It would have been a dangerous thing for any man to accuse Colonel Conway of cowardice. Personal courage was his in full measure. Three times during the Mexican war he had been promoted—rising from lieutenant to colonel—and each time in special recognition of "conspicuous gallantry in action." He was afraid of no man and no company of men. He did and dared throughout his life with absolute disregard of danger.
But Colonel Conway was mightily afraid of his sister Betsy, as his daughter had said. Why, he could not have told, but the fact remained that he was afraid of that elderly little woman, encased as she was in an armor of conventionalities, gentle but resolute, and mercilessly insistent upon what she decreed to be "proper" conduct.
When the negro boy who daily brought the letter bag from the post office to The Oaks reported that Mr. Boyd Westover had come up from Richmond and was to stay only for a day or two at Wanalah, Colonel Conway promptly announced his purpose to ride over and congratulate him. The family were at the breakfast table at the time and the Colonel observed that his daughter paled at the mention of his purpose, though she said nothing in reply to his declaration. His sister, "Aunt Betsy," also said nothing. It was her habit to say nothing till the time was ripe.
Immediately after breakfast Margaret sought speech with her father.
"You are right, father, and what you purpose is the part of an honorable man. You ought to go to Boyd and take his hand, and make him feel that men of your kind and his kind understand. But—" She paused uncertainly.
"'But' what, daughter?" asked the Colonel, eagerly scanning her face.
"Nothing. I was only going to say that perhaps it will be just as well not to mention me—unless he does so first."
There was that in her hesitating utterance which awakened the Colonel's attention and curiosity.
"But why not, Margaret?" he questioned. "Surely it is about you he will be most eager to hear."
"If so he will ask. If he doesn't, I beg of you—"