A wave of triumphant happiness came over him. He arose and threw pa.s.sionate kisses toward her window. Then he mounted and rode off.

At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly. He imagined he saw the old Colonel, his grandfather, sitting in his accustomed place on the front porch, his feet propped on the balcony, his favorite hound by his side.

Long he gazed, looking at every familiar place of his youth. He knew now that every foot of it would be his. He had no bitterness in his heart.

Not he, for in the love and constancy of Alice Westmore all such things seemed unspeakable insignificance to the glory of that.

In the old family cemetery, which lay hid among the cedars on the hill, he stood bare-headed before the grave of his grandsire and silently the tears fell:

"My n.o.ble old grandsire," he murmured, "if the spirits of the dead look down on the living, tell me I have not proved unworthy. It was his flag--my father's, and he lies by you wrapped in it. Tell me I have not been unworthy the same, for I have suffered."

And from the silent stars, as he looked up, there fell on him a benediction of peace.

Then he drew himself up proudly and gave each grave a military salute, mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER XIV

THE JOY OF THE MORNING

All the week, since the scene at Maggie's deathbed, Alice Westmore had remained at home, while strange, bitter feelings, such as she had never felt before, surged in her heart. Her brother was away, and this gave her more freedom to do as she wished--to remain in her room--and her mother's presence now was not altogether the solace her heart craved.

Of the utmost purity of thought herself, Alice Westmore had never even permitted herself to harbor anything reflecting on the character of those she trusted; and in the generosity of her nature, she considered all her friends trustworthy. Thinking no evil, she knew none; nor would she permit any idle gossip to be repeated before her.

In her case her unsuspecting nature was strengthened by her environment, living as she was with her mother and brother only.

It is true that she had heard faint rumors of Richard Travis's life; but the full impurity of it had never been realized by her until she saw Maggie die. Then Richard Travis went, not only out of her life, but out of her very thoughts. She remembered him only as she did some evil character read of in fiction or history. Perhaps in this she was more severe than necessary--since the pendulum of anger swings always farthest in the first full stroke of indignation. And then the surprise of it--the shock of it! Never had she gone through a week so full of unhappiness, since it had come to her, years before, that Tom Travis had been killed at Franklin.

Her mother's entreaties--tears, even--affected her now no more than the cries of a spoiled child.

"Oh, Alice," she said one night when she had been explaining and apologizing for Richard Travis--"you should know now, child, really, you ought to know by now, that all men may not have been created alike, but they are all alike."

"I do not believe it," said Alice with feeling--"I never want to believe it--I never shall believe it."

"My darling," said the mother, laying her face against Alice's, "I have reared you too far from the world."

But for once in her life Mrs. Westmore knew that her daughter, who had heretofore been willing to sacrifice everything for her mother's comfort, now halted before such a chasm as this, as stubborn and instinctively as a wild doe in her flight before a precipice.

Twice Alice knew that Richard Travis had called; and she went to her room and locked the door. She did not wish even to think of him; for when she did it was not Richard Travis she saw, but Maggie dying, with the picture of him under her pillow.

She devised many plans for herself, but go away she must, perhaps to teach.

In the midst of her perplexity there came to her Sat.u.r.day afternoon a curiously worded note, from the old Cottontown preacher, telling her not to forget now that he had returned and that Sunday School lessons at Uncle Bisco's were in order. He closed with a remark which, read between the lines, she saw was intended to warn and prepare her for something unexpected, the greatest good news, as he said, of her life. Then he quoted:

"_And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to his strength when the morning appeared._"

There was but one great good news that Alice Westmore cared for, and, strange to say, all the week she had been thinking of it. It came about involuntarily, as she compared men with one another.

It came as the tide comes back to the ocean, as the stars come with the night. She tried to smother it, but it would not be smothered. At last she resigned herself to the wretchedness of it--as one when, despairing of throwing off a mood, gives way to it and lets it eat its own heart out.

She could scarcely wait until night. Her heart beat at intervals, in agitated fierceness, and flushes of red went through her cheek all the afternoon, at the thought in her heart that at times choked her.

Then came the kindly old man himself, his face radiant with a look she had not seen on a face for many weeks. After the week she had been through, this itself was a comfort. She met him with feigned calmness and a little laugh.

"You promised to tell me where you had been, Bishop, all these weeks. It must have made you very, very happy."

"I'll tell you down at the cabin, if you'll dress yo' very pretties'.

There's friends of yo's down there you ain't seen in a long time--that's mighty anxious to see you."

"Oh, I do indeed feel ashamed of myself for having neglected the old servants so long; but you cannot know what has been on my mind. Yes, I will go with you directly."

The old man looked at her admiringly when she was ready to go--at the dainty gown of white, the splendid hair of dark auburn crowning her head, the big wistful eyes, the refined face. Upon him had devolved the duty of preparing Alice Westmore for what she would see in the cabin, and never did he enter more fully into the sacredness of such an occasion.

And now, when she was ready and stood before him in all her superb womanhood, a basket of dainties on her arm for the old servants, he spoke very solemnly as he handed her an ambrotype set in a large gold breast-pin.

"You'll need this to set you off--around yo' neck."

At sight of it all the color left her cheeks.

"Why, it is mine--I gave it to--to--Tom. He took it to the war with him. Where"--A sob leaped into her throat and stopped her.

"On my journey," said the old man quickly, "I heard somethin' of Cap'n Tom. You must prepare yo'se'f for good news."

Her heart jumped and the blood surged back again, and she grew weak, but the old man laughed his cheery laugh, and, pretending to clap her playfully on the shoulder, he held her firmly with his great iron hand, as he saw the blood go out of her cheeks, leaving them as white as white roses:

"Down there," he added, "I'll tell you all. But G.o.d is good--G.o.d is good."

Bewildered, pale, and with throbbing heart, she let him take her basket and lead her down the well-beaten path. She could not speak, for something, somehow, said to her that Captain Tom Travis was alive and that she would see him--next week perhaps--next month or year--it mattered not so that she would see him. And yet--and yet--O all these years--all these years! She kept saying over the words of the old Bishop, as one numbed, and unable to think, keeps repeating the last thing that enters the mind. Trembling, white, her knees weak beneath her, she followed saying:

"G.o.d is good--oh, Bishop--tell me--why--why--why--"

"Because Cap'n Tom is not dead, Miss Alice, he is alive and well."

They had reached the large oak which shadowed the little cabin. She stopped suddenly in the agony of happiness, and the strong old man, who had been watching her, turned and caught her with a firm grasp, while the stars danced frantically above her. And half-unconscious she felt another one come to his aid, one who took her in his arms and kissed her lips and her eyes ... and carried her into the bright fire-lighted cabin, ... carried her in strength and happiness that made her lay her cheek against his, ... and there were tears on it, and somehow she lay as if she were a child in his arms, ... a child again and she was happy, ... and there were silence and sweet dreams and the long-dead smell of the crepe-myrtle.... She did not remember again until she sat up on the cot in the clean little cabin, and Tom Travis, tall and in the splendor of manhood, sat holding her hands and stroking her hair and whispering: "_Alice, my darling--it is all well--and I have come back for you, at last!_"

And the old servants stood around smiling and happy, but so silent and composed that she knew that they had been schooled to it, and a big man, who seemed to watch Captain Tom as a big dog would his master, kept blowing his nose and walking around the room. And by the fire sat the old Cottontown preacher, his back turned to them and saying just loud enough to be heard: "_The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, ... he restoreth my soul-- ... my cup runneth over...._"

And then sillily, as Alice thought, she threw her arms around the neck of the man she loved and burst into the tears which brought the sweetness of a.s.surance, the calmness of a reality that meant happiness.

And for an hour she sobbed, her arms there, and he holding her tight to his breast and talking in the old way, natural and soothing and rea.s.suring and taking from her heart all fear and the shock of it, until at last it all seemed natural and not a dream, ... and the sweetness of it all was like the light which cometh with the joy of the morning.

CHAPTER XV

THE TOUCH OF G.o.d