THE GHOST GIRL BY THE SAME AUTHOR Sea Plunder $1. 30 netThe Gold Trail $1. 30 netThe Pearl Fishers $1. 30 netThe Presentation $1. 30 netThe New Optimism $1. 00 netPoppyland $2. 00 net The Poems of François VillonTranslated byH. DE VERE STACPOOLE Boards $3. 00 netHalf Morocco $7. 50 net THE GHOST GIRL BYH. DE VERE STACPOOLE AUTHOR OF"THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF, " "SEA PLUNDER, ""THE PEARL FISHERS, " "THE GOLD TRAIL, " ETC. NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANYLONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEADTORONTO: S. B GUNDY--MCMXVIII Copyright, 1918By JOHN LANE COMPANY PRESS OFVAIL-BALLOU COMPANYBINGHAMTON, N. Y. U. S. A. THE GHOST GIRL PART I CHAPTER I It was a warm, grey, moist evening, typical Irish weather, and MissBerknowles was curled up in a window-seat of the library reading a book. Kilgobbin Park lay outside with the rooks cawing in the trees, miles ofpark land across which the dusk was coming, blotting out all things fromArranakilty to the Slieve Bloom Mountains. The turf fire burning on the great hearth threw out a rich steady glowthat touched the black oak panelling of the room, the book backs, and thelong-nosed face of Sir Nicholas Berknowles "attributed to Lely" andlooking down at his last descendant from a dusty canvas on the oppositewall. The girl made a prettier picture. Red hair when it is of the right colouris lovely, and Phylice Berknowles' hair was of the right red, worn in atail--she was only fifteen--so long that she could bite the end with easeand comfort when she was in a meditative mood, a habit of perdition thatno schoolmistress could break her of. She was biting her tail now as she read, up to her eyes in the marvellousstory of the Gold Bug, and now, unable to read any more by the light fromthe window, she came to the fire, curled herself on the hearthrug andcontinued the adventures of the treasure-seekers by the light of theburning turf. What a pretty face it was, seen by the full warm glow of the turf, andwhat a perfectly shaped head! It was not the face and head of a Berknowlesas you could easily have perceived had you compared it with the portraitsin the picture gallery, but of a Mascarene. Phyl's mother had been a Mascarene, a member of the old, adventurousfamily that settled in Virginia when Virginia was a wilderness and spreadits branches through the Carolinas when the Planter was king of the South. Red hair had run among the Mascarenes, red hair and a wild spirit thatbrooked no contradiction and knew no fear. Phyl had inherited something ofthis restless and daring spirit. She had run away from the RottingdeanAcademy for the Daughters of the Nobility and Gentry where she had beensent at the age of twelve; making her way back to Ireland like a homingpigeon, she had turned up one morning at breakfast time, quite unshaken byher experiences of travel and with the announcement that she did not likeschool. Had her mother been alive the traveller would have been promptly returned, but Phyl's father, good, easy man, was too much taken up with agrariandisputes, hunting, and the affairs of country life to bother much aboutthe small affair of his daughter's future and education. He accepted herrejection of his plans, wrote a letter of apology to the RottingdeanAcademy, and hired a governess for her. She wore out three in eighteenmonths, declared herself dissatisfied with governesses and competent tofinish the process of educating and polishing herself. This she did with the aid of all the books in the library, old Dunn, therat-catcher of Arranakilty, a man profoundly versed in the habits ofrodents and birds, Larry the groom, and sundry others of low estate buthigh intelligence in matters of sport and woodcraft. Now it might be imagined from the foregoing that hardihood, self-assertion, and other unpleasant characteristics would be indicated inthe manner and personality of this lover of freedom and rebel againstrestraint. Not at all. She was a most lovable and clinging person, whenshe could get hold of anything worth clinging to, with a mellifluous Irishvoice at once soothing and distracting, a voice with pockets in it but nota trace of a brogue or only the very faintest suspicion. Yet when shespoke she had the Irish turn of words and she used the word "sure" in amanner strange to the English. She had reached the point in the "Gold Bug" where Jupp is threatening tobeat Legrand, when, laying the book down beside her on the hearthrug, shesat with her hands clasping her knees and her eyes fixed on the fire. The tale had suddenly lost interest. She was thinking of her dead father, the big, hearty man who had gone to America only eight weeks ago and whowould never return. He had gone on a visit to some of his wife's people, fallen ill, and died. Phyl could not understand it at all. She had cried her heart out amongstthe ruins of her little world, but she could not understand why it hadbeen ruined, or what her father had done to be killed like that, or whatshe had done to deserve such misery. The Reverend Peter Graham ofArranakilty could explain nothing about the matter to her understanding. She nearly died and then miraculously recovered. Acute grief often endslike that, suddenly. The mourner may be maimed for life but the sharpnessof the pain of that dreadful, dreadful disease is gone. Phyl found herself one morning discussing rats with old Dunn, asking himhow many he had caught in the barn and taking a vague sort of interest inwhat the old fellow was saying; books began to appeal to her again and theold life to run anew in a crippled sort of way. Then other thingshappened. Mr. Hennessey, the family lawyer, who had been a crony of herfather's and who had known her from infancy, came down to Kilgobbin toarrange matters. It seemed that Mr. Berknowles before dying had made a will and that thewill was being brought over from the States by Mr. Pinckney, his wife'scousin in whose house he had died. "I'm sure I don't know what the chap wants coming over with it for, " saidMr. Hennessey. "He said it was by your father's request he was coming, butit's a long journey for a man to take at this season of the year--and Ihope the will is all right. " There was an implied distrust in his tone and an antagonism to Mr. Pinckney that was not without its effect on Phyl. She disliked Mr. Pinckney. She had never seen him but she disliked him allthe same, and she feared him. She felt instinctively that this man wascoming to make some alteration in her way of life. She did not want anychange, she wanted to go on living just as she was with Mrs. Driscoll thehousekeeper to look after her and all the old servants to befriend her andMr. Hennessey to pay the bills. Mr. Hennessey was in the house now. He had come down that morning fromDublin to receive Mr. Pinckney, who was due to arrive that night. Phyl, sitting on the hearthrug, was in the act of picking up her book whenthe door opened and in came Mr. Hennessey. He had been out in the grounds overlooking things and he came to the fireto warm his hands, telling Phyl to sit easy and not disturb herself. Then, as he held a big foot to the warmth he talked down at the girl, tellingher of what he had been about and the ruination Rafferty was letting thegreenhouses go to. "Half-a-dozen panes of glass out--and 'I've no putty, ' says he. 'Putty, 'said I to him, 'and what's that head of yours made of?' The stoves are allout of order and there's a hole in one of the flues I could get my thumbin. " "Rafferty's awfully good to the dogs, " said Phyl in her mellow voice, sowell adapted for intercession. "He may be a bit careless, but he neverdoes forget to feed the animals. He's got the chickens to look after, too, and then there's the beagles, he knows every dog in the pack and every dogknows him--oh, dear, what's the good of it all!" The thought of the beagles had brought up the vision of their master whowould never hunt with them again. Her voice became tinged with melancholyand Hennessey changed the subject, taking his seat in one of the armchairsthat stood on either side of the fireplace. He was a big, loosely-made man, an easy going man with a kind heart whowould have come to financial disaster long ago only for his partner, Niven. "He's almost due to be here by now, " said he, taking out his watch andlooking at it, "unless the express from Dublin is late. " "What'll he be like, do you think?" said Phyl. "There's no saying, " replied Mr. Hennessey. "He's an American and I'venever had much dealings with Americans except by letter. By all accountsthey are sharp business men, but I daresay he is all right. The thing thatgets me is his coming over. Americans don't go thousands of miles fornothing, but if it's after any hanky-panky business about the property, maybe he'll find Jack Hennessey as sharp as any American. " "He's some sort of a relation of ours, " said Phyl. "Father said he was asort of cousin. " "On your mother's side, " said Hennessey. "Yes, " said Phyl. Then, after a moment's pause, "D'you know I've oftenthought of all those people over there and wondered what they were likeand how they lived--my mother's people. Father used to talk of themsometimes. He said they kept slaves. " "That was in the old days, " said Hennessey. "The slaves are all gone longago. They used to have sugar plantations and suchlike, but the war stoppedall that. " "It's funny, " said Phyl, "to think that my people kept slaves--my mother'speople--Oh, if one could only see back, see all the people that have gonebefore one so long ago-- Don't you ever feel like that?" Mr. Hennessey never had; his forebears had been liquor dealers in Athloneand he was content to let them lie without a too close inquisition intothe romances of their lives. "Mr. Hennessey, " said Phyl, after a moment's silence, "suppose Father hasleft Mr. Pinckney all his money--what will become of me?" "The Lord only knows, " said Hennessey; "but what's been putting suchfancies in your head?" "I don't know, " replied the girl. "I was just thinking. Of course hewouldn't do such a thing--It's your talking of the will the last time youwere here set me on, I suppose, but I dreamed last night Mr. Pinckney cameand he was an American with a beard like Uncle Sam in _Punch_ last week, and he said Father had made a will and left him everything--he'd left himme as well as everything else, and the dogs and all the servants andKilgobbin--then I woke up. " "Well, you were dreaming nonsense, " said the practical Hennessey. "A mancan't leave his daughter away from him, though I'm half thinking there'smany a man would be willing enough if he could. " Phyl raised her head. Her quick ear had caught a sound from the avenue. Then the crash of wheels on gravel came from outside and her companion, rising hurriedly from his chair, went to the window. "That's him, " said the easy-speaking Hennessey. CHAPTER II He left the room and Phyl, rising from the hearthrug, stood with her handon the mantelpiece listening. Hennessey had left the door open and she could hear a confused noise fromthe hall, the sound of luggage being brought in, the bustle of servantsand a murmur of voices. Then a voice that made her start. "Thanks, I can carry it myself. " It was the newcomer's voice, he was being conducted to his room byHennessey. It was a cheerful, youthful voice, not in the least suggestiveof Uncle Sam with the goatee beard as depicted by the unimaginative artistof _Punch_. And it was a voice she had heard before, so she fancied, butwhere, she could not possibly tell--nor did she bother to think, dismissing the idea as a fancy. She stood listening, but heard nothing more, only the wind that had risenand was shaking the ivy outside the windows. Byrne, the old manservant, came in and lit the lamps and then after a fewminutes Hennessey entered. He looked cheerful. "He seems all right and he'll be down in a minute, " said the lawyer; "nota bit of harm in him, though I haven't had time to tackle him over moneyaffairs. " "How old is he?" asked the girl. "Old! Why, he's only a boy, but he's got all a man's ways with him--he'sAmerican, they're like that. I've heard say the American children ordertheir own mothers and fathers about and drive their own motor-cars andgamble on the Stock Exchange. " He pulled out his watch and looked at it;it pointed to ten minutes past seven; then he lit a cigar and sat smokingand smoking without a word whilst Phyl sat thinking and staring at thefire. They were seated like this when the door opened and Byrne shewed inMr. Pinckney. Hennessey had called him a boy. He was not that. He was twenty-two yearsof age, yet he looked only twenty and you would not have been particularlysurprised if you had been told that he was only nineteen. Good-looking, well-groomed and well-dressed, he made a pleasant picture, and as he cameacross the room to greet Phyl he explained without speaking what Mr. Hennessey meant about "all the manners of a man. " Pinckney's manner was the manner of a man of the world of thirty, easy-going, assured, and decided. He shook hands with Phyl as Hennessey introduced them, and then stood withhis back to the fireplace talking, as she took her seat in the armchair onthe right, whilst the lawyer remained standing, hands in pockets and footon the left corner of the fender. The newcomer did most of the talking. By a downward glance every now andthen he included Phyl in the conversation, but he addressed most of hisremarks to Mr. Hennessey. "And you came over by the Holyhead route?" said the lawyer. "I did, " replied Pinckney. "And what did you think of Kingstown?" "Well, upon my word, I saw less of it than of a gentleman with long hairand a bundle of newspapers under his arm who received me like a motherjust as I landed, hypnotised me into buying half-a-dozen newspapers andstarted me off for Dublin with his blessing. " "That was Davy Stevens, " said Phyl, speaking for the first time. Pinckney's entrance had produced upon her the same effect as his voice. You know the feeling that some places produce on the mind when firstseen-- "I have been here before But when or how I cannot tell I know the lights along the shore--" It seemed to her that she had known Pinckney and had met him in someplace, but when or how she could not possibly remember. The feeling hadalmost worn off now. It had thrilled her, but the thrill had vanished andthe concrete personality of the man was dominating her mind--and not verypleasantly. There was nothing in his manner or his words to give offence; he was quitepleasant and nice but--but--well, it was almost as though she had met someone whom she had known and liked and who had changed. The little jump of the heart that his voice caused in her had beenfollowed by a chill. His manner displeased her vaguely. He seemed soassured, so every day, so cold. It seemed to her that not only did he hold his entertainers at a criticaldistance, but that he was somehow wanting in respectfulness toherself--Lunatic ideas, for the young man could not possibly have beenmore cordial towards two utter strangers and as for respectfulness, onedoes not treat a girl in a pigtail exactly as one treats a full-grownwoman. "Oh, Davy Stevens, was it?" said Pinckney, glancing down at Phyl. "Well, Inever knew the meaning of peaceful persuasion till he had sold out hisstock on me. Now in the States that man would likely have been Presidentby this--Things grow quicker over there. " "And what did you think of Dublin?" asked Hennessey. "Well, " said the young man, "the two things that struck me most aboutDublin were the dirt and the want of taxicabs. " A dead silence followed this remark. Never tell an Irishman that Dublin is dirty. Hennessey was dumb, and as for Phyl, she knew now that she hated thisman. "Of course, " went on the other, "it's a fine old city and I'm not surethat I would alter it or even brush it up. I should think it's pretty muchthe same to-day as when Lever wrote of it. It's a survival of the past, like Nuremberg. All the same, one doesn't want to live in a survival ofthe past--does one?" "I've lived there a good many years, " said Hennessey; "and I've managed tosurvive it. It's not Chicago, of course; it's just Dublin, and it doesn'tpretend to be anything else. " "Just so, " said Pinckney. He felt that he had put his foot in it;recalling his own lightly spoken words he felt shocked at his want oftact, and he was casting about for something to say about the sacred cityof a friendly nature but not too fulsome, when Byrne opened the door andannounced that dinner was served. CHAPTER III Phyl led the way and they crossed the hall to the dining-room, a roomoak-panelled like the library and warm with the light of fire andcandles. Once upon a time there had been high doings in this sombre room, huntbreakfasts and dinners, rousing songs, laughter, and the toasting ofpretty women--now dust and ashes. Here highly coloured gentlemen had slept the sleep of the just, under thetable, whilst the ladies waited in vain for them in the drawing-room, hereColonel Berknowles had drunk a glass of mulled wine on that black morningover a hundred-and-thirty years ago when he went out with CouncillorKinsella and shot him through the lungs by the Round House on theArranakilty Road. The diminutive Tom Moore had sung his songs here "putstanding on the table" by the other guests, and the great Dan had heldforth and the wind had dashed the ivy against the windows just as it didto-night with fist-fulls of rain from the Slieve Bloom Mountains. Byrnehad put the big silver candlesticks on the table in honour of the guest, and he now appeared bearing in front of him a huge dish with a cover asize too small for it. He placed the dish before Mr. Hennessey and removed the cover, disclosinga cod's "head and shoulders" whilst a female servant appeared with a dishof potatoes boiled in their jackets and a tureen of oyster sauce. Now a cod's head and shoulders served up like this in the good old Irishway is, honestly, a ghastly sight. The thing has a countenance and anexpression most forbidding and all its own. The appearance of the old dish cover, clapped on by the cook in a hurry indefault of the proper one, had given Phyl a turn and now she was wonderingwhat Mr. Pinckney was thinking of the fish and the manner of its serving. All at once and as if stimulated into life by the presence of the newguest, all sorts of qualms awoke in her mind. The dining arrangements ofthe better class Irish are, and always have been, rather primitive, haphazard, and lacking in small refinements. Phyl was conscious of thefact that Byrne had placed several terrible old knives on the table, knives that properly belonged to the kitchen, and when the second course, consisting of a boiled chicken, faced by a piece of bacon reposing on amat of boiled cabbage, appeared, the fact that one of the dishes wascracked confronted her with the equally obvious fact that the cook in herlarge-hearted way had sent up the chicken with the black legs unremoved. It seemed to Phyl's vision--now thoroughly distorted--that the eyes of thestranger were everywhere, cool, critical, and amused; so obsessed was hermind with this idea that it could take no hold upon the conversation. Pinckney was talking of the States; he might just as well have beentalking about Timbuctoo for all the impression he made on her with herunfortunate head filled with cracked dishes, chickens' black legs, Byrne'sawkwardness and the suddenly remembered crumb-brush. It was twenty years old and it had lost half of its bristles in theservice of the Berknowles who had clung to it with a warm-hearted tenacitypurely Irish. "Sure, that old brush is a disgrace to the table, " was the comment Phyl'sfather had made on it once, just as though he were casually referring tosome form of the Inevitable such as the state of the weather. The disgrace had not been removed and it was coming to the table, now, inthe hand of Byrne. Phyl watched the crumbs being swept up, she watched thecloth being taken off and the wine and dessert placed in the good oldfashion, on the polished mahogany, then leaving the gentlemen to theirwine, she retired upstairs and to her bedroom. She felt angry with Byrne, with the cook, with Mr. Hennessey and withherself. Plenty of people had been to dinner at Kilgobbin, yet she hadnever felt ashamed of the _ménage_ till now. This stranger from over thewater, notwithstanding her dislike for him, had the power to disturb hermind as few other people had disturbed it in the course of her short life. Other people had put her into worse tempers, other people had made herdislike them, but no one else had ever roused her into this feeling ofunrest, this criticism of her belongings, this irritation againsteverything including herself. Her bedroom was a big room with two windows looking upon the park; it wasalmost in black darkness, but the windows shewed in dim, grey oblongs andshe made her way to one of them, took her place in the window-seat andpressed her forehead against the glass. The rain had ceased and the cloudshad risen, but the moon was not yet high enough to pierce them. Phyl couldjust make out the black masses of the distant woods and the movement ofthe near fir-trees shaking their tops like hearse plumes to the wind. The park always fascinated her when it was like that, almost blotted outby night. These shapes in the dark were akin to shapes in the fire intheir power over the fancy of the gazer. Phyl as she watched them wasthinking: not one word had this stranger said about her dead father. Mr. Berknowles had died in his house and this man had buried him inCharleston; he had come over here to Ireland on the business of the willand he had come into the dead man's house as unconcernedly as though itwere an hotel, and he had laughed and talked about all sorts of thingswith never a word of Him. If Phyl had thought over the matter, she might have seen that, perhaps, this silence of Pinckney's was the silence of delicacy, not ofindifference, but she was not in the humour to hold things up to the lightof reason. She had decided to dislike this man and when the Mascarenescame to a decision of this sort they were hard to be shaken from it. She had decided to dislike him long before she saw him. What Phyl really wanted now was perhaps a commonsense female relative tostiffen her mind against fancies and give her a clear-sighted view of theworld, but she had none. Philip Berknowles was the last of his race, thefew distant connections he had in Ireland lived away in the south and wereseparated from him by the grand barrier that divides Ireland into twoopposing camps--Religion. Berknowles was a Protestant, the othersPapists. Phyl, as she sat watching saw, now, the line of the woods strengthenagainst the sky; the moon was breaking through the clouds and its lightincreasing minute by minute shewed the parkland clearly defined, theleafless oaks standing here and there, oaks that of a summer afternoonstood in ponds of shadow, the clumps of hazel, and away to the west thegreat dip, a little valley haunted by a fern-hidden river, a glenmysterious and secretive, holding in its heart the Druids' altar. The Druids' altar was the pride of Kilgobbin Park; it consisted of a vastslab of stone supported on four other stones, no man knew its origin, butpopular imagination had hung it about with all sorts of gruesome fancies. Victims had been slaughtered there in the old days, a vein of ironstone inthe great slab had become the bloodstain of men sacrificed by the Druids;the glen was avoided by day and there were very few of the country peopleround about who would have entered it by night. Phyl, who had no fear ofanything, loved the place; she had known it from childhood and had beenaccustomed to take her worries and bothers there and bury them. It was a friend, places can become friends and, sometimes, most terrificenemies. The girl listening, now, heard voices below stairs. Hennessey and hiscompanion were evidently leaving the dining-room and crossing the hall tothe library. Going out on the landing she caught a glimpse of them as theystood for a moment looking at the trophies in the hall, then they wentinto the library, the door was closed, and Phyl came downstairs. In the hall she slipped on a pair of goloshes over her thin shoes, put ona cloak and hat and came out of the front door, closing it carefullybehind her. To put it in her own words, she couldn't stand the house any longer. Nottill this very evening did she feel the great change that her father'sdeath had brought in her life, not till now did she fully know that herpast was dead as well as her father, and not till she had left the housedid the feeling come to her that Pinckney was to prove its undertaker. There was something alike cold and fateful in the impression that this manhad made upon her, an extraordinary impression, for it would be impossibleto imagine anything further removed from the ideas of Coldness and Fatethan the idea of the cheerful and practical Pinckney. However, there itwas, her heart was chilled with the thought of him and the instinctiveknowledge that he was going to make a great alteration in her life. She crossed the gravelled drive to the grass sward beyond. The night hadaltered marvellously; nearly every vestige of cloud had vanished, blownaway by the wind. The wind and the moon had the night between them and theair was balmy as the air of summer. Phyl turned and looked back at the house with all its windows glitteringin the moonlight, then she struck across the grass now almost dried by thewind. Phyl had something of the night bird in her composition. She had oftenbeen out long before dawn to pick up night lines in the river and she knewthe woods by dark as well as by day. She was out now for nothing but abreath of fresh air, she did not intend to stay more than ten minutes, andshe was on the point of returning to the house when a cry from the woodsmade her pause. One might have fancied that some human being was crying out in agony, butPhyl knew that it was a fox, a fox caught in a trap. She was confirmed inher knowledge by the barking of its mates; they would be gathered roundthe trapped one lending all the help they could--with their voices. The girl did not pause to think; forgetting that she had no weapon withwhich to put the poor beast out of its misery, and no means of freeing itwithout being bitten, she started off at a run in the direction of thesound, entering the woods by a path that led through a grove of hazel;leaving this path she struck westward swift as an Indian along the road ofthe call. Her mother's people had been used to the wilds, and Phyl had more than afew drops of tracker blood in her veins; better than that, she had a traceof the wood instinct that leads a man about the forest and makes him ableto strike a true line to the west or east or north or south without acompass. The trees were set rather sparsely here and the moonlight shewed vistas ofwithered fern. The wind had fallen, and in the vast silence of the nightthis place seemed unreal as a dream. The fox had evidently succeeded inliberating itself from the trap, for its cries had ceased, cut off all ofa sudden as though by a closing door. Phyl paused to listen and look around her. Through all the night fromhere, from there, came thin traces of sound, threads fretting the silence. The trotting of a horse a mile away on the Arranakilty road, the bark of adog from near the Round House, the shaky bleat of a sheep from the fold atRoss' farm came distinct yet diminished almost to vanishing point. It waslike listening to the country sounds of Lilliput. With these came thevaguest whisper of flowing water, broken now and again by a little shudderof wind in the leafless branches of the trees. "He's out, " said Phyl to herself. She was thinking of the fox. She knewthat the trap must be somewhere about and she guessed who had set it. Rafferty, without a doubt, for only the other day he had been complainingof the foxes having raided the chickens, but there was no use in huntingfor the thing by this light and without any indication of its exactwhereabouts, so she struck on, determined to return to the house by themore open ground leading through the Druids' glen. She had been here before in the very early morning before sunrise on herway to the river, Rafferty following her with the fish creel, but she hadnever seen the place like this with the moonlight on it and she paused fora moment to rest and think, taking her seat on a piece of rock by thecromlech. Phyl, despite her American strain, was very Irish in one particular:though cheerful and healthy and without a trace of morbidness in hercomposition, she, still, was given to fits of melancholy--not depression, melancholy. It is in the air of Ireland, the moist warm air that feeds theshamrock and fills the glens with soft-throated echoes and it is in thesoul of the people. Phyl, seated in this favourite spot of hers, where she had played as achild on many a warm summer's afternoon, gave herself over to themoonlight and the spirit of Recollection. She had forgotten Pinckney, and the strange disturbance that he hadoccasioned in her mind had sunk to rest; she was thinking of her father, of all the pleasant days that were no more--she remembered her dolls, thewax ones with staring eyes, dummies and effigies compared with thatmysterious, soulful, sinful, frightful, old rag doll with the inked face, true friend in affliction and companion in joy, and even more, a Ju-ju tobe propitiated. That thing had stirred in her a sort of religioussentiment, had caused in her a thrill of worship real, though faint, farmore real than the worship of God that had been cultivated in her mind byher teachers. The old Druid stone had affected her child's mind insomewhat the same way, but with a difference. The Ju-ju was a familiar, she had even beaten and punched it when in a temper; the stone had alwaysfilled her with respect. There are some people the doors of whose minds are absolutely closed onthe past; we call them material and practical people; there are others inwhich the doors of division are a wee crack open, or even ajar, so thattheir lives are more or less haunted by whisperings from that strange landwe call yesterday. In some of the Burmese and Japanese children the doors stand wide open sothat they can see themselves as they were before they passed through thechange called death, but the Westerners are denied this. In Phyl's mind asa child one might suppose that through the doors ajar some recollectionsof forgotten gods once worshipped had stolen, and that the power of theJu-ju and the Druids' stone lay in their power of focussing those vagueand wandering threads of remembrance. To-night this power seemed regained, for she passed from the contemplationof concrete images into a vague and pleasant state, an absolute idlenessof the intellect akin to that which people call daydreaming. With her cloak wrapped round her she sat, elbows on knees and her chin inthe palms of her hands giving herself up to Nothing before starting toresume her way to the house. Sitting like this she suddenly started and turned. Some one had calledher: "Phylice!" For a moment she fancied that it was a real voice, and then she knew thatit was only a voice in her head, one of those sounds we hear when we arehalf asleep, one of those hails from dreamland that come now as theringing of a bell that never has rung, or the call of a person who hasnever spoken. She rose up and resumed her way, striking along the glen to the open park, yet still the memory of that call pursued her. "Phylice!" It seemed Mr. Pinckney's voice, it _was_ his voice, she was sure of thatnow, and she amused herself by wondering why his voice had suddenly poppedup in her head. She had been thinking about him more than about any oneelse that evening and that easily accounted for the matter. Fancy hadmimicked him--yet why did Fancy use her name and clothe it in Pinckney'svoice?--and it was distinctly a call, the call of a person who wishes todraw another person's attention. Pinckney had never called her by her name and she felt almost irritated atthe impertinence of the phantom voice in doing so. This same irritation made her laugh when she realised it. Then the ideathat Byrne might lock the hall door before she could get back drove everyother thought away and she began to run, her shadow running before herover the moonlit grass. Half way across the sward, which was divided from the grass land proper bya Ha-ha, she heard the stable clock striking eleven. CHAPTER IV When Phyl withdrew from the dining-room, Hennessey filled his glass withport, Pinckney, who took no wine, lit a cigarette and the two men drewmiles closer to one another in conversation. They were both relieved by the withdrawal of the girl, Hennessey becausehe wanted to talk business, Pinckney because her presence had affected himlike a wet blanket. His first impression of Phyl had been delightful, then, little by little, her stiffness and seeming lifelessness had communicated themselves to him. It seemed to him that he had never met a duller or more awkwardschoolgirl. His mind was of that quick order which requires to be caughtin the uptake rapidly in order to shine. Slowness, coldness, dulness orhesitancy in others depressed him just as dull weather depressed him. Hedid not at all know with what a burning interest his arrival had beenawaited, or the effect that his voice had produced and his firstappearance. He did not know how the dull schoolgirl had weighed him in amysterious balance which she herself did not quite comprehend and hadfound him slightly wanting. Neither could he tell the extent of theparalyses produced in that same mind of hers by the cracked china, the olddish cover, Byrne's awkwardness, and the deboshed crumb-brush. He should have kept to his first impression of her, for first impressionsare nearly always right; he should have sought for the reason of so muchcharm proving charmless, so much positive attraction proving so negativein effect. But he did not. He just took her as he found her and was gladshe was gone. "And I believe, " said Hennessey, "the South is different now. It used tobe all cotton before the war. " "Oh, no, " said Pinckney. "Before the war there was a lot of cotton grownbut we used to grow other things as well, we used to feed ourselves, theplantation was economically independent. The war broke us. We had to getmoney, so we grew cotton as cotton was never grown before; the Southbecame a great sheet of cotton. You see, cotton is the only crop you canmortgage, so we grew cotton and mortgaged it. Of course the old-timeplanter is gone, everything is done now by companies, and that's the devilof it--" Pinckney was silent for a moment and sat staring before him as though hewere looking at the Past. "Companies, you see, don't grow sunflowers to look at, don't grow trees toshade them, don't make love in a wild and extravagant manner and shootother companies for crossing them in their affections--don't play theguitar, in short. "Companies don't breed trotting horses and wear panama hats and putflowers in their buttonholes. The old Planter used to do these things anda lot of others. He was a bit of a patriarch in his way, too--well, he'sgone and more's the pity. He's like an old house pulled down. No one canever build it again as it was. The South's a big industrial region now. Not only cotton--ore and coal and machinery. We supply the North and Eastwith pig-iron, machinery, God knows what. Berknowles was very keen onSouthern industries, regularly bitten. He was talking of selling off hereand coming to settle in Charleston when the illness took him-- and thatreminds me. " He took a document from his pocket. "This is the will. I've kept it on myperson since I started for here. It's not the thing to trust to a handbag. It's in correct form, I believe. Temperley, our solicitor, made it out forhim and it leaves everything to the girl when she's twenty--but just readit and see what you think. " He lit another cigarette whilst Hennessey, putting on his glasses andpushing his dessert plate away, spread the will on the table. Pinckney watched him as he read it. Hennessey was a new order of being tohim. This easy-going, slipshod, garrulous gentleman, fond of his glass ofwine, contrasted strangely with the typical lawyer of the States. Flushedand not in his business mood, the man of law cast his eyes over thedocument before him, reading bits of it here and there and seeming notinclined to bother himself by a concentration of his full energies on thematter. Then, suddenly, his eyes became fixed on a paragraph which he re-read asthough puzzled by the meaning of it. Then he looked up at the other overhis glasses. "Why, what's this?" said he. "He has made _you_ Phyl's guardian. _You!_" Pinckney laughed. "Yes, that was the chief thing that brought me over. He has made me herguardian, till she's twenty, and he made me promise to look after herinterests and see to all business arrangements. He said he had no nearrelations in Ireland, and he said that he'd sooner trust the devil thanthe few relatives he had, that they were Papists--that is to say RomanCatholics--he seemed to fear them like the deuce and their influence onthe girl. I couldn't understand him. I've never seen any harm in RomanCatholics; there are loads in the States and they seem to be just as goodcitizens as the others, better, for they seem to stick tighter by theirreligion. Anyhow, there you are. Berknowles had them on the brain andnothing would do him but I must come over to look after the businessmyself. " Hennessey, with his finger on the will, had been staring at Pinckneyduring this. He looked down now at the document and then up again. "But you--her guardian--why, it's absurd, " said he. "You aren't old enoughto be a guardian, why, Lord bless my soul, what'll people be doing next? Ayoung chap like you to be the guardian of a girl like Phyl--why, it's notproper. " "Not only am I to be her guardian, " said Pinckney with a twinkle in hiseyes, "but she's to come and live under my roof at Charleston. I promisedBerknowles that--He was dying, you see, and one can refuse nothing to adying man. " Hennessey rose up in an abstracted sort of way, went to the sideboard, poured himself out a whisky and soda, took a sip, and sat down again. "Extraordinary, isn't it?" said Pinckney, tapping the ash off hiscigarette. "All the same, you need not be worried at the impropriety ofthe business; there's none, nothing improper could live in the same housewith my aunt, Maria Pinckney. Vernons belongs to her though I livethere. " "Vernons, " put in the other. "What's that?" "It's the name of our house in Charleston. It's mine, really, but myfather left it to Maria to live in; it comes to me at her death. I don'twant that house at all. I want her to keep it forever, but it's such apleasant old place, I like to live there instead of buying a house of myown. Vernons isn't exactly a house, it's more like a familytree--hollow--with all the ancestors inside instead of hanging on thebranches. " "But why on earth didn't Berknowles make your aunt guardian to the girl?"asked Hennessey. "There'd have been some sense in that--a middle-agedwoman--" "I beg your pardon, " said Pinckney, "my aunt is not a middle-aged woman, she's not fifteen. " "Not what?" said Hennessey. "Not fifteen--in years of discretion, though she's over seventy as timegoes. She has no knowledge at all of what money is or what moneymeans--she flings it away, doesn't spend it--just flings it away onanything and everything but herself. I don't believe there's a charity inthe States that hasn't squeezed her, or a beggar-man in the South thathasn't banked on her. She was sent into the world to grow flowers and lookafter stray dogs and be robbed by hoboes; she has been nearly seventyyears at it and she doesn't know she has ever been robbed. She's not afool by any manner of means, and she rules the servants at Vernons in thegood old patriarchal way, but she's lost where money is concerned. That'swhy Berknowles wanted me to look after the girl's interests. As foranything else, I guess Maria Pinckney will be the real guardian. " "Well, I don't know, " said Hennessey. He was confused by all these newideas shot into his mind suddenly like this after dinner, he could seethat Pinckney was genuine enough, all the same it irritated him to thinkthat Philip Berknowles should have chosen a youth like this to be secondfather to Phyl. What was the matter with himself, Hennessey? Hadn't he afine house in Merrion Square and a wife who would have treated the girllike a daughter? "Well, I don't know, " said he. "It's not for me to dispute the wishes of aclient, but I've known Phyl since she was born and I've known her fathersince we were together at Trinity College and I'd have taken it morehandsome if he'd left the looking after of her to me. " "I wonder he didn't, " said Pinckney. "He spoke of you a good deal to me, spoke of you as his best friend; all the same he seemed set on the idea ofus taking care of the girl. He fell in love with Charleston and hecottoned to us; then, of course, there were the family reasons. Phyl'smother was a Mascarene; my mother was her mother's first cousin. Vernonsbelonged to the Mascarenes, my mother brought it to my father as part ofher wedding portion. The Pinckneys' old house was lost to us in the smashup after the war. So, you see, Phyl ought to be as much at home at Vernonsas I am. Funny, isn't it, how things get mixed up and old family houseschange hands?" "And when do you want to take her away?" asked Hennessey. "Upon my word, I've never thought of that, " replied the other. "I want tosee things settled up here and to go over the accounts with you. Berknowles said the house had better be let--I should think it would beeasy to find a good tenant--then I want to go to London on business andget back as quick as possible. She need not come back with me, it wouldscarcely give her time to get things ready. There's a Mrs. Van Dusen, afriend of ours who lives in New York, she's coming over in a month or soand Phyl might come with her as far as New York. It's all plain sailingafter that. " "Well, " said Hennessey, folding up the will and putting it in his pocket. "I suppose it's all for the best, but it's hard lines for a man to losehis best friend and see a good old estate like Kilgobbin taken off to theStates--Oh, you needn't tell me, if Phyl goes out there she's done for asfar as Ireland is concerned. Sure, they never come back, the people thatgo there, and if she does come back it'll be with an American husband andhe master of Kilgobbin. I know what America is, it never lets go of theman or woman it catches hold of. " "You're not far wrong there, " said Pinckney. "You see, life is set to afaster pace in America than over here and once you learn to step that paceyou feel coming back here as if you were living in a country where peopleare hobbled. At least that's my experience. Then the air is different. There's somehow a feeling of morning in America that goes through thewhole day--almost--here, afternoon begins somewhere about eleven. " Hennessey yawned, and the two men, rising from the table, left the roomand crossed the hall to the library. Here, after a while, Hennessey bade the other good night and departed forbed, whilst Pinckney, leaning back in his armchair, fell into a lazy andcontemplative mood, his eyes wandering from point to point. All this business was very new to him. Pinckney had inherited his father'sbrains as well as his money. He had discovered that a large fortunerequires just as much care and attention as a large garden and that a mancan extract just as much interest and amusement and the physical healththat comes from both, out of money-tending as out of flower and vegetablegrowing. Knowing all about cotton and nearly everything about wheat, hemanaged occasionally to do a bit of speculative dealing without the leastdanger of burning his fingers. Self-reliant and self-assured, knowing hisroad and all its turnings, he had moved through life up to this with theease of a well-oiled and almost frictionless mechanism. But here was a new thing of which he had never dreamed. Here was anotherdestiny suddenly thrust into his charge and another person's property tobe conserved and dealt with. Never, never, did he dream when acceding toBerknowles' request, of the troubles, little difficulties and causes ofindecision that were preparing to meet him. Up till now, one side of his character had been almost unknown to him. Hehad been quite unaware that he possessed a conscience most painfullysensitive with regard to the interests of others, a conscience that wouldprick him and poison his peace were he to leave even little things undonein the fulfilment of the trust he had undertaken so lightheartedly. Possessing a keen eye for men he began to recognise now why Berknowles hadnot chosen the easy-going Hennessey to look after Phyl and her affairs, and he guessed, just by the little bit he had seen of Kilgobbin and theservants, the slipshoddedness and waste going on behind the scenes in theabsence of a master and mistress. Pinckney loathed waste as he loathed inefficiency and as he loathed dirt. They were all three brothers with Drink in his eyes and as he leaned backin the chair now, his gaze travelling about the room, he could not butperceive little things that would have brought exclamations from the soulof a careful housekeeper. The furniture had been upholstered, or ratherre-upholstered in leather some five years ago. There is nothing that criesout so much against neglect as leather, and the chairs and couch in thelibrary of Kilgobbin, without exactly crying out, still told their tale. Some of the buttons were gone, and some of them hung actually by thethread in the last stage of departure. There was a tiny triangular rent inthe leather of the armchair wherein Phyl had been sitting and anotherarmchair wanted a castor. The huge Persian rug that covered the centre ofthe floor shewed marks left by cigar and cigarette ash, and under aJacobean book-case in the corner were stuffed all sorts of odds and ends, old paper-backed novels, a pair of old shoes, a tennis racquet and aboxing glove--besides other things. Pinckney rose up, went to the book-case and placed his fingers on top ofit, then he looked at his fingers and the bar of dust upon them, brushedhis hand clean and came back to his chair by the fire. He heard the stableclock striking eleven. The sound of the wind that had been raging outsideall during dinner time had died away and the sounds of the house madethemselves manifest, the hundred stealthy accountable and unaccountablelittle sounds that night evolves from an old house set in the stillness ofthe country. Just as the night jasmine gives up its perfume to the night, so does an old house its past in the form of murmurs and crackings andmemories and suggestions. Notwithstanding Dunn's attentions there wererats alive in the cellars and under the boarding--and mice; the passagesleading to the kitchen premises made a whispering gallery where murderersseemed consulting together if the scullery window were forgotten and leftopen--as it usually was, and boards in the uneven flooring that had beenpreparing for the act for weeks and months would suddenly "go off with abang, " a noise startling in the dead of night as the crack of a pistol, and produced, heaven knows how, but never by daylight. Even Pinckney, who did not believe in ghosts, became aware as he sat nowby the fire that the old house was feeling for him to make him creep, feeling for him with its old disjointed fingers and all the artfulness ofinanimate things. He was aware that Sir Nicholas Berknowles was looking down at him with theterrible patient gaze of a portrait, and he returned the gaze, trying toimagine what manner of man this might have been and how he had lived andwhat he had done in those old days that were once real sunlit days filledwith people with real voices, hearts, and minds. A gentle creak as though a light step had pressed upon the flooring of thehall brought his mind back to reality and he was rising from his chair toretire for the night when a sound from outside the window made him sitdown again. It was the sound of a step on the gravel path, a step stealthyand light, a real sound and no contraption of the imagination. The idea of burglars sprang up in his mind, but was dismissed; that was noburglar's footstep--and yet! He listened. The sound had ceased and nowcame a faint rubbing as of a hand feeling for the window followed by thesharp rapping of a knuckle on the glass. "Hullo, " cried Pinckney, jumping to his feet and approaching the shutteredwindow. "Who's there?" "It's me, " said a voice. "I'm locked out. Byrne's bolted the front door. Go to the hall door, will you, please, and let me in?" "Phyl, " said Pinckney to himself. "Good heavens!" Then to the other, "I'mcoming. " Byrne had left a lamp lighted in the hall and the guest's candlestickwaiting for him on the table. The lamp was sufficient to show him theexecutive side of the big front door that had been nearly battered in inthe time of the Fenians and still possessed the ponderous locks and barsof a past day when the tenants of Kilgobbin had fought the pikemen ofArranakilty and Rupert Berknowles had hung seventeen rebels, no less, onthe branches of the big oak "be the gates. " Pinckney undid bolt and bar, turned the key in the great lock and flungthe door open, disclosing Phyl standing in the moonlight. The contrastbetween the forbidding and ponderous door and the charming little figureagainst which it had stood as a barrier might have struck him had his mindbeen less astonished. As it was he could think of nothing but thestrangeness of the business in hand. "Where on earth have you been?" said he. "Out in the woods, " said Phyl, entering quite unconcerned and removing hercloak. "A fox got trapped in the woods and I went to let it out andcouldn't find it, then that old fool Byrne locked the door; lucky you wereup. I saw the light in the library shining through a crack in the shuttersand knocked. " Pinckney was putting up the bar and sliding the bolts. He said nothing. Had Phyl been another girl, he might have laughed and joked over thematter, but care of Phyl's well-being was now part of his business in lifeand that consideration just checked his speech. There was nothing at allwrong in the affair, and never for a moment did he dream of making theslightest remonstrance; still, the unwisdom of a young girl wanderingabout in the woods at night after trapped foxes was a patent fact whichdisturbed the mind of this guardian unto dumbness. Phyl, who was as sensitive to impressions as a radiometer to light, notedthe silence of the other and resented it as she hung up her old hat andcloak. She knew nothing of the true facts of the case, she looked onPinckney as a being almost of her own age, and that he should dare toexpress disapproval of an act of hers not concerning him, even by silence, was an intolerable insult. She knew that she loathed him now. --Prig! This was the first real meeting of these two and Fate, with the help ofIrish temper and the Pinckney conscience, was making a fine fiasco of it. Phyl, having hung up the hat and coat, turned without a word, marched intothe library and finding the book she had been reading that day, put itunder her arm. "Good night, " said she as she passed him in the hall. "Good night, " he replied. He watched her disappearing up the stairs, stood for a moment irresolute, and then went into the library. He knew he had offended her and he knewexactly how he had offended her. There are silences that can be morehurting than speech--yet what could he have said? He rummaged in his mindto find something he might have said and could find nothing moreappropriate than a remark about the weather and the fineness of the night. Yet a bald and decrepit remark like that would have been as bad almost assilence, for it would have ignored the main point at issue--thenight-wandering of his ward. He sat down again for a moment in the armchair by the fireplace and beganto wrestle with the position in which he found himself. This was a smallbusiness, but if Phyl in the future was to do things that he did notapprove of it would be his plain duty to remonstrate with her. An odiousposition for youth to be placed in. How she would loathe and hate him! Pinckney, though a man of the world in many ways and a good business man, was still at heart a boy just as young as Phyl; even in years he was verylittle older than she, and the boy side of his mind was in full revolt atthe job set before him by fate. Then he came to a resolution. "She can do jolly well what she pleases, " said he to himself, "without myinterference. Aunt Maria can attend to that. My business will be to lookafter her property and keep sharks off it. _I'm_ not going to set up inbusiness to tell a girl what she ought or oughtn't to do--that's a woman'sjob. " Satisfied with this seeming solution of the difficulty he went to bed. Meanwhile, Phyl, having marched off with the book under her arm found, when she reached her room, that she had forgotten a matchbox, and, tooproud to return to the hall for one, went to bed in the dark. She lay awake for an hour, her mind obsessed by thoughts of this man whohad suddenly stepped into her life, and who possessed such a strange powerto disturb her being and fill it with feelings of unrest, irritation and, strangely enough, a vague attraction. The attraction one might fancy the iron to feel for the distant magnet, orthe floating stick for the far-off whirlpool. Then she fell asleep and dreamed that they were at dinner and Mr. Hennessey was waiting at table. Her father was there and, before the dreamconverted itself into something equally fatuous she heard Pinckney'svoice, also in the dream; he seemed looking for her in the hall and he wascalling to her, "Phyl--Phyl!" CHAPTER V Next morning came with a burst of sunshine and a windy, cloudless sky. Pinckney, dressing with his window open, could see the park with the rookswheeling and cawing over the trees, whilst the warm wind brought into theroom all sorts of winter scents on the very breath of summer. This rainy land where the snow rarely comes has all sorts of surprises ofclimate and character. Nothing is truly logical in Ireland, not evenwinter. That is what makes the place so delightful to some minds and soperplexing to others. Hennessey was staying for a day or two to go over accounts and explain theworking of the estate to Pinckney. He was in the hall when the latter came down, and gave him good morning. "Where's your mistress?" said Hennessey to old Byrne, as they took theirseats at the breakfast table. "Faith, she's been out since six, " said Byrne. "She came down threatenin'to skin Rafferty alive for layin' fox thraps in the woods, then she had abite of bread and butter and a cup of tea Norah made for her, and off shewent with Rafferty to hunt out the thraps and take them up. It's littleshe cares for breakfast. " "I was the same way myself when I was her age, " said Hennessey toPinckney. "Up at four in the morning and out fishing in Dublin Bay--it'swell to be young. " "Look here, " said the young man, as Byrne left the room, "she was out tilleleven last night in the woods; she knocked me up as I was sitting in thelibrary and I let her in. _I_ don't see anything wrong in the business, but all the same, it's not a particularly safe proceeding and I suppose amother or father would have jawed her--I couldn't. I suppose I showed bymy manner that I didn't approve of her being out so late, for she seemedin a huff as she went up to bed. My position is a bit difficult, but I'mhanged if I'm going to do the heavy father or careful mother business. Ifshe was only a boy, I could talk to her like a Dutch uncle, but I don'tknow anything about girls. I wish--" Pinckney's wish remained forever unexpressed, for at the moment the dooropened and in came Phyl. Her face was glowing with the morning air and she seemed to have forgottenthe business of the night before as she greeted Pinckney and the lawyerand took her place at the table. "Phyl, " said the lawyer, half jocularly, "here's Mr. Pinckney beencomplaining that you were wandering about all night in the woods, knockinghim up to let you in at two o'clock in the morning. " Phyl, who was helping herself to bacon, looked up at Pinckney. "Oh, you cad, " said her eyes. Then she spoke: "I came in at eleven. If I had known, I would have called up Byrne or oneof the servants to let me in. " Pinckney could have slain Hennessey. "Good gracious, " he said. "_I_ wasn't complaining. I only just mentionedthe fact. " "The fact that I was out till two, " said Phyl, with another upward glanceof scorn. "I never said any such thing. I said eleven. " "It was my loose way of speaking; but, sure, what's the good of gettingout of temper?" put in Hennessey. "Mr. Pinckney wasn't meaning anything, but you see, Phyl, it's just this way, your father has made him yourguardian. " "My _what!_" cried the girl. "_Oh_, Lord!" said Pinckney, in despair at the blundering way of theother. Then finding himself again and the saving vein of humour, withoutwhich man is just a leaden figure: "Yes, that's it. I'm your guardian. You must on no account go out withoutmy permission, or cough or sneeze without a written permit--Oh, Phyl, don't be thinking nonsense of that sort. I _am_ your guardian, it seems, and by your father's special request, but you are absolutely free to do asyou like. " "A nice sort of guardian, " put in Hennessey with a grin. "I am only, really, guardian of your money and your interests, " went onthe other, "and your welfare. When you came in last night late, I was abit taken aback and I thought--as a matter of fact, I thought it might bedangerous being out alone in this wild part of the country so late atnight, but I did not want to interfere; you can understand, can't you?What I want you to get out of your mind is, that I am that odious thing, ameddling person. I'm not. " Phyl was very white. She had risen from the table and was at the window. Here was her dream come true of the bearded American who had suddenlyappeared to claim her and Kilgobbin and the servants and everything. Pinckney had not a beard, but he was an American and he had come to claimeverything. The word guardian carried such a force and weight and was sofilled with fantastic possibilities to the mind of Phyl, that she scarcelyheard his soft words and excuses. Phyl had the Irish trick of running away with ideas and embroidering themost palpable truths with fancies. It was an inheritance from her father, and she stood by the window now unable to speak, with the word "Guardian"ringing in her ears and the idea pressing on her mind like an incubus. Hennessey had risen up. He was the first to break silence. "There's no use in meeting troubles half way, " said he vaguely. "You andPhyl will get along all right when you know each other better. Come out, the two of you, and we'll go round the grounds and you will be able to seefor yourself the state of the house and what repairs are wanting. " "One moment, " said Pinckney. "I want to tell Phyl something--I'm going tocall you Phyl because I'm your guardian--d'you mind?" "No, " said Phyl, "you can call me anything you like, I suppose. " "I'm not going to call you anything I like--just Phyl-- Well, then, I wantto tell you what we have to do. It's not my wishes I have to carry out butyour father's. He wanted to let this house. " "Let Kilgobbin!" "Yes, that is what he said. He wanted to let it to a good tenant who wouldlook after it till you are of age. I think he was right. You see, youcould not live here all alone, and if the place was shut up it woulddeteriorate. " "It would go to wrack and ruin, " said Hennessey. "And the servants?" said Phyl. "We will look after them, " said Pinckney, "the new tenant might take themon; if not, we'll give them time to get new places. " "Byrne's been here before I was born, " said the girl, with dry lips, "sohas Mrs. Driscoll. They are part of the place; it would ruin their livesto send them away. " "Well, " said Pinckney, "I don't want to be the ogre to ruin their lives;you can do anything you like about them. If the new tenant didn't takethem, you might pension them. I want you to be perfectly happy in yourmind and I want you to feel that though I am, so to speak, the guardian ofyour money, still, that money is yours. " She was beginning to understand now that not only was he striving tosoothe her feelings and propitiate her, but that he was very much inearnest in this business, and crowding through her mind came a great waveof revulsion against herself. Phyl's nature was such that whilst always ready to fly into wrath andeasily moved to bitter resentment, one touch of kindness, one soft word, had the power to disarm her. One soft word from an antagonist had the power to wound her far more thana dozen words of bitterness. Filled now with absolutely superfluous self-reproach, she stood for amoment unable to speak. Then she said, raising her eyes to his: "I am sure you mean to do what is for the best. --It was stupid of me--" "Not a bit, " said the other, cheerfully. "I want to do the things thatwill make you happy--that's all. I'm a business man and I know the valueof money. Money is just worth the amount of happiness it brings. " "Faith, that's true, " said Hennessey, who had taken his seat again and wasin the act of lighting a cigar. "When I was a boy, " went on the other. "I was always kept hard up by myfather. It was like pulling gum teeth to get the price of a fishing rodout of him. When I think of all the fun I might have bought with a fewdollars, it makes me wild. You can't buy fun when you get old; you may buyan opera house or a yacht, but you can't buy the real stuff that makeslife worth living. " Phyl glanced out of the window at the park, then as though she had foundsome inspiration there, she turned to Pinckney. "If you don't mind about the money, then why don't you let me live hereinstead of letting the place? I can live here by myself and I would behappy here. I won't be happy if I leave it. " "Well, " said Pinckney, "there's your father's wish, first of all. " "I'm sure if he knew how I felt, he wouldn't mind, " said Phyl mournfully, turning her gaze again to the park. "On top of that, " went on Pinckney, "there's--your age. Phyl, it wouldn'tever do; it's not I that am saying it, it's custom, the world, society. " Phyl, like the hooked salmon that has taken the gaudy fly, felt a checkand recognised that a Power had her in hand, recognised in the light-goingand fair-speaking Pinckney something of adamant, a will not to be brokenor bent. She felt for a moment a revolt against herself for having fallen to thelure and allowed herself to come to friendly terms with him. Then thisfeeling faded a bit. The very young are very weak in the face ofconstituted authority--besides, there was always at the back of Pinckneyher father's wish. "And then again, on top of that, " he went on, "there's the question ofyour coming to live with us; your father wished it. " "In America!" cried Phyl. "Do you mean I am to live in America?" "Well, we live there; why not? It's not a bad place to live in--and whatelse are you to do?" She could not answer him. This time she saw that the bogey man had got herand no mistake. America to her seemed as far as the moon and far lessfamiliar. If Pinckney had declared that it was necessary for her to die, she would have been a great deal more frightened, but the prospect wouldnot have seemed much more desolate and forbidding and final. He saw at once the trouble in her mind and guessed the cause. He had arare intuition for reading minds, and it seemed to him he could readPhyl's as easily as though the outside of her head were clear glass--hehad cause to modify this cocksure opinion later on. "Don't worry, " he said. "If you don't like America when you see it, youcan come back to Ireland. I daresay we can arrange something; anyhow, don't let us meet troubles half way. " "When am I to go?" said Phyl. "Sure, Phyl, you can stay as long as you like with us, " said Mr. Hennessey. "The doors of 10, Merrion Square, are always open to you, andnever will they be shut on you except behind your back. " Pinckney laughed; and a servant coming in to clear the breakfast things, Hennessey led the way from the room to show Pinckney the premises. CHAPTER VI They crossed the hall, and passing through a green-baize covered door wentdown a passage that led to the kitchen. "This is the housekeeper's room, " said Hennessey, pointing to a half opendoor, "and the servants' hall is that door beyond. This is the kitchen. " They paused for a moment in the great old-fashioned kitchen, with an openrange capable of roasting a small ox, one might have fancied. Norah, thecook, was busy in the scullery with her sleeves tucked up, and under thetable was seated Susie Gallagher, a small and grubby hanger-on engaged inthe task of washing potatoes. The potatoes were beside her on the floorand she was washing them in a tin basin of water with the help of an oldnail-brush. There was a horse-shoe hung up, for luck, on the wall over the range, anda pile of dinner plates, from last night's dinner and still unwashed, stood on the dresser, where also stood a half-bottle of Guinness' stoutand a tumbler; an old setter bitch lay before the fire and a jackdaw in awicker cage set up a yell at the sight of the visitors, that brought Norahout of the scullery to receive them, a broad smile on her face and herarms tucked up in her apron. "He always yells like that at the sight of tramps or stray people about, "apologised the cook. "He's better than a watch-dog. Hold your tongue, youbaste; don't you know your misthress when you see her?" "Rafferty caught him in the park, " said Phyl, "and cut his tongue with asixpence so as to make him able to speak. " They left the kitchen and came into the yard. A big tin can of refuse wasstanding by the kitchen door, and on top of all sorts of rubbish, potatopeelings, cabbage stalks and so forth, lay the carcass of a boiled fowl. It was the fowl they had dined off the night before and it lay there justas it had gone from the table, that is to say, minus both wings and thegreater part of the breast, but with the legs intact. Pinckney stared at this sinful sight. Then he pointed to it. "What's that doing there?" he asked. "Waitin' to be took away be the stable boy, sor, " replied the cook, whohad followed them to the door. "All the rubbish is took away in that ouldcan every mornin'. " "Good God!" said Pinckney under his breath. The expression was shaken outof him, so to speak, and out of a pocket of his character which had neverbeen fully explored, of whose existence, indeed, he was not particularlyaware. This Irish expedition was to show him a good many things in lifeand in himself of which up to this he had been in ignorance. He had neverbeen brought face to face with waste, bald waste without a hat on orcovering of any sort, before. "Haven't you any poor people about here?" he asked. "Hapes, sor. " Pinckney was on the point of saying something more, but he checkedhimself, remembering that in the eyes of the servants he was here in theposition of a guest. He followed Hennessey across to the stable yard, where Larry, the groom, was washing the carriage that had fetched him from the station the nightbefore. "The servants won't eat chicken, " said Phyl, in an apologetic way. She hadnoted everything and she guessed his thoughts. "They won't eat gameeither--and they throw things away if they don't like them--of course, it's wasteful, but they _do_ give things to the poor. Lots of poor peoplecome here, every day nearly, but they don't care for scraps--you see, it_is_ insulting to give a poor person scraps, just as though they wereanimals. I remember the cook we had before Norah did it when she camefirst, and all the poor people stopped coming to the house. Said she oughtto know better than to offer them the leavings. " "Cheek!" "Well, I don't know, " said Phyl. "We've done it for hundreds of years. " She closed her mouth in a way she had when she did not wish to pursue asubject further. Despite the fact that she had made friends with Pinckney, she was galled by his attitude of criticism. Guardian or no guardian, hewas a stranger; relation or no relation, he was a stranger, and what righthad a stranger to dare to come and turn up his nose at the poor people ormake remarks--he hadn't said a word--about the wastefulness of theservants? The redoubtable Rafferty was standing in the yard chewing a straw andwatching Larry at work. Rafferty was a man of genius, who had started as a helper and odd jobperson, and had risen to the position of factotum. He had ousted theScotch gardener and insinuated a relation of his own in his place. Therewas scarcely a servant about the estate that was not a relation ofRafferty's. Philip Berknowles had put up with a lot from Rafferty simplybecause Rafferty was an invaluable person in his way when not crossed. Everything went smoothly when the factotum was not interfered with. Crosshim and there were immediate results ranging from ill-groomed horses togeneral unrest. He was a dark individual, half groom, half game-keeper indress, a "wicked-looking divil, " according to the description of hisenemies, and an exceedingly foxy-looking individual in the eyes ofPinckney. "Rafferty, " said Mr. Hennessey, "I want to show this gentleman round. Let's see the stables. " Rafferty touched his cap and led the way, showing first the stalls andboxes where four or five horses were stabled, and then leading the waythrough the coach-house to the path from which opened the kitchengardens. They were immense and walled in with red brick, capable, one might fancy, of supplying the wants of three or four houses the size of Kilgobbin. Pinckney noted this fact, also that the home farm to which the kitchengardens led was apparently a prosperous and going little concern, with itsfowls and chickens penned or loose, styes filled with grunting pigs, andturkeys gobbling and spreading their tails in the sun. "Who looks after all this?" asked Pinckney. "I do, sor, " replied Rafferty. "What are the takings?" "I beg your pardon, sor?" "The profits, I mean. You sell these things, don't you?" "Kilgobbin isn't a farm, sor, it's a gintleman's estate. " Pinckney, not at all set back by this snub, turned and looked the factotumin the face. "Just so, " said he, "but I've never heard of gentlemen growing pigs tolook at; peacocks, maybe, but not pigs. However, we'll have another lookat the business later. " He turned and they went on, Rafferty disturbed in his mind and much putabout by the manner of the other in whom he began to divine something morethan a casual guest, Phyl almost as much put out as Rafferty. The idea that the factotum might have been robbing her father right andleft never occurred to her; even if it had, it would not have softened thefact that a strange hand was at work in her old home turning over things, inspecting them, holding them up for comment. She managed to drop behind as they left the farm yard for the paddocks, then turning down the yew lane that led back to the house, she ran asthough hounds were after her, reached the house, locked herself in herbedroom, and flung herself on the bed in a tempest of weeping, dragging apillow over her head as if to shield herself from the blows that the worldwas aiming at her. Phyl, without mother, brothers or sisters, had centred all her affectionon her father and Kilgobbin; the servants, the place itself and all thethings and people about it were part and parcel with her life, and thedeath of her father had intensified her love of the place and the people. If Pinckney had only known, he might have put the business of theinspection of the property and the dealing with the servants into otherhands, but Pinckney was young and full of energy and business ability; hewas full of conscientiousness and the determination to protect his ward'sinterests; he had scented a rogue in Rafferty, and at this very minutereturning to the house with Hennessey, he was declaring his intention tomake an overhaul of the working of the estate. Rafferty was to appear before him and produce his accounts and makeexplanations. Mrs. Driscoll was to be examined as to the expenditure, etc. He little knew the hornet's nest into which he was about to poke hisfinger. CHAPTER VII The grand inquisition began that evening after dinner--Phyl did not appearat dinner, alleging a headache--and Rafferty, summoned to the library, hadto stand whilst Pinckney, seated at the table with a pen in his hand and asheet of paper before him, went into the business of accounts. Mark how the unexpected occurs in life. Rafferty, who had been pilferingfor years, selling garden produce and keeping the profits, robbing cornfrom the corn bin in the stable, poaching and selling birds and groundgame to a dealer in Arranakilty, receiving illicit commissions and soforth, had on the death of his master shaken off all restraint andprepared for a campaign of open plunder. The very last thing he could haveimagined was the sudden appearance of an American business man on thescene, armed with absolute power and possessing the eye of a hawk. "Your master asked me just before he died to look after this estate, "began Pinckney; "in fact, he has appointed me to act as guardian to MissBerknowles, so I just want to see how things stand. Now, to begin with thehorses. I want to know everything about the stables during the last--shallwe say--six months. Who supplies the corn and the hay and the straw?" "I've been gettin' some from Faulkner of Arranakilty, sor, and some fromDoyle of Bally-brack. " "Don't you grow any horse food on the estate?" "We don't grow no corn, sor. " "Well, hay and straw?" "You can't get straw, sor, widout you grow corn. " "I know that--but how about hay--surely you grow lots of grass?" "We graze the grass, sor. " "Do you let the grazing?" "Well, sor, it's this way; the masther was never very shtrict about thegrazin'; we puts some of the horses out to grass, ourselves, and we letspoor folk have a bit of grazin' now and then for their cattle, thoughmaster was never after makin' money from the estate--" "Just so. Have you the receipted bills for the fodder during the last sixmonths?" "Yes, sor. The master always sent me wid the money to pay the bills. " "You have got the receipts?" "The which, sor?" "The bills receipted. " "Bills, sure, what's the good of keepin' bills, sor, when the money'spaid. I b'lave they're somewhere in an ould crock in the stable, at lastethat's where I saw thim last. " "Well, " said Pinckney, "you can fetch them for me to-morrow morning, andnow let's talk about the garden. " Rafferty, not knowing what Pinckney might discover and so being unable tolie with confidence, had a very bad quarter of an hour over the garden. Pinckney was not a man to press another unduly, nor was he a man to haggleabout halfpence or worry servants over small peccadillos. He knew quitewell that grooms are grooms, and will be so as long as men are men. Hewould never have bothered about little details had Rafferty been anordinary servant. He recognised in Rafferty, not a servant to be dismissedor corrected, but an antagonist to be fought. It was the case of the dogand badger. Rafferty was Graft and all it implies, Pinckney was StraightDealing. And Straight Dealing knew quite well that the only way to getGraft by the throat is to ferret out details, no matter how small. So Rafferty was taken over details. He had to admit that he had "givenaway" some of the stuff from the garden and sold "a bit, " sending it up toDublin for that purpose; but he was not to be caught. "And the profits, " said Pinckney. "I suppose you handed them over to Mr. Berknowles?" "No, sor; the master always tould me to keep any bit of money I might draafrom anything I planted extra for me perkisites, that was theunderstandin' I had with him. " "And over the farmyard, I suppose anything you could make by selling anyextra animals you planted was your perquisite?" "Yes, sor. " "Very well, Rafferty, that will do for to-night; get me those receiptedbills to-morrow morning. Come here at ten o'clock and we will have anothertalk. " Rafferty went off, feeling more comfortable in his mind. The word Perquisites might be made to cover a multitude of sins, but hewould not have been so easy if he had known that Mrs. Driscoll had beencalled up immediately after his departure. Mrs. Driscoll was one of thoseterrible people who say nothing yet see everything; for the last year anda half she had been watching Rafferty; knowing it to be quite useless toreport what she knew to her easy-going master, she had, none the less, kept on watching. As a result, she was now able to bring up a hard fact, asmall hard fact more valuable than worlds of ductile evidence. Raffertyhad "nicked"--it was the lady's expression--a brand-new lawn mower. "I declare to God, sir, I don't know what he _has_ took, for me eyes can'tbe everywhere, but I do know he's took the mower. " "Why did you not tell Miss Phyl?" "I did, sir, and she only said, 'Oh, there must be a mistake--what wouldhe be doin' with it, ' says she. 'Sellin' it, ' says I. 'Nonsense, ' saysshe. You see, sir, Rafferty and she has always been hand in glove, whatwith the fishin' and shootin', and the horses and such like, and she won'thear a word against him. " Mrs. Driscoll had called Rafferty a sly devil--he was. At eleven o'clock next morning, Phyl, crossing the stable yard with somesugar for the horses, met Rafferty. He was crying. "Why, what on earth's the matter, Rafferty?" asked the girl. "I've got the shove, miss, " replied Rafferty, "after all me years ofservice, I'm put out to end me days in a ditch. " "You mean you're discharged!" she cried. "Was it Mr. Pinckney?" "That's him, " replied Rafferty. "Says he's the masther of us all. 'Out youget, ' says he, 'or it's I that'll be callin' a p'leeceman to put you, 'says he. Flung it in me face that I'd stolen a laan mower. Me that's benon the estate man and boy for forty year. A laan mower! Sure, Miss Phyl, what would I be doin' with a laan mower?" Phyl turned from him and ran to the house. Pinckney and Hennessey wereseated in the library when the door burst open and in came Phyl. Her eyeswere bright and her lips were pale. "You told me you would keep all the servants, " said she. "Rafferty tellsme you have dismissed him. " "I should think I had, " said Pinckney lightly, and not gauging the maddisturbance of the other, "and it's lucky for him I haven't put him inprison. " The word prison was all that was wanted to fire the mine. Pinckney stoodfor a moment aghast at the change in the girl. "I _hate_ you, " she cried, coming a step closer to him. "I loatheyou--master of us all, are you? Dare to touch any one here and I'll burnthe house down with my own hands--you--you--" She paused for want of breath, her chest heaving and her hands clenched. Then Pinckney exploded. The good old fiery Pinckney blood was up. Oh, without any manner of doubtour ancestors are still able to speak, and it was old RoderickPinckney--"Pepper Pinckney" was his nickname--that blazed out now. It wasalso the fire of youth answering the fire of youth. "Damn it!" he cried. "I've come here to do my best--I don't care--keep whoyou want--be robbed if you like it--I'm off--" He caught up all the sheetsof paper he had been covering with figures and tore them across. "Beast!" cried Phyl. She rushed from the room and upstairs like a mad creature. The bang of herbedroom door closed the incident. "Now don't be taking on so, " said Hennessey. "You've both of you lost yourtemper. " "Lost my temper--maybe. I'm going all the same. Right back to the States. I'm off to Dublin by the next train and you'd better come and finish thebusiness there. You'd better have her to stay with you in Dublin. I don'twant to see her again. Anyhow, we'll settle all that later. " "Maybe that's the best, " said Hennessey. "My wife will look after her tillshe's ready to go to the States--if she wants to. " "Please God she doesn't, " replied the other. Phyl did not see Pinckney again. He went off to Dublin by the two-tentrain with Hennessey, the latter promising to be back on the morrow toarrange things. CHAPTER VIII Dublin can never have been a cheerful city. Even in the days when thebutchers joined in street fights and hung their antagonists when caught onsteel hooks--like legs of mutton--the gaiety of Dublin one may fancy tohave been more a matter of spirits than of spirit. Echoes from the days when the Parliament sat in Stephen's Green come downto us through the works of Charles Lever, but the riotous gaiety of theold days when Barrington was a judge of the Admiralty Court, the Hell FireClub an institution, and Count Considine a figure in society, must betaken with a grain of salt. Mangan shows you the old Dublin as it was in those glorious times, and inthe new Dublin of to-day the shade of Mangan seems still to walk arm inarm with the shade of Mathurin. Gloomy ghosts addicted to melancholy, noting with satisfaction that the streets are as dirty as ever, the oldPublic Houses still standing, that, despite the tramways--thoseextraordinary new modern inventions--the tide of life runs pretty much thesame as of old. The ghosts of Mangan and Mathurin have never seen a taxicab. Dublin at the present day is a splendid city for old ghosts to wander inwithout having their corns trodden on or their susceptibilities injured. Phyl had come to Dublin to live with the Hennesseys in Merrion Square. "Never shall my door be shut on you except behind your back, " Hennesseyhad said, and he meant it. The girl was worth several thousand a year; had she been penniless itwould have been just the same. You may meet many geniuses in your journey through life, many brilliantpeople, many beautiful people, many fascinating people, but you will notmeet many friends. Hennessey belonged to the society of Friends, his wifewas a member of the same community, and he would have been ruined only forhis partner Niven, who was an ordinary lowdown human creature who believedin no one and kept the business together. On the day of her arrival at Merrion Square and during her first interviewwith Mrs. Hennessey in the large, cheerless drawing-room wheredecalcomanied flower pots lingered like relics of the Palæolithic age ofArt, Phyl kept herself above tears, just as a swimmer keeps his head abovewater in a choppy sea. It was all so gloomy, yet so friendly, that the mind could not openlyrevolt at the gloom; it was all so different from the wind and trees andfreedom of Kilgobbin, and Mrs. Hennessey, whom she had only seen oncebefore, was so different, on closer acquaintance, from any of the peopleshe had hitherto met in her little world. Mrs. Hennessey, with a soul above dust and housekeeping, a faded woman, not very tidy, with an exalted air, pouring out tea from a Britannia metalware teapot and talking all the time about Willy Yeates, the Irish Playersand Lady Gregory's last play, fascinated the girl, who did not know whoWilly Yeates was and who had never seen the Irish Players. Nor could she learn from Mrs. Hennessey. It was impossible to get a wordin edgeways with that lady. Sometimes, indeed, during a lull in her minddisturbance, she would remain quiet whilst you answered some question, only to find that she had totally forgotten the question and was notlistening to your reply. Phyl got so used to Mrs. Hennessey after a few days that she did notlisten to her questions, and so the two being matched, they got on welltogether. Young people soon accommodate themselves to their surroundings, and in a month the girl had grown to the colour of her new life, at least, on the outside of her mind. It seemed to her that she had lived years inMerrion Square. Kilgobbin--Hennessey had managed to let the place--seemeda dream of her childhood. She saw no future, and rebellion was impossible;there was nothing to rebel against--except the dulness and greyness oflife. No people could have been kinder than the Hennesseys; unfortunatelythey had numerous friends, and the friends of the Hennesseys did notappeal to Phyl. A boy in her position would have adapted himself quickly enough, and beenhail fellow well met with Mr. Mattram, the dentist of Westland Row, or theyoung Farrels, whose father owned one of the biggest wine merchants'businesses in the city; but the feminine instinct told Phyl that thesewere not the sort of people from whose class she had sprung, that theircircle was not her circle and that she had stepped down in life in somemysterious way. This fact was brought sharply home to her by a youngFarrel, a male of the Farrel brood, a hobbledehoy, good-looking enough butwith a Dublin accent and a cheeky manner. This immature wine merchant at a party given by Mrs. Hennessey had madelove to Phyl and had tried to kiss her behind the dining-room door. The recollection of the smack in the face she had given him soothed herthat night as she lay tossing in her bed, and it was on this night and forthe first time since she left Kilgobbin that the recollection of Pinckneycame before her otherwise than as a shadow. He stood with the Hennesseycircle as his background, a bright, good-looking figure and a gentleman tohis finger-tips. Why had she cast aside her own people--even though they were distantrelations? What stupidity had caused her to insult Pinckney by telling himshe hated him? She found herself asking that question without being ableto answer it. After all that fuss at Kilgobbin and Pinckney's departure, Mr. Hennesseyhad proved to her that Rafferty was a rogue who deserved no quarter; theman had been dismissed, the whole business was done with and over, andnow, looking back in cool blood, she was utterly unable to reconstruct andput together the reasons for the outburst of anger that had severed herfrom the one kinsman who had put out his hand to help her. She could no longer conjure up the feeling that Pinckney was an interlopercome to break up Kilgobbin and spoil the home she had known fromchildhood. Fate had done that. Kilgobbin was gone--let to strangers; Hennessey hadtaken over her guardianship _pro tem_, and it was entirely owing toherself that she was in her present position. She had no right tocriticise the friends of the Hennesseys; she had deliberately walked intothat circle from which she felt she never could escape now. Just as Pinckney had discovered that guardianship was showing him traitsin his character hitherto unknown to him, Phyl was discovering her woman'sinstinct as regards social matters. She recognised that once having taken her place amongst the Hennessey set, her position for life was fixed, as far as Ireland was concerned. She wasbranded. The Berknowles were an old family, but she was the last of them. Therelatives living in the south could be no help to her; they were poor, rabid Catholics and had fallen to little account, owing to unwisemarriages and that irresponsible fatuous apathy in affairs which is thedry rot of Ireland and the Irish people. They were proud as Lucifer, butno one was proud of them. If only Philip Berknowles had been a man to make fast friends amongst hisown class, some of those friends might have come to his daughter's rescuenow. But Berknowles had lived his own life since the death of his wife, aneasy-going country gentleman in a county mostly inhabited by squireens andcottage folk, caring little for the _convenances_ and with no taste forwomen's society. Thoughts born of all these facts, some of which were only half understood, filled the mind of the girl as she lay awake with the noise of thatraucous party ringing in her ears; and when she fell asleep, it was onlyto awake with a sense of despondency weighing upon her and the odiousFarrel incident waiting to follow her through the day. About a week later, coming down to breakfast one morning, she found aletter on her plate. A letter with American stamps on it and the address, Miss Phylice Berknowles, Merrion Square, Dublin, Ireland, written in afirm, bold hand. Mrs. Hennessey was not down and Mr. Hennessey had departed for the office, so Phyl had the breakfast table to herself--and the letter. She knew at once whom it was from, even before she read the postmark, "Charleston. " Pinckney, the man who had been in her thoughts during the past six orseven days, the man who had left Ireland righteously disgusted with her, the man to whom she had said, "I hate you!" The scene flashed before her as she tore the envelope open, his suddenblaze of anger, the way he had torn the papers up, his departure. What washe going to say to her now? She flushed at the thought that this thing inher hand might prove to be his opinion of her in cold blood, a reproof, aremonstrance--she opened the folded sheet--ah! "Dear Phyl, "Aunt Maria was greatly disappointed when I returned here without you, she had quite made up her mind that you were coming back with me. We both lost our temper that day, but I was the worse, for I said a word I shouldn't have said, and for which I apologise. Aunt Maria says it was the Pinckney temper. However that may be, we shall be delighted to see you. Mrs. Van Dusen leaves on the 6th of next month. I am sending all particulars to Mr. Hennessey. You could meet Mrs. Van Dusen at Liverpool and go with her as far as New York. Let me have a cable to know if you are coming. Pinckney, Vernons, Charleston, U. S. A. , is the cable address. "Your affectionate guardian--also cousin-- "R. Pinckney. " Then underneath, in an angular, old-fashioned hand, one of thosehandwritings we associate with crossed letters, rosewood desks, valentinesand wafers: "Be sure to come. I am very anxious to see you, and I only hope you will like me as much as I am sure to like you. "Maria Pinckney. " Phyl caught her breath back when she read this and her eyes filled withtears. It was the woman's voice that touched her, coming after Pinckney'sbusiness-like and jerky sentences. Then she sat with the letter before her, looking at the new prospect ithad opened for her. Was Pinckney still angry, despite his talk about the Pinckney temper; hadhe written not of his own free will but at the desire of Maria Pinckney?She read the thing over again without finding any solution to thisquestion. But one fact was clear. Maria Pinckney was genuine in her invitation. "I'll go, " said Phyl. She rose up from the table as though determined then and there to startoff for America, left the room, went upstairs and knocked at Mrs. Hennessey's door. That lady was sitting up in bed with a stocking tied round her throat--shewas suffering from a slight attack of tonsilitis--and the Irish _Times_spread on her knees. "Mrs. Hennessey, " said Phyl, "I have just had a letter from my cousins inAmerica, and they want me to go out to them. " "Want you to go to America!" said Mrs. Hennessey. "On a visit, Isuppose?" "No, to stay there. " "To stay in America; but what on earth do they want you to do that for?Who on earth would dream of leaving Dublin to live in America! It'sextraordinary the ideas some people get hold of. Then, of course, theydon't know, that's all that's to be said for them. It's like hearingpeople talking and talking of all the fine views abroad, and you'd thinkthey'd never seen the Dargle or the Glen of the Downs; they don't know thebeauty of their own country or haven't eyes to see it, and they must goraving of the Bay of Naples with Kiliney Bay a stone's throw away fromthem, and talking of Paris with Dublin outside their doors, and praisingup foreign actors with never a word of the Irish Players. Dublin givingher best to them, and they with deaf ears to her music and blind eyes toher sons. " "But, you see, Mrs. Hennessey, the Pinckneys are my relations. " "Irish?" cried the good woman, absolutely unconscious of everything butthe vision before her. "Those that can't see their own land aren't Irish. Mongrels is the name for them, without pride of heart or light ofunderstanding. " She was off. With a far, fixed gaze and her mind in a state of internal combustion, sheseemed a thousand miles away from Phyl and her affairs, fighting thebattles of Ireland. Phyl gathered the impression that, if she went to America Mrs. Hennesseywould grieve less over the fact that she (Phyl) was leaving MerrionSquare, than over the fact that she was leaving Dublin. She escaped, carrying this impression with her, went upstairs, dressed, and thenstarted off for Mr. Hennessey's office. It was a cold, bright day and Dublin looked almost cheerful in thesunlight. The lawyer looked surprised when she was shown into his private room;then, when she had told him her business, he fumbled amongst the papers onhis desk and produced a letter. "This is from Pinckney, " said he. "It came by the same post as yours, onlyit was directed to the office. It's the same story, too. He wants you togo over. " "I've been thinking over the whole business, " said Phyl, "and I feel Iought to go. " "Aren't you happy in Dublin?" asked he. "M'yes, " answered the other. "But, you see--at least, I'm as happy as Isuppose I'll be anywhere, only they are my people and I feel I ought to goto them. It's very lonely to have no people of one's own. You and Mrs. Hennessey have been very kind to me, and I shall always be grateful, but--" "But we aren't your own flesh and blood. You're right. Well, there it is. We'll be sorry to lose you, but, maybe, though you haven't much experienceof the world, you've hit the nail on the head. We aren't your flesh andblood, and though the Pinckneys aren't much more to you, still, one dropof blood makes all the difference in the world. Then again, you're a cutabove us; we're quite simple people, but the Berknowles were always in theCastle set and a long chalk above the Hennesseys. I was saying that toNorah only last night when I was reading the account of the big party atthe Viceregal Lodge and the names of all the people that were there, and Isaid to her, 'Phyl ought to be going to parties like that by and by whenshe grows older, and we can't do much for her in that way, ' and off shegoes in a temper. 'Who's the Aberdeens?' says she. 'A lot of Englishwithout an Irish feather in their tails, and he opening the doors tovisitors in his dressing gown--Castle, ' she says, 'it's little Castlethere'll be when we have a Parliament sitting in Dublin. '" "I don't want to go to parties at the Viceregal Lodge, " said Phyl, flushing to think of what a snob she had been when only a few days backshe had criticised the Hennesseys and their set in her own mind. Thesehonest, straightforward good people were not snobs, whatever else theymight be, and if her desire for America had been prompted solely by thedesire to escape from the social conditions that environed her friends, she would now have smothered it and stamped on it. But the call fromCharleston that had come across the water to her was an influence far morepotent than that. That call from the country where her mother had beenborn and where her mother's people had always lived had more in it thanthe voices that carried the message. "Well, " said Hennessey, "you mayn't want to go to parties now, but youwill when you are a bit older. However, you can please yourself--Do youwant to go to America?" "I do, " said Phyl. "It's not that I want to leave you, but there issomething that tells me I have got to go. When I read the letter firstthis morning, I was delighted to think that Mr. Pinckney was not stillangry with me, and I liked the idea of the change, for Dublin is a bitdreary after Kilgobbin and--and well, I _will_ say it--I don't care forsome of the people I have met in Dublin. But since then a new feeling hascome over me. I think it came as I was walking down here to the office. It's a feeling as if something were pulling me ever so slightly, yet stillpulling me from over there. My father said that there was more of motherin me than him. I remember he said that once--well, perhaps it's that. Shecame from over there. " "Maybe it is, " said Hennessey. CHAPTER IX The thing was settled definitely that night, Mrs. Hennessey resisting theidea at first, more, one might have fancied from her talk, because theidea was anti-national than from love of Phyl, though, as a matter offact, she was fond enough of the girl. "It's what's left Ireland what it is, " went on the good lady. "Cripplesand lunatics, that's all that's left of us with your emigration; all thegood blood of Ireland flowing away from her and not a drop, scarcely, coming back. " "I'll come back, " said Phyl, "you need not fear about that--some day. " "Ay, some day, " said Mrs. Hennessey, and stared into the fire. Then thespirit moving her, she began to discant on things past and peoplevanished. Synge, and Oscar Wilde and Willie Wilde, who was the real genius of thefamily, only his genius "stuck in him somehow and wouldn't come out. " Shepassed from people who had vanished to places that had changed, and onlystopped when the servant came in with the announcement that supper wasready. Then at supper, lo and behold! she discussed the going away of Phyl, asthough it were a matter arranged and done with and carrying her fullconsent and approval. During the weeks following, Phyl's impending journey kept Mrs. Hennesseybusy in a spasmodic way. One might have fancied from the preparations andlists of things necessary that the girl was off to the wilds of New Guineaor some region equally destitute of shops. Hennessey remonstrated, and then let her have her way--it kept her quiet, and Phyl, nothing loath, spent most of her time now in shops, Tod andBurns, and Cannock and White's, examining patterns and being fitted, varying these amusements by farewell visits. She was invited out by allthe Hennesseys' friends, the Farrels and the Rourkes, and the Longs andthe Newlands, and the Pryces and the Oldhams, all prepared tea-parties inher honour, made her welcome, and made much of her, just as we make muchof people who have not long to live. She was the girl that was going to America. She did not appreciate thereal kindness underlying this terrible round of festivities till she wasstanding on the deck of the _Hybernia_ at Kingstown saying good-bye toHennessey. Then, as the boat drew away from the Carlisle pier, as it passed theguardship anchorage and the batteries at the ends of the east and westpiers, all those people from whom she had longed to escape seemed to herthe most desirable people on earth. Bound for a world unknown, peopled with utter strangers, Ireland, belovedIreland, called after her as a mother calls to her child. Oh, the loneliness! the desolation! As she stood watching the Wicklow mountains fading in the grey distance, she knew for the first time the meaning of those words, "Gone West"; andshe knew what the thousands suffered who, driven from their cabins on thehillside or the moor, went West in the old days when the emigrant shipshowed her tall masts in Queenstown Harbour and her bellying canvas to thesunset of the Atlantic. At Liverpool, she found Mrs. Van Dusen, a tall, rather good-looking, rather hard-looking but exceedingly fashionable individual, at the hotelwhere it was arranged they should meet. Phyl, looking like a lost dog, confused by travel and dumb from dejection, had little in common with this lady, nor did a rough passage across theAtlantic extend their knowledge of one another, for Mrs. Van Dusenscarcely appeared from her state-room till the evening when, the greatship coming to her moorings, New York sketched itself and its blazingskyscrapers against the gloom before the astonished eyes of Phyl. PART II CHAPTER I Holyhead, Liverpool, New York, each of these stopping places had impressedupon Phyl the distance she was putting between herself and her home, making her feel that if this business was not death it was, at least, avery good imitation of dying. But the south-bound express from New York was to show her just what peoplemay be expected to feel _after_ they are dead. America had been for Phyl little more than a geographical expression. "Uncle Tom's Cabin, " "The Last of the Mohicans, " "The Settlers in Canada"and "Round the World in Eighty Days, " had given her pictures, and fromthese she had built up a vague land of snow and forests, log huts, plains, Red Indians, runaway negroes and men with bowie knives. New York had given this fantastic idea a rough joggle, the south-boundexpress tumbled it all to pieces. Forests and mountains and plains would have been familiar to herimagination, but the south-bound express was producing for her inspectionquite different things from these. New Jersey with its populous towns, for instance, towns she never couldhave imagined or dreamed of, filled with people whose existence she couldnot picture. What gave her a cold grue was the suddenly grasped fact that all thisgreat mechanism of life, cities, towns, roaring railways, agriculturallands, manufacturing districts filled with English speaking people--thatall this was alien, knew nothing of Ireland or England, except as it mightknow of Japan or a dream of the past. The people in the train were talking English--were English to all intentsand purposes, and yet, as far as England and Ireland were concerned, sheknew them to be dead. It had been freezing in New York, a great rainstorm was blowing across theworld as they crossed the Delaware; it passed, sweeping away east underthe arch of a vast rainbow, even the rainbow seemed alien and different toIrish rainbows--it was too big. Then came Philadelphia, where some of the dead folk left the train andothers got in. One had an Irish voice and accent. He was a big man with ahard, pushful face and a great under jaw. Phyl knew him at once for whathe was, and that he had died to Ireland long years ago. Then came Wilmington and Baltimore, and then, long after sunset in thedark, a warmer air that entered the train like a viewless passenger, nervesoothing and mind lulling--the first breath of the South. Next morning, looking from the windows of the car, she saw the South. Vastspaces of low-lying land broken by river and bayou, flooded by the lightof the new risen sun and touched by a vague mist from the sea, soft as ahaze of summer, warm with light and everywhere hinting at the blue deepsky beyond. Youth, morning, and the spirit of the sea all lay in that luminous haze, that warm light filled with the laziness of June; and, for one delightfulmoment, it seemed to Phyl that summer days long forgotten, rapturousmornings half remembered were here again. The rumble of trestle and boom of bridge filled the train, and now themasts of ships showed thready against the hazy blue of the sky; framehouses sprang up by the track and fences with black children roosting onthem; then the mean streets of the coloured quarter and now, as the carsslackened speed, came the bustle that marks the end of a journey. Peoplewere getting their light luggage together, and as Phyl was strapping thebundle that held her travelling rug and books, a waft of tepid, salt-scented air came through the compartment and on it the voice of thenegro attendant rousing some drowsy passenger. "Charleston, sah. " She got out, dazed and numbed by the journey, and stood with the rugbundle in her hand looking about her, half undecided what to do, halfabsorbed by the bustle and movement of the platform. Then, pushing towards her through the crowd, she saw Pinckney. He had come to meet her, and as they shook hands, Phyl laughed. He seemed so bright and cheerful, and the relief at finding a friend afterthat long, friendless journey was so great that she laughed right out withpleasure, like a little child--laughed right into his eyes. It seemed to Pinckney that he had never seen the real Phyl before. He took the bundle from her and gave it to a negro servant, and then, giving the luggage checks to the servant and leaving him to bring on theluggage, he led the girl through the crowd. "We'll walk to the house, " said he, "if you are not too tired; it's only afew steps away--well--how do you like America?" "America?" she replied. "I don't know--it's different from what I thoughtit would be, ever so much different--and this place--why, it is likesummer here. " "It's the South, " said Pinckney. "Look, this is Meeting Street. " They had turned from the street leading from the station into a broad, beautiful highway, placid, sun flooded, and leading away to the Battery, that chief pride and glory of Charleston. On either side of the street, half hidden by their garden walls, largestately houses of the Georgian era showed themselves. Mansions that hadslumbered in the sun for a hundred years, great, solid houses whoseyellow-wash seemed the incrustation left by golden and peacefulafternoons, houses of old English solidity yet with the Southern touch ofdeep verandas and the hint of palm trees in their jealously walledgardens. "Oh, how beautiful!" said Phyl. She stopped, looked about her, and thengazed away down the street. It was as though the old stately street--andsurely the Street of Other Days might be its name--had been waiting forher all her life, waiting for her to turn that corner leading from thecommonplace station, waiting to greet her like the ghost of some friend ofchildhood. Surely she knew it! Like the recollection of a dream oncedreamed, it lay before her with its walled gardens, its vaguely familiarhouses, its sunlight and placidity. Pinckney, proud of his native town and pleased at this appreciation of it, stood by without speaking, watching the girl who seemed to have forgottenhis existence for a moment. Her head was raised as if she were inhalingthe sea wind lazily blowing from the Battery, and bearing with it strayscents from the gardens by the way. Then she came back to herself, and they walked on. "It's just as if I knew the place, " said she, "and yet I never rememberseeing anything like it before. " "I've felt that way sometimes about places, " said Pinckney. "It seemed tome that I knew Paris quite well when I went there, though I'd never beenthere before. Charleston is pretty English, anyway, and maybe it's thatthat makes it seem familiar. But I'm glad you like it. You like it, don'tyou?" "Like it!" said she. "I should think I did--It's more than liking--I loveit. " He laughed. "Better than Dublin?" It was her turn to laugh. "I never loved Dublin. " She turned her head to glance at a peep of gardenshowing through a wrought iron gate. "Oh, Dublin!--don't talk to me aboutit here. I want to keep on feeling I'm here really and that there'snowhere else. " "There isn't, " said he, disclosing for the first time in his life, andquite unconsciously, his passion for the place where he had been born. "There's nowhere else but Charleston worth anything--I don't know what itis about, but it's so. " They were passing a wall across whose top peeped an elbow of ivy geranium. It was as though the unseen garden beyond, tired of constraint anddrowsily stretching, had disclosed this hint of a geranium coloured arm. Pinckney paused at a wrought iron gate and opened it. "This is Vernons, " said he. CHAPTER II A grosbeak was singing in the magnolia tree by the gate and the warmth ofthe morning sun was filling the garden with a heart-snatching perfume ofjessamine. Jessamine and the faint bitterness of sun warmed foliage. It was a garden sure to be haunted by birds; not large and, though wellkept, not trim, and sing the birds as loud as they might, they never couldbreak the charm of silence cast by Time on this magic spot. In the centre of the lawn stood a dial, inscribed with the old dialmotto: The Hours Pass and are Numbered. Phyl paused for a moment just as she had paused in the street, andPinckney looking at her noticed again that uptilt of the head, and thatfar away look as of a person who is trying to remember or straining tohear. Then a voice from the house came across the broad veranda leading from thegarden to the lower rooms. A female voice that seemed laughing and scolding at the same time. "Dinah! Dinah! bless the girl, will she never learn sense-- Dinah! Ah, there you are. How often have I told you to put General Grant in the sunfirst thing in the morning?-- You've been dusting! I'll dust you. Here, get away. " Out on the veranda, parrot cage in hand, came a most surprising lady. Antique yet youthful, dressed as ladies were wont to dress of a morning inlong forgotten years, bright eyed, and wrathfully agitated. "Aunt, " cried Pinckney. "Here we are. " The sun was in Miss Pinckney's eyes; she put the cage down, shaded hereyes and stared full at Phyl. "God bless me!" said Miss Pinckney. "This is Phyl, " said he, as they came up to the verandah steps. Miss Pinckney, seeming not to hear him in the least, took the girl by bothhands, and holding her so as if for inspection stared at her. Then she turned on Pinckney with a snap. "Why didn't you tell me--she's--why, she's a Mascarene. Well, of all theastonishing things in the world-- Child--child, where did you get thatface?" Before Phyl could answer this recondite question, she found herselfenveloped in frills and a vague perfume of stephanotis. Maria Pinckney hadtaken her literally to her heart, and was kissing her as people kiss smallchildren, kissing her and half crying at the same time, whilst Pinckneystood by wondering. He thought that he knew everything about Maria Pinckney, just as he hadfancied he knew himself till Phyl had shewn him, over there in Ireland, that there were a lot of things in his mind and character still to beknown by himself. This, as regards him, seemed the special mission of Phylin the world. "It's the likeness, " said Miss Pinckney. "I thought it was JulietMascarene there before me in the sun, Juliet dead those years and years. "Then commanding herself, and with one of those reverses, sudden changes ofmanner and subject peculiar to herself: "Where's your luggage?" "Abraham is bringing it along. " "Abraham! Do you mean you didn't drive, _walked_ here from the station?" "Yes, " said Pinckney shamefacedly, almost, and wondering what sin againstthe _covenances_ he had committed now. "And she after that journey from N'York. Richard Pinckney, you area--man--I was going to have called you a fool--but it's the same thing. Here, come on both of you--the child must be starving. This is thebreakfast room, Phyl--Phyl! I will never get used to that name; no matter, I'm getting an old woman, and mustn't grumble--mustn't grumble--umph!" She took Pinckney's walking-stick from him and, with the end of it, pickedup a duster that the mysterious Dinah, evidently, had left lying on thefloor. She put the duster out on the veranda, rang a bell and ordered thecoloured boy who answered it to send in breakfast. Phyl, commanded by Miss Pinckney, sat down to table just as she waswithout removing her hat. The old lady had come to the conclusion that the newcomer must be faintwith hunger after her journey, and when Miss Pinckney came to one of herconclusions, there was nothing more to be said on the matter. It was a pleasant room, chintzy and sunny; they sat down to a gate-leggedtable that would just manage to seat four comfortably whilst the urn wasbrought in, a copper urn in which the water was kept at boiling point by ared hot iron contained in a cylinder. Phyl knew that urn. They had one like it at Kilgobbin and she said so, butMiss Pinckney did not seem to hear her. There were times when this ladywas almost rude--or seemed so owing to inattention, her bustling mindoften outrunning the conversation or harking back to the past when itought to have been in the present. Tea making, and the making of tea was a solemn rite at Vernons, absorbedher whole attention, but Pinckney noticed this morning that the hand, thatold, perfect, delicately shaped hand, trembled ever so slightly as itmeasured the tea from the tortoise-shell covered tea caddy, and that thethin lips, lips whose thinness seemed only the result of the kisses ofTime, were moving as though debating some question unheard. He recognised that the coming of Phyl had produced a great effect on MariaPinckney. No one knew her better than he, for no one loved her so well. It was she who ordered him about, still, just as though he were a smallboy, and sometimes as he sat watching her, so fragile, so indomitable, like the breath of winter would come the thought that a day would come--aday might come soon when he would be no longer ordered about, told to puthis hat in the hall--which is the proper place for hats--told not to dareto bring cigars into the drawing-room. To Phyl, Maria Pinckney formed part of the spell that was surrounding her;Meeting Street had begun the weaving of this spell, Vernons was completingit with the aid of Maria Pinckney. The song of the Cardinal Grosbeak in the garden, the stirring of thewindow curtains in the warm morning air, the feel of morning and sunlight, the scent of the tea that was filling the room, the room itselfold-fashioned yet cheerful, chintzy and sunny, all the things had thefaint familiarity of the street. It was as though the blood of hermother's people coursing in her veins had retained and brought to her somethrill and warmth from all these things; these things they knew and lovedso well. "There's the carriage, " said Miss Pinckney, whose ears had picked out thesound of it drawing up at the front door. "They know where to take theluggage. Richard, go and see that they don't knock the bannisters about. Abraham is all thumbs and has no more sense in moving things than Dinahhas'n dusting them. Only last week when Mrs. Beamis was going away, he letthat trunk of hers slip and I declare to goodness I thought it was achurch falling down the stairs and tearing the place to pieces. " There was little of the stately languor of the South in Miss Pinckney'sspeech. She was Northern on the mother's side. But in her prejudices shewas purely Southern, or, at least, Charlestonian. Pinckney laughed. "I don't think Phyl's luggage will hurt much even if it falls, " said he. "English luggage is generally soft. " "It's only a trunk and a portmanteau, " said Phyl, as he left the room, butMiss Pinckney did not seem to hear; pouring herself out another cup of tea(she was the best and the worst hostess in the whole world) and seemingnot to notice that Phyl's cup was empty, she was off on one of her mindwandering expeditions, a state of soul that sometimes carried her into thepast, sometimes into the future, that led her anywhere and to the wrapt, inward contemplation of all sorts of things and subjects from the doingsof the Heavenly Host to the misdoings of Dinah. She talked on these expeditions. "Well, I'm sure and I'm sure I don't know what folk want with the luggagethey carry about with them nowadays-- The old folk didn't. Not Saratogatrunks, anyhow. I remember 'swell as if it was yesterday way back in 1880, when Richard's father and mother were married, old Simon Mascarene--hebelonged to your mother's lot, the Mascarenes of Virginia-- He came to thewedding, and all he brought was a carpet-bag. I can see the roses on itstill. He wore a beaver hat. They'd been out of fashion for years andyears. So was he. Twenty dollars apiece they cost him, and his clotheswere the same. Looked like a picture out of Dickens. Your grandmother wasthere, too, came from Richmond for the wedding, drove here in her owncarriage. She and Simon were the last of the Virginia Mascarenes and theylooked it. Seems to me some people never can be new nor get away fromtheir ancestors. If you'd dressed Simon in kilts it wouldn't have made anydifference, much, he'd still have been Simon Mascarene of Virginia, justas stiff and fine and proud and old-fashioned. " "It seems funny that my people should have been the Virginia Mascarenes, "said Phyl, "because--because--well, I feel as if my people had alwayslived here--this feels like home--I don't know what it is, but just as Icame into the street outside there I seemed to know it, and this house--" "Why, God bless my soul, " said Miss Pinckney, whose eyes had just fallenon the girl's empty cup, "here have I been talking and talking, and youwaiting for some more tea. Why didn't you ask, child?--What were yousaying? The Virginia Mascarenes-- Oh, they often came here, and yourmother knew this house as well as Planters. That was the name of theirhouse in Richmond. But what I can't get over is your likeness to Juliet. She might have been your sister to look at you both--and she dead allthese years. " "Who was Juliet?" "She was the girl who died, " said Miss Pinckney. "You know, althoughRichard calls me Aunt, I am not really his aunt; it's just an easy namefor an old woman who is an interloper, a Pinckney adrift. It was this wayI came in. Long before the Civil War, the Pinckneys lived at a housecalled Bures in Legare Street. A fine old house it was, and is still. Well, I was a cousin with a little money of my own, and I was left lonelyand they took me in. James Pinckney was head of the family then, and hehad two sons, Rupert and Charles. I might have been their sister the waywe all lived together and loved each other--and quarrelled. Dear me, dearme, what is Time at all that it leaves everything the same? The same sun, and flowers and houses, and all the people gone or changed-- Well, I amtrying to tell you-- Rupert fell in love with Juliet Mascarene, who livedhere. He was killed suddenly in '61-- I don't want to talk of it--and shedied of grief the year after. She died of grief--simply died of grief. Charles lived and married in 1880 when he was forty years old. He marriedJuliet's brother's daughter and Vernons came to him on the marriage. Hehadn't a son till ten years later. That son was Richard. Charles leftRichard all his property and Vernons on the condition that I always livedhere--till I died, and that's how it is. I'm not Richard's aunt, it's onlya name he gives me--I'm only just an old piece of furniture left with thehouse to him. I'm so fond of the place, it would kill me to leave it;places grow like that round one, though I'm sure I don't know why. " "I don't wonder at you loving Vernons, " said Phyl. "I was just the sameabout our place in Ireland, Kilgobbin--I thought it would kill me to leaveit. " "Tell me about it, " said Miss Pinckney. Phyl told, or tried to tell. Looking back, she found between herself and Ireland the sunlight ofCharleston, the garden with the magnolia trees where the red bird wassinging and the jessamine casting its perfume. Ireland looked very faraway and gloomy, desolate as Kilgobbin without its master and with themist of winter among the trees. All that was part of the Past gone forever, and so great was the magic ofthis new place that she found herself recognising with a little chill thatthis Past had separated itself from her, that her feeling towards it wasfaintly tinged by something not unlike indifference. "Well, " said Miss Pinckney, when she had finished, "it must be a beautifulold place, though I can't seem to see it-- You see, I've never been inIreland and I can't picture it any more than the new Jerusalem. Now Dinahknows all about the new Jerusalem, from the golden slippers right up shesees it--I can't. Haven't got the gift of seeing things, and it seemsstrange that the A'mighty should shower it on a coloured girl and leave awhite woman wanting; but it appears to be the A'mighty knows his ownbusiness, so I don't grumble. Now I'm going to show you the house and yourroom. I've given you a room looking right on the garden, this side. You'venoticed how all our houses here are built with their sides facing thestreet and their fronts facing the garden, or maybe you haven't noticed ityet, but you will. 'Pears to me our ancestors had some sense in theirheads, even though they didn't invent telegraphs to send bad news in ahurry and railway cars to smash people to bits, and telephones to letstrangers talk right into one's house just by ringing a bell. Not that I'dlet one into Vernons. You may hunt high or low, garret or basement, youwon't find one of those boxes of impudence in Vernons--not while I haveservants to go my messages. " Miss Pinckney was right. For years she had fought the telephone and keptit out, making Richard Pinckney's life a tissue of small inconveniences, and suffering this epitaph on her sanity to be written by all sorts ofinferior people, "Plumb crazy. " She led the way from the breakfast-room and passed into the hall. The spirit of Vernons inhabited the hall. One might have fancied it as astout and prosperous gentleman attired in a blue coat with brass buttons, shorts, and wearing a bunch of seals at his fob. Oak, brought fromEngland, formed the panelling, and a great old grandfather's clock, withthe maker's name and address, "Whewel. Coggershall, " blazoned on its brassface, told the time, just as it had told the time when the Regent wasruling at St. James's in those days which seem so spacious, yet so trivialin their pomp and vanity. Sitting alone here of an afternoon with the sun pointing fingers throughthe high leaded windows, Whewel of Coggershall took you under his spell, the spell of old ghosts of long forgotten afternoons, spacious afternoonsfilled with the cawing of rooks and the drone of bees. English afternoonsof the good old time when the dust of the post chaise was the only mark ofhurry across miles of meadow land and cowslip weather. And then as you satheld by the sound of the slow-slipping seconds, maybe, from some doorleading to the servants' quarters suddenly left open a voice would come, the voice of some darky singing whilst at work. A snatch of the South mixing with your dream of England and the past, andmaking of the whole a charm beyond words. That is Charleston. Set against the panelling and almost covering it in parts were prints, wood-cuts, engravings, portraits in black and white. Here was a silhouette of Colonel Vernon, the founder of the house, andanother of his wife. Here was an early portrait of Jeff Davis, hollow-cheeked and goatee-bearded, and here was Mayflower, the property ofColonel Seth Mascarene, the fastest trotting horse in Virginia, worshippedby her owner whose portrait hung alongside. Phyl glanced at these pictures as she followed Miss Pinckney, who openeddoors shewing the dining-room, a room rather heavily furnished, hung withportraits of long-faced gentlemen and ladies of old time, and then thedrawing-room. A real drawing-room of the Sixties, a thing preserved in itsentirety, in all its original stiffness, interesting as a valentine, perfumed like an old rosewood cabinet. Keepsakes and Books of Beauty lay on the centre table, a gilt clockbeneath a glass shade marked the moment when it had ceased to keep timeover twenty-five years ago, the antimacassars on the armchairs were not aline out of position; not a speck of dust lay anywhere, and the Dresdenshepherds and shepherdesses simpered and made love in the same oldfashion, preserving unaltered the sentiment of spring, the suggestion ofLove, lambs, and the song of birds. "It's just as it used to be, " said Miss Pinckney. "Nothing at all has beenchanged, and I dust it myself. I would just as soon let a servant loosehere with a duster as I'd let one of the buzzards from the market-placeloose in the larder. Those water-colours were done by Mary Mascarene, Juliet's sister, who died when she was fifteen; they mayn't bemasterpieces but they're Mary's, and worth more'n if they were coveredwith gold. Mrs. Beamis sniffed when she came in here--she's the womanwhose trunk got loose on the stairs I told you about--sniffed as if theplace smelt musty. She's got a husband who's made a million dollars out ofdry goods in Chicago, and she thought the room wanted re-furnishing. Didn't say it, but I knew. A player-piano is what she wanted. Didn't sayit, but _I_ knew. Umph!" Miss Pinckney, having shown Phyl out, looked round the room as if to makesure that all the familiar ghosts were in their places, then she shut thedoor with a snap, and turning, led the way upstairs murmuring to herself, and with the exalted and far away look which she wore when put out. Phyl's room lay on the first landing, a bright and cheerful room paperedwith a rather cheap flower and sprig patterned paper, spring-like for allits cheapness, and just the background for children's heads when they wakeup on a bright morning. A bowl of flowers stood on the dressing-table, and the open window shewedacross the verandah a bit of the garden, where the cherokee roses wereblooming. "This is your room, " said Miss Pinckney. "It's one of the brightest in thehouse, and I hope you'll like it-- Listen!" Through the open window came the chime of church-bells. "It's the chimes of St. Michael's. You'll never want a clock here, thebells ring every quarter, just as they've rung for the last hundred years;they're the first thing I remember, and maybe they'll be the last. Well, come on and I'll show you some more of the house, if you're not tired anddon't want to rest. " She led the way from the room and along the corridor, opening doors andshewing rooms, and then up a back stairs to the top floor beneath theattics. The house seemed to grow in age as they ascended. Not a door in Vernonswas exactly true in line; the old house settling itself down quietlythrough the years and assisted perhaps by the great earthquake, thoughthat had left it practically unharmed, shewed that deviation from theright line in cornice and wainscoting and door space, which is the hallmark left on architecture by genius or age. The builders of the Parthenonknew this, the builders of Vernons did not-- Age supplied their defects. Up here the flooring of the passages and rooms frankly sagged in places, and the beams bellied downwards ever so little and the ceilings bowed. "I've seen all these bed-rooms filled in the old days, " said MissPinckney. "We had wounded soldiers here in the war. What Vernons hasn'tseen of American history isn't worth telling--much. Here's the nursery. " She opened a door with bottle-glass panels, real old bottle-glass worthits weight in minted silver, and shewed Phyl into a room. "This is the nursery, " said she. It was a large room with two windows, and the windows were barred to keepsmall people from tumbling into the garden. The place had the air ofsilence and secrecy that haunts rooms long closed and deserted. Anold-fashioned paper shewing birds of Paradise covered the walls. A paperso old that Miss Pinckney remembered it when, as a child, she had comehere to tea with the Mascarene children, so good that the dye of thegorgeous Paradise birds had scarcely faded. A beam of morning sun struck across the room, a great solid, golden bar oflight. Phyl, as she stood for a moment on the threshold, saw motes dancingin the bar of light; the air was close and almost stuffy owing to thewindows being shut. A rocking-horse, much, much the worse for wear stoodin one corner, he was piebald and the beam of light just failed to touchhis brush-like tail. A Noah's Ark of the good old pattern stood on the lidof a great chest under one of the windows, and in the centre of the room aheavy table of plain oak nicked by knives and stained with ink told itstale. There were books in a little hanging book-case, books of the 'forties' and'fifties': "Peter Parley, " "The Child's Pilgrim's Progress, " "TheDairy-Maid's Daughter, " an odd volume of _Harper's_ _Magazine_ containingan instalment of "Little Dorrit, " Caroline Chesebro's "Children of Light, "and Samuel Irenæus Prime's "Elizabeth Thornton or the Flower and Fruit ofFemale Piety, and other Sketches. " Miss Pinckney opened one of the windowsto let in air; Phyl, who had said nothing, stood looking about her at theforsaken toys, the chairs, and the little three-legged stool mostevidently once the property of some child. All nurseries have a generic likeness. It seemed to her that she knew thisroom, from the beam of light with the motes dancing in it to thebird-patterned paper. Kilgobbin nursery was papered with a paper giving anendless repetition of one subject--a man driving a pig to market--withthat exception, the two rooms were not unlike. Yet those birds were thehaunting charm of this place, the things that most appealed to her, thingsthat seemed the ghosts of old friends. She came to the window and looked out through the bars. Across the gardenof Vernons one caught a glimpse of other gardens, palmetto-tree tops, andaway, beyond the battery, a hint of the blue harbour. Just the picture tofill an imaginative child's mind with all sorts of pleasant fancies aboutthe world, and Phyl, forgetting for a moment Miss Pinckney, herself, andthe room in which she was, stood looking out, caught in a momentary daydream, just like a child in one of those reveries that are part of thefairy tale of childhood. That touch of blue sea beyond the red roofs and green palmetto fronds gaveher mind wings for a moment and a world to fly through. Not the world welive in, but the world worth living in. Old sailor-stories, old scraps ofthought and dreams from nowhere pursued her, haunted her during thatdelightful and tantalising moment, and then she was herself again and MissPinckney was saying: "It's a pretty view and hasn't changed since I was a child. Now, in N'Yorkthey'd have put up skyscrapers; Lord bless you, they'd have put them up ata _loss_ so's to seem energetic and spoil the view. That's a N'Yorker intwo words, happy so long as he's energetic and spoiling views--" Thengazing dreamily towards the touch of blue sea. "Well, I guess the Lordmade N'Yorkers same as he made you and me. His ways are _in_scrutable andpast finding out; so'r the ways of some of his creatures. " She turned from the window, and her eye fell on the great chest by theother window. Going to it, she opened the lid. It was full of old toys, mostly broken. She seemed to have forgotten thepresence of Phyl. Holding the chest's lid open, she gazed at the colouredand futile contents. Then she closed the lid of the chest with a sigh. CHAPTER III The South dines at four o'clock--at least Charleston does. It was the old English custom and the old Irish custom, too. In the reign of William the Conqueror people dined at eleven A. M. Or wasit ten? Then, as civilisation advanced, the dinner hour stole forward. Inthe time of the Georges it reached four o'clock. In Ireland, the mostconservative country on earth, some people even still sit down to table atfour--in Charleston every one does. One would not change the custom for worlds, just as one would not changethe old box pews of St. Michael's or replace the cannon on the Batterywith modern ordinance. Richard Pinckney did not dine at home that day. He was dining with theRhetts in Calhoun Street, so Miss Pinckney said as they sat down to table. She sniffed as she said it, for the Rhetts, though one of the bestfamilies in the town, were people not of her way of thinking. The twoRhett girls had each a motor-car of her own and drove it--abomination! The automobile ranked in her mind with the telephone as an invention ofthe devil. Phyl had not seen Richard Pinckney since the morning and now he was diningout. Her heart had warmed to him at the station on the way to Vernons, andat breakfast he had appeared to her as a quite different person to theRichard Pinckney who had come to Kilgobbin, more boyish and frank, less ofa man of the world. She had not seen him since he left the room atbreakfast-time to look after her luggage. Miss Pinckney said he had goneoff "somewhere or another" and grumbled at him for going off leaving hisbreakfast not quite finished, she said that he was always "scatterbraining about" either at the yacht club or somewhere else. Phyl, as she sat now at the dining-table with the dead and gone Mascarenemen and women looking at her from the canvases on the wall, felt ever soslightly hurt. Youth calls to youth irrespective of sex. She felt as a young person feelswhen another young person shows indifference. Then came the thought: washe avoiding her? Was he angry still about the affair at Kilgobbin, or wasit just that he did not want to be bothered talking to her, looked on heras a nuisance in the house, a guest of no interest to him and yet to whomhe had to be polite? She could not tell. Neither could she tell why the problem exercised hermind in the way it did. Even at Kilgobbin, despite the fact of herantagonism towards him, Pinckney had possessed the power of disturbing hermind and making her think about him in a way that no one else had eversucceeded in doing. No one else had made her feel the short-comings in thehousehold _ménage_ at Kilgobbin, no one else had made her so fiercelycritical of herself and her belongings. She did not recognise the fact, but the fact was there, that it was anecessity of her being to stand well in this man's eyes. When a woman falls in love with a man or a man with a woman, the firstnecessity of his or her being is to stand well in the eyes of the lovedone, anything that may bring ridicule or adverse criticism or disdain isdeath. Phyl was not in love with Richard Pinckney, nor had she been in love withhim at Kilgobbin, all the same the sensitiveness to appearances felt by alover was there. Her anger that night when he had let her in at eleveno'clock was due, perhaps, less to his implied reproof then the fact thatshe had felt cheap in his eyes, and now, sitting at dinner with MissPinckney the idea that he was still angry with her was obscured by the farmore distasteful idea that she was of absolutely no account in his eyes, acreature to whom he had to be civil, an interloper. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened at the thought, but MissPinckney did not notice it. She had turned from the subject of the Rhettsand their automobiles to Charleston society in general. "Now that you've come, " said she, "you will find there's not a moment youwon't enjoy yourself if you're fond of gadding about. All the society hereis in the hands of young people, balls and parties! The St. Cecilias givethree balls a year. I go always, not to dance but to look on. Richard is aSt. Cecilia--St. Cecilias? Why, it's just a club a hundred-and-forty yearsold. There are two hundred of them, all men, and they know how toentertain. I have been at every ball for the last half century. Not onehave I missed. Then there's the yacht club and picnics to Summerville andthe Isle of Palms, and bathing parties and boating by moonlight. If youare a gad-about you will enjoy all that. " "But I'm not, " said Phyl. "I've never been used to society, much. I likebooks better than people, unless they're--" "Unless they're what?" "Well--people I really like. " "Well, " said Miss Pinckney, "one wouldn't expect you to like people you_didn't_ like--there's no 'really' in liking, it's one thing or theother--you don't care for girls, maybe?" "I haven't seen much of them, " replied Phyl, "except at school, and thatwas only for a short time. I--I ran away. " "Ran away! And why did you run away?" "I was miserable; they were kind enough to me, but I wanted to gethome--Father was alive then--I felt I had to get home or die--I can'texplain it--It felt like a sort of madness. I had to get back home. " Miss Pinckney was watching the girl, she scarcely seemed listening toher--Then she spoke: "Impulsive. If I wasn't sitting here in broad daylight, I'd fancy it wasJuliet Mascarene. What makes you so like her? It's not the face so much, though the family likeness runs strong, still, the face is different, though like--It's just you yourself--well, I'm sure I don't know, seems tome there's a lot of things hid from us. Look at the Pringles, Anthony'sfamily, the ones that live in Tradd Street. If you put their nosestogether, they'd reach to Legare Street. It runs in the family. JulianPringle, he died in '70, he was just the same. Now why should a long noserun through a family like that, or a bad temper, or the colour of hair? Idon't know. The world's a puzzle and the older one grows, the more itpuzzles one. " After dinner, Miss Pinckney ordered Phyl to put on her hat and theystarted out for a drive. Every day at five o'clock, weather permitting, Miss Pinckney took anairing. She was one of the sights of Charleston, she, and the darkchestnut horses driven by Abraham the coloured coachman, and the barouchein which she drove; a carriage of other times, one of those deathlessconveyances turned out in Long Acre in the days when varnish was varnishand hand labour had not been ousted by machinery. It was painted in abasket-work pattern, the pattern peculiar to the English Royal carriages, and the whole turn-out had an excellence and a style of its own--a thingunpurchasable as yesterday. They drove in the direction of the Battery and here they drew up to lookat the view. On one side of them stood the great curving row of mansionsfacing the sea, old Georgian houses and houses more modern, yet withoutoffence, set in gardens where the palmetto leaves shivered in the sea windand the pink mimosa mixed its perfume with the salt-scented air. On theother side lay the sea. Afternoon, late afternoon, is the time of alltimes to visit this spacious and sunlit place. It is then that the oldghosts return, if ever they return, to discuss the news brought by thelast packet from England, the doings of Mr. Pitt, the Paris fashions. Looking seaward they would see no change in the changeless sea and littlechange in the city if they turned their eyes that way. Miss Pinckney got out and they walked a bit, inspecting the guns, eachwith its brass plate and its story. Far away in the haze stood Fort Sumter, --a fragment of history, a seawarrior of the past, voiceless and guarding forever the viewless. It mayhave been some recollection of the Brighton front and of the great harbourof Kingstown with the sun upon it, and all this seemed vaguely familiar toPhyl, pleasantly familiar and homely. She breathed the sea air deeply andthen, as she turned, glancing towards the land, a recollection came to herof the story she had been reading that evening in the library atKilgobbin--"The Gold Bug. " It was near here that Legrand had found thetreasure. He had come to Charleston to buy the mattocks and picks--no, itwas Jupp the negro who had come to buy them. She turned to Miss Pinckney. "Did you ever read a story called 'The Gold Bug' by Edgar Allan Poe?" sheasked. "It is about a place near here--Sullivan's Island--that's it--Iremember now. " "Why, I knew him, " said Miss Pinckney. "Knew Edgar Allan Poe!" said Phyl. "I knew him when I was a child and I have sat on his knee and I can seehis face--what a face it was! and the coat he wore--it had a velvetcollar--his teeth were beautiful, and his hair--beautiful glossy hair itwas, but he was not handsome as people use that expression, he wasextraordinary, such eyes--and the most wonderful voice in the world. I'mseventy-five years of age and he died in October '49, and I met him threeyears before he died, so you see I was a pretty small child. It was atFordham. He'd just taken a cottage there for his wife, who was ailing withconsumption, and my aunt, Mary Pinckney, who was a friend of the Osgoods, took me there. It must have been summer for I remember a bird hanging in acage in the sunshine, a bob-o'-link it was, he had caught it in thewoods. "Dear Lord! I wonder where that summer day's gone to, and thebob-o'-link--'pears to me we aren't even memories, for memories live andwe don't. " They were walking along, Abraham slowly following with the carriage, andMiss Pinckney was walking in an exultant manner as though she saw nothingabout her, as though she were treading air. Phyl had unconsciously setfree a train of thought in the mind of Miss Pinckney, a train that alwaysled to an explosion, and this is exactly how it happened and what shesaid. "But his memory will live. Look right round you, do you see his statue?" "No, " said Phyl, sweeping the view. "Where is it?" "Just so, where is it? It's not here, it's not in N'York, it's not inBaltimore, it's not in Philadelphia, it's not in Boston. The one realsplendid writing man that America has produced she's ashamed to put up astatue to. Why? Because he drank! Why, God bless my soul, Grant drank. No, it wasn't drink, it was Griswold. The man who hated him, the man whocrucified his reputation and sold the remains for thirty pieces of silverto a publisher, Griswold, Rufus Griswold--Judas Griswold that was his realname, and he hid it--" Miss Pinckney had lowered her parasol in her anger, she shut it with asnap and then shot it up again; as she did so an automobile driven by agirl and which was approaching them, passed, and a young man seated by thegirl raised his hat. It was Richard Pinckney. The girl was a very pretty brunette. This thing was too much for MissPinckney in her present temper; all her anger against Griswold seemedsuddenly diverted to the automobile. She snorted. "There goes Richard with Venetia Frances Rhett, " said she. "Ought to beashamed of herself driving along the Battery in that outrageous thing;goodness knows, they're bad enough driven by men, scaring people to deathand killing dogs and chickens, without girls taking to them--" She stared after the car, then signalling to Abraham, she got into thebarouche, Phyl followed her and they continued their drive. That evening after supper Miss Pinckney's mind warmed to thoughts of thegood old days when motor-cars were undreamed of, and stirred up by therecollection of Edgar Allan Poe, discharged itself of reminiscences worthmuch gold could they have been taken down by a stenographer. She was sitting with Phyl in the piazza, for the night was warm, andwhilst a big southern moon lit the garden, she let her mind stray over themen and women who had made American literature in the '50's and '60's, many of whom she had known when young. Estelle Anna Lewis of Baltimore, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William CullenBryant, Elizabeth Oakes Smith, Cornelius Mathews, Frances Sargent Osgood, N. P. Willis, Laughton Osborn. She had known Lowell and Longfellow, yether mind seemed to cling mostly to the lesser people, writers in the_Southern Literary Messenger_, the _Home Journal_, the _Mirror_ and the_Broadway Journal_. People well-known in their day and now scarcely remembered, yet whose verynames are capable of evoking the colour and romance of that fascinatingepoch beyond and around the Civil War. "They're all dead and gone, " said she, "and folk nowadays don't seem totrouble about the best of them, or remember their lines, yet there'snothing they write now that's as good--I remember poor Thomas Ward. 'Flaccus' was the name he wrote under, a thin skeleton of a man alwayswith his head in the air and his mind somewhere else, used to write in the_Knickerbocker Journal_; I heard him recite one of his things. "'And, straining, fastened on her lips a kiss, That seemed to suck the life blood from her heart. ' "That stuck in my head, mostly, I expect, because Thomas Ward didn't lookas if he'd ever kissed a girl, but they are good lines and a lot betterthan they write nowadays. " The wind had risen a bit and was stirring in the leaves of the magnolias, white carnations growing near the sun dial shook their ruffles in themoonlight, and from near and far away came the sounds of Charleston, voices, the sound of traffic and then, a thread of tune tying moonbeams, magnolias, carnations and cherokee roses in a great southern bunch, camethe notes of a banjo, plunk, plunk, and a voice from somewhere away in theback premises, the voice of a negro singing one of the old Plantationsongs. Just a snatch before some closing door cut the singer off, but enough tomake Phyl raise her head and listen, listen as though a whole worldvaguely guessed, a world forgotten yet still warm and loving, youthful andsunlit, were striving to reach her and speak to her--As though Charlestonthe mysterious city that had greeted her first in Meeting Street weretrying to tell her of things delightful, once loved, once known andforever vanished. As she lay awake that night with the moonlight showing through the blinds, the whole of that strange day came before her in pictures: the face ofFrances Rhett troubled her, yet she did not know in the least why; itseemed part of the horribleness of automobiles and the anger of MissPinckney and the tribulations of Edgar Allan Poe. Then the fantastic band of forgotten _literati_ trooped before her, led by"Flaccus, " the man who didn't look as if he had ever kissed a girl, yetwho wrote: "And, straining, fastened on her lips a kiss, That seemed to suck the life blood from her heart. " CHAPTER IV Phyl awoke to the early morning sunlight and the sounds of Charleston. The chimes of St. Michael's were striking six and through the summerysunlit air carried by the sea wind stirring the curtains came the cries ofthe streets and the rumbling of early morning carts. Oh, those negro cries! the cry of the crab-seller, the orange vendor, theman who sells "monkey meat" dolorous, long drawn out, lazy, you do notknow the South till you have heard them. The sound of a mat being shaken and beaten on the piazza, adjoining thaton which her window opened came now, and two voices in dispute. "Mistress Pinckney she told me to tell you--she mos' sholey did. " "Go wash yo' face, yo' coloured trash, cummin' here wid yo' orders--skipout o' my piazza--'clar' to goodness I dunno what's cummin' to niggersdese days. " Then Miss Pinckney's voice as from an upper window: "Dinah! Seth! what's that I hear? Get on with your work the pair of youand stop your chattering. You hear me?" When Phyl came down Richard Pinckney was in the garden smoking a cigaretteand gathering some carnations. "They're for aunt, " said he, "to propitiate her for my being late lastnight. I wasn't in till one. I'm worse even than you, you see, and thenext time you are out till eleven and I let you in and grumble at you, youcan hit back. Have a flower. " He gave her the finest in his bunch and Phyl put it in her belt. If shehad any doubt as to the sincerity of his welcome his manner this morningought to have set her mind at rest. She stood looking at him as he tied the stalks of the flowers together andhe was worth looking at, a fresh, bright figure, the very incarnation ofyouth and health and one might almost say innocence. Clear eyed, well-groomed, good to look upon. "I generally pick a flower and put it on her plate, " said he, "but thismorning she shall have a whole bunch--hope you slept all right?" "Rather, " said Phyl, "I never sleep much the first night in a newplace--but somehow--oh, I don't know how to express it--but nothing hereseems new. " "Nothing is, " said he laughing, "it's all as old as the hills--you likeit, don't you?" "It's not a question of liking--of course I like it, who could help likingit--it's more than that. It's a feeling I have that I will either love itor hate it, and I don't know which yet, all sorts of things come back tome here, you see, my mother knew the place--do people remember what theirmothers and fathers knew, I wonder? But, if you understood me, it's not somuch remembering as feeling. All yesterday it seemed to me that I had onlyto turn some corner and come upon something waiting for me, something Iknew quite well, and the smells and sounds and things are always remindingme of something--you know how it is when you have forgotten a name andwhen it's lying just at the back of your mind--that's how I feel here, about nearly everything--strange, isn't it?" "Oh, I don't know, " said the practical Pinckney. "This place is awfullyEnglish for one thing, sure to remind you of a lot of things in Irelandand England, and then there's of course the fact that you are partlyAmerican, but I don't see why you should ever hate it. " "_Indeed_, I didn't mean that, " said she flushing up at the thought thatin trying to express herself she had made such a blunder. "I meant--Imeant, that this something about the place that is always reminding me ofitself might make me hate _it_. " "Or love it?" "Yes, but I can't explain--the place itself no one could hate, you musthave thought me rude. " "Not a bit--not the least little bit in the world. Well, I believe you'llcome to love it, not hate it. " "It, " said Phyl. "I don't know that, because I don't know what it is--thissomething that is always peeping round corners at me yet hiding itself. " "_Richard_!" came Miss Pinckney's voice from the piazza where she had justappeared, "smoking cigarettes before breakfast, how often have I told youI won't have you smoking before breakfast--why, God bless my soul, whatare you doing with all those carnations?" He flung the cigarette-end away, but she refused to kiss him on account ofthe tobacco fumes, though she took the flowers. Cigarettes, like telephones, automobiles, and the memory of Edgar AllanPoe, formed a subject upon which once started Miss Pinckney was hard tocheck, and whilst she poured out the tea, she pursued it. "Dr. Cotton it was who told me, the one who used to live in Tradd Street, he was a relative of Dr. Garden the man that gave his name to that flowerthey call the gardenia--had it sent him from somewhere in the South, butI'm sure I don't know where--New Orleans, I think, but it doesn't matter. I was saying about Dr. Cotton, _old_ Dr. Cotton of Tradd Street, he toldme that the truth about young William Pringle's death was that he wasblack when he died, from cigarette smoking, black as a crow. Used to smokebefore breakfast, used to smoke all day, used to smoke in his sleep, Ib'lieve. Couldn't get rid of the pesky habit and died clinging to it, black as a crow. I can't abide the things. Your father used to smoke BullDurham in a corn cob, or a cigar, he'd a' soon have smoked one of thosecigarettes of yours as soon as he'd have been caught doing tatting. Don'ttell me, there's no manhood in them, it's just vice in thimble-fulls. I'dmuch sooner see a man lying healthily under the table once in a way thanalways half fuddled, and I'd sooner be poisoned out by a green cigar nowand then, than always having that nasty sickly cigarette smell round theplace. " "But good gracious, Aunt, I'm not a cigarette smoker, only once and awayand at odd times. " "I wasn't talking about you so much as the young men of to-day, and theyoung women, they're the worst, for they encourage the others to makefools of themselves, and if they're not smoking themselves they're suckingcandy. Candy sucking and cigarette smoking is the ruin of the States. Those Rhett girls _live_ on candy, and they look it--pasty faces. " "Why!" said he, "what grudge have you got against the Rhetts now, Aunt--it's as bad to take a girl's complexion away as a man'scharacter--what have the Rhetts been doing to you?" Miss Pinckney did not seem to hear the question for a moment, then shesaid, speaking as if to some invisible person: "That Frances Rhett may be reckoned the belle of Charleston, that's what Iheard old Mr. Outhwaite call her, but she's a belle I wouldn't care tohave tied round my neck. Belle! She's no more a belle than I am, there arehundreds of prettier girls between here and the Battery, but she's one ofthose sort that have the knack of setting young men against each other andmaking them fight for her; she's labelled herself as a prize, which sheisn't. I declare to goodness the world frightens me at times, the way Isee fools going about labelled as clever men, and women your grandfatherswouldn't have cast an eye at going about labelled as beauties. I dobelieve if I was to give myself out as a beauty to-morrow I'd have halfthe young idiots in Charleston after me, believing me. " "They're after you already, " said Pinckney, "only yesterday I heard youngReggy Calhoun saying--" "I know, " said Miss Pinckney, "and I want no more of your impudence. Nowtake yourself off if you've finished your breakfast, for Phyl and I havework to do. " He got up and went off laughing by way of the piazza and they could hearhis cheery voice in the garden talking to the old negro gardener. Miss Pinckney's eyes softened. She was fiddling with a spoon and when shespoke she seemed speaking to it, turning it about as if to examine itspattern all the time. "I don't know what mothers with boys feel like, but I do want to see thatboy safe and married before I go. He's just the sort to be landed inunhappiness; he is, most surely; well, I don't know, there's no use inwarning young folk, you may spank 'em for stealing the jam but you can'tspank 'em from fooling with the wrong sort of girl. " Miss Pinckney had talked the night before of Phyl's father and hadproposed taking her this morning to the Magnolia cemetery to see thegrave. She broke off the conversation suddenly as this fact strayed intoher mind, and, rising up, invited Phyl to follow her to the kitchenpremises where she had orders to give before starting. "I always look after my own house, " said she, "and always will. Fineladies nowadays sit in their drawing-rooms and ring their bells for theservants to rob them and they aren't any more respected. That's what makesthe Charleston negro the impudentest lump of blackness under the sun, thatand knowing they're emancipated. They've got to look on themselves as partof the Heavenly Host. Well, I'll have no emancipated rubbish in my house, and the consequence is I never lose a servant and I never get impudence. They'll all get a pension when they're too old to work, and good food andgood pay whilst they're working, and I've said to them 'you're no moreemancipated than I am, we're all slaves to our duty and the onlydifference between now and the old days is I can't sell you--and if youwere idle enough to make me want to sell you there's no one would buy suchrubbish nowadays. ' Half the trouble is that people these times don't knowhow to talk to coloured folk, and the other half is that they don't wantto talk to them. " She led the way down passages to the great kitchen, stonebuilt, clean andfull of sunlight. The door was open on to the yard and through an openside door one could get a glimpse of the scullery, the great washing upsink, generations old, and worn with use, and above it the dryingdresser. There were no new-fangled cooking inventions at Vernons, everything wasdone at an open range of the good old fashion still to be found in many anEnglish country house. Miss Pinckney objected to "baked meat" and the joints at Vernons wereroast, swinging from a clockwork Jack and basted all the time with a longmetal ladle. By the range this morning was seated an old coloured woman engaged incutting up onions. This was Prue the oldest living thing in Vernons andperhaps in Charleston; she had been kitchen maid before Miss Pinckney wasborn, then cook, and now, long past work, she was just kept on. Twenty-five years ago she had been offered a pension and a cottage forherself but she refused both. She wanted to die where she was, so shesaid. So they let her stay, doing odd jobs and bossing the others just asthough she were still mistress of the kitchen--as in fact she was. She hadbecome a legend and no one knew her exact age, she was creepin' close to ahundred, and her memory which carried her back to the slave days wasmarvellous in its retentiveness. She had cooked a dinner for Jeff Davis when he was a guest at Vernons, shecould still hear the guns of the Civil War, so she said, and the Mascarenefamily history was her Bible. She looked down on the Pinckneys as trash beside the Mascarenes, andinterlopers, and this attitude and point of view though well known to MissPinckney was not in the least resented by her. But during the last few years this old lady's intellect had been steadilycoming under eclipse; still insisting on doing little jobs in a futilesort of way, silence had been creeping upon her so that she rarely spokenow, and when she did, by chance, her words revealed the fact that hermind was dwelling in the past. Rachel, the cook, a sturdy coloured woman with her head bound up in anisabelle-coloured handkerchief was standing by the kitchen table on whichshe was resting the fore-finger of her left hand, whilst with the rightshe was turning over some fish that had just been sent in from thefishmonger's. She seemed in a critical mood, but what she said to MissPinckney was lost to Phyl whose attention was attracted by a chucklingsound from near the range. It was Prue. The old woman at sight of Phyl had dropped the knife and the onion onwhich she had been engaged. She was now seated, hands on knees, chucklingand nodding to the girl, then, scarcely raising her right hand from herknee, she made a twiddling movement with the fore-finger as if to say, "come here--come here--I have something to tell you. " Phyl glanced at Miss Pinckney who was so taken up with what Rachel wassaying about the fish that she noticed nothing. Then she looked again atPrue and, unable to resist the invitation, came towards her. The old womancaught her by the arm so that she had to bend her head. "Miss Julie, " whispered Prue, "Massa Pinckney told me tell yo' he be at degate t'night same time 'slas' night. Done you let on 's I told yo', " shegave the arm a pinch and relapsed into herself chuckling whilst Phyl stoodwith a little shiver, half of relief at her escape from that bony clutch, half of dread--a vague dread as though she had come in contact withsomething uncanny. She came to the table again and stood without looking at Prue, whilst MissPinckney completed her orders, then, that lady, having finished herbusiness and casting an eye about the place on the chance of finding anydirt or litter, saw Prue and asked how she was doing. "Well, miss, she's doin' fa'r, " replied Rachel, "but I'm t'inking she'snot long fore de new Jerusalem. Sits didderin' dere 'n' smokin' her pipe, 'n' lays about her wid her stick times, fancyin' there'er dogs comin' intode kitchen. " "A dog bit her once way back in the '60's, " said Miss Pinckney; "they usedto keep dogs here then. She don't want for anything?" "Law no, miss, _she_ done want for nothin'; look at her now laffin' toherself. Haven't seen her do that way dis long time. Hi, Prue, what yo'laffin' at?" Prue, instead of answering leant further forward hiding her face withoutchecking her merriment. "Crazy, " said Miss Pinckney, "but it's better to be laughing crazy thancrying crazy like some folk--here's a quarter and get her some candy. " She put the coin on the table and marched off followed by Phyl. "She wanted to tell me something, " said Phyl as they were driving to thecemetery; "she beckoned me to her and took hold of my arm and whisperedsomething. " "What did she say?" Phyl, somehow, could not bring herself to betray that crazy confidence. "I don't know, exactly, but she called me Miss Julie. " "Oh--she called you Miss Julie, " said the other. Then she relapsed intothought and nothing more was said till they reached their destination. CHAPTER V Charleston's Magnolia Cemetery like everything else about Charleston showsthe touch of the War. Here the soldiers lie who fought so bravely underWade Hampton and here lies the general himself. Go south, go north, and you will not find a place touched by the War whereyou will not find noble memories, echoes of heroic deeds, legends of bravemen. Miss Pinckney was by no means a peace party and this thought was doubtlessin her head as she stood surveying the confederate graves. There wererelations here and men whom she had known as a child. "That's the War, " said she, "and people abuse war as if it was the worstthing in the world, insulting the dead. 'Clare to goodness it makes mesavage to hear the pasty-faces talking of war and making plans to abolishit. It's like hearing a lot of children making plans to abolish thunderstorms. Where would America be now without the War, and where'd herhistory be? You tell me that. It'd just be the history of a big canningfactory. These men aren't dead, they're still alive and fighting--fightingChicago; fighting pork, and wheat, and cotton and railway-stock andeverything else that's abolishing the soul of the nation. "There's Matt Carey's grave. He had everything he wanted, and he wasn'tyoung. Now-a-days he'd have been driving in his automobile killing oldwomen and chickens, or tarpoon fishing down 'n Florida letting the worldgo rip, or full of neur--what do they call it--that thing that gets ontheir nerves and makes crazy old men of them at forty--I've forgotten. _He_ didn't. He took up a gun and died like a lion, and he was amiddle-aged business man. No one remembers him, I do believe, except, maybe me, clean forgotten--and yet he helped to put a brick into the onlymonument worth ten cents that America has got--The War. "And some northern people would say 'nice sort of brick, seeing he wasfighting on the wrong side. ' Wrong side or right side he was fighting forsomething else than his own hand. _That's_ the point. " She closed up her lips and they went on. Phyl found her father's grave ina quiet spot where the live-oaks stood, the long grey moss hanging fromtheir branches. Miss Pinckney, having pointed out the grave, strayed off, leaving the girlto herself. The gloomy, strange-looking trees daunted Phyl, and the grave, too youngyet to have a headstone, drew her towards it, yet repelled her. It was like meeting in a dream some one she had loved and who had turnedinto a stranger in a strange place. Just as Charleston had dimmed Ireland in her mind as a bright light dims alesser light, so had some influence come between her and the memory of herfather. That memory was just as distinct as ever, but grief had died fromit, as though Time had been at work on it for years and years. The Phyl who had stepped out of the south-bound express and the girl ofthis morning were the same in mind and body, but in soul and outlook theyhad changed and were changing as though the air of the south had somemagic in it, some food that had always been denied her and which wasnecessary for her full being. Miss Pinckney returned from her wanderings amongst the graves and theyturned to the gate. "It used to seem strange to me coming here when I was a girl, " said she. "It always seemed as if I was come to visit people who could never come tosee me. I used to pity them, but one gets older and one gets wiser, and Ifancy it's they that pity us, if they can see us at all, which isn't oftenlikely. " "D'you think they come back?" said Phyl. "My dear child, if I told you what I thought, you'd say I was plum crazy. But I'll say this. What do you think the Almighty made folk for? to live afew years and then lie in a grave with folk heaping flowers on them?There's no such laziness in nature. I don't say there aren't folk who livetheir lives like as if they were dead, covered with flowers and nevermoving a hand to help themselves like some of those N'York women--but theydon't count. They're against nature and I guess when they die they die, for they haven't ever lived. " Then, vehemently: "Of course, they comeback, not as ghosts peekin' about and making nuisances of themselves, butthey come back as people--which is the sensible way and there's nothingunsensible in nature. Mind you, I don't say there aren't ghosts, thereare, for I've seen 'em; I saw Simon Pinckney, the one that died of drink, as plain as my hand same day he died, but he was a no account. He hadn'tthe making of a man, so he couldn't come back as a man, and he wasn't awoman, so he couldn't come back as a woman; so he came back as a ghost. Hewas always an uneasy creature, else I don't suppose he'd have come back asanything. When a man wears out a suit of clothes he doesn't die, he gets anew one, and when he wears out a body--which isn't a bit more than a suitof clothes--he gets a new one. If he hasn't piled up grit enough in lifeto pay for a new body, he goes about without one and he's a ghost. That'smy way of thinking and I know--I know--n'matter. " She put up her sunshade and they returned, driving through the warm springweather. Phyl was silent, the day had taken possession of her. The scentof pink mimosa filled the air, the blue sky shewed here and there a fewfeather traces of white cloud and the wind from the sea seemed the verybreath of the southern spring. It seemed to Phyl as they drove that never before had she met or felt theloveliness of life, never till this moment when turning a corner the songof a bird from a garden met them with the perfume of jessamine. Charleston is full of surprises like that, things that snatch you awayfrom the present or catch you for a moment into the embrace of some oldgarden lurking behind a wrought iron gate, or tell you a love story nomatter how much you don't want to hear it--or tease you, if you are apractical business man, with some other futility which has nothing at allto do with "real" life. It seemed to Phyl as though, somehow, the whole of the morning had beenworking up to that moment, as though the perfume of the jessamine and thesong of the birds were the culmination of the meaning of all sorts ofthings seen and unseen, heard and unheard. The message of the crazy old negress came back to her. Who was Miss Julie?and who was the Mr. Pinckney that was to meet her, and where was the gateat which they were to meet in such a secretive manner? Was it justcraziness, or was it possible that this was some real message deliveredyears and years ago. A real lover's message which the old woman had oncebeen charged to deliver and which she had repeated automatically and likea parrot. Miss Julie--could it be possible that she meant Miss Juliet--The JulietMascarene to whom she, Phyl, bore such a strong family likeness, could itbe possible that the likeness had started the old woman's mind working andhad recalled the message of a half-a-century ago to her lips. It was a fascinating thought. Juliet had been in love with one of thePinckneys and this message was from a Pinckney and one day, perhaps, mostlikely a fine spring day like to-day, Pinckney had given the negro girl amessage to give to Juliet, and the lovers and the message and the brightspring day had vanished utterly and forever leaving only Prue. The gate would no doubt be the garden gate. Phyl in all her life had nevergiven a thought to Love, she had known nothing of sentiment, that muchabused thing which is yet the salt of life, and Romance for her had meantAdventure; all the same she was now weaving all sorts of threads intodreams and fancies. What appealed to her most was her own likeness toJuliet, the girl who had died so many, many years ago. A likenessincomplete enough, according to Miss Pinckney, yet strong enough to awakenmemories in the mind of Prue. CHAPTER VI "Miss Pinckney, " said Phyl, as they sat at luncheon that day, "youremember you said yesterday that I was like Juliet Mascarene?" "So you are, " replied the other, "though the likeness is more noticeableat first sight as far as the face goes--I've got a picture of her I willshow you, it's upstairs in her room, the one next yours on the samepiazza--why do you ask me?" "I was thinking, " replied Phyl, "that the old woman in thekitchen--Prue--may have meant Juliet when she called me Julie, and that itwas the likeness that set her mind going. " "It's not impossible. Prue's like that crazy old clock Selina Pinckneyleft me in her will. It'd tell you the day and the hour _and_ the minuteand the year and the month and the weather. A little man came out if itwas going to rain and a little woman if it was going to shine. But if youwanted to know the time, it couldn't tell you nearer than the hour beforelast of the day before yesterday, and if you sneezed near it, it'd up andstrike a hundred and twenty. I gave it to Rachel. She said it was 'some'clock, said it was a dandy for striking and the time didn't matter as theold kitchen clock saw to that. It's the same with Prue, the time doesn'tmatter, and they look up to her in the kitchen mostly, I expect, becauseshe's an oddity, same as Selina Pinckney's clock. Seems to me anythingcrazy and useless is reckoned valuable these days, and not only amongcoloured folk but whites--Dinah, hasn't Mr. Richard come in yet?" "No, Mistress Pinckney, " replied the coloured girl, who had just enteredthe room, "I haven't seen no sign of him. " "Running about without his luncheon, " grumbled the lady, "said he had adeal in cotton on. I might have guessed it. " Then when Dinah had left theroom and talking half to herself, "There's nothing Richard seems to thinkof but business or pleasure. I'm not saying anything against the boy, he'sas good and better than any of the rest, but like the rest of them hischaracter wants forming round something real. It wasn't so in the olddays, they were bad enough then and drank a lot more, but they had in themsomething that made for something better than business or pleasure. MattCurry didn't go out and get killed for business or pleasure, and all theold Pinckneys didn't fight in the war or fight with one another forbusiness or pleasure. There's more in life than fooling with girls orbuying cotton or sailing yacht races, but Richard doesn't seem to see it. I did think that having a ward to look after would have sobered him a bitand helped to form his character--well, maybe it will yet. " "I don't want to be looked after, " said Phyl flushing up, "and if Mr. Pinckney--" she stopped. What she was going to say about Pinckney was notclear in her mind, clouded as it was with anger--anger at the thought thatshe was an object to be looked after by her "guardian, " anger at theimplication that he was not bothering to look after her, being too muchengaged in the business of fooling with girls and buying cotton, and areasonable anger springing from and embracing the whole world that heldhis beyond Vernons. "Yes?" said Miss Pinckney. "Oh, nothing, " replied the other, trying to laugh and making a failure ofthe business. "I was only going to say that Mr. Pinckney must have lots todo instead of wasting his time looking after strangers, and if he hadn't Idon't want to be looked after. I don't want him to bother aboutme--I--I--" It did not want much more to start her off in a wild fit ofweeping about nothing, her mind for some reason or other unknown even toherself was worked up and seething just as on that day at Kilgobbin whenthe woes of Rafferty had caused her to make such an exhibition of herselfin the library. Anything was possible with Phyl when under the influenceof unreasoning emotion like this, anything from flinging a knife at aperson to breaking into tears. Miss Pinckney knew it. Without understanding in the least thepsychological mechanism of Phyl, she knew as a woman and by someelectrical influence the state of her mind. She rose from the table. "Stranger, " said she, taking the other by the arm, "you call yourself astranger. Come along upstairs with me. I want to show you something. " Still holding her by the arm, caressingly, she led her off across the halland up the stairs; on the first floor landing she opened a door; it wasthe door of the bedroom next to Phyl's, a room of the same shape and sizeand with the same view over the garden. Just as the drawing-room had been kept in its entirety without alterationor touch save the touch of a duster, so had this room, the bedroom of agirl of long ago, a girl who would now have been a woman old anddecrepit--had she lived. "Here's the picture you wanted to see, " said Miss Pinckney leading Phyl upto a miniature hanging on the wall near the bed. "That's Juliet, and ifyou don't see the family likeness, well, then, you must be blind. --And youcalling yourself a stranger!" Phyl looked. It was rather a stiff and finicking little portrait; shefancied it was like herself but was not sure, the colour of the hair wasalmost the same but the way it was dressed made a lot of difference, andshe said so. "Well, they did their hair different then, " replied Miss Pinckney, "andthat reminds me, it's near time you put that tail up. " She sat down in arocker by the window and with her hands on her knees contemplated Phyl. "I'm your only female relative, and Lord knows I'm far enough off, anyhowI'm something with a skirt on it, and brains in its head, and that's whata girl most wants when she comes to your age. You'll be asked to partiesand things here and you'll find that tail in the way; it's good enough fora schoolgirl, but you aren't that any longer. I'll get Dinah to do yourhair, something simple and not too grown-up--you don't mind an old womantelling you this--do you?" "Indeed I don't, " said Phyl. "I don't care how my hair is done, you cancut it off if you like, but I don't want to go to parties. " "Well, maybe you don't, " said Miss Pinckney, "but, all the same, we'll getDinah to look to your hair. Dinah can do most anything in that way; she'dget twice the wages as a lady's maid elsewhere and she knows it, but shewon't go. I've told her over and again to be off and better herself, butshe won't go, sticks to me like a mosquito. Well, this was Juliet's roomjust as that's her picture; she died in that bed and everything is justexactly as she left it. It was kept so after her death. You see, it wasn'tlike an ordinary person dying, it was the tragedy of the whole thing thatstirred folk so, dying of a broken heart for the man she was in love with. It set all the crazy poets off like that clock of Selina Pinckney's I wastelling you of. The _News and Courier_ had yards of obituary notice andverses. It made people forget the war for a couple of days. There's allher books on that shelf and the diary the poor thing used to keep. Openone of the drawers in that chest. " Phyl did so. The drawer was packed with clothes neatly folded. The airbecame filled with the scent of lavender. "There are her things, everything she ever had when she died. It may seemfoolish to keep everything like that, foolish and sentimental, and ifshe'd died of measles or fallen down the stairs and killed herself maybeher old things would have been given away, but dying as she did--well, somehow, it didn't seem right for coloured girls to be parading about inher things. Mrs. Beamis sniffed here just as she sniffed in thedrawing-room, and she said, one night, something about sentiment, as ifshe was referring to chicken cholera. I knew what she meant. She meant wewere a pack of fools. Well, she ought to know. I reckon she ought to be ajudge of folly--the life she leads in Chicago. Umph!--Now I'm going to liedown for an hour, and if you take my advice you'll do the same. The middleof the day was meant to rest in. You can get to your room by the window. " She kissed Phyl and went off. Phyl, instead of going to her room, took her seat in the rocker and lookedaround her. The place held her, something returned to it that had beendriven away perhaps by Miss Pinckney's cheerful and practical presence, the faint odour of lavender still clung to the air, and the silence wasunbroken except for a faint stirring of the window curtains now and thento the breeze from outside. Everything was, indeed, just as it had beenleft, the toilet tidies and all the quaint contraptions of the '50's and'60's in their places. On the wall opposite the bed hung several watercolours evidently the work of that immature artist Mary Mascarene, a watchpocket hung above the bed, a thing embroidered with blue roses, enough todisturb the sleep of any æsthete, yet beautiful enough in those old days. There was only one stain mark in the scrupulous cleanliness and neatnessof the place--a panel by the window, once white painted but now dingy-greyand scored with lines. Phyl got up and inspected it more closely. Children's heights had evidently been measured here. There was a scale offeet marked in pencil, initials, and dates. Here was "M. M. , " probablyMary Mascarene, "2 ft. 6 inches. Nineteen months, " and the date "April, 1845, " and again a year later, "M. M. 2 ft. 9-1/2 inches, May, 1846. " Soshe had grown three and a half inches in a year. "J. M. "--Juliet withoutdoubt--"3 feet, 3 years old, 1845. " Juliet was evidently the elder--so itwent on right into the early '60's, mixed here and there with otherinitials, amongst which Phyl made out "J. J. " and "R. P. , " children maybestaying at the house and measured against the Mascarene children--childrennow old men and women, possibly not even that. It was in the kindly spiritof Vernons not to pass a painter's brush over these scratchings, recordsof the height of a child that lingered only in the memory of the oldhouse. Phyl turned from them to the bookshelf and the books it contained. "NobleDeeds of American Women, " "Precept on Precept, " "The Dairyman's Daughter, "and the "New England Primer"--with a mark against the verses left "by JohnRogers to his wife and nine small children, and one at the breast, when hewas burned at the stake at Smithfield in 1555. " There were also books ofpoetry, Bryant, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Powhatan, a metrical romancein seven cantos by Seba Smith, " and several others. Phyl did something characteristic. She gathered every single book into apile in her arms and sat down on the floor with them to have a feast. Thisdevourer of books was omnivorous in her tastes, especially if it were aquestion of sampling, and she had enough critical faculty to enable her toenjoy rubbish. She lingered over Powhatan and its dedication to the "YoungPeople of the United States" and then passed on to the others till shecame to a little black book. It was Juliet Mascarene's diary andproclaimed the fact openly on the first page with the statements: "I amtwelve years old to-day and Aunt Susan has given me this book to keep asmy diary and not to forget to write each day my evil deeds as well as mygood, which I will if I remember them. She didn't give me anything else. Ihad to-day a Paris doll from Cousin Jane Pinckney who has winking eyeswhich shut when you lay her on her back and pantalettes with scallopswhich take off and on and a trunk of clothes with a little key to it. Father gave me a Bible and I have had other things too numerous formension. "Signed Juliet Mascarene. " with never a date. Then: "I haven't done any evil deeds, or good ones that I can remember, so Ihaven't written in this book for maybe a week. Mary and I, we went to aparty at the Pinckneys to-day at Bures, the Calhoun children and theRutledges were there and we had Lady Baltimore cake and a good time. Marywore her blue organdie and looked very nice and Rupert Pinckney was there, he's fourteen and wouldn't talk to the children because they were toosmall for him, I expect. He told me he was going to have a pony same asSilas Rhett that threw him in the market place Wednesday last and gallopedall the way to Battery before he was stopped, only his was to be a betterone with more shy in it, said Silas Rhett ought to be tied on next time. Then old Mr. Pinckney came in and shewed us a musical snuff-box and wewent home, and driving back Mary kicked me on the shin by axident and Ipinched her and she didn't cry till we'd got home, then she began to roarand mother said it was my ungovernable temper, and I said I wished I wasdead. "I shan't go to any more parties because it's always like that after them. Father told me I was to pray for a new heart and not to have any supperbut Prue has brought me up a cake of her own making. So that's one evildeed to put down--It's just like Mary, any one else would have cried rightout in the carriage and not bottled it up and kept it up till she gothome. "This is a Friday and Prue says Friday parties are always sure to end introuble for the devil puts powder in the cakes and the only way to stophim is to turn them three times round when they're baking and touch themeach time with a forked hazel twig. " Phyl read this passage over twice. The mention of Prue interested hervastly. Prue even then had evidently been a favourite of Juliet's. She read on hoping to find the name of the coloured woman again, but itdid not occur. The diary, indeed, did not run over more than a year and a half, butscrappy as it was and short in point of time, the character of Julietshone forth from it, uneasy, impetuous, tormenting and loving. Many books could not have depicted the people round Vernons so well asthis scribbling of a child. Mary Mascarene, quiet, rather a spoil-sportand something of a tale-teller, dead and gone Pinckneys and Rhetts. AuntSusan, Cousin Jane Pinckney, Uncle George who beat his coloured man, Darius, because the said Darius had let him go out with one brass buttonmissing from his blue coat. Simon Pinckney--the one whose ghostwalked--and who "fell down in the garden because he had the hiccups, "these and others of their time lived in the little black book given by themiserly Aunt Susan "to keep as my diary and not to forget to write eachday my evil deeds as well as my good. " Towards the end there was another reference to Rupert Pinckney, the tragiclover of the future: "Rupert Pinckney was here to-day with his mother to luncheon and we had apalmetto salad and mother said when he was gone he was the most frivulusboy in Charleston, whatever that was, and too much of a dandy, but fathersaid he had stuff in him and Aunt Susan, who was here too, said 'Yes, stuff and nonsense, ' and I said he could ride his pony without tumblingoff like Silas Rhett, anyhow. "Then they went on talking about his people and how they hadn't as muchmoney as they used to have, and Aunt Susan said that was so, and the worstof it is they're spending more money than they used to spend, and fathersaid, well, anyhow, that wasn't a very common complaint with _some_ peopleand he left the room. He never stays long in the room with Aunt S. "I think the Pinckneys are real nice. " "Mr. Simon Mascarene from Richmond and his wife came to see us to-day andstay for a week. They drove here in their own carriage with four brownhorses and you could not tell which horse was which, they are so alike, they are very fine people and Mr. M. Has a red face--not the same red asMr. Simon Pinckney's, but different somehow--more like an apple, and ahigh nose which makes him look very grand and fine. " The same SimonMascarene, no doubt, that came to the wedding of Charles Pinckney in 1880as old Simon Mascarene, the one whose flowered carpet bag still lingeredin the memory of Miss Pinckney. "Mrs. M. Is very fine too and beautifully dressed and mother gave her agreat bouquet of geraniums and garden flowers with a live greencaterpillar looping about in the green stuff which nobody saw but me, tillit fell on Mrs. M. 's knee and she screamed. There is to be a big partyto-morrow and the Pinckneys are coming and Rupert. " There the diary ended. Phyl put it back on the shelf with the books. She had not the knowledge necessary to visualise the people referred to, those people of another day when Planters kept open house, when slaveswere slaves and Bures the home of the old gentleman with the musicalsnuff-box, but she could visualise Juliet as a child. The writing in thelittle book had brought the vision up warm from the past and it seemedalmost as though she might suddenly run in from the sunlit piazza that laybeyond the waving window curtains. There was a bureau in one corner, or rather one of those structures thatwent by the name of Davenports in the days of our fathers. Phyl went to itand raised the lid. She did so without a second thought or any feelingthat it was wrong to poke about in a place like this and pry into secrets. Juliet seemed to belong to her as though she had been a sister, her ownlikeness to the dead girl was a bond of attraction stronger than a familytie, and Juliet's mournful love story completed the charm. The desk contained very little, a seal with a dove on it, some sticks ofspangled sealing-wax, a paper knife of coloured wood with a picture ofBenjamin Franklin on the handle and some sheets of note-paper with giltedges. Phyl noticed that the gilt was still bright. She took out the paper knife and looked at it, and then held the blade toher lips to feel the smoothness of it, drawing it along so that her lipstouched every part of the blade. Then she put it back, and as she did so a little panel at the back of thedesk fell forward disclosing a cache containing a bundle of letters tiedround with ribbon. Phyl started as though a hand had been laid on her arm. The point of thepaper knife must have touched the spring of the panel, but it seemed asthough the desk had suddenly opened its hand, closed and clasping thoseletters for so many years. For a moment she hesitated to touch them. Thenshe thought of all the time they had lain there and a feeling that Julietwouldn't mind and that the old bureau had told its secret without beingasked, overcame her scruples. She took the letters and sitting down againon the floor, untied the ribbon. There were no envelopes. Each sheet of paper had been carefully folded andsealed with green wax, with the seal leaving the impression of the dove. There was no address, and they had evidently been tied together inchronological order. But the handwriting was the handwriting of JulietMascarene fully formed now. The first of these things ran: "It wasn't my fault. I didn't create old Mr. Gadney and send him to churchto keep us talking in the street like that. I did _not_ see you. Youcouldn't have passed, and if you did you must have been invisible. I feeldreadfully wicked writing to you. Do you know this is a clandestinecorrespondence and must stop at once? You mustn't _ever_ write to meagain, nor I mustn't see you. Of course I can't help seeing you in churchand on the street--and I can't help thinking about you. They'll be makingme try and stop breathing next. I don't care a button for the whole lot ofthem. It was all Aunt Susan's doing, only for her my people would neverhave quarrelled with yours and I wouldn't have been so miserable. I feelsometimes as if I could just take a boat and sail off to somewhere where Iwould never see any people again. "It was clever of you to send your letter by P. This goes to you by thesame hand. " There was no signature and no date. Phyl turned the sheet of paper over to make sure again that there was noaddress. As she did so a faint, quaint perfume came to her as though theold-fashioned soul of the letter were released for a moment. It wasvervain, the perfume of long ago, beloved of the Duchesse de Chartres andthe ladies of the forties. She laid the letter down and took up the next. "It is _wicked_ of you. My people never would be so mean as to quarrelwith your people or look down on them because they have lost money. Whydid you say that--and you know I said in my last letter that I could notwrite to you again. I was shocked when P. Pinched my arm as I was passingher on the stairs and handed me your note--Don't you--don't you--how shallI say it? Don't you think you and I could meet and speak to one anothersomewhere instead of always writing like this? Somewhere where no onecould see us. Do you know--do you know--do you, ahem! O dear me--know thatjust inside our gate there's a little arbour. The tiniest place. When Iwas a child I used to play there with Mary at keeping house, there's aseat just big enough for two and we used to sit there with our dolls. Noone can see the gate from the lower piazza, and the gate doesn't make anynoise opening, for father had it oiled--it used to squeak a bit from rust, but it doesn't now and I'll be there to-morrow night at nine--in thearbour--at least I _may_ be there. I just want to tell you in a way Ican't in a letter that my people aren't the sort of folk to sneer at anyone because they have lost money. "I am sending this by P. "The arbour is just back of the big magnolia as you come in, on theleft. " Phyl gave a little laugh. Then with half-closed eyes she kissed theletter, laid it softly on the floor beside the first and went on to thenext. "Not to-night. I have to go to the Calhouns. It is just as well, for Ihave a dread of people suspecting if we meet too often. No one sees usmeet. No one knows, and yet I fear them finding out just by instinct. Father said to me the other day, 'What makes you seem so happy thesetimes?' If Mary had been alive she would have found out long ago, for Inever could keep anything hid from her. I was nearly saying to him, 'Ifyou want to know why I am so happy go and ask the magnolia tree by thegate. ' "Sometimes I feel as if I were deceiving him and everybody. I am, and Idon't care--I don't care if they knew. O my darling! My darling! Mydarling! If the whole world were against you I would love you all themore. I will love you all my life and I will love you when I am dead. " Phyl's eyes grew half blind with tears. This cry from the Past went to her heart like a knife. The wind, strengthening for a moment, moved the window curtains, bringing with itthe drowsy afternoon sounds of Charleston, sounds that seemed to mock atthis voice declaring the deathlessness of its love. It was impossible togo on reading. Impossible to expose any more this heart that had ceased tobeat. The meetings in the arbour behind the magnolia tree, the kisses, the wordsthat the leaves and birds alone could hear--they had all ended in death. It did not matter now if the garden gate creaked on its hinges, or ifwatching eyes from the piazza saw the glossy leaves stirring when no windcould shake them--nothing mattered at all to these people now. She put all the letters back in the bureau, carefully closing them in thesecret drawer. CHAPTER VII "Miss Pinckney, " said Phyl that night as they sat at supper, "when youleft me this afternoon in Juliet's room I stopped to look at the books andthings and when I opened the bureau I touched a spring by accident and alittle panel fell out and I found a lot of old letters behind it. It waswrong of me to go meddling about and I thought I ought to tell you. " "Old letters, " said Miss Pinckney, "you don't say--what were they about?" "I read one or two, " said the girl. "I'd never, never have dreamed oftouching them only--only they were hers--they were to him. " "Rupert?" "Yes. " "Love letters?" "Yes. " Miss Pinckney sighed. "He kept all her letters, " said she, "and they came back to her after hewas killed. He was killed here in Charleston, at Fort Sumter, in the war;they brought him across here and carried him on a stretcher and she--well, well, it's all done with and let it rest, but it is strange that thoseletters should have fallen into your hands. " "Why, strange?" "Why?" burst out Miss Pinckney. "Why I have dusted that old bureau insideand out a hundred times, and pulled out the drawers and pushed them in andit never shewed sign of having anything in it but emptiness, and you don'tdo more'n look at it and you find those letters. It's just as if the thinghad deceived me. I don't mind, and I don't want to see them, they weren'tintended for other eyes than his and hers--and maybe yours since they wereshewn you like that. " "Was it wrong of me to look at them?" asked Phyl. "I never would have doneit only--only--Oh, I don't know, I somehow felt she wouldn't mind. Sheseemed like a sister--I would never dream of looking at another person'sletters but she did not seem like another person. I can't explain. It wasjust as though the letters were my own--just exactly as though they weremy own when I found them in my hands. " Phyl was talking with her eyes fixed before her as though she were lookingacross some great distance. Miss Pinckney gave a little shiver, then supper being over she rose fromthe table and led the way from the room. Richard Pinckney had dined with them but he was out for supper somewhereor another. They went to the drawing-room and had not been there for morethan a few minutes when Frances Rhett was announced. The Rhetts were on intimate enough terms with the Pinckneys to call inlike this without ceremony; Frances had called to speak to Miss Pinckneyabout some charity affair she was getting up in a hurry, but she had notbeen five minutes in the room before Phyl knew that she had called to lookat her. To look at the girl who had come to live with the Pinckneys, thered headed girl. Phyl did not know that girls of Frances' type dread redhaired girls, if they are pretty, as rabbits dread stoats, but she didknow in some uncanny way that Frances Rhett considered Richard Pinckney asher own property to be protected against all comers. All at once and new born, the woman awoke in her instinctive, mistrustfuland armed. Frances Rhett, despite Miss Pinckney's dispraise of her, was a mostformidable person as far as the opposite sex was concerned. One of thewomen of whom other women say, "Well, I don't know what he sees in her, I'm sure. " A brunette of eighteen who looked twenty, full-blooded, full lipped, fullcurved, sleepy-eyed, she seemed dressed by nature for the part of theworld and the flesh--with a hint of the devil in those deep, dark, pansyblue eyes that seemed now by artificial light almost black. "Well, I'll subscribe ten dollars, " said Miss Pinckney; "I reckon thedarkie babies won't be any the worse for a _crêche_ and maybe not verymuch better for it. If you could get up an institution to distil goodmanners and respect for their betters into their heads I'd give you forty. I'm sure I don't know what the coloured folk of Charleston are coming to, one of them nearly pushed me off the sidewalk the other day, bag ofimpudence! and the way they look at one in the street with that sleeryleery what-d'-you-call-yourself-you-white-trash grin on their facess'nough to raise Cain in any one's heart. " "I know, " replied the dark girl, "and they are getting worse; the whip isthe only thing that as far as I can see ever made them possible, and whatwe have now is the result of your beautiful Abolitionists. " "Don't call them my beautiful Abolitionists, " replied the other. "I didn'tmake 'em. All the same I don't believe in whipping and never did. It's thewhip that whipped us in the war. If white folk had treated black folk likeChristians slavery would have been the greatest god-send to blacks. It waswhat stays are to women. But they didn't. The low down white made slaveryimpossible with his whipping and oppression and _we_ had to suffer. Well, we haven't ended our sufferings and if these folk go on multiplying likerabbits there's no knowing what we've got to suffer yet. " Miss Rhett concurred and took her departure. "Now, that girl, " said theelder lady when Frances Rhett was gone, "is just the type of the people Iwas telling her about. No idea but whipping. _She_ wouldn't have muchmercy on a human creature black or tan _or_ white. Thick skinned. Shedidn't even see that I was telling her so to her face. Wonder what broughther here this hour with her _crêche_. It's just a fad. If they got up acharity to make alligator bait of the black babies so's to sell thealligator skins to buy pants with texts on them for the Hottentots it'd beall the same to her. Something to gad about with. I wish I'd kept that tendollars in my pocket. " Miss Pinckney went to bed early that night--before ten--and Phyl, who wasfree to do as she chose, sat for a while in the lower piazza watching themoon rising above the trees. She had a little plan in her mind, a planthat had only occurred to her just before the departure of Miss Pinckneyfor bed. She sat now watching the garden growing ghostly bright, the sun dialbecoming a moon dial, the carnations touched by that stillness and mysterywhich is held only in the light of the moon and the light of the dawn. Phyl found herself sitting between two worlds. In the light of thenorthern moon in summer there is a vague rose tinge to be caught at timesand in places when it falls full on house wall or the road on which one iswalking. The piazza to-night had this living and warm touch. It seemed litby a glorified ethereal day. A day that had never grown up and would neverlose the charm of dawn. Yet the garden to which she would now turn her eyes shewed nothing ofthis. Night reigned there from the cherokee roses moving in the wind tothe carnations motionless, moon stricken, deathly white. Sure that Miss Pinckney would not come down again, Phyl rose and crossedthe garden towards the gate. She wanted to see if the trysting place behind the magnolia and the bushesthat grew about it were still there. At the gate she paused for a moment, glancing back at the house as JulietMascarene might have done on those evenings when she had an appointmentwith her lover. Then, pushing through the bushes and past the magnoliatrees she found herself in a little half moonlit space, a natural arbourthrough whose roof of leaves the moonlight came in quavering shafts. Shestood for a moment absolutely still whilst her eyes accustomed themselvesto the light. Then she began to search for the seat she guessed to bethere, and found it. It was between an oak bole and the wall of thegarden, and the bushes behind had grown so that their branches halfcovered it. Neglected, forsaken, unknown, perhaps, to the people nowliving in Vernons it had lingered with the fidelity of inanimate things, protected by the foliage of the southern garden from prying eyes. She pushed back the leaves and branches and bent them out of the way, thenshe took her seat, and as she did so several of the bent branches releasedthemselves and closed half round her in a delightful embrace. From here she could see brokenly the garden and the walk leading from thegate, with the light of the moon now strong upon the walk. The nightsounds of the street just beyond the wall came mixed with the stir offoliage as the wind from the sea pressed over the trees like the hand of amesmerist inducing sleep. So it was here that Juliet Mascarene had sat with Rupert Pinckney on thosesummer nights when the world was younger, before the war. The war that hadchanged everything whilst leaving the roses untouched and the moonlightthe same on the bird-haunted garden of Vernons. Everything was the same here in this little space of flowers and trees. But the lovers had vanished. "For man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain. " Thewords strayed across Phyl's mind brought up by recollection. "He cometh upand is cut down like a flower, he fleeth as it were a shadow, and nevercontinueth in one stay. " The trees seemed whispering it, the eternal statement that leaves theeternal question unanswered. The garden was talking to her, the night, the very bushes that clasped herin a half embrace; perfumes, moonlight, the voice of the wind, all werepart of the spell that bound her, held her, whispered to her. It was asthough the love letter of Juliet had led her here to show her as in aglass darkly the vainness of love in the vainness of life. Vainly, for as she sat watching in imagination the forms of the lostlovers parting there at the gate, suddenly there came upon her a stirringof the soul, a joyous uplifting as though wings had been given to her mindfor one wild second raising it to the heights beyond earthly knowledge. "Love can never die. " It was as though some ghostly voice had whispered this fact in her ear. Juliet was not dead nor the man she loved, changed maybe but not dead. Insome extraordinary way she knew it as surely as though she herself hadonce been Juliet. Religion to Phyl had meant little, the Bible a book of fair promises andappalling threats, vague promises but quite definite threats. As a quitesmall child she had gathered the impression that she was sure to be damnedunless she managed to convert herself into a quite different being fromthe person she knew herself to be. Death was the supreme bogey, the futurelife a thing not to be thought of if one wanted to be happy. Yet now, just as if she had been through it all, the truth came floodingon her like a golden sea, the truth that life never loses touch with life, that the body is only a momentary manifestation of the ever livingspirit. Meeting Street, the old house so full of memories, Juliet's letters, thegarden, they had all been stretching out arms to her, trying to tell hersomething, whispering, suggesting, and now all these vague voices hadbecome clear, as though strengthened by the moonlight and the mystery ofnight. Clear as lip-spoken words came the message: "You have lived before and we say this to you, we, the things that knewyou and loved you in a past life. " A step that halted outside close to the garden gate broke the spell, thegate turned on its hinges shewing through its trellis work the form of aman. It was Pinckney just returned from some supper-party or club. Phyl caught her breath back. Suddenly, and at the sight of Pinckney, Prue's words of that morning entered her mind. "Miss Julie, Massa Pinckney told me tell yo' he be at de gate t'nightsame's las' night. Done you let on as I told you. " And here he was, the man who had been occupying her thoughts and who wasbeginning to occupy her dreams, and here she was as though waiting for himby appointment. But there was much more than that. Worlds and worlds more than that, awhole universe of happiness undreamed of. She rose from the seat and the parted bushes rustled faintly as theyclosed behind her. Pinckney, who had just shut the gate, heard the whisper of the leaves, heturned and saw a figure standing half in shadow and half in moonlight. Fora moment he was startled, fancying it a stranger, then he saw that it wasPhyl. "Hullo, " said he. "Why, Phyl, what are you doing here?" The commonplace question shattered everything like a false note in music. "Nothing, " she answered. Then without a word more she ran past him andvanished into the house. Pinckney cast the stump of his cigar away. "What on earth is the matter with her now?" said he to himself. "What onearth have I done?" The word she had uttered carried half a sob with it, it might have beenthe last word of a quarrel. He stood for a moment glancing around. The wild idea had entered his mindthat she had been there to meet some one and that his intrusion had puther out. But there was no one in the garden; nothing but the trees and the flowers, wind shaken and lit by the moon, the same placid moon that had lit thegarden of Vernons for the lovers of whom he knew nothing except byhearsay, and for whom he cared nothing at all. CHAPTER VIII When Phyl awoke from sleep next morning, the brightness of the South hadlost some of its charm. Something magical that had been forming in her mind and taking its lifefrom Vernons had been shattered last night by Pinckney's commonplacequestion. This morning, looking back on yesterday, she could remember details butshe could not recapture the essence. The exaltation that had raised herabove and beyond herself. It was like the remembrance of a rose contrastedwith the reality. The whole day had been working up to that moment in the little arbour, when her mind, tricked or led, had risen to heights beyond thought, tohappiness beyond experience, only to be cast down from those heights bythe voice of reality. The thing was plain enough to common sense; she had let herself beover-ruled by Imagination, working upon splendid material. Prue's message, her own likeness to Juliet, Juliet's letters, the little arbour, those andthe magic of Vernons had worked upon her mind singly and together, exalting her into a soul-state utterly beyond all previous experience. It was as though she had played the part of Juliet for a day, sufferedvaguely and enjoyed in imagination what Juliet had suffered and enjoyed inlife, known Love as Juliet had known it--for a moment. The brutal touch of the Real coming at the supreme moment to shatter andshrivel everything. And the strange thing was that she had no regrets. Looking back on yesterday, the things that had happened seemed of littleinterest. Sleep seemed to have put an Atlantic ocean between her andthem. Coming down to breakfast she found Pinckney just coming in from thegarden; he said nothing about the incident of the night before, nor didshe, there were other things to talk about. Seth, one of the darkies, hadbeen 'kicking up shines, ' he had given impudence to Miss Pinckney thatmorning. Impudence to Miss Pinckney! You can scarcely conceive the meaningof that statement without a personal knowledge of Miss Pinckney, and afull understanding of the magic of her rule. Seth was, even now, packing up the quaint contraptions he called hisluggage, and old Darius, the coloured odd job man, was getting a barrowout of the tool-house to wheel the said luggage to Seth's grandmother'shouse, somewhere in the negro quarters of the town. The whole affair ofthe impudence and dismissal had not taken two minutes, but the effectswere widespread and lasting. Dinah was weeping, the kitchen in confusion;one might have thought a death had occurred in the house, and MissPinckney presiding at the breakfast table was voluble and silent byturns. "Never mind, " said Pinckney with all the light-heartedness of a mantowards domestic affairs. "Seth's not the only nigger in Charleston. " "I'm not bothering about his going, " replied Miss Pinckney. "He was allthumbs and of no manner of use but to make work; what upsets me is the wayhe hid his nature. Time and again I've been good to that boy. He lookedall black grin and frizzled head, nothing bad in him you'd say--and then!It's like opening a cupboard and finding a toad, and there's Dinah goingon like a fool; she's crying because he's going, not because he gave meimpudence. Rachel's the same, and I'm just going now to the kitchen togive them a talking to all round. " Off she went. "I know what that means, " said Pinckney. "It's only once in a couple ofyears that there's any trouble with servants and then--oh, my! You seeAunt Maria is not the same as other people because she loves every onedearly, and looks on the servants as part of the family. I expect sheloves that black imp Seth, for all his faults, and that's what makes herso upset. " "Same as I was about Rafferty, " said Phyl with a little laugh. Pinckney laughed also and their eyes met. Just like a veil swept aside, something indefinable that had lain between them, some awkwardnessarising, maybe, from the Rafferty incident, vanished in that moment. Phyl had been drawing steadily towards him lately, till, unknown to her, he had entered into the little romance of Juliet, so much so that if lastnight, at that magical moment when he met her on entering the gate--if atthat moment he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, Love might havebeen born instantly from his embrace. But the psychological moment had passed, a crisis unknown to him andalmost unknown to her. And now, as if to seal the triumph of the commonplace, suddenly, the vaguereservation that had lain between them, disappeared. "Do you know, " said he, "you taught me a lesson that day, a lesson everyman ought to be taught before he leaves college. " "What was that?" asked Phyl. "Never to interfere in household affairs. Of course Rafferty wasn'texactly a household affair because he belonged mostly to the stable, stillhe was your affair more than mine. Household affairs belong to women, andmen ought to leave them alone. " "Maybe you're right, " said Phyl, "but all the same I was wrong. Do youknow I've never apologised for what I said. " "What did you say?" asked he with an artless air of having forgotten. "Oh, I said--things, and--I apologise. " "And I said--things, and I apologise--come on, let's go out. I have nobusiness this morning and I'd like to show you the town--if you'd care tocome. " "What about Miss Pinckney?" asked Phyl. "Oh, she's all right, " he replied. "The Seth trouble will keep her busytill lunch time and I'll leave word we've gone out for a walk. " Phyl ran upstairs and put on her hat. As they were passing through thegarden the thought came to her just for a moment to show him the littlearbour; then something stopped her, a feeling that this humble littlesecret was not hers to give away, and a feeling that Pinckney wouldn'tcare. Dead lovers vanished so long and their affairs would have littleinterest for his practical mind. The morning was warmer even than yesterday. The joyous, elusive, intoxicating spirit of the Southern spring was everywhere, the air seemedfilled with the dust of sunbeams, filled with fragrance and lazy sounds. The very business of the street seemed part of a great universal gaietyover which the sky heat hazy beyond the Battery rose in a dome of deep, sublime tranquil blue. They stopped to inspect the old slave market. Then the remains of the building that had once been the old Planters Hotelheld Phyl like a wizard whilst Pinckney explained its history. Here in theold days the travelling carriages had drawn up, piled with the luggage offine folk on a visit to Charleston on business or pleasure. The Planterswas known all through the Georgias and Virginia, all through the States inthe days when General Washington and John C. Calhoun were living figures. The ghost of the place held Phyl's imagination. Just as Meeting Streetseemed filled with friendly old memories on her first entering it, so didthe air around the ruins of the "Planters. " Then having paused to admire the gouty pillars of St. Michael's they wentinto the church. The silence of an empty church is a thing apart from all other silences inthe world. Deeper, more complete, more filled with voices. As they were entering a negro caretaker engaged in dusting and tidying letsomething fall, and as the silence closed in on the faint echo thatfollowed the sound they stopped, just by the font to look around them. Here the spirit of spring was not. The shafts of sunlight through thewindows lit the old fashioned box pews, the double decked pulpit, and thefont crowned with the dove with the light of long ago. Sunday mornings ofthe old time assuredly had found sanctuary here and the old congregationshad not yet quite departed. The occasional noise of the caretaker as he moved from pew to pew scarcelydisturbed the tranquillity, the scene was set beyond the reach of thesounds and daily affairs of this world, and the actors held in a mediumunshakable as that which holds the ghostly life of bees in amber and birdsin marqueterie. "That was George Washington's pew, " whispered Pinckney, "at least the onehe sat in once. That's the old Pinckney pew, belonged to Bures--otherpeople sit there now. This is our pew--Vernons. The Mascarenes had it inthe old days, of course. " Phyl looked at the pew where Juliet Mascarene had sat often enough, nodoubt, whilst the preacher had preached on the vanity of life, on thedelusions of the world and the shortness of Time. Many an eloquent divine had stood in the pulpit of St. Michael's, but nonehave ever preached a sermon so poignant, so real, so searching as thatwhich the old church preaches to those who care to hear. They turned to go. Outside Phyl was silent and Pinckney seemed occupied by thoughts of hisown. They had got to that pleasant stage of intimacy where conversationcan be dropped without awkwardness and picked up again haphazard, but youcannot be silent long in the streets of Charleston on a spring day. Theyvisited the market-place and inspected the buzzards and then, somehow, without knowing it, they drifted on to the water side. Here where thedocks lie deserted and the green water washes the weed grown and rottingtimbers of wharves they took their seats on a baulk of timber to rest andcontemplate things. "There used to be ships here once, " said he. "Lots of ships--but that wasbefore the war. " He was silent and Phyl glanced sideways at him, wondering what was in hismind. She soon found out. A struggle was going on between his two selves, his business self that demanded up-to-dateness, bustle, and the energeticconduct of affairs, and his other self that was content to let things lie, to see Charleston just as she was, unspoiled by the thing we call BusinessProsperity. It was a battle between the South and the North in him. He talked it out to her. Went into details, pointed to Galveston and NewOrleans, those greedy sea mouths that swallow the goods of the world andgive out cotton, whilst Charleston lay idle, her wharves almost deserted, her storehouses empty. He spoke almost vehemently, spoke as a business man speaks of wastedchances and things neglected. Then, when he had finished, the girl put inher word. "Well, " said she, "it may be so but I don't want it any different fromwhat it is. " Pinckney laughed, the laugh of a man who is confessing a weakness. "I don't know that I do either, " said he. It was rank blasphemy against Business. At the club you would often findhim bemoaning the business decay of the city he loved, but here, sittingby the girl on the forsaken wharf, in the sunshine, the feeling suddenlycame to him that there was something here that business would drive away. Something better than Prosperity. It was as though he were looking at things for a moment through her eyes. They came back through the sunlit streets to find Miss Pinckney recoveredfrom the Seth business, and after luncheon that day, assisted by Dinah andthe directions of Miss Pinckney, Phyl's hair "went up. " "It's beautiful, " said the old lady, as she contemplated the result, "andmore like Juliet than ever. Take the glass and look at yourself. " Phyl did. She did not see the beauty but she saw the change. Her childhood hadvanished as though some breath had blown it away in the magic mirror. PART III CHAPTER I In a fortnight Phyl had adjusted herself to her new environment socompletely that to use Pinckney's expression, she might have been bred andborn in Charleston. Custom and acquaintanceship had begun to dull without destroying the charmof the place and the ghostly something, the something that during thefirst two days had seemed to haunt Vernons, the something indefinable shehad called "It" had withdrawn. The spell, whatever it was, had been broken that night in the garden, whenPinckney's commonplace remark had shattered the dream-state into which shehad worked herself with the assistance of Prue, Juliet's letters, thelittle secret arbour and the moonlight of the South. One morning, coming down to breakfast, she found Miss Pinckney inagitation, an open telegram in one hand and a feather duster in theother. It was one of the early morning habits of Miss Pinckney to range the housesuperintending things with a feather duster in hand, not so much for useas for the purpose of encouraging others. She was in the breakfast roomnow dusting spasmodically things that did not require dusting and talkingall the time, pausing every now and then to have another glance at thetelegram whilst Richard Pinckney, unable to get a word in, sat on a chair, and Jim, the little coloured page, who had brought in the urn, stood bylistening and admiring. "Forty miles from here and ten from a railway station, " said MissPinckney, "and how am I to get there?" "Automobile, " said Pinckney. It was evidently not his first suggestion as to this means of locomotion, for the suggestion was received without an outburst, neither resented norassented to in fact. They took their seats at table and then it all cameout. Colonel Seth Grangerson of Grangerson House, Grangerville, S. Carolina, was ill. Miss Pinckney was his nearest relative, the nearest at least withwhom he was not fighting, and he had wired to her, or rather his son hadwired to her, to come at once. "As if I were a bird, " said the old lady. Grangerville was a backwaterplace, badly served by the railway, and it would take the best part of aday to get there by ordinary means. "A car will get you there inside a couple of hours, " said Pinckney. "As if he couldn't have sent for Susan Revenall, " went on she as thoughoblivious to the suggestion, "but I suppose he's fought with them again. Ipatched up a peace between them last midsummer, but I suppose the patchesdidn't stick; he's fought with the Revenalls, he's fought with theCalhouns, he's fought with the Beauregards, he's fought with theTredegars--that man would fight with his own front teeth if he couldn'tget anything better to fight with, and now he's dying I expect he reckonsto have a fight with me, just to finish off with. He killed his poor wife, and Dick Grangerson would never have gone off and got drowned only forhim--Oh, he's not so bad, " turning to Phyl, "he's good enough only forthat--will fight. " "Too much pep, " said Pinckney. "I'm sure I don't know what it is. They're the queerest lot the Almightyever put feet on, and I don't mind saying it, even though they arerelatives. " Turning to Phyl. "I suppose you know, least I suppose youthink, that the Civil War was fought for the emancipation of the darkiesand that they _were_ emancipated. " "Yes!" "Well, they weren't--at least not at Grangersons. While the Colonel'sfather was fighting in the Civil War, his first wife, she was a Dawson, kept things going at home, and after the war was over and he was back hetook up the rule again. Emancipation--no one would have dared to say theword to him, he'd have killed you with a look. The North never beatGrangerson, it beat Davis and one man and another but it never beatGrangerson, he carried on after the war just as he carried on before, toldthe darkies that emancipation was nigger talk and they believed him. People came round telling them they were free, and all they got was brokenheads. They were a very tetchy lot, those niggers, are still what are leftof them. You see, they've always been proud of being Grangerson's niggers, that's the sort of man he is, able to make them feel like that. " "Silas helps to carry on the place, doesn't he?" asked Pinckney. "Yes, and just in the same tradition, only he's finding it doesn't work, Isuspect. You see, the old darkies are all right, but when he's forced toget new labour he has to get the new darkies and they're all wrong, and hethrashes them and they run away. They never take the law of him either. Ireckon when they get clear of Silas they don't stop running till they getto Galveston. " They talked of other things and then, breakfast over, Miss Pinckney turnedto Richard. "Well, what about that automobile?" "I'll have one at the door for you at ten, " said he. She turned to Phyl. "You'd better go with me--if you'd like to; you'd be lonely here all byyourself, and you may as well see Grangersons whilst the old man's there, though maybe he'll be gone before we arrive. We may be there for a coupleof days, so you'd better take enough things. " Then she went off to dress herself for the journey, and an hour later sheappeared veiled and apparelled, Dick following her with the luggage, abandbox and a bag of other days. She got into the big touring car without a word. Phyl followed her andPinckney tucked the rug round their knees. "You've got the most careful driver in Charleston, " said he, "and he knowsthe road. " Miss Pinckney nodded. She was flying straight in the face of her pet prejudice. She was not inthe least afraid of a break down or an overset. An accident that did notrob her of life or limb would indeed have been an opportunity for saying"I told you so. " She was chiefly afraid of running over things. As Pinckney was closing the door on them who should appear but Seth--Sethin a striped sleeved jacket, all grin and frizzled head and bearing abunch of flowers in his hand. He had not been dismissed after all. WhenMiss Pinckney had gone into the kitchen to pay him his wages he hadcarried on so that she forgave him. The flowers--her own flowers justpicked from the garden--were an offering, not to propitiate but toplease. Pinckney laughed, but Miss Pinckney as she took the bouquet scarcelynoticed either him or Seth, her mind was busy with something else. She leaned over towards the chauffeur. "Mind you don't run over any chickens, " said she. It was a gorgeous morning, with the sea mists blowing away on the seawind, swamp-land and river and bayou showing streets and ponds of sapphirethrough the vanishing haze. Phyl was in high spirits; the tune of Camptown Races, which a street boyhad been whistling as they started, pursued her. Miss Pinckney, dumbthrough the danger zone where chickens and dogs and nigger children mightbe run over, found her voice in the open country. The bunch of flowers presented to her by Seth and which she was holding onher lap started her off. "I hope it is not a warning, " said she; "wouldn't be a bit surprised tofind Seth Grangerson in his coffin waiting for the flowers to be put onhim; what put it in to the darkey's head to give me them! I don't know, I'm sure, same thing I suppose that put it into his head to give meimpudence. " "You've taken him back, " said Phyl. "Well, I suppose I have, " said the other in a resigned voice, "and likelyto pay for my foolishness. " Pinckney had said that it was only a two hours' run from Charleston toGrangerville, but he had reckoned without taking into consideration thebadness of some of the roads, and the intricacies of the way, for it wasafter one o'clock when they reached the little town beyond which, a mileto the West, lay the Colonel's house. Grangerville lies on the border of Clarendon county, a tiny place that yetsupports a newspaper of its own, the _Grangerville Courier_. The _Courier_office, the barber's shop and the hotel are the chief places inGrangerville, and yellow dogs and black children seem the bulk of thepopulation, at least of a warm afternoon, when drowsiness holds the placein her keeping, and the light lies broad and steadfast and golden upon thecotton fields, and the fields of Indian corn, and the foliage of the woodsthat spread to southward, enchanted woods, fading away into an enchantedworld of haze and sun and silence. When the great Southern moon rises above the cotton fields, Romancetouches even Grangerville itself, the baying of the yellow dog, darkeyvoices, the distant plunking of a banjo, the owl in the trees--all are thesame as of old--and the houses are the same, nearly, and the people, andit is hard to believe that over there to the North the locomotives of theAtlantic Coast railway are whistling down the night, that men are able totalk to one another at a distance of a thousand miles, fly like birds, live like fish, and perpetuate their shadows in the "movies. " Grangersons lay a mile beyond the little town, a solidly built mansion setfar back from the road, and approached by an avenue of cypress. As theydrew up before the pillared piazza, upon which the front door opened, fromthe doorway, wide open this warm day, appeared an old gentleman. A very fine looking old man he was. His face, with its predominant nose, long white moustache and firm cleft chin, was of that resolute andobstinate type which seems a legacy of the Roman Empire, whose legionariesleft much more behind them in Gaul and Britain than Trajan arches andRoman roads. He was dressed in light grey tweeds, his linen wasimmaculate--youthful and still a beau in point of dress, and bearinghimself erect with the aid of a walking stick, a crutch handled stick ofclouded malacca, Colonel Seth Grangerson, for he it was, had come to hisfront door, drawn by the sound of the one thing he detested more thananything in life, a motor car. "Why, Lord! He's not even in bed, " cried the outraged Miss Pinckney, whorecognised him at once. "All this journey and he up and about--it beatsSeth and his impudence!" The Colonel, whose age dimmed eyes saw nothing but the automobile, camedown the steps, panama hat in hand, courtly, freezing, yet ready toexplode on the least provocation. Within touch of the car he recognisedthe chief occupant. "Why, God bless my soul, " cried he, "it's Maria Pinckney. " "Yes, it's me, " said the lady, "and I expected to find you in bed orworse, and here you are up. Silas sent me a telegram. " "He's a fool, " cut in the old gentleman. "I had one of my old attacks lastnight, and I told him I'd be up and about in the morning--and I am. GoodGad! Maria, you're the last person in the world I'd ever have expected tosee in one of these outrageous things. " He had opened the door of the carand was presenting his arm to the lady. "You can shut the door, " said Miss Pinckney. "I'm not getting out. Thething's not more outrageous than your getting up like that right after anattack and dragging me a hundred miles from Charleston over hill anddale--I'm not getting out, I'm going right back--right back toCharleston. " The Colonel turned his head and called to a darkey that had appeared atthe front door. "Take the luggage in, " said he. Miss Pinckney got out of the car despiteherself, half laughing, half angry, and taking the gallantly proffered armfound herself being led up the steps of Grangersons, pausing half way upto introduce Phyl, whom she had completely forgotten till now. The Colonel, like his son Silas, as will presently be seen, had a directway with women; the Grangersons had pretty nearly always fallen in love atsight and run away with their wives. Colonel Seth's father had done this, meeting, marrying and fascinating the beautiful Maria Tredegar, andcarrying her off under his arm like a hypnotised fowl, and from under thenoses of half a dozen more eligible suitors, just as now, the Colonel wascarrying Maria Pinckney off into his house half against her will. Phylfollowing them, gazed round at the fine old oak panelled hall, from whichthey were led into the drawing room, a room not unlike the drawing room atVernons, but larger and giving a view of the garden where the oleandersand cherokee money and the crescent leaves of the blue gum trees weremoving in the wind. Colonel Seth, despite the war, had plenty of roses andGrangersons was kept up in the old style. Just as in Nuremberg andVittoria we see mediæval cities preserved, so to speak, under glass, so atGrangersons one found the old Plantation, house and all, miraculouslyintact, living, almost, one might say, breathing. The price of cotton did not matter much to the Colonel, nor the price ofhaulage. This son of the Southerner who had refused to be beaten by theNorth in the war, cared for nothing much beyond the ring of sky that madehis horizon. Twice a year he made a visit to Charleston, driving in hisown carriage, occasionally he visited Richmond or Durham, where he had aninterest in tobacco; New York he had never seen. He loathed railways andautomobiles, mainly, perhaps, because they were inventions of the North, that is to say the devil. He had a devilish hatred of the North. Not ofNortherners, but just of the North. The word North set his teeth on edge. It did not matter to him thatCharleston was picking up some prosperity in the way of phosphates, orthat Chattanooga was smelting ore into money, or that industrialprosperity was abroad in the land; he was old enough to have arecollection of old days, and from the North had come the chilly blastthat had blown away that age. A servant brought in cake and wine to stay the travellers till dinnertime, refreshment that Miss Pinckney positively refused at first. "You will stay the night, " said the Colonel, as he helped her, "and Sarahwill show you to your rooms when we have had a word together. " Miss Pinckney, sipping her wine, made no reply, then placing the scarcelytouched glass on the table and with her bonnet strings thrown back, sheturned to the Colonel. "Do you see the likeness?" said she. "What likeness?" asked the old gentleman. "Why, God bless my soul, the likeness to Juliet Mascarene. Phyl, turn yourface to the light. " The Colonel, searching in his waistcoat pocket, found a pair of foldingglasses and put them on. "She gets it from her mother's side, " said Miss Pinckney, "the Lord knowshow it is these things happen, but it's Juliet, isn't it?" The Colonel removed his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief, andreturned them to his pocket. "It is, " said he. Then in the fine old fashion he turned to the girl, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Phyl, " said Miss Pinckney, "would not you like to have a look at thegarden whilst we have a chat? Old people's talk isn't of much interest toyoung people. " "Old people, " cried the warrior. "There are no old people in this room. "He made for the door and opened it for Phyl, then he accompanied her intothe hall, where at the still open door he pointed the way to the garden. CHAPTER II Outside Phyl stood for a moment to breathe the warm scented air and lookaround her. To be treated like a child by any other person than Maria Pinckney wouldhave incensed her, all the same to be told to do a thing because it wasgood for her, or because it was a pleasant thing to do, in the teller'sopinion, was an almost certain way of making her do the exact opposite. The garden did not attract her, the place did. That cypress avenue with the sun upon it, that broad sweep of drive infront of the house, the distant peeps of country between trees and thelanguorous lazy atmosphere of the perfect day fascinated her mind. Shecame along the house front to the right, and found herself at the gate ofthe stable yard. The stable yard of Grangersons was an immense flagged quadrangle boundedon the right, counting from the point of entrance, by the kitchenpremises. There was stable room for forty horses, coach-house accommodation for adozen or more carriages. The car had been run into one of the coach-houses and the yard stoodempty, sunlit, silent, save for the voices of the pigeons wheeling in theair, or strutting on the roof of the great barn adjoining the stables. One of the stable doors was open and as Phyl crossed the yard a young manappeared at the open door, shaded his eyes and looked at her. Then he cameforward. It was Silas Grangerson, and Phyl thought he was the handsomestand most graceful person she had ever seen in her life. Silas was a shade over six feet in height, dark, straight, slim yetperfectly proportioned; his face was extraordinary, the most vivid thingone would meet in a year's journey, and with a daring, and at times, almost a mad look unforgettable when once glimpsed. Like the Colonel andlike his ancestors Silas had a direct way with women. "Hallo, " said he, with the sunny smile of old acquaintanceship, "wherehave _you_ sprung from?" Phyl was startled for a moment, then almost instantly she came in touchwith the vein and mood and mind of the other and laughed. "I came with Miss Pinckney, " said she. "You're not from Charleston?" "Yes, indeed I am. " "But where do you live in Charleston? I've never seen you and I knowevery--besides you don't look as if you belonged to Charleston--I don'tbelieve you've come from there. " "Then where do you think I've come from?" "I don't know, " said Silas laughing, "but it doesn't matter as long asyou're here, does it? 'Scuse my fooling, won't you--I wouldn't with astranger, but you don't seem a stranger somehow--though I don't know yourname. " "Phylice Berknowles, " said Phyl, glancing up at him and half wondering howit was that, despite his good looks, his manhood, and their totalunacquaintanceship, she felt as little constrained in his presence asthough he were a boy. "And my name is Silas Grangerson. Say, is Maria Pinckney in the house withfather?" "She is. " "Talking over old times, I s'pose?" said Silas. "Yes!" "I can hear them. It's always the same when they get together--and Isuppose you got sick of it and came out?" "No, they put me out--asked me wouldn't I like to look at the garden. " Already she had banded herself with him in mild opposition to the elders. "Great--Jerusalem. They're just like a pair of old horses wanting to beleft quiet and rub their nose-bags together. Look at the garden! I canhear them--come on and look at the horses. " He led the way to a loose box and opened the upper door. "That's Flying Fox, she's mine, the fastest trotter in the Carolinas--youknow anything about horses?" "Rather!" "I thought you did, somehow. Mind! she doesn't take to strangers. Mind!she bites like an alligator. " "Not me, " said Phyl, fondling the lovely but fleering-eyed head protrudingabove the lower door. "So she doesn't, " said Silas admiringly, "she's taken to you--well, Idon't blame her. Here's John Barleycorn, " opening another door, "ownbrother to the Fox, he's Pap's; he's a bolter, and kicks like a duck gun. She's got all her vice at one end of her and he at the other, match pair. "He whistled between his teeth as he put up the bars, then he shewed otherhorses, Phyl watching his every movement, and wondering what it was thatgave pleasure to her in watching. Silas moved, or seemed to move, absolutely without effort, and his slim brown hands touched everythingdelicately, as though they were touching fragile porcelain, yet those samehands could bend an iron bar, or rein in John Barleycorn even when the bitwas between the said J. B. 's teeth. "That's the horses, " said he, flinging open a coach-house door, "andthat's the shandrydan the governor still drives in when he goes toCharleston. Look at it. It was made in the forties, and you should see itwith a darkey on the box and Pap inside, and all his luggage behind, andhe going off to Charleston, and the nigger children running after it. " Phyl inspected the mustard-yellow vehicle. Then he closed the door on it, put up the bar, and, the business of showing things over, did a littledouble shuffle as though Phyl were not present, or as though she were aboy friend and not a strange young woman. "Say, do you like poetry?" said he, breaking off and seeming suddenly toremember her presence. "No, " said Phyl. "At least--" "Well, here's some. "'There was an old hen and she had a wooden leg, She went to the barn and she laid a wooden egg, She laid it right down by the barn--don't you think. '" "Well?" said she, laughing. "'It's just about time for another little drink--' some sense in poetrylike that, isn't there? But all the drinks are in the house and I don'twant to go in. I'm hiding from Pap. Last night when he was ratty withrheumatism, he let out at me, saying the young people weren't any good, saying Maria Pinckney was the only person he knew with sense in her head, called me a name because I poured him out a dose of liniment instead ofmedicine, by mistake--though he didn't swallow it--and wished Maria washere. So I just sent Jake, the page boy, off with a wire to her; didn'ttell any one, just sent it. Come on and look at the garden--you've got tolook at the garden, you know. " He led the way past the barn to a farmyard, where hens were clucking andscratching and scraping in the sunshine; the deep double bass grunting ofpigs came from the sties, by the low wall across which one could see thecountry stretching far away, the cotton fields, the woods, all hazed bythe warmth of the afternoon. "Let's sit down and look at the garden, " said he, pointing to a huge logby the near wall--"and aren't the convolvuluses beautiful?" "Beautiful, " said Phyl, falling into the vein of the other. "And listen tothe roses. " "They grunt like that because it's near dinner time--they're pretty muchlike humans. " He took a cigarette case from his pocket and a cigarettefrom the case. "You don't mind smoking, do you?" "Not a bit. " "Have one?" "I daren't. " "Maria Pinckney won't know. " "It's not her--I smoked one once and it made me sick. " "Well, try another--I won't look if you are. " "They'll--she'll smell it. " "Not she, you can eat some parsley, that takes the smell away. " "Oh, I don't mind telling her--it's only--well, there. " She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. "Blow it through your nose, " he commanded, "that's the way. Now let'spretend we're two old darkies sitting on a log, you push against me andI'll push against you, you're Jim and I'm Uncle Joseph. 'What yo' crowdingme for, Jim, '" he squeezed up gently against her, and Phyl jumped to herfeet. He glanced up at her, sideways, laughing, and for the life of her shecould not be angry. "Don't you think we'd better go and look at the garden?" said she. "In a minute, sit down again. I won't knock against you. It was only myfun. We'll pretend I'm Pap, and you're Maria Pinckney, if you like. You'velet your cigarette go out. " "So I have. " "You can light it from mine. " Phyl hesitated and was lost. It was the nearest thing to a kiss, and as she drew back with the lightedcigarette between her lips, she felt a not unpleasant sense of wickedness, such as the virtuous boy feels when led to adventure by the bad boy. Sitting on a log, smoking cigarettes, talking familiarly with a stranger, taking a light from him in such a fashion with her face so close to histhat his eyes-- They smoked in silence for a moment. Then Silas spoke: "Do you ever feel lonesome?" said he. "Awfully--sometimes. " "So do I. " Silence for a moment. Then: "I go off to Charleston when I feel like that--once in a fortnight orso--Where do you live in Charleston?" "I live with Miss Pinckney--I thought you knew. " "You didn't say that. You only said you came with her. " "Well, I live with her at Vernons. I'm Irish, y' know. My--my father diedin Charleston, and I came from Ireland to live with Miss Pinckney. Mr. Richard Pinckney is my guardian. " "Your which? Dick Pinckney your guardian! Why, he's not older than Iam--that fellow your guardian--why, he wears a flannel petticoat. " "He doesn't, " cried Phyl, flinging away the cigarette, which had becomenoxious, and roused to sudden anger by the slighting tone of the other. "What do you mean by saying such a thing?" "Oh, I only meant that he's too awfully proper for this life. He goes toCharleston races, but never backs a horse, scarcely, and one Mint Julepwould make him see two crows. He's a sort of distant relation of ours. " Phyl was silent. She resented his criticism of her friend, and just inthis moment the something mad and harum scarum in the character of Silasseemed shown up to her with electrical effect. Criticism is a mostdangerous thing to indulge in, unless anonymously in the pages of ajournal, for the right to criticise has to be made good in the mind of theaudience, unless the audience is hostile to the criticised. Then she said: "I don't know anything about Mint Juleps or race courses, but I do know that Mr. Pinckney has been--is--is my friend, and I'd rathernot talk about him, if you please. " "Now, you're huffed, " cried Silas exultingly, as though he had scored apoint at some game. "I'm not. " "You are--you've flushed. " Phyl turned pale, a deadly sign. "I'd never dream of getting out of temper with _you_, " said she. It was his turn to flush. You might have struck Silas Grangerson withoutupsetting his balance, but the slightest suspicion of a sneer raised allthe devil in him. Had Phyl been a man he would have knocked him off thelog. He cast the stump of his cigarette on the ground and pounded it withhis heel. Had there been anything breakable within reach he would havebroken it. Her anger with him vanished and she laughed. "You've flushed now, " said she. CHAPTER III When they came round to the front of the house they found ColonelGrangerson and Miss Pinckney coming down the steps. They were going to the garden in search of Phyl. "We've been looking at the horses, " said Silas, after he had greeted MissPinckney. "No, sir, I did not leave any of the doors open, but I've beenlooking for Sam with a blacksnake whip to liven him up. He left the greywithout grooming after she was brought in this morning, and I was rubbingher down myself when this lady came into the yard. " "I'll skin that nigger, " cried the Colonel. "I reckon I'll save you that trouble, sir, " replied the son, as theyturned garden-wards. Silas had little use for "r's" and said "suh" for "sir" and "wah" for"war. " He was also quite a different person in the presence of his fatherfrom what he was when alone or in the presence of strangers. In the presence of his father, past generations spoke in his every wordand action, he became sedate, deferential, leisurely. It was not fear ofthe elder man that caused this change, it was reflection from him. The shadows were long in the garden, and away across the pastures, glimpsed beyond the cypress hedge and bordering the cotton fields, thepond-shadows cast by the live oaks at noon had become river shadows, flowing eastward; the murmur of bees filled the air like a haze of sound, and here and there as they passed a bush coloured flowers detachedthemselves and became butterflies. They sat down on a great old stone bench lichened and sun warmed to enjoythe view, and the Colonel talked of tobacco and politics and cotton, including them all in his conversation in the grand patriarchal manner. Phyl understanding little, and half drowsed by the warmth and the buzzingof the bees and the voice of the speaker, had given herself up to thatlazy condition of mind which is the next best thing to sleep, when she wassuddenly aroused. She was seated between Miss Pinckney and Silas. Silashad pinched her little finger. She snatched her hand away, and turned towards him. He was looking awayover the pastures; his profile showed nothing but its absolutecorrectness. Miss Pinckney had noticed nothing, and the Colonel, who hadfinished with cotton, looking at his watch, declared that it was close ondinner time. After supper that night, Phyl found herself in the garden. Silas had notappeared at supper; the Colonel had brought down a book of oldphotographs, photographs of people and places dead or changed, and he andMiss Pinckney became so absorbed in them that they had little thought forthe girl. She went out to look at the moon, and it was worth looking at, rising likea honey coloured shield above the belt of the eastern woods. The whole world was filled with the moonlight, warm tinted, and ghostly asthe light of vanished days, white moths were flitting above the bushes, and on the almost windless air the voice of an owl came across the cottonfields. Phyl reached the seat where they had all sat that afternoon. It was stillwarm from the all-day sunshine, and she sat down to rest and listen. The owl had ceased crying, and through the league wide silence faintsounds far and near told of the life moving and thrilling beneath thenight; the boom of a beetle, voices from the distant road, and now andthen a whisper of wind rising and dying out across the garden and thetrees. A faint sound came from behind the seat, and before Phyl could turn twowarm hands covered her eyes. She plucked them away and stood up. "I _wish_ you wouldn't do things like that, " she cried. "How _dare_ you?" "I couldn't help it, " replied the other, "you looked so comfortable. Ididn't mean to startle you. I thought you must have heard me coming acrossthe grass. " "I didn't--and you shouldn't have done it. " "Well, I'm sorry. There, I've apologised, make friends. " "There is nothing to make friends about, " she replied stiffly. "No, Idon't want to shake hands--I'm not angry, let us go into the house. " "Don't, " said Silas imploringly. "He and she are sitting over that oldalbum, comparing notes. I saw them through the window, that's why I cameto look for you in the garden. Do you know, I believe the Governor wasgone once on Maria, years ago, but they never got married. He married mymother instead. " Phyl forgot her resentment. The faint idea that Colonel Grangerson and Maria Pinckney had perhaps beenmore than friends in long gone days, had strayed across her mind, to bedismissed as a fancy. It interested her to find Silas confirming it. "Of course, I can't say for certain, " he went on, lighting a cigarette. "Ionly judge by the way they go on when they're together, and the way hetalks of her. Say, do you ever want to grow old?" "No, I don't--ever. " "Neither do I. I hope I'll be kicked to death by a horse, or drowned orshot before I'm forty. I don't want to die in any beds with doctors roundme. I reckon if I'm ever like that I'll drink the liniment instead of themedicine--same as I nearly drenched Pap--and go to heaven with a red labelfor my ticket. Sit down for a while and let's talk. " "No, I don't care to sit down. " "I won't touch you. I promise. " Phyl hesitated a moment and then sat down. She was not afraid of Silas inthe least, but his tricks of an overgrown boy did not please her; itseemed to her sometimes as though his irresponsibility was less aninheritance from youth, than from some ancestor ill-balanced to the pointof craziness. If any other man of his age had acted and spoken to her ashe had done she would have smacked his face, but Silas was Silas, and hisgood looks and seeming innocence, and something really charming that layaway at the back of his character and gave colour to this personality, managed, somehow, to condone his queerness of conduct. All the same she sat a foot away from him on the seat, and kept her handsfolded on her lap. Silas sat for a while smoking in silence, then he spoke. "Where's this you said you came from?" "Ireland. " "You don't talk like a Paddy a bit. " "Don't I?" "Not a bit, nor look like one. " "Have you seen many Irish people?" "No, mostly in pictures--comic papers, you know, like _Puck_. " "I think it's a shame, " broke out Phyl. "People are always making fun ofthe Irish, drawing them like monkeys with great upper lips--but it's onlyignorant people who never travel who think of them like that. " "That's so, I expect, " replied Silas, either unconscious of the dig athimself or undesirous of a quarrel, "and the next few dollars I have tospare I'll go to Ireland. I'm crazy now to see it. " "What's made you crazy to see it?" "Because it's the place you come from. " Phyl sniffed. "I hate compliments. " "I wasn't complimenting you, I was complimenting Ireland, " said Silassweetly. She was silent, a white moth passing close to her held her gazefor a moment, then it flitted away across the bushes. "Let's forget Ireland for a moment, " said she, "and talk of Charleston. Doyou know many people there?" "I know most every one. The Pinckneys and Calhouns and Tredegars andRevenalls and--" "Rhetts. " "Yes--but there are a dozen Rhetts; same as there's half a hundredPinckneys and Calhouns, families, I mean. What's his name--RichardPinckney, your guardian, is engaged to a Rhett. " "He is not. " "He is--Venetia Frances, the one that lives in Legare Street. Why, I'veseen them canoodling often, and every one says they are engaged. " "Well, he's not, or Miss Pinckney would have told me. " "Oh, she's blind. I tell you he is, and she'll be your guardian when he'smarried her. " "That she won't, " said Phyl. "How'll you help it? A man and wife are one. " "He's only guardian of my property. " "Well, Heaven help your property when she gets a finger in the pie; she'llspend it on hats--sure. " This outrageous statement, uttered with a laugh, left Phyl cold. Thestatement about Frances Rhett had disturbed her, she could not tellexactly why, for it was none of her business whom Pinckney might choose tomarry--still--Frances Rhett! It was almost as though an antagonism hadexisted between them since that afternoon when she had seen Frances first, driving in the car with Richard Pinckney. She rose to her feet and Silas rose also, throwing away the end of hiscigarette. "Going into the house?" said he. "Yes!" "Well, you'll be off to-morrow morning, and I won't see you, for I have tobe out early, but I'll see you in Charleston, though not at Vernons maybe, for I'm not in love with Richard Pinckney, and I don't care much forvisiting his house. But I'll see you somewhere, sure. " "Good-bye, " said she holding out her hand. He took it, held it, and then, all of a sudden, she found herself in his arms. Helpless as a child, in his arms and smothered with kisses. He kissed heron the mouth, on the forehead, on the chin, and with a last kiss on themouth that made her feel as though her life were going from her, hevanished. Vanished amidst the bushes whilst she stood, tottering, dazed, breathless, outraged, yet--in some extraordinary way not angry. Pulledbetween tears and laughter, resentment, and a strange new feeling suddenlyborn in her from his burning lips, and the strength that had held her fora moment to itself. In one moment, and as though with the stroke of a sword, Silas had cutdown the barrier that had divided her from the reality of things. He hadkissed away her childhood. Then throwing out her hands as though pushing away some presence that wassurrounding her, she ran to the house. In the hall she sat down for amoment to recover herself before going into the drawing room, where MissPinckney and the Colonel were closing the book which held for them thepeople and the places they had known in youth, and between its leaves whoknows what old remembrances, like the withered flower that has once formedpart of a summer's day. CHAPTER IV They started at ten o'clock next morning for Charleston, the Colonelstanding on the house steps and waving his hand to them as they drove off. Silas was nowhere to be seen, he had gone out before breakfast, so thebutler said, and had not returned. Miss Pinckney resented this casualtreatment. "He ought to have been here to bid us good-bye, " said she, as they clearedthe avenue. "He's got the name for being a mad creature, but even madcreatures may show common courtesy. I'm sure I don't know where he getshis manners from unless it's his mother's lot, same place as he got hisgood looks. " "Why do you say he's mad?" asked Phyl. "Because he is. Not exactly mad, maybe, but eccentric, he swum Charlestonharbour with his clothes on because some one dared him, and was nearlydrowned with the tide coming in or going out, I forget which; and anotherday he got on the engine at Charleston station and started the train, drove it too, till they managed to climb over the top of the carriages orsomething and stop him--at least that's the story. He'll come to a badend, that boy, unless he mends his ways. Lots of people say he's got goodin him. So he has, perhaps, but it's just that sort that come to the worstend, unless the good manages to fight the bad and get it under in time. " Phyl said nothing. Her mind was disturbed. She had slept scarcely at allduring the night, and her feelings towards Silas Grangerson, now that shewas beyond his reach, were alternating in the strangest way betweenattraction and repulsion. They would have repelled the thought of him entirely but for theinstinctive recognition of the fact that his conduct had been the resultof impulse, the impulse of a child, ill governed, and accustomed to seizewhat it wanted. Added to that was the fact of his entire naturalness. Fromthe moment of their first meeting he had talked to her as though they wereold acquaintances. Unless when talking to his father, everything in hismanner, tone, conversation was free, unfettered by convention, fresh, ifat times startling. This was his great charm, and at the same time hisgreat defect, for it revealed his want of qualities no less than hisqualities. Do what she could she was unable to escape from the incident of lastnight, it was as though those strong arms had not quite released theirhold upon her, as though Pan had broken from the bushes, shown her by hismagic things she had never dreamed of, and vanished. It was nearly two o'clock when they reached Vernons. Richard Pinckney wasat home, and at the sight of him Phyl's heart went out towards him. Clean, well groomed, honest, kindly, he was like a breath of fresh sea air afterbreathing tropical swamp atmosphere. Strange to say Miss Pinckney seemed to feel somewhat the same. "Yes, we're back, " said she, as they passed into the dining-room wheresome refreshments were awaiting them, "and glad I am to be back. Vernonssmells good after Grangersons. Oh, dear me, what is it that clings to thatplace? It's like opening an old trunk that's been shut for years. I toldSeth Grangerson, right out flat, he ought to get away from there into theworld somewhere, but there he sits clinging to his rheumatism and thepast. I declare I nearly cried last night as he was showing me all thoseold pictures. " "He's not very ill then, " said Richard. "Ill! Not he. It was that fool Silas sent the telegram. Just an attack ofrheumatism. " She went upstairs to change and the two young people went into the garden, where Richard Pinckney was having some alterations done. On the day Phyl's hair went up it seemed to Richard that a new person hadcome to live with them. Phyl had suddenly turned into a young woman--andsuch a young woman! He had never considered her looks before, to young menof his age and temperament girls in pigtails are, as far as the manhood inthem is concerned, little more and sometimes less than things. But Phylwith her hair up was not to be denied, and had he not been philanderingafter Frances Rhett, and had Phyl been a total stranger suddenly seen, itis quite possible that a far warmer feeling than admiration might havebeen the result. As it was she formed a new interest in life. He showed her the alterations he was making, slight enough and causinglittle change in the general plan of the garden. "I scarcely like doing anything, " said he, "but that new walk will be noend of an improvement, and it will save that bit of grass which is beingtrodden to death by people crossing it, then there's all those bushes bythe gate, they're going, those behind the tree, --a little space there willmake all the difference in the world. " "Behind the magnolia?" "Yes. " "I wish you wouldn't, " said Phyl. "Why?" "Because they have been there always and--well, look!" She led the way behind the tree, pushed the bushes aside and disclosed theseat. She no longer felt that she was betraying a secret. Her experience atGrangersons had in some way made Vernons seem to her now really her home, and Richard Pinckney closer to her in relationship. "Why, how did you know that was there?" said Richard. "I've never seenit. " "Juliet Mascarene used to sit there with--with some one she was in lovewith. I found some of her old letters and they told about it--see, it's alittle arbour, used to be, though it's all so overgrown now. " "Juliet, " said he. "That was the girl who died. I have heard Aunt Mariatalk about her and she keeps her room just as it used to be. Who was thesomebody?" "It was a Mr. Rupert Pinckney. " "I knew there was a love story of some sort connected with her, but Inever worried about the details. So they used to come and sit here. " "Yes, he'd come to the gate at night and she'd meet him. Her people didnot want her to marry him and so they had to meet in secret. " "That was a long time ago. " "Before you were born, " said Phyl. He looked at her. "Aunt is always saying how like you are to her, " said he, "but she's madon family likenesses, and I never thought of it. It may be a want in mebut I've never taken much interest in dead relatives; but somehow, findingthis little place tucked away here gives one a jog. It's like finding anest in a tree. How long have you known of it?" "Oh, some time. I found a bundle of her old letters--" she paused. RichardPinckney had taken his place on the little seat, just as one sits down inan armchair to see if it is comfortable, and was leaning back amidst thebush branches. "This is all right, " said he, "sit down, there's lots of room--you foundher letter, tell us all about it. " Phyl sat down and told the little story. It seemed to interest him. "The Pinckneys lost money, " said he, "and that's why the old Mascarenebirds were set against her marrying him, I suppose. Makes one wild thatsort of thing. What right have people to interfere?" "Money seems everything in this world, " said Phyl. "It's not--it seems to be, but it's not. Money can't buy happiness afterone is grown up. You remember I told you that over in Ireland; when candyand fishing rods mean happiness money is all right--after that money isuseful enough, but it's the making of it and not the spending it thatcounts, --that and a lot of things that have nothing to do with money. Ifthe Mascarenes hadn't been fools they'd have seen that a poor man withkick in him--and the Pinckneys always had that--was as good as a rich man, and those two might have got married. " "No, " said Phyl, "they never could have got married, he had to die. He waskilled, you know, at the beginning of the war. " "You're a fatalist. " "Well, things happen. " "Yes, but you can stop them happening very often. " "How?" "Just by willing it. " "Yes, " said Phyl meditatively, "but how are you to use your will againstwhat comes unexpectedly. Now that telegram yesterday morning took me toGrangersons with Miss Pinckney. Suppose--suppose I had broken my leg or, say, fallen into a well there and got drowned--that would have beenFate. " "No, " said Pinckney, "carelessness, the telegram would not have drownedyou, but your carelessness in going too close to the well. " "Suppose, " said Phyl, "instead of that, Mr. Silas Grangerson had shot meby accident with a gun--the telegram would have brought me to that withoutany carelessness of mine. " "No, it couldn't, " said Pinckney lightly, "it would still have been yourown fault for going near such a hare-brained scamp. Oh, I'm only joking, what I really mean is that nine times out of ten the thing people callFate is nothing more than want of foresight. " "And the tenth time it is Fate, " said Phyl rising. CHAPTER V Next morning brought Phyl a letter. It came by the early post, so that shegot it in her bedroom before coming down. Phyl had few correspondents and she looked at the envelope curiouslybefore opening it. "Miss Berknowles, at Vernons. Charleston. " ran the address written in a large, boyish, yet individual hand. She knewat once and by instinct whom it was from. "I'm coming to Charleston in a day or two, and I want to see you, " ran theletter which had neither address nor date, "but I'm not coming toPinckneys. I'll be about town and sure to find you somewhere. I can't getyou out of my mind since last night. Tried to, but can't. " That was all. Phyl put the letter back in its envelope. She was not angry, she was disturbed. There was an assurance about Silas Grangerson dauntingin its simplicity and directness. Something that raised opposition to himin her heart, yet paralysed it. Instinct told her to avoid him, to drivehim from her mind, ay and something more than instinct. The spirit ofVernons, the calm sweet soul of the place, that seemed to hold the pastand the present, Juliet and herself, peace and happiness with the promiseof all good things in the future, this spirit rose up against SilasGrangerson as though he were the antagonist to happiness and peace, Julietand herself, the present and the past. Rose up, without prevailing entirely. Silas had impressed himself upon her mind in such a manner that she couldnot free herself from the impression. Young as she was, with the terriblyclear perception of the male character which all women possess indifferent degrees, she recognised that Silas was dangerous to that logicaland equitable state of existence we call happiness, not on account of hiswildness or his eccentricities, but because of some want inherent in hisnature, something that spoke vaguely in his words and his actions, in hishandsome face and in his careless and graceful manner. All the same she could not free herself from the impression he had madeupon her, she could not drive him from her mind, he had in some wayparalysed her volition, called forces to his aid from some unknown part ofher nature, perhaps with those kisses which she still felt upon the veryface of her soul. She came down to breakfast, and afterwards finding herself alone with MissPinckney, she took Silas's letter from her pocket and handed it to her. She had been debating in her own mind all breakfast time as to whether sheought to show the letter; the struggle had been between her instinct to dothe right thing, and a powerful antagonism to this instinct which was anew thing in her. The latter won. And then, lo and behold, when she found herself alone with Miss Pinckneyin the sunlit breakfast room, almost against her will and just as thoughher hand had moved of its own volition, she put it in her pocket andproduced the letter. Miss Pinckney read it. "Well, of all the crazy creatures!" said she. "Why, he has only met youonce. He's mad! No, he isn't--he's a Grangerson. I know them. " She stopped short and re-read the letter, turned it about and then laid itdown. "Just as if he'd known you for years. And you scarcely spoke to him. Didhe _say_ anything to you as if he cared for you?" "No, he didn't, " said Phyl quite truthfully. "Did he look at you as if he cared for you?" "No, " replied the other, dreading another question. But Miss Pinckney didnot put it. She could not conceive a man kissing a girl who had neverbetrayed his feelings for her by word or glance. "Well, it gets me. It does indeed; acting like a dumb creature and thenwriting this-- Do you care for _him_?" "I--I--no--you see, I don't know him--much. " "Well, he seems to know you pretty well, there's no doubt about one thing, Silas Grangerson can make up his mind pretty quick. He won't come toVernons, won't he? Well, maybe it's better for him not, for I've nopatience with oddities. That's what's wrong with him, he's an oddity, andit's those sort of people make the trouble in life--they're worse thanwhisky and cards for bringing unhappiness. Years and years and yearsago--I'm telling you this though I've never told it to any one else--SethGrangerson, Silas's father, seemed to care for me, not much, still heseemed to care. Then one day all at once he came into the room where Iwas, through the window, and told me to come off and get married to him, wanted me to go away right off. I was a fool in those days, but not all afool, and when he tried to put his arm round my waist, my hand went up andsmacked his face. "We are good enough friends now, but I've often thought of what I escapedby not marrying him. You saw him and the life he's leading at that out ofthe way place, but you didn't see his obstinacy and his queerness, andSilas is ten times worse, more crazy--well, there, you're warned--but mindyou I don't want to be meddling. I've seen so many carefully preparedmarriages turn out pure miseries, and so many crazy matches turn outhappily, that I'm more than cautious in giving advice. Seems to me thatpeople before they are married are quite different creatures to what theyturn out after they are married. " "But I don't want to get married, " said Phyl. "No, but, seems to me, Silas does, " replied the other. CHAPTER VI One bright morning three days later, as Phyl was crossing Meeting Streetnear the Charleston Hotel, whom should she meet but Silas. Silas in town get up, quite a different looking individual from the Silasof Grangersons, dressed in perfectly fitting light grey tweed, a figurealmost condoning one for the use of that old-time, half-discredited word"Elegant. " "There you are, " said Silas, his face lighting up. "I thought it wouldn'tbe long before I met you. Meeting Street is like a rabbit run, and Ireckon the whole of Charleston passes through it twice a day. " His manner was genuinely frank and open, and he seemed to have completelyforgotten the incident of the kissing. Phyl said nothing for a moment; shefelt put out, angry at having been caught like a rabbit, and not overpleased at being compared to one. Then she spoke freezingly enough: "I don't know much about the habits of Charleston; you will not find _me_here every day. I have only been out twice here alone and--I'm in ahurry. " "Why, what's the matter with you?" cried Silas in a voice ofastonishment. "Nothing. " "But there is, you're not angry with me, are you?" "Not in the least, " replied the other, quite determined to avoid beingdrawn into explanations. "Well, that's all right. You don't mind my walking with you a bit?" "No!" "I only came here last night, and I'm putting up at the Charleston, " saidSilas. "Of course there are a lot of friends I could stay with but Ialways prefer being free; one is never quite free in another person'shouse; for one thing you can't order the servants about, though, upon myword, now-a-days one can't do that, much, anywhere. " "I suppose not, " said Phyl. The fact was being borne in upon her that Silas in town was a differentperson from Silas in the country, or seemed so; more sedate and moreconventional. She also noticed as they walked along that he was saluted bya great many people, and also, before she had done with him that morning, she noticed that the leery, impudent looking, coloured folk seemed to comeunder a blight as they passed him, giving him the wall and yards to spare. It was as though the impersonification of the blacksnake whip were walkingwith her as well as a most notoriously dangerous man, a man who wouldstrike another down, white or coloured, for a glance, not to say a word. She had come out on business, commissioned by Miss Pinckney to purchase aball of magenta Berlin wool. Miss Pinckney still knitted antimacassars, and the construction of antimacassars is impossible without Berlinwool--that obsolete form of German Frightfulness. She bestowed the things on poor folk to brighten their homes. When Phyl went into the store to buy the wool Silas waited outside, andwhen she came out they walked down the street together. She had intended returning straight home after making her purchase butthey were walking now not towards Vernons but towards the Battery. "What do you do with yourself all day?" asked Silas, suddenly breakingsilence. "Oh, I don't know, " she replied, "nothing much--we go out for drives. " "In that old basket carriage thing?" "With Miss Pinckney. " "I know, I've seen her often--what else do you do?" "Oh, I read. " "What do you read?" "Books. " "Doesn't Pinckney ever take you out?" "No, I don't go out much with Mr. Pinckney; you see, he's generally sobusy. " Silas sniffed. They had reached the Battery and were standing looking overthe blue water of the harbour. The day was perfect, dreamy, heavenly, warmand filled with sea scents and harbour sounds; scarcely a breath of windstirred across the water where a three-master was being towed to hermoorings by a tug. "She's coming up to the wharves, " said Silas. "They steer by the spire ofSt. Philips, the line between there and Fort Sumpter is all deep water. How'd you like to be a sailor?" "Wouldn't mind, " said Phyl. "How'd you like to take a boat--I mean a decent sized fishing yawl and gooff round the world, or even down Florida way? Florida's fine, you don'tknow Florida, it's got two coasts and it's hard to tell which is the best. From Indian River right round and up to Cedar Keys there's all sorts offishing, and you can camp out on the reefs; one cooks one's own food andyou can swim all day. There's tarpon and barracuda and sword fish, andnights when there's a moon you could see to read a book. " "How jolly!" "Let's go there?" "How do you mean?" "Oh, just you and I. I'm fed up with everything. We could have a boatmanto help sail and steer. " He spoke lightly and laughingly, and without much enthusiasm and as thoughhe were talking to some one of his own sex, and Phyl, not knowing how totake him, said nothing. He went on, his tone growing warmer. "I'm not joking, I'm dead sick of Grangersons and Charleston, and I reckonyou are too--aren't you?" "No. " "You may think so, but you are, all the same, without knowing it. " "I think you are talking nonsense, " said Phyl hurriedly, fighting againsta deadly sort of paralysis of mind such as one may suppose comes upon themind of a bird under the spell of a serpent. "No one could be kinder than Miss Pinckney, and so no one could be happierthan I am. I love Vernons. " "All the same, " said Silas, "you are not really alive there. It's the lifeof a cabbage, must be, there's only you and Maria and--Pinckney. Maria isa decent old sort but she's only a woman, and as for Pinckney--he doesn'tcare for you. " This statement suddenly brought Phyl to herself. It went through her likea knife. She had ceased to think of Richard Pinckney in any way but as afriend. At one time, during the first couple of days at Vernons, her hearthad moved mysteriously towards him; the way he had connected himselfthrough Prue's message with the love story of Juliet had drawn her towardshim, but that spell had snapped; she was conscious only of friendlinesstowards Richard Pinckney. Why, then, this sudden pain caused by Silas'swords? "How do you know?" she flashed out. "What right have you to dare--" Shestopped. The blaze of her anger seemed to Silas evidence that she cared forPinckney. "You're in love with him, " said he, flying out. The bald and brutalstatement took Phyl's breath from her. She turned on him, saw the anger inhis face, and then--turned away. His state of mind condoned his words. To a woman a blow received from thepassion she has roused is a rude sort of compliment, unlike othercompliments it is absolutely honest. "I am in love with no one, " said she; "you have no right to say suchthings--no right at all--they are insulting. " A gull, white as snow, came flitting by and wheeled out away over theharbour; as her eyes followed it he stood looking at her, his anger gone, but his mind only half convinced by her feeble words. "I didn't mean to insult you, " he said; "don't let us quarrel. When I'm ina temper I don't know what I say or do--that's the truth. I want to haveyou all for myself, have ever since the first moment I saw you over thereat Grangersons. " "Don't, " said Phyl. "I can't listen to you if you talk like that--Pleasedon't. " "Very well, " said Silas. The quick change that was one of his characteristics showed itself in hisaltered voice. His was a mind that seemed always in ambush, darting out onpredatory expeditions and then vanishing back into obscurity. They turned away from the sea front and began to retrace their steps, silently at first, and then little by little falling into ordinaryconversation again as though nothing had happened. Silas knew every corner of Charleston, and the history of every corner, and when he chose he could make his knowledge interesting. In this mood hewas a pleasant companion, and Phyl, her recent experience almostforgotten, let herself be led and instructed, not knowing that thisarmistice was the equivalent of a defeat. She had already drawn much closer to him in mind, this companionship andquiet conversation was a more sure and deadly thing than any kisses orwild words. It would linger in her mind warm and quietly. Put in a woman'smind a pleasant recollection of yourself and you have established a forcewhose activity may seem small, but is in reality great, because of itspermanency. They did not take a direct line in the direction of Vernons, and sopresently found themselves in front of St. Michael's. The gate of thecemetery was open and they wandered in. The place was deserted, save by the birds, and the air perfumed by allmanner of Southern growing things. Sun, shadow, silence, and that strangepeace which hangs over the homes of the dead, all were here, ringed in bythe old walls and the faint murmur of the living city beyond. They walked along the paths, looking at the tombstones, and pausing toread the inscriptions, Phyl gradually entering into that state of mindwherein reality and material things fall out of perspective. The fragrantelusive poetry of death, which can speak in the songs of birds and thescent of flowers in the sunshine and the shade of trees more clearly thanin the voice of man, was speaking to her now. All these people here lying, all these names here inscribed, all thesewere the representatives of days once bright and now forgotten, love oncesweet and now unknown. Then, as though something had led or betrayed her to the place, she pausedwhere the graves lay half shadowed by a magnolia, she read the nearestinscription with a little catch of her breath. Then the further one. Theywere the graves of Juliet Mascarene and Rupert Pinckney, the dead loverswho had passed from the world almost together, whose bodies lay side byside in the cold bed of earth. In a moment the spell of the little arbour was around her again, in amoment the pregnant first impression of Vernons had re-seized her, freshas though the commonplace touch of everyday life had never spoiled it. It was as though the spirit of Juliet and the spirit of the old house weresaying to her "Have you forgotten us?" Tears welled to her eyes. Silas standing beside her was saying something, she did not know what. She scarcely heard him. Misinterpreting her silence, unconscious as an animal of her state of mindand the direction of her thoughts, the man at her side moved towards herslightly, seemed to hesitate, and then, suddenly clasping her by the waistkissed her upon the side of the neck. Phyl straightened like a bow when the string is released. Then she struckhim, struck him open handed in the face, so that the sound of the blowmight have been heard beyond the wall. His face blanched so that the mark on it showed up, he took a step back. For a moment Phyl thought he was going to spring upon her. Then hemastered himself, but if murder ever showed itself upon the countenance ofman it showed itself in that half second on the countenance of SilasGrangerson. "You'll be sorry for that, " said he. "Don't speak to me, " said Phyl. "You are horrible--bad--wicked--I willtell Richard Pinckney. " "Do, " said Silas. "Tell him also I'll be even with him yet. You're in lovewith him, that's what's the matter with you--well, wait. " He turned on his heel and walked off. He did not look back once. As hevanished from sight Phyl clasped her hands together. It was as though she had suddenly been shown the real Silas--or rather thesomething light and evil and dangerous, the something inscrutable andallied to insanity that inhabited his mind. She was not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Richard Pinckney. Shefelt that she had been the unconscious means of releasing against him anevil force. A force that might injure or destroy him. CHAPTER VII She came out of the cemetery. There was no sign of Silas in the street noron the front of the church. Phyl had a full measure of the Celtic power to meet trouble halfway, toimagine disaster. As she hurried home she saw all manner of trouble, things happening to Richard Pinckney, and all brought about throughherself. Amidst all these fancies she saw one fact: He must be warned. She found Miss Pinckney in the linen room. The linen room at Vernons was atreasure house beyond a man's description, perhaps even beyond his trueappreciation. There in the cupboards with their thin old fashioned ringhandles and on the shelves of red cedar reposed damask and double damaskof the time when men paid for their purchases in guineas, miraculouspreservations. Just as the life of a china vase is a perpetual escape fromthe stupidity of servant maids and the heaviness of clumsy fingers, so thelife of these cream white oblongs, in which certain lights brought forthmiraculous representations of flowers, festoons and birds, was a perpetualpreservation from the moth, from damp, from dryness, from the dust thatcorrupts. A house like Vernons exists not by virtue of its brick and mortar; to keepit really alive it must be preserved in all its parts, not only from dampand decay, but from innovation; one can fancy a gas cooker sending aperpetual shudder through it, a telephone destroying who knows whatfragrant old influences; the store cupboards and still room are part ofits bowels, its napery, bed sheets, and hangings part of its dress. Theman knew what he was doing who left Miss Pinckney a life interest inVernons, it was that interest that kept Vernons alive. She was exercising it on the critical examination of some sheets when Phylcame into the room, now, with the wool she had purchased and the tale shehad to tell. Miss Pinckney carefully put the sheet she was examining on one side, opened the parcel and looked at the wool. "I met Silas Grangerson, " said Phyl as the other was examining thepurchase with head turned on one side, holding it now in this light, nowin that. "Silas Grangerson! Why, where on earth has he sprung from?" asked MissPinckney in a voice of surprise. "I don't know, but I met him in the street and we walked as far as theBattery and--and--" She hesitated for a moment, then it all came out. To no one but MariaPinckney could she have told that story. "Well, of all the astounding creatures, " said Miss Pinckney at last. "Didhe ask you to marry him?" "No. " "Just to run away with him--kissed you. " "He kissed me at Grangersons. " "At Grangersons. When?" "That night. I went into the garden and he came out from amongst somebushes. " "Umph-- It's the family disease-- Well, if I get my fingers in his hair Ipromise to cure him. He wants curing. He'll just apologise, and thatbefore he's an hour older. Where's he staying?" "No, no, " said Phyl, "you mustn't ever say I told you. I don't mind. Iwould have said nothing only for Mr. Pinckney. " "You mean Richard?" "Yes. " "What has he to do with it?" Phyl did not hesitate nor turn her head away, though her cheeks wereburning. "Silas Grangerson thinks I care for Mr. Pinckney, he said he would be evenwith him. I know he intends doing him some injury. I feel it--and I wantyou to warn him to be careful--without telling him, of course, what I havesaid. " Miss Pinckney was silent for a moment. She had already matched Phyl andRichard in her mind. She had come to a very full understanding of hercharacter, and she would have given all the linen at Vernons for thecertainty that those two cared for one another. Frances Rhett rode her like an obsession. Life and nature had given MariaPinckney an acquired and instinctive knowledge of character, and in theunion of Richard and Frances Rhett she divined unhappiness, just as aclever seaman divines the unseen ice-berg in the ship's track. She smeltit. "Phyl, " said she, "do you care for Richard?" The question quickly put and by those lips caused no confusion in thegirl's mind. "No, " said she. "At least-- Oh, I don't know how to explain it--I care foreverything here, for Vernons and everything in it, it is all like a storythat I love--Juliet and Vernons and the past and the present. He's part ofit too. I want to have it always just as it is. I didn't tell you, butwhen that happened in the cemetery, I was looking at her grave; you nevertold me it was there with his. I came on it by accident and she wasseeming to speak to me out of it. I was thinking of her and him, when--that happened. It was just as though some one had struck _her_ andhim. I can't explain exactly. " "Strange, " said Miss Pinckney. She turned and began to put away with a thoughtful air the linen she hadbeen examining. Then she said: "I'll tell Richard and warn him to keep away from that fool, not thatthere is any danger--but it is just as well to warn him. " Phyl helped to put away the linen and then she went upstairs to her room. She felt easier in her mind and taking her seat on a cane couch by thewindow she fell into a book. The History of the Civil War. This bookwormhad always one sure refuge in trouble--books. Books! Have we ever properly recognised the mystery and magic that lies inthat word, the magic that allows a man to lead ever so many other livesthan his own, to be other people, to travel where he has never been, tolaugh with folk he has never seen, to know their sorrows as he can neverknow the sorrows of "real people"--and their joys. Phyl had been Robinson Crusoe and Jane Eyre, Monte Cristo and Jo. History which is so horribly unreal because it deals with real people hadnever appealed to her, but the history of the Civil War was different fromothers. It had to do with Vernons. CHAPTER VIII After luncheon that day Phyl, having nothing better to do, went up to herroom and resumed her book. Richard Pinckney had not come in to luncheon, he rarely returned home forthe meal, yet all the same, his absence made her uneasy. Suppose SilasGrangerson had met him--suppose they had fought? She called torecollection Silas's face just after she had struck him, the insanemalevolence in it, the ugliness that had suddenly destroyed his goodlooks. Silas was capable of anything, he would never forgive that blow andhe would try to return it, of that she felt certain. He could not avengehimself on her but he could on Richard. He imagined that she cared forRichard Pinckney. Did she? The question came to her again in MissPinckney's voice--she did not even try to answer it. As though itirritated her, she tossed the book she was holding in her hand to thefloor and lay with her eyes fixed on the lace window curtains that weremoving slightly to the almost imperceptible stirring of the air fromoutside. Beyond the curtains lay the golden afternoon. Sometimes a bird shadow, theloveliest thing in shadow-land, would cross the curtains, sometimes a noteof song or the sound of a bird's flight from tree to tree would tell thatthere was a garden down below. The street beyond the garden and the citybeyond the street could be heard, but were little more evident to thesenses than those things in a picture which we guess but cannot see. Phyl, allowing her mind to be led by these faint and fugitive sounds, fellinto a reverie. Then she fell asleep and straight way began to dream. She dreamed that Miss Pinckney was in the room moving about dustingthings, a duster in one hand, an open letter in the other. There wastroublous news of some sort in the letter, but what it was Miss Pinckneywould not say. Then the room turned into the piazza, where JulietMascarene was standing with her hands on the rail, looking down on thegarden. She seemed to know Juliet quite well and was not a bit surprised to seeher there; she touched her but she did not turn. Phyl slipped her armround Juliet's waist and stood with her looking at the garden, and as theystood thus the most curious dream feeling came upon her, a feeling ofduality, Juliet was herself, she was Juliet. Then as this feeling diedaway Juliet vanished and she was standing alone on the piazza. Then she half woke, falling asleep again to be awakened fully by a sound. A sound, deep, sonorous, now rhythmical, now confused. It was the sound ofguns. She had heard it once long ago on the Brighton coast, and now as she satup every nerve and muscle tense, and her mind filled with a vague dread, it came so heavily that the walls of Vernons shook. She ran on to the piazza. There was no one there. The garden gate was wideopen, there was no one in the garden, and she noticed, though without anyastonishment, that some one had been at work in the garden altering thepaths. A white butterfly was flittering above the flowers, and a red birdleaving the magnolia tree by the gate, flew, a splash of colour, across tothe garden beyond. These things she saw but did not heed. She was under the spell of theguns, the sound rose against the brightness of the day as a black cloudrises across the sky or a sorrow across one's life, insistent, rhythmical, a pall of sound now billowing, now sinking, as though blown under by awind. She sought the piazza stairs and next moment was in the garden, then shefound herself in the street. Meeting Street was almost deserted. On the opposite side two stout, elderly and rather quaintly dressed gentlemen were walking along in thedirection of the station, but away down towards the Charleston Hotel therewas a crowd. The sight of this crowd filled her with terror, a terror remote fromreason, an impersonal terror, as though the deadliest peril werethreatening not herself but all things and everything she loved. She ran, and as she drew close to the striving mass of people she saw menbearing stretchers. They were pushing their way through the crowd, making to enter a house onthe right. Then came a voice. The voice of one man shouting to another. "Young Pinckney's killed. " The words pierced her like a sword, she felt herself falling. Fallingthrough darkness to unconsciousness, from which she awoke to find herselflying on the cane couch in her room. She sat up. The curtains were still stirring gently to the faint wind from outside, onthe floor lay the history of the Civil War open just as she had cast itthere before falling asleep. The sound of the guns had ceased, and nothingwas to be heard but the stray accustomed sounds of the city and thestreet. She struggled to her feet and came out on the piazza. The garden gate wasclosed and the garden was unaltered. She had dreamt all that, then. For a minute she tried to persuade herself that it was a dream, then shegave up the attempt. That was no dream. Everything in it was four square. She could still see the shadows of the two gentlemen who had been walkingon the other side of the street, shadows cast clearly before them by thesun. The first part of her experience had been a dream, all that about MissPinckney and Juliet. But right from the sound of the guns all had beenreality. She had seen, touched, heard. Glancing back into the room she saw the book lying on the floor, the sightof it was like a crystallising thread for thought. She had seen the past, she had heard the guns of the war. She went back into the room and took her seat on the couch and held herhead between her hands. She recalled the terror that told her thateverything she loved was in danger. When the man had cried out that youngPinckney was killed, it was the thought of the death of Richard Pinckneythat struck her into unconsciousness. Yet she knew that what she had seenwas the day of the death of Rupert Pinckney, that one of those figurescarried on the stretchers was his figure, that her grief was for him. Had she then experienced what Juliet once experienced, seen what she saw, suffered what she suffered? Was she Juliet? The thought had approached her vaguely before this, so vaguely and sostealthily that she had not really perceived it. It stood before her nowfrankly in the full light of her mind. Was she Juliet, and was Richard Rupert Pinckney? She recalled that eveningin Ireland when she had heard his voice for the first time, and the thrillof recognition that had passed through her, how, at the Druids' Altar thatnight she had heard her name called by his voice, the feeling in Dublinthat something was drawing her towards America. Her feelings when she hadfirst entered Meeting Street and the garden of Vernons, Miss Pinckney'ssurprise at her likeness to Juliet. Prue's recognition of her, the findingof those letters, the finding of the little arbour--any one of thesethings meant little in itself, taken all together they meant a greatdeal--and then this last experience. Her mind like a bird caught in a trap made frantic efforts to escape fromthe bars placed around it by conclusion; the idea seemed hateful, monstrous, viewed as reality. Fateful too, for that feeling of terror inthe vision had all the significance of a warning. Then as she sat fighting against the unnatural, her imaginative andsuperstitious mind trembling at that which seemed beyond imagination, amiracle happened. The thought of danger to Richard Pinckney brought it about. All at oncefear vanished, the fantastic clouds surrounding her broke, faded, passing, showing the blue sky, and Truth stood before her in the form of Love. It was as though the vision had brought it to her wrapped up in thatterror she had felt for him. In a moment the fantasy of Juliet became asnothing beside the reality. If it were a thousand times true that she hadonce been Juliet what did it matter? She had loved Richard Pinckneyalways, so it seemed to her, and nothing at all mattered beside therecognition of that fact. Perfect love casteth out fear, even fear of the supernatural, even fear ofFate. * * * * * "Richard, " said Miss Pinckney that night, finding herself alone with him, "that Silas Grangerson is in town and I want you to beware of him. " "Silas, " said he, "why I saw him at the club, he's gone back home by this, I expect, at least he said he was going back to-night. Why should I bewareof him?" "He's such an irresponsible creature, " she replied. "I'm going to tell yousomething, and mind, what I'm going to tell you is a secret you mustn'tbreathe to any one: he's in love with Phyl. " "Silas?" "Yes. I knew it wouldn't be long before some one was after her. She's theprettiest girl in Charleston, and she's different from the otherssomehow. " The cunning of the woman held her from praise of Phyl's goodness andmental qualities, or any over praise of the goods she was bringing to hisattention. "Has he spoken to her about it?" asked he. "I'm sure to goodness I don't know what I'm about telling you a thing thatwas told to me in confidence, " said the other. "Well, you promise never tosay a word to Phyl or to any one else if I tell you. " "I promise. " "Well, he's--he's kissed her. " Richard Pinckney leaned forward in his chair. He seemed very muchdisturbed in his mind. "Does she care for him?" "I don't believe she does--yet. They always begin like that; girls don'tknow their minds till all of a sudden they find some man who does. " "Well, let's hope she never cares for Silas Grangerson, " said he risingfrom his chair. "You know what he is. " He left the room and went out on the piazza where the girl was sitting. Hesat down beside her and they fell into talk. Richard Pinckney's mind was disturbed. Only the day before he had proposed to Frances Rhett and had beenaccepted. No one knew anything of the engagement; they had decided to saynothing about it for a while, but just keep it to themselves. The troublewith Pinckney was that Frances had, so to say, put the words of theproposal into his mouth. Frances had flirted with every man in Charleston;out of them all she had chosen Pinckney as a permanent attaché, notbecause she was in love with him but because he pleased her best. Shematched him against the others, as a woman matches silk. Pinckney had allowed himself to be led along; there is nothing easier thanto be led along by a pretty woman. When the trap had closed on him herecognised the fact without resenting it. He was no longer a free man. Phyl had told him this without speaking. For some time past he had beenadmiring her, and yesterday on returning in chains from Calhoun Street, Phyl picking roses in the garden seemed to him the prettiest picture hehad seen for a long time, but it did not give him pleasure; it stirred thefirst vague uneasy recognition that his chains had wrought. He had noright to look at any girl but Frances--and he had been looking at her fora year without the picture stirring any wild enthusiasm in his mind. Miss Pinckney's revelation as to Silas had come to him as a blow. He couldnot tell what had hit him or exactly where he had been hit. What did itmatter to him if a dozen men were in love with Phyl? What right had he tofeel injured? None, yet he felt injured all the same. As he sat by her now in the lamp-lit piazza, the thought that would notleave his mind was the thought that Silas had kissed her. Behind the thought was the feeling of the boy who sees the other boy goingoff with the ripest and rosiest apple. And Phyl was charming to-night. Something seemed to have happened to her, increasing the power of her personality, her voice seemed ever so slightlychanged, her manner was different. This was a woman, distinct from the girl of yesterday, as the full blownfrom the half blown flower. They talked of trifles for a while, and then he remembered something thathe ought to have mentioned before. The Rhetts were giving a dance and theyhad sent an invitation to Phyl as well as Miss Pinckney. "It will be here by the morning post, I expect, " said he. "You'd like togo, wouldn't you?" Phyl hesitated for a moment. "Is that--I mean is that young lady MissFrances Rhett--the one who called here?" "Yes, " cut in Pinckney, "those are the people. You'll come, won't you?" "Is Miss Pinckney going?" "She--of course she's going, she goes to everything, and old Mrs. Rhett isanxious to meet you. " "It is very kind of them, " said Phyl. "Yes, I'll come. " But she spokewithout enthusiasm, and it seemed to him that a chill had come over her. Did she know of his entanglement with Frances Rhett? And could it be-- He put the question aside. He had no right to indulge in any fancies atall about Phyl as regarded himself. Then Miss Pinckney came out on the piazza and Phyl rose to go into thehouse. CHAPTER IX When Silas Grangerson left the cemetery of St. Michael's he walked forhalf a mile without knowing or caring in what direction he was going. Phyl had done more than slap his face. She had slapped his pride, hisassurance of himself, and his desire for her all at the same time. Silas rarely bothered about girls, yet he knew that he had the power tofascinate any woman once he put his mind to the work. He had not tried hispowers of fascination on Phyl. It was the other way about. Phyl absolutelyunconsciously had used her fascination upon him. Something in her, recognised by him on their first meeting in the stableyard, had put away the barrier of sex. He had talked to her as if she hadbeen a boy. Sitting on the seat beside her whilst the Colonel had beenprosing over politics and tobacco, the prompting came to Silas to pinchher finger just for fun; when he had put his hands over her eyes thatnight it was in obedience to the same prompting, but at the moment ofparting from her, a desire quite new had overmastered him. He had kissed a good many girls, but never in his life had he kissed agirl as he kissed Phyl. Something cynical in his feelings for the other sex had always left himsomewhat cold, but Phyl was different from the others, she had in some waystruck straight at his real being. When he left her that night at Grangersons he was almost as disturbed asshe. He scarcely slept. He was out at dawn and on his return after she had lefthe sat down and wrote the letter which Phyl received next morning. Silas was in love for the first time in his life, but love with Silas wasa thing apart from the love of ordinary men. There was no worship of the object; the something that crystallises out inthe form of love-letters, verses, bouquets, and candy was not there. Hewanted Phyl. He had no more idea of marriage than the great god Pan. If she hadconsented he would have taken her off on that yawl of his imaginationround the world or down to Florida, without thought of the morrow or the_convenances_, or Society; but please do not imagine this rather primitivegentleman a chartered libertine. He would have married her as soon as not, but he had neither the genius nor the inclination for the courtship thatleads by slow degrees up to the question, "Will you marry me?" He wanted her at once. As he walked along now with the devil awake in his heart, he felt no angertowards Phyl; all his rage was against Pinckney; he had never likedPinckney, he more than suspected that Phyl cared for him and he wantedsome one to hate badly. He had walked himself into a reasonable state of mind when he foundhimself outside the Queen City Club. He went in and one of the first menhe met was Pinckney. So well did he hold himself in hand that Pinckney suspected nothing of hisfeelings. Silas was far too good a sportsman to shout at the edge of thewood, too much of a gentleman to desire a brawl in public. He was going toknife Pinckney, he was also going to capture Phyl, but the knifing ofPinckney was the main objective and that required time and thought. He didnot desire the blood of the gentleman; he wanted his pride and _amourpropre_. He wanted to hit him on the raw, but he did not know yet where, exactly, the raw was nor how to hit it. Time would tell him. He was specially civil to his intended victim, and he went off home thatevening plotting all the way, but arriving at nothing. He was trying tomake bricks without straw. Pinckney did not drink, nor did he gamble, andhe was far too good a business man to be had in that way. However, allthings come to him who waits, and next morning's post brought him a ray oflight in the midst of his darkness. It brought him an invitation to the Rhetts' dance on the followingWednesday; nearly a week to wait, but, still, something to wait for. "What are you thinking about, Silas?" asked old Seth Grangerson as theysat at breakfast. "I'm thinking of a new rabbit trap, suh, " responded the son. The rabbit trap seemed to give him a good deal of food for thought duringthe week that followed; food that made him hilarious and gloomy by turns, restless also. Had he known it, Phyl away at Charleston, was equally restless. She nolonger thought of Silas. She had dismissed him from her mind, she nolonger feared him as a possible source of danger to the man she loved. Love had her entirely in his possession to torture as he pleased. She knewonly one danger, the danger that Richard Pinckney did not care in theleast for her, and as day followed day that danger grew more defined andconcrete. Richard had taken to avoiding her, she became aware of that. She fancied that she displeased him. If she had only known! CHAPTER X Silas Grangerson came to town on the Wednesday, driving in and reachingthe Charleston Hotel about five o'clock in the afternoon. The Grangersons scarcely ever used the railway. Silas, often as he hadbeen in Charleston, had never put foot in a street car; even a hiredconveyance was against the prejudices of these gentlemen. This antagonism towards public means of locomotion was not in the leastthe outcome of snobbishness or pride; they had come from a race of peopleaccustomed to move in a small orbit in their own particular way, anexclusive people, breeders and lovers of horses, a people to whomlocomotion had always meant pride in the means and the method; to take aseat in a stuffy railway car at so much a mile, to grab a ticket andsqueeze into a tram car, to drive in a cab drawn by an indifferent horsewould have been hateful to these people; it was scarcely less so to theirdescendants. So Silas came to Charleston driving a pair of absolutely matchedchestnuts, a coloured manservant in the Grangerson livery in attendance. After dinner he strolled into the bar of the hotel, met some friends, madesome bets on the forthcoming races and at eight o'clock retired upstairsto dress. He was one of the first of the guests to arrive. The Rhetts' house in Legare Street was about the same size as Vernons andequally old, but it had not the same charm, the garden was much largerthan that at Vernons, but it had not the same touch of the past. Houses, like people, have personalities and the house of the Rhetts had atelephone without resenting the intruder, electric everythings, even to anelevator, modern cookers, modern stoves, everything in a modern way tosave labour and make life easy, and all so cunningly and craftily donethat the air of antiquity was supposed not to be disturbed. Illusion! Nothing is gained without some sacrifice; you cannot hold thepast and the present in the same hand, the concealed elevator spoke in allthe rooms once its presence was betrayed, the telephone talked--everywherewas evident the use of yesterday as a veneer of to-day. However that may be, the old house was gay enough to-night with flowersand lights, and Silas, looking better perhaps than he had ever looked inhis life, found himself talking to Frances Rhett with an animation thatsurprised himself. Frances had never had a chance of leading Silas behind her chariot; tofool with her would have meant an expenditure of time and energy injourneys to Charleston quite beyond his inclination. This aloofnesscoupled with his good looks had set him apart from others. But to-night he was quite a different being; to-night, in some mysteriousway, he managed to convey the impression, pleasing enough, that he hadcome to see her and her alone. As they stood together for a moment, he led the talk into Charlestonchannels, asking about this person and that till the folk at Vernons cameon the _tapis_. "Is it true what I hear, that Richard Pinckney has become engaged to thegirl who is staying there?" asked Silas. Frances smiled. "I don't think so, " she replied. "Who told you?" "Upon my word I forget, " said he, "but I judged mostly by my owneyes--they seemed like an engaged couple when I saw them last. " New guests were arriving and she had to go forward to help in receivingthem. Silas moved towards her, but in the next moment they had for asnatch of conversation, she did not refer to the subject, nor did he. The Vernons people were late, so late that when they arrived they were thelast of the guests; dancing was in progress and, on entering the ballroom, Richard Pinckney was treated to the pleasing sight of his _fiancée_whirling in the arms of Silas Grangerson. Phyl, looking lovely in the simple, rather old-fashioned dress evolved forher by the combined geniuses of Maria Pinckney and Madame Organdie, produced that sensation which can only be evoked by newness, her effectwas instantaneous and profound, it touched not only every one of thesestrangers but also Maria Pinckney and Richard. They had come with her, butit was only in the ballroom that they recognised with whom they had come. So with a book, a picture, a play, the producer and his friends onlyrecognise its merits fully when it is staged and condemned or praised bythe public. A _débutante_ fails or succeeds at first glance, and the instantaneoussuccess of Phyl was a record in successes. And Frances Rhett had to watch it and dance. The Inquisition had itstorments; Society has improved on them, for her victims cannot cry out andthe torments of Frances Rhett were acute. Not that she was troubling muchabout Richard Pinckney and what the poisonous Silas had said; she was notin love with Richard Pinckney, but she was passionately in love withherself. She was the belle of Charleston; had been for the last year; andone of her chief incentives to marriage was an intuitive knowledge thatprestige fades, that the position of principal girl in any society is likethe position of the billiard ball the juggler balances on the end of acue--precarious. She wanted to get married and ring down the curtain on anunspoiled success, and now in a moment she saw herself dethroned. In a moment. For no jeweller of Amsterdam ever had an eye for the qualityof diamonds surer than the eye of Frances Rhett for the quality of otherwomen's beauty. At the first glance to-night, she saw what others saw, though more clearly than they, that it was the touch of the past that gavePhyl her _cachet_, a something indefinable from yesterday, the lack ofwhich made the other girls, by contrast, seem cheap. Never could she have imagined that the "red-headed girl at Vernons" couldgain so much from setting, a setting due to the instinct as well as thetaste of "that old Maria Pinckney. " She had always laughed at Maria, as young people sometimes will at theold. When Richard came up to her a little later on, he found himself coldlyreceived; she had no dances for him except a few at the bottom of theprogramme. "You shouldn't have been late, " said she. "Well, " he said, "it was not my fault. You know what Aunt Maria is, shekept us ten minutes after the carriage was round, and then Phyl wasn'tready. " "She looks ready enough now, " said the other, looking at Phyl and thecluster of young men around her. "What delayed her? Was she dyeing herhead? It doesn't look quite so loud as when I saw her last. " "Her head's all right, " replied Pinckney, irritated by the manner of theother, "inside and out, and one can't say the same for every one. " Frances looked at him. "Do you know what Silas Grangerson asked me to-night?" she said. "No. " "He asked me were you engaged to her. " "Phyl?" "Miss Berknowles. I don't know her well enough to call her Phyl. " "He asked you that?" "Yes, said every one was talking of it, and the last time he saw youtogether you looked like an engaged couple the way you were carrying on. " "But he has never seen us together, " cried the outraged Pinckney; "thatwas a pure lie. " "I expect he saw you when you didn't see him; anyhow, that's theimpression people have got, and it's not very pleasant for me. " Richard Pinckney choked back his anger. He fell to thinking where Silascould have seen them together. "I don't know whether he saw us or not, " said he, "but I am certain of onething; he never saw us 'carrying on' as you call it; anyhow, I'll have apersonal explanation from Silas to-morrow. " "_Please_ don't imagine that I object to your flirting with any one youlike, " said Frances with exasperating calm. "If you have a taste for thatsort of thing it is your own business. " Pinckney flushed. "I don't know if you _want_ to quarrel with me, " said he, "if you do, sayso at once. " "Not a bit, " she replied, "you know I never quarrel with any one, it's badform for one thing and it is waste of energy for another. " A man came up to claim her for the next dance and she went off with him, leaving Pinckney upset and astonished at her manner and conduct. It was their first quarrel, the first result of their engagement. Franceshad seemed all laziness and honey up to this; like many another woman shebegan to show her real nature now that Pinckney was secured. But it was not an ordinary lovers' quarrel; her anger had less to do withRichard Pinckney than with Phyl. Her hatred of Phyl, big as a baobab tree, covered with its shadow Vernons, Miss Pinckney, and Richard. He was part of the business of her dethronement. Richard wandered off to where Maria Pinckney was seated watching thedancers. "Why aren't you dancing?" asked she. "Oh, I don't know, " he replied. "I'm not keen on it and there are loads ofmen. " Miss Pinckney had watched him talking to Frances Rhett and she had drawnher own deductions, but she said nothing. He sat down beside her. He hadbeen wanting to tell her of his engagement for a long time past, but hadput it off and put it off, waiting for the psychological moment. MariaPinckney was a very difficult person to fit into a psychological moment. "I want to tell you something, " said he. "I'm engaged to Frances Rhett. " "Engaged to be married to her?" "Yes. " Miss Pinckney was dumb. What she had always dreaded had come to pass, then. "You don't congratulate me?" "No, " she replied. "I don't. " Then, all of a sudden, she turned on him. "Congratulate you! If I saw you drowning in the harbour, would you expectme to stand at the Battery waving my hand to you and congratulating you?No, I don't congratulate you. You had the chance of being happy with themost beautiful girl in the world, and the best, and you've thrown it awayto pick up with _that_ woman. Phyl would have married you, I know it, shewould have made you happy, I know it, for I know her and I know you. Nowit's all spoiled. " He rose to his feet. It was the first time in his life that he had seenMaria Pinckney really put out. "I'll talk to you again about it, " said he. Then he moved away. He had the pleasure of watching Frances dancing the next waltz with SilasGrangerson, and Silas had the pleasure of watching him as he stood talkingto one of the elderly ladies and looking on. Silas's rabbit trap was in reality a very simple affair, it was a plan topick a quarrel with Richard through Frances, if possible; to make theimperturbable Pinckney angry, knowing well how easily an angry man can beinduced to make a fool of himself. To keep cool and let Richard do theshouting. Unfortunately for Silas, the sight of Phyl in all her beauty had raisedhis temperature far above the point of coolness. There were moments whenhe was dancing, when he could have flung Frances aside, torn Phyl from thearms of her partner and made off with her through the open window. This dance was a deadly business for him. It was the one thing needed tocap and complete the strange fascination this girl exercised upon hismind, his imagination, his body. It was only now that he realised thatnothing else at all mattered in the world, it was only now that hedetermined to have her or die. Silas was of the type that kills under passion, the type that, unable tohave, destroys. Preparing a trap for another, he himself had walked into a trapconstructed by the devil, stronger than steel. Yet he never once approached or tried to speak to Phyl. He fed on her at adistance. Fleeting glimpses of the curves of her figure, the Titian red ofher hair, the face that to-night might have turned a saint from his vows, were snatched by him and devoured. He would not have danced with her if hecould. To take her in his arms would have meant covering her face withkisses. Nor did he feel the least anger against the men with whom shedanced. All that was a sham and an unreality, they were shadows. He andPhyl were the only real persons in that room. Later on in the evening, Richard Pinckney, tired with the lights and thenoise, took a stroll in the garden. The garden was lit here and there with fairy lamps and there were coignsof shadow where couples were sitting out chatting and enjoying the beautyof the night. The moon was nearing the full and her light cut the tree shadowsdistinctly on the paths. Passing a seat occupied by one of the sitting outcouples, Pinckney noticed the woman's fan which her partner was playingwith; it was his own gift to Frances Rhett. The man was Silas Grangersonand the woman was Frances. They were talking, but as he passed them theirvoices ceased. He felt their eyes upon him, then, when he had got twenty paces or soaway, he heard Frances laugh. He imagined that she was laughing at him. Already angry with Silas, hehalted and half turned, intending to go back and have it out with him, then he thought better of it and went his way. He would deal with Silaslater and in some place where he could get him alone or in the presence ofmen only. Pinckney had a horror of scenes, especially in the presence ofwomen. Twenty minutes later he had his opportunity. He was crossing the hall fromthe supper room, when he came face to face with Silas. They were alone. "Excuse me, " said Richard Pinckney, halting in front of the other, "I wanta word with you. " "Certainly, " answered Silas, guessing at once what was coming. "You made some remarks about me to Miss Rhett this evening, " went on theother. "You coupled my name with the name of a lady in a mostunjustifiable manner and I want your explanation here and now. " "Who was the lady?" asked Silas, seemingly quite unmoved. "Miss Berknowles. " "In what way did I couple your name with her, may I ask?" "No, you mayn't. " Richard had turned pale before the calm insolence of theother. "You know quite well what you said and if you are a gentleman youwill apologise-- If you aren't you won't and I will deal with you inCharleston accordingly. " Phyl was at that moment coming out of the supper room with young ReggieCalhoun--the same who, according to Richard that morning at breakfast longago, was an admirer of Maria Pinckney. She saw the two men, in profile, facing one another, and she saw Silas'sright hand, which he was holding behind his back, opening and shuttingconvulsively. She saw the blow given by Pinckney, she saw Silas step back and the knifewhich he always carried, as the wasp carries its sting, suddenly in hishand. Then she was gripping his wrist. Face to face with madness for a moment, holding it, fighting eye to eye. Had she faltered, had her gaze left his for the hundredth part of asecond, he would have cast her aside and fallen upon his prey. It was her soul that held him, her spirit--call it what you will, thesomething that speaks alone through the eye. Calhoun and Pinckney stood, during that tremendous moment, stricken, breathless, without making the slightest movement. They saw she washolding him by the power of her eye alone; so vividly did this fact strikethem that for a dazed moment it seemed to them that the battle was nottheirs, that the contest was beyond the earthly plane, that this was nostruggle between human beings, but a battle between sanity and madness. Its duration might have been spanned by three ticks of the great old clockthat stood in the corner of the hall telling the time. Then came the ring of the knife falling on the floor. It was like thebreaking of a spell. Silas, white and bewildered-looking as a man suddenlyawakened from sleep, stood looking now at his released hand as though itdid not belong to him, then at Pinckney, and then at Phyl who had turnedher back upon him and was tottering as though about to fall. Pinckney, stepping forward, was about to speak, when at that moment the door of thesupper room opened and a band of young people came out chatting andlaughing. Calhoun, who was a man of resource, kicked the knife which slithered awayunder one of the seats. Phyl, recovering herself, walked away towards thestairs; Silas without a word, turned and vanished from sight past thecurtain of the corridor that led to the cloakroom. Calhoun and Pinckney were left alone. "What are you going to do?" asked Calhoun. "I am at his disposal, " replied the other. "I struck him. " "Struck him, damnation! He drew a knife on you; he ought to be hoofed outof the club; he'd have had you only for that girl. I never saw anything sosplendid in my life. " "Yes, " said Pinckney, "she saved my life. He was clean mad, but thank Godno one knows anything about it and we avoided a scene. Say nothing to anyone unless he wants to push the matter further. I am quite at hisdisposal. " PART IV CHAPTER I When Silas reached the cloakroom he took a glance at himself in themirror, then putting on his overcoat and taking his hat from the attendanthe came back into the hall. Pinckney and Calhoun had just strolled awayinto the ballroom; there was no one in the hall, and without a thought ofsaying good-bye to his hostess, he left the house. He felt no anger against Pinckney, nor did he think as he walked downLegare Street that but for the mercy of God and the intervention of Phylhe might at that moment have been walking between two constables, amurderer with the blood of innocence on his hands. Not that he was insensible to reason or the fitness of things, he hadalways known and acknowledged that when in a passion he was notaccountable for his acts; he admitted the fact with regret and also with acertain pride. To-night he might have felt the regret without any pride toleaven it but for the fact that his mind was lost to every considerationbut one--Phyl. All through his life Silas had followed with an iron will the line thatpleased him, never for a moment had he counted the cost of his actions;just as he had swum the harbour with his clothes on so had he plunged intoany adventure that came to hand; he knew Fear just as little as he knewConsequence. Well, now he found himself for the first time in his lifeface to face with Fate. All his adventures up to this had been littlethings involving at worst loss of life by accident. This was different; itinvolved his whole future and the future of the girl who had mastered hismind. Leaving Legare Street he reached Meeting Street and passed up it till hereached Vernons. The moon, high in the sky now, showed the garden throughthe trellis-work of the iron gate, and Silas paused for a moment andlooked in. The garden, seen like this with the moonlight upon the roses and theglossy leaves of the southern trees, presented a picture charming, dream-like, almost unreal in its beauty. He tried the gate. It was locked. On ordinary nights it would be open till the house closed, or in the eventof Pinckney being out, until he returned, but to-night, owing to theabsence of the family, it was locked. Then, turning from the gate he crossed the road and took up his positionin a corner of shadow. Five minutes passed, then twenty, but still he keptwatch. There were few passers-by at that hour and little traffic; he had along view of the moonlit street and presently he saw the carriage he waswaiting for approaching. It drew up at the front door of Vernons and he watched whilst theoccupants got out; he caught a glimpse of Phyl as she entered the housefollowing Miss Pinckney and followed by Richard, then the door shut andthe carriage drove away. Silas left his concealment and crossed the road. He paced for a while upand down outside the door of Vernons, then he came to the garden gateagain and looked in. From here one could get a glimpse of the first and second floor piazzasand the windows opening upon them. He could not tell which was the windowof Phyl's room, it was enough for him that the place held her. In the way in which he had crossed the road, in his uneasy prowling up anddown before the house, and now in his attitude as he stood motionless withhead raised there was something ominous, animal-like, almost wolfish. As he stood a call suddenly came from the garden. It was the call of anowl, a white owl that rose on the sound and flitted softly as a mothacross the trees to the garden beyond. Silas turned away from the gate and came back down the street towards hishotel, arrived there he went straight to his room and to bed. But he did not go to sleep. His head was full of plans, the craziest andmaddest plans. Pinckney he had quite dismissed from his mind, theconsciousness of having committed a vile action in drawing a knife upon anunarmed man was with him, and the knowledge that the consequences mightinclude his expulsion from Charleston society, but all that instead ofsobering him made him more reckless. He would have Phyl despite the Devilhimself. He would seize her and carry her off, trap her like a bird. He determined on the morrow to return early to Grangersons and thinkthings out. CHAPTER II Whilst he was lying in bed thinking things out, the folk at Vernons wereretiring to rest. Maria Pinckney knew nothing of what had occurred between Silas andRichard. Richard Pinckney, Phyl and Reggie Calhoun were the only threepersons in Charleston, leaving Silas aside, who knew of the business andin a hurried consultation just before leaving the Rhetts they had agreedto say nothing. Calhoun was for publishing the affair. "The man's dangerous, " said he; "some day or another he'll do the samething again to some one and succeed and swing. " "I think he's had his lesson, " said Pinckney; "he went clean mad for themoment. Then there's the fact that I struck him. No, taking everythinginto consideration, we'll let it be. I don't feel any animosity againsthim, not half as much as if he'd stabbed me behind the back with a libel--He did tell a lie about me to-night but it was the stupid sort of lie achild might have told. The man has his good points as well as his bad andI don't want to push the thing against him. " "I don't think he will do it again, " said Phyl. She, like Richard, felt no anger against Silas; it was as though theyrecognised that Silas was the man really attacked that night, attacked bythe Devil. They both recognised instinctively his good qualities. Miss Pinckney, itwill be remembered, once said that it is the man with good in him thatcomes to the worst end unless the good manages to fight the bad and get itunder in time. She had a terrible instinct for the truth of things. "Well, " said Calhoun, "it's not my affair; if you choose to take pity onhim, well and good; if it were my business I'd give him a cold bath, thatmight stop him from doing a thing like that again. I'll say nothing. " Though Miss Pinckney was in ignorance of the affair she was strangelysilent during the drive home and when Phyl went to her room to bid hergood night, she found her in tears, a very rare occurrence with MissPinckney. She was seated in an armchair crying and Phyl knelt down beside her andtook her hand. Then it all came out. "I had hoped and hoped and hoped for him, goodness knows he has been myone thought, and now he has thrown himself away. Richard is engaged toFrances Rhett. He told me so to-night--well, there, it's all ended, there's no hope anywhere, she'll never let him go, and she'll have Vernonswhen I'm gone. She picked him out from all the other men--why?-- Why, because he's the best of the lot for money and position. Care about him!She cares no more for him than I do for old Darius. I'm sure I don't knowwhy this trouble should have fallen on me. I suppose I have committed somesin or another though I can't tell what. I've tried to live blameless andthere's others that haven't, yet they seem to prosper and get theirwishes--and there's no use telling me to be resigned, " finished she with asnap and as if addressing some viewless mentor. "I can't--and what's moreI won't. Never will I resign myself to wickedness, and stupidity iswickedness, not even a decent, honest wickedness, but a crazy, sap-headedsort of wickedness, same as influenza isn't a disease but just an ailmentthat kills you all the same. " Phyl, kneeling beside Miss Pinckney, had turned deathly white. Only halfan hour ago when the little conference with Calhoun had been concluded, Richard Pinckney had taken her hand. His words were still ringing in herears: "You saved my life. I can't say what I feel, at least not now. " He had looked straight into her eyes, and now half an hour later--This. Engaged to Frances Rhett! She rose up and stood beside Miss Pinckney for a moment whilst that ladyfinished her complaints. Then she made her escape and returned to herroom-- As she closed the door she caught a glimpse of herself in theold-fashioned cheval glass that had been brought up by Dinah and Seth tohelp her in dressing for the dance and which had not been removed. Everypicture in every mirror is the work of an artist--the man who makes amirror is an artist; according to the perfection of his work is theperfection of the picture. The old cheval glass was as truthful in its wayas Gainsborough, but Gainsborough had never such a lovely subject asPhyl. She started at her own reflection as though it had been that of astranger. Then she looked mournfully at herself as a man might look at hissplendid gifts which he has thrown away. All that was no use now. She sat down on the side of her bed with her hands clasped together justas a child clasps its hands in grief. Sitting like this with her eyes fixed before her she was looking directlyat Fate. It was not only Richard Pinckney that she was about to lose but Vernonsand the Past-- Just as Juliet Mascarene had lost everything so was it tohappen to her. Or rather so had it happened, for she felt that the gamewas lost--some vague, mysterious, extraordinary game played by unknownpowers had begun on that evening in Ireland when standing by the window ofthe library she had heard Pinckney's voice for the first time. The sense of Fatality came to her from the case of Juliet. Consciously andunconsciously she had linked herself to Juliet. The extravagant idea thatshe herself was Juliet returned and that Richard Pinckney was Rupert hadcome to her more than once since that dream or vision in which the gunshad sounded in her ears. The idea had frightened her at first, thenpleased her vaguely. Then she had dismissed it, her _ego_ refusing any oneelse a share in her love for Richard, any one--even herself masqueradingunder the guise of Juliet. The idea came back to her now leaving her utterly cold, and yet stirringher mind anew with the sense of Fate. * * * * * When she fell asleep that night she passed into the dreamless conditionwhich is the nearest thing we know to oblivion, yet her sub-conscious mindmust have carried on its work, for when she awoke just as dawn was showingat the window it was with the sense of having passed through a long seasonof trouble, of having fought with--without conquering--all sorts ofdifficulties. She rose and dressed herself, put on her hat and came down into thegarden. Vernons was just wakening for the day, and in the garden alive with birds, she could hear the early morning sounds of the city, and from theservants' quarters of the house, voices, the sound of a mat being beatenand now and then the angry screech of a parrot. General Grant slept in thekitchen and his cage was put out in the yard every morning at this hour. Later it would be brought round to the piazza. He resented the kitchenyard as beneath his dignity and he let people know it. Phyl tried the garden gate, it was locked and Seth appearing at thatmoment on the lower piazza, she called to him to fetch the key. He let herout and she stood for a moment undecided as to whether she would walktowards the Battery or in the opposite direction. Meeting Street neverlooked more charming than now in the very early morning sunlight; underthe haze-blue sky, almost deserted, it seemed for a moment to haverecaptured its youth. A negro crab vendor was wheeling his barrow along, crying his wares. His voice came lazily on the warm scented air. She turned in the direction of the station. The voice of the crab sellerhad completed in some uncanny way the charm of the deserted street and theearly sunlight. She was going to lose all this. Vernons and the city sheloved, Juliet, Miss Pinckney, the past and the present, she was going tolose them all, they were all in some miraculous way part of the man sheloved, her love of them was part of her love for him. She could no longerstay in Charleston; she must go--where? She could think of nowhere to gobut Ireland. To stay here would be absolutely impossible. As she walked without noticing whither she was going her mind cleared, shebegan to form plans. She would go that very day. Nothing would stop her. The thing had to bedone. Let it be done at once. She would explain everything to MissPinckney. She would escape without seeing Richard again. What she wasproposing to herself was death, the ruin of everything she cared for, thedestruction of all the ties that bound her to the world, the present andthe past. It was the recognition that these ties had been broken for herand all these things taken away by the woman who had taken away Richard. Presently she found herself in the suburbs, in a street where colouredchildren were playing in the gutter, and where the houses wereunsubstantial looking as rabbit-hutches, but there was a glimpse ofcountry beyond and she did not turn back. She did not want breakfast. Ifshe returned to Vernons by ten o'clock it would give her plenty of time topack her things, say good-bye to Miss Pinckney and take her departurebefore Richard returned to luncheon--if he did return. It did not take her long to pass through the negro quarter, and now, outin the open country, out amidst those great flat lands in the broad dayand under the lonely blue sky her mood changed. Phyl was no patient Grizel, the very last person to be trapped in the bogof love's despondency. Abstract melancholy produced by colours, memories, or sounds was an easy enough matter with her, but she was not the personto mourn long over the loss of a man snatched from her by another woman. As she walked, now, breathing the free fresh air, a feeling of anger andresentment began to fill her mind. Anger at first against Frances Rhettbut spreading almost at once towards Richard Pinckney. Soon it includedherself, Maria Pinckney, Charleston--the whole world. It was the angerwhich brings with it perfect recklessness, akin to that which had seizedher the day in Ireland when in her rage over Rafferty's dismissal she hadcalled Pinckney a Beast. Only this anger was less acute, more diffuse, more lasting. The sounds of wheels and horses' hoofs on the road behind her made herturn her head. A carriage was approaching, an English mail phaëton drawnby two high-stepping chestnuts and driven by a young man. It was Silas Grangerson. Returning to Grangerson's to make plans for thecapture of Phyl, here she was on the road before him and going in the samedirection. For a moment he could scarcely believe his eyes. Then reining in andleaving the horses with the groom he jumped down and ran towards her. After the affair of last night one might fancy that he would have shownsomething of it in his manner. Not a bit. "I didn't expect to come across _you_ on the road, " said he. "Won't youspeak to me--are you angry with me?" "It's not a question of being angry, " said Phyl, stiffly. She walked on and he walked beside her, silent for a moment. "If you mean about that affair last night, " said he, "I'm sorry I lost mytemper--but he hit me--you don't understand what that means to me. " "You tried to--" "Kill him, I did, and only for you I'd have done it. You can't understandit all. I can scarcely understand it myself. He _hit_ me. " "I don't think you knew what you were doing, " said Phyl. "I most surely did not. I was rousted out of myself. I reckon he didn'tknow what he was doing either when he struck. He ought to have known I wasnot the person to hit. I'll show you, just stand before me for a moment. " Phyl faced him. He pretended to strike at her and she started back. "There you are, " said he; "you know I wasn't going to touch you but youhad to dodge. Your mind had nothing to do with it, just your instinct. That was how I was. When he landed his blow I went for my knife byinstinct. If you tread on a snake he lets out at you just the same way. Hedoesn't think. He's wound up by nature to hit back. " "But you are not a snake. " "How do you know what's in a man? I reckon we've all been animals once, maybe I was a snake. There are worse things than snakes. Snakes are allright, they don't meddle with you if you don't meddle with them. They'vegot a bad name they don't deserve. I like them. They're a lot bettercitizens, the way they look after their wives and families, than someothers and they know how to hit back prompt--say, where are you goingto?" "I don't know, " said Phyl. "I just came for a walk--I'm leavingCharleston. " She spoke with a little catch in her voice. All Silas's misdoings wereforgotten for the moment, the fact that the man was dangerous as Death tohimself and others had been neutralised in her mind by the fact, intuitively recognised, that there was nothing small or mean in hischaracter. Despite his conduct in the cemetery, despite his lunaticoutburst of the night before, in her heart of hearts she liked him;besides that, he was part of Charleston, part of the place she loved. Ah, how she loved it! Had you dissected her love for Richard Pinckney youwould have found a thousand living wrappings before you reached the core. Vernons, the garden, the birds, the flowers, the blue sky, the sunlight, Meeting Street, the story of Juliet, Miss Pinckney, even old Prue. Memories, sounds, scents, and colours all formed part of the living thingthat Frances Rhett had killed. "Leaving Charleston!" said Silas, speaking in a dazed sort of way. "Yes. I cannot stay here any longer. " "Going--say--it's not because of what I did last night. " "You--oh, no. It has nothing to do with you. " She spoke almostdisdainfully. "But where are you going?" "Back to Ireland. " "When?" "To-day. " Then, suddenly, in some curious manner, he knew. But he was clever enough, for once in his life, to restrain himself and say nothing. "I will go this afternoon, " said she, as though she were talking of ajourney of a few miles. "Have you any friends to go to?" Phyl thought of Mr. Hennessy sitting in his gloomy office in gloomyDublin. "Yes, one. " "In Ireland?" "Yes. " "Can't you think of any other friends?" "No. " "Not even me?" "I don't know, " said poor Phyl, "I never could understand you quite, butnow that I am in trouble you seem a friend--I'm miserable--but there's nouse having friends here. It only makes it the worse having to go. " "Do you remember the day I asked you to run off to Florida with me, " saidSilas, "and leave this damned place? It's no good for any one here andyou've found it out--the place is all right, it's the people that arewrong. " Phyl made no reply. "You're not going back, " he finished. She glanced at him. "You're going to stay here--here with me. " "I am going back to Ireland to-day, " said Phyl. "You are not, you are going to stay here. " "No. I am going back. " She spoke as a person speaks who is half drowsy, and Silas spoke like aperson whose mind is half absent. It was the strangest conversation tolisten to, knowing their relationship and the point at issue. "You are going to stay here, " he went on. "If I lost you now I'd neverfind you again. I've been wanting you ever since I saw you that day firstin the yard-- D'you remember how we sat on the log together?--you can'ttramp all the way back to Charleston-- Come with me and you'll be happyalways, all the time and all your life--" "No, " said Phyl, "I mustn't--I can't. " Her mind, half dazed by all she hadgone through, by the mesmerism of his voice, by the brilliant light of theday, was capable of no real decision on any point. The dark streets ofDublin lay before her, a vague and nightmare vision. To return to Vernonswould be only her first step on the return to Ireland, and yet if she didnot return to Vernons, where could she go? Silas's invitation to go with him neither raised her anger nor moved herto consent. Phyl was an absolute Innocent in the ways of the world. Nocareful mother had sullied her mind with warnings and suggestions, and hermind was by nature unspeculative as to the material side of life. Instinctively she knew a great deal. How much knowledge lies in thesub-conscious mind is an open question. They walked on for a bit without speaking and then Silas began again. "You can't go back all that way. It's absurd. You talk of going offto-day, why, good heavens, it takes time even to start on a journey likethat. You have to book your passage in a ship--and how are you to goalone?" "I don't know, " said Phyl. His voice became soft. It was the first time in his life, perhaps, that hehad spoken with tenderness, and the effect was perfectly magical. "You are not going, " he said, "you are not; indeed, I want you far toomuch to let you go; there's nothing else I want at all in the world. Idon't count anything worth loving beside you. " No reply. He turned. The coloured groom was walking the horses, they were only a few yardsaway. He went to the man and gave him some money with the order to returnto Charleston and go back to Grangersons by train, or at least to thestation that was ten miles from Grangerville. Then as the man went off along the road he stood holding the near horse bythe bridle and talking to Phyl. "You can't walk back all that way; put your foot on the step and get in, leave all your trouble right here. I'll see that you never have anytrouble again. Put your foot on the step. " Phyl looked away down the road. She hesitated just as she had hesitated that morning long ago when she hadrun away from school. She had run away, not so much to get home as to getaway from homesickness. Still she hesitated, urged by the recklessness that prompted her to breakeverything at one blow, urged by the dismal and hopeless prospect towardswhich the road to Charleston led her mind, held back by all sorts of handsthat seemed reaching to her from the past. Confused, bewildered, tempted yet resisting, all might have been well hadnot a vision suddenly risen before her clear, definite, and destructive toher reason. The vision of Frances Rhett. Everything bad and wild in Phyl surged up before that vision. For a secondit seemed to her that she loathed the man she loved. She put her foot on the step and got into the phaëton. Silas, without aword, jumped up beside her, and the horses started. CHAPTER III She had committed the irrevocable. When the contract is signed, when the china vase is broken, all the regretin the world will not alter the fact. It was not till they had gone ten miles on their way that the regret came, sudden and painful as the stab of a dagger. Miss Pinckney's kindly old face suddenly rose up before Phyl. She wouldhave been waiting breakfast for her. She saw the breakfast room, sunny andpleasant, the tea urn on the table, the garden through the open window-- Then came the thought--what matter. All that was lost to her anyhow. It did not matter in the least what shedid. She was running away with Silas Grangerson. She had a vague sort of idea that they were running away to be married, that she would have to explain things to Colonel Grangerson when they gotto the house and that things would arrange themselves somehow. But now, she sat voiceless beside her companion, answering only inmonosyllables when he spoke; a voice began to trouble her, a voice thatrepeated the half statement, half question, over and over again. "You are running away to be married to Silas Grangerson?" She was running away from her troubles, from the prospect of returning toIreland, from the idea of banishment from Vernons. She was running awayout of anger against the woman who had taken Richard. She was running awaybecause of pique, anger and the reckless craving to smash everything anddash everything to pieces--but to marry Silas Grangerson! "Stop!" cried Phyl. Silas glanced sideways at her. "What's the matter now?" "I want to go back. " "Back to Charleston!" "Yes, stop, stop at once--I must go back, I should never have come. " Silas was on the point of flashing out but he shut his lips tight, then hereined in. "Wait a moment, " said he with his hand on her arm, "you can't walk back, we are nearly half way to Grangersons. I can't drive you because I don'twant to return to Charleston. If you have altered your mind you can goback when we reach Grangersons, you can wire from there. The old man willmake it all right with Maria Pinckney. " Phyl hesitated, then she began to cry. It was the rarest thing in the world for her to cry like this. Tears withher meant a storm, but now she was crying quietly, hopelessly, like a lostchild. "Don't cry, " said he, "everything will be all right when we get toGrangersons--we'll just go on. " The horses started again and Phyl dried her eyes. They covered anotherfive miles without speaking, and then Silas said: "You don't mean to stick to me, then?" "I can't, " said Phyl. "You care for some one else better?" "Yes. " "Is it Pinckney?" "Yes. " "God!" said he. He cut the off horse with the whip. The horses nearlybolted, he reined them in and they settled down again to their pace. The country was very desolate just here, cotton fields and swampy groundswith here and there a stretch of water reflecting the blue of the sky. After a moment's silence he began again. There was something in Silas's mentality that seemed to have come up fromthe world of automata, something tireless and persistent akin to theenergy that drives a beetle over all obstacles in its course, on or roundthem. "That's all very well, " said he, "but you can't always go on caring forPinckney. " "Can't I?" said Phyl. "No, you can't. He's going to get married and then where will you be?" Phyl, staring over the horses' heads as though she were staring at someblack prospect, set her teeth. Then she spoke and her voice was like thevoice of a person who speaks under mesmerism. "I cared for him before he was born and I'll care for him after I'm deadand there's no use in bothering a bit about it now. _You_ couldn'tunderstand. No one can understand, not even he. " The road here bordered a stretch of waste land; Silas gazed over it, hisface was drawn and hard. Then he suddenly blazed out. Laying the whip over the horses and turning them so sharply that thephaëton was all but upset he put them over the waste land; another touchof the whip and they bolted. Beyond the waste land lay a rice field and between field and waste landstood a fence; there was doubtless a ditch on the other side of thefence. "You'll kill us!" cried Phyl. "Good--so, " replied Silas, "horses and all. " She had half risen from her seat, she sat down again holding tight to theside rail and staring ahead. Death and destruction lay waiting behind thatfence, leaping every moment nearer. She did not care in the least. She could see that Silas, despite his words, was making every effort torein in, the impetus to drive to hell and smash everything up had passed;she watched his hands grow white all along the tendon ridges with thestrain. The whole thing was extraordinary and curious but unfearful, astorm of wind seemed blowing in her face. Then like a switched out lightall things vanished. CHAPTER IV Twenty yards from the fence the off side wheel had gone. The phaëton, flinging its occupants out, tilted, struck the earth at thetrace coupling just as a man might strike it with his shoulder, draggedfor five yards or so, breaking dash board and mud guard and brought theoff side horse down as though it had been poleaxed. Silas, with the luck that always fell to him in accidents, was not evenstunned. Phyl was lying like a dead creature just where she had been flungamongst some bent grass. He rushed to her. She was not dead, her pulse told that, nor did she seeminjured in any way. He left her, ran to the horses, undid the traces andgot the fallen horse on its feet, then he stripped them of their harnessand turned them loose. Having done this he returned to the girl. Phyl was just regainingconsciousness; as he reached her she half sat up leaning on her rightarm. "Where are the horses?" said she. They were her first thought. "I've let them loose--there they are. " She turned her head in the direction towards which he pointed. The horses, free of their harness, had already found a grass patch and were beginningto graze. The broken phaëton lay in the sunshine and the cushions flung toright and left showed as blue squares amidst the green of the grass; alight wind from the west was stirring the grass tops and a bird wassinging somewhere its thin piping note, the only sound from all thatexpanse of radiant blue sky and green forsaken country. "How do you feel now?" asked Silas. "All right, " said Phyl. "We'd better get somewhere, " he went on; "there are some cabins beyondthat rice field, I can see their tops. There's sure to be some one thereand we can send for help. " Phyl struggled to her feet, refusing assistance. "Let us go there, " said she. She turned to look at the horses. "They'll be all right, " said Silas; "there's lots of grass and there's apond over there--they'd live here a month without harm. " He led the way to the fence, helped her over, and then, without a wordthey began to plod across the rice field. When they reached the cabins they found them deserted, almost in ruins. They faced a great tract of tree-grown ground. In the old plantation daysthis place would have been populous, for to the right there were ruins ofother cabins stretching along and bordering an old grass road that bentwestward to lose itself amongst the trees, but now there was nothing butdesolation and the wind that stirred the mossy beards of the live oaks andthe rank green foliage of weeds and sunflowers. An old disused well facedthe cabins. Phyl gave a little shudder as she looked around her. Her mind, stillslightly confused by the accident and beaten upon by troubles, could findnothing with which to reply to the facts of the situation--alone here withSilas Grangerson, lost, both of them, what explanation could she make, even to herself, of the position? In the nearest cabin to the right some rough dry grass had been stored asif for the bedding of an animal. It was too coarse for fodder. Silas madeher sit down on it to rest. Then he stood before her in the doorway. For the first time in his life he seemed disturbed in mind. "I'll have to go and get help, " said he, "and find out where we are. It'smy fault. I'm sorry, but there's no use in going over that. You aren't fitto walk. I'll go and leave you here. You won't be afraid to stay byyourself?" "No, " said Phyl. "You needn't be a bit, there's no danger here. " "I am thirsty, " said she. "Wait. " He went to the well head. The windlass and chain were there rusty butpracticable and a bucket lay amongst the grass. It was in good repair andhad evidently been used recently. He lowered it and brought up some water. The water was clear diamond bright, and cold as ice. Having satisfiedhimself that it was drinkable he brought the bucket to Phyl and tilted itslightly whilst she drank. Then he put it by the door. "Now I'll go, " said he, "and I shan't be long. Sure you won't be afraid?" "No, " she replied. "You're not angry with me?" "No, I'm not angry. " He bent down, took her hand and kissed it. She did not draw it away orshow any sign of resentment; it was cold like the hand of a dead person. He glanced back as he turned to go. She saw him stand at the doorway for amoment looking down along the grass road, his figure cut against the blazeof light outside, then the doorway was empty. She was never to see him again. * * * * * Outside in the sunlight Silas hesitated for a moment as though he wasabout to turn back, then he went on, striking along the grass road andbetween the trees. Although he had never been over the ground before, he guessed it to be apart of the old Beauregard plantation and the distance from Grangervilleto be not more than eight miles as the crow flies. By the road, reckoningfrom where the accident had occurred, it would be fifteen. But the lie ofthe place or the distance from Grangersons mattered little to Silas. Hismind was going through a process difficult to describe. Silas had never cared for anything, not even for himself. Danger or safetydid not enter into his calculations. Religion was for him the name of athing he did not understand. He had no finer feelings except inrelationship to things strong, swift and brilliant, he had no tendernessfor the weakness of others, even the weakness of women. He had seized on Phyl as a Burgomaster gull might seize on a puffin chick, he had picked her up on the road to carry her off regardless of everythingbut his own desire for her--a desire so strong that he would have dashedher and himself to pieces rather than that another should possess her. Well, as he watched her seated on the straw in that ruined cabin, subdued, without energy, and entirely at his mercy, a will that was not his willrose in opposition to him. Some part of himself that had remained in utterdarkness till now woke to life. It was perhaps the something that despiteall his strange qualities made him likeable, the something that instinctguessed to be there. It stood between him and Phyl. He was conscious of no struggle with itbecause it took the form of helplessness. Nothing but force could make her give him what he wanted. The thing wasimpossible, beyond him. He felt that he could do everything, fighteverything, subdue everything--but the subdued. There was something else. Weakness had always repelled him, whether it wasthe weakness of the knees of a horse or the weakness of the will of a man. Phyl's weakness did not repel him but it took the edge from his passion. It was almost a form of ugliness. He had determined on finding help to send some one back for Phyl; any ofthe coloured folk hereabouts would be able to pilot her to Grangersons. Hewas not troubling about the broken phaëton or the horses; the horses hadplenty of food and water; so far from suffering they would have the timeof their lives. They might be stolen--he did not care, and nothing wasmore indicative of his mental upset than this indifference toward thethings he treasured most. All to the left of the grass road, the trees were thin, showing tracts ofmarsh land and pools, and the melancholy green of swamp weeds andvegetation. The vegetable world has its reptiles and amphibians no less than theanimal; its savages, its half civilised populations, and its civilised. The two worlds are conterminous, and just as cultivated flowers andcivilised people are mutually in touch, here you would find poisonousplants giving shelter to poisonous life, and the amphibious giving home tothe amphibious. The woods on the right were healthier, more dense, more cheerful, onhigher ground; one might have likened the grass road to the life of a manpursuing its way between his two mysteriously different characters. Silas had determined to make straight for home after having sentassistance for Phyl, what he was going to do after arriving home was notevident to his mind; he had a vague idea of clearing out somewhere so thathe might forget the business. He had done with Phyl, so he told himself. But Phyl had not done with him. He had been scarcely ten minutes on hisroad when her image came into his mind. He saw her, not as he had seen herlast seated on the straw in the miserable cabin, but as he had seen her atthe ball. The curves of her limbs, the colour of her hair, her face, all were drawnfor him by imagination, a picture more beautiful even than the reality. Well, he had done with her, and there was no use in thinking of her--shecared for that cursed Pinckney and she was as good as dead to him, Silas. An ordinary man would have seen hope at the end of waiting, but Silas wasnot an ordinary man, a long and dubious courtship was beyond hisimagination and his powers. Courtship, anyhow, as courtship is recognisedby the world was not for him. He wanted Phyl, he did not want to writeletters to her. There is something to be said for this manner of love-making, it issincere at all events. He tried to think of something else and he only succeeded in thinking ofPhyl in another dress. He saw her as he saw her that first day in thestable yard at Grangersons. Then he saw her as she was dressed that day inCharleston. Then he remembered the scene in the churchyard. He could still feel thesmack she had given him on the face. The smack had not angered him withher but the remembrance of it angered him now. She would not have donethat to Pinckney. Turning a corner of the road he came upon a clear space and on the bordersof the clearing to the right some cottages. There were some half-nakedpikaninnies playing in the grass before them; and a coloured woman, washing at a tub set on trestles, catching sight of him, stood, shadingher eyes and looking in his direction. Silas paused for a moment as if undecided, then he came on. He asked thewoman his whereabouts and then whether she could sell him some food. Shehad nothing but some corn bread and cold bacon to offer him and he boughtit, paying her a dollar and not listening to her when she told him shecould not make change. He was like a man doing things in his sleep; his mind seemed a thousandmiles away. The woman packed the bread and bacon in a mat basket with aplate and knife and watched him turn back in his tracks and vanish roundthe bend of the road, glad to see the last of him. She reckoned himcrazy. He was going back to Phyl. His resolution never to see her again had vanished. She was his and he wasgoing to keep her, no matter what happened. He would never part with her alive, if she killed him, if he killed her, what matter. Nothing would stand in his path. He reached the turning and there in the sunlight lay the half ruinedcabins and the well. Walking softly he came to the door of the cabin where he had left Phyl. She was there lying on the straw fast asleep. It was the sleep that comesafter exhaustion or profound excitement; she scarcely seemed to breathe. Putting his bundle down by the door he came in softly and knelt downbeside her. His face was so close to hers that he could feel her breathupon his mouth. It only wanted that to complete his madness. He was about to cast himselfbeside her when a pain, vicious and sharp as the stab of a red hot needlestruck him just above his right instep. CHAPTER V When Richard Pinckney came down to breakfast that morning, he found MissPinckney seated at the table reading letters. "Phyl went out early and has not come back yet, " said she putting theletters aside and pouring out the tea. "Gone out, " said he. "Where can she have gone to?" Miss Pinckney did not seem to hear the question. She was not thinking ofPhyl or her whereabouts. Richard's engagement to Frances Rhett was stilldominating her mind, casting a shadow upon everything. It was like a deathin the family. "I hope she's not bothered about what happened last night, " went onRichard. "I didn't tell you at the time, but I had--some words with SilasGrangerson, and--Phyl was there. Silas is a fool, but it's just as wellthe thing happened for it has brought matters to a head. I want to tellyou something--I'm not engaged to Frances Rhett. " "Not engaged?" "I was, but it's broken off. I had a moment's talk with her before we leftlast night. I was in a temper about a lot of things, and the business withSilas put the cap on it. Anyhow, we had words, and the thing is brokenoff. " "Oh, dear me, " said Miss Pinckney. The joyful shock of the news seemed tohave reduced her mind to chaos for a moment. One could not have told fromher words or manner whether the surprise was pleasant or painful to her. She drew her chair back from the table a little, and sought for and foundher handkerchief. She dried her eyes with it as she found her voice. "I don't know, I don't know, I'm sure. I've prayed all night that thismight be, and now that the Lord has heard my prayer and answered it, Ifeel cast right down with the wonder of it. Had I the right to interfere?I don't know, I'm sure. It seems terrible to separate two people but I hadno thought only for you. I've spoken against the girl, and wished againsther, and felt bad in my heart against her, and now it's all over I'm justcast down. " "She did not care for me, " said Pinckney. "Why she was laughing at me lastnight with him. They were sitting outside together, and when I passed themI heard them laughing at me. " Miss Pinckney put her handkerchief away, drew in her chair, and pouredherself out some more tea energetically and with a heightened colour. "I don't want to speak bad about any one, " said she, "but there are girlsand girls. I know them, and time and again I've seen girls hangingthemselves out with labels on them. 'I'm the finest apple on the tree, 'yet no one has picked them for all their labels, because every one hasguessed that they aren't--That crab apple labelling itself a pippin anddaring to laugh at you! And that long loony Silas Grangerson, a manwithout a penny to bless himself with, a creature whose character is justkinks. Well, I'm sure--pass me the butter--laughing at you. And what werethey laughing at pray? Aren't you straight and the best looking man inCharleston? Couldn't you buy the Rhetts twice over if you wanted to buysuch rubbish? Aren't you the top man in Charleston in name and positionand character? Why, they'll be laughing at the jokes in the N'York papersnext--They'll be appreciating their own good sense and cleverness andpersonal beauty next thing--They'll be worshipping Bryan. " "Oh, I don't think they'll ever get as bad as that, " said he laughing, "but I don't think I care whether people grin at me or not; it's only justthis, she and I were never meant for each other, and I found it out, andfound it out in time. You see the engagement was never made public, so thebreaking of it won't do her any harm. She would not let me tell peopleabout it, she said it would be just as well to keep it secret for a while, and then if either of us felt disposed we could break it off and no harmdone. " "Meaning that she could break it off if she wanted to but you couldn't. " "Perhaps. When I went back last night and told her I wanted to be free, she flew out. " "Said you must stick to your word?" "Nearly that. Then I told her she herself had said that it was open toeither of us to break the business off. " "What did she say to that?" "Nothing. She had nothing to say. She asked why I wanted to break itoff. " "And you told her it was because of her conduct, I hope. " "No. I told her it was because I had come to care for some one else. " Miss Pinckney said nothing for a moment. Then she looked at him. "Richard, do you care for Phyl?" "Yes. " "Thank God, " said she. The one supreme wish of her life had been granted to her. Her gazewandered to the glimpse of garden visible through the open window andrested there. She was old, she had seen friend and relative fade andvanish, the Mascarenes, the Pinckneys, children, old people, all hadbecome part of that mystery, the past. Richard alone remained to her, andPhyl. On the morning of Phyl's arrival Miss Pinckney had felt just asthough some door had opened to let this visitor in from the world of longago. It was not only her likeness to Juliet Mascarene, but all theassociations that likeness brought with it. Vernons became alive again, asin the good old days. Charleston itself caught some tinge of its youth. And there was more than that. "Richard, " said she, coming back from her fit of abstraction, "I will tellyou something I'd never have spoken of if you didn't care for her. It maybe an old woman's fancy, but Phyl is more to us, seems to me, than wethink, she's Juliet come back--Oh, it's more than the likeness. I'm sure Ican't explain what I mean, it's just she herself that's the same. There'sa lot more to a person than a face and a figure. I know it sounds absurd, so would most things if we had never heard them before. What's more absurdthan to be born, and look at that butterfly, what's more absurd than totell me that yesterday it was a worm? Well, it doesn't much matter whethershe was Juliet or not, now she's going to be yours, and to save you fromthat pasty--no matter she's over and done with, but I reckon she'slaughing on the wrong side of her face this morning. " Miss Pinckney rose from the table. The absence of Phyl did not disturbher. Phyl sometimes stayed out and forgot meals, though this was the firsttime she had been late for breakfast. Richard, who had business totransact that morning in the town looked at his watch. "I'm going to Philips', the lawyers, " said he, "and then I'll look in atthe club. I'll be back to luncheon. " An hour later to Miss Pinckney engaged in dusting the drawing-roomappeared Rachel the cook. Rachel was the most privileged of the servants, a trustworthy woman with acharacter and will of her own, and absolutely devoted to the interests ofthe house. "Mistress Pinckney, " said the coloured woman closing the door. "OleColonel Grangerson's coachman's in de kitchen, an' he says Miss Phyl'sbeen an' run off with young Silas Grangerson dis very mornin'. " Miss Pinckney without dropping the duster stood silent for a moment beforeRachel. Then she broke out. "Miss Phyl run off with young Silas Grangerson! What on earth are youtalking about, what rubbish is this, who's dared to come here talking suchnonsense? Go on--what more have you to say?" Rachel had a lot to say. Phyl had met Silas on the road beyond the town. They had talked together, then Silas had sent the groom back to Charleston to return to Grangervilleby train, and had driven off with Phyl. The groom, a relation of Dinah's, having some three hours to wait for a train, had dropped into Vernons topass the time and tell the good news. He was in the kitchen now. Miss Pinckney could not but believe. She threw the duster on a chair, leftthe room and went to the kitchen. Prue was still in her corner by the fireplace, and Colonel Grangerson'scoloured man was seated at the table finishing a meal and talking to Dinahwho scuttled away as he rose up before the apparition of Miss Pinckney. "What's all this nonsense you have been talking, " said she, "coming heresaying Miss Phyl has run away with Mr. Silas? She started out this morningto meet him and drive to Grangersons; I'm going there myself ateleven--and you come here talking of people running away. Do you know youcould be put in prison for saying things like that? You _dare_ to say itagain to any one and I'll have you taken off before you're an hour older, you black imp of mischief. " There was a rolling pin on the table, and half unconsciously her handclosed on it. Colonel Grangerson's man, grey and clutching at his hat, didnot wait for the sequel, he bolted. Then the unfortunate woman, nearly fainting, but supported by her grandcommon sense and her invincible nature, left the kitchen and, followed byRachel, went to the library. Here she sat down for a moment to collectherself whilst Rachel stood watching her and waiting. "It is so and it's not so, " said she at last, talking half to herself halfto the woman. "It's some trick of Silas Grangerson's. But the main thingis no one must know. We have got to get her back. No one mustknow--Rachel, go and find Seth and send him off at once to the garageplace and tell them to let me have an automobile at once, at once, mindyou. Tell them I want the quickest one they've got for a long journey. " Rachel went off and Miss Pinckney left to herself went down on her kneesby the big settee adjoining the writing table and began to wrestle withthe situation in prayer. Miss Pinckney was not overgiven to prayer. Sheheld that worriting the Almighty eternally about all sorts of nonsense, assome people do who pray for "direction" and weather, etc. , was bad form tosay the least of it. She even went further than that, and held thatpraising him inordinately was out of place and out of taste. Saying that, if Seth or Dinah came singing praises at her bedroom door in the morninginstead of getting on with their work, she would know exactly what itmeant--Laziness or concealed broken china, or both. But in moments of supreme stress and difficulty, Miss Pinckney was abeliever in prayer. Her prayer now was speechless, one might compare it toa mental wrestle with the abominable situation before God. When she rose from her knees everything was clear to her. Two things wereevident. Phyl must be got back at any cost, and scandal must be choked, even if it had to be choked with solid lies. To save Phyl's reputation, Miss Pinckney would have perjured herself twiceover. Miss Pinckney had many faults and limitations, but she had the grandcommon sense of a clean heart and a clear mind. She could tell a lie witha good conscience in a good cause, but to hide even a small fault of herown, the threat of death on the scaffold would not have made her tell alie. She went to the writing table now and taking a sheet of paper, wrote: _Dear Richard, _ Seth Grangerson is bad again, and I am going over there now with Phyl. We mayn't be back to-night. I am taking the automobile. We will be back to-morrow most likely. Your affectionate Aunt, Maria Pinckney. She read the note over. If all went well then everything would be well. Ifthe worst occurred then she could explain everything to Richard. It was a desperate gamble; well she knew how the dice were loaded againsther, but the game had to be played out to the very last moment. Already she had stopped the mouth of slander by her prompt action withColonel Grangerson's coloured man, but she well knew how coloured servantstalk; Grangerson's man was safe enough, he was frightened and he wouldhave to get back to Grangerville. Rachel was absolutely safe, Dinah alonewas doubtful. She called Rachel in, gave her the note for Richard and told her to keep aclose eye on Dinah. "Don't let her get talking to any one, " said Miss Pinckney, "and when Mr. Richard comes in give him that note yourself. If he asks about Miss Phyl, say she came back and went with me. You understand, Rachel, Miss Phyl hasdone a foolish thing, but there's no harm in it, only what fools will makeof it if they get chattering. No one must know, not even Mr. Richard. " "I'll see to that, Miss Pinckney, an' if I catch Dinah openin' her mouthto say more'n 'potatoes' I'll dress her down so's she won't know which endof her's which. " Miss Pinckney went upstairs, dressed hurriedly, packed a few things in abag and the automobile being now at the door, started. It was after one o'clock when she reached Grangersons. Just as on the day when she had arrived with Phyl, Colonel Grangerson, hearing the noise of the car, came out to inspect. He came down the steps, hat in hand, saw the occupant, started back, andthen advanced to open the door. "Why, God bless my soul, it's you, " cried the Colonel. "What hashappened?" Miss Pinckney without a word got out and went up the steps with him. In the hall she turned to him. "Where is Silas?" "Silas, " replied the Colonel. "I haven't seen him since he went toCharleston to attend some dance or another. What on earth is the matterwith you, Maria?" "Come in here, " said Miss Pinckney. She went into the drawing room andthey shut the door. "Silas has run away with Phyl, " said she, "that's what's the matter withme. Your son has taken that girl off, Seth Grangerson, and may God havemercy upon him. " "The red-headed girl?" said the Colonel. "Phyl, " replied she, "you know quite well whom I mean. " Colonel Grangerson made a few steps up and down the room to calm himself. Maria Pinckney was speaking to him in a tone which, had it been used byany one else, would have caused an explosion. "But when did it happen, " he asked, "and where have they gone? Explainyourself, Maria. Good God! Why the fellow never spoke to her scarcely--areyou sure of what you say?" Miss Pinckney told her tale. "I came here to try and get her back, " said she, "thinking he and shemight possibly have come here or that you might know theirwhereabouts--they have not come, but there is just the chance that theymay come here yet. " "But if they have run off with each other, " said the Colonel, "how are weto stop them--they'll be married by this. " Miss Pinckney who had taken off her gloves sat down and began to foldthem, neatly rolling one inside the other. "_Married, _" said she. The Colonel standing by the window with his hands in his pockets turned. "And why not?" said he. "The girl's a lady, and you told me she was notbadly off. Silas might have done worse it seems to me. " "Done worse! He couldn't have done worse. I'd sooner see her dead in hercoffin than married to Silas--There, you have it plain and straight. He'llmake her life a misery. Let me speak, Seth Grangerson, you are just goingto hear the truth for once. You have ruined that boy the way you'vebrought him up, he was crazy wild to start with and you've never checkedhim. Oh, I know, he has always been respectful to you and flattered yourpride and vanity, he calls you sir when he speaks to you, and you are theonly person in the world to whom he shews respect. I don't say he actslike that from any double dealing motive, it's just the old southerntradition he's inherited; he does respect you, and I daresay he's fond ofyou, but he respects nothing else, especially women. I know him. And Iknow her, and he'll make her life a misery. If he'd left her alone she'dhave been happy. Richard loves her, and would have made her a goodhusband. My mind was set on it, and now it's all over. " Miss Pinckney began to weep, and the Colonel who had been swelling himselfup found his anger collapsing. She was only a woman. Women have queerfancies--This especial woman too was part of the past and privileged. He came to her and stood beside her and rested his hand on her shoulder. "My dear Maria, " said the Colonel, "youth is youth--There is not any usein laying down the law for young people or making plans for theirmarriages. Leave it in the hands of Providence. The most carefullyarranged marriages often turn out the worst, and a scratch match has oftenas not turned out happily. Anyhow, you will stay here till news comes ofthem?" "Yes, I will stay, " said Miss Pinckney. CHAPTER VI At eleven o'clock that night, just as Miss Pinckney was on the point ofretiring to bed the news came in the form of Phyl herself. She arrived in a buggy driven by the farmer who owned the land throughwhich the grass road ran. She gave a little glad cry when she saw Miss Pinckney and ran into herarms. Upstairs and alone with the lady, she told her story. Told her how she hadmet Silas on the road that morning, how, tired of life and scarce knowingwhat she did, she had got into the phaëton, how he had upset it andsmashed it, how she had sheltered in the cabin whilst he went in search ofhelp. "Then I went to sleep, " said Phyl, "and when I woke up it was afternoon. He was not there, but he must have come back when I was asleep and leftsome food for me, for there was a bundle outside the door with some breadand bacon in it. Then I started off to walk and found a village with somecoloured people. I told them I was lost and wanted to get to Grangersons. They were kind to me, but I had to wait a long time before they could findthat gentleman, the farmer, and he could get a cart to drive me here. " "Thank God it is all over and you are back, " said Miss Pinckney. "But oh, Phyl! what made you do it?" "I don't know, " said Phyl. But Miss Pinckney did. "Listen, " said she. "You know what I told you about Richard and FrancesRhett--that's all done with. He has broken off the engagement. " Phyl flushed, then she hid her burning face on Miss Pinckney's shoulder. Miss Pinckney held her for awhile. Then she began to talk. "We will get right back to-morrow early; no one knows anything and I'lltake care they never do. Well, it's strange--I can understand everythingbut I can't understand that crazy creature. What's become of him? That'swhat I want to know. " * * * * * This is what had become of him. Kneeling beside Phyl the sudden sharp pain just above his instep made himturn. In turning he caught a glimpse of his assailant. It had beencreeping towards the door when he entered and had taken refuge beneath thestraw. He had almost knelt on it. Escaping, a movement of his foot hadraised its anger and it had struck, it was now whisking back into thedarkness of the cabin beyond the straw heap. He recognised it as the deadliest snake in the South. For a moment he recognised nothing else but the fact that he had beenbitten. His passion and desire had vanished utterly. Phyl might have been athousand miles away from him for all that he thought of her. He rose up and came out into the sunlight, went to the well head, sat downon the frame and removed his shoe and sock. The mark of the bite was therebetween the adductor tendons. A red hot iron and a bottle of whisky mighthave saved him. He had not even a penknife to cut the wound out--Hethought of Phyl, she could do nothing. He thought of the bar of theCharleston Hotel, and the verse of the song about the old hen with awooden leg and the statement that it was just about time for anotherlittle drink, ran through his head. Then suddenly the idea came to him that there might possibly be help atthe village where he had obtained the food from the coloured woman. It wasa long way off, but still it was a chance. He put the sock in his pocket, put on the shoe and started. He ran for thefirst couple of hundred yards, then he slackened his pace, then he stoppedholding one hand to his side. The poison already had hold of him. The game was up and he knew it. It was useless to go on, he would not liveto reach the village or reaching it would die there. And every one would pity him with that shuddering pity people extend tothose who meet with a horrible form of death. Death from snake bite was a low down business, it was no end for aGrangerson; but there in the swamp to the left a man might lie foreverwithout being found out. He turned from the road to the left and walked away among the trees. The ground here sank beneath the foot, a vague haze hung above the marshand the ponds. Here nothing happened but the change of season, night andday, the chorus of frogs and the crying of the white owl amidst thetrees. CHAPTER VII Miss Pinckney and Phyl left Grangersons next morning at seven o'clock toreturn to Charleston. During the night the Colonel had sent after the horses and they had beencaptured and brought back. The broken phaëton was left for the present. "I'll make Silas go and fetch it himself when he comes back, " said theColonel. "I reckon the exercise will do him good. " "Do, " said Miss Pinckney, "and then send him on to me. I reckon what I'llgive him will help him to forget the exercise. " On the way back she said little. She was reckoning with the fact that shehad deceived Richard. Now that everything had turned out so innocently andso well she decided to tell him the bare facts of the matter. There wasnothing to hide except the fact of Phyl's stupidity in going with Silas. Richard Pinckney was not in when they arrived but he returned shortlybefore luncheon time and Miss Pinckney, who was waiting for him, carriedhim off into the library. She shut the door and faced him. "Richard, " said Miss Pinckney, "Seth Grangerson is as well as you are. Ididn't go to see him because he was ill, I went because of Phyl. She did astupid thing and I went to set matters right. " She explained the whole affair. How Phyl had met Silas, how he hadpersuaded her to get into the phaëton with him, the accident and all therest. The story as told by Miss Pinckney was quite simple and without anydark patches, and no man, one might fancy, could find cause for offence init. Miss Pinckney, however, was quite unconscious of the fact that SilasGrangerson had attempted to take Richard Pinckney's life on the night ofthe Rhetts' dance. To Richard the thought that Phyl should have met Silas only a few hoursafter that event, talked to him, made friends with him, and got into hiscarriage was a monstrous thought. He could not understand the business inthe least, he could only recognise the fact. Had he known that it was her love for him and her despair at losing himthat led her to the act it would have been different. He said nothing for a moment after Miss Pinckney had finished. Havingalready confessed to her his love for Phyl he was too proud to show hisanger against her now. "It was unwise of her, " he said at last, turning away to the window andlooking out. "Most, " replied she, "but you cannot put old heads on young shoulders. Well, there, it's over and done with and there's no more to be said. Well, I must go up and change before luncheon. You are having luncheon here?" "No, " said he, "I have to meet a man at the club. I only just ran in tosee if you were back. " He went off and that day Miss Pinckney and Phyl had luncheon alone. CHAPTER VIII Richard Pinckney, like most people, had the defects of his qualities, buthe was different from others in this: his temper was quick and blazingwhen roused, yet on rare occasions it could hold its heat and smoulder, and keep alive indefinitely. When in this condition he shewed nothing of his feelings except towardsthe person against whom he was in wrath. Towards them he exhibited the two main characteristics of the NorthPole--Distance and Ice. Phyl felt the frost almost immediately. He talked to her just the same asof old but his pleasantness and laughter were gone and he never sought hereye. She knew at once that it was the business with Silas that had causedthis change, and she would have been entirely miserable but for theknowledge of two great facts: she was innocent of any disloyalty to him, he had broken off his engagement to Frances Rhett. Instinct told her thathe cared for her, Miss Pinckney had told her the same thing. Yet day after day passed without bringing the slightest change in RichardPinckney. That gentleman after many debates with himself had arrived at thedetermination against will, against reason, against Love, and againstnature to have nothing more to do with Phyl. Old Pepper Pinckney, that volcano of the past had suffered a fanciedinsult from his wife; no one knew of it, no one suspected it till on hisdeath his will disclosed it by the fact that he had left the lady--onedollar. The will being unwitnessed--that was the sort of man he was--didnot hold; all the same, it held an unsuspected part of his character upfor public inspection. Richard, incapable of such an act, still had Pepper Pinckney for anancestor. Ancestors leave us more than their pictures. Having come to this momentous decision, he arrived at another. One morning at breakfast he announced his intention of going to New Yorkon business, he would start on the morrow and be gone a month. TheBeauregards had always been bothering him to go on a visit and he might aswell kill two birds with one stone. Miss Pinckney made little resistance to the idea. She had noticed thecoolness between the young people; knowing how much they cared one for theother she had little fear as to the end of the matter and she fancied achange might do good. But to Phyl it seemed that the end of the world had come. All that day she scarcely spoke except to Miss Pinckney. She was like aperson stunned by some calamity. Richard Pinckney, notwithstanding the fact that he was to leave for NewYork on the morrow, did not return to dinner that night. Phyl wentupstairs early but she did not go to her room, she went to Juliet's. Sorrow attracts sorrow. Juliet had always seemed more than a friend, morethan a sister, even. There were times when the ungraspable idea came before her that Juliet washerself. The vision of the Civil War sometimes came back to her and alwayswith the hint, like a half veiled threat, that Richard the man she lovedwas Rupert the man she had loved, that following the dark law ofduplication that works alike for types and events, forms and ideas, herhistory was to repeat the history of Juliet. She had saved Richard from death at the hands of Silas Grangerson, herlove for him had met Fate face to face and won, but Fate has many reserveweapons. She is an old warrior, and the conqueror of cities and kings doesnot turn from her purpose because of a momentary defeat. Phyl shut the door of the room, put the lamp she was carrying on a tableand opened the long windows giving upon the piazza. The night wasabsolutely still, not a breath of wind stirred the foliage of the gardenand the faint sounds of the city rose through the warm night. The waningmoon would not rise yet for an hour and the stars had the sky tothemselves. She turned from the window and going to the little bureau by the dooropened the secret drawer and took out the packet of letters. Then drawingan armchair close to the table and the lamp she sat down, undid the ribbonand began to read the letters. She felt just as though Juliet were talking to her, telling her of hertroubles. She read on placing each letter on the table in turn, one uponthe other. The chimes of St. Michael's came through the open window but they wereunheeded. When she had read through all the letters she picked out one. The onecontaining the passionate declaration of Juliet's love. She re-read it and then placed it on the table on top of the others. If she could speak of Richard like that! But she could do nothing and say nothing. It is one of the curses ofwomanhood that a woman may not say to a man "I love you, " that theinitiative is taken out of her hands. Phyl was a creature of impulse and it was now for the first time in herlife that she recognised this fatal barrier on the woman's side. With therecognition came the impulse to over jump it. He cared for her, she knew, or had cared for her. She felt that it onlyrequired a movement on her side, a touch, a word to destroy the ice thathad formed between them. If he were to go away he might never return, nay, he would never return, of that she felt sure. And he would go away unless she spoke. She must speak, not to-morrow inthe cold light of day when things were impossible, but now, at once, shewould say to him simply the truth, "I love you. " If he were to turn awayor repulse her it would kill her. No matter, life was absolutely nothing. She rose from her chair and was just on the point of turning to the doorwhen something checked her. It was the clock of St. Michael's striking one. One o'clock. The whole household would be in bed. He would have retired tohis room long ago--and to-morrow it would be too late. She could never say that to him to-morrow; even now the impulse was dyingaway, the strength that would have broken convention and disregarded allthings was fading in her. She had been dreaming whilst she ought to havebeen doing, and the hour had passed and would never return. She sat down again in the chair. The moon in the cloudless sky outside cast a patch of silver on the floor, then it shewed a silver rim gradually increasing against the sky as itpushed its way through the night to peep in at Phyl. Leaning back in thechair limp and exhausted, with closed eyes, one might have fancied herdead or in a trance and the moon as if to make sure pushed on, framingitself now fully in the window space. The clock of St. Michael's struck two, then it chimed the quarter afterand almost on the chime Phyl sat up. It was as though she had suddenlycome to a resolve. She clasped her hands together for a moment, then sherose, gathered up the letters and put them away, all except one which sheheld in her hand as though to give her courage for what she was about todo. She carefully extinguished the lamp and then led by the moonlight cameout on to the piazza. Charleston was asleep under the moon; the air was filled with the scent ofnight jessamine and the faint fragrance of foliage, and scarcely a soundcame from all the sleeping city beyond the garden walls and the sea beyondthe city. As she stood with one hand on the piazza rail, suddenly, far away butshrill, came the crowing of a cock. She shivered as though the sound were a menace, then rigidly gliding likea ghost escaped from the grave and warned by the cockcrow that the hour ofreturn was near, she came along the piazza, mounted the stair to the nextfloor and came along the upper piazza to the window of Richard Pinckney'sbedroom. The window was open and, pushing the curtains aside, she went in. CHAPTER IX Richard Pinckney went to his room at eleven that night. He rarely retiredbefore twelve, but to-night he had packing to do as Jabez, his man, wasaway and he knew better than to trust Seth. He packed his portmanteau and left it lying open in case he had forgottenanything that could be put in at the last moment. Then he packed a kit-bagand, having smoked a cigarette, went to bed. But he did not fall asleep. As a rule he slept at once on lying down, butto-night he lay awake. He was miserable; going away was death to him, but he was going. First of all, because he had said that he was going. Secondly, because hewanted to hit and hurt Phyl whom he loved, thirdly, because he wanted totorture himself, fourthly, because he loathed and hated Silas Grangerson, fifthly, because in his heart of hearts he knew what he was doing waswrong. You never know really what is in a man till he is pinched by Love. Lovemay stun him with a blow or run a dagger into him without bringing hisworst qualities to light whilst a sly pinch will raise devils--all themiserable devils that march under the leadership of Pique. If he had not loved Phyl the fact of her going off with Silas for a driveafter what had occurred on the night before would have hurt him. Lovingher it had maddened him. He was not angry with her now, so he told himself--just disgusted. Meanwhile he could not sleep. The faithful St. Michael's kept him wellaware of this fact. He lit a candle and tried to read, smoked a cigaretteand then, blowing the candle out, tried to sleep. But insomnia had himfairly in her grip; to-night there was no escape from her and he laywhilst the moon, creeping through the sky, cast her light on the piazzaoutside. St. Michael's chimed the quarter after two and sleep, long absent, wascoming at last when, suddenly, the sound of a light footstep on the piazzadrove her leagues away. Then outside in the full moonlight he saw a figure. It was Phyl, fullydressed, standing with outstretched hands. Her eyes wide open, fixed, andsightless, told their tale. She was asleep. She moved the curtains aside and entered the room, darkening the windowspace, passed across the room without the least sound, reached the bed, and knelt down beside it. Her hand was feeling for him, it touched hisneck, he raised his head slightly from the pillow and her arm, glidinglike a snake round his neck drew his head towards her; then her lips, blindly seeking, found his and clung to them for a moment. Nothing could be more ghostly, more terrible, and yet more lovely thanthat kiss, the kiss of a spirit, the embrace of a soul rising from theprofound abysm of sleep to find its mate. Then her lips withdrew and he lay praying to God, as few men have everprayed, that she might not wake. He felt the arm withdrawing from around his neck, she rose, wavered for amoment, and then passed away towards the window. The lace curtains partedas though drawn aside, closed again, and she was gone. He left his bed and came out on the piazza. Craning over he caught aglimpse of her returning along the lower piazza and vanishing. Coming back to his room he saw something lying on the floor by his bed; itwas a letter; he struck a match, lit the candle and picked the letter up. It was just a folded piece of paper, it had been sealed, but the seal wasbroken, and sitting down on the side of the bed he spread it open, but hishands were shaking so that he had to rest it on his knee. It was not from Phyl. That letter had been written many, many years ago, the ink was faded and the handwriting of another day. He read it. "Not to-night. I have to go to the Calhouns. It is just as well for I havea dread of people suspecting if we meet too often. . . . "Sometimes I feel as if I were deceiving him and everybody. I am, and Idon't care. Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! If the whole worldwere against you I would love you all the more. I will love you all mylife, and I will love you when I am dead. " It was the letter of Juliet to her lover. He turned it over and looked at the seal with the little dove upon it. Heknew of Juliet's letters, and he knew at once that this was one of them, and he guessed vaguely that she had been reading it when sleep overtookher and that it had formed part of the inspiration that led her to him. But the whole truth he would never know. * * * * * A blazing red Cardinal was singing in the magnolia tree by the gate, butterflies were chasing one another above the flowers; it was seveno'clock and the blue, lazy, lovely morning was unfolding like a flower tothe sea wind. Richard Pinckney was standing in the piazza before his bedroom windowlooking down into the garden. To him suddenly appeared Seth. "If you please, sah, " said Seth, "Rachel tole me tell yo' de train forN'York--" "Damn New York, " said Pinckney. "Get out. " Seth vanished, grinning, and he returned to his contemplation of thegarden. She must never know. --In the years to come, perhaps, he might tell her--In the years to come-- He was turning away when a step on the piazza below made him come to therail again and lean over. It was Phyl. She vanished and then reappearedagain, leaving the lower piazza and coming right out into the garden. Hewaited till the sun had caught her in both hands, holding her against thebackground of the cherokee roses, then he called to her: "Phyl!" She started, turned, and looked up. THE END