And of an evening, when all was so still in the valley that the wood thrush took heart to flutter to the azaleas by the piazza of Sunahlee, a young woman walked up the long, red hill that led to the house. Dreamily she gazed toward the west, where the mighty Attacoa reared its dark bulk. Something she knew of the legends attached to it. For Ervin, in the fullness of their sympathy, had told her lovingly of his highland home, and it gave her a thrill of sweetest pain to fit his descriptions to the landmarks around. She had been in such close attendance upon her aunt, who, since Bessie’s death, had been prostrated, that her observations had been made for the most part from the balcony of the old hotel; but to-day, for the first time, she walked along the road she knew Ervin had trod many times and looked out over aspects once familiar to his eye. She paused before a large gate. Inside she saw a weed-grown driveway leading up to a dilapidated house, plainly handsome in its prime. As she looked she heard the sound of something coming up the long, red hill. There was no sound of hoofs, but as she peered into the gathering twilight she made out the forms of a number of shaggy dogs drawing a rattling old buggy.
It was Uncle Ben. He did not see her until he had alighted stiffly to open the rusty gate.
“Howdy, Mistis, howdy!” His old voice, though feeble, had a hearty ring to it that encouraged Helen to ask him who lived there.
“Dis is S’nahlee, Mistis, Cunnel Tom Preston’s place. I would ax you to come in, Mistis, ’cause de Prestons dey sholy always wuz hospitable—but dey ain’t none of ’em lef’ now, ’ceptin’ of de ole Cunnel, an’ he don’ know nothin’ that’s goin’ on—hasn’t even reelized Miss Helen’s death. This war’s bin awful hard on we-all.”
He sighed, and Helen, who recognized the name, asked:
“Is there no hope for Colonel Preston’s recovery?”
“No’m, I don’t reckon so. Me’n Miz McArthur—she useter live ’cross de road dar in dat little ole log cabin—we nusses him careful all day an’ all night. But he thinks I’m Marse Tait—he died jes’ ’fore Miss Helen did—an’ he thinks she’s Miss Helen, an’ he keeps tellin’ us whut a big hero Marse Ervin wuz wid his battlementary injines, an’ now he’s willin’ fer him to marry Miss Helen an’ take charge of the Dimocrat—but, Lawd, Lawd, whut does people do dese days to put in de paper?”
His dogs had walked through the gate and he now drew it carefully to, taking off his shabby old hat in response to Helen’s “good-night.”
She turned to the cabin across the road. Standing at the small gate, now off its hinges, she took in all the surroundings and tried to imagine Ervin at home amid them. She could fancy the whole story of his youthful love for the patrician girl at the big white mansion. Perhaps it was a burning ambition to make a name worthy of her which had led him to Charleston. Perhaps—but no! Deep in her heart Helen Brooks knew that, whatever fancies he had known, Ervin McArthur had given all his heart to but one woman, and that woman herself.