III
Colonel Denbighwas walking to and fro at the back of his house, considering it. There was no doubt at all that it needed a new coat of paint. It needed it almost as much as the colonel needed the extra money to pay for it. He chuckled a little, pulling at the ends of his long white moustache.
“Neither of us likely to get it,” he thought, “and I reckon I look almost as much out of repair as the old place does anyway!”
Then his eye traveled down the long road which led to the town. He was expecting his granddaughter and the morning newspaper. Viewed from this angle, the road was a thing of beauty. It turned a curve above the crossing and passed through a grove of chestnuts. They were yellowish-white now with bloom. Beneath them the road ran like a ribbon, while on either hand the colonel glimpsed the friendly roofs of his neighbors’ houses. The farthest one, set back among the trees, was Johnson Carter’s. Over there was Judge Jessup’s; beyond that was the spire of the oldest church. In the graveyard behind it fourgenerations of Denbighs lay buried. At the corner of Mrs. Payson’s place a blossoming pear tree stood like a lovely ghost. The warm, still atmosphere was filled with the fragrance of early blossomings, here and there a field was pink with clover. There was a warmth, a stirring, the promise of a hundred springs in the rich loam, where the new grass thrust up its strong young blades, and in the old apple-tree that showered the colonel’s shoulder with its falling petals. He found some of them on his sleeve and looked at them musingly; he was thinking of the days when he had gathered apples from that tree for his wife. Mrs. Denbigh had been dead many years, and their only son and his wife. Gone, too! The old man took off his hat and passed his hand absently over his white head, a little sadness in the very gesture. Virginia and he were the only ones left, he reflected, and then he smiled. He always smiled when he thought of Virginia. He was very proud of his young granddaughter.
“There’s a girl for you!” he thought fondly, “pretty as a picture. A straight-thinking kind of a young creature, too, bless her heart!”
He was sorry that his estate did not warrant a little of the old-time style for her. She deserved it, but—the colonel shook his head, eying the house again. It was a rambling, old-fashioned affairwith a belvidere on the flat roof and two verandas. It had a beauty of its own, fortunately, for it had lost a good deal of its exterior decorations and it was deplorably weather-stained on the north side.
The colonel was still viewing it when the dogs began to bark at the lower gate. He turned quickly and saw his two big pointers greeting Mr. Carter. But that gentleman did not notice them as much as usual. There was, indeed, something odd about him. His stout, middle-aged figure seemed to sag down a little at the shoulders and his head drooped. He looked, as he came slowly up the path, like the bearer of bad tidings. He shuffled as he walked and seemed interested in his feet.
The colonel, a little surprised at this early visit, shouted a greeting to him.
“Hello, Carter! What’s the matter? You’re walking as if”—the colonel chuckled—“as if you had a bunion.”
Mr. Carter raised his abashed eyes reluctantly to the old man’s fine, smiling face.
“I declare I felt as if I’d been stealing his chickens!” he told Mrs. Carter afterwards. However, he achieved a moment of cordiality as he shook the colonel’s hand.
“I—I was coming this way,” he said a little hoarsely; he wasn’t a good liar. “I thought I’djust drop in. How’s the garden coming on? I’ve put in my limas.”
The colonel, eying him, pulled his moustache.
“They’ll rot. It’s too early. Plato told me that the peas were up well and we’ve got spinach. Sit down, Carter, I’ll call Plato. Have a julep? Or is it too early?”
“Too early altogether. I—the fact is, I can’t stay but a minute. I——” Mr. Carter glanced around wildly, groping for a topic, any topic, to introduce his subject. His choice wasn’t exactly an apt one. “I see that speckled hen of yours gets out of the coop still.”
His host looked around.
“So she does! Can’t keep her in at all. Kind of strong-minded. She’s got fifteen chicks, too. Wanting a setting of leghorn eggs, Carter? I can give you one. Got the finest lot of layers in the county.”
Mr. Carter continued to stare moodily at the speckled hen; she had led him astray.
“I don’t know,” he replied thoughtfully. “I’ll—I’ll ask Mrs. Carter.”
The colonel stared.
Plato, a gray-headed old negro, appeared.
“Wants yo’ juleps, Col’nel?”
“Not now, Plato. Mr. Carter says it’s too early.”
Plato grinned and bowed to the visitor.
“Howdy, suh. Hopes yo’-all is well. Heared from yo’ son, suh?”
Mr. Carter’s heart jumped and then sank with a thud. Plato had achieved it.
“This morning, Plato. He’s in New York now, I hope. He’s well, too, and—and——”
“I’se sho glad t’ heah it, suh,” said Plato and withdrew, still bowing.
Mr. Carter, with his mouth open, stared after him helplessly. He felt now that he should never get his news out unless some one shook it out of him! The colonel did not help him.
“So! Well, I’m glad William’s coming back. We’ve missed him. Judge Jessup was speaking of him last night. A fine fellow, he thinks him. By the way, Carter, Jessup gave me a young apple-tree last spring. There’s something the matter with it. I believe it’s got San José scale. Come here and look at it, will you?”
Mr. Carter trailed the colonel’s tall, thin figure across the lawn, and the two pointers came to meet them.
“Down, Jim! Down, Rover!” ordered the colonel, reaching the tree. “There—if you’ll look close along that lower limb—see?”
His visitor approached the limb indicated and stared at it moodily. Then he swallowed hard.
“Think it’s scale?” the colonel asked anxiously.
“Darned if I know!” said Mr. Carter violently. “Denbigh, I came to tell you—— The fact is, my son’s made an ass of himself. He——”
“Yes?” the colonel stood still, politely amazed. “Which son, Carter?”
“William. He—he’s married!”
There was a little silence and then the colonel laughed dryly.
“Was that what ailed you? On my word, Carter, I began to think you’d got creeping paralysis of the brain. Who’s he married?”
“I don’t know.”
“What!”
“No, I don’t! It’s some French girl—Fanchon—there, I can’t remember! We just heard this morning. The—the young donkey hasn’t known her three months.”
Colonel Denbigh broke off a twig and began to whittle it.
“Case of love at first sight, I presume,” he commented calmly. “I wouldn’t take it so hard, Carter, you may like her.”
Mr. Carter made an inarticulate sound which ended in his throat. His eyes avoided the colonel’s.
“Mrs. Carter’s all broken up,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a shock. Of course we don’t know anything.But—that is—I—I’m afraid, William’s behaved badly. Virginia, you know?”
Colonel Denbigh started slightly. Then he closed his pocket-knife and put it in his pocket.
“What about Virginia?” he asked quietly.
Mr. Carter hesitated, then he reddened. “You know how we all love you and Virginia,” he said hurriedly. “We—we hoped there was something—the fact is, Emily says William was—was engaged to Virginia. I—I want to know, Colonel. I want to know if my boy’s behaved like that?”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Carter,” replied the colonel loftily. “No man who was engaged to Virginia Denbigh could, or would, forget it.”
“But, Colonel, I thought——” Mr. Carter was purple now with embarrassment.
“You’re mistaken, sir,” the colonel held his head high, “entirely mistaken.”
Mr. Carter felt like a gold fish splashed out of its globe. He gasped and swallowed hard. He remembered, too, that his wife had told him not to come. “You’ll only make a mess of it, papa,” she had warned him, between her sobs, “You’re always putting your foot in it!”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I—well, you see—it was because I think so much of her—of Virginia, I mean, that I came. I—I thought if my boy—my boy, William Henry Carter, had donea thing like that— Well, sir, I’d feel like disowning him!”
The colonel stood still. He had thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and his eyes were fixed on the distant road.
“You were mistaken, sir, that’s all. There comes Jinny now.”
Mr. Carter, following his eyes, saw the ancient wagonette entering the old gateway. Lucas was driving placidly, the old grays were ambling up the broad moss-grown driveway to the front door. Alone in the back sat a slim young figure. Virginia was reading a newspaper. Mr. Carter remembered that fearful item in the personals and cold perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead.
“I’ll have to go,” he said thickly. “I’m late now at the office. We’ve been all upset.”
“Better look at this San José scale,” said the colonel grimly, his eyes still on the wagonette.
Lucas had stopped half-way to the house and Virginia jumped down. She was coming toward them now. In one hand she held the newspaper, in the other some hothouse roses. Mr. Carter, making hot-foot for the gate, came full upon her.
“Why, Mr. Carter!” she smiled radiantly. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I—I stopped by to get a setting of leghorneggs,” said Mr. Carter, mopping his forehead. “It’s a hot day, Virginia.”
She laughed. “I thought it was cool. Please take this rose to Mrs. Carter from me, won’t you? Mrs. Payson just cut them for me; they’re from her new greenhouse. She calls them ‘Kentucky Sunsets.’”
Mr. Carter took the rose and stumbled blindly for the open. He was suffocating with mortification. If William wasn’t engaged to her, he, Johnson Carter, had made a donkey of himself, and if William was engaged to her! Mr. Carter wiped his forehead again, absently thrust the rose inside the crown of his hat and set the hat firmly on his head with the rose leaves hanging out at the back—like the tail of a kite. They were still fluttering there as he plodded down the road toward his office, his face red and his heart sore.
Meanwhile, Colonel Denbigh had crossed the lawn to meet his granddaughter. Virginia gave him the newspaper without comment and retired to an old stone bench near the rustic table which served her grandfather as a writing-desk and refreshment table in summer time. She was engaged now in arranging Mrs. Payson’s roses while the colonel pretended to read the news. They both heard the horses going around to the stableand Lucas’ voice as he called to them to go into their stalls.
The colonel rustled the newspaper and laid it down. Then he took off his hat and pushed back his white hair. He was a brave man, but he was perspiring at every pore.
“Jinny,” he said at last, so abruptly that she started and looked around. He caught her eye, winced, and plunged in. “Mr. Carter was here just now.”
“Yes?” Virginia listened expectantly, a little flush on her cheeks.
The colonel wiped his forehead. “It’s a hot day!” he observed. Then, casually: “Yes; he’s heard from his son. He’s coming home with——”
“Yes?” Virginia drew her breath quietly, averting her eyes. “Soon, grandpa?”
The colonel choked. He had to go to the table and drain a glass of water. “Yes. He—he’s made a darned fool of himself, Jinny, he’s—he’s married.”
“I know,” Virginia rejoined in a low voice. “I just read it in the newspaper.”
The colonel, looking into the bottom of his tumbler, was aware that the bees had got into the honeysuckle. They sounded like a full brass band in his ears. He could not stand it any longer, he looked sideways at Virginia. She was still sittingon the old stone bench, her roses in her lap. She wasn’t looking at him and he could see her profile. It was very pale now, but she still had an adorable nose. It came from her mother’s side; the Denbighs had long ones with a hump, called politely Roman. Her grandfather, watching her intently, saw her slip a ring from her finger and put it into her pocket. As she said nothing, the colonel got his breath. “She’ll want to know, I’ll tell her the rest now,” he thought. “It’s like pulling a tooth—better get it over.”
“He’s married a French girl. Only known her three months. He’s bringing her home.”
Virginia rose quietly, gathering up her roses. She started to speak, but her lips trembled and she gave it up. She put the roses in the bowl on the colonel’s table and filled the bowl with water. Her hands were quite firm.
“I hope she’s nice,” she said at last, in a low voice.
The colonel, who had caught her eye, made a rash movement, he was going to take her in his arms. But she straightened herself.
“Please d-d-don’t!” she gasped, and ran up the steps into the house.
Colonel Denbigh stood, looking after her, his eyes full. Then he smoothed his hair again and put on his hat. Thrusting his thumbs into thearmholes of his waistcoat he walked up and down.
“She’s game!” he thought proudly. “By gum, she’s a Denbigh. God bless her!”
At this moment Plato emerged from the house with a tray.
“It am time fo’ yo’ julep, Col’nel,” he remarked, setting down a glass that showed a green sprig of mint in crushed ice.
“Plato,” said the colonel thoughtfully, “what was it you used to tell me about old Colonel Colfax and his daughter?”
Plato flicked a little dust off the edge of the table and showed his ivories.
“Yo means ’bout Miss Ann an’ dat Mist’ Gibbie?”
The colonel nodded, his eyes on the far end of the sunny path to the orchard.
“Mist’ Gibbie was courtin’ Miss Ann, suh. He warn’t no ’count at all, no, suh, but Miss Ann, I reckon she thought a heap of him. Anyways, Col’nel Colfax, he didn’t say noffin much, no, suh, he jest kinder watched ’em. Den, ’bout six months after Mist’ Gibbie come courtin’, jest when we was all expectin’ a weddin’, come t’ find out Mist’ Gibbie was hangin’ round widder lady. Yes, suh, she’d come t’ town from New York, an’ she hab a heap ob money. Dey got talkin’ round at de clubs an’ de hotels an’ so on, suh, ’bout how Mist’Gibbie done gib Miss Ann Colfax de mitten ’long ob dis lady. De col’nel—yo’ remembers him, suh? Well, de col’nel comes in one day, walkin’ kinder ob straight-like an’ sets down on de porch. ’Peared like to us, suh, we was all down in de kitchen, an’ de kitchen got a bead righ’ on de side porch—it ’peared like t’ us dat de col’nel was expectin’ company. Miss Ann, she was up-stairs, way back, lyin’ down wid a headache. Been cryin’, so Sally Johnson, her maid, say. Well, suh, it got on t’ ’bout two o’clock, an’ it was one ob dese yere white dust days. De rooster out in de road, he’d been dustin’ himself righ’ smart. Mr. Gibbie comes up. He comes ’long quiet-like, suh, expectin’ t’ see Miss Ann, an’ we was watchin’ because we done know de col’nel had seed him out wid de widow. De col’nel gits up, suh, an’ stands wid his hands in his pockets, awaitin’, terr’ble quiet. An’ Mist’ Gibbie, he comes up an’ asks fer Miss Ann. De col’nel, he look him up an’ down an’ he done say noffin, noffin at all. Den Mist’ Gibbie, he comes up de steps an’ he asks fer Miss Ann agin. Says he: ‘I was engaged t’ yer daughter, suh, an’ I wants ter see her.’ ‘Yo’ can see me, suh,’ says de col’nel. Den we didn’t heah what Mist’ Gibbie says. All t’ once, Col’nel, dere was somet’ing doin’. Col’nel Colfax, he lets fly one foot, suh, an’ Mist’ Gibbie, he lands smack ontop of de rooster in de dust an’ dey rolls ober togedder. Dat was de las’ time Mist’ Gibbie asks fer Miss Ann Colfax, suh, it sho was.”
Colonel Denbigh pulled his moustache thoughtfully.
“Did he kill the rooster, Plato?” he asked solicitously.
Plato laughed. “No, suh, he was a heap more scared den de rooster.”
The colonel sighed. “Those were great days, Plato.”
“Dey sho’ was, suh!”
“I wish they’d come back,” Colonel Denbigh added regretfully, shaking his head.