holly came softly down the stairs, one small hand laid upon the broad mahogany rail to steady her descent, her little slippered feet twinkling in and out from beneath the hem of her gingham skirt, her lithe young body swaying in unconscious rhythm with the song she was singing under her breath. it was not yet seven o’clock, and no one save the servants was astir. holly had always been an early riser, and when the weather permitted the hour before breakfast was spent by her in the open air. on warm mornings she kept to the grateful shade of the porch, perching herself on the joggling-board and gently jouncing herself up and down the while she stared thoughtfully out across the garden into the cool green gloom of the grove, an exercise undoubtedly beneficial to the liver but one which would have resulted with[111] most persons in a total disinclination for breakfast. on those terribly cold winter mornings when the water-pail on the back porch showed a film of ice, she slipped down the oleander path and out on to the road for a brisk walk or huddled herself in a sun-warmed corner at the back of the house. but this morning, which held neither the heat of summer nor the tang of frost, when, after unlatching the front door and swinging it creakingly open, she emerged on to the porch, she stood for a moment in the deep shadow of it, gazing happily down upon the pleasant scene before her.
directly in front of her spread the fragrant quadrangle of the garden, the paths, edged with crumbling bricks set cantwise in the dark soil, curving and angling between the beds in formal precision. in the centre, out of a tangle of rose-bushes and box, the garlanded cupid, tinged to pale gold by the early sunlight, smiled across at her. about him clustered tender blooms of old-fashioned roses, and the path was sprinkled with the fallen petals. beyond, the long tunnel between the oleanders was still filled with the lingering shadows of dawn. to right and left of the centre bed lay miniature jungles of overgrown shrubs; roses, deutzias, cape jasmines, japan quinces, sweet shrubs and all the luxuriant hodge-podge of a southern garden somewhat run to seed, a little down at the heels maybe, but radiantly beautiful in its very disorder.
on the far side, the garden was bordered with taller shrubs—crépe-myrtles, mimosas, camelias, which merged imperceptibly into the trees of the grove. to the right,[113] beyond the bordering path, a few pear-trees showed their naked branches and a tall frankincense tree threw delicate shadow-tracery over the corner bed. to the left were japan plums and pomegranates and figs, half hiding the picket fence, and a few youthful orange-trees, descendants of sturdy ancestors who had lost their lives in the freeze three years before. a huge magnolia spread its shapely branches over one of the beds, its trunk encircled by a tempting seat. ribbon-grass swayed gently here and there above the rioting shrubbery, and at the corner of the porch, where a gate gave on to the drive, a clump of banana-trees, which had almost but not quite borne fruit that year, reared their succulent green stems in a sunny nook and arched their great broad leaves, torn and ribboned by the winds, with tropical effect. near at hand, against the warm red chimney, climbed a baltimore belle, festooning the end of the house for yards with its tiny, glossy leaves. the shadow of the house cut the garden sharply into[114] two triangles, the dividing line between sunlight and shade crossing the pedestal of the smiling cupid. everywhere glistened diamonds of dew, and over all, growing more intense each instant as the sunlight and warmth grew in ardor, was the thrilling fragrance of the roses and the box, of damp earth and awakening leaves.
while holly’s mother had lived the garden had been her pride and delight. it had been known to fame all through that part of the state and the beauty of the wayne roses was a proverb. but now the care of it fell to uncle ran, together with the care of a bewildering number of other things, and uncle ran had neither the time nor the knowledge to maintain its former perfection. holly loved it devotedly, knew it from corner to corner. at an earlier age she had plucked the blossoms for dolls and played with them for long hours on the seat under the magnolia. the full-blown roses were grown-up ladies, with beautiful outspread skirts of pink, white or yellow, and little green waists. the[115] half-opened roses were young ladies, and tiny white violets, or waxen orange-blooms or little blossoms of the deutzia were the babies. for the men, although holly seldom bothered much with men, there were the jonquils or the oleanders. she knew well where the first blue violets were to be found, where the white jonquils broke first from their green calyces, where the little yellow balls of the opopanax were sweetest, what rose-petals were best adapted to being formed into tiny sacs and exploded against the forehead, and many other wonderful secrets of that fair domain. but in spite of all this, holly was no gardener.
she loved flowers just as she loved the deep blue florida sky with its hazy edges, the soft wind from the gulf, the golden sunlight, the birds and bees and butterflies—just as she loved everything that was quickened with the wonderful breath of nature. there was something of the pagan in holly when it came to devotion to nature. and yet she had no ability to make things grow. from her mother she[116] had inherited the love of trees and plants and flowers but not the gift of understanding them. doubtless the druids, with all their veneration for the oak and mistletoe, would have been sorely puzzled had they had to rear their leafy temples from planted acorns.
holly went down the steps and, holding her gown away from the moisture-beaded branches, buried her face in a cluster of pink roses. then, struck by a thought, she returned to the house, reappearing a moment later with her hands encased in a pair of old gloves, and carrying scissors.
aunt india didn’t believe in bringing flowers into the house. “if the lord had intended us to have them on the tables and mantels,” she said, “he’d have put them[117] there. but he didn’t; he meant them to be out of doors and we ought to be satisfied to admire them where he’s put them.” usually holly respected her aunt’s prejudice, but to-day seemed in a way a special occasion. the cloth of gold roses seemed crying to be gathered, and their stems snipped gratefully under the scissors as she made her way along the edge of the bed. her hands were almost full of the big yellow blooms when footsteps sounded on the porch and she glanced up to see winthrop descending the steps. she wondered with sudden dismay whether she was going to blush as she had yesterday, and, for fear that she was, leaned far over the refractory cluster she was cutting. winthrop’s footsteps approached along the sandy walk, and—
“good-morning, miss holly,” he said.
“good-morning,” answered holly, and, having won her prize started to straighten up. “i hope——”
but instead of finishing the polite inquiry she said “oh!” a branch of the rose-bush had caught in her hair, and the more she tugged the more firmly it held.
“still a moment,” said winthrop. he leaned over and disentangled the thorns. “there you are. i hope i didn’t pull very hard?”
“thank you,” murmured holly, raising a very red face. winthrop, looking down into it, smiled; smiled for no particular reason, save that the morning air was very delightful, the morning sunlight very warm and cheering, and the face before him very lovely to look at. but holly, painfully aware of her burning cheeks, thought he was smiling at her blushes. “what a silly he must think me!” she reflected, angrily. “blushing every time he comes near!” she busied herself with the roses for a moment.
[119]
“you’ve got more than you can manage, haven’t you?” asked winthrop. “suppose you entrust them to me; then you’ll have your hands free.”
“i can manage very nicely, thank you,” answered holly, a trifle haughtily.
winthrop’s smile deepened.
“do you know what i think, miss holly?” he asked.
“no,” said holly, looking about her in a very preoccupied way in search of more blossoms.
“i think you’re a little bit resentful because i’ve come to share your eden. i believe you were playing that you were eve and that you were all alone here except for the serpent.”
“playing!” said holly, warmly. “please, how old do you think i am, mr. winthrop?”
“my dear young lady,” answered winthrop, gravely, “i wouldn’t think of even speculating on so serious a subject. but supposing you are very, very old, say seventeen—or even eighteen!—still you[120] haven’t, i hope, got beyond the age of make-believe. why, even i—and, as you will readily see, i have one foot almost in the grave—even i sometimes make-believe.”
“do you?” murmured holly, very coldly.
there was silence for a moment during which holly added further prizes to her store and winthrop followed her and watched her in mingled admiration and amusement—admiration for the grace and beauty and sheer youth of her, amusement at her evident resentment.
“i’m sorry,” he said presently, slowly and thoughtfully.
“at what?” holly allowed herself a fleeting look at his face. it was very serious and regretful, but the smile still lurked in the dark eyes, and holly’s vanity flew to arms again.
“sorry that i’ve said something to displease you,” returned winthrop. “you see, i was hoping to make friends with you, miss holly.”
[121]
holly thought of a dozen questions to ask, but heroically refrained.
“i gathered from major cass last evening,” continued winthrop, “that northerners are not popular at waynewood. but you seemed a very kind young lady, and i thought that if i could only win you over to my side you might intercede for me with your aunt. you see, i’d like very much to stay here, but i’m afraid miss wayne isn’t going to take to the idea. and now i’ve gone and antagonized the very person i meant to win for an ally.”
“i don’t see why you can’t stay here if you want to,” answered holly. “waynewood belongs to you.”
“but what would i do here all alone?” asked winthrop. “i’m a frightfully helpless, ignorant chap. why, i don’t even know how to cook a beefsteak! and as for beaten biscuit——!”
holly smiled, in spite of herself.
“but you could hire some servants, i reckon.”
“oh, i shouldn’t know how to manage[122] them, really. no, the only way in which i can remain here is as your guest, miss holly. i’ve asked major cass to tell miss wayne that, and i’ve no doubt but what he will do all he can for me, but i fancy that a word from you would help a lot, miss holly. don’t you think you could tell your aunt that i am a very respectable sort of a fellow, one who has never been known to give any trouble? i have been with some of the best families and i can give references from my last place, if necessary.”
“i reckon you don’t know aunt india,” laughed holly. “if she says you can’t stay, you can’t, and it wouldn’t do a mite of good if i talked myself black in the face.”
holly turned toward the house and he followed.
“you think, then,” he asked, “that there’s nothing more we can do to influence fate in my behalf?”
holly ran lightly up the steps, tossed the flowers in a heap on the porch, and sat down with her back against a pillar. then[123] she pointed to the opposite side of the steps.
“sit down there,” she commanded.
winthrop bowed and obeyed. holly clasped her hands about her knees, and looked across at him with merry eyes.
“mr. winthrop.”
“madam?”
“what will you give me if i let you stay?”
“pardon my incredulity,” replied winthrop, “but is your permission all that is necessary?”
holly nodded her head many times.
“if i say you can stay, you can,” she said, decisively.
“then in exchange for your permission i will give you half my kingdom,” answered winthrop, gravely.
“oh, i don’t think i could use half a kingdom. it would be like owning half a horse, wouldn’t it? supposing i wanted my half to go and the other half wouldn’t?”
“then take it all.”
[124]
“no, because i reckon your kingdom’s up north, and i wouldn’t want a kingdom i couldn’t live in. it will have to be something else, i reckon.”
“and i have so little with me,” mourned winthrop. “i dare say you wouldn’t have any use for a winter overcoat or a pair of patent-leather shoes? they’re about all i have to offer.”
“no,” laughed holly; “anyhow, not the overcoat. do you think the shoes would fit me?”
she advanced one little slippered foot from beyond the hem of her skirt. winthrop looked, and shook his head.
“honestly, i’m afraid not,” he said. “i don’t believe i ever saw a shoe that would fit you, miss holly.”
holly acknowledged the compliment with a ceremonious bow and a little laugh.
“i didn’t know you northerners could pay compliments,” she said.
“we are a very adaptable people,” answered winthrop, “and pride ourselves on being able to face any situation.”
[125]
“but you haven’t told me what you’ll give me, mr. winthrop.”
“i have exhausted my treasures, miss holly. there remains only myself. i throw myself at your feet, my dear young lady; i will be your slave for life.”
“oh, i thought you northerners didn’t believe in slavery,” said holly.
“we don’t believe in compulsory slavery, miss holly. to be a slave to beauty is always a pleasure.”
“another compliment!” cried holly. “two before breakfast!”
“and the day is still young,” laughed winthrop.
“oh, i won’t demand any more, mr. winthrop; you’ve done your duty already.”
“as you like; i am your slave.”
“how lovely! i never had a slave before,” said holly, reflectively.
“i fear your memory is poor, miss holly. i’ll wager you’ve had, and doubtless still have, a score of them quite as willing as i.”
[126]
holly blushed a little, but shook her head.
“not i. but it’s a bargain, mr. winthrop. i won’t keep you for life, though; when you leave here i’ll give you your ‘freedance,’ as the negroes say. but while you are here you are to do just as i tell you. will you?” she added, sternly.
“i obey implicitly,” answered winthrop. “and now?”
“why, you may stay, of course. besides, it was all arranged last evening. uncle major and auntie fixed it all up between them after he came down from seeing you. you are to have the room you are in and the one back of it, if you want it, and you are to pay three dollars and a-half a week; one dollar for your room and two dollars and a-half for your board.”
“but—isn’t that——?”
“please don’t!” begged holly. “i don’t know anything about it. if it’s too much, you must speak to aunt india or major cass.”
[127]
“i was about to suggest that it seemed ridiculously little,” said winthrop. “but——”
“gracious!” exclaimed holly. “uncle major thought it ought to be more, but auntie wouldn’t hear of it. do you think it should be?”
“well, i’m scarcely a disinterested party,” laughed winthrop, “but it doesn’t sound much, does it?”
“three dollars and a-half!” said holly, slowly and thoughtfully. then she nodded her head vigorously. “yes, it sounds a whole lot.” she laughed softly. “it’s very funny, though, isn’t it?”
“what?” he asked, smiling in sympathy.
“why, that you should be paying three dollars and a-half a week for the privilege of being a slave!”
“ah, but that’s it,” answered winthrop. “it is a privilege, as you say.”
“oh!” cried holly, in simulated alarm. “you’re at it again, mr. winthrop!”
“at it? at what?”
[128]
“compliments, compliments, sir! you’ll have none left for this evening if you don’t take care. just think; you might meet a beautiful young lady this evening and not have any compliments for her! wouldn’t that be dreadful?”
“horrible,” answered winthrop. “i shudder.”
“are you hungry?” asked holly, suddenly.
“hungry? no—yes—i hardly know.”
“you’re probably starving, then,” said holly, jumping up and sweeping the roses into her arms. “i’ll see if breakfast isn’t nearly ready. auntie doesn’t come down to breakfast very often, and it’s my place to see that it’s on time. but i never do, and it never is. do you love punctuality, mr. winthrop?”
“can’t bear it, miss holly.”
she stood a little way off, smiling down at him, a soft flush in her cheeks.
“you always say just the right thing, don’t you?” she laughed. “how do you manage it?”
[129]
“long practice, my dear young lady. when you’ve lived as long as i have you will have discovered that it is much better to say the right thing than the wrong—even when the right thing isn’t altogether right.”
“yes, i reckon so, but—sometimes it’s an awful temptation to say the wrong, isn’t it? are you awfully old? may i guess?”
“i shall be flattered.”
“then—forty?”
winthrop sighed loudly.
“too much? wait! thirty—thirty-seven?”
“thirty-eight.”
“is that very old? i shall be eighteen in a few days.”
“really? then, you see, i have already lived twice as long as you have.”
“yes,” holly nodded, thoughtfully. “do you know, i don’t think i want to live to be real, real old; i think i’d rather die before—before that.”
“and what do you call real, real old?” asked winthrop.
[130]
“oh, i don’t know; fifty, i reckon.”
“then i have twelve years longer to live,” said winthrop, gravely.
holly turned a pair of startled eyes upon him.
“no, no! it’s different with you; you’re a man.”
“oh, that makes a difference?”
“lots! men can do heaps of things, great, big things, after they’re old, but a woman——” she paused and shrugged her shoulders in a funny, exaggerated way that winthrop thought charming. “what is there for a woman when she’s that old?”
“much,” answered winthrop, gravely, “if she has been a wise woman. there should be her children to love and to love her, and if she has married the right man there will be that love, too, in the afternoon of her life.”
“children,” murmured holly. “yes, that would be nice; but they wouldn’t be children then, would they? and—supposing they died before? the woman would[131] be terribly lonely, wouldn’t she—in the afternoon?”
winthrop turned his face away and looked out across the sunlit garden.
“yes,” he said, very soberly; “yes, she would be lonely.”
something in his tones drew holly’s attention. how deep the lines about his mouth were this morning, and how gray the hair was at his temples; she had not noticed it before. yes, after all, thirty-eight was quite old. that thought or some other moved her to a sudden sentiment of pity. impulsively she tore one of the big yellow roses from the bunch and with her free hand tossed it into his lap.
“do you know, mr. winthrop,” she said, softly, “i reckon we’re going to be friends, you and i,—that is, if you want to.”
winthrop sprang to his feet, the rose in his hand.
“i do want to, miss holly,” he said, earnestly. somehow, before she realized it, holly’s hand was in his. “i want it very much. i haven’t very many friends,[132] i guess, and when one gets toward forty he doesn’t find them as easily as he did. is it a bargain, then? we are to be friends, very good friends, miss holly?”
“yes,” answered holly, simply, “very good friends.”
her dark eyes looked seriously into his for a moment. then she withdrew her hand, laughed softly under her breath and turned toward the door. but on the threshold she looked back over her shoulder, the old mischief in her face.
“but don’t you go and forget that you’re my slave, mr. winthrop,” she said.
“never! you have fettered me with roses.”
