When Richard Pinckney came down to breakfast that morning, he found Miss Pinckney seated at the table reading letters.

“Phyl went out early and has not come back yet,” said she putting the letters 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 of Phyl or her whereabouts. Richard’s engagement to Frances Rhett was still dominating her mind, casting a shadow upon everything. It was like a death in the family.

“I hope she’s not bothered about what happened last night,” went on Richard. “I didn’t tell you at the time, but I had—some words with Silas Grangerson, and—Phyl was there. Silas is a fool, but it’s just as well the thing happened for it has brought matters to a head. I want to tell you 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 left last night. I was in a temper about a lot of things, and the business with Silas put the cap on it. Anyhow, we had words, and the thing is broken off.”

“Oh, dear me,” said Miss Pinckney. The joyful shock of the news seemed to have reduced her mind to chaos for a moment. One could not have told from her 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 found her 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 this might be, and now that the Lord has heard my prayer and answered it, I feel 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 had no thought only for you. I’ve spoken against the girl, and wished against her, and felt bad in my heart against her, and now it’s all over I’m just cast down.”

“She did not care for me,” said Pinckney. “Why she was laughing at me last night with him. They were sitting outside together, and when I passed them I heard them laughing at me.”

Miss Pinckney put her handkerchief away, drew in her chair, and poured herself 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 girls and girls. I know them, and time and again I’ve seen girls hanging themselves 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 has guessed that they aren’t—That crab apple labelling itself a pippin and daring to laugh at you! And that long loony Silas Grangerson, a man without a penny to bless himself with, a creature whose character is just kinks. Well, I’m sure—pass me the butter—laughing at you. And what were they laughing at pray? Aren’t you straight and the best looking man in Charleston? Couldn’t you buy the Rhetts twice over if you wanted to buy such rubbish? Aren’t you the top man in Charleston in name and position and character? Why, they’ll be laughing at the jokes in the N’York papers next—They’ll be appreciating their own good sense and cleverness and personal 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 just this, she and I were never meant for each other, and I found it out, and found it out in time. You see the engagement was never made public, so the breaking of it won’t do her any harm. She would not let me tell people about 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 harm done.”

“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 to either 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 it off.”

“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 gaze wandered to the glimpse of garden visible through the open window and rested there. She was old, she had seen friend and relative fade and vanish, the Mascarenes, the Pinckneys, children, old people, all had become part of that mystery, the past. Richard alone remained to her, and Phyl. On the morning of Phyl’s arrival Miss Pinckney had felt just as though some door had opened to let this visitor in from the world of long ago. It was not only her likeness to Juliet Mascarene, but all the associations that likeness brought with it. Vernons became alive again, as in 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 tell you something I’d never have spoken of if you didn’t care for her. It may be an old woman’s fancy, but Phyl is more to us, seems to me, than we think, she’s Juliet come back—Oh, it’s more than the likeness. I’m sure I can’t explain what I mean, it’s just she herself that’s the same. There’s a 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 absurd than to be born, and look at that butterfly, what’s more absurd than to tell me that yesterday it was a worm? Well, it doesn’t much matter whether she was Juliet or not, now she’s going to be yours, and to save you from that pasty—no matter she’s over and done with, but I reckon she’s laughing on the wrong side of her face this morning.”

Miss Pinckney rose from the table. The absence of Phyl did not disturb her. Phyl sometimes stayed out and forgot meals, though this was the first time she had been late for breakfast. Richard, who had business to transact that morning in the town looked at his watch.

“I’m going to Philips’, the lawyers,” said he, “and then I’ll look in at the club. I’ll be back to luncheon.”

An hour later to Miss Pinckney engaged in dusting the drawing-room appeared Rachel the cook.

Rachel was the most privileged of the servants, a trustworthy woman with a character and will of her own, and absolutely devoted to the interests of the house.

“Mistress Pinckney,” said the coloured woman closing the door. “Ole Colonel Grangerson’s coachman’s in de kitchen, an’ he says Miss Phyl’s been an’ run off with young Silas Grangerson dis very mornin’.”

Miss Pinckney without dropping the duster stood silent for a moment before Rachel. Then she broke out.

“Miss Phyl run off with young Silas Grangerson! What on earth are you talking about, what rubbish is this, who’s dared to come here talking such nonsense? 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 Grangerville by 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 to pass 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, left the room and went to the kitchen.

Prue was still in her corner by the fireplace, and Colonel Grangerson’s coloured man was seated at the table finishing a meal and talking to Dinah who scuttled away as he rose up before the apparition of Miss Pinckney.

“What’s all this nonsense you have been talking,” said she, “coming here saying Miss Phyl has run away with Mr. Silas? She started out this morning to meet him and drive to Grangersons; I’m going there myself at eleven—and you come here talking of people running away. Do you know you could be put in prison for saying things like that? You dare to say it again 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 hand closed on it. Colonel Grangerson’s man, grey and clutching at his hat, did not wait for the sequel, he bolted.

Then the unfortunate woman, nearly fainting, but supported by her grand common sense and her invincible nature, left the kitchen and, followed by Rachel, went to the library. Here she sat down for a moment to collect herself whilst Rachel stood watching her and waiting.

“It is so and it’s not so,” said she at last, talking half to herself half to the woman. “It’s some trick of Silas Grangerson’s. But the main thing is no one must know. We have got to get her back. No one must know—Rachel, go and find Seth and send him off at once to the garage place and tell them to let me have an automobile at once, at once, mind you. 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 knees by the big settee adjoining the writing table and began to wrestle with the situation in prayer. Miss Pinckney was not overgiven to prayer. She held that worriting the Almighty eternally about all sorts of nonsense, as some people do who pray for “direction” and weather, etc., was bad form to say the least of it. She even went further than that, and held that praising 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 morning instead of getting on with their work, she would know exactly what it meant—Laziness or concealed broken china, or both.

But in moments of supreme stress and difficulty, Miss Pinckney was a believer in prayer. Her prayer now was speechless, one might compare it to a mental wrestle with the abominable situation before God.

When she rose from her knees everything was clear to her. Two things were evident. 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 twice over.

Miss Pinckney had many faults and limitations, but she had the grand common sense of a clean heart and a clear mind. She could tell a lie with a good conscience in a good cause, but to hide even a small fault of her own, the threat of death on the scaffold would not have made her tell a lie.

She went to the writing table now and taking a sheet of paper, wrote:

She read the note over. If all went well then everything would be well. If the worst occurred then she could explain everything to Richard.

It was a desperate gamble; well she knew how the dice were loaded against her, 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 with Colonel Grangerson’s coloured man, but she well knew how coloured servants talk; Grangerson’s man was safe enough, he was frightened and he would have to get back to Grangerville. Rachel was absolutely safe, Dinah alone was doubtful.

She called Rachel in, gave her the note for Richard and told her to keep a close 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 has done a foolish thing, but there’s no harm in it, only what fools will make of 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 mouth to say more’n ‘potatoes’ I’ll dress her down so’s she won’t know which end of her’s which.”

Miss Pinckney went upstairs, dressed hurriedly, packed a few things in a bag 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, and then advanced to open the door.

“Why, God bless my soul, it’s you,” cried the Colonel. “What has happened?”

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 to Charleston to attend some dance or another. What on earth is the matter with you, Maria?”

“Come in here,” said Miss Pinckney. She went into the drawing room and they shut the door.

“Silas has run away with Phyl,” said she, “that’s what’s the matter with me. Your son has taken that girl off, Seth Grangerson, and may God have mercy 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 by any one else, would have caused an explosion.

“But when did it happen,” he asked, “and where have they gone? Explain yourself, Maria. Good God! Why the fellow never spoke to her scarcely—are you sure of what you say?”

Miss Pinckney told her tale.

“I came here to try and get her back,” said she, “thinking he and she might possibly have come here or that you might know their whereabouts—they have not come, but there is just the chance that they may come here yet.”

“But if they have run off with each other,” said the Colonel, “how are we to stop them—they’ll be married by this.”

Miss Pinckney who had taken off her gloves sat down and began to fold them, 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 not badly 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 her coffin than married to Silas—There, you have it plain and straight. He’ll make her life a misery. Let me speak, Seth Grangerson, you are just going to hear the truth for once. You have ruined that boy the way you’ve brought him up, he was crazy wild to start with and you’ve never checked him. Oh, I know, he has always been respectful to you and flattered your pride and vanity, he calls you sir when he speaks to you, and you are the only person in the world to whom he shews respect. I don’t say he acts like that from any double dealing motive, it’s just the old southern tradition he’s inherited; he does respect you, and I daresay he’s fond of you, but he respects nothing else, especially women. I know him. And I know her, and he’ll make her life a misery. If he’d left her alone she’d have been happy. Richard loves her, and would have made her a good husband. My mind was set on it, and now it’s all over.”

Miss Pinckney began to weep, and the Colonel who had been swelling himself up found his anger collapsing. She was only a woman. Women have queer fancies—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 use in laying down the law for young people or making plans for their marriages. Leave it in the hands of Providence. The most carefully arranged marriages often turn out the worst, and a scratch match has often as not turned out happily. Anyhow, you will stay here till news comes of them?”

“Yes, I will stay,” said Miss Pinckney.