CAPTAIN MIDDLETON HAS A TEST OF PEACE, AND IS ORDERED WEST

The next day there was much stir in the county, at least about the court-house, and it was known that Middleton had summoned Leech before him and had had an interview with him, which rumor said was stormy, and that it had ended by the Provost being sent to his room, it was said, under arrest.

So much was certain, Middleton after this took charge of matters which up to this time Leech had been attending to, and Leech remained out of sight until he left the place, which he did two days later. One of the first steps Middleton took was to summon the negroes before him and give them a talk. And he closed his speech by a warning that they should keep order wherever they were, declaring, that if there were any repetition of Moses’s performance of the previous night the offender would not escape so easily.

The effect of his act was admirable. By nightfall nearly every negro who was not employed about the county seat had left, and within two days many of them were at work, back at their old homes.

Middleton found himself suddenly as popular as he had formerly been unpopular, receiving visits and invitations from half the gentlemen in the place, so that Thurston said it was just the old story: he set the triggers and worked everything, and Middleton just walked in and took the game.

“Here I have been working like a nigger,” he said to Middleton, “watching around and following that fellow Leech in all his rascality; displaying the most consummate qualities of leadership, and singing my head off, and you happen to come along, pick up a driver’s whip and let into a drunken rascal, talk a lot of rot next morning, and in five minutes do what I with all my genius haven’t been able to do in as many months. It’s the old story, Larry, it’s fate! What did I tell you? Long legs are worth more to a man than a long head. But, Larry, look out for Leech. He’s a blood-sucker. Tra-la; I have an engagement. Might as well get some of the good of your glory, old man, while it lasts, you know. Beauty fadeth as a flower.” And leaving Middleton over his report, the cheery little Lieutenant went off to have a ride with Miss Dockett, who, in view of certain professions of his and proceedings of his Captain’s the night before, had honored him so far as to vouchsafe him that privilege.

Reely Thurston’s half humorous warning to his friend was not without foundation, as both he and Middleton knew, and within a week the Captain was up to his ears in reports and correspondence relative to his conduct in the county.

The quietness of everything around him was a fact to which he pointed with pride; the restoration of order throughout the county was a proof of the wisdom of his course. Crime had diminished; order had been restored; good feeling had grown up; the negroes had returned to work, and were getting regular wages. They were already beginning to save a little and some were buying land. The whites had accepted the status of affairs in good faith and were, he believed, turning all their energies to meet the exigencies of the time in the best way they could. In a word, peace was fully restored in the territory under his command. He congratulated himself that he was able to state a condition of affairs so entirely in accord with the observation of the commander-in-chief of the armies, who about that time visited the State and made a similar report on it. Even Reely Thurston commended Middleton’s report, and confided to Miss Dockett, who was beginning to receive such confidences more graciously of late, that “Larry had somewhere, in that high head of his, a deuced lot of brains,” a compliment which the young Captain would have taken more gratefully from him than from any other soul on earth.

Another cause of content was just then beginning to have its effect on Middleton. Miss Cary was beginning to treat him with some degree of Christian charity, and actually condescended to take a ride with him on horseback, and when he proved himself sufficiently appreciative of this honor, took another.

So things went, and before the summer evenings were over, the young Captain had ridden to the point where he had given Blair Cary all the confidences which a young man in his twenties is likely to give the prettiest girl in his circle of acquaintance, especially when she is the only one whose eyes soften a little at the recital, and who responds a bit by giving just a little of her own. Not that Miss Cary for a moment allowed Middleton to forget that on the one great subject always present, the world stretched between them. They were enemies. Between them there was never more than a truce. She would be his friend while it lasted; but never more. That was all! Her skirmish-line, so to speak, exchanged courtesies with his; but, on the first suggestion of a signal, sprang to her rifle-pits.

She always wore, when she rode, a gray cap, which Middleton, without asking any questions, knew had been her brother’s. It was a badge, and the young man recognized it as such. She still wore her brass buttons, and would never give him one of them. One afternoon, as they were returning from a ride in which he had told her all about Ruth Welch, dwelling somewhat on their cousinship, they stopped at the ford where he had gone to Blair’s rescue the day her horse fell, and he asked her casually if she would give him one of the buttons to save his life. She quietly said “No,” and he believed her. Yet this made little difference to the young man. He was not in love with her, he was sure. He only enjoyed her. And the summer evenings which he spent at Birdwood, or riding with her through the arching woods, were the pleasantest he had ever known. As they watered their horses at the ford that afternoon no less than four other couples came riding up on their way home, and there was quite a little levee held in the limpid stream, Middleton finding himself taken into the talk and raillery quite as a member of the circle. The far-off call of ploughmen to their teams in the low-grounds of Red Rock and the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures came muffled on the soft air, while a woodlark in the woods along the waterside sang its brilliant song to its tardy mate with a triumph born only of security and peace. As Captain Middleton looked at the faded gray coats and his blue one, the numbers doubled by the reflection in the placid stream, and listened to the laughter about him, he could not but think what a picture and proof of peace it was. And Miss Cary was the prettiest girl in the party.

Suddenly one of the horses became restive, and slashed away at the nearest horse to him. Blair, in pulling her horse out of the way, got under an overhanging bough and her cap was knocked from her head into the water. She gave a little cry of dismay as it floated down the stream, and at her call more than one of the young men turned his horse to recover the cap; but Middleton was nearest, and he spurred straight into the deep water below the ledge and swam for the cap, reaching it just before the others got it. He was pleased at the applause he received when he returned.

Miss Cary only said “thank you,” as she might have said it if he had picked the cap from the floor.

Not all the county people, however, acquiesced so entirely in receiving Middleton on so friendly a basis; some did not see why a Yankee officer should be taken up as a friend.

There was one young man who did not appreciate at least Middleton’s mode of exhibiting his friendliness. Steve and Middleton had become very good friends; but Jacquelin Gray, as jealous as Othello, grew more and more reserved toward the young officer, and began to give himself many airs about his attentions to Blair Cary. If anything, this only incited Blair to show Middleton greater favor, and at last the young lady gave Jacquelin to understand that she intended to do just as she pleased and did not propose to be held accountable by him for anything whatever.

The evening of the ride on which Blair lost her cap and Middleton recovered it for her, Jacquelin had driven over “to see the doctor,” he said, and found her gone off with Middleton. As Dr. Cary was away, visiting his patients, which Jacquelin might have known, and Mrs. Cary was confined to her room that day, Jacquelin was left to himself and had plenty of time as he sat on the porch all alone, to chew the cud of bitter fancy, and reflect on the caprices of a part of the human race. He was not much consoled when Mammy Krenda came out and, with kindly sympathy, said:

“You too late—you better make haste an’ git off dem crutches, honey, and git ’pon horseback. Crutches can’t keep up with horses.” She disappeared within and Jacquelin was left in a flame of jealousy. By the time Blair arrived he was in just the state of mind to make a fool of himself. When Jacquelin began the interview, he, perhaps, had no idea of going as far as his heat carried him; but unhappily he lost his head—or as much of a head as a man can have who is deeply in love and, having gone to see his sweetheart, finds her off riding with a rival.

It was quite dusk when the riders rode slowly up the avenue. They stopped at the gate, and Jacquelin could hear Blair’s cordial invitation to her companion to come in and take supper with them. Middleton declined.

“But I’m afraid you will catch cold, riding so far in wet clothes,” she urged. He, however, had to return immediately, he declared, and after a few more words he galloped off, while Blair came on to the house.

“Why, Jacquelin! You here all by yourself!” she exclaimed. She bent over him quickly to prevent his rising for her. Had Jacquelin been cool enough to note her voice it might have saved him; but he was not even looking at her. His manner hauled her up short, and the next instant hers had changed. She seated herself and tried for a few moments to be light and divert him. She told of the episode at the ford. Jacquelin, however, was not to be diverted, and, taking the silence which presently fell on her for a confession, he began to assume a bolder tone, and proceeded to take her to task for her conduct.

“It was an outrage—an outrage on—Steve. It was shameful,” he said, “that with such a man as Steve offering his heart to her, she should be boldly encouraging a Yankee officer, so that everybody in the county was talking about it.” It was when he said it was an outrage on Steve that the explosion came. Blair was on her feet in a second.

“Jacquelin!” she exclaimed, with a gasp. The next second she had found her voice. He had never seen her as she became. It was a new Blair standing above him, tall and straight in the dusk, her frame trembling, her voice vibrating. She positively flamed with indignation, not because of the charge, but against him for making it.

“Whose business is it?” she asked him, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. If her father and mother did not object, had he a right to interfere? If Steve were not satisfied, could not he take care of himself? Who had given him such a right? And before Jacquelin could recover from his surprise, she had burst into tears and rushed into the house.

Jacquelin drove home in black despair. He had been put wholly in the wrong, and yet he felt that he had had right originally on his side. His whole past appeared suddenly rooted up; his whole future destroyed by this new-comer, this hostile interloper. How he would love to have some cause of personal quarrel with him! How gladly he would put it all to the test of one meeting. Yet what had Middleton done but win fairly! and he had been a gentleman always. Jacquelin was forced to admit this. But oh! if he only had a just cause of quarrel! Let him look out hereafter. But—if he were to meet him and he should fall, what would be the consequence? He would only have ruined Blair’s happiness and have destroyed his only hope. He almost ground his teeth at his helplessness as he drove home through the dusk. He did not know that at that moment Blair Cary, with locked door, was sobbing in her little white-curtained room, her anger no longer turned against him, but against herself.

When Jacquelin awoke the next morning it was with a sinking at the heart. Blair was lost to him forever. Daylight, however, is a great restorer of courage, and, little by little, his spirits revived, until by evening he began to consider himself a most ill-used person, and to fancy Blair suing for pardon. He even found himself nursing an idea that she would write a note; but instead of that, he heard that Middleton had been up to see her again, and once more his heart sank and his anger rose. He would show her that he was not to be trampled on and insulted as she had done.

When Middleton arrived at the court-house the afternoon of his ride, he found an order transferring his company to a frontier post in the far Northwest. They were to leave immediately.

The same train by which the old company was to go was to bring its successor.

The afternoon before his company left, Middleton rode up to Birdwood. He had given no one any notice, and he arrived unexpectedly. No one was in sight. The lawn appeared as deserted as if it were in the heart of a wilderness. The trees were as quiet as if Nature herself were asleep, and the sound of a dove cooing far down in the grove only intensified the quietude. Tying his horse, Middleton walked up through the grove. As he passed along he happened to cast his eyes in the direction of the little double building, which was off to one side at some distance back of the dwelling, and seeing the old mammy enter one of the doors he turned that way, thinking that she might come out, and he would ask if the family were at home. He stopped in front of the nearest door and looked in. It was the kitchen, and he was facing, not the mammy—who as a matter of fact, had entered another door—but Miss Cary herself. She was dressed in a white dress, and her skirt was turned back and pinned about her slender waist; her sleeves were rolled up, showing her round, white arms. She was busy with a bread-tray. Middleton would have drawn back, but Blair looked up and their eyes met. There was a moment of half embarrassment, and Middleton was about to draw back and apologize for his intrusion, but before he could do so she came forward, smiling.

“Won’t you come in?” she said, “or will you walk into the house?” The color had mounted to her cheeks, and the half mocking smile had still a little embarrassment in it; but Middleton thought she had never looked so charming. His heart gave a bound.

“Can you doubt what I will do?” He stepped over the high threshold. “Even if I be but scullion——”

“You must have been taking lessons from the General. Here—no one was ever allowed in here who would not work.” She gave him a rolling-pin, and he set to work with it industriously.

“This comes of your doing,” she said, still smiling. “I am the only cook left. Why don’t you detail me one? If you were worth a button you would.”

“How would I do?” hazarded Middleton. “I’m a pretty good cook.”

“Aunt Betty wouldn’t have let you come into the kitchen if you handled your rolling-pin that way. Let me show you.”

“Which is the best argument yet for the change of cooks,” said Middleton, guilefully holding the rolling-pin more and more awkwardly, for the very pleasure of being set right by her. “Now, don’t you think I am worth a button?”

“No, but you may learn.”

“Unfortunately, I am going away.”

“Are you?—When are you coming back?”—A polite little tone coming into her voice.

“Never.” He tried to say it as indifferently as he had said it in practising when he rode up, which he liked better than the tragic “Never!” which he had first proposed to himself; and all the time he was watching her out of the tail of his eye. She said nothing, and he felt a little disappointed.

“We are ordered away—” he began. She was busying herself about something. But he was sure she had heard. “—to the Northwest to keep the Indians down,” he proceeded.

“Oh!” She turned quickly toward him, and their eyes met.

“Well, I hope you’ll be as successful and find your task as pleasant there as you have here.” Her head had gone up, as it did on the veranda the night of the ball.

“I do not appear to have been particularly successful here,” Middleton began, banteringly, then walked over to her side. “Miss Cary, do you think I have really enjoyed my task here?”

“Why—yes,” she began; then she glanced up and found him grave. “I don’t know—I thought——”

“No,” said Middleton, “you did not.”

Just at that moment a shadow fell across the light, and Mammy Krenda stood in the door.

“Well—I declare!” she exclaimed, with well-feigned astonishment. “What in the worl’ air you doin’ in this kitchen?”

They both thought she was addressing Middleton, and he began to stammer a reply; but it was her young mistress whose presence there appeared to scandalize the old woman.

“Don’t you know you ain’ got no business in heah? I can’t turn my back to git nothin’, but what you come interferin’ wid my things. Go right in de house dis minute and put yo’ nice clo’es on. I air really ashamed o’ you to let a gent—a—anybody see you dat way.” She was pushing Blair out gently. “I don’ know what she air doin’ in heah,” she said to Middleton, addressing him for the first time, and with some disdain in her manner, as if she wished him to understand that he had no business there either.

As Blair passed him on her way out she said to him in a whisper, with a low laugh:

“That’s a yarn. I do nearly all the cooking since our cook went off, but she thinks it’s beneath my dignity to be caught at it.”

They did not go into the house, but walked over through the grove and sat down on the grass on the farther slope overlooking the rolling lands, with the blue spurs in the distance. There Middleton threw himself at Blair’s feet. He had made up his mind to stake all before he left. As the old mammy passed from the kitchen to the house she made a little detour and cast a glance through the grove. The glint of a white dress through the trees caught her eye, and she gave a little sniff as she went on.

An hour later, Middleton, his face as grave as it had ever been in battle, mounted his horse and rode away without returning to the house, and Blair Cary walked back through the grove alone. She turned across to the smaller house which the old mammy occupied. It was empty, and she entered and flung herself on the snowy counterpaned bed.

The old woman came in a moment later. She gave the girl a swift glance, and, turning to the window, dropped the white curtain to shut out the slanting afternoon sun.

“‘Taint no use to ’sturb yo’self, honey; he ain’ gone.” she said, sympathizingly. “He comin’ back jest so sho’ as I live.”

“He has gone,” said Blair, suddenly, with some vehemence. “I have sent him away. I wish he had never come.” But was she thinking of Middleton?

The old woman had turned and was looking down at her from where she stood.

“An’ I glad you is,” she said. “I ain’t like Yankees, no way. Dat deah Leech man——”

“Mammy,” said Blair, rising, “I do not wish you to speak so of a gentleman—who—who has been our guest.”

“Yes, honey, dat’s so,” said the old woman, simply, without the least surprise. “Mammy, won’t say no more about him. What I got to do wid abusin’ a gent’man, nohow!”

“Oh! Mammy!” said the girl, throwing her arms about her, and the old woman only said:

“Yes, honey—yes—yes. But don’t you pester yoreself. ’T’ll all come right.”

Next evening the news that Middleton and his company were ordered away was known. Jacquelin was conscious of his heart giving a bound of joy. He would be only cool and chilling to Blair and show her by his manner how disapprovingly he regarded her conduct. After a little, this mood changed and he began to think it would be more manly to be only very dignified and yet show her that he was above harboring little feelings. He would be generous and forgive her. When, however, he met Blair, she was so far from showing any contrition, that she was actually savage to him; so that instead of having an opportunity to display his lofty feelings, Jacquelin found himself thrown into a situation of the strongest hostility to her, and after a lifetime of friendship they scarcely spoke. Their friends tried to patch up the quarrel, but in vain. Jacquelin felt himself now really aggrieved, and Blair declined to allow even the mention of him. Her severity toward him was almost incomprehensible.