A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
A long pause followed during which the traveler watched the distorted
shadow of the trotting horse as it shambled along the road.
“'Course,” the old darkey broke out presently, “Doctor Queerington is a
powerful smart gemman, an' he teks keer ob her jes' lak she wuz one ob
his own chillun. An' she's gittin' broke into de shafts, but hit's
gwine hard wid her. 'Tain't natchul to hitch a young filly up to a old
kerriage horse an' spec' her to keep step. She sorter holdin' back all
de time, kinder 'fraid to let loose an' carry on same as she use to.”
They were going through the covered bridge now and the rattle of the
wheels on the loose boards made conversation difficult.
“Wuz you eber homesick, Boss?” asked Uncle Jimpson inconsequently.
“Rather,” said the stranger emphatically. “I was born homesick.”
“Well, dat's what ails my young Miss an' dat's whut's de matter wid me
an' Carline an' Mike. Ain't none ob us used to libin' in other folks'
houses an' mixin' up wid other folkses families. 'Course hit's mighty
fine to be rich an' put on airs, but hit's lonesome. 'Fore hit got so
cold, me an' Carline'd go down home most ebery night an' set round de
quarters, listenin' to de frogs an' de crickets, an' I'd say,' Carline,
don't you mind de time dat Miss Lady fell head fust into de barrel ob
sorghum? An' de time she made de chickens drunk often egg-nog?' Nebber
wus nobody in de world lak dat chile, up to ever mischievousness dat
ever wuz concocted, but jus' so sweet an' coaxin' dat de Cunnel nebber
knowed how to punish her.”
The stranger took out a meerschaum pipe, started to light a match,
evidently forgot his intention, and looked absently ahead into the
darkness.
“Dis is Thornwood!” said Uncle Jimpson eagerly, pointing with his whip
up a long avenue of trees; “you can't see de house 'cause dey ain't no
lights in de winders. De Cunnel's paw set dem trees out de same year
he bought Carline. Lord, I certainly wuz gone on dat yaller gal! But
I didn't know nothin' 'bout courtin'. Carline she wuz better qualified
though, an' she made me ast Old Miss ef I couldn't hab her fer my wife.
We didn't need no Bible nor preacher, nor sech foolishness in dem days.
But when Old Miss wuz willin' we jus' dress up an' walk ober de place
an' tell all de niggers we wuz married. Umph, umph! But I wuz proud
dat day! I had on a bran' new pair ob pants dat cost two-hundred an'
sixty-fo' dollars in Confederate money! When Mr. Abe Lincum set us
niggers free, dey made us git married all ober agin wid a preacher an' a
Bible, but I never seed no diffunce.”
“Does Mrs.--Mrs. Queerington ever come back to Thornwood?” asked the
stranger, stumbling over the name as if it were very hard for him to
say.
“Yas, sir, she comes jes' lak me an' Carline, an' wanders roun' de house
an' de garden, an' sets in de ole barrel hammock, studyin' to herself.”
“And Mike,--what became of him?”
Uncle Jimpson looked at him in surprise, “How'd you know about Mike,
Mister?”
“Didn't you speak of him a while ago; wasn't he the dog?”
“Yas, sir. He's our dog. He's stayin' wif Miss Ferney Foster what libes
down beyond de blacksmith's on de other side de pike. He don't lak it no
better'n we do; he's homesick, too.”
They had reached a pretentious white gateway, and Uncle Jimpson,
recalled to a sense of his duties, drew himself up from his slouching
posture, crooked his elbow and rounded the curve as if he had been
driving a tally-ho. Through the bare trees above them blazed the
magnificent proportions of Angora Heights, with its pretentious assembly
of stables, garage and servants' quarters in the rear.
“Ye gods!” exclaimed the stranger under his breath; “is this all of it?”
“Naw, _sir_!” Uncle Jimpson denied emphatically; “if hit wuz daytime you
could see de Ramparts an' de Estanade. Over dere is de Lygoon. 'Tain't
nothin' shore 'nuff but our ole pond where we uster ketch bullfrogs, but
Mrs. Sequin she tole me to call hit de Lygoon. You see dem carvins ober
de door? Dat figger goin' up dat Egyptions stairway is John Dark. Didn't
you nebber heah 'bout John Dark? He wuz a woman what fit a battle onct.”
“Cut around to the side there, out of the way of the motors,” directed
the stranger, who seemed much more concerned in making a quiet entrance
into the mansion than in studying its architectural features. “Here's
something to put in the toe of your Christmas stocking, and another for
Caroline. Hurry up!”
He vaulted lightly over the wheel and turned to take his bag. As he
did so the light from the conservatory window above fell full upon his
upturned face.
“Fore de Lawd!” cried Uncle Jimpson, a broad grin splitting his face
almost in two. “I might 'a' knowed dat de only gemman in de world what
tipped lak dat wuz Mr. Don Morley!”
CHAPTER XVIII
It is really a very difficult thing to snub Christmas. You may relegate
it to the class of nuisances, and turn your back on Santa Claus, and
vote the whole institution a gigantic bore, but before the day is over
it usually gets the better of you, as it did of Donald Morley, arriving
unannounced and unwelcomed at the side door of the Sequin mansion.
It had gotten the better of him the year before when he had risen in the
gray dawn of an Indian day and stoically made his way to the banks
of the Ganges. It had proclaimed itself above the Vedic hymns of the
twice-born Brahmins, standing knee-deep in the sacred river; it had
dogged his footsteps among the ash-smeared fakirs, and jewel-hung cows;
it had even haunted the burning-ghat where he had stood and watched
human bodies burning on their pyres.
Eighteen months of wandering had made him sick of the casual; of the
steamer acquaintances formed at one port and dropped at the next; of the
unfamiliar sights and incomprehensible languages and the horde of alien
yellow faces. He was weary unto death of the freedom of the high seas,
and longed fervently for a strong anchor, and a quiet harbor.
When Cropsie Decker's explosive epistle had arrived telling him of
his indictment, of Margery's broken engagement, of Lee Dillingham's
treachery, his first thought was not of his wrongs, but of the fact that
they would necessitate his going home.
He did not stop to realize that going home meant but one thing to him.
He even tried to persuade himself that seeing Miss Lady in the role of
a happy, complaisant wife would cure him of his insatiable longing for
her. From the time he heard of her marriage he had striven desperately
to put her out of his mind, using every means but one to accomplish
his purpose. Through all his resentment and bitterness of heart, he had
never returned to his old life. Those promises made to her in the full
ardor of his boyish passion, he had kept with the hopeless loyalty that
one keeps the garments of the dead.
Now that he had been indicted for a crime of which he was wholly
innocent, his first desire was to know if she still believed in him.
To be sure, there were strong reasons why she should not: his own
confession of his shortcomings; the unfortunate complication in the
Dillingham affair; his subsequent disappearance. It was but natural that
she should have been brought to see the folly of pinning her faith to
such an unstable proposition as himself. His first agonized protest
against her marriage had given place to a stoical acceptance of the
fact. He was paying the price many a man has paid for the follies of his
youth, and he was ready to pay without a protest, if only she could be
made to understand the truth.
All that was best in him demanded justice from her, the justice he had
pleaded for in that long letter sent from San Francisco. Going home for
him meant not only a trial by jury and a verdict of guilty or innocent.
It meant far more. He would know from her own lips whether she had ever
received his letter, and whether or not she believed in him. On her
decision rested his faith in human nature and in God.
The sudden decision to return to America had been reached one night in
Port Said, where he had just joined an exploring expedition bound for
the Valley of the Kings. He cancelled his engagement, took passage on a
little Russian steamer that was bound for Alexandria, and too impatient
to wait for a liner from that port shipped on a freight boat for Naples.
The passage across the Atlantic had been a tempestuous one, and he had
landed in New York two days overdue, with no time to notify the family
of his arrival.
And now after eighteen months of exile in foreign lands he was actually
home again! That is if this resplendent, unfamiliar abode, full of music
and lights and strange servants, could be called home. However, it was
the nearest approach to one he could claim, and the fact that the fatted
calf had not been killed for him, and that the law waited for him around
the corner, did not prevent his pulse quickening and his lips smiling as
he took the side steps two at a time, and entered the rear hall.
An officious, red-headed man stood in the pantry door with a napkin
over his arm, issuing peremptory orders and regulating the outcoming and
ingoing waiters. “Are you the butler?” asked Donald.
“Not yet,” said the man, dropping one eyelid and assuming a confidential
air; “I can see she's after me, though. She got on to my style the
minute she seen me handle a tray of glasses. 'Flathers,' she sez, 'you
keep things movin' back there in the pantry, and do keep a eye on John.'
John's the butler. He's a drinkin' man, God be praised, and I'm layin'
fer his job. Are you a chauffeur?”
“No,” said Donald good humoredly. “I'm a prodigal brother. Where have I
seen you before?”
“Can't say. If a person sees me once they never fergit me. It's me
golden glow. Come, boys! Hurry up! Hurry up with them cakes there. Git
them extry freezers unpacked. Git a move on yer.”
“Take this card in to Mrs. Sequin,” said Donald, “and ask her if she can
spare a moment to see a caller in the rear entry.”
Phineas glanced suspiciously from the card to the stranger, then he
decided that he would not question the matter.
A moment later, Mrs. Sequin with her glittering draperies gathered about
her, and an expression of great perturbation on her features, made her
high-heeled way through the pantry.
“Donald! My dear boy!” she exclaimed effusively, presenting her cheek
with the caution of one who hopes the kiss will be light. “What on earth
are you doing here? We had no idea you were in America. How thin
you are! I've been in a perfect agony about you. Not those champagne
glasses, John; the larger ones. That tiresome butler! He has been tipsy
all day. Now, what about yourself, Donald? It is dreadfully unwise for
you to be here; you know of course of--of the indictment?”
“That's why I'm here. But how is everybody? How are Brother Basil and
little old Margery? Where's my saddle mare?”
“I'll tell you everything to-morrow, Don. You must want to go to
your room now. Flathers take this gentleman's bags up to the East
guest-room,--no, that's occupied. You won't mind going up another
flight, just for to-night, dear?”
“Oh, tuck me in anywhere, just so there's a bath handy.”
“All the bedrooms have baths,” said Mrs. Sequin absently, with her
eye on the befuddled butler who was trying to uncork a bottle with a
screwdriver, “Let Flathers--I mean Benson--do that, John, and you
take these bags. So sorry I can't go up with you myself, Don, but the
cotillion is just beginning, and I have to see to the favors.”
“That's right, don't bother about me, I'll get into some decent togs and
be down again in a little while.”
Mrs. Sequin paused with her hand on the banister, then she leaned
forward solicitously:
“I wouldn't take the trouble to dress and come down again, Don. It's