A Fool's Errand & Bricks without Straw

by Albion Winegar Tourgée

  It was on such an occasion, not long after the events of the last chapter, that Lily one day came upon a pack of hounds running on a hot trail in the low woods upon the left of the road she was pursuing. Such a circumstance was by no means uncommon in that region; and, though she had herself never joined in a chase, yet she had so often listened to accounts of them, and had so observed her father's keen relish of their excitement the few times she had known him to engage in them, that her pulses beat faster as the chase turned toward the road, and grew faster and hotter, and the clamor wilder and fiercer, every moment.

  Young Lollard had been ridden to hounds a few times, and had not forgotten the wonderful excitement of the chase. As he heard it now sweeping towards him, he stopped and stood like a statue, save for the tremor of delight which swept through his frame at each new outburst of the clamorous music, and the quivering ears, distended nostrils, and long deep suspirations. Lily knew that he would not long remain so; and with all her fearlessness as a horsewoman she did not quite relish the idea of his bursting away through the low-branching second-growth to follow the pack. She was very doubtful of her power to restrain him. Half laughing, she thought of the tattered plight she would soon be in should she fail to do so. She saw her jaunty hat snatched by overhanging limbs, her flowing habit hooked by thorn and brier, and perchance some of her flowing locks caught like Absalom's. Yet she did not once think of abandoning her seat. She braced herself for whatever might come, determined, if not well satisfied of her power to hold him back, to let him take his course rather than allow him to suppose that he was able to do otherwise than as she desired. Perhaps she was not entirely averse to trying one of those dashes through the brush which she had so often heard described when the trained horse needs no guidance; indeed, none can be attempted, as he leaps with instinctive certainty through the most available openings of the wood. She patted the arched neck, and spoke in her most soothing tones, as the chase drew nearer and nearer. All at once, and just as she expected to see the pack come bursting from the copse upon the roadside, their course changed sharply to the left, and they swept down a little ridge almost parallel with the road. Then she gave her horse the rein, and he bounded forward with his magnificent stride, almost abreast of the hunt, his eye and ear alert for every indication of their presence.

  The ridge which the chase was following ran about midway between the road on which Lily was, and another into which this led about half a mile from where she had stopped. Just before reaching this road, the land sloped sharply towards it, the ground was more open, and, beyond the road, fell away to a wide bottom, stretching down to a creek with thick willow margins and occasional patches of dense reeds. It was this shelter that the chase was evidently striving to reach.

  Lily felt all the surging frenzy of the huntsman as Young Lollard tore along the slightly undulating road, and once or twice found herself even urging him on, as she fancied the hunt was gaining upon him. As she neared the intersection, she heard a loud view-halloo upon the other road, and an instant after, seeing the chase as he glided swiftly across an open space in the copse, she returned it in her shrill treble as she had been taught to do by her father. Hardly fifty yards behind him came the pack; and, as he dashed across the road into the open ground leading down to the creek, they burst into a louder and wilder chorus, and then, neck to neck, with short, impatient yelps, the sinewy undulating backs rising and falling together, one a length in advance, and one unfortunate fellow struggling along in the rear, they swept across the smooth expanse of old corn-rows down upon their prey.

  So absorbed was Lily in the sight and in the exhilarating motion of her horse, that she hardly noticed the horseman whose view-halloo she had heard, but swept on unconscious of all but the hunt, of which she had now become a part. She did dimly notice a horseman who reached the intersection almost at the same time, on a powerful gray, from whose long strides even Young Lollard was able to draw away but little in the few hundred yards over which they flew before the race was ended. The huntsman leaped down at once, and, dashing among the hounds, rescued the chase before they had time to mutilate it, and came towards Lily, holding up a magnificent specimen of the red fox. He smoothed its rumpled coat, and displayed its splendid brush, with the keen appreciation of the veteran hunter, as he came forward, and held it up for her inspection, exclaiming, —

  "A fine fellow, Madam, and a splendid chase — at least, a splendid burst at the end! And gallantly ridden, Madam, allow me to say, gallantly ridden!" He raised his hat as he spoke, smiled pleasantly, and continued, "Allow me to present this trophy, Madam, which few ladies have ever as fairly earned. You were easily the first in at the death, though I must confess that I most ungallantly pressed my horse when I saw yours drawing away from him. We had about an even start at the road, and I was greatly chagrined at not being able to keep neck and neck with you. That is a splendid animal you have," he added after he had hung the fox to her saddle. "I did not think there was a horse in this region that could distance mine."

  He motioned towards his horse; and Lily knew at a glance that it was the same gray which was indelibly photographed upon her memory, which had brought the messenger who gave warning of her father's peril, and the lover who sought her hand in vain, although he had borne away her heart.

  "This, then, is Melville's father, the man who stands between us and happiness," she said to herself, as she turned her gaze upon him, conscious that her cheeks were flushed even beyond what the excitement of the chase would justify.

  She saw a tall, haughty-faced man, in whose eye there was no indecision, and whose firm-shut lips confirmed the judgment instinctively made up from eye and brow. The close-clipped beard and slightly-curling hair were of the same rich brown as his son's; but streaked here and there with gray. In form and feature his son closely resembled him, softened in outline, and perhaps somewhat less formal and austere in manner. Despite the feeling of injustice which had rankled in her bosom toward this man since she knew of the objection which he had interposed to her union with his favorite son, she could not avoid a feeling of pride in the father of her lover. While she made these observations, he had been scanning, with the eye of a connoisseur, the proportions of Young Lollard, and remarking upon his excellences. The hounds were stretched about, lolling in utter exhaustion, or wallowing and drinking in the creek near by.

  "A splendid horse, Madam, and finely bred. He has a look which I ought to remember, though I can not recall where I have seen it. Not a stock often met with here. Somewhat more of bone than our thoroughbreds usually show. You know his stock, of course, Madam. No one could ride such a horse, and ride him as you do, without appreciating his qualities. Let me see," he continued, without waiting for reply, and stepping back a pace or two, so as to get the ensemble of the horse more readily,"he is like — no — yes, he is very like — Colonel Servosse's Lollard."

  "And he is Young Lollard," said Lily.

  The man raised his eyes quickly to her face, and let them fall, with careful scrutiny of her dress and figure, to the horse again, as he said musingly, —

  "Ah, yes! I remember his telling me about the colt. By a Glencoe dam, I think he said."

  "Yes," assented Lily.

  "And you?" he asked, looking her full in the face.

  "I am Lily Servosse," she answered, in tones as calm as his own.

  "So I inferred," he responded. "The Colonel has reason to be proud, both of his daughter and his horse," he added, with quiet approval in his voice. "And I am General Gurney. Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Lily, and wish for our better acquaintance." He doffed his hat again, and watched her keenly, as he extended his hand. Her countenance did not change, and she said, with the utmost composure, —

  "Thank you. I had inferred as much."

  He smiled at this echo of his own words, and said, looking at his own horse, "Indeed! You have seen him before, I suppose?"

  "Twice."

  "Yes. That reminds me, Miss Lily, that I am your debtor f
or refusing the offer of my son's hand, not long since. It seems a queer thing to thank one for; and, now that I have seen you," he added pleasantly, "I can not wonder that he made the tender. At his age, I am almost certain I should have risked a like fate."

  "Not unless the horse were to be my dowry, I am afraid," she retorted mischievously.

  "Well," said he, laughing, "the pair should not be separated. But seriously," he added, "I am thankful for your rejection of his suit, and hope I may express it without offense. I am not surprised that he should become enamoured of one having such charms, nor surprised at his chagrin; but you must know, Miss Lily, parents will form plans for their children, and we had especially fixed our hearts upon another wife for Melville. I am afraid he may take your refusal so much to heart, that we shall miss having a daughter at all; though it may help him to overcome his attachment."

  "But I did not refuse him, General Gurney," she said, with quiet candor.

  "You did not refuse him? I understood him to say that he had been refused; or at least his mother so informed me," he responded with surprise.

  "I told him," Lily replied to his questioning tone and surprised look, "that, so long as his father was opposed to it, there could be nothing looking towards marriage between us."

  "And why did you make that condition?" he asked in surprise. "Such regard for the filial duty of a lover is not usual with our American ladies."

  "I refused to explain to Melville," she replied, "but you have a right to inquire. There was little or no thought of his filial duty in it. I simply felt it a duty which I owed to you myself."

  "How, to me? I do not understand," he said, with a puzzled look.

  "Because you sent the warning which saved my father's life," she answered steadily.

  He started, and flushed to his temples.

  "You infer that also!" he said sharply. "From what, may I ask?"

  "Your younger son brought it, riding upon that horse," she said, pointing to Reveillé.

  "And that warning caused you to try a perilous ride," said he.

  "Which I was only too happy to undertake," she responded quickly.

  "And did you not think it was cowardly and mean for me to leave it for you to thwart that horrible scheme?" he asked.

  "I had never thought of it in that light," she answered musingly.

  "I have often, since; and have thoroughly despised my weakness. I even tried to conceal the fact that I had given the warning. I have never told any one, not even the boy who bore the message."

  "I have only told my father," she said simply.

  "And you refused my son's addresses solely on account of that fact?" he asked musingly.

  "The question is hardly a fair one," she answered, for the first time somewhat confused.

  "I beg pardon," he said quickly. "You are right. I have no right to ask that question. I withdraw it."

  "No, General Gurney," said Lily, looking at him earnestly, "I will conceal nothing from you. I refused to accede to his request that we should be engaged, for that reason alone."

  "And your father — does he know?"

  "I have been as frank with him as with you."

  "And he approves?"

  "Most heartily."

  "Miss Lily" —

  There was the blast of a horn, and a half-dozen horsemen dashed into sight upon the road by which the general had come.

  "Yo-ho-o-o!" he shouted quickly, in reply, adding briefly to her, "There is my friend Morrow. I thought these were his dogs. I stumbled on the hunt, as well as you."

  The horsemen were at hand by the time he had finished this remark. Introductions and explanations followed. Morrow gave a history of the run. The general gave a vivid recital of the capture. Compliments were showered profusely upon Lily; and Morrow accepted her invitation to "go by" her father's house, and dine with them, as it was upon his way home. Greetings were exchanged; and, under the escort of the fresh-hearted old fox-hunter, Lily returned to Warrington.

  "I declare, Colonel," was his final comment as he rode away after dinner, "some of our fine young fellows must make a run for that gal of yours. Ding my buttons if she ain't more Southern than any of our own gals! It won't do for such a gal as that to go North for a husband. It would be a pity, I swear, to let her marry a Yankee! It mustn't be, Colonel. I shall send some one to prevent such a calamity."

  "Too late, Morrow," said Servosse briskly, "She leaves for the North on Monday, and takes Young Lollard with her."

  "You don't say!" exclaimed the old man ruefully. "Well, they'll never let her come back, that's certain: they've too much sense for that. Gal and hoss both! Well, I swear it's a shame."

  After much consideration, it had been decided that Warrington should be closed for a year; that Lily should go to a Northern city to pursue certain studies for which she had developed a peculiar aptitude; and that her mother should accompany her. Colonel Servosse proposed to pass a portion of the time with them, and to devote the rest to certain business matters which would necessarily require his absence during a considerable portion of the year. The next summer it was proposed to spend a couple of months at Warrington, and then leave it, — perhaps for good, at least for a prolonged absence.

  It was at Lily's special request that this return to Warrington had been made a part of the family programme. While she had not once faltered in the resolution she had formed, she looked confidently for the time to come when General Gurney should relent. She did not for a moment distrust the constancy of her banished lover, and hardly repined at the fate which separated them, so confident was she that he would return. In the mean time she applied herself with still greater zest to study, counting every acquisition which she made as one more attraction which she would be able to offer Melville Gurney in compensation for his long probation. The autumn leaves were falling when the Fool and his family bade adieu to their Southern home.

  A week afterwards Marion Gurney rode up to the gate, and hailing the deserted house, was told by the faithful Andy, who with his wife had been left in charge of the house and grounds that "de Kunnel an' all de folks had done gone Norf."

  "When will they return?" asked Gurney.

  "Wal, sah, I don't 'llow as ever," said Andy. "Dey talks 'bout comin' back h'yer fer a little time nex summer; but I specs dey'll be habbin' sech good times dar, an' fine so many frens in de Norf, dey'll quite forgit dis pore, mean country whar dey's hed so much to contend wid, an' jes' keep on stayin' dar. What makes me tink so more'n all de res' is, dat Miss Lily's tuk Young Lollard. Ef dat hoss hed only staid, I'd felt sure she was comin' back."

  "Well," soliloquized General Gurney as he rode homeward, "I reckon it's just as well. I liked the girl mightily, that's fact; but she's a Yankee, after all. I wish Melville never had seen her. I had made up my mind, though, to eat humble pie, and tell her I withdrew my opposition. I can't bear to see him going round so moody and solemn, when he used to be so bright and cheery. Perhaps, now that she's gone, he'll think better of it, and give her up. I hope so, anyhow.

  "Servosse, too, wasn't a bad sort of a man. I used to wish I was better acquainted with him, and really suppose I ought to have exerted myself to make it homelike for him here. He must have had a dull life of it. But then he was so awfully radical in his Northern notions! He ought never to have come here, that's the truth of the matter. Nobody can force Northern ideas on the South. The soil and climate don't take to them kindly. It's like Northern farming in a piney old-field, — looks well enough, but don't pay. I'm sure I wish him well, and Miss Lily too. She's just the girl I'd like Melville to marry, if she wasn't a Yankee, and her daddy wasn't a Radical. I reckon he'll forget her now. I hope so, at least."

  He sighed as he rode on; but his wish proved abortive. Melville Gurney was seized with a passion for travel as soon as he heard of the hegira from Warrington; and, strangely enough, his footsteps led him to the same city where Lily was studying, with her heart full of dreams of his coming. More than once, as the months flew by, she turned has
tily in the crowded thoroughfares with the feeling that his eye was upon her. A few times she thought she saw a familiar figure in the crowd; and her heart would beat fast while her eye sought to catch the loved outlines again. Then she would go on with a light laugh, well pleased that her heart attested its faithfulness by a fond self-deception.

  Melville soon became conscious of the true state of affairs, and determined not to be outdone in steadfastness. So he made no sign, but studied the great city that opened its myriad-paged book of life before him, and learned many a rare lesson which the insular exclusiveness of the South could never teach.

  Thus the lovers waited; but the father, irritated at his son's course, said, "If he wants to make a fool of himself over that little Yankee, let him go."

  CHAPTER XLV

  WISDOM AND FOLLY MEET TOGETHER

  Table of Contents

  IT was shortly after the rupture of his home-life and his departure from Warrington, that Servosse visited, by special invitation, Doctor Enos Martin, the ancient friend who had been at first his instructor, and afterward his revered and trusted counselor. In the years which had elapsed since the Fool had seen him, he had passed from a ripe manhood of surpassing vigor into that riper age which comes without weakness, but which, nevertheless, brings not a little of philosophic calm, — that true "sunset of life which gives mystical lore." It is in those calm years which come before the end, when ambition is dead, and aspiration ceases; when the restless clamor of busy life sweeps by unheeded as the turmoil of the crowded thoroughfare by the busy worker; when the judgment acts calmly, unbiased by hope or fear, — it is in these declining years that the best work of the best lives is usually done. The self which makes the balance waver is dead; but the heart, the intellect, the keen sympathy with that world which is fast slipping away, remain, and the ripened energies act without the wastefulness of passion. It was in this calm brightness which precedes the twilight, that Enos Martin sat down to converse with the man, now rugged and mature, whom he had watched while he grew from youth into manhood, and from early manhood to its maturity. A score of years had passed since they had met. To the one, these years had been full of action. He had been in the current, had breasted its buffetings, and been carried away out of the course which he had marked out for himself on life's great chart, by its cross-currents and counter-eddies. He had a scar to show for every struggle. His heart had throbbed in harmony with the great world-pulse in every one of the grand purposes with which it had swelled during those years. The other had watched with keenest apprehension those movements which had veered and whirled about in their turbid currents the life of the other, himself but little moved, but ever seeking to draw what lessons of value he might from such observation, for the instruction and guidance of other young souls who were yet but skirting the shore of the great sea of life.