“Harm!” said old Herrick, twisting about in his chair to look up at her—“harm!” He set his pipe firmly between his teeth, and pushed out his underlip with an expression of entire scorn. “Is there any harm in a hoppergrass hoppin’?” he questioned. “G’long! don’ talk none o’ yo’ nonsense ter me!”
This, however, did not entirely satisfy her on the question in point.
Roden was not a little astonished to meet her, as she returned from giving Bonnibel her morning gallop, in a very fair imitation of Miss Mary Erroll’s habit, and an old pot hat that had evidently belonged to some one of the previous Englishmen.
“Why, what a swell you are!” he said, pleasantly, joining her. “But how does Bonnibel like the change?”
“It don’t make any diff’r’nce how she likes it,” said Miss Herrick, curtly, adding hastily, with a swift change of manner, “She r’ared once or twice at first, but that’s all.” Then she stopped suddenly, and stepped around in front of him. “How—how does it look—really?” she said, with a shamefaced and comprehensive downward glance at her skirt.
“It looks awfully well,” Roden assured her—“awfully well. How tall and strong you are, Miss Virginia!”
“I’ve got a right good mustle,” she said, showing her handsome teeth in one of her rare and vivid smiles. “Mornin’: I’ve got a heap to do.”
Roden watched her as she stalked away with her splendid swinging stride, thinking vaguely of her beauty and its absolute waste in her position. “She’ll marry some ‘po’ white’ who talks as much like a nigger as her own father,” he thought, half regretfully; “have a lot of children, and end by smoking a pipe—ugh!” He then went to call, for the third time that week, upon Mary Erroll. The visit ended by their going for a ride, and just as they neared the gates of Caryston a smart shower came pelting down the eastern slope of Peter’s Mountain.
“Do come in and wait until this is over,” he said, urgently, bending from his horse to open the long gray gate, which was now proudly supported on strong hinges. “Miss Herrick will chaperon us.”