Oldfield: A Kentucky Tale of the Last Century

by Nancy Huston Banks

"Till the court-house clock strikes nine, then, and not a minute later," growled Uncle Watty.

Sidney was quite satisfied. She was used to getting what she wanted under difficulties. It always made her happy to succeed at all, and it never made her bitter to fail, even after much trying—this real village philosopher. How invincible she was that June day! How her knitting-needles flashed in the sunlight, flying ever faster and faster! And yet, full as her thoughts were of her own affairs, she did not forget or neglect Tom Watson. Indeed, not one of the day's regular engagements was forgotten or slighted or over-looked. She talked also as usual about almost everything under the shining sun; but her thoughts were always of the moonflowers and of Doris and of old lady Gordon's grandson.

At sundown she went to take supper with Miss Pettus, an agreement to that effect having been entered into upon the day of the truce. But she said as soon as she entered the house, that she must leave immediately after supper, as it was absolutely necessary for her to see Miss Judy before going to bed that night. Miss Pettus, whose curiosity was excessive, did not ask what she must see Miss Judy about. No one ever asked Sidney questions about her own private affairs, freely as everybody always questioned her about public matters. This may perhaps have been one of the secrets of her memorable success. Miss Pettus was merely a little miffed to see how absent-minded Sidney was. What was the use of having cream muffins when Sidney hardly noticed what she was eating! Then when Sidney asked to be allowed to leave the basket—which had been well filled for the children and Uncle Watty—till she came for it the next morning, this was such an unheard-of request that Miss Pettus's curiosity could hardly be held in leash; yet Sidney went her way without saying a word in explanation.

Dusk was already falling, and the gathering clouds in the west hastened the gloaming. Sidney passed her own house, taking care to walk on the other side of the big road, but she could make out Doris's slim white figure moving among the flowers, and she also recognized the tall, dark form near by, notwithstanding the dim light. The murmur of the gay young voices, too, musically melted into the scented stillness. Sidney did not know that she was smiling as she listened, and went on wondering what they were talking about. And she did not ask herself why she was glad that the honeysuckle smelt so sweet that night, and that so many of the great white moths were fluttering among the moonflowers.

She found Miss Judy sitting in the passage with Miss Sophia, as they were always to be found at that time on a warm evening. They were talking to each other as usual; that is to say, Miss Judy was talking of Becky, and Miss Sophia was listening, with the never-flagging interest and complete content which they ever found in one another's conversation and society. Nevertheless, they were heartily pleased to greet Sidney, and Miss Judy was particularly gratified by her coming in just at that moment. The little lady had seen Lynn Gordon passing up the big road early in the morning, and—quite in a quiver—had asked Miss Sophia if she thought he was on the way to call on Doris. Of course, she did not dream of asking Sidney anything about it, but she knew that she would tell her without being asked, in the event that he had gone to see Doris. And Sidney did tell her at once, since the telling was precisely what she had come for—that, and a consultation concerning such future steps as Miss Judy might think must needs be taken. Miss Judy hung upon every prosaic word, coloring it with her own romantic fancy, blushing rosily in the sheltering dimness of the passage, glowing with the new warmth which was fast gathering around her gentle heart. It was a bit of a disappointment that Sidney did not say what the young gentleman himself had said, or what he did or how he looked while with the dear, dear child. Miss Judy almost asked, she wanted so much to know everything there was to tell. It did not occur to her that Sidney had not been present. It did not occur to Sidney that she could have been—much less that she should have been. So utterly unlike were these two good, honest women, who were giving their whole minds to the happiness and welfare of the girl whom they both loved with their whole hearts. Most of all Miss Judy was longing to know whether Lynn had said anything of making another call. She could tell a good deal from that, she thought guiltily, feeling herself a very Machiavelli. Yet she hesitated to ask. It might possibly seem a little indelicate, a little inconsiderate of Doris, in case the young gentleman had not named another time.

"I don't think it will rain before morning," she said, observing Sidney's glance at the clouds. "Young Mr. Gordon does seem real friendly," she went on tentatively. "Perhaps he will come again—sometime."

"He's there now—twice to-day!" said Sidney, triumphantly. With the training of her profession she had awaited the most impressive moment for this crowning announcement.

Miss Judy was stunned; there was a tremor of alarm in her voice when she spoke, after a momentary silence of frightened bewilderment. "Do you mean to say, Sidney, that Mr. Gordon is at your house—with Doris now—to-night?"

Sidney nodded coolly, trying not to show the complacency which she could not help feeling. "Yes. I saw him in the garden with Doris as I came down the big road—on the other side."

Miss Judy tried to think for a space. Then she said, delicately but uneasily, "Are you quite sure that Uncle Watty and the children will—will know how to do the honors?"