The Man in Gray: A Romance of North and South Part 49

They entered the fine old house, and sat down in the hall. Cook smiled at the easy fulfillment of his task. Directly in front of the door, set in a deep panel, was the portrait of the first President. On the right in a smaller panel hung the sword which Frederick the Great had given him. On the other side, the pistols from the hands of Lafayette. A tiny, gold plate, delicately engraved, marked each treasure.

Virginia showed him these souvenirs of her country's history. She spoke of them with breathless awe. She laughed with girlish pride.

"Aren't they just grand?"

Cook nodded.

He felt guilty of treachery. A betrayal of Southern hospitality in this sweet girl's presence! He ground his teeth at the thought of his weakness the next moment.

Colonel Washington appeared through the door from the dining room. He was followed by his ancient butler, bearing a tray filled with drinks.

The Colonel served them with his own hand. The negro grinned his welcome to the guests. At the sight of a slave, Cook was himself again. His jaw closed and his eye flashed. He was once more the disciple of the Man of the Blood-Feud.

Washington handed a tall gla.s.s to Virginia.

"Your lemonade, young lady. I know your taste and approve."

He bowed low and gave her the drink.

He took two gla.s.ses of mint juleps, one in each hand.

"Mr. Cook, the favorite drink of these mountains, sir, as pure as its dews, as refreshing as its air--the favorite drink of old Virginia. To your good health, sir!"

Cook's head barely moved and he drank in silence.

He held his mood of reserve on the drive home. In vain the girl smiled and coaxed his dreary spirits. He refused to respond. They pa.s.sed the same wonderful views, the same birds were singing, the same waters foaming and laughing over the rocks below. The man heard nothing, saw nothing, save a vision inside his raging soul. He saw men riding through the night to that house. He saw black hands grip iron pikes and knock at the door of its great hall.

There was a far-away look in his keen eyes--eyes that could sight a rifle with deadly aim.

The slender girl nestled closer in wonder at the veil that had suddenly dropped between them. The fires of youth and pa.s.sion responded for a moment to this instinctive stir of his mate. Resistance was agony. His arm moved to encircle her waist. He turned in an impulse to kiss her lips and whisper the mad things his heart was saying.

He caught himself in time.

What had he to do with this eternal call of the human heart to love and be loved? It meant home, it meant tenderness. It meant peace and good will to every living thing. He had come to kill, not to love; to destroy, not build homes.

Again he rebelled against his hideous task. And then he remembered John Brown and all for which he stood. His oath crashed through his memory.

He resolved to put every thought of tenderness, beauty, and love under his feet and trample them. It was the only way to save himself and this girl.

It would be hard--but he would do it. For an entire week he did not speak to her except in monosyllables. He made no effort to hide his decision. He wanted her to see and know the firm purpose within his heart.

Her eyes followed him with a look of dumb anguish. If she had spoken in reproaches he would have fought and withstood her. Her silence was more than he could bear.

On the sixth day of his resolution he saw that she had been crying. She smiled and tried to hide it, but he knew. He would go for a walk to the Heights and cheer her up a bit. It wasn't necessary to be brutal.

Her brown eyes began to smile again. They walked over the Heights and down a steep pathway among the rocks to the river's edge and sat down on a boulder worn smooth by the waters of the spring floods.

The ripple of the current made soft music. They were silent for a long time and then she turned toward him a tender, questioning gaze. In spite of her effort to be strong a tear stole down the firm young cheek.

"What have I done to make you angry?"

"Nothing," he answered in a whisper.

"What's the matter, then?"

He took her hand and held it in a cruel grip before he spoke. His words came at last in pa.s.sionate pleading.

"Oh, dear little girl, can't you see how I've been fighting this thing for months--how I've tried to keep away from you and couldn't?"

"Why?"

She breathed the question leaning so close that her lips framed a kiss.

"I can't tell you," he said.

"But you must! You must!" she pleaded.

Tears were in his eyes now. He looked away.

"A gulf separates us, child."

"How can it?" she whispered tenderly.

"It's just there!"

"Can't you cross it?"

"No."

She drew her slender body erect with an effort. She tried to speak twice before she succeeded.

"You--are--married--then?"

"Oh--no--no--not that--no!"

She bent close again, a sweet smile breaking through her tears.

"Then you can tell me what it is."

"I couldn't tell it, even to my wife."

Her brow contracted in a puzzled look.

"It's nothing low or dishonorable?"

"No. And it belongs to the big things of life-and death."

"And I cannot know this secret?"