A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
“But you stayed longer than she did.”
“Yes, I played around on the Riviera for a while.”
“And you have been home, how long?”
“Three months. Honestly, I meant to buckle down to something right
off, but Cropsie Decker got this offer to go to the Orient for
the _Herald-Post_, and asked me to go along. I was keen about it
until--until I came down here.”
They were both silent for a while, watching a spider that was exploring
Don's boot-lace.
“It all seems so footless now. What I want is a house of my own, a home,
I mean. I never had much of that sort of thing--I'm not quite sure I
knew what a home was until I saw Thornwood.”
“Isn't it dear?” asked Miss Lady with a loving look over her shoulder at
the old house silhouetted against the sky. “I could kiss every brick of
it, I love it so.”
“I wish I didn't have to go back to town tonight!” burst out Donald
inconsequentially. “I wish I never had to go back to it!”
“Why?”
“Oh, for lots of reasons. I'm a different fellow down here in the
country, with things to do, and the right sort of things to think about,
and--and you! You see,” he smiled without looking up, “I'm not much good
in town.”
“How do you mean?” asked Miss Lady, with disconcerting frankness.
Donald shrugged his broad shoulders: “Oh! I don't know. I get into
things before I know it. This Eastern trip, now; it sounded great when I
said I'd go, Cropsie is a regular bird, the best fellow in the world to
go on such a lark with, but--”
Miss Lady shot a glance at the handsome, boyish, irresponsible face
beside her.
“Don't go, Don!” she whispered impulsively; “stay here and buy your
farm!”
“You mean it!” he demanded, seizing her hands. “You want me to stay?”
The blood surged into her cheeks, but she did not withdraw her hands.
Into her eager, luminous eyes had leapt the response that had been held
in abeyance all afternoon.
“If I stay,” he pressed hotly, “if I settle down and behave myself, and
make good, you'll promise me--”
“Jimpson!” thundered a familiar voice from the road. “That
good-for-nothing, lazy nigger, why don't he come help me with these
things? Jimpson!”
“I'll tell him, Dad!” called Miss Lady, springing from the hammock.
“But wait!” pleaded Donald, “just a minute. I've got to beat that
storm to town, and tell Decker the trip is off. But I'll be back in the
morning! Perhaps to breakfast. Oh, my darling, I am so happy! Say you
love me! Say it!”
Old Mike stirred in his slumbers, then opened one eye. It was evidently
time for him to take some action. When two young people are standing
very close with clasped hands and love-lit eyes in the dim fragrance
of an old garden, even a dog of a chaperon knows that it is time to
interfere! With great presence of mind he discovered an imaginary
squirrel in the hedge directly beside them, and set up such a furious
barking that Miss Lady looked around and laughed. For a second she
stood, her head thrown back, a teasing, half-shy, half-daring look on
her face, then she dropped a swift kiss on the hand that clasped hers,
and without a word went flying crimson-cheeked up the lilac-bordered
path.
CHAPTER III
Donald Morley rode back to town through the coming storm, in that
particular state of ecstasy that mortals are permitted to enjoy but once
in a lifetime. Not that falling in love was a novel sensation; on the
contrary a varied experience had made him agreeably familiar with all
the symptoms. But this, he assured himself with passionate vehemence,
was something altogether and absolutely different. Between now and that
morning when he had idly ridden out to Wicker's in search of a farm, lay
a sea as wide as Destiny!
There in the country he had unexpectedly come upon his fate and with
characteristic impetuosity had pursued and overtaken it. Other girls may
have stirred his heart, but it had remained for a wild little pagan
of the woods to stir his soul. He had laid bare to her the most secret
places of his being, had confessed his sins, and received absolution.
From this time on the frivolities of youth lay behind him, and ambition
sat upon his brow. He would cut out the trip to the Orient, buy a farm
and settle down to work as if he hadn't a penny in the world. Once the
Colonel was made to recognize his worth, the gates of Paradise would be
open!
He thought of the home he would build for her, and the flowers
that would encompass it, of the horses and dogs they would have and
perhaps--The memory of her face as she clasped Chick in the road flashed
over him, and he straightened his shoulders suddenly and smiled almost
tremulously. Yes, he'd be worthy of her, from this time forward life
should hold no higher privilege!
It was after seven o'clock by the time he reached the Junction, and
heavy mutterings of thunder could be heard in the west.
“Does this street go through to the boulevard?” he asked of a man,
pointing with his knobless whip.
The lank person addressed removed his weight from the telegraph pole
that had supported it and sauntered forward. As he did so Donald
recognized the red-headed umpire of the afternoon.
“No, sir, Captain,” he said, “it do not. This here is Bean Alley. These
city politicians has got their own way of running streets; they take a
pencil you see and draw a line along the property of folks that can pay
for streets. The balance of us sets in mud puddles.” The man evidently
found some difficulty in expressing himself without the assistance of
profanity. There were blanks left between the words, which he supplied
mentally with compressed lips and lifting of shaggy brows, that served
as an effective substitute. His conversation printed would resemble
these grammatical exercises, struggled with an early youth, in which
“a----dog----attacked a----boy with a----stick.”
But his suppressed eloquence was lost upon his hearer, for Donald
had become absorbed in a theatrical poster, which represented a
preternaturally slim young lady, poised on a champagne bottle, coyly
surveying an admiring world through the extended fingers of a small
black gloved hand. It was “La Florine,” whose charms he had heard
recounted times without number by Mr. Cropsie Decker.
This evening, the poster announced, “La Florine” would for the first
time in any American city, perform her incomparable dance, “The Serpent
of the Nile.”
Don had consulted his watch, and made a lightning calculation as to the
time in which he could get a bite of supper and reach the Gayety, before
he remembered that he was a reformed character. Then he sternly withdrew
his gaze from the lady who peeped through her fingers in the dusk,
and brought it back to the red-headed person, who had continued his
conversation with unbroken volubility.
“... and she says to me,” he was concluding “'Mr. Flathers,' she says,
'it's a privelege to help such as you. A man what's been in the gutter
times without number, and bore the awful horrors of delirium tremins
four times and still can feel the stirrings of Christianity in his
bosom.'”
Donald looked at him and laughed. Here was evidently a fellow sinner.
“So you've straightened up, have you? How does it feel?”
Mr. Flathers cast a sidelong glance upward as if to size up the handsome
young gentleman on horseback.
“Mighty depressin',” he confessed, “with a thirst that's been
accumulatin' for weeks and weeks, and a sick wife, and a adobted child
that ain't spoke a word for seven years. But I'm restin' on the Lord. He
well pervide.”
“Oh, you'll get along!” said Don, feeling uncommonly lenient toward his
fellow men. “Here's a dollar if that will help you out a bit.”
“It will,” said Mr. Flathers reassuringly; “it undoubtedly will. I got
much to be thankful for, I know that. Fer instance I never was a poor
relation! That's more than lots of men kin say! The fact are, there
ain't airy one in my whole family connection what's got any more 'n I
have!”
The shower that had been threatening began now in earnest, and Donald
started toward town at a brisk canter, but before he had gone two
squares the rain was driving in sheets across the street, and he was
obliged to dismount and seek shelter in the doorway of an isolated
building that stood at the end of the common. It was a double door with
the upper parts in colored glass, on which was boldly lettered,
The CANT-PASS-IT SALOON.
In one of the windows a placard informed the famishing residents of
Billy-goat Hill that their thirst might not be assuaged until after
twelve o'clock on Sunday night.
As Donald stood in the doorway, an automobile turned the corner and
came to a stop, the lights from the lamps shining on the wet street, and
throwing everything outside their radius into sudden darkness.
A man got out of the machine and ran for shelter. He was coughing, and
held his collar close about his throat.
“Why, hello, Dillingham,” said Morley, recognizing him. “How did you get
out here?”
“Joy-riding,” said Dillingham with a curl of his lip. “Tried to make a
short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?”
“I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the
shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?”
Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a short,
sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory puffs under
his somewhat prominent eyes.
“Chilled to the bone,” he chattered. “I've got to get something to warm
me up. Is this a saloon?”
“Yes, but it's closed. Won't be open until midnight.”
Mr. Dillingham made a sweeping condemnation of a city administration
that would countenance such a proceeding, then set his wits to work to
evade the law.
“Whose joint is this, anyhow?” he asked, glancing up. “Sheeley's? Why,
of course. I've been out here to prize fights. He lives somewhere around
here. Ugh! but I'm cold. I'll be a corpse this time next week if I don't
head off this chill. Let's look him up and get a drink.”
Donald hesitated to spring the news of his reformation upon one who was
already in a weakened condition. He assured himself that he would refuse
when the time came. In the meanwhile no reason presented itself for
refusing to assist his friend in quest of a life-preserver.
“Sheeley used to live in one of those shacks over there. It's letting up
a bit, suppose we go over?” proposed Dillingham, shaking the water out
of his cap.
“Been out to the house to-day?” asked Donald as they splashed through
the mud.
“Just came from there. The truth is Margery and I have fixed things up
at last. Any congratulations?”
“To be sure,” said Donald, extending a wet hand, but frowning into the
darkness. “Have you told my sister?”
“Mrs. Sequin?” Dillingham smiled with superior amusement. “I guess
she didn't have to be told. I imagine she thought of it before we did.
Rather keen on me, you know, from the start.”
Donald drew in his breath but said nothing. Had it not been true, how he
would have enjoyed punching Dill's head!
“You get off to the Orient this week, I suppose,” went on Dillingham.
“Lucky devil! Decker asked me to go along. If it hadn't been for the
paternal grandparent I'd have gone in a minute, but he put his foot
down. When do you sail?”
“I've given up the trip. I'm going to buy a farm out near the Wickers',
and get down to work.”
Dillingham whistled incredulously:
“Yes, I see you doing it! You are counting on pulling off the Derby, I
suppose?”
“No, I'm not going to enter my horse.”
“What! Why Lickety-Split could win that race in a walk. All the crowd
say you stand to win. Here, this is the shanty; at least it's where he
used to live.”
A bright light streamed from the uncurtained window of a small cottage,
revealing a family group within. A fat, smiling woman in curl papers,