She glanced at him once, and then lowered her eyes half fearfully to the ground. And, getting his breath rapidly, the preacher bent more closely over her shoulder, as if to catch some reply from her lips. She made none.
“Yes, I'm in the dregs again—miserable, afraid, jealous! You know why, Miss Cynthia. You know that any lover would be concerned to see the girl upon whom he had based his every hope going often with Nelson Floyd, a man about whom people say—”
“Stop!” the girl turned upon him suddenly and gazed into his eyes steadily. “If you have anything to say against him, don't do it to me. He's my friend, and I will not listen to anything against those I like.”
“I'm not going to criticise him.” Hillhouse bit his white, unsteady lip, as he pinched it between his thumb and index finger. “A man's a fool that will try to win a woman by running down his rival. The way to run a man up in a woman's eye is to openly run him down. Men are strong enough to bear such things, but women don't think so. They shelter them like they do their babies. No, I wasn't going to run him down, but I am afraid of him. When you go out driving with him, I—”
Again Cynthia turned upon him and looked at him steadily, her eyes flashing. “Don't go too far; you might regret it,” she said. “It is an insult to be spoken to as you are speaking to me.”
“Oh, don't, don't! You misunderstand me,” protested the bewildered lover. “I—I am not afraid of—you understand, of course, I'm not afraid you will not be able to—to take care of yourself, but he has so many qualities that win and attract women that—Oh, I'm jealous, Miss Cynthia, that's the whole thing in a nutshell. He has the reputation of being a great favorite with all women, and now that he seems to admire you more than any of the rest—” The girl raised her eyes from the ground; a touch of color rose to her cheeks. “He doesn't admire me more than the others,” she said, tentatively. “You are mistaken, Mr. Hillhouse.”
He failed to note her rising color, the subtle eagerness oozing from her compact self-control.
“No, I'm not blind,” he went on, blindly building up his rival's cause. “He admires you extravagantly—he couldn't help it. You are beautiful, you have vivacity, womanly strength, and a thousand other qualities that are rare in this out-of-the-way place. Right here I want to tell you something. I know you will laugh, for you don't seem to care for such things, but you know Colonel Price is quite an expert on genealogical matters. He's made a great study of it, and his chief hobby is that many of these sturdy mountain people are the direct descendants of fine old English families from younger sons, you know, who settled first in Virginia and North Carolina, and then drifted into this part of Georgia. He didn't know of my admiration for you, but one day, at the meeting of the Confederate Veterans at Springtown, he saw you on the platform with the other ladies, and he said: 'I'll tell you, Hill-house, right there is a living proof of what I have always argued. That daughter of Nathan Porter has a face that is as patrician as any woman of English royal birth. I understand,' the colonel went on to say, 'that her mother was a Radcliffe, which is one of the best and most historic of the Virginia families, and Porter, as rough as he is, comes from good old English stock.' Do you wonder, Cynthia, that I agree with him? There really is good blood in you. Your grandmother is one of the most refined and gentle old ladies I have ever met anywhere, and I have been about a good deal.”
“I am not sure that Colonel Price is right,” the girl responded. “I've heard something of that kind before. I think Colonel Price had an article in one of the Atlanta papers about it, with a list of old family names. My father knows little or nothing about his ancestry, but my grandmother has always said her forefathers were wealthy people. She remembers her grandmother as being a fine old lady who, poor as she was, tried to make her and the other children wear their bonnets and gloves in the sun to keep their complexions white. But I don't like to discuss that sort of thing, Mr. Hillhouse. It won't do in America. I think we are what we make ourselves, not what others have made of themselves. One is individuality, the other open imitation.”
The young man laughed. “That's all very fine,” he said. “When it was your forefathers who made it possible for you to have the mental capacity for the very opinion you have just expressed. At any rate, there is a little comfort in your view, for if you were to pride yourself on Price's theories, as many a woman would, you might look higher than a poor preacher with such an untraceable name as mine. And you know, ordinary as it is, you have simply got to wear it sooner or later.”