The house occupied by the manager of the Drummond Syndicate in Redlands--the former residence of a local lawyer and justice of the peace--was not large, but had an imposing portico of wooden Doric columns, which extended to the roof and fronted the main street.
The all-pervading creeper closely covered it; the sidewalk before it was shaded by a row of broad-leaved ailantus.The front room, with French windows opening on the portico, was used by Colonel Courtland as a general office; beyond this a sitting-room and dining-room overlooked the old-fashioned garden with its detached kitchen and inevitable negro cabin.It was a close evening; there were dark clouds coming up in the direction of the turnpike road, but the leaves of the ailantus hung heavy and motionless in the hush of an impending storm.The sparks of lazily floating fireflies softly expanded and went out in the gloom of the black foliage, or in the dark recesses of the office, whose windows were widely open, and whose lights Courtland had extinguished when he brought his armchair to the portico for coolness.One of these sparks beyond the fence, although alternately glowing and paling, was still so persistent and stationary that Courtland leaned forward to watch it more closely, at which it disappeared, and a voice from the street said:--"Is that you, Courtland?"
"Yes.Come in, won't you?"
The voice was Champney's, and the light was from his cigar.As he opened the gate and came slowly up the steps of the portico the usual hesitation of his manner seemed to have increased.A long sigh trilled the limp leaves of the ailantus and as quickly subsided.A few heavy perpendicular raindrops crashed and spattered through the foliage like molten lead.
"You've just escaped the shower," said Courtland pleasantly.He had not seen Champney since they parted in the cemetery six weeks before.
"Yes!--I--I thought I'd like to have a little talk with you, Courtland," said Champney.He hesitated a moment before the proffered chair, and then added, with a cautious glance towards the street, "Hadn't we better go inside?""As you like.But you'll find it wofully hot.We're quite alone here; there's nobody in the house, and this shower will drive any loungers from the street." He was quite frank, although their relations to each other in regard to Miss Sally were still so undefined as to scarcely invite his confidence.
Howbeit Champney took the proffered chair and the glass of julep which Courtland brought him.
"You remember my speaking to you of Dumont?" he said hesitatingly, "Miss Dows' French cousin, you know? Well--he's coming here: he's got property here--those three houses opposite the Court House.
From what I hear, he's come over with a lot of new-fangled French ideas on the nigger question--rot about equality and fraternity, don't you know--and the highest education and highest offices for them.You know what the feeling is here already? You know what happened at the last election at Coolidgeville--how the whites wouldn't let the niggers go to the polls and the jolly row that was kicked up over it? Well, it looks as if that sort of thing might happen HERE, don't you know, if Miss Dows takes up these ideas.""But I've reason to suppose--I mean," said Courtland correcting himself with some deliberation, "that any one who knows Miss Dows'
opinions knows that these are not her views.Why should she take them up?""Because she takes HIM up," returned Champney hurriedly; "and even if she didn't believe in them herself, she'd have to share the responsibility with him in the eyes of every unreconstructed rowdy like Tom Higbee and the rest of them.They'd make short work of her niggers all the same.""But I don't see why she should be made responsible for the opinions of her cousin, nor do I exactly knew what 'taking him up'
means," returned Courtland quietly.
Champney moistened his dry lips with the julep and uttered a nervous laugh."Suppose we say her husband--for that's what his coming back here means.Everybody knows that; you would, too, if you ever talked with her about anything but business."A bright flash of lightning that lit up the faces of the two men would have revealed Champney's flushed features and Courtland's lack of color had they been looking at each other.But they were not, and the long reverberating crash of thunder which followed prevented any audible reply from Courtland, and covered his agitation.
For without fully accepting Champney's conclusions he was cruelly shocked at the young man's utterance of them.He had scrupulously respected the wishes of Miss Sally and had faithfully--although never hopelessly--held back any expression of his own love since their conversation in the cemetery.But while his native truthfulness and sense of honor had overlooked the seeming insincerity of her attitude towards Champney, he had never justified his own tacit participation in it, and the concealment of his own pretensions before his possible rival.It was true that she had forbidden him to openly enter the lists with her admirers, but Champney's innocent assumption of his indifference to her and his consequent half confidences added poignancy to his story.
There seemed to be only one way to extricate himself, and that was by a quarrel.Whether he did or did not believe Champney's story, whether it was only the jealous exaggeration of a rival, or Miss Sally was actually deceiving them both, his position had become intolerable.