Holly: The Romance of a Southern Girl

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“By God!” whispered Julian, the color rushing from his face. “By God! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” He staggered down the steps, beating the air with his whip. A moment later, Holly, sitting with clenched hands and heaving breast in her room, heard him shouting for Uncle Ran and his horse. Ten minutes later he was riding like a whirlwind along the Marysville road, White Queen in an ecstasy of madness as the whip rose and fell.

But by the time the distance was half covered Julian’s first anger had cooled, leaving in its place a cold, bitter wrath toward Winthrop, to whom he laid the blame not only of Holly’s defection but of his loss of temper and brutality. He was no longer incensed with Holly; it was as plain as a pikestaff that the sneaking Yankee had bewitched her with his damned grinning face and flattering attentions, all the while, doubtless, laughing at her in his sleeve! His smouldering rage blazed up again and with a muttered oath Julian raised his whip. But at Queen’s sudden snort of terror he let it drop softly again, compunction gripping him. He leaned forward and patted the wet, white neck soothingly.

“Forgive me, girl,” he whispered. “I was a brute to take it out on you. There, there, easy now; quiet, quiet!”

On Monday Holly received a letter from him. It was humbly apologetic, and self-accusing. It made no reference to Winthrop, nor did it refer to the matter of the broken engagement; only—

“Try and forget my words, Holly,” he wrote, “and forgive me and let us be good friends again just as we always have been. I am going over to see you Saturday evening to ask forgiveness in person, but I shan’t bother you for more than a couple of hours.”

Holly, too, had long since repented, and was anxious to forgive and be forgiven. The thought of losing Julian’s friendship just now when, as it seemed, she needed friendship so much, had troubled and dismayed her, and when his letter came she was quite prepared to go more than halfway to effect a reconciliation. Her answer, written in the first flush of gratitude, represented Holly in her softest mood, and Julian read between the lines far more than she had meant to convey. He folded it up and tucked it away with the rest of her letters and smiled his satisfaction.

At Waynewood in those days life for Holly and Winthrop was an unsatisfactory affair, to say the least. Each strove to avoid the other without seeming to do so, with the result that each felt piqued. In Winthrop’s case it was one thing to keep out of Holly’s presence from motives of caution, and quite another to find that she was avoiding him. He believed that his secret was quite safe, and so Holly’s apparent dislike for his society puzzled and disturbed him. When they were together the former easy intimacy was absent and in its place reigned a restlessness that made the parting almost a relief. So affairs stood when on the subsequent Saturday Julian rode over to Waynewood again.

It was almost the middle of February, and the world was aglow under a spell of warm weather that was quite unseasonable. The garden was riotous with green leaves and early blossoms. Uncle Ran confided to Winthrop that “if you jes’ listens right cahful you can hear the leaves a-growin’ an’ the buds a-poppin’ open, sir!” Winthrop had spent a restless day. Physically he was as well as he had ever been, he told himself; three months at Waynewood had worked wonders for him; but mentally he was far from normal. Of late he had been considering more and more the advisability of returning North. It was time to get back into harness. He had no doubt of his ability to retrieve his scattered fortune, and it was high time that he began. And then, too, existence here at Waynewood was getting more complex and unsatisfactory every day. As far as Miss India’s treatment of him was concerned, he had only cause for congratulation, for his siege of that lady’s heart had been as successful as it was cunning; only that morning she had spoken to him of Waynewood as “your property” without any trace of resentment; but it was very evident that Holly had wearied of him. That should have been salutary knowledge, tending to show him the absurdity and hopelessness of his passion, but unfortunately it only increased his misery without disturbing the cause of it. Yes, it was high time to break away from an ungraceful position, and get back to his own world—high time to awake from dreams and face reality.