Chapter 1

It was springtime in Kentucky, gay, irresponsible, Southern springtime,
that comes bursting impetuously through highways and byways, heedless of
possible frosts and impossible fruitions. A glamour of tender new green
enveloped the world, and the air was sweet with the odor of young and
growing things. The brown river, streaked with green where the fresher
currents of the creeks poured in, circled the base of a long hill that
dominated the landscape from every direction.

In spite of the fact that impertinent railroads were beginning to crawl
about its feet, and the flotsam and jetsam of the adjacent city were
gradually being deposited at its base, it nevertheless reared its
granite shoulders proudly and defiantly against the sky.

From the early days when the hill and rich surrounding farm lands
had been granted to the old pioneer William Carsey, one generation of
Carseys after another had lived in the stately old mansion that now
stood like the last remaining fortress against the city's invasion.
Sagging cornices and discolored walls had not dispelled the atmosphere
of contentment that enveloped the place, an effect heightened by the
wide front porch which ran straight across the face of it, like a
broad, complacent smile. Some old houses, like old gallants, bear
an unmistakable air of past prosperity, of past affairs. Romance has
trailed her garments near them and the fragrance lingers.

Thornwood, shabby and neglected, could still afford to drowse in the
sunshine and smile over the past. It remembered the time when its
hospitality was the boast of the countryside, when its stables held the
best string of horses in the State; when its smokehouse, now groaning
under a pile of lumber, sheltered shoulders of pork, and sides of bacon,
and long lines of juicy, sugar-cured hams; when the cellar quartered
battalions of cobwebby bottles that stood at attention on the low
hanging shelves. It was a house ripe with experience and mellow with
memories, a wise, old, sophisticated house, that had had its day, and
enjoyed it, and now, through with ambitions, and through with striving,
had settled down to a peaceful old age.

On this particular Sunday afternoon Colonel Bob Carsey, the third of
his name, sat on the porch in a weather-beaten mahogany rocker, making
himself a mint julep. He was a stout, elderly gentleman, and, like the
rocking chair, was weather-beaten, and of a slightly mahogany hue. His
features, having long ago given up the struggle against encroaching
flesh, were now merely slight indentures, and mild protuberances,
with the exception of the eyes which still blazed away defiantly, like
twinkling lights at the end of a passage. Across his feet with nose
on paws lay a dog, and about him was scattered a profusion of fishing
paraphernalia.

The Colonel, carefully crushing the mint between his stubby fingers,
stirred it with the sugar at the bottom of his tall glass; then, resting
the concoction on the broad arm of the rocker, and without turning his
head, lifted his voice in stentorian command:

“Jimpson!”

No answer. He turned his head slightly to the left, in the general
direction of the negro cabins whose roofs could be seen through the
trees, and sent another summons hurtling through the bushes:

“Jimpson!”

Again he waited, and again there was no response. The Colonel sighed
resignedly, and spreading a large bordered handkerchief over his
obliterated features, clasped his fat hands with some difficulty about
his ample girth, and slept. When he awoke he began exactly where he had
left off, only this time turning his head slightly to the right, and
sending his command toward the kitchen wing.

A door slammed somewhere in the distance, and presently a shuffling
of feet was heard in the hall, and a small, alert old negro presented
himself to his master with an air of cheerful conciliation.

The Colonel did not turn his head; he gazed with an air of great injury
at the tops of the locust trees, clasping his tumbler as it rested on
the arm of the rocker.

“Jimpson,” he began, after the culprit had suffered his silence some
minutes.

“Now, Cunnel,” began Jimpson nervously. He had evidently rehearsed this
scene in the past.

“Just answer my questions,” insisted the Colonel. “_Is_ this my house?”

“Yas, sir, but Carline, she--”

“And are you my nigger?” persisted the Colonel plaintively.

“Yas, sir; but you see, Carline--”

“And haven't I, for twenty years,” persisted the Colonel, “been taking a
mint julep at half past two on Sunday afternoons?”

“Yas, sir, I was a comin'--”

“Then you don't regard it as an unreasonable request, that a gentleman
should ask his own nigger, in his own house, to bring him a small piece
of ice?” The Colonel's sense of injury was becoming so overpowering that
the offender might have been crushed by contrition had not a laugh made
them both look up.

Standing in the doorway was a young girl in a short riding habit, and a
small hat of red felt that was carelessly pinned to her bright, tumbled
hair. Her eyes were dark, and round like those of a child, and they
danced from object to object as if eager to miss none of the good things
that the world had to offer. Joy of life and radiant youth seemed to
flash from her face and figure.

“What's the matter, Squire Daddy?” she asked, pausing on the threshold.
“Mad again?” The Colonel's head twitched in her direction, but he held
it stiff.

“Well, please don't kill Uncle Jimpson 'til he finds my gloves. I don't
know where I took them off.”

“Yas 'm, Miss Lady,” Jimpson welcomed the diversion. “I'll find 'em jes
as soon as I git yer Paw his ice.”

“Oh, Daddy'll wait, won't you, Dad? I'm in a hurry.”

For a moment Jimpson and the Colonel eyed each other, then the Colonel's
gaze shifted.

“I'll git de ice fer you on my way back,” Jimpson whispered
reassuringly. “I spec' dat chile _is_ in a hurry.”

The young lady in question gave no appearance of haste as she perched
herself on the arm of her father's chair, and presented a boot-lace for
him to tie.

“Going fishing, Dad?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the Colonel, struggling to make a two-loop bow-knot. “Noah
Wicker and I are going down below the mill dam. Want to come along?”

“I can't. I'm going riding.”

“That's good. Who with?”

“With Don Morley.”

The smile that had returned to the Colonel's face during this
conversation contracted suddenly, leaving his mouth a round little
button of disapprobation.

“What in thunder is he doing up here anyhow; why don't he go on back to
town where he belongs?”

“Don?” Miss Lady pretended to effect a part in the few straggling hairs
that adorned his forehead. “Why, he's staying over to the Wickers' while
he looks around for a farm. Here's a gray hair, Daddy! I'd pull it out
only there are two more on that other side now than there are on this.”

“Buying a farm, is he?” The Colonel waxed a deeper mahogany. “Well, this
place is not for sale. I should think he could find something better to
do with his time than hanging around here. For two weeks I haven't been
able to sit on this porch for five minutes without having him under my
feet! What's the sense of his coming so often?”

Miss Lady caught him by the ears, and turned his irate face up to her
own.

“He comes to see me!” she announced, emphasizing each word with a nod.
“He likes horses and dogs and me, and I like horses and dogs and him.
But I like you, too, Daddy.”

The Colonel refused to be beguiled by such blandishments.

“I'll speak to him when he comes. He needn't think just because he is a
city fellow, he can take a daughter of mine racing all over the country
on Sunday afternoon!”

“Why, Dad, that's absurd! Don't you take me yourself almost every
Sunday? And don't I go with Noah, and the Brooks boys whenever I like?”

“Well, you can't go to-day.”

“But this is Donald's last day. He goes back to town to-night, and he
may go abroad next week to stay ever and ever so long.”

The Colonel brought his fist down on his knees: “I don't care a hang
where he goes. It's _you_ we are talking about. You've got to promise me
not to go with him this afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because,” the Colonel argued feebly, “because it's Sunday.”

Miss Lady sat for a moment looking straight before her and there was a
contraction of her lips that might have passed for a comic imitation of
her father's had it not softened into a smile.

“Suppose I won't promise?” she said.

The Colonel's free hand gripped the arm of the chair, and he looked as
if he had every intention in the world of being firm.

“You see, if it is wrong for me to go riding on Sunday,” went on Miss
Lady, “it's wrong for you to go fishing. Suppose we both reform and stay
at home?”

The Colonel's eyes involuntarily flew to his cherished tackle, lying
ready for action on the top step, then they came back with a snap to the
top of a locust tree.

Miss Lady squeezed his arm and laughed: “Of course you don't want to
stay at home this glorious afternoon, neither do I! Now, that's settled.
Here comes Noah; I'll go and fix your lunch.”

It was not by any means the first time the daughter of the house of
Carsey had scored in a contest with her father. His subjection had begun
on that morning now nearly twenty years ago, when she had been placed
in his arms, a motherless bundle of helplessness without even a personal
name to begin life with.

That question of a name had baffled him. He had consulted all the
neighbors, considered all the possibilities in the back of the
dictionary, and even had recourse to the tombstones in the old cemetery,
but the haunting fear that in days to come she might not like his
choice, held him back from a final decision. In the meanwhile she was
“The Little Lady,” then “Lady,” and finally through the negroes it got
to be “Miss Lady.” So the Colonel weakly compromised in the matter by
deciding to wait until she was old enough to name herself. When that
time arrived she stubbornly refused to exchange her nickname for a real
one. A halfhearted effort was made to harness her up to “Elizabeth,” but
she flatly declined to answer to the appellation.

She and Noah Wicker, the son of a neighboring farmer, had run wild on
the big place, and it was Miss Lady who invariably got to the top of
the peach tree first, or dared to wade the farthest into the stream.
All through the summer days her little bare legs raced beside Noah's
sturdier brown ones. She could handle a fishing rod as well as her
father, could ride and drive and shoot, and was on terms of easy
friendship with every neighbor who passed over the brow of Billy-goat
Hill.

The matter of education had been the first serious break in this idyllic
existence. After romping through the country school, she had had several
young and pretty governesses, all of whom had succumbed to the charms of
neighboring country swains, and abandoned their young charge, to start
establishments of their own. Then came wise counsel from without and
after many tears she was sent to a boarding school in the city.

The older teachers at Miss Gibbs' Select School for Young Ladies still
recall their trials during the one year Miss Lady was enrolled. She was
pretty, yes, and clever, and lovable, oh, yes! And at this point usually
followed a number of stories of her generosity and impulsive kindness;
“but,” the conclusion always ran, “such a strange, wild little creature,
so intolerant of convention, in dress, in education, in religion. Quite
impossible in a young ladies' seminary.”

After one term of imprisonment Miss Lady escaped to the outdoor world
again, and implored her devoted “Dad” to let her grow up in ignorance,
protesting passionately that she did not want puffs on her head, and
heels on her shoes, and whalebones about her waist. That she didn't care
whether X plus Y equaled Z, or not, and that going to church and saying
the same thing a dozen times, drove all ideas of religion out of her
head. She would study at home, she declared, anything, everything he
suggested, if only she could do it, in her own way, out of doors.

So the sorely puzzled Colonel had procured her the necessary text-books,
and she had plunged into her original method of self-education. She
usually fought out her mathematical battles down by the river, using a
stick on the sand for her calculations; history she studied in the
fork of an old elm, declaiming the most dramatic episodes aloud, to the
edification of the sparrows.

In the long winter months her favorite haunt was a little unused room
over the front hall, traditionally known as the library. Its only
possible excuse for the name was its one piece of furniture, a battered
secretary containing a small collection of musty volumes that did credit
to the taste of some long-departed Carsey.

Miss Lady had discovered the library in her paper-doll days, and had
ruthlessly clipped small bonneted ladies with flounced skirts from
magazines that dated back to the first year of publication. Later she
had discovered that some of the ladies had jokes on their backs, or
rather pieces of jokes, the rest of which she hunted up in the old
magazines. It was an easy step from the magazines to the books, and in
time she knew them all, from the little dog-eared copy of Horace in the
upper left-hand corner, to the fat Don Quixote in the lower right.

In this neglected little room, with its festoons of cobwebs, its musty
smell and its sense of old, forgotten things and people, she would tuck
herself away with a pocket full of apples, to study and read by the
hour.

The Colonel had done his part, and she was determined to do hers; for
three years she kept sturdily at it, devouring the things she could
understand, and blithely skipping those she could not, extracting
meanwhile a vast amount of pleasure out of each passing day. For the
thing that differentiated Miss Lady from the rest of her fellow kind was
that she was usually glad. She liked to get up in the morning and to
go to bed at night, a peculiarity in itself sufficiently great to
individualize her. She greeted each new experience with enthusiasm and
managed to extract the largest possible quota of happiness out of the
smallest and most insignificant occasion.

As she went singing through the hall, the Colonel tried to frown
over his glasses, but he was only partially successful. She was too
satisfying a sight with her shining hair and eyes, and lithe, supple
figure, every motion of which bespoke that quick, unconscious freedom of
body peculiar to children and those favored of the gods, who never grow
old.

The tall, awkward young man who had by this time arrived at the porch,
followed the Colonel's gaze, and then, without speaking, sat down on the
steps and clasped his hands about his knees. Noah Wicker's awkwardness,
however manifest to others, was evidently a matter of small moment to
him. He had apparently accepted the companionship of unmanageable arms
and legs without question, and without embarrassment. His stubby blond
hair rose straight from a high, broad forehead, and grew down in square
patches in front of his ears. His eyes, small and steady, surveyed the
world with profound indifference.

When Miss Lady disappeared the Colonel turned upon him suddenly:

“What about this rich young fellow over at your house? Who is he
anyhow?”

“Morley?” Noah crossed his knees deliberately. “Why, he's a
brother-in-law of Mr. Sequin.”

“Not Basil Sequin, the president of the People's Bank! You don't say!”
The Colonel paused for a moment to digest this fact, then he went on:
“Hell-bent on farming I hear; wants your father to look around for a
place.”

This not being in the form of a question, Noah conserved his energies.

“Don't amount to a hill of beans, I'll warrant,” continued the Colonel,
with a watchful eye on Noah for denial or confirmation, but Noah was
noncommittal. “When a fellow gets to be twenty-three years old and can't
find anything better to do than to run around the country spending his
money, and playing with the girls, there's a screw loose somewhere. What
does he know about stock-farming?”

“Says he's been reading up.”

“Fiddlesticks!” roared the Colonel. “You can't learn farming out of a
book! What does he know about horses?”

“Oh! He's on to horses all right,” Noah grinned ambiguously. “You and I
couldn't teach him anything about horses.”

“Can he shoot?”

“Can't hit a barn door.”

The Colonel heaved a deep sigh, drained the last drops from his tumbler,
then leaned forward, confidentially:

“Noah Wicker, do you like that young chap?”

“Like him?” Noah looked up in surprise. “Why, everybody likes Don
Morley.”

“I don't,” said the Colonel fiercely. “Here he comes now. I wish you'd
look at that!”

A headlong young man in model riding costume, astride a bob-tailed
sorrel, rashly took a fence where gate there was none, and came
cantering across the Colonel's favorite stretch of blue grass.

“Awfully sorry to have cut across, Colonel!” he called out in tones that
spoke little contrition. “Slipped my trolley as usual and got lost in
the bullrushes. Hope I haven't kept Miss Lady waiting?”

The Colonel rose and extended a hand of welcome. A true Kentuckian may
commit murder and still be a gentleman, but to fail in hospitality is to
forfeit even his own self-respect.

“My daughter, Mr. Morley, will be out presently,” he announced with
great formality.

“And how are you, Mike?” went on young Morley, stooping to pat the dog;
“didn't mean to cut you, old fellow, 'pon my word I didn't.”

The dog, a shaggy beast, with small, plaintive eyes looking out from a
fringe of wiry hair, expressed his appreciation of this attention with
all the emotion a stump of tail would permit.

“It's a bully day!” continued the visitor with enthusiasm, wiping his
wrists and forehead, and tossing his hair back. “If I weren't going to
town to-night I'd ask you to take me fishing, Colonel. Hello! What kind
of a reel is that?”

Now the article which had attracted attention happened to be an
invention of the Colonel's, something he had been working on for a long
time, so he could not resist explaining its unique qualities.

“Well, I'll be hanged!” said Morley, turning it over and over
admiringly. “If that isn't the cleverest thing I ever saw. This little
screw regulates the slack, doesn't it? Does your legal mind get on to
that, Wick?”

“It was a great job to get that to fit,” said the Colonel, nattered in
spite of himself. “Took me the best part of a week to puzzle out that
one point.”

“A week!” exclaimed Morley. “It would have taken me months! Oh! here
she is!” and from the very ardent look that leapt into his face, and the
alacrity with which he sprang up, it might have been doubted whether his
mind had been wholly upon the matter under discussion.

Miss Lady greeted him with almost boyish frankness, but there was an
unmistakable flush under the smooth tan of her cheek that did not escape
the vigilant eye of the Colonel.

“Here you are, Dad! here you are, Noah!” she said, tossing a small
package to each; “sandwiches and hard boiled eggs for two.”

“Put the salt in for the eggs?” asked the Colonel, having had experience
with her lunches.

“I believe I did. Open yours and see, Noah. Say, Daddy darling!” she
swooped down upon him from the rear, slipping an arm about his neck as
he knelt on the porch to collect his hooks and lines, “you are going to
let me ride Prince, just this once, aren't you?”

The Colonel gasped, partly from strangulation, and partly from
amazement.

“Prince!” he cried. “Well, I reckon not! That colt's hardly broken to
the saddle. He threw Jimpson last week.”

“Well, I'm not Jimpson. Please, Daddy, just this once.”

“If that's the little beast Wick was telling me about,” said Morley, “we
are certainly not going to trust you on him.”

The Colonel leaned back upon his knees where he knelt on the porch, and
glared at Morley.

“Who do you mean by we?”

“The conservative party of which I, for once, am a member. From all I
can hear of that colt, no girl could handle him.”

“You are absolutely mistaken, sir! I taught my daughter to straddle a
horse before I taught her to walk. Handle him? Of course she can handle
him! Jimpson!” he roared in conclusion, “put the side-saddle on Prince!”