“It’s a bad rule that works both ways,” declared Letty, solemnly.
Sir Archy did not believe a word of all this; but Farebrother thought that Letty had not really over-stated her case very much.
Presently they all turned round and walked home through the purple twilight. The path led through the woods to the straggling edges of the young growth of trees on the borders of a pasture, now brown and bare. A few lean cattle browsed about—the Colonel spent a good deal of time and money, as his fathers had done before him, in getting the grass out of his fields, and raising fodder for his stock, instead of letting the grass grow for them to fatten on—so they were very apt to be lean for nine months in the year. The path led across the pasture to the whitewashed fence that enclosed the lawn. A young moon trembled in the opal sky. As they walked along in Indian file they felt their feet sinking in the soft, rich earth. The old brick house, with its clustering great trees, loomed large before them, and a ruddy light from the library windows shone hospitably. The dogs ran yelping toward them as they crossed the lawn, old Rattler giving subdued whines of delight. The thoughts of both Sir Archy and Farebrother, all the way home, had been how delicious that twilight walk would have been with Letty, had only the other fellow been out of it.
When they got in the house there were letters—the mail only came twice a week, and Tom Battercake brought the letters and papers in a calico bag from the postoffice, eight miles off. Farebrother read his letters with a scowl. He had meant to stay a few days longer—in fact, he determined to stay as long as Sir Archy, if he could—but he discovered that he could not.
“Business,” he said—“I am a working man, you know, and employers and contractors won’t wait—so I shall have to take the boat to-morrow.”
The Colonel and Miss Jemima were profuse in their regrets—Letty was civil and Sir Archy was positively gay, when it was fixed that Farebrother should go the next day. Still, the supper table was cheerful. Farebrother had a very strong hope that Letty and Sir Archy never would be able to understand each other enough to enter into a matrimonial agreement; and then, he was determined to show Miss Letty that he was by no means heartbroken at the prospect of leaving her.
None of the men who had admired Letty Corbin understood her so well as Farebrother. The others had paid her court, more or less sincere, but Farebrother, when he became really interested in her, saw that such tactics would never do. Instead, he made it his business to pique her, so artfully that Letty was completely blind to the facts in the case, and her determination was aroused to conquer this laughing, careless, stiff-necked admirer, whose conduct to her was very like her conduct to others. In the first place, the idea that he should come all the way from New York, upon what seemed likely to turn out a purely platonic errand, was, from her point of view, a most iniquitous proceeding. She did not want any man—but she vehemently and innocently demanded the homage of all. And when a man calmly retained his heart and his reason, while she invited him to lose both, was in the highest degree exasperating. But Farebrother absolutely declined presenting his head to Letty on a charger, even when they were alone in the great cold drawing-room, under the pretense of hearing some farewell waltzes from Letty’s fingers, and it seemed almost unavoidable that he should say something sentimental. He remained obstinately cheerful, and kept it up until the last.
He had to leave Corbin Hall at five o’clock in the morning, so Letty, secretly much disgusted with him on account of his callousness, had to say farewell the night before. The Colonel would be up the next morning, and Miss Jemima, to give him breakfast, but Letty gave no hint of any such intention. They had a very jolly evening in the library, the Colonel being in great feather and telling some of his best stories while he brewed the family punch bowl full of apple toddy. Miss Jemima, too, had been induced by the most outrageous flattery on Farebrother’s part to bring out her guitar, and to sing to them in a thin, sweet voice some desperately sentimental songs of forty years before—“Oh No, We Never Mention Her,” “When Stars are in the Quiet Skies,” and “Ben Bolt.” It was very simple and primitive. The two men of the world enjoyed it much more than many of the costliest evenings of their lives, and neither one could remember anything quite like it. The life at Corbin Hall was as simple and quaint as that of the poorest people in the world—and yet more refined, more gently bred, than almost any of the rich people in the world.
At eleven o’clock, Letty rose to go. Farebrother lighted her candle for her from those on the rickety hall table, and escorted her to the foot of the stairs. It really did cost him an effort then to play the cheerfully departing guest. There was no doubt that Letty had been vastly improved by her touch with the outside world. She had learned to dress herself, which she did not know before—and she had learned a charming modesty concerning herself—and she was quite unspoiled. She still thought Corbin Hall good enough for anybody in the world, and although she admired satin damask chairs and sofas and art drapery, she still cherished an affection for hair cloth and dimity curtains. This ineradicable simplicity of character was what charmed Farebrother most—she would always retain a delightful freshness, and she never could become wholly sophisticated.
“I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed being here,” he said to her, with hearty sincerity, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at Letty. She held the candle a little above her head, and its yellow circle of flame fell on her pure, pale face—for this young lady who tried so hard to make fools of men, had the air, the face, and the soul of a vestal.