Chapter XXXVI: The Meeting at the Oaks

As the two neared the scene of Judy's festivities, Millicent suddenly stopped and, looking straight into Westover's eyes, asked:

"You are very sure you believe me, and that I have acted upon the prompting of conscience alone?"

"Millicent Danvers, I never believed anything in my life more confidently than I do that."

"And do you think I have done right?"

"Right? Yes. You have saved two lives from wreck and wretchedness. Could anything be righter than that? You have a sensitive conscience; bid it rest easy in the consciousness of a brave deed well done. Charles Kingsley says: 'God gives it to few men to carry a line to a stranded ship.' That is what God has given it to you to do. Be sure I shall not compromise you in any way, and may God always bless you!"

Both were too much overwrought to indulge in further speech. They hurried on to the house, and Boyd went instantly to Judy, saying:

"I'm sorry to miss the rest of the frolic and especially the evening dance; but I find I must leave immediately."

"That's all right, Boyd, ef it's becase o' the gal," answered Judy with womanly sympathy. "Jest set still here fer five minutes an' I'll have Theonidas bring your horse round to the road back o' the house, so's nobody'll see you a settin' off. Say, Boyd, that Boston gal's awful nice. I wish 'twas her."

"Let Jack Towns dance with her to-night, Judy, and you'll be satisfied."

Five minutes later Westover was in the saddle and hurrying down the mountain as rapidly as his concern for the welfare and the bones of Rob Roy would permit. That enthusiastic quadruped had an unconquerable preference for the faster gaits familiar to horse flesh, and, if left to himself, he would have gone at a gallop all the way down the mountain. But his master, with a discretion superior to his, restrained him, permitting only a trot on the levels and compelling what the horse evidently regarded as an absurd walk down the steeper inclines.

In spite of all restraints the good horse carried him over the twenty-mile distance in little more than two hours' time, and it was at the gloaming time that he approached The Oaks.

He had formed no plans when he rode away from Judy Peters's place. His first thought as he went down the mountain was that he would go to Wanalah, write a letter to Margaret, enclose it in a note to Colonel Conway and send it by a special messenger. He abandoned that program promptly, and after framing and rejecting several others of less elaborate formality, he resolved to go straight to Margaret.

"I have a right to do that," he said to himself. "Now that I know what her attitude has been it is not only my privilege but my duty to deal directly with her, to tell her what I have learned, to tell her of the misapprehension I have labored under, to renew my suit and to learn from her lips what her present feeling is. I know that, already, but it will be reassuring to have her tell me of it. God bless that Boston girl and her New England conscience and her courage! For it required courage of a high order to do what she did. Not many people would have dared do it."

So thinking he rode into the house grounds at The Oaks while the last glow of daylight was fading out of the sunset side of the sky.

Seeing a young negro, he dismounted and tossed the rein to the boy, saying:

"Don't stable him; just walk him back and forth till he cools down and then hitch him somewhere handy; I shall ride again presently."

Walking rapidly up the path he stepped upon the porch, and there met Margaret face to face for the first time since he had gaily bidden her adieu at midsummer.

"Margaret!" he exclaimed.

"Boyd!" she answered, and a moment later he had taken her in his arms and caressed her fervently.

"You have come at last!" she said as she withdrew herself from his embrace.

"At last?" he asked in answer. "It was only two hours ago that I learned that I might come at all. I was twenty miles away then, and I am here now, here to claim fulfilment of the most glorious promise a woman ever made to a man--here to claim you, Margaret."

"I know," she answered, as they sank into porch chairs. "Don't let us waste time in explanations, now that they are so utterly unnecessary. Just let us be happy."

The conversation thus begun lasted until near supper time. It is not necessary to report it for the information of any who have been lovers, and as for the rest, they would never understand.

Just before the late supper time Westover suddenly awakened to his duty.

"I must see your father," he said. "Without his permission I have no right to consider myself a guest in his house."

Margaret, knowing her father's perplexed eagerness to see Westover and be reconciled with him, smiled as she answered:

"I'll send for Father."

She did so, and presently the old Colonel came limping into the porch. As he approached, Margaret slipped into the house, leaving the two men alone.

They greeted each other with a cordiality that rendered all explanations and apologies needless, but Colonel Conway insisted upon explaining and apologizing.

"I've been a coward, Boyd! I've been an abject coward."

"I don't know any other man living who would dare say that, Colonel."

"Perhaps not. No, I suppose not. Still it is true, and I'm profoundly ashamed of it."

"Now my dear Colonel Conway," interjected Westover, "let us not talk of that. This is the happiest hour of my life and, I hope, of Margaret's. Let us not spoil it by discussing disagreeable things which are completely past and gone."

"But there are some things that I must explain, Boyd, and you must listen to me. I ought to have gone to you in Richmond at the time of your trouble. I didn't, because I was forbidden to do so by an authority which I was cowardly enough to yield to. Margaret--great woman that she is--told me then I was a coward, and she was right. When you came back to Wanalah my purpose was to go to you at once, but the same authority forbade, giving me a sufficient reason in the fact that you had written no line to Margaret. I know better now, but only within the past few days. Under that mistaken belief I refused to join in your nomination. A few days ago a catastrophe here revealed the truth to both Margaret and me. She appealed to me to do what my sense of honor might suggest. That meant that I should go to you at once, grasp your hand, tell you of the misapprehension and of the facts that removed it, and ask your pardon. No, don't interrupt. You are generously disposed to spare me, but I shall not consent to be spared. My first impulse was to do what Margaret expected of me. But an appeal was made to me to spare another--the culprit in the case--and I weakly yielded to it. I compromised with my conscience and my honor. I wrote to Dr. Farnsworth the letter you have doubtless seen, and I did no more. It was all cowardice, and I am heartily ashamed of it. Will you forgive me, Boyd?"

"Colonel Conway," answered Boyd with intense earnestness, "no man with a cowardly nerve in his body could ever have made the manly self-accusing apology you have offered to me. You grievously wrong yourself. It was not cowardice that restrained you, but a tender and generous consideration for a helpless person who was entitled to every protection you could give her. Now let us talk no more of this! Let us never refer to it! Let it be a dead thing of a dead past--a thing done with, forgotten, banished forever from our minds!"

"You are very generous," answered the now feeble old man. "But that is not a thing to be wondered at. You are Westover of Wanalah, and for nearly two hundred years that name has stood for all there is of gentle, generous and courageous manhood. You'll stay to supper of course?"

"No, Colonel. I have much to do to-night. I must ride at once--as soon as I shall have said 'good night' to Margaret."

It took a considerable time for the saying of that good night.

"I'll be over here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, Margaret," he said, "and we'll go for a ride. I'll have a servant bring over a young filly I have in my stables, that you'll be delighted to ride. She's spirited, but as gentle as a zephyr--that's what I've named her--'Zephyr'--and her paces are perfect. She's to be yours from this time forth. I personally educated her for you last summer, before--before the trouble came."

"But to-morrow is Sunday; aren't we to go to church?"

"No. We are going to Wanalah, so that you may look over the place and see what alterations are needed. I must tell you, Margaret, that an investment,--very wise or very lucky, I don't know which,--made by my father in my name, has suddenly borne fruit, making me, Jack Towns says--and he has charge of the business--three times over the richest man in Virginia. The wealth is of no consequence in itself, but I mention it so that in deciding what shall be done at Wanalah you need have no fear of expense before your eyes."

"But church is at Round Hill, to-morrow, almost under our noses. If we don't attend, what will people say?"

"Hang 'people.' We are 'people' now. We're happy and we're going to stay happy. And after all what can they say? They'll say that Boyd Westover and Margaret Conway are very much in love with each other, and we don't care to contradict that, do we?"

"I do not," she answered.

"Neither do I. So let them say on. They'll wonder when it is to be, and I'm wondering about that myself now. When is it to be, Margaret?"

"I don't know. Of course I must have time to make a trousseau."

"What for?" he asked. "Hang the trousseau, or make it after we're married. What's the difference? You've plenty of clothes, and you're charming in any of them."

"But Boyd, dear,--"

"But Margaret dear," he interrupted, "you see our marriage was to have occurred in the late summer or early fall. It has already been unreasonably delayed. It is nonsense to delay it further. Think a little, and think quick, and name a day."

"If you must have it so, I suppose it must be so. You are the Master now. And besides--"

She did not finish her sentence till he challenged it, saying:

"Besides what, Margaret?"

"I was only thinking," she answered, "that I can't persuade Millicent to stay much longer, and I do want her to be my first bridesmaid. You see, Boyd, it isn't only that I'm very fond of her--I am _very grateful to her_."

"So am I," he answered with emphasis, but neither the one nor the other said aught of the occasion for gratitude. They both understood. But he eagerly grasped at the helping hand:

"Then you _must_ name a very early day, or she will have flitted."

"Let me see," she said; "the election will occur one week from next Tuesday; that is ten days hence. Our wedding shall occur on the day after you are elected Senator."

"But suppose I should not be elected?"

"In that case the day will come round just the same," she said; "but you will be elected. I have Dr. Farnsworth's positive assurance that you will be elected by the largest majority any candidate ever received in this district, and Dr. Farnsworth is a man who deals exclusively in facts, never in conjectures."

"Then you have concerned yourself about my election?"

"How could it be otherwise? As I told you in the long ago, Boyd, I am not a woman who loves lightly or lightly forgets."

"I know," he answered. "Your father is taking his supper alone. Go to him at once. I'll mount and away."