“Well, I'll be——!” cried Jule, with a whistle of infinite amazement. “Things is changed in Kentucky!”
“That,” said Major Cicero Johnson, who had exchanged several hundred subscriptions to his paper for an ever-decreasing pile of Jule's blue chips—“that is the tribute which valor pays to beauty. Their pleasure has only been postponed. Colonel Chinn, you have overlooked that small wager on the ace. Thanks.”
Ten minutes later Colonel Bill was galloping out to the race-track, gayly singing a popular love-song. Suddenly something occurred to him and he stopped, reached back into his hip-pocket, and drew out a long pistol. He threw it as far as he could into a neighboring brier-patch, and once more giving rein to his horse, began to sing with renewed enthusiasm.
When he reached the track he called old Elias into his room, and they remained together for a long time in whispered conference. That night any one who happened to have been belated on the Versailles 'pike might have passed Elias jogging along on his horse, looking very important, and an air of mystery enveloping him like a garment.
It was far into the night when he returned. As he started to creep up the ladder to the loft above his young master's room, his shoes in his hand so as not to awaken him, the Colonel, who had been tossing on a sleepless bed for hours, called out. Elias, who evidently regarded himself as a conspirator, waited until he had reached the loft, and then whispered back, “Hit's all right, Marse Bill,” and was instantly swallowed up in the darkness.
It was one of those perfect June nights so often seen in Kentucky. The full moon hung in a cloudless sky, filling the air with a soft white radiance. There was not a movement in the still, warm atmosphere, and to Colonel Bill, waiting beneath the shadows of the big oak-tree near the General's gate, it seemed that all nature was waiting with him. The leaves above his head, the gray old church steeple beyond the house, the long stretch of deserted streets—they all wore a hushed, expectant look.
It was several minutes past the appointed hour, and Miss Braxton had not come. He had begun to fear that perhaps her father, suspecting something, had detained her, when he saw her figure, a white outline among the rose-bushes, far up the walk. As she drew near he stepped out from the shadows, and she gave a little cry of delight.
“I know I am late, but I was talking with father,” she said, apologetically, and the brown eyes became troubled. “He was very restless and nervous to-night and when he is in that condition he says I soothe him.” They had slowly walked towards the tree as she was speaking, and when she had finished they were completely hidden from any chance passer. She glanced up, and even in the gloom she noticed how white and tense was his face.
“Do you know,” he cried, abruptly, “if I go away from Lexington to-night it will only be to return in a day, or two days? For weeks I have been able to think of nothing, to dream of nothing, except you. I haven't come here to-night to say good-bye to you,” he continued, passionately, “because I cannot say good-bye to you, but to implore you to come with me—to marry me—to-night—now.” She shrank back. “I have made all my arrangements,” he continued, feverishly. “I have a cousin, a minister, living in Versailles. Once a month he preaches in a little church on the 'pike near there. I sent word by Elias last night for him to meet us there to-night, and he said he would. Elias has the horses under the trees yonder; they will be here in a moment, and in an hour we will be married. Come!” His arms were around her, and while he spoke she was carried away by the rush of his passion, and yielded to it with a feeling of languorous delight. Then there came the thought of the lonely old man who would be left behind. She slipped gently from her lover's arms and looked back at the house which had been her home for so many years. She saw the light, in her father's room, and recalled how she went there when she was a little girl to say her prayers at his knee and kiss him good-night. He had always been so kind to her, so willing to sacrifice himself for her pleasure, and he was so old. What would he do when she had gone out of his life? No; she could not desert him. She covered her face with her hands. “I cannot leave father,” she sobbed. “I cannot; I must not.” They had moved out from the shadow of the tree into the moonlight. He had taken her hand, and had begun to renew his appeals, when they were both startled by the sound of footsteps on the gravelled walk and the General's voice crying, “Sue! Sue, where are you?” At the same moment Elias came up, leading two horses. The Colonel and Miss Braxton stood just as they were, too surprised to move. They could not escape in any event, for almost as soon as the words reached them the General came into view. He saw them at once, and it required only a glance at the approaching horses to tell him everything. With an inarticulate cry of rage, his gray hair streaming behind him, he rushed wildly back to the house. The Colonel looked after him, and then turned to Miss Braxton.
“He has gone to arm himself,” he said, quietly. “He will be back with your brothers.”