The sun had set; off beyond the glistening green woodline, the sky was duskily red. The air was full of that freshness of twilight, which is so different from the dew of morning.
Elliott left the bran-dance by a new road which was plain and characterless until he had passed through an unpretentious gate and was driving along the old elm avenue, a part of the Carr domain, which was undeniably picturesque. Shortly the elm branches came to an end and he entered a park, indifferently cared for, according to modern ideas, but well stocked with timber of magnificent growth and of almost every known native variety. Perhaps the oaks dominated in number and majesty, but they found worthy rivals in the towering elms.
Neglect is very picturesque in its effect, whether the thing neglected be a ruined castle or an unkept tangle. The unpicturesque things are those in which man’s artificial selection reigns supreme.
Had Elliott’s order-loving mother been with him, she would have observed that this park was ill-maintained, and that she would dearly love to have the thinning out and regulating of its trees. Whereas, to his less orderly fancy, it presented a most agreeable appearance. There was Nature’s charm wholly undisturbed by man, and what perhaps added the finishing touch to his satisfaction was the exceeding number of maples, in the perfect maturity of their growth. These straight and goodly trees so screened the house that he was very close before it could be seen. Even at the instant and before he had looked upon more than its gray stone frontage almost smothered in Virginia creepers, up to the very top of its rounded gables, Elliott was pleased.
It was a secluded place. Its position was, according to his taste, perfect. It had the blended charm of simple, harmonious form and venerable age. It faced almost southeast, the proper aspect for a country house, as it ensures morning cheerfulness all the year round, and the full advantage of whatever sunshine there is in winter from dawn practically to sundown and the exquisite effects of the rising of the moon.
Low-growing lilies breathed seductive fragrance, and the softness of the air permitted the gay party assembled to indulge in what would have been indiscretion in a more northerly climate. Young girls discarded their straw hats and danced upon the smooth, green lawn, while elderly chaperons could retire to the halls and porches if they feared the chill night air.
As Elliott approached the moonlit crowd of figures, Dorothy Carr came out to greet him. A young woman, tall and slight, with a figure lithe and graceful, made more perfect by ardent exercise. A skin which had never been permitted to lose its infant softness, with lips as pure as perfect health and lofty thoughts could make them. Her blown gold hair was lustrous and soft, and she carried herself with the modesty of the gentlewoman. Her blue eyes were dark, their brows pencilled with delicate precision combining a breadth that was both commanding and sweet.
“I am delighted to see you again, Mr. Harding,” Dorothy Carr said, graciously.
“And I am delighted to be here,” replied Elliott, as he turned with his fair hostess to a rude seat fixed about the bole of an oak.
“It was upon your grounds that we last met,” she added after a slight pause.
“Yes, and I have waited with some impatience for an invitation here, which came just to-day. You see how quickly I accepted.”
“What a dainty reproof,” she said, laughing. “But I have been away all the summer or you should have been invited here long ago.”
A few such commonplaces passed between them, then Dorothy referred to Elliott’s speech, which she had listened to with interest.
“I was so suddenly called upon that I did little justice to the subject, and it is a subject of such grave responsibility. But perhaps it is just as well that I did not have time to present it more strongly for it appears to have been already misunderstood, and I hear that not a few have branded me with all sorts of bad names. I trust I have not fallen under your condemnation.”
“Well, to be frank, I think you exhibited a somewhat fanatical anxiety to lecture people differently circumstanced,” she answered gravely. “Yet I did not condemn you. I hope you give me credit for more liberality than that. You are new to our land, and have much to grow accustomed to. We should not expect you at once to see this matter as we do,” was the evasive reply.
“She certainly does not lack the courage of her convictions,” he thought. Then aloud:
“You evidently think I shall alter my views?” this in his airily candid manner; “I stated the true conditions of affairs, just as I understand them.”
“There is the trouble. The true condition is not as you and many others understand it.”
“Then let us hope that I may fully comprehend before a great while. I at least intend to make the best of this opportunity, for, as you may know, I have settled permanently in Georgetown.”
She looked up with a beautiful aloofness in her eyes. The brave mouth, with its full, sensitive lips, was strong, yet delicate.
“I am glad to hear that, for then you can hardly fail, sooner or later, to feel as we do about the subject of your to-day’s discussion. I hope to help you to think kindly of your new home.”
“Nothing could be more comforting than this from you,” he assured her, with that frank manner which suited well the fearless expression of his face. “I am now delightfully quartered with my kinsman, Mr. Field, whose acres join yours, I believe; so we shall be neighbors.”
Then they laughed. “We are really to be neighbors after all our quarrel in the mountains? Well!” she added, hospitably, “a cover will always be laid for you at our table, and you shall have due warning of any entertainment that may take place. It shall be my duty to see that you are thoroughly won over to the South; to her traditions as well as her pleasures.”
“But changing this flippant subject to one of graver importance, just now; there is one thing absolutely necessary for you Kentuckians to learn before you win me.” His face lighted with a charming smile.
“What is that?” she asked.
“You must first know how to make Manhattan cocktails.”
She answered with a pretty pout, “I—we can make them now; why shouldn’t we? Doesn’t all the good whiskey you get up North come from the bluegrass state?”
Amused at her loyalty, Elliott assented willingly: “That is a fact. And I like your whiskey,—a little of it—I like your state—all of it—its bluegrass, its thoroughbreds, and its women. But, you will pardon me, there is something wanting in its cocktails, perhaps—it’s the cherry!”
“A fault that can be easily remedied, and—suppose we did succeed, would you belong to us?”
“I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly.
Here the music of the two-step stopped, and Uncle Josh, the old negro fiddler, famous the country over for calling the figures of the dance, straightened himself with dignity, and called loudly:
“Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!”
Dorothy could not keep the mirth from her lips. Uncle Josh was not measuring time by heartbeats but the cravings of his stomach; his immortal soul was his immortal appetite. However, whatever motive inspired him to fix the supper time, it proved efficacious, and partners were soon chosen and the dancing began again as vigorously as ever.
Dorothy and Elliott were not slow in joining the other dancers and glided through the dreamy measures which Uncle Josh, despite his longing to eat, drew forth sweetly from his old, worn fiddle. He was the soul of melody and had an eye to widening his range of selections and his inimitable technique appreciating the demands upon his art. When, with an extra flourish, Uncle Josh eventually brought the music to an end, Mr. Carr, with his easy Southern manner, courteously invited every one in to supper. He led the way, accompanied by Elliott Harding and Dorothy.
How pretty the dining-room looked! Its half-light coming through soft low tones of pink. Big rosy balls of sweet clover, fresh from the home fields, were massed in cream tinted vases, bunched over pictures and trailed down in lovely confusion about the window and straggling over door frames. Upon the long table stood tall candlesticks and candelabras many prismed, with branching vines twisted in and out in quaint fashion, bearing tall candles tipped with pink shades. From the centre of the ceiling to each corner of the room first, then to regular distances, were loosely stretched chains of pink and white clovers. Large bows of ribbon held these lengths in place where they met the chair board. In each corner close to the wall were jars which, in their pretty pink dresses of crinkled paper held in place by broad ribbon sashes, would scarcely be recognized as the old butter pots of our grandmothers’ days. From these jars grew tufts of rooted clover. Even the old fireplace and broad mantel were decked with these blossoms.
At each side of the table stood two glass bowls filled with branches of clover leaves only; one lot tied with pink ribbon, the other with white. When supper was served these bowls were passed around while Dorothy repeated the pretty tradition of the four-leaf clover. Then commenced the merry hunt for the prize that only two could win. Bright eyes and deft fingers searched their leaves through.
While this went on, in the dining-room just outside, under the moon and the maples, near the kitchen door, was another scene as joyous, if not so fair. At the head of the musician’s banquetting board sat Uncle Josh, hospitably helping each to the good things Aunt Chloe had heaped before them in accordance with the orders of “her white folks.” She was considered one of the most important members of the Carr household, having been in the service of the family for thirty years, being a blend of nurse, cook and lady’s maid.
As Uncle Josh’s brown, eager hands greedily grasped the mint julep, and held it sparkling between him and the light, with a broad smile on his beaming face, he exultantly exclaimed:
“De Lawd love her soul, Miss Dor’thy, nebber is ter fergit we all. Talk erbout de stars! She’s ’way ’bove dem.”
While he and his companions drank mint julep in token that his grateful sentiment was recognized as a toast to the fine hostess, the dining-room was ringing with laughter and congratulations over Elliott Harding’s victory, he having found one of the four-leaved trophies.
“Where is its mate?” was the eager question as nimble fingers and sharp eyes searched over the little bunches right and left again, anxious to find this potent charm against evil. The search, however, was vain. Some one asked if its loss meant that Mr. Harding should live unwedded for the rest of his days.
The evening closed with jokes of his bachelorhood.
By midnight the dining-room was still, the table cleared, the only sign of what had been was the floor with its scattered leaves.
All tired out with the long hours of gayety, Dorothy had hurried off to bed. There was a little crushed four-leaved clover fastened upon her nightgown as she lay down to her sweet, mysterious, girlish dreams.