Her eyes wandered down the long avenue of elms that had given the place its name. What monarchs they were! Well might they be called the kings of the tree-world. They led clear down to the gate—the big gate that Philip had been so proud to open for his uncle. How jealous she had been over that,—and how foolishly. One could hardly see the gate from this window. She leaned further out. Yes, there was the gate, and—
"Mama," said Philip, "are you looking for Unker Wichard?"
"No!" she said with a sharpness most unusual. "I am looking at the elms."
"Ain't it most time for Unker Wichard to come?" asked Philip, querulously. He at least had missed him.
His mother did not answer, except to say as Mammy Cely came in with some newly hatched chickens to show him, "I'll run down and get you some lilacs, dearie."
In the garden, laid out after the fashion of a half century ago, were the lilac trees, white and purple, now in their glory. The garden, kept immaculate by Uncle Tobe's unremitting care, was as Richard De Jarnette's mother had left it, with beds of old-fashioned flowers edged with box. At the further end of it was an arbor covered not with grapes, but with a luxuriance of wistaria, the long clusters of which hung down through the trellised roof. The old wistaria, too, was a tree, gnarled and twisted. It had broken down several arbors, Mammy Cely said, but Richard would not have it destroyed.
Margaret sat on the seat under the wistaria. She had torn off the lilacs ruthlessly and had her hot face buried in their cool depths. On the way hither she had seen a horseman cantering up the avenue. She would stay here until he had left Philip's room and gone downstairs. She did not wish to see him. She would be glad if she could never see him again. There had been a truce between them—yes, of course there had to be while Philip was so ill—but that was over now. He was her enemy after all—must always be—no matter which way the thing was settled. It was best that she should see as little of him as possible. Of course she would have to remain here as long as Philip needed her—her heart stood still at the thought of what would happen when he did not need her—but she would manage it so as to be away when he was in Philip's room. That would be better—far better.
Then looking up she saw the man she was planning to avoid coming down the walk toward her.
"I am looking for you," he said, baring his head, sprinkled with gray, to the soft spring air. "Philip said you were among the lilacs."
She pointed to the fragrant mass in her lap, glad of their confirmation.