The old man went heavily about his work. He was like some willing beast too late in life called upon to support a heavy burden. He was disgusted and angry to feel the big tears on his cheeks.
“The beauty of the question air,” he quoth, angrily, to himself one day, “I ain’t wuth th’ victuals I eat. I’m a pore ole fool ez oughter be a-suckin’ ov a sugar rag, ’stead o’ tendin’ ter er beeg place like this; but, Godamighty! ef that thar gyrl don’ git a heap peerter ’fo’ long, I’m gwine plumb crazy. My sakes! who’d ’a’ ever thought Faginia would a-set all day like that a-studyin’ her own han’s like they wuz the book o’ Gord! Howsomdever, ’tain’t many ez studies th’ book o’ Gord ez faithful ez my pore leetle gyrl studies them han’s o’ hern. Somethin’ cert’n’y is out o’ kelter with that thar chile. Godamighty! ef Faginia wuz ter die—”
He stopped blankly in the midst of the cornfield through which he was walking, and thrusting his hands deep in his brown jeans trousers-pockets, looked up appealingly at the hot blue sky.
That same evening he was summoned as juryman to Charlottesville, a village some fifteen miles from Caryston, and as he kissed Virginia good-by his heart rose in his throat. The face she lifted to his was so wan, so patient, so like the face of her young mother just ere she died, twenty-one years ago.
“Leetle gyrl—leetle gyrl,” said the old man, brokenly, “ef you don’ want tuh hurry yo’ father tuh his grave, yo’ll hurry en take them purty leetle foots out o’ yourn. Darter, honey, try ’n’ git some o’ them ole red roses in them white cheeks. Please, Faginia, honey, I’m ’mos’ worrited to death ’long o’ you.”
“Pore father!” she said, stroking his face—“pore father!” that was all. Her listless hand fell again into her lap. Her eyes fixed themselves with their vague, uncomprehending look upon the far blue distance. She was as much apart from him as though she were already dead. He rose to his feet, strangling a sob in his brave old throat, that he might not distress her, and rode manfully away to his unpleasant duty.
That night a dreadful thing occurred at Caryston. The “mill stable,” as it was generally called, from being built on a hill just above the mill-pond, caught on fire. There were four of Roden’s most valuable horses in it, together with Bonnibel, who had been moved from the house stables while they were undergoing alteration.
Virginia was sitting silent by her bedroom window when the first copper glare began to tinge the dense upward column of black smoke. She knew in a minute what it was, although Aunt Tishy muttered something about “bresh” fires.
She leaped to her feet, her heart once more renewing its old-time measure. “Mammy!” she called—“Mammy! that’s th’ mill stable! th’ mill stable’s on fire! O God above! Th’ pore horses—an’ Bonnibel! O pore Mr. Jack—pore Mr. Jack! Ef Bonnibel’s hurt, it’ll break his heart.” She had forgotten everything in her thought for him. Her own sin, his harsh words—all that had passed between them since first he gave Bonnibel into her glad keeping.
“Here!” she called, tossing on her clothes with nervous, eager fingers, “han’ me my shoes—quick!—Lord God!—ef only I ken git thar in time!”