Part 82 (1/2)

”Stephen Brice, did you say?” he cried, ”will he die?”

In his astonishment the Doctor pa.s.sed his palm across his brow, and for a moment he did not answer. Virginia had taken a step from him, and was standing motionless, almost rigid, her eyes on his face.

”Die?” he said, repeating the word mechanically; ”my G.o.d, I hope not.

The danger is over, and he is resting easily. If he were not,” he said quickly and forcibly, ”I should not be here.”

The Doctor's mare pa.s.sed more than one fleet--footed trotter on the road to town that day. And the Doctor's black servant heard his master utter the word ”fool” twice, and with great emphasis.

For a long time Virginia stood on the end of the porch, until the heaving of the buggy harness died on the soft road, She felt Clarence gaze upon her before she turned to face him.

”Virginia!” He had called her so of late. ”Yes, dear.”

”Virginia, sit here a moment; I have something to tell you.”

She came and took the chair beside him, her heart beating, her breast rising and falling. She looked into his eyes, and her own lashes fell before the hopelessness there But he put out his fingers wasted by illness, and she took them in her own.

He began slowly, as if every word cost him pain.

”Virginia, we were children together here. I cannot remember the time when I did not love you, when I did not think of you as my wife. All I did when we played together was to try to win your applause. That was my nature I could not help it. Do you remember the day I climbed out on the rotten branch of the big pear tree yonder to get you that pear--when I fell on the roof of Alfred's cabin? I did not feel the pain. It was because you kissed it and cried over me. You are crying now,” he said tenderly. ”Don't, Jinny. It isn't to make you sad that I am saying this.

”I have had a great deal of time to think lately, Jinny, I was not brought up seriously,--to be a man. I have been thinking of that day just before you were eighteen, when you rode out here. How well I remember it. It was a purple day. The grapes were purple, and a purple haze was over there across the river. You had been cruel to me. You were grown a woman then, and I was still nothing but a boy. Do you remember the doe coming out of the forest, and how she ran screaming when I tried to kiss you? You told me I was good for nothing. Please don't interrupt me. It was true what you said, that I was wild and utterly useless, I had never served or pleased any but myself,--and you. I had never studied or worked, You were right when you told me I must learn something,--do something,--become of some account in the world. I am just as useless to day.”

”Clarence, after what you have done for the South?”

He smiled with peculiar bitterness.

”What have I done for her?” he added. ”Crossed the river and burned houses. I could not build them again. Floated down the river on a log after a few percussion caps. That did not save Vicksburg.”

”And how many had the courage to do that?” she exclaimed.

”Pooh,” he said, ”courage! the whole South has it, Courage! If I did not have that, I would send Sambo to my father's room for his ebony box and blow my brains out. No, Jinny, I am nothing but a soldier of fortune.

I never possessed any quality but a wild spirit for adventure, to s.h.i.+rk work. I wanted to go with Walker, you remember. I wanted to go to Kansas. I wanted to distinguish myself,” he added with a gesture. ”But that is all gone now, Jinny. I wanted to distinguish myself for you. Now I see how an earnest life might have won you. No, I have not done yet.”

She raised her head, frightened, and looked at him searchingly.

”One day,” he said, ”one day a good many years ago you and I and Uncle Comyn were walking along Market Street in front of Judge Whipple's office, and a slave auction was going on. A girl was being sold on whom you had set your heart. There was some one in the crowd, a Yankee, who bid her in and set her free. Do you remember him?”

He saw her profile, her lips parted, her look far away, She inclined her head.

”Yes,” said her cousin, ”so do I remember him. He has crossed my path many times since, Virginia. And mark what I say--it was he whom you had in mind on that birthday when you implored me to make something of myself, It was Stephen Brice.”

Her eyes flashed upon him quickly.

”Oh, how dare you?” she cried.

”I dare anything, Virginia,” he answered quietly. ”I am not blaming you.

And I am sure that you did not realize that he was the ideal which you had in mind.”

”The impression of him has never left it. Fate is in it. Again, that night at the Brinsmades', when we were in fancy dress, I felt that I had lost you when I got back. He had been there when I was away, and gone again. And--and--you never told me.”