XVII
Platowas removing the tray from the wicker table in the garden. The colonel, sitting under his horse-chestnut, observed the operation thoughtfully, smoking one of his big cigars.
“Yessuh, if yo’ wants to buy a horse yo’ can hab it cheap—dat’s what Job Wills says. He was down to Miz Carter’s dis mornin’ talkin’ to dat yaller girl, Mirandy. She done tole me. It am a good horse, col’nel, only got dat habit ob rollin’ in de water.”
“Pretty bad habit, Plato,” observed the colonel. “Don’t know as I’d like to have Miss Jinny rolled into the water.”
“Dat’s what happened to Miz Wilyum Carter, suh. She got rolled in de creek, an’ she didn’t get home till round one o’clock in de mornin’. Mirandy, she say Mist’ Carter, he mos’ throw a fit. Dat’s de reason de livery-stable done wanter sell dat horse. Job Wills, he say he’s good horse, but he’s de rollin’est horse he ever see—in a stream.”
The colonel looked thoughtfully at the end of his cigar.
“Suppose I bought him, Plato? How about the rolling habit?”
“Ain’t noffin’ ter dat, suh, but to keep him out’n de water. I ’members ole Col’nel Colfax, suh, he done had dat horse, Pole Star, son ob de ole Black Star, suh, dat won all dem races. Mighty fine horse! De col’nel couldn’t ride dat horse ’less dere was a drought. Sho! He sen’ him down to de races every year. I reckon dat horse wins more races den any odder horse in dis country, yessuh! Yo’ ’member old Judge Berrien?” Plato began to shake with reminiscent laughter. “Yessuh, dat ole man mighty mean to Col’nel Colfax. Yessuh, he comes up to dinner one night, an’ he wants to ride home. He was allus borrowin’ horses, an’ he mighty slow ’bout returnin’ ’em. Didn’t never own no horse, but he was allus ridin’. De col’nel, he fuss ’bout a bit, den he calls out loud: ‘Heah, yo’, August!’ August was de col’nel’s groom. ‘Yo’, August, bring ’round Pole Star!’ It had been rainin’ in de mornin’ an’ de creek was all up to de bridge. De judge, he mighty pleased to ride Pole Star. He ain’t been gone long befo’ de col’nel, he say: ‘August, yo’ go down to de creek. I reckon de judge wants to return dat horse.’ August, he went,” Plato chuckled. “Pole Star, he was rollin’ in dat creek, suh. August, he say he look ’round, don’ see noffin’, den he see dejudge. Fo’ de Lawd, suh, August, he declar’ he done thought it was one ob dese yere doodle-bugs jus’ up outen de groun’ wid its legs all mud. De judge, he got in de water an’ den he got in de mud. He say: ‘Yo’ take dat damned horse back to Col’nel Colfax, an’ yo’ tell him I ain’t ridin’ no porpuses!’”
The colonel laughed.
“Plato,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll buy Job Wills’s horse for Miss Jinny—not after that!”
Plato wagged his head.
“I done tole Mirandy dat I was sho’ yo’ won’t buy no sech horse, suh.” Then, as he finally took up the tray, he added: “Miss Jinny say to tell yo’-all she done ask Mist’ Dan’l Carter to dinner, suh.”
The colonel looked at his watch.
“I didn’t know it was so late, Plato. Where’s Miss Virginia?”
“She an’ Mist’ Dan’l in de parlor, suh. Miss Jinny, she been playin’ fo’ him. She step out an’ tell me to tell yo’ she ask him to dinner.”
“You get out a bottle of the old Burgundy, Plato,” said the colonel, and then added hastily: “Oh, no, I forgot—he doesn’t drink anything but water. But, all the same, I like Mr. Daniel.”
“Yessuh,” said Plato. “Mighty good lawyer. I done heah Judge Jessup say he wouldn’t wonderif Mist’ Dan’l git to be Pres’dent United States hisself!”
The colonel laughed. Then he rose slowly to his full height, ran his fingers through his white hair, and started for the house. He was going in to see Daniel. He liked to talk to him. But, as he entered the wide, old hall, he heard the soft strains of Virginia’s music. He stopped involuntarily to listen. She was playing an old tune, a love-song that the colonel loved. Virginia’s grandmother had played it to him.
The old man stood listening, his eyes dreaming. Music is the most poignant of all reminders. The old hall was the same into which he had led his bride so many years ago. There was Grandfather Denbigh’s clock in the corner, with the sun and the moon and the stars inlaid on its dial. There was the high chair in which one Governor Denbigh had sat. Things were shabby, the rug under his feet was frayed, but the dear familiarity of it all moved his heart.
He felt a lump in his throat, and tried in vain to swallow it. Without disturbing Virginia’s playing, he moved to the door of the drawing-room and looked in.
It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, and the western sun shone warmly in the wide window behind the piano. It warmed and mellowed everyobject in the quaint, old-fashioned room. It touched on the dull gold frame of General Denbigh’s portrait painted by Peale; it showed the tall harpsichord by the chimney-place, and the quaint, spindle-legged chairs with their shabby damask seats. The walls, mellowed by time, had the ruddy tints that form a background for old pictures and dull furniture.
The sunshine caught a corner of the mahogany table and glinted on a cabinet that held Captain Denbigh’s corals, collected long ago in the South Seas; but it did more than that. It touched the golden hair on Virginia’s head and illuminated the delicate beauty of her unconscious profile, her simple white dress, her slender wrists, and her white hands.
The colonel looked at her fondly. He thought her the loveliest girl in the State. He was on the point of entering softly, to draw up a chair and listen, when his eyes lighted on Daniel Carter.
Daniel, the lame brother of William, Daniel the unobtrusive, had not heard Colonel Denbigh. He sat with his profile also turned toward the door, leaning a little forward, one elbow on the lame knee, the other hand resting on the arm of his chair, and his pale face turned toward Virginia. Unconsciously she played, unconscious of an observer, and Daniel watched her. His dark eyesfollowed her movements as her delicate fingers swept the keys, and his own hand tightened on the arm of his chair until the knuckles whitened.
The colonel, watching him, had no longer any doubt that Daniel shared his admiration of Virginia. Something in the tense young face made the colonel turn quietly away, and walk soberly out on the front piazza.
“I reckon I’ll smoke another cigar before dinner,” he said to himself. “Poor boy, it’s a pity he’s lame. And, Jinny? Well, Jinny liked his brother.”
The colonel lit his cigar and tramped rather heavily up and down the piazza.
Meanwhile, Virginia played on to the end of the piece; then she turned and looked over her shoulder. Meeting Daniel’s eyes, she felt again that sudden shyness that she had felt before the church, and she laughed tremulously.
“Do you remember what old Dr. Samuel Johnson said about music, Dan?” she asked lightly. “I was thinking of it just now. He said that it excited no new ideas in his mind, and prevented him from contemplating his own.”
“Very like him,” said Daniel. “He never saw anything but his own ideas. I’ll admit that it stops me from contemplating mine—I contemplate you instead.”
Virginia laughed gaily this time.
“I shall play for you no more, then. Your ideas are worth too much. Lucas told me this morning, as we drove out from town, that Judge Jessup expects you to be ‘Pres’dent United States, yessuh.’”
Daniel reddened.
“I wish the judge wouldn’t make me appear such a fool. He’s always talking; he’s like your old Samuel Johnson.”
“I think he knows what he’s talking about, Dan,” she replied gently, her serious eyes on his thin face. “You’re working too hard; ambition’s eating you up. Why, Dan, how thin you’ve grown!”
He smiled.
“I know it. The judge asked me, not long ago, if I had the pip.”
They both laughed this time.
“Daniel,” said Virginia irrelevantly, “I heard you were going into politics. Mr. Payson told me that you were standing for nomination for the Legislature.”
He nodded, regarding her thoughtfully.
“It seems strange, Dan,” she observed after a moment. “I never thought you cared for that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing, Virginia?”
“Politics.” She paused and smiled at him a little, her color rising. “I thought you were a kind of poet.”
“You’re thinking of Leigh; he’s our infant genius. I’m only a stodgy lawyer.”
Daniel leaned back in his chair, thinking. His eyes, traveling over Virginia’s bright head, rested suddenly on a little portrait of a baby boy that hung above her piano in an oval frame. He recognized it with a grim tightening of the lips. It was an old picture of William at the tender age of three. His mother had given it to Virginia when she thought Virginia was to be William’s wife. Doubtless it was an awkward thing to give back, and perhaps—Daniel did not finish the thought.
“I’m going into politics if I can,” he said dryly. “I’ve got to have some interest, Virginia. A cripple can’t sit still and think about being a cripple.”
“I wish you wouldn’t dwell so much on that,” she rejoined quickly. “You think too much of it.”
“But I don’t speak of it often,” he replied bitterly. “I try to hold my tongue.”
“You scarcely ever speak of it, Daniel,” she assured him gently. “I’m glad you spoke of it to me, though. I take it as a compliment.”
“Why?”
He spoke sharply, his brows down. Virginiagave him a clear, sweet look that made him wince with misery—though she did not know it.
“Because I’m sure you wouldn’t speak of it at all if you didn’t believe that I felt for you; that I was your friend.”
He drew a quick breath, pressing his lips together. There was a moment of silence; then he laughed discordantly.
“Oh, I know you! I remember how you took that maimed dog home when you were a child. All the others wanted it killed. I can see your eyes blaze now. How you fought for him! He had a right to live, you said. You always felt for the halt and the blind.”
“That dog was a comfort,” returned Virginia stoutly. “It wasn’t any merit to be good to him. He was the best watch-dog we ever had.”
“No one but you would have nursed that ugly, old, lame dog. It’s your pity, Virginia—that’s what I’m trading on—when I talk of my lameness.”
Virginia rose suddenly from the piano and came over to his side. Before he knew what she was going to do, she had laid one of her firm young hands on his shoulder.
“Hush!” she said sternly. “You’re getting embittered; you’re losing the proportion of things, Daniel. If you talk like that I shall not pity you;I shall not even be your friend. Remember the gifts you’ve got, the brains God has given you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Daniel Carter?”
He did not answer for a moment. He sat quite still, looking up into her face soberly, aware of her hand on his shoulder.
“What am I to do if I can’t help feeling that way, Virginia?” he asked at last in a low voice.
“You mustn’t; I forbid you!” she said quickly, but she faltered.
She had come to him with the impulse of a sister; she had felt herself a sister to Daniel so long. There was no coquetry in it, only her sympathy for him. She knew how he had suffered. But now, suddenly, meeting his uplifted eyes, Virginia became self-conscious. She blushed, and her hand fell from his shoulder. With almost a feeling of panic she retraced her steps and sank back upon the piano-stool.
Daniel, leaning back in his chair as she had left him, passed his hand over his eyes. He was breathing with difficulty, like a man in pain, although he never suffered now from his injury. The physical pain was long past, and only the lameness remained; but for a moment he breathed like a man in anguish. Then, as his hand fell heavily on the arm of his chair, he raised his head and looked at her with haggard eyes.
“Don’t do that again, Virginia,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t bear it!”
That was all he said, but Virginia, meeting his eyes, turned pale. She seemed to see suddenly, as if she looked into a mirror, all those days when she and William had been so happy and so foolish together, and Daniel—suffering from his hurt then—had looked on.
She knew now what he had suffered; and she had never once thought of him! It filled her with generous shame. What could she do? What could she say to him?
Then she heard his voice.
“Virginia, please play that last tune over again. I love it. It’s so tranquil,” he said gently.
She lifted her eyes to his in gratitude. He had known what to do, how to make it easy for her. He had not misjudged her; had not thought her a mere flirt.
She turned to the piano with an effort, winking back her tears; but she began to play, softly at first, with one little discord, then firmly, with a sure touch, as her heart grew more calm and she seemed to feel the reassurance of his friendship and understanding.
She was still playing when the telephone-bell rang sharply, its strident alarm shattering the last sweet cadences. Startled in spite of herself, Virginiarose hastily and went to the cabinet where the instrument stood.
“It’s some one inquiring if you are here, Dan,” she said in surprise. “Some one—your father, I think it is—wants to speak to you.”
Daniel rose slowly—with unusual effort, she thought—and took the receiver from her hand. Virginia returned to the piano, busying herself there, turning over the leaves of her music, and trying not to listen; but she heard him ask a quick question. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation, and involuntarily she looked up.
Daniel hung up the receiver and turned.
“Oh, Dan, what is it? What has happened?” she cried.
His white lips moved soundlessly at first.
“It’s my young brother,” he said at last. “Leigh has shot and killed that man—Corwin, Caraffi’s manager.”