_ Breakfast was barely over the next morning when Jim Weatherby
appeared at the kitchen door carrying a package of horseshoe
nails and a small hammer.
"I thought perhaps Christopher might want to use the mare early,"
he explained to Cynthia, who was clearing off the table. There
was a pleasant precision in his speech, acquired with much
industry at the little country school, and Cynthia, despite her
rigid disfavour, could not but notice that when he glanced round
the room in search of Lila he displayed the advantage of an
aristocratic profile. Until to-day she could not remember that
she had ever seen him directly, as it were; she had looked around
him and beyond him, much as she might have obliterated from her
vision a familiar shrub that chanced to intrude itself into her
point of view. The immediate result of her examination was the
possibility she dimly acknowledged that a man might exist as a
well-favoured individual and yet belong to an unquestionably
lower class of life.
"Well, I'll go out to the stable," added Jim, after a moment in
which he had patiently submitted to her squinting observation.
"Christopher will be somewhere about, I suppose?"
"Oh, I suppose so," replied Cynthia indifferently, emptying the
coffee-grounds into the kitchen sink. The asperity of her tone
was caused by the entrance of Lila, who came in with a basin of
corn-meal dough tucked under her bared arm, which showed as round
and delicate as a child's beneath her loosely rolled-up sleeve.
"Cynthia, I can't find the hen-house key," she began; and then,
catching sight of Jim, she flushed a clear pink, while the little
brown mole ran a race with the dimple in her check.
"The key is on that nail beside the dried hops," returned Cynthia
sternly. "I found it in the lock last night and brought it in.
It's a mercy that the chickens weren't all stolen."
Without replying, Lila took down the key, strung it on her little
finger, and, going to the door, passed with Jim out into the
autumn sunshine. Her soft laugh pulsed back presently, and
Cynthia, hearing it, set her thin lips tightly as she carefully
rinsed the coffee-pot with soda.
Christopher, who had just come up to the wellbrink, where Tucker
sat feeding the hounds from a plate of scraps, gave an abrupt nod
in the direction of the lovers strolling slowly down the
hen-house path.
"It will end that way some day, I reckon," he said with a sigh,
"and you know I'm almost of a mind with Cynthia about it. It does
seem a downright pity. Not that Jim isn't a good chap and all
that, but he's an honest, hard-working farmer and nothing more--
and, good heavens! just look at Lila! Why, she's beautiful enough
to set the world afire."
Smiling broadly, Tucker tossed a scrap of cornbread into Spy's
open jaws; then his gaze travelled leisurely to the hen-house,
which Lila had just unlocked. As she pushed back the door there
was a wild flutter of wings, and the big fowls flew in a swarm
about her feet, one great red-and-black rooster craning his long
neck after the basin she held beneath her arm. While she
scattered the soft dough on the ground she bent her head slightly
sideways, looking up at Jim, who stood regarding her with
enraptured eyes.
"Well, I don't know that much good ever comes of setting anything
afire," answered Tucker with his amiable chuckle; "the danger is
that you're apt to cause a good deal of trouble somewhere, and
it's more than likely you'll get singed yourself in putting out
the flame. You needn't worry about Lila, Christopher; she's the
kind of woman--and they're rare--who doesn't have to have her
happiness made to order; give her any fair amount of the raw
material and she'll soon manage to fit it perfectly to herself.
The stuff is in her, I tell you; the atmosphere is about her-
-can't you feel it--and she's going to be happy, whatever comes.
A woman who can make over a dress the sixth time as cheerfully as
she did the first has the spirit of a Caesar, and doesn't need
your lamentations. If you want to be a Jeremiah, you must go
elsewhere."
"Oh, I dare say she'll grow content, but it does seem such a
terrible waste. She's the image of that Saint-Memin portrait of
Aunt Susannah, and if she'd only been born a couple of
generations ago she would probably have been the belle of two
continents. Such women must be scarce anywhere."
"She's pretty enough, certainly, and I think Jim knows it.
There's but one thing I've ever seen that could compare with her
for colour, and that's a damask rose that blooms in May on an old
bush in the front yard. When all is said, however, that young
Weatherby is no clodhopper, you know, and I'm not sure that he
isn't worthier of her than any highsounding somebody across the
water would have been. He can love twice as hard, I'll wager, and
that's the chief thing, after all; it's worth more than big
titles or fine clothes--or even than dead grandfathers, with due
respect to Cynthia. I tell you, Lila may never stir from the
midst of these tobacco fields; she may be buried alive all her
days between these muddy roads that lead heaven knows where, and
yet she may live a lot bigger and fuller life than she might have
done with all London at her feet, as they say it was at your
Greataunt Susannah's. The person who has to have outside props to
keep him straight must have been made mighty crooked at the
start, and Lila's not like that."
Christopher stooped and pulled Spy's ears.
"That's as good a way to look at it as any other, I reckon," he
remarked; "and now I've got to hurry the shoeing of the mare."
He crossed over and joined Lila and Jim before the henhouse door,
where he put the big fowls to noisy flight.
"Well, you're a trusty neighbour, " he cried good-humoredly,
striking Jim a friendly blow that sent him reeling out into the
path.
Lila passed her hand in a sweeping movement round the inside of
the basin and flirted the last drops of dough from her
finger-tips.
"A few of your pats will cripple Jim for a week," she observed,
"so you'd better be careful; he's too useful a friend to lose
while there are any jobs to do."
"Why, if I had that muscle I could run a farm with one hand,"
said Jim. "Give a plough a single push, Christopher, and I
believe it would run as long as there was level ground."
Cynthia, standing at the kitchen window with a cuptowel slung
across her arm, watched the three chatting merrily in the
sunshine, and the look of rigid resentment settled like a mask
upon her face. She was still gazing out upon them when Docia
opened the door behind her and informed her in a whisper that
"Ole miss wanted her moughty quick."
"All right, Docia. Is anything the matter?"
"Naw'm, 'tain' nuttin' 'tall de matter. She's des got fidgetty."
"Well, I'll come in a minute. Are you better to-day? How's your
heart?"
"Lawd, Miss Cynthia, hit's des bruised all over. Ev'y breaf I
draw hits it plum like a hammer. I hyear hit thump, thump, thump
all de blessed time."
"Be careful, then. Tell mother I'm coming at once."
She hung the cup-towel on the rack, and, taking off her blue
checked apron, went along the little platform to the main part of
the house and into the old lady's parlour, where the morning
sunshine fell across the faces of generations of dead Blakes. The
room was still furnished with the old rosewood furniture, and the
old damask curtains hung before the single window, which gave on
the overgrown front yard and the twisted aspen. Though the rest
of the house suggested only the direst poverty, the immediate
surroundings of Mrs. Blake revealed everywhere the lavish ease so
characteristic of the old order which had passed away. The
carving on the desk, on the book-cases, on the slender sofa, was
all wrought by tedious handwork; the delicate damask coverings to
the chairs were still lustrous after almost half a century; and
the few vases scattered here and there and filled with autumn
flowers were, for the most part, rare pieces of old royal
Worcester. While it was yet Indian summer, there was no need of
fires, and the big fireplace was filled with goldenrod, which
shed a yellow dust down on the rude brick hearth.
The old lady, inspired by her indomitable energy, was already
dressed for the day in her black brocade, and sat bolt upright
among the pillows in her great oak chair.
"Some one passed the window whistling, Cynthia. Who was it? The
whistle had a pleasant, cheery sound."
"It must have been Jim Weatherby, I think: old Jacob's son."
"Is he over here?"
"To see Christopher--yes."
"Well, be sure to remind the servants to give him something to
eat in the kitchen before he goes back, and I think, if he's a
decent young man, I should like to have a little talk with him
about his family. His father used to be one of our most
respectable labourers."
"It would tire you, I fear, mother. Shall I give you your
knitting now?"
"You have a most peculiar idea about me, my child. I have not yet
reached my dotage, and I don't think that a little talk with
young Weatherby could possibly be much of an ordeal. Is he an
improper person?"
"No, no, of course not; you shall see him whenever you like. I
was only thinking of you."
"Well, I'm sure I am very grateful for your consideration, my
dear, but there are times, occasionally, you know, when it is
better for one to judge for oneself. I sometimes think that your
only fault, Cynthia, is that you are a little--just a very little
bit, you understand--inclined to manage things too much. Your
poor father used to say that a domineering woman was like a
kicking cow; but this doesn't apply to you, of course."
"Shall I call Jim now, mother?"
"You might as well, dear. Place a chair for him, a good stout
one, and be sure to make him wipe his feet before he comes in.
Does he appear to be clean?"
"Oh, perfectly."
"I remember his father always was--unusually so for a common
labourer. Those people sometimes smell of cattle, you know; and
besides, my nose has grown extremely sensitive in the years since
I lost my eyesight. Perhaps it would be as well to hand me the
bottle of camphor. I can pretend I have a headache."
"There's no need, really; he isn't a labourer at all, you know,
and he looks quite a gentleman. He is, I believe, considered a
very handsome young man."
Mrs. Blake waved toward the door and the piece of purple glass
flashed in the sunlight. "In that case, I might offer him some
sensible advice," she said. "The Weatherbys, I remember, always
showed a very proper respect for gentle people. I distinctly
recall how well Jacob behaved when on one occasion Micajah
Blair--a dreadful, dissolute character, though of a very old
family and an intimate friend of your father's--took decidedly
too much egg-nog one Christmas when he was visiting us, and
insisted upon biting Jacob's cheek because it looked so like a
winesap. Jacob had come to see your father on business, and I
will say that he displayed a great deal of good sense and
dignity; he said afterward that he didn't mind the bite on his
cheek at all, but that it pained him terribly to see a Virginia
gentleman who couldn't balance a bowl of egg-nog. Well, well,
Micajah was certainly a rake, I fear; and for that matter, so was
his father before him."
"Father had queer friends," observed Cynthia sadly. "I remember
his telling me when I was a little girl that he preferred that
family to any in the county."
"Oh, the family was all right, my dear. I never heard a breath
against the women. Now you may fetch Jacob. Is that his name?"
"No; Jim."
"Dear me; that's very odd. He certainly should have been called
after his father. I wonder how they could have been so
thoughtless."
Cynthia drew forward an armchair, stooped and carefully arranged
the ottoman, and then went with stern determination to look for
Jim Weatherby.
He was sitting in the stable doorway, fitting a shoe on the old
mare, while Lila leaned against an overturned barrel in the
sunshine outside. At Cynthia's sudden appearance they both
started and looked up in amazement, the words dying slowly on
their lips.
"Why, whatever is the matter, Cynthia?" cried Lila, as if in
terror.
Cynthia came forward until she stood directly at the mare's head,
where she delivered her message with a gasp:
"Mother insists upon talking to Jim. There's no help for it; he
must come."
Weatherby dropped the mare's hoof and raised a breathless
question to Cynthia's face, while Lila asked quickly:
"Does she know?"
"Know what?" demanded Cynthia, turning grimly upon her. "Of
course she knows that Jim is his father's son."
The young man rose and laid the hammer down on the overturned
barrel; then he led the mare back to her stall, and coming out
again, washed his hands in a tub of water by the door.
"Well, I'm ready," he observed quietly. "Shall I go in alone?"
"Oh, we don't ask that of you," said Lila, laughing. "Come; I'll
take you." She slipped her hand under his arm and they went gaily
toward the house, leaving Cynthia to pick up the horseshoe nails
lying loose upon the ground.
Hearing the young man's step on the threshold, Mrs. Blake turned
her head with a smile of pleasant condescension and stretched out
her delicate yellowed hand.
"This is Jim Weatherby, mother," said Lila in her softest voice.
"Cynthia says you want to talk to him."
"I know, my child; I know," returned Mrs. Blake, with an animated
gesture. "Come in, Jim, and don't trouble to stand. Find him a
chair, Lila. I knew your father long before you were born," she
added, turning to the young man, "and I knew only good of him. I
suppose he has often told you of the years he worked for us?"
Jim held her hand for an instant in his own, and then, bending
over, raised it to his lips.
"My father never tires of telling us about the old times, and
about Mr. Blake and yourself," he answered in his precise
English, and with the simple dignity which he never lost. Lila,
watching him, prayed silently that a miracle might open the old
lady's eyes and allow her to see the kind, manly look upon his
face.
Mrs. Blake nodded pleasantly, with evident desire to put him
wholly at his ease.
"Well, his son is becoming quite courtly," she responded,
smiling, "and I know Jacob is proud of you--or he ought to be,
which amounts to the same thing. There's nothing I like better
than to see a good, hard-working family prosper in life and raise
its station. Not that I mean to put ideas into your head, of
course, for it is a ridiculous sight to see a person dissatisfied
with the position in which the good Lord has placed him. That was
what I always liked about your mother, and I remember very well
her refusing to wear some of my old finery when she was married,
on the ground that she was a plain, honest woman, and wanted to
continue so when she was a wife. I hope, by the way, that she is
well."
"Oh, quite. She does not walk much, though; her joints have been
troubling her."
To Lila's surprise, he was not the least embarrassed by the
personal tone of the conversation, and his sparkling blue eyes
held their usual expression of blithe good-humour.
"Indeed!" Mrs. Blake pricked at the subject in her sprightly way.
"Well, you must persuade her to use a liniment of Jamestown weed
steeped in whisky. There is positively nothing like it for
rheumatism. Lila, do we still make it for the servants? If so,
you might send Sarah Weatherby a bottle."
"I'll see about it, mother. Aren't you tired? Shall I take Jim
away?"
"Not just yet, child. I am interested in seeing what a promising
young man he has become. How old are you, Jim?"
"Twenty-nine next February. There are two of us, you know--I've a
sister Molly. She married Frank Granger and moved ten miles
away."
"Ah, that brings me to the very point I was driving at. Above all
things, let me caution you most earnestly against the reckless
marriages so common in your station of life. For heaven's sake,
don't marry a woman because she has a pretty face and you cherish
an impracticable sentiment for her. If you take my advice, you
will found your marriage upon mutual respect and industry. Select
a wife who is not afraid of work, and who expects no folderol of
romance. Love-making, I've always maintained, should be the
pastime of the leisure class exclusively."
"I'm not afraid of work myself," replied Jim, laughing as he
looked boldly into the old lady's sightless eyes, "but I'd never
stand it for my wife--not a--a lick of it!"
"Tut, tut! Your mother does it."
Jim nodded. "But I'm not my father," he mildly suggested.
"Well, you're a fine, headstrong young fool, and I like you all
the better for it," declared Mrs. Blake. "You may go now, because
I feel as if I needed a doze; but be sure to come in and see me
the next time you're over here. Lila, put the cat on my knees and
straighten my pillows."
Lila lifted the cat from the rug and placed it in the old lady's
lap; then, as she arranged the soft white pillows, she bent over
suddenly and kissed the piece of purple glass on the fragile
hand. _