# Ainslee's Magazine/The Mosaic Law

Chapters: II.— III. — IV. — V. — VI. — VII. — VIII.
THE MOSAIC LAW
By BURTON E. STEVENSON
I OF course, knew the symptoms as well as any one; better than most, indeed, since nervous diseases were my specialty. But the doctor is the last man on earth to practice what he preaches; besides, I was very busy, and my work was of intense interest to me, and it was not until I fainted after a trying operation that I realized the time had come to stop. Even then I went to see Ferringham in the hope that I might be mistaken, but the way he looked at me when I sat down opposite him in his consulting room banished that hope, and his face grew grimmer and grimmer as I told my story.
“How long has it been since you noticed all this?” he asked, when I had finished.
“It began about six months ago.”
“And you kept on just the same?”
“I thought, perhaps, it would wear off. Besides——”
“There isn't any 'besides,' he broke in impatiently. “And you knew perfectly well it wouldn't wear off. It was suicide——”
“I'm not dead yet,” I protested, smiling at his fierceness, for I knew Ferringham.
“No; but you will be, or worse, inside of six months, if you don't quit.”
“You think it's true, then?”
“Of course it's true. Are you going to place yourself in my hands or not?”
“I suppose there's nothing else to do,” I said reluctantly.
“No,” he agreed. 'There isn't.”
And he thereupon proceeded to one of his exhaustive examinations, which make those of the ordinary practitioner seem the merest superficial tappings. When he had finished, I fancied his face was not quite so grim as it had been.
“It's not so bad as you thought,” I ventured.
“It's bad enough,” he retorted. “Where would you rather go?”
“I'd rather stay here.”
“Don't talk nonsense. You can't stay here, and you know it.”
“Well, then,” I said resignedly, “I don't care where I go.”
He stopped for a moment's thought. I had always known that he was autocratic, and it had amused me. It didn't amuse me now.
“I know the place,” said he at last. “I haven't been there for a good many years, but I know it hasn't changed. It never will. Wait a minute.”
He turned to his desk telephone, and called up the offices of the Chesapeake & Ohio.
“Isn't there a through train leaving every morning about nine o'clock?” he asked. “Nine-fifteen—I thought so. Thanks.” And he hung up the receiver. “That's your train,” he said. “You'll take it to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” I gasped. “I can't go to-morrow morning, nor inside of a week. I've got a dozen cases to finish up first. I can't run away like that.”
Then Ferringham did an astonishing thing.
“I'll look after them for you, Dallas,” he said, and swung around to his desk and got out a pad. “Tell me about them.”
For a moment, I could scarcely believe my ears. Ferringham, the superb, the unmatched, the man whose every moment was precious, to take my cases!
“Well?” he said, and looked around at me.
“But—but——” I stammered.
He smiled tolerantly.
“Oh, I mean it,” he said. “I'm a little slack just now,” which I knew was a lie, “and I'm not going to have you kill yourself. I'm going to retire one of these days, and I've picked you to succeed me.”
What could I say? I couldn't do anything but wring his hand, and cough, and dissemble; and then I sat down again and told him about the cases. For most of them a word was enough; a mere hint, and he understood. I knew I could leave them in his hands. Leave them in his hands! Why, heavens and earth, it was like guaranteeing their recovery!
“Where am I banished to?” I asked, when that was finished.
“Ever been in the South? I thought not. Well, the South is just what you need—the leisurely, placid, unchanging South. At the same time, you want a bracing atmosphere.”
“Rather a difficult combination in July.”
“No, it isn't. You get it in the Blue Ridge foothills. You will be at the station at nine o'clock, and will buy a ticket for a crossroads in Virginia called Meechum. You will reach there about seven o'clock in the evening, and will stay there all night. There's a little hotel, where they'll set you up a supper of brook trout that'll make your mouth water. The next morning, you will find a wagon waiting to drive you to Eagle Gap, about fifteen miles back in the hills.”
“What is it—a summer resort?” I asked, alarmed.
“It's a sort of summer resort; but you never saw anything like it. Nobody goes there but a few of the FFV. They, or their parents, or their grand parents, or their great-grandparents, have been going there religiously every summer for the past hundred years.”
“I shall probably find it cool enough,” I commented.
“No, you won't; you'll find them the friendliest people on earth, once you get to know them. I don't want to send you into exile or to a hermitage. You've got to have something to occupy your mind. Better fall in love,” he added, smiling. “Only remember one thing—don't take those Virginia girls too seriously.”
“How long must I stay?” I asked, like the veriest layman.
“Till you can come back here and look me in the eye and tell me you're well. If I find you're not well when I look you over, I'll pick out another successor. And mind you, you're not to take an instrument or a medical paper along with you; you're to forget New York and your profession. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “Hadn't I better wire for a room?”
“No; I'll do that,” he said, with a little smile. And I shook hands with him and left.
But when I came to pack, that night, I disregarded his instructions in one particular. After all, one can never tell what will happen. So I stowed my instrument case away in the bottom of my trunk, where I would never see it unless I looked for it. I have wondered since what sort of sixth sense it was made me do that!
And that is how I happened to be sitting, one morning in late July, on the veranda of a big stone house in the Virginia foothills, with Betty Bramwell talking to me. Less than a week had elapsed since my arrival on the scene, but already I was acclimated. Yea, more than that—accepted as a friend and brother by the other sojourners at the gap, with one exception. Miss Bramwell was not the exception. I had asked her to explain this.
“Philip Ferringham sent word you were a friend of his,” she answered.
Let me say here, in parenthesis, that I shall not attempt to indicate Miss Bramwell's delicious pronunciation. To do so would be merely to travesty it. If you do not know how a Virginia girl talks, mere type can never tell you.
“Philip Ferringham sent word you were a friend of his,” said Miss Bramwell, as though no further word was necessary.
I wrinkled my brow.
“He's one of the Ferringhams, of Charles City County,” she added. “Don't be dense, please.”
“You mean that your friends' friends are your friends?”
“Certainly.” And she looked at me in astonishment that I should ask so foolish a question.
Then I understood Ferringham's smile when he said that he would wire. And I blessed him. For it is pleasant to be accepted as a friend and brother by a Virginia girl.
“It's a matter of honor,” she added. “He wouldn't have sent you if you weren't all right.”
“I'm glad you think so,” I said, and looked at her.
She returned my gaze with a candor which slightly chilled me.
“I'm not going to flirt with you,” she said calmly, “if that's what you mean.”
“I suppose it was,” I admitted, feeling considerably foolish. “I beg your pardon.”
“Everybody thinks they can flirt with me because I'm little. I suppose I do look frivolous. Do I look frivolous, Mr. Dallas?”
I glanced down into the blue eyes, and then I glanced away.
“Really,” I stammered, “you know—I—that's hardly a fair question.”
“Now, there goes Kitty Ettrick,” she continued, as a beautiful bay mare, surmounted by a no less beautiful girl, both evidently thoroughbred, swept around a corner of the house, and cantered toward us. “Nobody ever tries to flirt with her.”
I watched her until she disappeared around a turn of the road.
“Oh,” I said finally; “no—it would be like trying to flirt with the Venus De Milo.”
“Because she's so beautiful?”
“It's not that—because she's so dignified and stand-offish. She's the only person here I haven't met. What does she think about when she sits in there in the evenings, and stares into the fire with her chin in her hand? Or is it just a pose?”
Miss Bramwell's eyes brightened with sudden interest.
“You've noticed it, too? No, it isn't a pose. And I rather fancy I know what she thinks about. You know she's engaged?”
“No,” I said. “I didn't know it. How should I?”
“He's Judge Chester, of Chesterfield—a widower, middle-aged, a splendid match.”
“So that's what she thinks about?”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Bramwell, looking at me with the utmost innocence. “I don't believe she wastes any time thinking about that!”
I began to suspect that this young lady was making game of me, and I returned her look with sternness, She dimpled.
“Aren't you glad you came to the gap, Mr. Dallas?” she asked.
“Well,” I said judicially, “I'm certainly feeling better.”
“Isn't there another reason?”
“Is there?”
“If you hadn't come, you wouldn't have met me! A Southern gentleman would have said that at once.”
“See here,” I said, conscious that my ears were red, “I thought you said you didn't flirt!”
“Oh, that isn't flirting,” she protested. “That's merely paying a compliment.”
“Perhaps,” I said patiently, “you'd better explain to me exactly what flirting is.”
She considered a moment, her finger under her chin.
“It's one of those things,” she said, at last, “which can't be explained. If you don't know—if there isn't something inside you that tells you—why, no other kind of telling will do any good. You see, circumstances change so.”
“Very well,” I said. “I shall have to trust, then, to my obtuse Northern intelligence, since it's the best I have. But don't blame me if it leads me wrong. And now,” I continued, “permit me to point out that you haven't told me yet what it is Miss Ettrick thinks about when she sits with her chin in her hand staring into the fire.”
“Haven't 1?”
“You said it wasn't about her intended.”
“No,” she agreed. “No girl would waste a second thought on him. It's about——”
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. I got up and looked around the corner of the house.
“There's no one in sight,” I assured her, coming back and sitting very close. “Now—quick—whisper it!”
She leaned over till her lips almost touched my ear.
“Abbott Sutherlin!” she whispered.
“Well,” I said, glancing around at the landscape, “the universe appears to be going on about as usual.”
Nut there was no answering smile on her lips. Instead, she really looked frightened.
“I oughtn't to have said that, Mr. Dallas,” she said. “I want you to forget it. My thoughtlessness leads me too far sometimes.”
And she went away indoors, leaving me staring blankly.
If it hadn't been for the innocent distraction furnished by Miss Bramwell, I should have found Eagle Gap a pretty dull place. It had been famous in its day—famous for its high play, and deep drinking, and ardent love affairs; but the war had changed all that. When such of its old patrons as survived came creeping back to it, it was in a vastly different key. The elaborate toilets, the high play, the ever-flowing wine—all these had vanished.
There were two great three-storied buildings, with broad verandas running along each story, and a number of detached cottages for the use of families. The grounds were very spacious, and crisscrossed by paths leading more or less circuitously to three medicinal springs, of varying properties, surmounted by pseudo-Grecian temples of white wood. To these, before each meal, the older habitués of the place regularly resorted. For the rest, there were the hills crowding down upon the little valley, three meals a day, negroes no end, the daily mail—and that was all.
So Betty Bramwell was in the nature of an oasis. Kitty Ettrick might also have been in the nature of an oasis for some; but for me—well, I could not fancy myself resting in that shade. I had discovered them during the first moment of the first evening at dinner, and as the meal progressed, I had the good fortune to catch Betty Bramwell's eye. But if Miss Ettrick was aware of my presence, she certainly gave no sign.
I had, after dinner, the pleasure of meeting my host, Colonel Pendleton, a portly gentleman with white hair, and white mustache, and pleasantly red face, who hastened to bid me welcome.
“I was over at the village when you arrived,” he explained apologetically. “I hope that you are comfortable.”
“Very comfortable,” I assured him.
“If there's anything you want and don't see, ask for it. We're just one informal family here, and you'll meet some nice people.”
“There's one right now I'd like to meet,” I said.
He followed my eyes, and chuckled.
“Of course,” he said. “Come along. That's Betty Bramwell, as sweet a thing in petticoats as you'll find in all Virginia. One of the Charles City Bramwells—no better family in the State. Her mother was a Chatham—Chatham, of Westmoreland.”
But by this time Miss Bramwell was aware of our approach, and Colonel Pendleton was forced to defer the remainder of the family history to another occasion.
And so I met Miss Bramwell, but I did not meet Kitty Ettrick.
However, Miss Bramwell and I talked about her, as has been seen; and one afternoon when Miss Bramwell was for some reason invisible, I managed to get some further information from Colonel Pendleton, as we sat smoking a cigar together.
“Miss Bramwell tells me I've been made to feel at home down here because Philip Ferringham spoke a good word for me,” I said.
“We'd have made you feel at home, sir,” retorted the colonel, “without any introduction; we always welcome the stranger within our gates. but of course a word from him did no harm,”
“Do you know him?”
“Know him? Why, sir, he was born right over there about six miles. His mother was a Pembroke—one of the Henrico Pembrokes—no better family in the State. Phil's a clever fellow.”
“He's more than that,” said I. “He's the master of us all, in his own field.”
“Oh!” said the colonel, faintly surprised. “Are you a doctor?”
“Ferringham wanted it kept a secret,” I said, smiling. “He was afraid, if it was found out, somebody would want to consult me, and he's prescribed complete rest.”
Colonel Pendleton nodded.
“You'll get the rest here,” he said, “but I guess you've found that out. I think you're looking better than when you came.”
“I'm certainly feeling better,” I agreed,
And just then there came a thud of hoofs up the road, and Kitty Ettrick cantered by, raising her crop in a mock salute to the colonel, but looking through, past, and around me in a way that made my cheeks tingle. And yet there was no denying it—she was a superb creature—and her mount was another.
“Have you been out riding yet?” the colonel asked, as our eyes followed her.
“No; but if I can get a horse like that I would——”
“You can't,” said the colonel, laughing. 'That mare is her own—they were raised together. One of the Orion strain—and just like her mistress, blue-blooded, proud as Lucifer, gentle, and yet fiery as a panther.”
“She is certainly a very handsome girl,” I agreed, recognizing that this turn of the conversation was clearly providential.
“Don't lose your heart to her,” said the colonel, glancing at me from under his shaggy brows.
“Why not?” I asked, as innocently as I could.
“It wouldn't be any use. Her family has arranged for her to marry Judge Chester, of Chesterfield.”
“And she's going to?”
He hesitated a moment before he answered.
“Well, I don't know,” he said at last, flicking off the ashes of his cigar. “I should say not, if she didn't want to. And yet I rather fancy she will. At any rate, there'll be the devil of a row if she don't.”
I began to feel that I held the clew to the subject of Miss Ettrick's reveries, and also that I could make a pretty good guess at the role which Mr. Abbott Sutherlin played in the drama.
“She'd be worth a row,” I said, and again the colonel glanced at me. Then he glanced over his shoulder in a manner absurdly reminiscent of Betty Bramwell's.
“Yes, she would,” he agreed. “But she's got a fool of a brother—one of those high-strung young fire eaters—and the man who takes her away from the judge will probably have to fight him.”
He stopped, visibly turned the matter over in his mind, and decided to say no more.
“Well,” I said, taking the hint and rising, “I think I'll take a ride, just the same.”
The colonel glanced at me again, and smiled.
“I've warned you,” he said, “but of course I knew I was just wasting my breath.”
I found it difficult, afterward, to explain to myself the sudden impatience which seized me to ride after Kitty Ettrick. Perhaps it was the cool way in which she ignored me; perhaps I had some wild idea of in some manner avenging myself; or perhaps there was, at the back of my mind, a half-formed suspicion of the purpose of the long ride she took every afternoon.
At any rate, I sprang up the stairs to my room, hustled into my riding clothes, and hurried down to the stables. I picked out the best-looking horse obtainable there, stamped about while a lazy darky deliberately saddled him, and after what seemed an age, was off up the road along which Miss Ettrick had disappeared.
It wound around the base of the hill which closed in Eagle Gap upon the south, and then ran on beside a little stream. I saw only one or two houses, but there were numerous little bridle paths running back into the hills presumably to others. At the end of half an hour I came to a village, lining either side of the road for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then to a little graveyard, in the middle of which a soldier of bronze stood upon a granite pedestal. I got off my horse, tied him to the fence, and went in to look at the monument.
“To the Memory of the Confederate Dead of Stuart County,” I read. Then I went back to the fence, leaned over it, looked up and down the road, and considered what I should do.
The road forked just beyond the graveyard, and I had no idea, of course, which of the forks Miss Ettrick had taken, even if she had come this far, and not turned up one of the bridle paths into the woods. Besides, I felt rather ashamed that I had followed her at all. So the debate ended by my mounting my horse and turning his head back toward Eagle Gap.
Then it occurred to me that it would be foolish to return so soon, so I turned up the first bypath I came to, and permitted my horse to choose his own pace. It was a walk, for the road was rough, and evidently disused. Grass covered its ruts, and, as it ran on into a little cove in the hillside, it grew narrower and choked with underbrush. I soon had enough of it, and was just checking my horse, when he suddenly threw up his head and whinnied. An instant later an answering whinny came from in front of us.
Curious to see who lived in such a neighborhood, I let my horse walk on. In a moment, he passed a turn in the road, and, as my eyes caught what lay beyond, I jerked him sharp up. For there, in the center of a little glade, were two horses. Kitty Ettrick was on one of them, and by her side, with his horse's bridle over his arm, stood a young fellow I had never seen before.
Their startled faces held my eyes for an instant; then I wheeled sharp around, and returned the way I had come. Nothing surely could have been more unfortunate than the chance which had led me to that neglected glade. When I closed my eyes, I seemed to have its image still on my retina, and I became conscious of certain details which I had not, in that first instant, noticed.
One was that the man who stood beside Kitty Ettrick's horse was distinctly picturesque; dark, with curly black hair, clustering about brow and temples. I wondered how I had seen the hair, and then, closing my eyes again, I discovered that he held his hat in his hand. Then, across the glade, I saw an old house of stone, with vines wandering over it, and a general air of neglect and decay about it. By this time I had reached the main road, and, putting the scene resolutely behind me, I kicked my horse in the flank, and rode back to Eagle Gap.
It was with no very pleasurable sensations I saw Miss Ettrick enter the dining room that evening, and sit down opposite me. But if I had expected to detect in her face any reflection of the afternoon's encounter, I was disappointed, for her gaze was as impersonal as ever. Perhaps, I told myself, she had not recognized me in that brief instant during which I had stood revealed on the edge of the woods. After that, I resolutely kept my eyes away from Miss Ettrick, and, as soon as the meal was over, I sought the congenial company of Betty Bramwell. She welcomed me, I fancied, with extra cordiality.
“I know you're dying to smoke,” she said, “so we'll go out on the veranda—to that quiet corner at the far end, where we won't disturb any one.”
“And where no one will disturb us,” I added.
“Precisely,” Betty assented coolly, and led the way.
We sat down on the broad bench running across the end of the porch, and she waited until I got my pipe to going nicely. Then she leaned back in the seat, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Now,” she said, in a tone of comfortable certainty, “tell me all about it.”
“Tell you about what?”
“About your adventure this afternoon.”
Of course, my start of surprise was just the confirmation she had hoped for, but I didn't think of that until too late.
“To which adventure do you refer?” I asked, with an irony I felt was weak and ineffective.
“Did you have more than one?”
“I haven't admitted that I had any.”
“Oh, you don't need to admit it. I know it already. What were they doing, and how did you happen upon them?”
“What were who doing?” I queried desperately.
“Kitty Ettrick and Abbott Sutherlin,” she said, and this time it was I who glanced over my shoulder, and who felt a shiver of apprehension along my spine.
I gave up the contest. I was plainly outmatched.
“Miss Bramwell,” I said, “I would point out to you the danger of uttering those two names together. Now, if you will tell me just what you know, I may, perhaps, add some details to the narrative. Though how you know anything about——”
“What I know is this,” answered Miss Bramwell. “You see Kitty Ettrick start on her afternoon ride; you get a horse, and scour after her.”
“I did not scour,” I objected feebly.
“Just before dusk,” she went on, not heeding me, “you ride back again, looking as though you had seen a ghost; at dinner you stare at Miss Ettrick as a murderer might stare at the judge while he adjusts the black cap before pronouncing sentence.”
“I am flattered by your interest,” I said, hoping to create a diversion. “You should join the Pinkertons.”
“I am not in the habit of going around with my eyes shut,” she said, smiling sweetly, “and I have a mind which instinctively puts two and two together.”
“Just as you have this time.”
“Yes. Was I correct?”
“I refuse to answer,” I said, with dignity.
My companion clapped her hands, with a little cry of delight.
“I knew it! Thank you so much for telling me, Mr. Dallas!”
I gave it up again. I felt like a man retreating before an overwhelming force, making a stand now and then to avoid being rushed, but always having to give way in the end.
“And now,” she continued, “since we have exhausted that subject, let us choose another. Are you going to the dance at Greenbriar to-morrow night?”
“At Greenbriar?”
“Yes; twelve miles away over the hills back yonder. It's their annual event, and a great treat. Every one's going.”
“Are you?”
“I certainly am.”
“I was wondering,” I went on, a little confusedly, as I looked down into her piquant face, “I—that is—may I take you?”
“How difficult that was to say! You may.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Will you instruct me?”
“We all have early dinner,” she answered,“and start about six o'clock. It's a two-hour drive. And a full moon.”
She glanced up at me mockingly. I told myself that it was absurd for my heart to quicken the way it did.
“And now,” continued Miss Bramwell, “if you care to tell me anything more about your adventure this afternoon, I shall be glad to hear it. Otherwise I fear I shall have to go in.”
“I've never admitted the adventure,” I pointed out, and would have discoursed of other things, but she arose and left me alone with my pipe.
At six o'clock the following evening I drove up in front of the hotel, and found Miss Bramwell awaiting me on the veranda.
“You see, Mr. Dallas,” she said, as I assisted her into the buggy, mounted beside her, and took up the reins, “I am very different to these other girls. They would have kept you waiting at least fifteen minutes; not because they had anything to do, but just to prove the supremacy of the sex.”
“In your case, such proof is unnecessary,” I assured her.
“Thank you. Aren't you glad I asked you to come?” she added, as we turned out of the grounds.
“See here,” [ said, turning toward her, “you don't realize how dangerous this is for a fellow who has never had any practice at the game. I'm apt to get hurt.”
“What game? What are you talking about?”
“You know very well. You want to bring me down, just as you've brought a score. But they always got up and ran away uninjured, after a while, and I won't. I'll never run again. If you keep this up, I'm going to fall in love with you. If that's what you want, go ahead. But I warn you it won't be any summer-resort passion. And I won't be turned down.”
I never saw another pair of eyes shine as brightly as those she turned up to me.
“I have heard this high tragic strain before,” she said.
“No doubt,” I commented, somewhat bitterly.
“But I can prevent all that by giving you an antidote in advance. You see, I'm engaged.”
“Engaged!” I echoed, and a little sickness came over me. “You—you mean it?”
She was looking up at me curiously, but I was too occupied with my own emotions to notice hers.
“Certainly I mean it,” she said. “And now there will be no danger.”
“To be told that fire burns doesn't prevent one's getting burned if one puts one's finger in,” I pointed out.
“No; but one can keep one's finger out. Really, Mr. Dallas, you are quite Othello-like.”
“Well,” I said grimly, “I'm glad you're not engaged to me.”
“Why?”
“I'd be tempted to use a pillow.”
She threw back her head, laughed.
“Oh, I dare say Dick is gazing into somebody's eyes,” she said.
“And you don't care?”
“How foolish it would be to care!”
“Then you don't love him!”
“But of course I do. He's a dear boy.”
“When is the wedding to be?”
“The wedding?”
“Isn't there to be a wedding?” I asked, hope beginning to revive.
She screwed up her face thoughtfully.
“Well, you see, we haven't got that far as yet,” she said.
I confess I didn't know what to do. I was simply aching to slip an arm around her. I trembled at the thought of it.
“Well?” she said.
“I told you I didn't know how. Is it permitted to make love to another man's fiancée?”
“That depends on the fiancée.”
“Suppose we take you as the fiancée?”
“Then it depends on the man.”
“Suppose we take me for the man.”
“Well, Mr. Dallas,” she said, with an air of weariness, “it seems to me that you are continually trying to get me to make love to you. Do you know your Wordsworth?”
“Not very well,” I confessed.
“There is a quatrain of his which admirably expresses the attitude of every Southern lady and gentleman toward affairs of the heart.”
“Tell me what it is,” I said.
She hesitated a moment, and I bent closer.
“'The good old rule,'” she murmured, in the merest breath:
“Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can!
“But,” she added, in another tone, and one which somehow warned me that the time had not yet come, “I don't see how a man can look at any other girl when Kitty Ettrick is around.”
I put my hand to my head. I felt as though I had received a sudden jolt.
“Is she around?” I asked feebly.
“Metaphorically.”
“I never was good at metaphors. As for Miss Ettrick, she's too grand, too remote. Too high and good tor human nature's daily food.”
“You don't know her,” said Miss Bramwell, with conviction.
“No,” I admitted ruefully. “I don't.”
“And then she's changed. You see she's worrying.”
“About the judge?”
“About her duty. I think she'll end by eloping.”
“With the gentleman with the curly locks?”
She clapped her hands in sudden exultation.
“So you did see him!” she cried. “Yes; the gentleman with the curly locks. Didn't you think him handsome?”
“Very,” I said dryly. “What's the objection to him?”
“There's a feud between the families.”
“Capulet and Montague?”
“Quite as bad.”
“Well,” I said, “I never knew a case—in a story, at least—where the children of the houses failed to fall in love.”
“That's just it,” she said. “He's not. Not really.”
“And she is?”
She nodded.
“How do you know?”
“How does one know anything? One feels it.”
“Oh, come,” I said, “that's just your woman's imagination.”
“Well, perhaps it is. I'd love him myself, if there was any use.”
“You seem to have an exceedingly expansive heart,” I said.
“It's large enough for all mankind,” she retorted. “And there are the lights.”
We had come to the edge of a steep hill, and, looking down into the valley below, I could see the glimmer of lights, and the sound of music and many voices drifted up to us. The road was very steep, and I was fully occupied in getting the horse down without accident, being grateful for the moon. I should have hated to tackle that descent on a dark night.
My companion sat without speaking until we were down.
“That was just like a man,” she said, as we drove into the grounds.
“What was?”
“Thinking he was helping the horse, when he was only hindering. That horse has been down that hill a hundred times, and knows where to plant his feet every step of the way.”
“I shall remember that,” I said, with meaning, “on the way back.”
We were before the door, which stood flung wide open. I swung her out of the buggy, and gave the lines to the boy who stood waiting to receive them. Then, as we turned toward the door, a man passed just inside the brilliant circle of light.
Miss Bramwell gave a quick gasp, and clutched my arm.
“He's there,” she said. “Abbott Sutherlin. Mr. Dallas,” she continued earnestly, drawing me aside, “promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“That you'll never breathe a word of what I've told you.”
“I promise,” I said. “And let's forget it. The only thing I want you to remember is that the first dance is mine.”
The smiles were back upon her lips again, and she nodded.
“All right,” she said, and hurried away into the house.
Most of the others from Eagle Gap had preceded us, so that it was not altogether into a land of strangers that I descended ten minutes later. Greenbriar was Eagle Gap over again, only on a considerably larger scale. The long assembly room had been decorated with flowers, and vines, and colored streamers, and presented the gayest of gay sights. The orchestra, consisting of half a dozen negroes armed with fiddles, was already going, and, as I glanced around, I saw Miss Bramwell just descending the stair. I hastened to her.
“My dance, you know,” I said, and was about to lead her away when I saw her face change, and the next moment a man was bowing over her hand—a man with curly black hair.
“This is certainly a pleasure, Miss Bramwell,” he was saying. “May I see your card?”
“Mr. Dallas, this is Mr. Sutherlin,” she said, and I found myself mechanically shaking hands with him.
I scarcely know what it was about Abbott Sutherlin which instantly arrested the attention. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance. But little over the average height, only moderately well built, with hair that crinkled and waved about a broad, low forehead, a nose slightly hooked, and eyes—ah, that was it—the eyes. They were black, I think, though of their color I cannot be sure; but I have never seen any other eyes look at one as his did, as though the thing they were looking at was the only thing on earth in which their owner was interested. I could guess what effect they would have on women by the effect they had on me—a little vertigo of excitement. And I am sure that this effect was due to no conscious effort.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” he said, and I became conscious of another of his charms, a deep and sensuous voice. I could guess how, in a woman's ears, its lightest word would be fraught with meaning. Verily nature had armed Abbott Sutherlin with extraordinary weapons with which to fight the battle of the sexes.
I murmured some commonplace, and stood by while he ran over Miss Bramwell's dance card.
“Really, Mr. Dallas,” he said, with an amused glance at me. “I'm inclined to accuse you of gluttony.”
“Why?” I asked, and then I saw that Miss Bramwell's face was crimson.
“Six dances seem a little too many,” he answered.
“Six,” and then my eyes caught Betty's. “I don't think so,” I said. “Not half as many as I'd like.”
“Well,” he said, with mock resignation, “I suppose I must make the best of it.” And he put his name down for two.
And then I led Betty away, with my heart pounding in my bosom.
“That was sweet of you,” I said, as we circled out together among the other dancers.
“What was sweet of me?” she demanded.
“To put me down for six dances.”
“Oh,” she retorted lightly, “that's an old trick. I always put some initials on my card that I can rub out when some particularly nice fellow comes up too late.”
“Well,” I said, refusing to be hurt, “you can rub out some other fellow's initials, but you can't rub out mine.”
“Why can't 1?”
“Because I won't stand it.”
“Indeed!”
“No,” I repeated, “I won't. Betty,” and my arm tightened around her, “I didn't mean to say anything yet, but I can't stand it any longer. I don't care if I haven't known you but a few days I'm going to——”
“Oh, there's Lily Ebert,” she broke in and brought me to a stop. “I haven't seen her for an age. Take me to her.”
I led her across the room to Miss Ebert, and, without waiting for an introduction, left her and went out through one of the long windows which opened upon the veranda. I felt in my pocket for a cigar, but found with vexation that I had forgot to slip any into my pocket when I changed my clothes.
“Have one of mine,” said a pleasant voice, and I turned to find Abbott Sutherlin standing there, a cigar between his teeth, and another outstretched in his hand. “I wanted a smoke myself,” he added, as I accepted it with thanks. “Shall we sit down?”
We drew our chairs together, and sat for a few minutes smoking silently, looking out over the moonlit grounds. I wondered if he knew that it was I who had broken in upon his tête-à-tête the afternoon before. Probably not, I decided.
“These Southern nights are something we don't have in New York,” I said, at last. “They rather fire a man's blood.”
“Yes, they do,” he assented. “I've often thought that the difference between North and South is more in the quality of the nights than anything else. Yours are tonic and bracing; ours are warm and sensuous. And we of the South are the creatures of our climate.”
“Men and women alike,” I agreed.
“But of course; men and women alike. I wonder which is the wiser, you of the North, who devote your lives to achievement, or we of the South, who devote ours to—love?”
“I don't know,” I said, reflecting that this was the first time I had ever heard a man speak of love in that tone, and wondering at the little shock it gave me. After all, why shouldn't men talk of love?
“I know a few Northerners,” he went on, “who have come to settle here—restless creatures who can't be happy unless they're busy changing things—they call it improving them. We of the South don't want anything changed.”
“And yet progress——”
“It isn't progress.”
“Not always, perhaps. But, after all, there are things to do.”
“Let some one else do them, then. Let some one else make the money and reap the honors. What will it matter to us fifty years hence? I tell you, Mr. Dallas, the wise man lives his life from day to day, and gets the most that he can out of it every day—the most for himself—without looking at the past or at the future. The most, that is, not in money, not in honor, but in happiness and content.”
“Which brings us back again to the question of progress, of making things better.”
“Aren't you satisfied with things as they are?”
“No,” I answered soberly, “I am not. I happen to belong to a profession which sees too much of the suffering and misery there are in the world—how can I be satisfied?”
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“Are you miserable? Do you suffer? Then what does the rest amount to, so far as you are concerned? The only way it affects you is by making you miserable when you think about it. Be wise and don't think about it.”
“Rather a selfish doctrine, isn't it?” I asked, smiling.
“Supremely selfish. But, so far as I am concerned, this world was made for me. I enjoy it. Others must look out for themselves. Ah,” he added, rising and throwing away his cigar, “I have been remiss.”
As he spoke, Betty Bramwell sailed up on the arm of her current partner.
“Are you aware that this is your dance, Mr. Sutherlin?” she demanded, not looking at me. “Do you call this gallant?”
“No,” he answered, smiling down into her eyes, “I don't. I apologize most abjectly. But I was interested in my conversation with Mr. Dallas.” And he smiled at me as he led her away.
The boy with whom she had been dancing dropped into the chair beside me, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
“Isn't he superb?” he said. “He makes me feel like a Roman holiday—he the emperor, I the victim—and his thumb is always turned down.”
“He is rather regal,” I agreed, remembering the sentiments he had just uttered.
“I'd certainly hate to make him angry,” added the boy. “He'd be a regular tiger—one can see that. He shot a man once.”
“Shot a man?”
“Oh, not to kill him. In a duel. The fellow had eavesdropped—something about a woman. Sutherlin had him out, and shot his ear off. Said it was a fitting punishment. Something like Peeping Tom. But I must be going, or I'll have a girl rampaging around after me.
I watched him as he plunged back into the house. Typical product of his environment—nothing but women. And Sutherlin? I thought I understood what Betty Bramwell meant when she said he wasn't really in love. He wasn't the kind to let himself go. Of love, as of life, he would ask more than he gave.
And then a figure in white appeared at the window, and advanced after an instant's hesitation.
“Oh, so you are still here, Mr. Dallas?" asked Betty Bramwell's voice. “That must be a good cigar.”
“It is. Sutherlin gave it to me. Won't you sit down?”
“Thanks,” she said, and dropped into the chair. “How kind of you to ask me. Will you spend the remainder of the evening here?”
“I'll have to go get some more cigars,” I said.
“You don't enjoy dancing, then?”
“I don't enjoy being made a fool of. I'm going to follow Abbott Sutherlin's example.”
“In what way?”
“Stop desiring what I can't have.”
She settled back in her chair with a perceptible wriggle of enjoyment.
“That's wise, of course,” she said. “That's the way to be perfectly happy and contented, isn't it? What is it you can't have, Mr. Dallas?”
“You!” I answered bluntly.
“Do you desire it so very much?”
“Betty Bramwell,” I said, turning upon her fiercely, “are you playing with me, or do you really care?”
“I haven't made up my mind yet,” she said, looking up at me sideways from under half-closed lashes. “But I'll tell you one thing—I like you best when you're fierce.”
I rose with an exclamation of anger, and sprang down the steps. It was too much!
I strode along the path toward the inevitable spring house which I could see gleaming white ahead of me, and, having reached it, I sat down in the shadow of one of its pillars. I found with disgust that my cigar had gone out, and I pitched it petulantly into the shrubbery. I would write Ferringham that Eagle Gap didn't agree with me. I knew perfectly well there was no use in my falling any deeper in love with Betty Bramwell. These people, with their insufferable pride of caste, would never consider me eligible. And besides, she was engaged, She had spoken of it jestingly enough, but the unpleasant fact remained.
My eye caught the glimmer of a dress coming down the path, and a moment later descried another form beside it—a man evidently. They were coming straight for me, and instinctively I shrank farther back into the shadow. 3ut they did not enter the house. They passed along beside it. I could see that his arm was around her, and that her face was lifted to his. My heart gave a sickening throb of fear that it might be Betty Bramwell; but, as they came nearer, and the moonlight fell upon them more clearly, I saw that it was Kitty Ettrick and Abbott Sutherlin.
As soon as they were out of sight, I hastened back to the house. I needed my ears!
I fear I was rather preoccupied as we started on the drive back to Eagle Gap This Romeo-and-Juliet business bothered me considerably, the more since I had met Sutherlin. I had noted how sedulously, even pointedly, he and Miss Ettrick avoided each other in the ballroom, and I wondered if they succeeded in throwing dust in every one's eyes but mine.
I was half inclined to relate my adventures to Miss Bramwell, but on second thought decided not to. She had not behaved well; she had flirted outrageously with every man in the room, as it seemed to me; and I had ended by avoiding her as pointedly as Sutherlin did Miss Ettrick.
“Well, Mr. Dallas,” said Miss Bramwell, very sweetly, “when you have finished shaking your head and growling to yourself, perhaps you will tell me what it is all about.”
“That is just what I had decided not to do,” I said.
“Oh, had you? I suppose you know that you have treated me in the most despicable manner to-night?”
“In what way?”
“Is it the part of a gentleman to claim six of a lady's dances, and then appear for just one of them?”
I might have retorted that I had claimed none, but I thought it wiser to keep my mouth shut.
“Is it the part of a gentleman to flirt with every girl in the place, in the most open and shameless manner?”
“Flirt?” I gasped. “I?”
“Or, when you were not flirting, to sulk around the grounds by yourself, instead of attending to the lady you brought with you?”
“Oh, I dare say you were well enough attended to,” I said bitterly. “There were at least six young fools around you all the time.”
“Meaning that they were fools because they were around me?” she demanded, with a dangerous calm.
“Of course, you have read 'My Last Duchess,'” I said.
“You mean I am like that?”
“Well, I don't know,” I stammered, seeing that I was getting in over my head. “I just thought of it. You were certainly liberal with your smiles.”
“Mr. Dallas,” she said, “do you know you are becoming unbearable? Anything but a man who sulks! Since you seem to be fond of poetry, I might call your attention to some verses about a man who sulked.”
I laughed—I couldn't help it.
“Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do it?”
“Precisely.”
“If I thought speaking well would win her,” I said, “I'd keep on speaking well forever. But what's the use?”
“Mr. Dallas,” she said, “as I look back over our various conversations, it seems to me that they consist principally of efforts on your part to get me to make love to you. I have pointed this out once before. Now, I haven't the slightest intention to make love to you. I say nothing; I admit nothing. If you hope to get an assurance that I will say yes before you ask me, let me tell you you won't.”
I considered it.
“I don't know but what you are right,” I agreed. “But there's a certain difficulty in making love to a girl who's engaged to another fellow. It's a sort of trespass.”
“Well,” she said, “you needn't worry. I'm not engaged any longer.”
“What!” I cried, staring at her. “You mean——”
“I mean he was there, and I broke it off,” she answered impatiently. “I didn't really care for him. How stupid men are!”
I stooped, and wound the lines carefully around the whip. Hadn't she assured me the horse knew the road? Then, as she shrank away from me with a little, frightened gasp, I reached out after her, and drew her to me.
“Now,” I said hoarsely, “I've got you, and I'm not going to let you go. Do you love me, Betty?”
“Yes,” she said, and hid her head upon my breast.
Then she looked up again, laughing.
“There!” she cried. “Of course, you'd make me say it first.”
“And you'll marry me?”
“Yes,” she said, and hid her face again.
“Now, Betty,” I said, holding her closer, if such a thing were possible, and not quite certain whether I was in heaven or on earth, “this is for keeps, and will end in matrimony. Understand?”
She nodded mutely.
And then, with a sudden rapture of possession, I raised her face to mine, and kissed her.
“You wonderful creature!” I whispered. “I'll have to build an altar for you, and put you on it, and worship you. Do you know what a wonder you are, Betty Bramwell? I wish I could tell you! Betty,” and I turned her face up to mine, “I love you with all my heart. And I'm the happiest man on earth.”
She snuggled to me with a little sigh of content.
“That's better,” she said. “I was afraid you didn't know how. Go on.”
“How long have you loved me, Betty?
“Oh, I don't know. Quite long enough. There comes some one up behind us. Let me go. This moon's as light as day.”
I, too, had caught the clatter of hoofs, so I took the reins again, and spoke to Dobbin. But the rig behind had two horses, and rapidly gained on us, and I turned out to let it by. It was a crowd from the gap, and they hailed us with time-honored jests as they passed—jests that made Betty furious because they were true. But I didn't care. This wasn't going to be a secret engagement. I would see to that. 1 wanted the rest of the world warned off. I had taken, and I was going to keep!
“That was Kitty Ettrick and her mother on the back seat,” said Betty. “I wonder if they were alone together?”
“If they were alone together?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. What did you think of Abbott Sutherlin?”
“A most dangerous man,” I answered promptly. “I don't want you to see much of him. He's a regular volcano.”
“Yes,” agreed Betty, closing her eyes rapturously. “Imagine him making love to one. My, but it would be exciting!”
“Betty,” I said sternly, “I want you to understand that the only person who is to make love to you hereafter is myself. I'll do my best.”
She laughed, and threw an arm around me.
“But I wonder if they were alone together?”
“Yes, they were.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them together out in the grounds.”
“I knew it! I knew it as soon as I saw your face. Tell me about it.”
“There isn't anything to tell. See here, Betty, we must keep out of this.
“There's another complication, you know,” she went on, without heeding me. “I heard about it to-night. He's engaged, too.”
“Engaged?” I echoed. “Sutherlin?”
“Yes. Did you notice that tall, slim girl in blue?”
“No, I didn't. I didn't notice anybody but you.”
“Well, that's the girl—a regular wild cat, if looks go for anything. She's got green eyes—maybe that's why he likes her. And I think she suspects something. I saw her going up the stairs with the most fearful face. If she does—well!”
“I really believe you're enjoying it.”
“When there's a show I always like to be on the inside, don't you?”
“Not when the wild animals break loose.”
“Oh, then more than ever! It gives one such delightful thrills. But I'm not the one to open the cages.”
“That's all right, then,” I said, with a sigh of relief. “When is the wedding to be?”
“Which wedding?”
“Why, ours, to be sure.”
“Oh,” she said, pulling away from me, “it's too soon even to think of that.”
“I don't think so,” I protested.
“I hope you're not a tyrant,” she said, looking at me. “Have I been mistaken in you?”
“A tyrant! Nonsense! Suppose we say next month.”
She gave a little shriek of dismay.
“Next month! Why, I'm going to the Kellers next month; and the month following I've got to spend with the Landons at Richmond; and then we're going to run up to New York for a month in the fall—I'll see you then, of course—and then back to Bramwell for the holidays. After that, I'll think about it.”
“Look here, Betty Bramwell,” I said, with decision, “if you think you're going to keep me dangling that way you're mistaken. I'll give you till to-morrow.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “I'm afraid you are a tyrant!”
“Will you tell me to-morrow?” I demanded.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose I must. What a fearful thing it is to be bossed by a man.”
“Not when he loves you,” I said, and I tried to suit the action to the word. But she pushed me away.
“There are the lights,” she said, “and there are always folks about. Well, just one, then. There! Now, be good.”
I helped her down at the porch, and delivered her over to her mother, who was waiting to receive us. Also to impart some information.
“The Messengers have come up from Bermuda Hundred,” she said, “and, oh, yes, Kitty Ettrick's brother, Phil.”
Betty cast me a terrified glance.
“Phil Ettrick!” she repeated. “Why, I didn't know he was expected. Good night, Mr. Dallas. I'll be ready for our ride at nine.”
What a woman she was, I thought to myself, as I watched her up the stairs. Now, I would never have thought about a ride!
I met Philip Ettrick next day, and found him a slender young fellow, with a sort of concentrated gloom about him, which somehow gave me the idea that he was a poet. Doubtless I was entirely wrong in this, as I have never met a poet. He seemed to have traveled a good deal, and could talk entertainingly when he chose—which was seldom. He preferred to sit and think.
From Colonel Pendleton I managed to extract some further information about the Ettrick-Sutherlin feud. He imparted it with the greatest reluctance.
“You know, Mr. Dallas,” he said, “we've rather got the name, down here, of being foolish about family quarrels, of cherishing them, and all that, to the third and fourth generation. We used to; it used to be the code that every injury must be repaid in kind, a sort of revised Law of Moses. If a member of your house killed a member of ours, then one of us must kill one of you; if one of your men ruined one of our women, then we must retaliate. Not a pleasant code—hardly a gentleman's code, even, as we understand the word nowadays; but customs change. They've changed in this regard. We're forgetting our feuds, thank Heaven, and this ridiculous one of the Ettricks and the Sutherlins is about the last to survive.”
“What started it?” I asked.
“A woman; or perhaps it was a man. Suppose we say a man and a woman—that's fairest to all concerned. It happened a long time ago, when the great-grandfather of Kitty Ettrick ran away with Beatrice Sutherlin.”
“Why should that start a feud?”
“Well, you see, Ettrick was married,” said the colonel, stroking his mustache reflectively, “and Beatrice Sutherlin didn't know it. But when she found it out, she stuck to him—which was about the only thing she could do, I guess. They went abroad somewhere, and lived together until Ettrick's wife died. Then they got married, and came back to Virginia.”
“Didn't that settle it?”
“Not exactly. You see, the only children they had were born before the marriage, and the Sutherlins have always considered the Ettricks—well, bar sinister, you know—and haven't hesitated to say so. That keeps the sore open. I've always fancied that's the reason that young fool of a Phil Ettrick goes around looking like Hamlet.”
It was a good characterization, and I couldn't help smiling at it.
But all this gossip was merely by the wav: for the real interest of my life was to bring Betty Bramwell to terms That young lady did not hesitate to break promises, violate flags of truce, disregard articles of peace, and otherwise conduct herself in flagrant defiance of the rules of honorable warfare. She explained to me on one occasion that guerrilla fighting was always permitted the weaker party, and that self-preservation was the first law of nature. But, I objected, the man who violated the rules of war got short shrift when he was cornered, whereas she insisted on being released, and starting all over again.
Especially did I object to her intimacy with Philip Ettrick. I knew nothing whatever against that young man, and could plainly see that he was far from being in love with Miss Bramwell. I more than suspected that her interest in him was due to her desire to be kept au courant of affairs—to be in at the death, so to speak. But just the same, I objected.
“But this thing mustn't happen,” she said. “If Kitty Ettrick keeps on being a fool, I'll speak to her.”
“Keeps on being a fool?”
“She's just started away up the road, hasn't she? You haven't noticed that she's missed an afternoon yet, have you? Well, some day Philip Ettrick is going to stumble onto them, just as you did, unless I keep him occupied.”
“But you can't keep him occupied forever,” I objected. “Besides, 1 don't like——”
“You know I don't care a pin for him, you silly boy. And I won't have to keep him occupied much longer. There's going to be an explosion before long.”
“See here, Betty,” I protested, “you're getting into this thing altogether too deep. I wish you'd keep out of it.”
“Don't you want to see them happy?”
“I want to see you and me happy. I don't care anything about them. When are you going to marry me?”
“Next year, perhaps.”
“Next year! Nonsense! Next month!”
“I've already told you that my program is made out for the winter,” she said calmly. “All my time is taken—there's no room for a wedding.”
“And you really mean that?” I asked.
“I certainly do.”
I bit my lip. Really, there was only one way to tame this young virago, and that was to go away for a while. But even that was dangerous. I wasn't sure of her yet—only half sure.
And just then the current of my thoughts was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from my companion.
“See there,” she said, and I looked up to see Philip Ettrick swinging himself into the saddle in front of the house.
We ourselves were sitting on a bench near the entrance to the grounds—a bench well screened with shrubbery—and as he came galloping toward us, Betty made as though to rise and intercept him. But I held her back.
“Sit still!” I commanded sternly.
She sank back into her seat, and watched the approaching rider with a fascinated gaze. Even I was startled by his face, it was so drawn and haggard.
He was spurring his horse savagely, and in a moment he had disappeared up the road his sister had taken half an hour before.
And just as he turned the corner, a gust of wind caught his coat, and something white fluttered from his pocket.
“Get it!” commanded Betty instantly.
I hesitated. I didn't like the errand.
“Will you go, or must I?” demanded Betty sharply. “Don't you see we mustn't leave that lying out there for any passer-by to pick up?”
There was something to be said for that point of view, so I set off, reluctantly enough, and picked up the piece of paper from the road. It was, as I had feared, a letter. Why couldn't the man take better care of his correspondence? Should I burn it? I felt in my pocket for a match, and then the absurdity of doing that struck me. The thing to do was to return it to its owner. So I put it in my pocket, and went back to my companion.
“Well?” she said impatiently, as I sat down again beside her.
“Well, what?” I inquired.
“What was it?”
“It was a letter.”
“Did you read it?”
“My dear Betty,” I said, “there are some things which gentlemen do not do. One of them is reading other people's letters.”
“Give it to me, then,” she said, and held out her hand.
“It is also something which ladies do not do,” I pointed out.
“I do not need any lessons in deportment from you, Mr. Dallas,' she retorted, her eyes blazing. “Too much depends on that letter to shillyshally over trifles. Give it to me.”
“I will do no such thing,” I said, and buttoned up my coat.
“Do you really mean it?” she demanded.
“I certainly do,” I said, with a firmness I was proud of.
Her eyes blazed at me for a moment longer; then, to my intense relief, she threw back her head and laughed.
“Bravo!” she cried. “Sans peur et sans reproche! Shall we have a game of tennis?”
“All right,” I agreed, with alacrity, for though she was greatly my superior at the game, I delighted to see her slim figure flying over the court opposite me.
So we got our rackets, and proceeded to the court, where we had a very delightful set of singles, ending in her defeating me six to one.
“My, but it is warm!” she said, sitting down on the grass, and fanning herself with her handkerchief. “Bring me a drink, there's a dear.”
I hastened away to the nearest spring house, and brought a glass of the cold water. She sipped it deliberately, looking at me the while over the top of it, and it seemed to me that there was a sort of devilish triumph in her eye. I wondered that her victory should have so elated her.
“Shall we have another set?” I suggested.
“No,” she said. “It's too warm. Besides, I've some letters to write.”
I watched her as she walked away, then picked up my coat, which I had thrown off at the beginning of the game, and started toward the house. Smitten by a sudden thought, I ran my hand into the inside pocket of the coat. The letter was not there.
Then I understood the fiendish ingenuity of Betty Bramwell!
I confess I was honestly angry, and I stalked forthwith up the stairs to her room, and rapped loudly on the door. I didn't care if her mother was there; I was going to have that letter.
Betty herself opened the door, and I fancied she paled a little as she saw my face.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
“I came after that letter,” I answered.
“I—I was going to give it back to you,” she said, and slipped her hand inside her waist. “Here it is.” And she handed it to me.
I took it, and turned away without a word.
But she stopped me with a hand upon the arm.
“Don't look at me like that, dear,” she said. “It was just as I thought. Do you know what that letter says?”
“No, and I don't want to,” I answered, and tried to free myself.
But she clung to me, and there was something in the feel of her hand on mine which I couldn't resist.
“It says: 'Your sister rides out every afternoon to meet Abbott Sutherlin. Be careful, or the Sutherlins will get their revenge!'”
In spite of myself, I could not but heed.
“Is it signed?” I asked.
“No, but I know who wrote it.”
“Who?”
“That tall girl with the green eyes—she's loosed the wild beasts for certain!”
I suppose that some of Betty Bramwell's excitement communicated itself to me. At any rate, I hadn't the nerve to return that letter to Philip Ettrick, because I knew it would be impossible for me to look him in the eyes when I did so. So I deliberately burned it.
I went to dinner with some eagerness, for I was anxious to see if the principals in the affair showed any sign of an encounter. But Phil Ettrick did not appear, and his sister seemed, as usual, sad and distrait, but not perceptibly excited or apprehensive. So I concluded that her brother had not succeeded in finding the rendezvous. I wondered if a word of warning should not be whispered in her ear. Yet who could speak that word? Certainly not I, and when I mentioned the matter that evening to Betty Bramwell, to my surprise she refused to interfere.
“I thought you wanted me to keep out of it,” she said.
“I do,” I answered. “But this afternoon you seemed anxious to protect her.”
“I'm not any more. She's made her bed—let her lie in it,” retorted Betty, with a sudden fierceness which astonished me. “I'm not going to talk about it any more. We're going home to-morrow, mother and I.”
“What!” I said. “To-morrow! You don't mean it!”
“I certainly do. I'm getting tired of Eagle Gap.”
“And of the people here, too, I suppose.”
“Of some of them,” said Betty, and smiled.
“But, Betty, before you go——”
“No, I won't. But I'll tell you one thing. Mother is going to ask you to visit us before you return North.”
Sure enough, later in the evening, she did. Of course I accepted. I don't snow how much she knew or suspected, nut she was certainly very dear about it.
Yet, in spite of this crumb of comfort, it was very disconsolately that I went upstairs, and prepared for bed. For my good-by to Betty had been of the most formal. It was made before all the company, because she absolutely refused to be alone with me at any moment during the evening. And I had planned such an affecting farewell, in the spring house, with the oaks hanging over it, and the shrubbery all around.
Of course. I couldn't sleep. I could only lie there, and think about my misfortunes; and, along about eleven o'clock, I heard steps come softly down the corridor, and pause before my door. Then some one tapped gently.
I sprang out of bed, threw on bath robe, and opened the door.
For an instant, in the dim corridor, I could not see who my visitor was; then, as the rays from the night lamp on the wall flashed upon his face, I saw that it was Philip Ettrick.
Without a word, he stepped past me into the room, and motioned me to close the door.
“Don't strike a light,” he said, in a queer, suppressed voice. “I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor Dallas.”
“Sit down,” I said, and myself sat down opposite him.
With only the dim moonlight in the room, I could see his face merely as a blur, but I remembered it as I had seen it when he galloped past that afternoon, and I could fancy what it looked like now.
“What is the favor?” I added.
“To bring your instruments and come with me, without asking any questions,” he answered, in the same suppressed voice.
I felt a sensation of sudden sickness, but I shook it off. I fancied I knew what was needed, and what had occurred.
“Very well,” I said. “I will be dressed in a moment. Where shall I meet you?”
“At the entrance to the grounds,” he answered, and rose nervously to his feet. “I beg that you will say no word to any one.”
“Certainly not,” I assured him. “I will be there almost at once.” And I opened the door for him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was sure I could count on you.” And he went noiselessly down the hall.
I dressed myself as rapidly as possible, and, digging my surgical case from the bottom of my trunk, assured myself that it contained antiseptic gauze, a probe, a sponge, and the other necessaries for dressing a wound. Three minutes later I was hurrying through the deserted grounds toward the entrance. As I reached it, a figure detached itself from the shadow under the trees, and I saw that it was Ettrick.
“This way,” he said, and led the way a few yards down the road, where a two-horse team attached to a three-seated surrey was standing.
As I climbed into the front seat beside him, I was astonished to see that each of the rear seats held two men.
Ettrick must have heard my exclamation of astonishment, but he made no sign. Taking the reins, he spoke a low word to the horses, and we were off along the road to Greenbriar. And still I could not understand—only one thing, the encounter had not yet taken place. Ettrick had perhaps conceived some wild notion of kidnaping Sutherlin and fighting it out with him.
I could not be a party to such a thing, and I started to protest, but Ettrick silenced me sternly.
“You have promised to ask no questions, Doctor Dallas,” he said.
“But I did not suspect——” I began.
“No matter; it is useless to ask questions. They will not be answered.”
“Then I shall get out here,” I said hotly.
At the words, I felt a strong pair of arms encircle me from the rear.
“Another word,” said Ettrick coldly, “and I will have you bound and gagged. We need you, and you are going with us. Make up your mind whether you will go free or bound.”
After all, I reflected, it was foolish to engage in a struggle which could only end in defeat, and humiliating defeat at that, so I settled back in the seat, and the arms about me relaxed.
“Good!” said Ettrick. “That's sensible.”
I did not answer, but sat staring moodily along the moonlit road. Suddenly Ettrick pulled the horses up, listened for a moment, and then, springing out, drew them into the woods at the roadside. The men had sprung out when he did, but I sat in the surrey, determined to have no hand in the proceedings.
A moment later after we were safe in the shadows, I caught the sound of hoof-beats from the road, and saw dimly another surrey speeding past us toward Eagle Gap.
Ettrick, with the assistance of one of the men, led the horses on a little farther, then tied them, and paused at the side of the surrey.
“Will you give me your word of honor, Doctor Dallas,” he asked, “to sit quietly where you are until you are summoned?”
“Not to do so would result in my being tied up, I suppose?”
“It certainly would. I have your word of honor?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said, and led his four companions away in the direction of the road, across which they dragged some logs.
This done, they posted themselves in the shadows, and waited. I could feel the blood drumming in my temples, for at last I began to have some dim foreboding of the truth.
Ten minutes passed—they seemed an hour!—and then again I caught the clatter of approaching hoofs. Nearer and nearer they came, and at last the surrey swung into view. Then the driver saw the logs, and pulled in his horses sharply. As he did so a man sprang to the bridle of each of them, and I saw the glint of revolvers in the moonlight.
“Get down, Abbott Sutherlin,” said Philip Ettrick's voice. “I have you. Get down.”
There was an instant's silence; then there sprang out of the surrey not Sutherlin, but a woman's figure, and I knew that it was Kitty Ettrick.
“Philip,” she said, “what folly is this?”
“It is no folly.” And he held her away from him. “Will you get down, Sutherlin,” he added, “or must I drag you down?”
With a quick exclamation of anger, Sutherlin leaped out into the road.
“I warn you, Ettrick,” he said hoarsely, “to leave us. You will regret this interference.”
“Will I?” and Ettrick laughed harshly “I think not. You were going to repay the old score, were you, Sutherlin?”
There was a low cry from Kitty Ettrick.
“We were going to be married,” she said, “to-morrow—at Meechum.”
“Were you?” Ettrick's voice quivered with scorn and hatred. “Are you sure he is not already married, Kitty?”
“Married!” she cried. “Abbott!”
But her brother had turned away from her.
“Will you come quietly, Sutherlin,” he said, “or must my men bring you?” he said.
“No need of that,” said Sutherlin shortly.
“Come on, then.”
Ettrick led the way back toward the surrey, from which he took a long, black case.
“All right, Doctor Dallas,” he added. “Bring your instruments and follow us.”
I picked up my case, in a kind of daze, and followed the little procession through the wood. There seemed to be a rude path, and at the end of five minutes we came out into a little clearing. I glanced around it with a faint sense of recognition; then, with a start, I saw it was the spot where I had blundered upon Kitty Ettrick and her lover.
“You'll have to take two of my men for seconds, Sutherlin,” said Ettrick composedly. “They'll see that you get fair play. Or perhaps you'd rather have Doctor Dallas.”
“Your men will do,” said Sutherlin curtly.
“Then perhaps you will look after my sister, Doctor Dallas,” said Ettrick, “until we have need of you.”
Obediently enough, I went to where Kitty Ettrick, a little apart, stood supporting herself against a tree. She was staring straight before her, and took no heed of me.
“It is to be pistols at ten paces,” continued Ettrick evenly. “I have the pistols here.” He opened the case he had been carrying under his arm. “Will you select your weapon?”
“I warn you, Ettrick,” said Sutherlin, in a voice carefully suppressed, “that I am a dead shot. And this is wholly irregular.”
“It is the best I could do,” said Ettrick. “And as for your being a dead shot, your hand will tremble to-night. You are a coward at heart.”
Without a word, Sutherlin strode forward, and snatched one of the pistols from the case. Ettrick took the other, and placed the box on the ground.
“Here is powder and ball,” he added. “Each man will load for himself.”
There was a moment's silence. I saw the bullets rammed home; then, at a sign from Ettrick, one of the men paced off the distance, and set a little twig with a handkerchief floating from it, at each station. They were terribly near.
The men took their places.
“Whatever the result,” said Ettrick, “this is to be an accident. These men are from my place, and thoroughly to be trusted. Johnson will count three, and at the last word we will fire. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” Sutherlin answered, and I could feel the rage which flamed in his voice.
Johnson came forward, and took his stand.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the two men simultaneously, and raised their weapons.
Johnson paused an instant, and I could feel the cold sweat break out across my forehead. It seemed to me that I was suffocating. I glanced at my companion. She was still staring straight ahead, with eyes intent, but unseeing.
“Ready,” said Johnson's voice. “One, two, three!”
The pistols spoke at the same instant, so close together that there was but one report. For a breath, both men held their places, staring intently at each other; then Ettrick dropped his pistol, clutched at his breast, raised himself on tiptoe, half turned, and fell.
That sight struck away the chains which had held me spellbound, and in an instant I was beside the fallen man. I turned him over on his back, and stripped away his shirt. There was an ugly hole just over his heart, from which the blood was flowing slowly. I felt his pulse; I looked into his eyes, which were open and staring fixedly up at the heavens.
“Well?” asked Johnson's voice.
“He is dead!” I answered hoarsely.
For an instant there was silence; then I felt some one behind me, and before I could interfere Kitty Ettrick had snatched up the pistol which her brother had dropped, and started toward Sutherlin. He stood calmly awaiting her, a smile upon his lips. Before I understood her purpose, she raised the pistol, pointed it straight into his face, and pulled the trigger.
Of course I knew that the weapon had already been discharged, but I shall never forget the sickening bound of the heart with which I witnessed that action. Sutherlin, too, must have known he was in no danger, and yet I could not but admit the courage with which he stood there, quite at ease, as that distraught woman advanced upon him.
It was over in a breath, for, as Kitty Ettrick pulled the trigger, she dropped senseless at his feet.
“Take her away,” said Sutherlin, as I stooped to raise her. “Take her back to the Gap. There is no further need of me here?” he added.
“No,” I said. “The sooner you get away the better.”
“I think so myself,” he agreed coolly, and tossed his pistol toward the empty box.
Then, without a glance at the man he had killed, or the woman he had meant to ruin, he strode away toward the road.
A moment later I heard him driving away toward Greenbriar.
Six months later, after a month with the Bramwells, I was back in New York, quite well and very happy, for Betty and I had managed to reach a mutually satisfactory understanding.
One night Ferringham came around to smoke a pipe with me, and just as it was getting time to go, turned to me abruptly.
“I've heard some strange rumors about what happened down there at the Gap, Dallas,” he said. “What was the truth of it?”
So I told him the story, while he sat, and smoked, and nodded.
“What happened afterward?” he asked.
“Ettrick was supposed to have shot himself while hunting,” I said. “Of course, everybody understood. But his sister's name did not appear.”
“What happened to her?”
“I've got a letter here,” I said. “Came in to-day, from Betty Bramwell.”
“I haven't congratulated you yet,” said Ferringham, and held out his hand. “I've never met her, but I know her mother. If she's anything like her her——”
“Wait till you see her,” I said, and opened the letter.
    “Dear Tom: Do you know this is the last letter I shall ever write you as Betty Bramwell—for in three days more—I can scarcely believe it, Tom, and I'm rather frightened——
“Hum!” I said, and skipped.
    “Kitty Ettrick is to marry Judge Chester next month, and no doubt they will both be miserable ever after. Abbott Sutherlin has settled down on his place with his green-eyed wife—it seems they were married all the time! How history repeats itself! The feud is evidently to be passed on to the next generation, and I suppose to the generation after that. It makes me feel as though I were living in the Middle Ages!
    “Kitty's mother is quite broken. I think she knows the whole story—no doubt Kitty told her. Kitty is more reserved than ever. This last occurrence seems to have quite frozen her. And her hair is turning gray.
    “You're to reach here on the Wednesday afternoon train, remember, and there's to be a little dinner that night.”
“Hum!” I said again, and looked up.
Ferringham was smiling at me kindly.
“Well, I'll be getting along,” he said “You haven't felt any return of that nervousness?”
“Not a sign.”
“I'll give Mrs. Dallas a hint to look after you, as soon as I meet her. Good night, Dallas, and the best of luck. You leave in the morning?”
“Yes—the nine-fifteen.”
“Same train you took before?”
“Yes.”
“I guess you're more willing to go this time?”
“Yes,” I said simply, “I am.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1962, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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