The Voice of the People

Book III When Fields Lie Fallow

I

On an October afternoon Nicholas Burr was walking along the branch road that led to his father’s farm. He carried a well filled bag upon his shoulder, the musty surface of which betrayed that it contained freshly ground meal, but, despite the additional weight, his figure was unflinchingly erect. There was a splendid vigour in his thick-set frame and in the swinging strides of his hardy limbs. His face—the square-jawed, large-featured face of a philosopher or a farmer—possessed, with its uncompromising ugliness, a certain eccentric power. Rugged, gray, alert-eyed as it was, large-browed and overhung by his waving red hair—it was a face to attract or to repel—not to be ignored.

Now, as he swung on vigorously in the October light, there was about him a joyousness of purpose which belonged to his age and his aspirations. It was an atmosphere, an emanation thrown off by respiring vitality.

Across the road the sunshine fell in long, level shafts. The spirit of October was abroad in the wood—veiling itself in a faint, bluish haze like the smoke of the greenwood when it burns. Overhead, crimson and yellow ran riot among the trees, the flame of the maple extinguishing the dull red of the oak, the clear gold of the hickory flashing through the gloss of the holly. As yet the leaves had not begun to fall; they held tenaciously to the living branches, fluttering light heads in the first autumn chill. In the underbrush, where the deerberry showed hectic blotches, a squirrel worked busily, completing its winter store, while in the slanting sun rays a tawny butterfly, like a wind-blown, loosened tiger lily, danced its last mad dance with death.

To Nicholas the scene was without significance. With a gesture he threw off the spell of its beauty, as he shifted the “sack” of corn meal upon his shoulder. He had found Uncle Ish tottering homeward with the load, and he had taken it from him with a careless promise to leave it at the old negro’s cabin door—then, passing him by a stride, he had gone on his kindly, confident way. He forgot Uncle Ish as readily as he forgot the bag he carried. His mind was busily reviewing the points of his last case and the possible facts of a more important one he believed to be coming to him. In this connection he went back to his first fight in the little court-house, and he laughed with an appreciation of the humour of his success. It was Turner, after all, who had given it to him; Turner, who, having bought a horse that died upon the journey home, wanted revenge as well as recompense. He remembered his perturbation as he rose to cross-examine the defendant—the nervousness with which he drove his weapons home. It had all seemed so important to him then—the court, his client, the great, greasy horse dealer forced into the witness stand.

He had proved his case by the defendant, and he had won as well a mild reputation among the farmers who had assembled for the day. Since then he had done well, and the judge’s patronage had placed much in his hands that, otherwise, would have gone elsewhere.

Beyond the wood, the uncultivated wasteland sported its annual carnival of golden rod and sumach, and across the brilliant plumes a round, red sun hung suspended in a quiet sky. In the corn field, where the late crop was fast maturing, negro women chanted shrilly as they pulled the “fodder,” their high-coloured kerchiefs blending, like autumn foliage, with the landscape. Around them the bared stalks rose boldly row on row, reserving their scarred and yellow husks for the last harvest of the year.

When Nicholas reached his father’s house he did not enter the little whitewashed gate, but kept on to the log cabin on the edge of General Battle’s land, where Uncle Ish was passing his declining years in poverty and independence. The cabin stood above a little gully which skirted the dividing line of the pastures, facing, in its primitive nudity, the level stretch of the shadowless highway. It was a rotting, one-room dwelling, with a wide doorway opening upon a small, bare strip of ground where a gnarled oak grew. In the rear there was a small garden, denuded now of its modest vegetables, only the leafy foliage of a late pea crop retaining a semblance of fruitfulness.

Nicholas went up the narrow path leading from the road to the hut, and placed the bag on the smooth, round stone which served for a step. As he did so, the doorway abruptly darkened, and a girl came from the interior and paused with her foot upon the threshold. He saw, in an upward glance, that it was Eugenia Battle, and, from the light wicker basket on her arm, he inferred that, in the absence of Uncle Ish, she had been engaged in supplying his simple wants. That the old negro was still cared for by the Battles he was aware, though upon the means of his livelihood Uncle Ish, himself, was singularly reticent.

As Eugenia saw him she flushed slightly, as one caught in a secret charity, and promptly pointed to the bag of meal.

“Whose is that?”

He looked from the girl to the bag and back again, his own cheek reddening. At the instant it occurred to him that it was a peculiar greeting after a separation of years.

“It belongs to Uncle Ish,” he answered, with unreasonable embarrassment. “I believe your father gave it to him.”

“He might have brought it home for him,” was her comment, and immediately:

“Where is he?”

“Uncle Ish? He’s on the road.”

Her next remark probed deeper, and he winced.

“What were you doing with it?”

Her gaze was warming upon him. He met it and laughed aloud.

“Toting it,” he responded lightly.

She was still warming. He saw the glow kindle in her eyes and illumine her sombre face; it was like the leaping of light to the surface. As she stood midway of the entrance, in a frame of unpolished logs, her white and black beauty against the smoky gloom of the interior, the red sunset before her feet, he recalled swiftly an allegorical figure of Night he had once seen in an old engraving. Then, before the charm of her smile, the recollection passed as it had come.

“You may bring in the bag,” she said, with the authority of one accustomed to much service. “I found he had very little left to eat. We have to bring him things secretly, and he pretends the Lord feeds him as He fed the prophet.”

She reëntered the hut, and Nicholas, stepping lightly in the fear that his weight might hasten the fall of the logs, deposited the bag upon a pine table, where an ash cake lay ready for the embers. In a little cupboard he saw the contents of Eugenia’s basket—a cold fried chicken and some coffee and sugar. Before the hearth there was a comfortable rocking chair, and a bright coloured quilt was upon the bed. As he turned away the girl spoke swiftly:

“It was good of you,” she said.

“Good of me?” He met her approbation almost haughtily; then he impulsively added: “I always liked Uncle Ish—and he reminds me of old times.”

She turned frankly to him. In the noble poise of her head she had seemed strangely far off; now she appeared to stoop.

“Of our old times?”

Her cordial eyes arrested him.

“Of yours and mine,” he answered. “Do you remember the hare traps he set for us and the straw mats he taught us to plait? Once you said you had stolen a watermelon to save Jake a whipping, and he found you out—do you remember?”

He pressed the recollections upon her eagerly, almost violently.

Eugenia shook her head, half laughing.

“No, no,” she said; “but I remember you carried me home once when I had hurt my foot, and you jumped into the ice pond to save my kitten, and—”

“You shared your lunch with me at school,” he broke in.

“And you dug me a little garden all yourself—”

“And you bought me a Jew’s harp on my birthday—”

“And you always left half the eggs in a bird’s nest because I begged you to—”

“And you were an out and out angel,” he concluded triumphantly.

“An angel, black-haired and a tomboy?”

He assented. “A little tyrannical angel with a temper.”

Her confessions multiplied.

“I scratched your face once.”

“Yes.”

“I got mad and smashed your best hawk’s egg.”

“You did.”

“I threw your fishing line into the brook when you wouldn’t let me fish.”

“I have never seen it since.”

“I was horrid and mean.”

“Such were your angelic characteristics.”

She thoughtfully swung the basket on her arm, her white sleeve fluttering above her wrist. Her head, with its wave, from the clear brow, of dead-black hair, was bent frankly towards him.

“It has been so long since I saw you,” she said suddenly, “and when I last saw you, you were horrid, not I.”

He flushed quickly.

“I was a brute,” he admitted.

“And you hurt me so, I cried all night.”

“Not because you cared?” he asked breathlessly.

“Of course not—because I didn’t care a—a rap. I cried for the fun of it.”

He was sufficiently abashed.

“If I had known—” he began, and stopped.

“You might have known!” she flashed out.

He was at a disadvantage, which he admitted by a blank regard.

“But things were desperate then, and—”

“So were you.”

“Not as desperate as I might have been.”

In her equable unconsciousness she threw off the meaning of his retort.

“But I like desperateness.”

She had crossed the threshold and stood now in the ambient glow, gazing across the quiet pasture, where a stray sheep bleated. She reached up and broke a bunch of red leaves from the oak, fastening them in her belt as they descended the narrow path.

In the road they came upon Uncle Ish, who was hobbling slowly towards them. He was wrinkled with age and bent with rheumatism, and his voice sounded cracked and querulous.

“Is de Lawd done sont dem vittles?” he demanded suspiciously. “Ef He ain’, I dunno how I’se gwine ter git mo’n a’er ash cake fur supper. ’Pears like He’s gittin’ monst’ous ondependible dese yer las’ days. I ain’ lay eyes on er dish er kebbage sence I lef dat ar patch on Hick’ry Hill, en all de blackeye peas I’se done seen is what I raise right dar behint dat do’. Es long es Gord A’mighty ondertecks ter feed you, He mought es well feed you ter yo’ tase.”

“There are some eggs in the cupboard,” said Eugenia seriously. “You must cook some for supper.”

Uncle Ish grunted.

“En egg’s er wishwashy creeter es ain’ got ernuff tase er its own ter stan’ alont widout salt,” he remarked contemptuously; after which he grew hospitable.

“Ain’ you gwine ter step in es you’se passin’?” he inquired.

Eugenia shook her head.

“Not to-day, Uncle Ish,” she responded cheerfully. “I know you’re tired—and how is your rheumatism?”

“Wuss en wuss,” responded the old negro gloomily. “I’se done cyar’ed one er dese yer I’sh taters in my pocket twell hit sprouted, en de rhematiks ain’ never knowed ’twuz dar. Hit’s wuss en wuss.”

As they passed on, he hobbled painfully up the rocky path, leaning heavily upon his stick and grunting audibly at each rheumatic twinge.

Nicholas and Eugenia followed the highway and turned into the avenue of cedars. When the house was in sight, he stopped and held out his hand.

“May I see you sometimes?” he asked diffidently.

She spoke eagerly.

“Oh, do come to see us,” she said. “Papa would enjoy talking about Judge Bassett. He half worships him.”

“So do I.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I know—I know. He is splendid! And you are doing well, aren’t you?”

“I have work to do, thank God, and I do it. I can’t say how.”

“What does Judge Bassett say?”

He laughed boyishly. “He says silence.”

She was puzzled.

“I don’t understand—but I must go—I really must. It is quite dark.”

And she passed from him into the box-bordered walk. He watched her tall figure until it ascended the stone steps and paused upon the porch, whence came the sound of voices. Through the wide open doors he could see the swinging lamp in the centre of the great hall and the broad stairway leading to the floor above. For a moment he stood motionless; then, turning back into the avenue, he retraced his steps to his father’s house.

In the kitchen, where the table was laid for supper, his half-sister, Nannie, was sewing on her wedding clothes. She was to be married in the fulness of the winter to young Nat Turner—one of the Turners of Nicholas’s boyhood. By the light of the kerosene lamp she looked wonderfully fair and fresh, her auburn curls hanging heavily against her cheek as she bent over the cambric in her lap.

As Nicholas entered she looked up brightly, exclaiming: “Oh, it’s you!” in disappointed accents.

Nicholas looked about the kitchen inquiringly.

“Where’s ma?” he asked, and at the instant Marthy Burr appeared in the doorway, a pat of butter in her hand.

“Air you home, Nick?” was her greeting, as she placed the butter upon the table. Then she went across to Nannie and examined the hem on the cambric ruffle.

“It seems to me you might have done them stitches a little finer,” she observed critically. “Old Mrs. Turner’s got powerful sharp eyes for stitches, an’ she’s goin’ to look mighty hard at yours. If thar’s one stitch shorter’n another, it’s goin’ to stand out plainer than all the rest. It’s the nater of a woman to be far-sighted at seeing the flaws in her son’s wife, an’ old Mrs. Turner ain’t no better’n God made her, if she ain’t no worse. ’Tain’t my way to be wishin’ harm to folks, but I al’ays said the only thing to Amos Burr’s credit I ever heerd of is that he’s an orphan—which he ain’t responsible for.”

“But the sewing’s all right,” returned Nannie in wounded pride. “Nat ain’t marrying me for my sewing, anyway.”

Her mother shook her head.

“What a man marries for’s hard to tell,” she returned; “an’ what a woman marries for’s past find-in’ out. I ain’t never seen an old maid yet that ain’t had a mighty good opinion of men—an’ I ain’t never seen a married woman that ain’t had a feelin’ that a few improvements wouldn’t be out of place. I don’t want to turn you agin Nat Turner—he’s a man an’ he’s got a mother, an’ that’s all I’ve got agin him. No talkin’s goin’ to turn anybody that’s got their mind set on marryin’, any more than it’s goin’ to turn anybody that’s got their mind set on drink. So I ain’t goin’ to open my mouth.”

Here Amos Burr appeared, and as he seated himself beside Nannie she drew her ruffles away. “You’re so dusty, pa,” she exclaimed half pettishly.

He fixed his heavy, admiring eyes upon her, receiving the reproof as meekly as he received all feminine utterances. He might bully a man, but he would always be bullied by a woman.

“I reckon you’re pretty near ready,” he observed cheerfully, rubbing his great hairy hands. “You’ve got ’most a trunk full of finery. I reckon Turner’ll know I ain’t in the poorhouse yet—or near it.”

It was a speech of unusual length, and, after making it, he slowly settled into silence.

“Nat wouldn’t mind if I was in the poorhouse, so long as he could get me out,” said his daughter, taking up the cudgels in defence of her lover’s disinterestedness.

Amos Burr chuckled.

“Don’t you set no store by that,” he rejoined.

“An’ don’t you set about judgin’ other folks by yourself, Amos Burr,” retorted his wife sharply. “’Tain’t likely you’d ever pull anybody out o’ the poorhouse ’thout slippin’ in yourself, seein’ as I’ve slaved goin’ on twenty years to keep you from land-in’ thar at last. The less you say about some things the better. Now, you’d jest as well set down an’ eat your supper.”

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II

The next day Nicholas went into Tom Bassett’s office, where he met Dudley Webb, who was spending a dutiful week in Kingsborough. He was a genial young fellow, with a clear-cut, cleanly shaven face and a handsome head covered with rich, dark hair. His hands were smooth and white, and he gesticulated rapidly as he talked. It was already said of him that he told a poor story better than anybody else told a good one—a fact which was probably the elemental feature of his popularity.

As Nicholas looked in, he raised himself lightly from Tom’s desk chair and gave him a hearty handshake.

“Hello, Burr! We were just talking of you. I was telling Tom a jolly thing I heard yesterday. Two farmers were discussing you at the post-office, and one of them said: ‘’Tain’t that he’s got so much sense—I had a sight more at his age—but he’s so blamed sure of himself, he makes you believe in him.’ How’s that for fame?”

“Not so bad as it is for me,” returned Nicholas with a laugh. “If you win one or two small cases, there’s obliged to be undue influence of the devil.”

“Which, occasionally, it is,” added Tom seriously.

Dudley threw himself back into his chair and crossed his shapely legs. For a moment he smoked in silence, then he removed his cigar from his mouth and flecked the ashes upon the uncarpeted floor.

“Oh! the mystery to me is,” he said, “that you exist down here and live to tell the tale—or at least that you earn enough crumbs to feed the crows.”

“Kingsborough crows aren’t high livers,” remarked Nicholas as he threw himself into the remaining chair.

Dudley laughed softly—a humorous laugh that fell pleasantly on the ear.

“That reminds me,” he began whimsically. “I met a tourist with spectacles walking along Duke of Gloucester Street. ‘Sir,’ he said courteously, ‘I am looking for Kingsborough. I am told that it is a city.’ ‘Sir,’ I responded, with a bow that did honour to my grandfather’s ghost, ‘it was once a chartered city; it is now only a charter.’”

Then he turned to Tom.

“We haven’t got used to the railroad yet, have we?” he asked.

Tom shook his head.

“General Battle’s still protesting,” he replied. “He swears it makes Kingsborough common.”

Dudley thoughtfully examined his cigar, an amused smile about his mouth.

“My mother doesn’t want the cows turned out of the churchyard,” he observed, “because it would abolish one of Kingsborough’s characteristics. She’s right, too, by Jove.”

“They’re having a fight over it now,” put in Nicholas with the gravity he rarely lost. “The people who own cows call it an ‘ancient right.’ The people who don’t, call it sacrilege. The rector leads one faction, and the congregation has split.”

“And split we smash,” added Dudley. “Well, these are exciting times in Kingsborough’s history; it is almost as lively as Richmond. There we had a religious convention and an elopement last week. I don’t suppose you come up to that?”

Nicholas ran his hand through his hair with a habitual gesture. He was idly watching the light of Dudley’s cigar and noting the quality by the aroma. He could not afford cigars himself, and he wondered how Dudley managed to do so.

“We are a people without a present,” he returned inattentively. “You’ve heard, I take it, that an old elm has gone near the court-house.”

“My mother told me. I believe she knows every brick that used to be and is not. I’m trying to get her away with me, but she won’t come.”

“Sally Burwell was telling me,” said Tom, a dawning interest in his face, “she had tried to persuade her.”

“Yes, we tried and failed. By the way, is it true that Sally’s engaged to Jack Wyth? I hear it at every turn.”

“I—I shouldn’t be surprised,” gasped Tom painfully.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” protested Nicholas.

“He isn’t much good, eh?”

“Why, he’s a brick,” said Nicholas.

“He’s a cad,” said Tom.

Dudley laughed and blew a cloud of smoke in the air.

“Well, she’s a daisy herself, and as good as gold. She’s the kind of woman to flirt herself hoarse and then settle down into dove-like domesticity. But what about Eugie? Is she really grown up? My mother declares she’s splendid.”

Nicholas was silent.

“Oh, she’s handsome enough,” Tom carelessly replied.

“But not like Sally, eh?”

“Oh, no! not like Sally.”

Dudley tossed the stump of his cigar through the open window, lit a cigarette, and changed the subject. He talked easily, relating several laughable stories, referring occasionally to himself and his success, illustrating his remarks by his experience at the bar, giving finally the exclamation of a fellow-lawyer at the close of an argument he had made: “You may be a muff of a jurist, Webb,” he had cried, “but, by George! you’re a devil of an advocate!”

He was, withal, so affable, so confident, so thoroughly a good fellow, that an hour passed before Nicholas remembered he had looked in only for a moment.

When he rose to go, Dudley gripped his hand again, slapped him on the shoulder, declared him to be a “first-rate old chap,” and ended by pressing him to drop in on him when he ran up to Richmond.

Nicholas gave back the friendly grasp and pledged himself to the “dropping in.” He resistingly succumbed before the inherent jovial charm.

The afternoon being Saturday, he left town earlier than usual and spent a couple of hours with his father in the fields. The peanuts were being harvested. Amos Burr, with a peanut “share” attached to the plough, was separating the yellowed plants from the ripe nuts underground, and Nicholas, lifting the roots upon a pitchfork, shook them free from earth and threw them over the pointed staves which were the final supports of the “shocks.” A negro hand went before him, driving the sticks into the sandy soil.

“I should say you might count on forty bushels an acre,” remarked Nicholas cheerfully, as he lifted a detached root from a broken hill. “It’s a fair yield, isn’t it?”

Amos Burr shook his head and muttered that there was “no tellin’. Peanuts air one of the things thar’s no countin’ on,” he added. “Wheat air another, corn air another, oats air another.”

“Life is another,” concluded Nicholas lightly. “Still we live and still we raise wheat and oats and corn. But I wish you’d look into market gardening. I believe it would pay you better.”

“’Tain’t no use,” returned Amos, with his accustomed pessimism. “’Tain’t no use my plantin’ as long as the government ain’t goin’ to move, nohow. It’s been promisin’ to help the farmer ever since the war, an’ it ain’t done nothin’ for him yet but tax him.”

But Nicholas, to avoid his father’s political drift, fell to talking with one of the negro workers.

Several hours later, when he had changed his farm clothes, he joined Eugenia in the pasture and walked with her to Battle Hall, where the general received him with ready, if condescending, hospitality. Eugenia had instructed her family upon the changed conditions of Nicholas’s social standing, but her logic was powerless to convince her father that Amos Burr’s son was any better than Amos Burr had been before him.

“Pish! Pish!” he exclaimed testily, “the boy’s not a lawyer—only gentlemen belong to the bar, but there’s nobody too high or too low to be a farmer. Polite to him? Did you ever see me impolite in my own house even to a chimney sweep?”

“I never saw a chimney sweep in your own house,” Eugenia retorted, whereupon he pinched her cheek and accused her of “making fun of her old father.”

Now, when Nicholas sat down on one of the long green benches on the porch, the general conversed with him as he conversed with the chicken sellers who came of an afternoon to receive payment for their luckless fowls.

“This’ll be a busy season for you,” he observed cheerfully, in the slightly elevated voice in which he addressed his inferiors. “You’ll be cutting your corn before long and seeding your winter crops. What are you planting this fall?”

He could not be induced to engage upon social topics with the young man or to allude in the most distant manner to his legal profession. He was a Burr, and a Burr was a small farmer, nothing more.

“We’re ploughing for oats now, sir,” responded Nicholas diffidently, “and we’re going to seed a little rye with clover—if the clover’s killed, the rye’ll last.”

“I should advise you to look after the land,” said the general, stuffing the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and pressing it down with his fat thumb. “What you need is to plant it in cow-peas and turn them down. There’s nothing like them for fertilising.”

Nicholas, who was listening attentively, rose to shake hands with Miss Chris who appeared in the doorway.

“The fall comes earlier than it used to,” she remarked, drawing a light crocheted shawl about her shoulders. “Why, I remember when it used to be summer up to the middle of November. I was talking to Judge Bassett about it yesterday, and he said he certainly thought the seasons had changed since he was a boy.”

“I don’t reckon your father has much opinion of fertilisers,” broke in the general, reverting to his pleasant patronage.

Nicholas answered before Eugenia could interpose. “No, sir, he doesn’t believe in them much,” he replied.

“Well, you tell him it’s lime he needs,” continued the general. “The most successful peanut grower I ever knew put about a thousand pounds of lime to an acre, and he cleared—”

“Have you seen Dudley Webb?” asked Eugenia, shaking her head at the general’s frown.

“For an hour this morning. He was in Tom Bassett’s office. He told some good stories.”

Miss Chris heaved a reminiscent sigh.

“That’s poor Julius Webb all over again,” she said. “He could keep a dinner table laughing for two hours and fight a duel at daybreak. I remember at his own wedding, when they drank his health, he told such a funny story that old Judge Blitherstone, who was upwards of eighty, had to have cold bandages put to his head.”

The general took his pipe from his mouth. “Dudley’s a fine young fellow,” he said. “I saw him yesterday when I went to the post-office. They tell me he’s making a name for himself in Richmond.”

Eugenia laughed lightly.

“Papa adores Mrs. Webb, so he thinks Dudley splendid,” she said.

“That lady is one of the noblest of her sex,” loyally asserted the general.

“And one of the most trying of either sex,” added his daughter. “When I came home my last holiday, she asked me what I learned at school, and I danced a skirt dance for her.”

“I always told you you spoiled Eugie to death, Tom,” said Miss Chris in justification of her own responsibility. “In my day no young lady knew what a skirt dance was.”

“But that’s what I learned at school,” protested Eugenia.

The general, feeling that the conversation excluded Nicholas, renewed his attack.

“What do you think of raising garden products?” he inquired affably. Then Eugenia rose, and he submissively retired.

“We aren’t going to talk farming any more,” said the girl. “Nick and I are going into the garden for roses,” and she descended the steps, followed by Nicholas, who was beginning for the first time to breathe freely.

“Tell your father to look into the truck-growing,” was the general’s parting shot.

The garden was flushed with the riot of autumn. Over the little whitewashed fence double rows of hollyhocks and sunflowers nodded their heavy heads, and bordering the narrow walk were lines of chrysanthemums and dahlias. October roses, the richest of the year, bloomed and dropped in the quaint old squares where the long vegetable rows began. At the end of the straight, overgrown walk the hop vines on the fence threw out a pungent odour.

“Papa wants to have the garden ploughed,” said Eugenia. “He says it takes too much time to hoe it. Give me your knife, please.”

He opened the blade, and she stooped to cut off a crimson dahlia while the Indian summer sunshine slanted from the west upon her dark head and white dress. Over all was the faint violet haze of the season, hanging above the gay old garden like a delicate effluvium from autumns long decayed.

“There aren’t many old-time gardens left,” said Nicholas regretfully, “but I like this one best of all. I always think of you in the midst of it.”

“Yes, we used to gather calacanthus blossoms and trade them for taffy at school. The bushes are almost all dead now. That is the only one left.”

She laid the knife upon the grass and raised her arms to fasten a yellow chrysanthemum in her hair. As it lay against her ear it cast a clear, golden light upon her cheek, as warm as the late sunshine.

“Flowers suit you,” he said.

“Do they?” she smiled in a quick, pleased way. “Is it because I love them?”

“It is because you are beautiful,” he answered bluntly.

Some one had once called Eugenia’s besetting vanity the love of giving pleasure; it was, perhaps, in reality, the pleasure of being loved. It was not the fact that she might be beautiful that now warmed her so gratefully, but the evidence that Nicholas was good enough to consider her so.

“You have seen so few girls,” she remarked reasonably enough.

“I may see many, but it won’t alter my view of you.”

“How can you tell?”

He shook his head impatiently.

“I shan’t tell. I shall prove it.”

“And when you have proved it where shall I be?—old and toothless?”

“May be—but still beautiful.”

There was a glow in her face, but she did not reply. His eyes and the last, long ray of sunshine were upon her. He was revoking from an old October a dark-haired, clear-eyed girl amid the dahlias, and it seemed to him that Eugenia had shot up in a season like one of the stately flowers. As she stood in the grass-grown walk, her skirt half-filled with blossoms, her white hands lifting the thin folds above her ruffled petticoat, she appeared to be the vital apparition of the place—a harbinger of the vivid sunlight and the dark shadows of the passing of the year.

“See how many!” she exclaimed, holding her lapful towards him. “You may take your choice—only not that last pink papa loves.”

He plunged his hands amid the confusion of colours and drew out a yellow chrysanthemum.

“I like this,” he said simply.

She laughed. “But it doesn’t suit your hair,” she suggested.

He met her sally gravely.

“It is my favourite flower,” he returned.

“Since when, pray?”

“Since—since a half-hour ago.”

He stooped and picked up his knife from the grass.

“Are you going away?” he asked, “or shall you stay here always?”

“Always,” she promptly returned. “I’m going to live here with this old garden until I grow to be an ancient dame—and you may walk over on autumn afternoons and I’ll be sympathetic about your rheumatism. Isn’t that a picture that delights your soul?”

“No,” he said bluntly; “I see a better one.”

“Tell me.”

“I can never tell you,” he replied gravely—“not even when you are an ancient dame and I rheumatic.”

She was merry again.

“Then I fear it’s wicked,” she said, “and I’m amazed at you. But my day-dreams are all common ones. I ask only the country and my home and horses and cows and chickens—and a rheumatic friend. You see I must be happy, I ask so little.”

“And you argue that he who demands little gets it,” he returned lightly. “On the other hand, I should say that he who is content with less gets nothing. I ask the biggest thing Fate has to give, and then stand waiting for—”

He paused for a breathless instant while he looked at her, and then slowly finished:

“For the skies to fall.”

They swung open the gate into cattle lane, and stood waiting while the cows trooped by to the barnyard.

Eugenia called them by name, and they turned great stupid eyes upon her as they stopped to munch the hollyhocks.

“She was named after you,” said the girl suddenly.

“She? Who?” he turned a helpless look upon the two small negroes who drove the cows.

“Why, Burr Bess, of course—that Jersey there. You know we couldn’t name her Nick because she wasn’t a boy, so Bernard called her Burr Bess. You don’t seem pleased.”

“She’s a fine cow,” observed Nicholas critically.

“Oh! she was the most beautiful calf! I thought you remembered it. One was named after me, but it died, and one was named after Bernard, but it went to the butcher. Bernard was so angry about it that he waylaid the cart on the road and let it out. But they caught it again. It was too bad, wasn’t it?”

The garden gate closed behind them with a click, and they crossed the lane to the lawn.

Miss Chris, who stood shading her eyes in the back porch, was giving directions to Aunt Verbeny in the smoke-house. When she saw Nicholas she broke off and asked him to stay to supper, but he declined hastily, and, with an embarrassed good-evening, turned back into the lane. The hollyhocks over the whitewashed fence brushed him as he passed, and the spices of the garden came to him like the essence of the eternal Romance.

---

III

Over all hung Indian summer and the happy sunshine. Eugenia, rising at daybreak for a gallop across country, would feel the dew in her face and the autumn in her blood. As she dashed over fences and ditches to the unploughed pasture, the morning was as desolate as midnight—not a soul showed in the surrounding fields and the long road lay as pallid as a streak of frost. The loneliness and the hour set her eyes to dancing and the glad blood to bounding in her veins. When a startled rabbit shied from the brushwood she would slacken her speed to watch it, and when, as sometimes chanced, she frightened a covey of partridges from their retreat, she went softly, rejoicing that no shot was near.

At this time she was possessed, perhaps, of a spirit too elastic, of a buoyance almost insolent—she turned, as it were, too round a cheek to Fate. In her clear purity romanticism held no part, and her soul, strong to adhere, was slow to conform. Her nature was straight as an arrow that would not fall though it overshot the mark. She dreamed scant dreams of the future because she clove tenaciously to the past—to the rare associations and the old affections—to the road and the cedars and the Hall as to the men and women whose blood she bore and whose likeness she carried. She loved one and all with a fidelity that did not swerve. Riding home along the open road that led to the cedars, she marked each friendly object in its turn—on one side the persimmon tree where the fruit ripened—on the other the blackened wreck of the giant oak, towering above the shining spread of life-everlasting. She noted that the rail fence skirting the pasture sagged at one corner beneath a weight of poisonous oak, that a mud hole had eaten through the short strip of “corduroy” road, and that where Uncle Ish’s path led to his cabin the plank across the gully was rapidly rotting. She saw these things with the tender eyes with which we mark decay in one beloved.

Then, pacing up the avenue to the gravelled walk, she would call “good-morning” to the general and leap lightly to the ground, fresh as the day, bright as the autumn.

It was on one of these early rides that she saw Nicholas again. She was returning leisurely through the stretch of woodland, when, catching sight of him as he swung vigorously ahead, she quickened her horse’s pace and overtook him as he glanced inquiringly back.

“Divide the worm, early bird,” she cried gaily.

He paused as she did, laying his hand on the horse’s neck.

“There wasn’t but one and you got it,” he retorted lightly. “Have you been far?”

“Miles, and I’m as hungry as two bears. Have you anything in your pocket?”

Her glowing face rose against a background of maple boughs, which surrounded her like a flame. The mist of the morning was on her lips and her eyes were shining. He felt her beauty leap like wine to his brain, and he set his teeth and looked blankly down the road.

She laughed as she plunged her hand into the pocket of his coat. “You used to have apples,” she complained, “or honeyshucks, at least—now there’s only this.”

It was a worn little Latin text book, with frayed edges and soiled leaves.

“Give it to me,” he said quickly, but as he reached to take it from her the leaves fell open and she saw her own name written and rewritten across the crumpled pages.

She closed it and gave it back to him.

“You used that long ago,” she remarked carelessly; “very long ago.”

He replaced the book in his pocket, his steady eyes upon her.

“That’s what we get for rifling our neighbour’s pockets,” he said quietly, “and what we deserve.”

“No,” she returned with equal gravity, “sometimes we get apples—or even peanuts, which we don’t deserve.”

He took no notice of the retort, but answered half-absently a former question.

“Yes; I used that long ago,” he said. “You don’t think I would write your name ‘Genia’ now, do you?”

There was a dignity in his assumption of indifference—in his absolute refusal to betray himself, which bore upon her conception of his manhood. There was strength in his face, strength in his voice, strength in his quiet hand that lay upon her bridle. She looked down on him with thoughtful eyes.

“If you wrote of me at all,” she returned. “It is my name.”

“But I am not to call you by it.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” He laughed with a touch of bitterness, and held out his hand, fresh from the soil, hardened by the plough. It was a powerful hand, brown and sinewy, with distorted knuckles and broken nails. “Oh, not that,” he said. “I don’t mean that. That shows work, but I know you—Genia—you will tell me work is manly. So it is, but is ignorance and poverty and—and all the rest—”

She leaned over and touched his hand lightly with her own. “All the rest is courage and patience and pride,” she said; “as for the hand, it is a good hand, and I like it.”

He shook his head.

“Good enough in its place, I grant you,” he answered; “good enough in the fields, at the plough; or in the barnyard—good enough even to keep this poor farm from collapse and to lift a few of its burdens—but not good enough to—”

He raised her hand lightly, regarding it with half-humorous eyes.

“How strong it is to be so light!” he added.

“Strong enough to hold fast to its friends,” returned Eugenia gravely.

He let it fall and looked into her face.

“May its friends be worthy ones,” he said.

She rode slowly through the wood, and he walked with his hand on her bridle. The bright branches struck them as they passed, and sometimes he stopped to hold them aside for her. His eyes followed her as she rode serenely above him, and he thought, in his folly, of the lady in the old romance who was, to the desire of her lovers, as “a distant flame, a sword afar off.”

“It was here that you told me good-bye when you went off to school,” he said recklessly.

“Was it?” she asked. “I was very miserable that day and you gave me no comfort. You didn’t even come down to the road next morning to see me go by.”

“Yes, I know,” he admitted.

“I thought you were asleep, and I was angry.”

“No, I was not asleep. I was at work.”

“But you might have come.”

“Yes, I might have come,” he repeated absently, and quickly corrected himself. “No, I mean I couldn’t come, of course. If you were to go away to-morrow, I couldn’t come. Something would rise and prevent. I have a presentiment that I shall never say good-bye to you.”

She dissented. “I’ve a feeling that I shall say ‘God speed’ to you when you go off to become a great man.”

“A great man? Do you mean a rich man?” he asked quickly.

“Oh, dear, yes,” she mocked; “a great, gouty gentleman, who owns a couple of railroads and wears an electric light in his shirt-front.”

His lips laughed, but his eyes were grave.

“And when I came back to you with such trophies,” he objected, “you would tell me that the railroads belonged to the people and that the electric light only served to illuminate my ugliness.”

“And I should take it to wear on my forehead,” she added. “What prophetic insight!”

“But ‘going off’ does not always mean railroads and electric light,” he went on half seriously. “Suppose I came back poor, but honest, as they say?”

Laughter rippled on her lips. He watched the humorous tremor of her nostrils.

“Then I should probably kill the fatted chicken for you,” she said.

There was a touch of bitterness in his answer. “Only in that case I should stay away.” As he spoke he stopped to break off a drooping branch from a sweet-gum tree that grew near the road.

“You once called this your colour,” he said quietly as he fastened the leaves on her horse’s head. “There is no tree that turns so clear and so fiery.”

Then, as she rode on with the branch waving like a banner before her, he laughed with a keen delight in the savage brilliance.

“You remind me of—who is it?” he asked—“‘Clear as the sun and terrible as an army with banners.’”

Her smile was warm upon him.

“But my banners fall before the wind,” she said as several loosened leaves fluttered to the road. “So I am not terrible, after all.” The glow of the gum-tree was in her face. His eyes fell before it, and he did not speak. The soft footfalls of the horse on the damp ground sounded distinctly. Overhead the wind rustled among the trees.

As they emerged from the wood and passed the Burr farm they saw Amos leaning on his gate, looking moodily upon the morning.

“Good-morning, Mr. Burr!” said Eugenia with the pleasant condescension of the general in her manner. “Fine weather, isn’t it?”

He nodded awkwardly and admitted, with a muttered reservation, that the weather might be worse. Then he looked at Nicholas. “If you ain’t got nothin’ better to do I reckon you might lend a hand at the ploughin’,” he surlily suggested.

“Why, so I might,” assented Nicholas good-humouredly. “I’ve a couple of hours free.”

He fastened more securely the branch in the horse’s bridle; then, raising his hat, he turned and vaulted the whitewashed fence, while Eugenia, touching her horse into a gallop, vanished in the distance of the open road, blazing her track with scarlet gum leaves that scattered royally in the wind.

As Nicholas passed the peanut field he nodded pleasantly to the congregation of negroes assembled for the annual festival called “a picking.” They ranged in degrees from Uncle Ish, the oldest representative of his race, to Betsey’s five-year-old Jeremiah, who had already been detected in an attempt to filch the nuts from an overturned shock, and was being soundly admonished by his mother’s avenging palm. The ground was strewn with baskets and buckets of varying dimensions, into which the nuts were gathered before being consigned to the huge hamper guarded by Amos Burr. A hoarse clamour, like that produced by a flock of crows, went up from the animated swarm as it settled to work.

Nicholas crossed to the adjoining field and ploughed deep furrows in the soil, going into breakfast with the smell of the warm earth about him and the glow of exercise in his blood. He ate heartily and listened without remark to the political vagaries of his father. Amos Burr had been “looking into politics” of late, and his stubborn wits had been fixed by a grievance. “If he was a fool befo’ now, he’s a plum fool now,” Marthy Burr had observed dispassionately. “I ain’t never seen no head so level that it could bear the lettin’ in of politics. It makes a fool of a man and a worse fool of a fool. The government’s like a mule, it’s slow and it’s sure; it’s slow to turn, and it’s sure to turn the way you don’t want it.”

“I tell you it’s done promised to help the farmer,” put in Amos heavily, bringing his large red hand down upon the table. “Ain’t it been helpin’ the manufacturer all these years? Ain’t it been lookin’ arter the labourer, black an’ white? Ain’t it time for it to keep its word to the farmer?”

“In the meantime I’d finish that piece of ploughing, if I were you,” suggested Nicholas. “The more work in the fall the less in the spring—that’s a proverb for you.”

“I don’t want no proverb,” returned Amos sullenly. “I want my rights, an’ I want the country to give ’em to me.”

“I ain’t never seen no good come of settin’ down an’ wishin’ for rights,” remarked his wife tartly. “It’s a sight better to be up an’ plantin’.”

Nicholas finished his breakfast, and a little later walked in to town. He was in exuberant spirits, and his thoughts were high on the scaffolding where his future was building. Success and Eugenia startled, allured, delighted him. He was at the age of sublime self-confidence, but his eyes were not bandaged by it. He knew that without success—such success as he dreamed of—there could be, for him, no Eugenia. He believed in her as he believed in the sun, and yet he was not sure of her—he could not be until he possessed her and she bore his name. That she might not love him he admitted; that she might even love another he saw to be dimly possible; but he was determined that so long as no other man held her his arms should be open. In the first ardour of his mood his relative position to that society of which she formed a part was lost sight of, if not obscured. Now he realised bitterly that he might work for a lifetime in the class in which he was born, and at the end still find Eugenia far from him. He must rise above his work and his people, he must cut his old name anew, he must walk rough-shod where his mind led him—among men who were his superiors only in the accident of a better birthright. And if on that higher plane his ambitions did not betray, he would bring honour to his State and to Eugenia.

Here the two loves of the boy and the man stood out boldly. The old romantic fervour with which he had longed for the days of Marshall and Madison, of Jefferson and Henry, still lingered on as an exotic patriotism in an era of time-servers and unprofitable servants. There was an old-fashioned democracy about him—a pioneer simplicity—as one who had walked from the great days of Virginia into her lesser ones. A century ago he might have left his plough to fight, and, having fought, might have returned thereto; but the battle would have tingled in his blood and the furrows have gone crooked. He would have ploughed, not for love of the plough, but because the time for the sowing of the grain had come.

Now he walked rapidly to his work, seeing Eugenia in the woods, in the sunshine, in the very clouds lifted high above. The thought of her surrounded him as an atmosphere.

As for the girl, she rode home and spent the long day in the garden potting plants for the winter. When she came into the hall in the early afternoon, with her trowel in her hand and her sleeves rolled back from her white arms, her father called her to the porch, and, going out, she found Dudley Webb in one of the cane chairs. He sprang to his feet as she reached the threshold, and held out his hand, but she laughed and showed the earth that clung to her wrists. “Unclean! unclean!” she cried gaily. Her face had flushed from its warm pallor and her hair hung low upon her forehead. A long streak of clay lay across her skirt where she had knelt in the flower-bed.

He seized her protesting hand, admiration lighting his eyes. “Why, little Eugie is a woman!” he exclaimed. “Can you grasp it, General?”

The general shook his head.

“If she wasn’t almost as tall as I, I shouldn’t believe it,” he declared, “though she’s as old as her mother was when I married her.”

Eugenia seated herself upon the bench, still holding the trowel in her hand. She was watching the interest in her father’s face, and she realised, half resentfully, that it was evoked by Dudley Webb.

He had drawn the general’s favourite anecdotes from him, and they had plunged together into a discussion of the good old days. After a few light words she sat silent, listening with tender attention to the threadbare stories on the one side and the hearty applause of them on the other. She wondered wistfully why Dudley and herself were the only persons who understood as well as loved the general. Why was it Dudley, and not Nicholas, who brought that youthful look to his face and the heartiness to his voice?

“Some one was telling me the other day—I think it was Colonel Preston—that he fought beside you at Seven Pines,” Dudley was saying with that absorption in his subject which won him a friend in every man who told him a joke.

“Jake Preston!” exclaimed the general. “Why, bless my soul! I’ve slept under the same blanket with Jake Preston twenty times. I was standing by him when he got that bullet in his thigh. Did he tell you?”

Eugenia rose in a moment and went back to her flowers. As she passed she threw a grateful glance at Dudley, but when she reached the garden it was of Nicholas she was thinking. There was a glow at her heart that kept alive the memory of his eyes as he looked at her in the wood, of his voice when he called her name, of his hand when it brushed her own.

She fell happily to work, and when Dudley came out, an hour later, to find her, she was singing softly as she uprooted a scarlet geranium.

He smiled and looked down on her with frank enjoyment of her ripening womanhood, but it did not occur to him to join in the transplanting as Nicholas would have done. He held off and absorbed the picture.

“You do papa so much good!” said Eugenia gratefully. “I hope you will come out whenever you are in Kingsborough.”

She was kneeling upon the ground, her hands buried in the flower-bed, her firm arms rising white above the rich earth. The line of her bosom rose and fell swiftly, and her breath came in soft pants. There was a flush in her cheeks.

“If you wish it I will come,” he answered impulsively. “I will come to Kingsborough every week if you wish it.”

His temperament responded promptly to the appeal of her beauty, and his blood quickened as it did when women moved him. There was about him, withal, a fantastic chivalry which succumbed to the glitter of false sentiment. He would have made the remark had Eugenia been plain—but he would not have come to Kingsborough.

“It would please your mother,” returned the girl quietly. She had the sexual self-poise of the Virginia woman, and she weighed the implied compliment at its due value. Had he declared he would die for her once a week, she would have received the assurance with much the same smiling indifference.

“I’ll run down, I think, pretty often this winter,” he went on easily. “It’s a nice old town, after all—isn’t it?”

“It’s the dearest old town in the world,” said Eugenia.

“Well, I believe it is—strange, I used to find it dull, don’t you think? By the way, will you let me ride with you sometimes? I hear you are as great a horsewoman as ever.”

Eugenia looked up calmly.

“I go very early,” she answered. “Can you get up at daybreak?”

He laughed his pleasant laugh.

“Oh, I might manage it,” he rejoined. “I’m not much of an early riser, I never knew before what charms the sunrise held.”

But Eugenia went on potting plants.

---

IV

During the following week Sally Burwell came to spend the night with Eugenia, and the girls sat before the log fire in Eugenia’s room until they heard the cocks crow shrilly from the hen-house. The room was a large, old-fashioned chamber, full of dark corners and unsuspected alcoves; and the lamp on the bureau served only to intensify the shadows that lay beyond its faint illumination.

Sally, her pretty hair in a tumble on her shoulders and the light of the logs on her bare arms, was stretched upon the hearth-rug, looking up at Eugenia, who lay in an easy-chair, her feet almost touching the embers. A waiter of russet apples was on the floor beside them.

“This is my idea of comfort,” murmured Sally sleepily as she munched an apple. “No men and no manners.”

“If you liked it, you’d come often, chick,” returned Eugenia.

“Bless you! I’m too busy. I made over two dresses this week, trimmed mamma a bonnet, and covered a sofa with cretonne. One of the dresses is a love. I wore it yesterday, and Dudley said it reminded him of one he’d seen on the stage.”

“He says a good deal,” observed Eugenia unsympathetically.

“Doesn’t he?” laughed Sally. “At any rate, he said that he found you reading Plato under the trees, and that any woman who read Plato ought to be ostracised—unless she happens to be handsome enough to make you overlook it. Is that your Plato? What is he like?”

Eugenia savagely shook her head.

“It’s no affair of his,” she retorted promptly, meaning not Plato, but Dudley.

“Oh! he said he knew it wasn’t. I think he even wished it were. You’re too unconventional for him —he frankly admits it—but he admits also that you’re good-looking enough to warrant the unconventionality of a Hottentot—and you are, you dear, bad thing, though your forehead’s too high and your chin’s too long and your nose isn’t all that a nose should be.”

“Thanks,” drawled Eugenia amicably. “But Dudley’s a nice fellow, all the same. He gets on splendidly with papa—and I bless him for it.”

“He gets on well with everybody—even his mother—which makes me suspect that he’s a Job masquerading as an Apollo. By the way, Mrs. Webb wants you to join some society she’s getting up called the ‘Daughters of Duty.’”

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t!” protested Eugenia distressfully. “I detest ‘Daughter’ things, and I have a rooted aversion to my duty. But if she comes to me I’ll join it—I know I shall! How did you keep out of it?”

“I didn’t. I’m in it. It seems that our duty is confined to ‘preserving the antiquities’ of Kingsborough—so I began by presenting a jar of pickled cucumbers to Uncle Ish. I trust they won’t be the death of him, but he was the only antiquity in sight.”

She gave the smouldering log a push with her foot, and it broke apart, scattering a shower of sparks. “I don’t know any other woman so much admired and so little loved,” she mused of Mrs. Webb.

“Papa worships her,” said Eugenia. “All men do—at a distance. She’s the kind of woman you never get near enough to to feel that she is flesh. Now, Aunt Chris is just the opposite. No one ever gets far enough away from her to feel that she’s a saint—which she is.”

“It’s odd she never married,” wondered Sally.

“She never had time to.” Eugenia clasped her hands behind her head and looked up at the high, plastered ceiling. “She never happened to be in a place where she could be spared. But you know her lover died when she was young,” she added. “It broke her heart, but it did not destroy her happiness. She has been happy for forty years with a broken heart.”

“I know,” said Sally. “It seems strange, doesn’t it? But I’ve known so many like her. The happiest woman I ever knew had lost everything she cared for in the war. That war was fought on women’s hearts, but they went on beating just the same. I’m glad I wasn’t I then.”

“And I’m sorry. I like stirring deeds and shot and shell and tattered flags. They thrill one.”

“And kill one,” added Sally. “But you’ve got that kind of pluck. You aren’t afraid.”

“Oh! yes, I am,” protested Eugenia. “I’m afraid of bats and of getting fat like my forefathers.”

Sally shook a reassuring head.

“But you won’t, darling. Your mother was thin, and you’re the image of her—everybody says so.”

“But I’m afraid—horribly afraid. I don’t dare eat potatoes, and I wouldn’t so much as look at a glass of buttermilk. The fear is on me.”

“It’s absurd. Why, your grandma Tucker was a rail—I remember her. I know your other grandmother was—enormous; but you ought to strike the happy medium—and you do. You’re splendid. You aren’t a bit too large for your height.”

Eugenia laughed as she twisted Sally’s curls about her fingers. “You’re the dearest little duck that ever lived on dry land,” she said. “If I were a man I’d be wild about you.”

“A few of them are,” returned Sally meekly, casting up her eyes, “but I—”

“How about Gerald Smith?”

“He’s too tall. I look like an aspiring grasshopper beside him.”

“And Jack Wyth?”

“He’s too short.”

“And Sydney Kent?”

“He’s too stupid.”

“And Tom Bassett?”

Sally yawned.

“He’s too—everything. There’s cock crow, and I’m going to bed.”

The next afternoon Eugenia drove Sally in to town, and stopped on her outward trip to pay a visit to Mrs. Webb. She found that lady serenely seated in her drawing-room, as unruffled as if she had not just dismissed a cook and cooked a dinner.

“Oh, yes, thank you, dear, all is well,” she replied in answer to the girl’s question; for she held it to be vulgarity to allude, in her drawing-room, to the trials of housekeeping. She was not touched by such questions because she ignored that she was in any way concerned in them. She spent six hours a day with her servants, but had she spent twenty-four she would have remained secure in her conviction that they did not come within the sphere of her life.

“I have wanted to see you to ask you to join my society, the ‘Daughters of Duty,’” she went on, her eyes on a piece of fine white damask she was hem-*stitching. “Its object is to preserve our old landmarks, and when I spoke to your father he told me he was quite sure you would care to become an active member.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” began Eugenia helplessly, when Mrs. Webb interrupted her, though without haste or discourtesy.

“Not have time, my dear?” she repeated with her slow, fine smile. “If I can find time, with all my other duties, don’t you think that you might be able to do so?”

Eugenia was baffled. “Of course I love Kingsborough,” she said, “and I’d preserve every inch of it with my own hands if I could—but I can’t bear meetings—and—and things.”

Mrs. Webb took a careful stitch in the damask. “I thought you might care enough to assist us,” she remarked tentatively; and Eugenia succumbed.

“I’ll do anything I can,” she declared. “I will, indeed—only you mustn’t expect much.”

In a few moments she rose to go, lingering with a courteous appearance of being unwilling to depart, which belonged to her social training. As she stood in the doorway, her hand in Mrs. Webb’s, the older woman looked at her almost affectionately.

“I had a letter from Dudley this morning,” she said. “He is coming down next week for Sunday.”

A flush crossed Eugenia’s face, evoking an expression of irritation.

“You must miss him,” she observed sympathetically.

“I do miss him, but he comes often. He is a good son. He sent a message to you, by the way, but it was not important.”

“No, it was not important,” repeated Eugenia with a feeling that her carelessness appeared to be assumed.

She lightly kissed Mrs. Webb and ran down the steps and into the carriage, which was waiting in the road. Her visit had left her with a curious sense of oppression, and she breathed a long draught of the invigorating air.

As she drove down the street she saw Nicholas coming out of his office and offered him a “lift” to his home. He said little on the way, and his utterances were forced, but Eugenia talked lightly and rapidly, as she always did when with him.

She told him of Sally Burwell, of the last letter from Bernard—who was coming home soon—of Mrs. Webb and the “Daughters of Duty.”

“The truth is, I like her, but I’m afraid of her—dreadfully.”

“She disapproves of your—your liking for me,” he said bitterly. “But every one does that—even the judge, though he doesn’t say anything. And they are right—I see it. You know from what I came and what I am.”

“Yes, I know what you are,” she returned defiantly, “and they shall all know some day.”

He turned and looked at her as she sat beside him, but he was silent, nor did he speak until he said “good-bye” before his father’s gate.

It was some days later that she saw him again. She had gone out to gather goldenrod for the great blue vases that stood on the dining-room mantel-piece, and was standing knee-deep in the ragged field, when he leaped the fence that divided the farms and crossed to where she stood.

The sun was going down behind the blackened branches of the dead oak, and the wide common, spread with goldenrod and life-everlasting, lay like a sea of flame and snow. Eugenia, standing in its midst, a tall woman in a dress of brown, fell in richly with the surrounding colours. Her arms were filled with the yellow plumes and her dress was tinselled with the dried pollen that floated in the air. As Nicholas reached her she was seeking to free herself from the clutch of a crimson briar that crawled along the ground, and in the effort some of the broken stalks slipped from her hold.

Without speaking, he knelt beside her and released her skirt. “You have torn it,” he said quietly, but he was looking up at her, and there was a quality in his voice which thrilled her.

“Have I?” she returned quickly. “Well, I can mend it—but there! it’s caught again. I’ve been trying to get free for—hours.”

He smiled.

“You came into the field only twenty minutes ago. I saw you. But, hold on. I’ll uproot this blackberry vine while I’m about it.”

He tore it from its tenacious hold to the earth and flung it into the field. Then he examined the rent in Eugenia’s dress.

“If you had waited until I came you might have spared yourself this—patch,” he observed.

“I shan’t patch it—and I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Don’t I always come—when there’s a patch to be saved?” he asked. “I hate to see things ruined.”

“Then you might have come sooner. There, give me my goldenrod. It’s all scattered.”

He began patiently to gather up the stalks, arranging them in an even layer of equal lengths.

Eugenia watched him, laughing.

“How precise you are!” she said.

“Aren’t they right?” He looked up for her approval, and she saw that he had grown singularly boyish. His face was less rugged, more sensitive. He wore no hat, and his thick red hair had fallen across his forehead. She felt the peculiar power of his look as she had felt it before.

“No, they’re wrong. They aren’t Chinese puzzles. Don’t fix them so tight. Here.”

She took them from him, and as his hands touched hers she noticed that they were cold. “You’re shaking them all apart,” he protested, “and I took such a lot of trouble.”

As she bent her head his eyes followed the dark coil of hair to the white nape of her neck where her collar rose. Several loose strands had blown across her ear and wound softly about the delicate lobe. He wanted to raise his hand and put them in place, but he checked himself with a start. With his eyes upon her he recalled the warmth of her woollen dress, and he wished that he had put his lips to it as he knelt. She would never have known.

Then, by a curious emotional phenomenon, she seemed to be suddenly invested with the glory of the sunset. The goldenrod burned at her feet and on her bosom, and her fervent blood leaped to her face. The next moment he staggered like a man blinded by too much light—the field, with Eugenia rising in its midst, flamed before his eyes, and he put out his hand like one in pain.

“What is it?” she asked quickly, and her voice seemed a part of the general radiance. “You have been looking at the sun. It hurts my eyes.”

“No,” he answered steadily, “I was looking at you.”

She thrilled as he spoke and brought her eyes to the level of his. Then she would have looked away, but his gaze held her, and she made a sudden movement of alarm—a swift tremor to escape. She held the sheaf of goldenrod to her bosom and above it her eyes shone; her breath came quickly between her parted lips. All her changeful beauty was startled into life.

“Genia!” he said softly, so softly that he seemed speaking to himself. “Genia!”

“Yes?” She responded in the same still whisper.

“You know?”

“Yes, I know,” she repeated slowly. Her glance fell from his and she turned away.

“You know it is—impossible,” he said.

“Yes, I know it is impossible.”

There was a gasp in her voice. She turned to move onward—a briar caught her dress; she stumbled for an instant, and he flung out his arms.

“You know it is impossible,” he said, and kissed her.

The sheaf of goldenrod loosened and scattered between them. Her head lay on his arm, and he felt her warm breath come and go. Her face was upturned, and he saw her eyes as he had never seen them before—light on light, shadow on shadow. He looked at her in the brief instant as a man looks to remember—at the white brow—the red mouth, at the blue veins, and the dark hair, at the upward lift of the chin and the straight throat—at all the perfect colouring and the imperfect outline.

“You know it is impossible,” he repeated, and put her from him.

Eugenia gathered herself together like one stunned. “I must go,” she said breathlessly. “I must go.”

Then she hesitated and stood before him, her hands on her bosom, a single spray of goldenrod clinging to her dress.

He folded his arms as he faced her.

“I have loved you all my life,” he said.

She bowed her head; her face had gone white.

“I shall always love you,” he went on. “You may as well know it. Men change, but I do not. I have never really loved anybody else. I have tried to love my family, but I never did. When I was a little, God-forsaken chap I used to want to love people, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t even love the judge—whom I would die for. I love you.”

“I know it,” she said.

“If you will wait I will work for you. I will work until they let me have you. I don’t mean that I shall ever be good enough for you—because I shall not be. I shall always be a brute beside you—but if you will wait I will win you. I swear it!”

She had not moved. She was as still as the dead oak that towered above them. The sunset struck upon her bowed head and upon the quiet bosom, where her hands were clasped.

“I will wait,” she answered.

He came nearer and kissed the hands upon her breast. His face was flushed and his lips were hot.

“Thank you,” he said simply as he drew back.

In a moment he stooped to pick up the scattered goldenrod, heaping it into her arms. “This is enough to fill the house,” he protested. “You can’t want so much.”

He had regained his rational tone, and she responded to it with a smile.

“I never know when I’m satisfied,” she said. “It is my weakness. As a child I always ate candy until it made me ill.”

They crossed the field, the long plumes brushing against them and powdering them with a feathery gold dust. At the fence she gave him the bunch and lightly swung herself over the sunken rails. It did not occur to him to assist her; she had always been as good as he at vaulting bars. Now her long skirts retarded her, and she laughed as she came quickly to the ground on the opposite side.

“One of the many disadvantages of my sex,” she said. “The best prisons men ever invented are women’s skirts. Our wings are clipped while we wear them.”

“It is hard,” he returned as he recalled her school-*girl feats. “You were such a mighty jumper.”

“Those halcyon days are done,” she sighed. “I can never stray beyond my ‘sphere’ again.”

They had reached the end of the avenue, so he left her and went homeward along the road. The sun had gone slowly down and the western horizon was ripped open in a deep red track. The charred skeleton of the oak loomed black and sinister against the afterglow, and at its feet the glory went out of the autumn field. Straight ahead the sound of shots rang out where a flock of bats circled above the road. On the darkening landscape the lights began to glimmer in farmhouses far apart, and to Nicholas they seemed watchful, friendly eyes that looked upon him. All Nature was watchful—all the universe friendly. The glow which irradiated his outlook with an abrupt transfiguration was to him the glow of universal joy, though he knew it to be but the vanishing beam of youth and the end thereof age.

It seemed to him that he was singled out—securely set apart by some beneficent hand for some supreme good which, in his limited observation, he had never seen put forth in the lots of others. His own life lay so much nearer the Divine purpose than did the lives of his neighbours—the purpose of Nature, whose end is the happiness that conforms to sane and immutable laws. His kiss on Eugenia’s lips was to him God-given; the answer in her eyes had flamed a Scriptural inspiration. In the tumultuous leaping of his thoughts it seemed to him that the meaning of existence lay unrolled—a meaning obscured in all religions, overlooked in all philosophies—a meaning that could be read only by the lamp that was lit in the eyes that loved.

So in his ignorance and his ecstasy he went on his confident way, while passion throbbed in his pulses and youth quickened in his brain.

From the far-off pines twilight came to meet him, the lights glimmered clearer in distant windows, the afterglow drifted from the west, and the shots ceased where the black bats circled above the road.

---

V

Eugenia arranged the goldenrod in the great blue vases and sat in the deserted dining-room thinking of Nicholas. Where the damask curtains were drawn back from the windows a gray line of twilight landscape was visible, and a chill, transparent dusk filled the large room. Outside she would see the box-walk, a stretch of lawn, broken by flower-beds, and the avenue of cedars leading to the highway. From the porch floated the smoke of the general’s pipe.

Her brow was on her hand and she sat so motionless that the place seemed deserted, save for an errant firefly that vainly palpitated in the gloom. The glow that had flamed beneath Nicholas’s kiss still lingered in her face, and she was conscious of a faint, almost hysterical impulse to weep. The fever in her veins had given place to a still tremor which ran through her limbs. At first she felt rather than thought. She lapsed into an emotional reverie as delicate as the fragrance of the October roses on the table. There was a sensation of softness as when one lies full length in sunshine or is caressed by firelight. She felt it pervade her body even to the palms of her hands. Then her quick mind stirred, and she recalled the pressure of his arms, the light in his eyes, the quiver of his lips as they touched her hands. His strength had dominated her and it still held her—the firm note in the voice that trembled, the power in the hand that appealed, the almost savage vigour in the arms that he folded on his breast. She had succumbed less to his gentleness than to the knowledge that it was she alone who evoked that gentleness out of a nature almost adamantine, wholly masculine. His faults she knew to be the faults of one who had hewn his own road in life—a rugged surface—a strain of rigidity beneath—at worst a tendency to dogmatise—and knowing as she did her own control over them, they attracted rather than repelled her.

And yet in this pulsating recognition of his manhood there was mingled with an emotion half-maternal the memory of her own guardianship of his stunted childhood. To a woman at once rashly spirited and profoundly feminine the pathos of his boyish struggle appealed no less forcibly than did the virility of his manhood. She might have loved him less had her thought of him been untouched by pity.

She sat quietly in the twilight until Congo brought in the lamp and a prospect of supper. Then she rose and went to join her father on the porch.

“Why did you tell Mrs. Webb I would be a ‘Daughter,’ papa?” she gaily demanded.

The general took his pipe from his mouth and stared up at her.

“It’s a good cause, Eugie,” he replied, “and she’s a remarkable woman. Her executive ability is astounding—absolutely astounding.”

“I joined,” said Eugenia. “I had to, after you said that. You know, I called on her the day I took Sally in.”

The general lowered his eyes and thoughtfully regarded the light that was going gray in his pipe.

“Did she happen to say anything about—Dudley?” he inquired.

“Oh, yes. She said he sent me a message in a letter.”

“Did she tell you what ’twas?”

“No. I didn’t ask her.”

He put the stem of his pipe between his teeth and hung on it desperately for a moment; then he took it out again.

“He’s a fine young fellow,” he said at last. “I don’t know a finer—and, bless my soul! I’d see you married to him to-morrow.”

But Eugenia laughed and beat his shoulder.

“You don’t want to see me married to anybody,” she said, “and you know it.”

At the end of the ensuing week Dudley came to Kingsborough, and upon the first evening of his visit he walked out to Battle Hall. He was looking smooth and well groomed, and the mass of his thick dark hair waving over his white brow gave him an air of earnestness and ardour. Eugenia wondered that she had never noticed before that he was like the portrait of an old-time orator, and that his hands were finely rounded.

His voice, with its suggestion of suavity, fell soothingly on her nerves. She had never liked him so much, and she had never shown it so plainly. Once as she met his genial gaze she held her breath at the marvel that he should grow to love her, and in vain. Was it that beside his splendid shallows the more luminous depths of Nicholas’s nature still showed supreme? Or was it a question of fate—and of first and last? Had Dudley come upon her in the red sunset, in the little shanty beside the road, would she have gone out to him in the mere leaping of youth and womanhood? Was it the moment, after all, and not the man? Or was it something more unerring still—more profound—the prophetic call of individual to individual, despite the specious pleading of the race? But she put the thought aside and returned casually to Dudley.

His heartiness was a tonic, and her vanity responded to the unaffected admiration in his eyes; but his chief claim to her regard lay in the fact that it was the general, and not herself, whom he endeavoured to propitiate.

“Well, my dear General!” he exclaimed cordially as he threw himself upon the worn horsehair sofa in what was called the “sitting-room,” “I find your story about the fighting Texans capped by one Major Mason was telling me last night about the North Carolinians—” He got no farther.

“I’ve fought side by side with North Carolina regiments, and I tell you, sir, they’re the best fighters God ever made!” cried the general. “Did you ever hear that story about ’em when I was wounded?”

Dudley shook his head and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees and an expression of flattering absorption on his face.

“I can’t recall it now, sir,” he delightfully lied.

The general cleared his throat, laid his pipe aside, and drew up his chair.

“It was in my last battle,” he began. “You know I got that ball in my shoulder and was laid up when Lee surrendered—well, sir, I was propped up there close by a company of those raw-boned mountaineers from North Carolina, and they stood as still as the pine wood behind ’em, while their colonel swore at ’em like mad.

“‘Damn you for a troop of babies!’ he yelled. ‘Ain’t you goin’ into the fight? Can’t you lick a blamed Yankee?’ And, bless your soul! those scraggy fellows stood stock still and sung out:

“‘We ain’t mad!’

“Well, sir, they’d no sooner yelled that back than a bullet whizzed along and took off one of their own men, and, on my oath, the bullet hadn’t ceased singing in my ears before that company charged the enemy to a man—and whipped ’em, too, sir—whipped ’em clean off the field!”

He paused, clapped his knee, and roared.

“That’s your North Carolinian,” he said. “He’s a God Almighty fighter, but you’ve got to make him mad first.”

Miss Chris brought her knitting to the lamp, and Eugenia, sitting with her hands in her lap, followed the conversation with abstracted interest.

It was not until Dudley rose to go that he came over to her and took her hand.

“Good-night,” he said, his ardent eyes upon her. “I’m to have that ride to-morrow? You know I came for it.”

The unreasoning blood beat in her face as she turned away, and she was conscious that he had seen and misconstrued the senseless blush. It was her misfortune to go red or pale without cause and to show an impassive face above deep emotion.

The next morning she rode with Dudley, and the day after he came out before returning to Richmond. She experienced a certain pleasure in the contact with his bouyant optimism, but it was not without a sensation of relief that she watched him depart after his last visit. It seemed to leave her more to herself—and to Nicholas.

That afternoon she walked with him far across the fields, and they laid together phantasmal foundations of their future lives. Perhaps the chief thing to be said of their intercourse was that it was to each a mental stimulant as well as an emotional delight. Eugenia’s quick, untutored mind, which had run to seed like an uncultivated garden, blossomed from contact with his practical, unpolished intellect. He taught her logic and a little law; she taught him poetry and passion. He argued his cases to her and swept her back into the days of his old political dreams—dreams from which he had awakened, but which still hovered as memories in his waking hours. Sometimes he brought his books to Battle Hall, and they read together beneath the general’s unseeing eyes; but more often they sat side by side in the pasture or the wood, the volume lying open between them. He was the first man who had ever spurred her into thought; she was the first woman he had ever loved.

As they walked across the fields this afternoon they drifted back to the question of themselves and their own happiness. It was only a matter of waiting, she said, of the patient passage of time; and they were so sure of each other that all else was unimportant—to be disregarded.

“But am I sure of you?” he demanded.

It was not a personal distrust of Eugenia that he voiced; it was the hardened state of disbelief in his own happiness which showed itself when the first intoxication of passion was lived out.

“Why, of course you are,” she readily rejoined. “Am I not sure of you? You are as much mine as my eyes—or my hand.”

“Oh, I am different!” he exclaimed. “A beggar doesn’t prove faithless to a princess—but what do you see in me, after all?”

She laughed. “I see a very moody lover.”

They had reached a little deserted spring in the pasture called “Poplar Spring,” after the six great poplars which grew beside it. Eugenia seated herself on a fallen log beside the tiny stream which trickled over the smooth, round stones, bearing away, like miniature floats, the yellow leaves that fell ceaselessly from the huge branches above.

“I don’t believe you know how I love you,” he said suddenly.

“Tell me,” she insatiably demanded.

“If I could tell you I shouldn’t love you as I do. There are some things one can’t talk about—but you are life itself—and you are all heaven and all hell to me.”

“I don’t want to be hellish,” she put in provokingly.

“But you are—when I think you may slip from me, after all.”

The yellow leaves fluttered over them—over the fallen log and over the bright green moss beside the little spring. As Eugenia turned towards him, a single leaf fell from her hair to the ground.

“Oh! You are thinking of Dudley Webb!” she said, and laughed because jealousy was her own darling sin.

“Yes, I am thinking—” he began, when she stopped him.

“Well, you needn’t. You may just stop at once. I—love—you—Nick—Burr. Say it after me.”

He shook his head. Her hand lay on the log beside him, and his own closed over it. As it did so, she contrasted its hardened palm with the smooth surface of Dudley Webb’s. The contrast touched her, and, with a swift, warm gesture, she raised the clasped hands to her cheek.

“I told you once I liked your hand,” she said. “Well—I love it.”

He turned upon her a hungry glance.

“I would work it to the bone for you,” he answered. “But—it is long to wait.”

“Yes, it is long to wait,” she repeated, but her tone had not the heaviness of his. Waiting in its wider sense means little to a woman—and in a moment she cheerfully returned to a prophetic future.

A few days later Bernard came, and she saw Nicholas less often. Her affection for her brother, belonging, as it did, to the dominant family feeling which possessed her soul, was filled with an almost maternal solicitude. He absorbed her with a spasmodic, half selfish, wholly insistent appeal. She received his confidences, wrote his letters, and tied his cravats. Upon his last visit home he had spent the greater part of his time in Kingsborough; now he rode in seldom, and invariably returned in a moody and depressed condition.

“You’re worth the whole bunch of them,” he had said to her of other girls, “you dear old Eugie.”

And she had warmed and laid a faithful hand on his arm. It was characteristic of her that no call for affection went disregarded—that the sensitive fibres of her nature quivered beneath any caressing hand.

“Do you really like me best?” she asked.

“Don’t I?” He laughed his impulsive, boyish laugh—“I’ll prove it by letting you go in for the mail this afternoon. I detest Kingsborough!”

“Oh! No, no, I love it, but I suppose it is dull for you.”

She ordered the carriage and went upstairs to put on her hat. When she came down Bernard was not in sight, and she drove off, wondering why he or any one else should detest Kingsborough.

She performed her mission at the post-office, and was mentally weighing the probabilities of Nicholas having finished work for the day, when, in passing along the main street, she saw him come to the door of his office with a round, rosy girl, whom she recognised as Bessie Pollard.

She had intended to take him out with her, but as she caught sight of his visitor she gave them both a condescending nod and ordered Sampson to drive on. She felt vaguely offended and sharply irritated with herself for permitting it. Her annoyance was not allayed by the fact that Amos Burr stopped her in the road to inform her that his wife was fattening a brood of turkeys which she would like to deliver into the hands of Miss Chris. As he stood before her, hairy, ominous, uncouth, she realised for the first time the full horror of the fact that he was father to the man she loved. Hitherto she had but dimly grasped the idea. Nicholas had been associated in her thoughts with the judge and her earlier school days; and she had conceived of his poverty and his people only in the heroic measures that related to his emancipation from them. Now she felt that had she, in the beginning, seen him side by side with his father, she could not have loved him. She flinched from Amos Burr’s shaggy exterior and drew back haughtily.

“I have nothing to do with the housekeeping,” she said. “You may ask Aunt Chris.”

He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dust and fingered the torn brim of his hat.

“I wish you’d jest speak to Miss Chris about ’em,” he returned, “an’ send me word by Nick.” He gave an awkward lurch on his feet.

The colour flamed in Eugenia’s face.

“Aunt Chris will send for the turkeys,” she said hurriedly. “Drive on, Sampson.”

She sat splendidly erect, but the autumn landscape was blurred by a sudden gush of tears.

An hour later she remembered that she had promised to let Nicholas join her in the pasture, and she left the house with the grievance still at her heart.

When she saw him it broke out abruptly.

“I am surprised that you keep up with such people,” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“If you mean Bessie Pollard,” he rejoined, “she was in trouble and came to me for advice. I couldn’t help her, but I could at least be civil. She was kind to me when I was in her father’s store.”

“I do not care to be reminded that you were ever in such a position.”

He flinched, but answered quietly:

“I am afraid you will have to face it,” he said. “If you become my wife, you will, unfortunately, have to face a good deal that you might escape by marrying in your own class—I am not in your class, you know,” he slowly added.

She was conscious of a cloudy irritation which was alien to her usually beaming moods. The figure of Amos Burr loomed large before her, and she hated herself for the discovery that she was tracing his sinister likeness in his son. No, it was only the hair—that was all, but she loathed the obvious colour.

Her lip trembled and she set her teeth into it.

“You might at least allow me to forget it,” she retorted.

“Why should you wish to forget it? I think I shall be proud of it when I have risen far enough above it to claim you. It is no small thing to be a self-made man.”

She resented the assurance of his tone.

“It is strange that you do not consider my view of it.”

“Your view—what is it?”

“That I do not wish the man I love to—to speak to that Pollard girl,” she gasped.

“Since you wish it, I will avoid her in future. She is nothing to me; but I can’t refuse to speak to her. You are unreasonable.”

She was regarding the hovering shade of Amos Burr.

“If you think me unreasonable,” she returned, “we may as well—”

He reached her side by a single step and flung his arm about her. Then he looked into her face and laughed softly.

“May as well what—dearest?” he asked.

She shook an obstinate head.

“You don’t love me,” was her inevitable feminine challenge.

He laughed again. “Do I love you?” he demanded as he looked at her.

She did not answer, but the shade of Amos Burr melted afar.

Nicholas bent over her with abrupt intensity and kissed her lips until his kisses hurt her.

“Do I love you—now?” he asked.

“Yes—yes—yes.” She freed herself with a laugh that dispelled the lingering cloud. “You may convince me next time without violence,” she affirmed radiantly.

As he watched her his large nostrils twitched whimsically. “You were saying that we might as well—”

“Go home to supper,” she finished triumphantly. “The sun has set.”

When she left him a little later at the end of the avenue she flew joyously up the narrow walk. She was softly humming to herself, and as she stepped upon the porch the song ran lightly into words.

“I love Love, though he has wings,
And like light can flee—”

she sang, and paused within the shadow of the porch to glance through the long window that led into the sitting-room. The heavy curtains obstructed her gaze, and she had put up her hand to push them aside, when her father’s voice reached her, and at his words her outstretched arm fell slowly to her side.

“It’s that girl of Jerry Pollard’s,” he was saying. “She’s gotten into trouble, and that Burr boy’s mixed up in it; the young rascal!”

Miss Chris’s placid voice floated in.

“I can’t believe it,” she charitably murmured; and Bernard, who was on the hearth rug, turned at the sound.

“It’s all gossip, you know,” he said.

Eugenia pushed aside the curtains and stepped into the room. Her hands hung at her sides, and the animation had faded from her glance. Her face looked white and drawn.

“It is not true,” she said steadily. “Papa, it is not true.”

“I—I’m afraid it is, daughter,” gasped the general. There was an abashed embarrassment in his attitude and his hands shook. He had hoped to keep such facts beyond the utmost horizon of his daughter’s life.

Eugenia crossed to the hearth rug and stood looking into Bernard’s face. She made an appealing gesture with her hands.

“Bernard, it is not true,” she said.

He turned away from her and, nervously lifting the poker, divided the smouldering log. A red flame shot up, illuminating the gathered faces that stood out against the dusk. The glare lent a grotesque irony to the flabby, awe-stricken features of the general, brightened the boyish ill-humour in Bernard’s eyes, and played peaceably over Miss Chris’s tranquil countenance.

“Bernard, it is not true,” she said again.

The poker fell with a clatter to the hearth; and the noise irritated her. Bernard put out a sudden, soothing hand.

“It is what they say in Kingsborough,” he answered.

She turned from him to the window, pushed the curtains aside, and went out again into the sunset.

---

VI

She ran swiftly along the walk, into the gloom of the avenue, and out again to the open road. The sunset colours were flaming in the west, and above them a solitary star was shining. The fields lay sombre and deserted on either side, but straight ahead, in the lighter streak of the road, she saw Nicholas’s figure swinging onward. She might have called to him, but she did not; she sped like a shadow in his path until, hearing her footfalls in the dust, he looked back and halted.

“You!” he exclaimed.

She came up to him, her hand at her throat, her face turned towards the sunset. For a moment her breath failed and she could not speak; then all the words that she had meant to say—the appeal to him for truth, the cry of her own belief in him—rang theatrical and ineffectual in her brain.

When at last she spoke, it was to voice the mere tripping of her tongue—to utter words which belied the beating of her thoughts.

“You must marry her,” she said, and it seemed to her that it was a stranger who spoke. She did not mean that—she had never meant it.

He looked at her blankly, and made a sudden movement forward, but she waved him off.

“For God’s sake, whom?” he demanded.

She wished that he had laughed at her—that he had laid bare the whole hideous farce, but he did not; he regarded her gravely, with a grim inquiry.

“Whom do you mean?” he repeated.

A light wind sprang up, blowing across the pasture and whirling the dead leaves of distant trees into their faces. Overhead other stars came out, and far away an owl hooted.

“Oh! you know, you know,” she said, with a desperate anger at his immobility. “When I saw you with her to-day, I did not—I did not—”

“Do you mean Bessie Pollard?” he asked. His voice was hard; it was characteristic of him that, in the supreme test, his sense of humour failed him. He met grave issues with a gravity that upheld them.

She bowed her head. At the same time she flung out a despairing hand for hope, but he did not notice it. She was softening to him—if she had ever steeled herself against him—and a single summons to her faith would have vanquished the feeble resistance. But he did not make it—the inflexible front which she had seen turned to others she now saw presented to herself. He looked at her with an austere tightening of the mouth and held off.

“And they have told you that I ruined her,” he said, “and you believe them.”

“No—no,” she cried; “not that!”

His eyes were on her, but there was no yielding in them. The arrogant pride of a strong man, plainly born, was face to face with her appeal. His features were set with the rigidity of stone.

“Who has told you this?” he demanded.

“Oh, it is not true—it is not true,” she answered; “but Bernard—Bernard believed it—and he is your friend.”

Then his smouldering rage burst forth, and his face grew black. It was as if an incarnate devil had leaped into his eyes. He took a step forward.

“Then may God damn him,” he said, “for he is the man!”

She fell from him as if he had struck her. Her spirit flashed out as his had done. The anger of her race shot forth.

“Oh, stop! stop! How dare you!” she cried; “for he tried to shield you—he tried to shield you—he would shield you if he could.”

But he crossed to where she stood and caught her outstretched hands in a grasp that hurt her. She winced, and his hold grew gentle; but his voice was brutal in its passion.

“Be silent,” he said, “and listen to me. They have lied to you, and you have believed them—you I shall never forgive—you are nothing to me—nothing. As for him—may God, in his mercy, damn him!”

He let her hands drop and went from her into the silence of the open road.

When the thud of his footsteps was muffled by the distance Eugenia turned and went back through the cedar avenue. She walked heavily, and there was a bruised sensation in her limbs as if she had hurt herself upon stones. A massive fatigue oppressed her, and she stumbled once or twice over the rocks in the road. Her happiness was dead, this she told herself; telling herself, also, that it had not perished by anger or by disbelief. The slayer loomed intangible and yet inevitable—the shade that had arisen from the gigantic gulf between separate classes which they had sought, in ignorance, to abridge. The pride of Nicholas was not individual, but typical—the pride of caste, and it was against this that she had sinned—not in distrusting his honour, but in offending it. It was in the clash of class, after all, that their theories had crumbled. He might come back to her again—she might go forth to meet him—but the bloom had gone from their dreams—in the reunion she saw neither permanence nor abiding. The strongest of her instincts—the one that made for the blood she bore—had quivered beneath the onslaught of his accusation, but had not bent. Wherever and whenever the struggle came she stood, as the Battles had always stood, for the clan. Be it right or wrong, true or false, it was hers and she was on its side.

As she went beneath the great cedars, their long branches brushed her face, like the remembering touch of familiar fingers, and she put up her cheek to them as if they were sentient things. Long ago they had soothed her as a troubled child, and now their caresses cooled her fever. Underfoot she felt the ancient carpet they had spread throughout the century—and it smoothed the way for her heavy feet. She was in the state of subjective passiveness when the consciousness of external objects alone seems awake. She felt a tenderness for the twisted box bushes she brushed in passing, a vague pity for a sickly moth that flew into her face; but for herself she was without pity or tenderness—she had not brought her mind to bear upon her own hurt.

Indoors she found the family at supper. The general, hearing her step, called her to her seat and gave her the brownest chicken breast in the dish before him. Miss Chris offered her the contents of the cream jug, and Congo plied her with Aunt Verbeny’s lightest waffles; but the food choked her and she could not eat. A lump rose in her throat, and she saw the kindly, accustomed faces through a gathering mist. She regarded each with a certain intentness, a peculiar feeling that there were hidden traits in the commonplace features which she had never seen before—a complexity in the benign candour of Miss Chris’s countenance, in the overwrought youthfulness of Bernard’s, in the apoplectic credulity of the general’s. Familiar as they were, it seemed to her that there were latent possibilities—obscure tendencies, which were revealed to her now with microscopic exaggeration.

The general put his hand to her forehead and smoothed back the moist hair.

“Ain’t you well, daughter?” he asked anxiously. “Would you like a toddy?”

“It’s nothing,” said Miss Chris cheerfully. “She’s walked too far, that’s all. Eugie, you must go to bed early.”

“I had her out all the morning in the sun,” put in Bernard, with an affectionate nod at Eugenia, “and she’s such a trump she wouldn’t give out.”

“You must learn to consider your sister,” said his father testily.

“Oh! I liked it, papa,” declared Eugenia. “I’m well and—I’m hungry.”

Congo brought more waffles, and she ate one with grim determination. The alert affection which surrounded her—which proved sensitive to a change of colour or a tremor of voice, filled her with a swift sense of security. She felt a sudden impulse to draw nearer in the shelter of the race—to cling more closely to that unswerving instinct which had united individual to individual and generation to generation.

As they rose from the table, she slipped her arm through her father’s and went with him into the hall.

“I’m tired,” she said, stopping him on his way to the sitting-room, “so I’ll go to bed.”

The general held her from him and looked into her face.

“Anybody been troubling you, Eugie?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You dear old goose—no!”

He patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“If anybody troubles you, you just let me hear of it,” he said. “They’ll find out Tom Battle wasn’t at Appomattox. You’ve got an old father and he’s got an old sword—”

“And he’s hungry for a fight,” she gaily finished. Then she rubbed her cheek against his brown linen sleeve, which was redolent of tobacco. The firm physical contact inspired her with the courage of life; it seemed to make for her a bulwark against the world and its incoming tribulations.

She threw back her head and looked up into the puffed and scarlet face where the coarse veins were congested, her eyes seeing only the love which transfigured it. She was his pet and his pride, and she would always be the final reward of his long life.

As she mounted the stairs, he blew his nose and called cheerfully after her:

“Just remember, if anybody begins plaguing you, that I’m ready for him—the rascal.”

Once in her room she threw open the window and sat looking out into the night, the chill autumn wind in her face. Far across the fields a pale moon was rising, bearing a cloudy circle that betokened rain. It flung long, ghostly shadows east and west, which flitted, lean and noiseless and black, before the wind. Overhead the stars shone dimly, piercing a fine mist. Eugenia leaned forward, her chin on her clasped hands. Beyond the gray blur of the pasture she could see, like benighted beacons, the lights in Amos Burr’s windows, and she found herself vaguely wondering if Nicholas were at his books—those books that never failed him. He had that consolation at least—his books were more to him than she had been.

She was not conscious of anger; she felt only an indifferent weariness—a nervous shrinking from the brutality of his rage. His face as she had seen it rose suddenly before her, and she put her hand to her eyes as if to shut out the sight. She saw the clear streak of the highway, the gray pasture, the solitary star overhanging the horizon, and she felt the dead leaves blown against her cheek from denuded trees far distant. And lighted by a glare of memory she saw his face—she saw the convulsed features, the furrow that cleft the forehead like a seam, the heavy brows bent above the half-closed eyes, the spasmodic working of the drawn mouth. She saw the man in whom, for its brief instant, evil was triumphant—in whom that self-poise, which had been to her as the secret of his strength, was tumultuously overthrown.

A great fatigue weighed upon her, as if she had emerged, defeated, from a physical contest. Her hands trembled, and something throbbed in her temple like an imprisoned bird.

As she sat in the silence, the door opened softly and Miss Chris came in, bearing a lamp in her hand.

“Eugie,” she said, peering into the darkness, “are you there?”

Eugenia lowered the window and came over to the hearth rug, where she stood blinking from the sudden glare of the lamp. There were some half-extinguished embers amid the ashes in the fireplace, and she threw on fresh wood, watching while it caught and blazed up lightly over the old brass andirons.

Miss Chris set the lamp on the table and came over to the fire. She carried her key basket in her hand, and the keys jingled as she moved. Her smooth, florid face had a fine moisture over it that showed like dew on a well-sunned peach.

“You aren’t worrying about Nick Burr, Eugie,” she said with the amiable bluntness which belonged to her. “I wouldn’t let it worry me if I were you.”

Eugenia turned with a flash of pride.

“No, I am not worrying about him,” she answered.

Miss Chris lifted a vase from the mantel-piece, dusted the spot where it had stood, and replaced it carefully.

“Of course, I know you’ve seen a good deal of him of late,” she went on; “but, as I told Tom, I knew it was nothing more than your being playmates together. He’s a good boy, and I don’t believe that scandal about him any more than I would about Bernard; but he’s Amos Burr’s son, after all, though he has raised himself a long way above him, and, as poor Aunt Griselda used to say, ‘When all’s said and done, a Battle’s a Battle.’”

Eugenia was looking into the fire.

“Yes,” she repeated slowly, “a Battle’s a Battle, after all.”

“That’s right, dear. I knew you’d say so. I always declared that you were more of a Battle than all the rest of us put together—if you do look the image of a Tucker. Tom was telling me only last week that he’d leave you as free as air and trust the name in your hands sooner than he would in his own—and he has a great deal of family pride, you know, though he was so wild in his youth. But I remember my father once saying: ‘A Battle may go a long way down the wrong road, but he’ll always pull up in time to turn.’”

Her beautiful eyes shone in the firelight, and her placid mouth formed a round hole above her dimpled chin, giving her large face an expression almost infantile. She took up the key basket, which she had placed on the mantel-piece, cast a glance at the pile of logs to see if it had been replenished, felt the cover on the bed, after inquiring if it sufficed, and, with a cheerful “good-night,” passed out, closing the door behind her.

Eugenia did not turn as the door closed. She stood motionless upon the hearth rug, looking down into the fire. Something in the huge old fireplace, with its bent andirons supporting the blazing logs, in the increasing bed of embers upon the bricks, in the sharp odour of the knot of resinous pine she had thrown on with the hickory, brought before her the winter evenings in Delphy’s little cabin, when they sat upon three-legged stools and roasted early winesaps. She saw the negro faces in the glow of the hearth, and she saw Nicholas and herself sitting side by side in the shadow. His childish face, with its look of ancient care, came back to her with the knotted boyish hands that had carried and fetched at her bidding. The whole wistful little figure was imaged in the flames, melting rapidly into the boy, eager to act, ardent to achieve, who had bidden her good-bye on that November afternoon, and, dissolving again, to reappear as the strong man who had come upon her in Uncle Ish’s little shanty, bearing the old negro’s bag upon his shoulder.

She had loved him for his strength, his vigour, his gentleness—and she still loved him.

Of the men that she had known, who was there so ready to assist, so forgetful of services which he had rendered? There was none so powerful and yet so kind—so generous or so gentle. An impulse stirred her to cross the fields to his door and fling herself into the breach that divided them; but again the phantom in the flames grew dim and then sent out the face that she had seen that afternoon—convulsed and quivering, with its flitting sinister likeness to Amos Burr. A voice that seemed to be the voice of old dead Aunt Griselda—of her whole dead race that had decayed and been forgotten, and come to life again in her—spoke suddenly from the silence:

“When all’s said and done, a Battle’s a Battle.”

The resinous pine blazed up, the pungent odour filled the large room, and from the lightwood sticks tiny streams of resin oozed out and dripped into the embers, turning the red to gray.

Mingling with the crackling of the flames there was a noise as of the soughing of the wind in the pine forests.

The hearth grew suddenly blurred before her eyes; and a passion of grief rose to her throat and clutched her with the grip of claws. For an instant longer she stood motionless; then, turning from the fire, she threw herself upon the floor to weep until the daybreak.

---

VII

When Nicholas left Eugenia it was to stride blindly towards his father’s gate. The rage which had stunned him into silence before the girl now leaped and crackled like flame in his blood. His throat was parched and he saw red like a man who kills.

Passing his home, he kept on to Kingsborough, and once within the shadow of the wood, he broke into a run, flying from himself and from the goad of his wrath. As he ran, he felt with a kind of alien horror that to meet Bernard Battle face to face in this hour would be to do murder—murder too mild for the man who had lied away his friend’s honour for the sake of the whiteness of his own skin. It was the injustice that he resented with a holy rage—the hideous fact that a clean man should be spotted to save an unclean one the splashing he merited.

And Eugenia also—he hated Eugenia that he had kept her image untarnished in his thoughts; that he had allowed the desire for no other woman to shadow it. He had held himself as a temple for the worship of her; he had permitted no breath of defilement to blow upon the altar—and this was his reward. This—that the woman he loved had hurled the first stone at the mere lifting of a Pharisaical finger—that she had loved him and had turned from him when the first word was uttered—as she would not have turned from the brother of her blood had he been damned in Holy Writ. It was for this that he hated her.

The light of the sunset shining through the wood fell dull gold on his pathway. A strong wind was blowing among the trees, and the dried leaves were torn from the boughs and hurled roughly to the earth, when they sped onward to rest against the drifts by the roadside. The sound of the wind was deep and hoarse like the baying of distant hounds, and beneath it, in plaintive minor, ran the sighing of the leaves before his footsteps. Through the wood came the vague smells of autumn—a reminiscent waft of decay, the reek of mould on rotting logs, the effluvium of overblown flowers, the healthful smack of the pines. By dawn frost would grip the vegetation and the wind would lull; but now it blew, strong and clear, scattering before it withered growths and subtle scents of death.

Out of the wood, Nicholas came on the highway again, and turned to where the afterglow burnished the windows of Kingsborough. He followed the road instinctively—as he had followed it daily from his childhood up, beating out the impression of his own footsteps in the dust, obliterating his old, even tracks by the reckless tramp of his delirium.

When he reached the college grounds he paused from the same dazed impulse and looked back upon the west through the quiet archway of the long brick building. The place was desolate with the desolation of autumn. Through the funereal arch he saw the sunset barred by a network of naked branches, while about him the darkening lawn was veiled with the melancholy drift of the leaves. The only sound of life came from a brood of turkeys settling to roost in a shivering aspen.

He turned and walked rapidly up the main street, where a cloud of dust hung suspended. Past the court-house, across the green, past the little whitewashed gaol, where in a happier season roses bloomed—out into the open country where the battlefields were grim with headless corn rows—he walked until he could walk no further, and then wheeled about to retrace heavily his way. His rage was spent; his pulses faltered from fatigue, and the red flashes faded from before his eyes.

When he reached home supper was over, and Nannie sat sewing in the little room adjoining the kitchen.

“You’re late for supper,” she said idly as he entered. “Sairy Jane’s gone to bed with a headache and ma’s in a temper. I’ll get you something as soon as I’ve done this seam.”

“I’ve had supper,” he answered shortly, adding from force of habit, “where’s ma?”

Nannie motioned towards the kitchen and drew a little nearer the lamp, while Nicholas left the room in search of his stepmother.

Marthy Burr, a pile of newly dug potatoes on the floor beside her, was carefully sorting them before storing them for winter use. The sound ones she laid in a basket at her right hand, those that were of imperfect growth or showed signs of decay she threw into a hamper that was kept in the kitchen closet.

“You ought to make Jubal do this,” said Nicholas as he entered.

“I wouldn’t trust the thickest skinned potato in the field in his hands,” returned Marthy sharply. “He an’ yo’ pa made out to store ’em last year, an’ when I went to look in the first barrel, the last one of ’em had rotted.”

“Let them rot,” said Nicholas harshly. “I be damned if I’d care. You don’t eat them, anyway.”

“I reckon if I was a man I might consarn myself ’bout the things that tickle my own palate—an’ ’taters ain’t one of ’em,” was his stepmother’s retort. “But, being a woman, it seems I’ve got to spend my life slavin’ for other folks’ stomachs. But you’re yo’ Uncle Nick Sales all over again; ‘Don’t you get up befo’ day to set that dough, Marthy,’ he’d say, but when the bread came on flat as a pancake, he’d look sourer than all the rest.”

“What was my Uncle Nick Sales like?” asked Nicholas indifferently. He knew the name, but he had never heard the man’s story.

“All book larnin’ an’ mighty little sense—just like you,” replied his stepmother with repressed pride in her voice. “Could read the Bible in an outlandish tongue an’ was too big a fool to come in out of the rain. He used to sit up all night at his books—an’ fall asleep the next day at the plough. He was the wisest fool I ever see.”

“Poor fool!” said Nicholas softly. It was the epitaph over the unmarked grave of that other member of his race who had blazed the thorny path before him. A strange, pathetic figure rose suddenly in his vision—a man with a great brow and a twisted back, with brawny, knotted hands—an unlearned student driving the plough, an ignorant philosopher dragging the mire.

“Poor fool!” he said again. “What did his learning do for him?”

“It killed him,” returned his stepmother shortly.

She stood before him wiping her gnarled hands on her soiled apron. His gaze fell upon her, and he wondered angrily whence sprung her indomitable energy—the energy that could expend itself upon potatoes. Her face was sharpened until it seemed to become all feature—there were hollows in the narrow temples, and where the pale, thin hair was drawn tightly over the head he could trace the prominent bones of the skull.

As he looked at her his own petty suffering was overshadowed by the visible tragedy of her life—the sordid tragedy where unconsciousness was pathos. He reached out quickly and took a corner of her apron in his hand. It was the strongest demonstration of affection he had ever made to her.

“I’ll sort them, ma,” he said lightly. “There’s not a speck in the lot of them too fine for my eyes.” And he knelt down beside the earthy heap.

But when he went up to his room an hour later and lighted his kerosene lamp, it was not of his stepmother that he was thinking—nor was it of Eugenia. His stiffened muscles contracted in physical pain, and his brain was deadened by the sense of unutterable defeat. The delirium of his anger had passed away; the fever of his skin had chilled beneath the cold sweat that broke over him—in the reaction from the madness that had gripped him he was conscious of a sanity almost sublime. The habitual balance of his nature had swung back into place.

He got out his books and arranged them as usual beside the lamp. Then he took up the volume he had been reading and held it unopened in his hands. He stared straight before him at the whitewashed wall of the little room, at the rough pine bedstead, at the crude washstand, at the coloured calendar above.

On the unearthly whiteness of the wall he beheld the pictured vision of that other student of his race—the kinsman who had lived toiling and had died learning. He came to him a tragic figure in mire-clotted garments—a youth with aspiring eyes and muck-stained feet. He wondered what had been his history—that unknown labourer who had sought knowledge—that philosopher of the plough who had died in ignorance.

“Poor fools!” he said bitterly, “poor fools!” for in his vision that other student walked not alone.

The next morning he went into Kingsborough at his usual hour, and, passing his own small office, kept on to where Tom Bassett’s name was hung.

It was county court day, and the sheriff and the clerk of the court were sitting peaceably in armchairs on the little porch of the court-house. As Nicholas passed with a greeting, they turned from a languid discussion of the points of a brindle cow in the street to follow mentally his powerful figure.

“I reckon he’s got more muscle than any man in town,” remarked the sheriff in a reflective drawl. “Unless Phil Bates, the butcher, could knock him out. Like to see ’em at each other, wouldn’t you?” he added with a laugh.

The clerk carefully tilted his chair back against the wall and surveyed his outstretched feet. “Like to live to see him stumping this State for Congress,” he replied. “There goes the brainiest man these parts have produced since before the war—the people want their own men, and it’s time they had ’em.”

Nicholas passed on to Tom’s office, and, finding it empty, turned back to the judge’s house, where he found father and son breakfasting opposite each other at a table bright with silver and chrysanthemums.

They hospitably implored him to join them, but he shook his head, motioning away the plate which old Cæsar would have laid before him.

“I wanted to ask Tom if he had heard this—this lie about me,” he said quickly.

Tom looked up, flushing warmly.

“Why, who’s been such a blamed fool as to tell you?” he demanded.

“You have heard it?”

“It isn’t worth hearing. I called Jerry Pollard up at once, and he swore he was all wrong—the girl herself exonerates you. Nobody believed it.”

Nicholas crushed the brim of his hat in a sudden grip.

“Some believe it,” he returned slowly. He sat down at the table, smiling gratefully at the judge’s protestations.

“They aren’t all like you, sir,” he declared. “I wish they were. This world would be a little nearer heaven—a little less like hell.”

There was a trail of lingering bitterness in his voice, and in a moment he added quickly: “Do you know, I’d like to get away for a time. I’ve changed my mind about caring to live here. If they’d send me up to the legislature next year, I’d make a new beginning.”

The judge shook his head.

“I doubt the wisdom of it, my boy,” he said. But Tom caught at the suggestion.

“Send you,” he repeated. “Of course; they’ll send you from here to Jericho, if you say so. Why, there’s no end to your popularity among men. Where the ladies are concerned, I modestly admit that I have the advantage of you; but they can’t vote, God bless them!”

“You’re welcome to all the good they may bring you, old boy,” was Nicholas’s unchivalrous retort.

“Oh, you’re jealous, Nick!” twitted Tom gaily. “They don’t take kindly to your carrot locks. Now, I’ve inherited a way with them, eh, dad?”

The judge complacently buttered his buckwheats. There was a twinkle in his eyes and a quiver at the corner of his classic mouth.

“It was the only inheritance I wasn’t able to squander in my wild oats days,” he returned. “May you cherish it, my boy, as carefully as your father has done. It would be a dull world without the women.”

“And a peaceable one,” added Nicholas viciously.

“We owe them much,” said the judge, pouring maple syrup from the old silver jug. “If Helen of Troy set the world at war, she made men heroes.”

“You can’t get the pater to acknowledge that the fair things are ever wrong,” put in Tom protestingly. “He would have proved Eve’s innocence to the Almighty. If a woman murdered ten men before his eyes he’d lay the charge on the devil and acquit her.”

The judge shook his head with a laugh.

“I might merely argue that the queen can do no wrong,” he suggested.

When Tom had finished his breakfast, Nicholas walked with him to his office, and, seeing Bessie Pollard, red-eyed and drooping in her father’s door, he lingered an instant and held out his hand. There was defiant sympathy in his act—disdain of the judgment of Kingsborough—and of General Battle, who was passing—and pity for a bruised common thing that looked at him with beautiful, mindless eyes.

“You aren’t looking bright to-day,” he said kindly, “but things will pull through, never fear—they always do, if you give them time.”

Then he responded coolly to the general’s cool nod, and, rejoining Tom, they went on arm in arm. In his large-minded manhood it had not occurred to him to connect the girl with the wrong done upon him—he knew her to be more weak than wicked, and, in her soft, pretty sadness, she reminded him of a half-drowned kitten.

During the next few months he frequently passed Eugenia in the road. Sometimes he did not look at her, and again he met her wistful gaze and spoke without a smile. Once he checked an eager movement towards her because he had met Bernard just ahead—and he hated him; once he had seen the carriage in the distance and had waited in a passionate rush of remorse and love to hear her laughter as she talked with Dudley Webb. They had faced each other at last with resolute eyes and unswerving wills. On his side was the pride of an innocent man accused, the bitterness of a proud man on an inferior plane; on hers, the recollection of that wild evening in the road, and the belated recognition of the debt she owed her race.

In the winter she went up to Richmond and he slowly forced himself to renounce her. He began to see his old dream as it was—an emotional chimera; a mental madness. As the year grew on he watched his long hope wither root and branch, until, with the resurrection of the spring, it lay still because there was no life left that might put forth. And when his hope was dead he told himself that his unhappiness died with it, that he might throw himself single-hearted into the work of his life.

---

VIII

The year passed and was done with—leaves budded, expanded, fell again. Eugenia watched their growth, fulfilment, and decay as she had watched them other seasons, though with eyes a thought widened by experience, a shade darkened by tears. At first she had suffered wildly, then passively, at last resignedly. The colour rebloomed in her cheek, the gaiety rang back to her voice, for she was young, and youth is ever buoyant.

There was work for her to do on the place, and she did it cheerfully. She studied farming with her father and overhauled the methods of the overseer, to the man’s annoyance and the general’s delight. “She tells me Varly isn’t scientific,” roared the general with rapturous enjoyment. “A scientific overseer! She’ll be asking for an honest politician next.”

“I’m sure Varly is a very respectable man,” protested Miss Chris in her usual position of defence. “The servants were always devoted to him before the war—that says a good deal.”

“There’s not a better man in the county,” admitted the general, “or a worse farmer. Here I’ve let him go down hill at his own gait for more than thirty years, to be pulled up in the end by a chit of a girl. I wouldn’t, if I were you, Eugie. He’s old and he’s slow.”

“Oh! I’ll promise not to hurt him,” returned Eugenia. “I save him a lot of hard work, and he likes it.”

She drew on her loose dogskin gloves and went out to overlook the shucking of the corn.

With the exercise in the open air she had gained in suppleness and brilliancy. It was the outdoor work that saved her spirit and her beauty—that gave her endurance for the indoor monotony and magnified the splendid optimism of her saddest hour. She was a woman born for happiness; when the Fates failed to accord it she defied them and found her own.

In the autumn news came that Nicholas was elected to the General Assembly. The judge brought it, riding out on a bright afternoon to chat with the general before the blazing logs.

“The lad has a future,” said the judge with a touch of pride. “Brains don’t grow on blackberry vines;” then he laughed softly. “Cæsar voted for him,” he added.

The general slapped his knee.

“Cæsar is a gentleman,” he exclaimed. “He was the first darkey in Kingsborough to vote the Democratic ticket. I walked up to the polls with him and the boys cheered him. You weren’t there, George.”

The judge shook his head.

“They called it undue influence,” he said; “but, on my honour, Tom, I never spoke a political word to Cæsar in my life. Of course he’d heard me talk with Tom at dinner. He’d heard me say that the man of his race who would dare to vote with white men would be head and shoulders above his people, a man of mind, a man that any gentleman in the county would be proud to shake by the hand—but seek to influence Cæsar! Never, sir!”

“Now, there’s that Ishmael of mine,” said the general aggrievedly. “He no sooner got his vote than he cast it just to spite me. I told the fool he didn’t know any more about voting than the old mule Sairy did, and he said he didn’t have to know ‘nothin’ cep’n his name.’ He forgot that when they challenged him at the polls, but he voted all the same—voted in my face, sir.”

They lighted their pipes and sang the praises of that idyllic period which they called “before the war,” while Eugenia crept away into the shadows.

She was glad that Nicholas would go; glad, glad, glad—so glad that she wept a little in the cold of a dark corner.

A week later Dudley came down, and she met him with a friendliness that dismayed and disarmed him. Could a woman be so frankly cordial with a man she loved? Could she face a passion that inspired her with such serene self-poise? He questioned these things, but he did not hesitate. He was of a Virginian line of lovers, and he charged in courtship as courageously as his father had charged in battle. He was magnificent in his youthful ardour, and so fitted for success that it seemed already to cast a prophetic halo about his head.

“You are superb,” Eugenia had said, half insolently, looking up at him as he stood in the firelight. “How odd that I never noticed it before.”

“You are looking at yourself in my eyes,” he returned gallantly.

She shook her head.

“There are so many women who like handsome men, it’s a pity you can’t fall in love with one,” she said coldly.

“Am I to infer that you prefer ugly men?” he questioned.

“I—oh! I am too good-looking to care,” she replied.

She sprang up suddenly and stood beside him. “We do look well together,” she said with grave audacity.

He laughed. “I am flattered. It may weigh with you in your future plans. Come, Eugie, let me love you!”

But her mood changed and she dragged him with her out into the autumn fields.

In the last days of November a long rain came—a ruinous autumnal rain that beat the white roads into livid streams of mud and sent the sad dead leaves in shapeless tatters to the earth. The glory of the fall had brought back the glory of her love; its death revived the agony of the long decay.

At night the rain throbbed upon the tin roof above her. Sometimes she would turn upon her pillow, stuffing the blankets about her ears; but, muffled by the bedclothes, she heard always the incessant melancholy sound. She heard it beating on the naked roof, rushing tumultuously to the overflowing pipes, dripping upon the wet stones of the gutter below, sweeping from the earth dead leaves, dead blossoms, dead desires.

In the day she watched it from the windows. The flower beds, desolated, formed muddy fountains, the gravel walk was a shining rivulet, the sycamore held three yellow leaves that clung vainly to a sheltered bough, the aspen faced her, naked—only the impenetrable gloom of the cedars was secure—sombre and inviolate.

On the third day she went out into the rain; splashing miles through the heavy roads and returning with a glow in her cheeks and the savour of the dampness in her mouth.

Taking off her wet garments she carried them to the kitchen to be dried. With the needed exercise, her cheerful animation had returned.

In the brick kitchen a gloomy group of negroes surrounded the stove.

“Dar’s gwine ter be a flood an’ de ea’th hit’s gwine ter pass away,” lamented Aunt Verbeny, lifting the ladle from a huge pot, the contents of which she was energetically stirring. “Hit’s gwine ter pass away wid de men en de cattle en de crops, en de black folks dey’s gwine ter pass des’ de same es dey wuz white.”

“I’se monst’ous glad I’se got religion,” remarked a strange little negro woman who had come over to sell a string of hares her husband had shot. “De Lawd He begun ter git mighty pressin’ las’ mont’, so I let ’im have His way. Blessed be de name er de Lawd! Is you a church member, Sis Delphy?”

“Yes, Lawd, a full-breasted member,” responded Delphy, clamping the declivity of her bosom.

“I ain’ got much use fur dis yer gittin’ en ungittin’ er salvation,” put in Uncle Ish from the table where he was eating a late dinner of Aunt Verbeny’s providing. “Dar’s too much monkeyin’ mixed up wid it fur me. Hit’s too much de work er yo’ j’ints ter make me b’lieve hit’s gwine ter salivate yo’ soul. When my wife, Mandy, wuz ’live, I tuck ’n cyar’ed her long up ter one er dese yer revivals, en’ ole Sis Saphiry Baker come ’long gittin’ happy, en fo’ de Lawd she rid ’er clean roun’ de chu’ch. Naw, suh, de religion I wanter lay holt on is de religion uv rest.”

“I ain’ never sarved my Lawd wid laziness,” put in Aunt Verbeny reprovingly. “When He come arter me I ain’ never let de ease er my limbs stan’ in de way. Ef you can’t do a little shoutin’ on de ea’th, you’re gwineter have er po’ sho’ ter keep de Lawd f’om overlookin’ you at Kingdom Come.”

The strange little woman faced them proudly. “My husband, Silas, got religion in de night time,” she said, “an’ he bruck clean thoo de slats. De bed ain’t helt stiddy sence.”

Eugenia emerged from the dusk of the doorway, where she had lingered, and Delphy rose to take the dripping clothes.

“Des’ look at her!” exclaimed Aunt Verbeny at the girl’s entrance. “Ain’t she a sight ter mek a blin’ man see?” Then she added to the strange little woman, “Dar ain’ no lack er beaux roun’ yer, needer.”

Uncle Ish grunted.

“I ain’ seen ’em swum es dey swum roun’ Miss Meely,” he muttered, while Aunt Verbeny shook her fist at him behind the stranger’s back. “De a’r wuz right thick wid ’em.”

“I reckon dis chile’ll be mah’r’d soon es she sets her min’ on it,” returned Delphy indignantly. “She ain’ gwineter have ter do much cuttin’ er de eyelashes, needer. De beaux come natch’ul.”

“Dar’s Marse Dudley, now,” said Aunt Verbeny. “I ain’ so ole but my palate hit kin taste a gent’mun a mile off. Marse Dudley ain’ furgit de times I’se done roas’ him roas’in’ years when he warn’ mo’n er chile. Hit’s ‘how’s yo’ health, Aunt Verbeny?’ des’ de same es ’twuz den.”

Eugenia laughed and flung the heap of garments into Delphy’s arms. “The rain’s over,” she said; “but, Uncle Ish, you’d better get Congo to fix you up for the night. It is too wet for your rheumatism,” and she ran singing upstairs to where the general was dozing in the sitting-room. “Wake up, dad! it’s going to clear!”

The general started heavily from his sleep. There was a dazed look in his eyes.

“Clear?” he asked doubtfully, “has it been raining?”

Eugenia shook him into consciousness.

“Raining for three whole days, and I believe you’ve slept through it. Now the clouds are breaking.”

“What is it the Bible says about ‘the winter of our discontent’?—that’s what it is.”

“Not the Bible, dear—Shakespeare.”

“It’s the same thing,” retorted the general testily. His speech came thickly as if he held a pebble in his mouth, and the swollen veins in his face were livid.

Eugenia bent over him in sudden uneasiness. “Aren’t you well, papa?” she asked. “Is anything the matter?”

The general laughed and pinched her cheek.

“Never better in my life,” he declared, “but I’ll have to be getting new glasses. These things aren’t worth a cent. Find them, Eugie.”

Eugenia picked them up, wiped them on his silk handkerchief, and put them on his nose.

“You’ve slept too long,” she said. “Come and take a walk in the hall.”

She dragged him from his chair, and he yielded under protest.

“You forget that two hundred pounds can’t skip about like fifty,” he complained.

But he followed her to the long hall, and they paced slowly up and down in the afternoon shadows. At the end of ten minutes the general declared that he felt so well he would go back to his chair.

“I’ll get the ‘Southern Planter’ and read to you,” said Eugenia. “Don’t go to sleep.”

She ran lightly upstairs and, coming down in a moment, called him. He did not answer and she called again.

The sitting-room was in dusk, and, as she entered, the firelight showed the huge body of the general lying upon the hearth rug. A sound of heavy snoring filled the room.

She flung herself beside him, lifting the great head upon her lap; but before she had cried out Miss Chris was at her elbow.

“Hush, Eugie,” she said quickly, though the girl had not spoken. “Send Sampson for Dr. Bright, and tell Delphy to bring pillows. Give him to me.”

Her voice was firm, and there was no tremor in her large, helpful hands.

When Eugenia returned, the general was still lying upon the hearth rug, his head supported by pillows. Miss Chris had opened one of the western windows, and a cool, damp air filled the room. The rain had begun again, descending with a soft, purring sound. Above it she heard the laboured breathing from the hearth rug, and in the firelight she saw the regular inflation of the swollen cheeks. The distended pupils stared back at her, void of light.

As she stood motionless, her hands clenched before her, she followed the soft, weighty tread of Miss Chris, passing to and fro with improvised applications. The light fall of the rain irritated her; she longed for the relentless downpour of the night.

At the end of an hour the roll of wheels broke the stillness, and she went out to meet the doctor, passing, with a shiver, the unconscious mass on the floor.

They carried him to his bed in the chamber next the parlour, and through the night and day he lay an inert bulk beneath the bedclothes. Miss Chris and Eugenia and the servants passed in and out of his room. One of the dogs came and sat upon the threshold until Eugenia put her arms about his neck and drew him away. She had not wept; she was white and drawn and silent, as if the shock had dulled her to insensibility. During the afternoon of the next day she persuaded Miss Chris to rest, and, softly closing the door, sat down in a chair beside her father’s bed. It was the high white bed that had known the marriage, birth, and death of a century of Battles. In it her father was born; beside it, kneeling at prayer, her mother had died. The stately tester frame had seen generations come and go, and had remained unchanged. Now its stiff white curtains made a ghastly drapery above the purple face.

Eugenia sat motionless, her thoughts vaguely circling about the still figure before her. It was not her father—this she felt profoundly—it was some strange shape that had taken his place, or she was held by some farcical nightmare from which she should awake presently with a start. The half-used glasses on the little table beside her; the candle burned down in the socket, and overlooked; the tightly corked phials of useless drugs; the strong odour of mustard from the saucer in which a plaster had been mixed—these things struck upon her faltering consciousness with a shock of horrible reality. The odour of the mustard was more real than the breathing of the body on the bed.

As she sat there, she thought of her mother—the pale, still woman who had lain beautiful and dead where her father was dying now. She came to her as from a faded miniature, wistful, holy, at rest—blessed and above reproach. Her heart went out to her as to one standing near, hidden by the long white curtains—nearer than Aunt Chris asleep upstairs, nearer than Bernard, who was coming to her, nearer than the great form on the bed. Closer than all other things was that spiritual presence. Then she thought of her old negro mammy, who had died when she was but a baby—her mother’s nurse and hers. She recalled the beloved black face beneath the snowy handkerchief, the restful bosom in blue homespun, the tireless arms that had rocked her into slumber. Then of Jim, the dog, true friend and faithful playmate. All the lives that she had loved and had been bereft of gathered closer, closer in the gray shadows.

Her gaze passed to the window, seeking in the sad landscape the little graveyard where they were lying. The rain came between her and the clouded hill—descending softly and insistently between her eyes and the end of her search. Against the panes the dripping branches of the shivering mimosa tree beat themselves and moaned. A chill seized her and, rising, she went to the hearth, noiselessly piling wood upon the charred and waning logs, which crumbled and sent up a thin flame. She hurried to the bed and sat down again, her eyes on the blanket that rose and fell with the difficult breath. As she looked at the large, familiar face, tracing its puffed outline and gross colouring, it resolved itself into her earliest remembrance—throughout her childhood he had been her slave and she his tyrant. What wish of hers had he ever ignored? With what demand had he ever failed to comply? At the end of the long life what had remained to him except herself—the single compensation—the one reward? The pity of it smote her as with a lash. He had lived with such fine bravery, and he had had so little—so little, and yet more than myriads of the men that live and die. That live and die! About her and beyond her she seemed to hear the rushing of great multitudes—the passing of the countless souls through the gates of death.

With a cry she threw herself upon her knees, beseeching the dull ears.

---

Six hours later he died, and when the rain ceased and the sun came out they buried him beside his wife in the little graveyard. For days after the funeral Eugenia wandered like a shadow through the still rooms. Bernard had come and gone, carrying with him his short, sharp grief. Miss Chris had put aside her own sorrow and gone back to the management of the house; only the girl, worn, idle, tragic, haunted the reminders of her loss. Coming upon the general’s old slouch hat on the rack, she had grasped it in sudden passionate longing; at the sight of his half-filled pipe she had rushed from the room and from the house. The faint scent of tobacco about the furniture was a continual torture to her. In the great chamber next the parlour she would sit for hours, staring at the cold white bed, shivering before the fireless hearth. The place chilled her like a vault; but she would linger wretchedly until led away by Miss Chris, when she would sob upon that broad, unselfish bosom.

December passed; the unsunned earth turned itself for a winter rest. January came, swift and changeful. With February a snowstorm swept from the north, driving southward. At first they felt it in the air; then the swollen clouds chased overhead; at last the white flakes arrived, falling, falling, falling. Through the night the storm made a glistening mantle for the darkness; through the day it hid sombre sky and sombre earth in a spotless veil. It covered the far country to the distant forests; it weighted the ancient cedars until their green branches bent to earth; it wrapped the gravelled walk in a winding sheet; it filled the hollows of the box bushes until they hardened into hills of ice. The snow was followed by cold winds. The ground froze in the night. Long icicles formed on the naked trees, the window panes bore a lacework of frost.

One afternoon, when the landscape was white and hard, Eugenia went out into the deserted sheep pasture where the dead oak stood. A winter sunset was burning like a bonfire in the west, and as far as the red horizon swept an unbroken waste of snow. The rail fences shone silver in their coat of frost, and from the blackened tree above her pendants of ice were shot with light. Across the field a flock of gaunt crows flew, casting purple shadows.

Eugenia leaned against the oak and stared vacantly at the landscape—at the sunset, and at the waste of snow, across which flitted the demoniac shadows of the crows. Her eyes saw only the desolation and the death; they were sealed to the grandeur.

A sense of her own loneliness swept over her with the loneliness of nature. Her own isolation—the isolation of a strong soul in pain—walled her apart as with a wall of ice. That assurance of human companionship on which she had based her future seemed suddenly annihilated. She was alone and life was before her.

Then, as she turned her gaze, a man’s figure broke upon the field of snow, coming towards her. It was Dudley Webb, and in the resolute swing of his carriage, in the resistless ardour of his eyes, he seemed to reach her from east and west, from north and south, surrounding her with a warmth of summer.

As he looked at her he held out his arms.

“Eugie—poor girl! dear girl!”

In the desolation of her life he stood to her as the hearth of home to a wanderer in the frozen North.

For an instant she held back, and then, with a sob, she yielded.

“I must be loved,” she said. “I must be loved or I shall die.”

Around them the winter landscape reddened as the sunset broke, and above their heads the crows flew, cawing, across the snow.