rocks. She thought much more vividly of how dangerous the bridge was, without any side rails, simply a planking and that none too wide; a careless turn on a dark night, and an automobile could easily be dashed to pieces below. It would be dreadful if anything happened to Garvin.
Every thought she had circled about him, and her momentous promise the night before, a thing sealed and unalterable now.... She was going away from all this, the green and the flowers, the fields and the woods. Everything would be quite different—and she was different already—not the same Ann at all.... She had been fearfully angry with Judith, and terribly hurt because of Edward, quite beside herself, and all Garvin had said to her had been so sweet, like balm laid on aching wounds—and she had given her promise, forgotten everything and everybody but Garvin and herself. She had even forgotten to tell Garvin that she was sure Ben knew that they met, and how dangerous it was for them to go on meeting.... And now it was plain that Edward had not meant to hurt her at all ... and she would have to see him, and with a secret which she must keep from everybody.... Suppose she told Edward that she was engaged to his brother, and how it had come about?...
Her father's invitation to Baird aroused her. They had come to the club entrance and had stopped. "Come over some evening and see us," Coats said, "and don't hesitate to ride through whenever you want—the key to the gate is in a notch near the top of the right-hand post."
"Thank you," Baird returned heartily. "I'll be glad to come, and glad to take the short cut sometimes, too." He swept off his cap to them, a gleam of mischief in his eyes when he looked at Ann. Ann was flushed by her thoughts, and she colored still more deeply because of his meaningful glance.
Coats had noted Baird's look and Ann's blush. He had been thinking steadily of something quite unconnected with his conversation with Baird. He waited a little before he asked, "That's an attractive young fellow—had you met him before, Ann?"
Ann was succinct. "I let him through the gate once, just before you came home. I haven't talked with him since—till to-day."
"Who was the other man who was with you when I got off the train?"
"Edward Westmore—they both helped me with the horse," Ann answered with a calmness she did not feel. If her father questioned further, she did not know what she would do; every nerve in her was jumping, as they had been all night and all day.
But he did not. For a time they rode in an oppressive silence. Then Coats said, "I rather like Mr. Baird. He's the sort who's apt to judge men and women more by what they are than by what their great grandparents were. He comes from a part of the country that's not so hidebound by caste as this country. And he's sure to go back to it. He can come to my house whenever he likes—I approvehiskind."
Ann said nothing.