_ As they passed from the shadow of the tavern road, the afternoon sunlight
was slanting across the turnpike from the friendly hills, which alone of
all the landscape remained unchanged. Loyal, smiling, guarding the ruined
valley like peaceful sentinels, they had suffered not so much as an added
wrinkle upon their brows. As Dan had left them five long years ago, so he
found them now, and his heart leaped as he stood at last face to face. He
was like a man who, having hungered for many days, finds himself suddenly
satisfied again.
Amid a blur of young foliage they saw first the smoking chimneys of
Uplands, and then the Doric columns beyond a lane of flowering lilacs. The
stone wall had crumbled in places, and strange weeds were springing up
among the high blue-grass; but here and there beneath the maples he caught
a glimpse of small darkies uprooting the intruders, and beyond the garden,
in the distant meadows, ploughmen were plodding back and forth in the
purple furrows. Peace had descended here at least, and, with a smile, he
detected Betty's abounding energy in the moving spirit of the place. He saw
her in the freshly swept walks, in the small negroes weeding the blue-grass
lawn, in the distant ploughs that made blots upon the meadows. For a moment
he hesitated, and laid his hand upon the iron gate; then, stifling the
temptation, he turned back into the white sand of the road. Before he met
Betty's eyes, he meant that his peace should be made with the old man at
Chericoke.
Big Abel, tramping at his side, opened his mouth from time to time to let
out a rapturous exclamation.
"Dar 'tis! des look at it!" he chuckled, when Uplands had been left far
behind them. "Dat's de ve'y same clump er cedars, en dat's de wil' cher'y
lyin' right flat on hit's back--dey's done cut it down ter git de
cher'ies."
"And the locust! Look, the big locust tree is still there, and in full
bloom!"
"Lawd, de 'simmons! Dar's de 'simmon tree way down yonder in the meadow,
whar we all use ter set ouah ole hyar traps. You ain' furgot dose ole hyar
traps, Marse Dan?"
"Forgotten them! good Lord!" said Dan; "why I remember we caught five one
Christmas morning, and Betty fed them and set them free again."
"Dat she did, suh, dat she did! Hit's de gospel trufe!"
"We never could hide our traps from Betty," pursued Dan, in delight. "She
was a regular fox for scenting them out--I never saw such a nose for traps
as hers, and she always set the things loose and smashed the doors."
"We hid 'em one time way way in de thicket by de ice pond," returned Big
Abel, "but she spied 'em out. Yes, Lawd, she spied 'em out fo' ouah backs
wuz turnt."
He talked on rapidly while Dan listened with a faint smile about his mouth.
Since they had left the tavern road, Big Abel's onward march had been
accompanied by ceaseless ejaculations. His joy was childlike, unrestrained,
full of whimsical surprises--the flight of a bluebird or the recognition of
a shrub beside the way sent him with shining eyes and quickened steps along
the turnpike.
From free Levi's cabin, which was still standing, though a battle had raged
in the fallen woods beyond it, and men had fought and been buried within a
stone's throw of the doorstep, they heard the steady falling of a hammer
and caught the red glow from the rude forge at which the old negro worked.
With the half-forgotten sound, Dan returned as if in a vision to his last
night at Chericoke, when he had run off in his boyish folly, with free
Levi's hammer beating in his ears. Then he had dreamed of coming back
again, but not like this. He had meant to ride proudly up the turnpike,
with his easily won honours on his head, and in his hands his magnanimous
forgiveness for all who had done him wrong. On that day he had pictured the
Governor hurrying to the turnpike as he passed, and he had seen his
grandfather, shy of apologies, eager to make amends.
That was his dream, and to-day he came back footsore, penniless, and in a
dead man's clothes--a beggar as he had been at his first home-coming, when
he had stood panting on the threshold and clutched his little bundle in his
arms.
Yet his pulses stirred, and he turned cheerfully to the negro at his side.
"Do you see it, Big Abel? Tell me when you see it."
"Dar's de cattle pastur'," cried Big Abel, "en dey's been a-fittin'
dar--des look."
"It must have been a skirmish," replied Dan, glancing down the slope. "The
wall is all down, and see here," his foot struck on something hard and he
stooped and picked up a horse's skull. "I dare say a squad of cavalry met
Mosby's rangers," he added. "It looks as if they'd had a little frolic."
He threw the skull into the pasture, and followed Big Abel, who was
hurrying along the road.
"We're moughty near dar," cried the negro, breaking into a run. "Des wait
twel we pass de aspens, Marse Dan, des wait twel we pass de aspens, den
we'll be right dar, suh."
Then, as Dan reached him, the aspens were passed, and where Chericoke had
stood they found a heap of ashes.
At their feet lay the relics of a hot skirmish, and the old elms were
perforated with rifle balls, but for these things Dan had neither eyes nor
thoughts. He was standing before the place that he called home, and where
the hospitable doors had opened he found only a cold mound of charred and
crumbled bricks.
For an instant the scene went black before his eyes, and as he staggered
forward, Big Abel caught his arm.
"I'se hyer, Marse Dan, I'se hyer," groaned the negro in his ear.
"But the others? Where are the others?" asked Dan, coming to himself. "Hold
me, Big Abel, I'm an utter fool. O Congo! Is that Congo?"
A negro, coming with his hoe from the corn field, ran over the desolated
lawn, and began shouting hoarsely to the hands behind him:--
"Hi! Hit's Marse Dan, hit's Marse Dan come back agin!" he yelled, and at
the cry there flocked round him a little troop of faithful servants,
weeping, shouting, holding out eager arms.
"Hi! hit's Marse Dan!" they shrieked in chorus. "Hit's Marse Dan en Brer
Abel! Brer Abel en Marse Dan is done come agin!"
Dan wept with them--tears of weakness, of anguish, of faint hope amid the
dark. As their hands closed over his, he grasped them as if his eyes had
gone suddenly blind.
"Where are the others? Congo, for God's sake, tell me where are the
others?"
"We all's hyer, Marse Dan. We all's hyer," they protested, sobbing. "En Ole
Marster en Ole Miss dey's in de house er de overseer--dey's right over dar
behine de orchard whar you use ter projick wid de ploughs, en Brer Cupid
and Sis Rhody dey's a-gittin' dem dey supper."
"Then let me go," cried Dan. "Let me go!" and he started at a run past the
gray ruins and the standing kitchen, past the flower garden and the big
woodpile, to the orchard and the small frame house of Harris the overseer.
Big Abel kept at his heels, panting, grunting, calling upon his master to
halt and upon Congo to hurry after.
"You'll skeer dem ter deaf--you'll skeer Ole Miss ter deaf," cried Congo
from the rear, and drawing a trembling breath, Dan slackened his pace and
went on at a walk. At last, when he reached the small frame house and put
his foot upon the step, he hesitated so long that Congo slipped ahead of
him and softly opened the door. Then his young master followed and stood
looking with blurred eyes into the room.
Before a light blaze which burned on the hearth, the Major was sitting in
an arm chair of oak splits, his eyes on the blossoming apple trees outside,
and above his head, the radiant image of Aunt Emmeline, painted as Venus in
a gown of amber brocade. All else was plain and clean--the well-swept
floor, the burnished andirons, the cupboard filled with rows of blue and
white china--but that one glowing figure lent a festive air to the poorly
furnished room, and enriched with a certain pomp the tired old man, dozing,
with bowed white head, in the rude arm chair. It was the one thing saved
from the ashes--the one vestige of a former greatness that still remained.
As Dan stood there, a clock on the mantel struck the hour, and the Major
turned slowly toward him.
"Bring the lamps, Cupid," he said, though the daylight was still shining.
"I don't like the long shadows--bring the lamps."
Choking back a sob, Dan crossed the floor and knelt down by the chair.
"We have come back, grandpa," he said. "We beg your pardon, and we have
come back--Big Abel and I."
For a moment the Major stared at him in silence; then he reached out and
felt him with shaking hands as if he mistrusted the vision of his eyes.
"So you're back, Champe, my boy," he muttered. "My eyes are bad--I thought
at first that it was Dan--that it was Dan."
"It is I, grandpa," said Dan, slowly. "It is I--and Big Abel, too. We are
sorry for it all--for everything, and we have come back poorer than we went
away."
A light broke over the old man's face, and he stretched out his arms with a
great cry that filled the room as his head fell forward on his grandson's
breast. Then, when Mrs. Lightfoot appeared in the doorway, he controlled
himself with a gasp and struggled to his feet.
"Welcome home, my son," he said ceremoniously, as he put out his quivering
hands, "and welcome home, Big Abel."
The old lady went into Dan's arms as he turned, and looking over her head,
he saw Betty coming toward him with a lamp shining in her hand.
"My child, here is one of our soldiers," cried the Major, in joyful tones,
and as the girl placed the lamp upon the table, she turned and met Dan's
eyes.
"It is the second time I've come home like this, Betty," he said, "only I'm
a worse beggar now than I was at first."
Betty shook his hand warmly and smiled into his serious face.
"I dare say you're hungrier," she responded cheerfully, "but we'll soon
mend that, Mrs. Lightfoot and I. We are of one mind with Uncle Bill, who,
when Mr. Blake asked him the other day what we ought to do for our returned
soldiers, replied as quick as that, 'Feed 'em, sir.'"
The Major laughed with misty eyes.
"You can't get Betty to look on the dark side, my boy," he declared, though
Dan, watching the girl, saw that her face in repose had grown very sad.
Only the old beaming smile brought the brightness now.
"Well, I hope she will turn up the cheerful part of this outlook," he said,
surrendering himself to the noisy welcome of Cupid and Aunt Rhody.
"We may trust her--we may trust her," replied the old man as he settled
himself back into his chair. "If there isn't any sunshine, Betty will make
it for us herself."
Dan met the girl's glance for an instant, and then looked at the old
negroes hanging upon his hands.
"Yes, the prodigal is back," he admitted, laughing, "and I hope the fatted
calf is on the crane."
"Dar's a roas' pig fur ter-morrow, sho's you bo'n," returned Aunt Rhody.
"En I'se gwine to stuff 'im full." Then she hurried away to her fire, and
Dan threw himself down upon the rug at the Major's feet.
"Yes, we may trust Betty for the sunshine," repeated the Major, as if
striving to recall his wandering thoughts. "She's my overseer now, you
know, and she actually looks after both places in less time than poor
Harris took to worry along with one. Why, there's not a better farmer in
the county."
"Oh, Major, don't," begged the girl, laughing and blushing beneath Dan's
eyes. "You mustn't believe him, Dan, he wears rose-coloured glasses when he
looks at me."
"Well, my sight is dim enough for everything else, my dear," confessed the
old man sadly. "That's why I have the lamps lighted before the sun goes
down--eh, Molly?"
Mrs. Lightfoot unwrapped her knitting and the ivory kneedles clicked in the
firelight.
"I like to keep the shadows away myself," she responded. "The twilight used
to be my favourite hour, but I dread it now, and so does Mr. Lightfoot."
"Well, the war's given us that in common," chuckled the Major, stretching
out his feet. "If I remember rightly you once complained that our tastes
were never alike, Molly." Then he glanced round with hospitable eyes. "Draw
up, my boy, draw up to the fire and tell your story," he added invitingly.
"By the time Champe comes home we'll have rich treats in store for the
summer evenings."
Betty was looking at him as he bent over the thin flames, and Dan saw her
warm gaze cloud suddenly with tears. He put out his hand and touched hers
as it lay on the Major's chair, and when she turned to him she was smiling
brightly.
"Here's Cupid with our supper," she said, going to the table, "and dear
Aunt Rhody has actually gotten out her brandied peaches that she kept
behind her 'jists.' If you ever doubted your welcome, Dan, this must banish
it forever." Then as they gathered about the fruits of Aunt Rhody's
labours, she talked on rapidly in her cheerful voice. "The silver has just
been drawn up from the bottom of the well," she laughed, "so you mustn't
wonder if it looks a little tarnished. There wasn't a piece missing, which
is something to be thankful for already, and the port--how many bottles of
port did you dig up from the asparagus bed, Uncle Cupid?"
"I'se done hoed up 'mos' a dozen," answered Cupid, as he plied Dan with
waffles, "en dey ain' all un um up yit."
"Well, well, we'll have a bottle after supper," remarked the Major,
heartily.
"If there's anything that's been improved by this war it should be that
port, I reckon," said Mrs. Lightfoot, her muslin cap nodding over the high
old urns.
"And Dan's appetite," finished Betty, merrily.
When they rose from the table, the girl tied on her bonnet of plaited straw
and kissed Mrs. Lightfoot and the Major.
"It is almost mamma's supper time," she said, "and I must hurry back. Why,
I've been away from her at least two hours." Then she looked at Dan and
shook her head. "Don't come," she added, "it is too far for you, and Congo
will see me safely home."
"Well, I'm sorry for Congo, but his day is over," Dan returned, as he took
up his hat and followed her out into the orchard. With a last wave to the
Major, who watched them from the window, they passed under the blossoming
fruit trees and went slowly down the little path, while Betty talked
pleasantly of trivial things, cheerful, friendly, and composed. When she
had exhausted the spring ploughing, the crops still to be planted and the
bright May weather, Dan stopped beside the ashes of Chericoke, and looked
at her with sombre eyes.
"Betty, we must have it out," he said abruptly. "I have thought over it
until I'm almost mad, and I see but one sensible thing for you to do--you
must give me up--my dearest."
A smile flickered about Betty's mouth. "It has taken you a long time to
come to that conclusion," she responded.
"I hoped until the end--even after I knew that hope was folly and that I
was a fool to cling to it. I always meant to come back to you when I got
the chance, but not like this--not like this."
At the pain in his eyes the girl caught her breath with a sob that shook
her from head to foot. Pity moved her with a passion stronger than mere
love, and she put out her protecting arms with a gesture that would have
saved him from the world--or from himself.
"No, like this, Dan," she answered, with her lips upon his coat.
He kissed her once and drew back.
"I never meant to come home this way, Betty," he said, in a voice that
trembled from its new humility.
"My dear, my dear, I have grown to think that any way is a good way," she
murmured, her eyes on the blackened pile that had once been Chericoke.
"It is not right," he went on; "it is not fair. You cannot marry me--you
must not."
Again the humour quivered on the girl's lips.
"I don't like to seem too urgent," she returned, "but will you tell me
why?"
"Why?" he repeated bitterly. "There are a hundred why's if you want them,
and each one sufficient in itself. I am a beggar, a failure, a wreck, a
broken-down soldier from the ranks. Do you think if it were anything less
than pure madness on your part that I should stand here a moment and talk
like this?--but because I am in love with you, Betty, it doesn't follow
that I'm an utter ass."
"That's flattering," responded Betty, "but it doesn't explain just what I
want to know. Look me straight in the eyes--no evading now--and answer what
I ask. Do you mean that we are to be neighbours and nothing more? Do you
mean that we are to shake hands when we meet and drop them afterward? Do
you mean that we are to stand alone together as we are standing now--that
you are never to take me in your arms again? Do you mean this, my dear?"
"I mean--just that," he answered between his teeth.
For a moment Betty looked at him with a laugh of disbelief. Then, biting
the smile upon her lips, she held out her hand with a friendly gesture.
"I am quite content that it should be so," she said in a cordial voice. "We
shall be very good neighbours, I fancy, and if you have any trouble with
your crops, don't hesitate to ask for my advice. I've become an excellent
farmer, the Major says, you know." She caught up her long black skirt and
walked on, but when he would have followed, she motioned him back with a
decisive little wave. "You really mustn't--I can't think of allowing it,"
she insisted. "It is putting my neighbours to unheard-of trouble to make
them see me home. Why, if I once begin the custom, I shall soon have old
Rainy-day Jones walking back with me when I go to buy his cows." Still
smiling she passed under the battle-scarred elms and stepped over the
ruined gate into the road.
Leaning against a twisted tree in the old drive, Dan watched her until her
black dress fluttered beyond the crumbled wall. Then he gave a cry that
checked her hastening feet.
"Betty!" he called, and at his voice she turned.
"What is it, dear friend?" she asked, and, standing amid the scattered
stones, looked back at him with pleading eyes.
"Betty!" he cried again, stretching out his arms; and as she ran toward
him, he went down beside the ashes of Chericoke, and lay with his face half
hidden against a broken urn.
"I am coming," called Betty, softly, running over the fallen gate and along
the drive. Then, as she reached him, she knelt down and drew him to her
bosom, soothing him as a mother soothes a tired child.
"It shall be as you wish--I shall be as you wish," she promised as she held
him close.
But his strength had come back to him at her touch, and springing to his
feet, he caught her from the ground as he had done that day beside the
cabin in the woods, kissing her eyelids and her faithful hands.
"I can't do it, Betty, it's no use. There's still some fight left in me--I
am not utterly beaten so long as I have you on my side."
With a smile she lifted her face and he caught the strong courage of her
look.
"We will begin again," she said, "and this time, my dear, we will begin
together."
THE END.
The Battle Ground, by Ellen Glasgow. _