CHAPTER III.
KENT BROWN
“Mother, will you come and take a little walk with me?” asked Kent as he finished Judy’s letter. With his hand trembling, although his eyes were very steady and his mouth very firm, he tucked the many thin blue sheets back in their envelope.
“Yes, my son!” Mrs. Brown held her head very high and in her expression one could very well read: “I told you so! Did I not know the ‘mettle of his pasture’?”
“Mother,” he said, as he drew her arm in his and they took their way through the orchard to the garden of Chatsworth, “I must go get Judy!”
“Yes, my son, of course you must.”
“Oh, Mother, you think it is the only thing to do?”
“Of course, I know it is the only thing to do. I told Molly and Edwin only a few minutes ago that you would want to do it.”
“And what a mother! I – well, you know, Mother, I am not engaged to Judy – not exactly, that is. She knows how I feel about her and somehow – I can’t say for sure – but I almost know she feels the same way about me, at least, feels somehow about me.”
“Of course she does! How could she help it?”
“You see, I knew it would be some time before I could make a decent living, and it did not seem fair to Judy to tie her down when maybe she might strike some fellow who would be so much more worth while than I am – ”
“Impossible!”
“I used to think maybe Pierce Kinsella would be her choice, when they painted together so much.”
“That boy! Why, Kent, how could you?”
“Well, he was a very handsome and brilliant boy and is pretty well fixed by his uncle’s generosity and bids fair to make one of the leading portrait painters of the day. His portrait of you has made every lady who has seen it want him to do one of her. Of course, he can’t make all of ’em look like you, but he does his best.”
“It may have been wise of you not to settle this little matter with Judy, son, but somehow – I wish you had.”
“It was hard not to, but I felt she was so far away from her parents. I thought she would be back in America in a month, at least. I wanted her to come with me, but she felt she must wait for them, and of course, I had to hurry back because of the possible job in New York. I am afraid that I will lose that now, but there will be others, and I just can’t think of the things that might happen to my Judy – she is my Judy, whether we are engaged or not.”
“When will you start, son?”
“Why, to-night, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly to-night! I have money for you.”
“Oh, Mother, the money part is the only thing worrying me. I have a little left, but not enough to get me over and back. I must have enough to bring Judy back, too. You see, a letter of credit now in Paris is not worth the paper it is on.”
“No, I did not know. That is the one part of Judy’s letter that put me at ease about her. I thought she had plenty of money, and money certainly does help out.”
“Well, that is the part of her letter that made me know I must go get her. The Americans who are abroad simply can’t get checks cashed. She might even be hungry, poor little Judy.”
“Thank goodness, I have some money – all owing to Judy’s father, too! If he had not seen the bubbles on that puddle in the rocky pasture, we would never have known there was oil there. What better could we do with the money that Mr. Kean got for us than use it to succor his daughter?”
“Oh, Mother, you are so – so – bully! I know no other word to express what you are. I am going to pay back every cent I borrow from you. Thank goodness, I saved a little from the money I made on the architectural sketches I did for the article Dickson wrote on the French country homes. I’m going over steerage.”
“You are going over in the first class cabin! Steerage, indeed! I lend no money for such a trip.”
“All right, Mother! You are the boss. And now, don’t you think I’ll have time to go see Aunt Mary a few minutes?”
“Of course you must go see the poor old woman. She has been afraid she would not live until you got home. She is very feeble. Dear old Aunt Mary!”
They had reached the Chatsworth garden and Kent noticed with delight the hollyhocks that had flourished wonderfully since he had dug them up that moonlight night more than three years ago and transplanted them from the chicken yard, where no one ever saw them, to the beds in the garden, and all because Miss Julia Kean had regretted that they were not there to make a background for the bridal party, after they had determined to have Mildred’s wedding out of doors.
“Haven’t they come on wonderfully? I know Judy would like to see how well they have done. I think hollyhocks are the most decorative of all flowers. I wonder we never had them in the garden before, Mother.”
Both of them were thinking of Mildred’s wedding on that rare day in June. Kent remembered with some satisfaction that in the general confusion that ensued after Mildred and Crit were pronounced, by Dr. Peters, to be man and wife, and everybody was kissing everybody else, he had had presence of mind to take advantage of the license accorded on the occasion of a family wedding and had kissed his sister Molly’s college friend, Miss Julia Kean.
“By Jove! I think war ought to give a fellow some privilege, too,” he declared to himself. “I think I’ll do the same when I see the young lady in France.”
They found Aunt Mary lying in state in a great four poster bed, while her meek half-sister, Sukey Jourdan, administered to her wants, which were many and frequent.
“Lawsamussy, if that ain’t that there Kent! Whar you come from, son? I done got so old an’ feeble I can’t say mister ter nobody. You alls is all Ernest and Sue and Paul and John and Mildred and Kent and Molly ter me. Cepn Molly is Molly Baby. I still got strenth fer that. Law, Miss Milly, ain’t he growed?”
“Yes, Aunt Mary, he is looking so well, and now he is going to turn right around and go back to France to-night.”
“Don’t say it! Lawsamussy, Miss Milly, did he fergit somethin’?”
“Well, not exactly,” laughed Kent, “but I didn’t bring something with me that I should have.”
“Well, you be sho ter make a cross an’ spit in it. If’n you fergits somethin’ er fin’s you has ter tu’n aroun’ an’ go back ’thout res’in’ a piece, if’n you makes a cross an’ spits in it, you is sho ter have good luck. Here you, Sukey, set a better cheer for Miss Milly. Wherfo’ you done give her sich a straight up’n down cheer?”
“Oh, this will do very well, Sukey,” said Mrs. Brown.
“You bring another, Sukey. I don’ see what makes you so keerless. I low if’n ’twar that no count Buck Jourdan, you’d be drawin’ up the sofy fer his triflin’ bones.”
Poor Sukey had no easy job to keep Aunt Mary satisfied. The old woman, having been a most energetic and tireless person in her day, could not understand that the whole world of darkeys could not be as she had been. Sukey’s son Buck, the apple of her mild eye, was the bane of Aunt Mary’s existence. She never missed a chance to make her younger half-sister miserable on his account. Indeed, Sukey, mild as she was, would not have stayed with Aunt Mary except for the fact that Aunt Mary had insured her life for her with the understanding that she was to minister to her to the end. It was dearly paid for, this service, as the old woman was most exacting. Lenient to a degree of softness with white folks, she was adamant with those of her own race.
“How do you feel, Aunt Mary?” asked Kent, looking with sorrow on the wasted features of the beloved old woman.
“Well, I’m a feelin’ tolerable peart this mornin’ although endurin’ of the night I thought my hour had struck. I got ter dreamin’ ’bout my fun’ral, an’ I got so mad cause Sis Ria Bowles done brought a fun’ral zine like one she done tuck ter Brer Jackson’s orgies! An’ dead or not, I wa’nt gonter stan’ fer no sich monkey shines over me.”
“Why, what did she take to Brother Jackson’s funeral?” laughed Kent.
“Ain’t you heard tel er that? She cut a cross outn that there sticky tangle yo’ foot fly paper en’ she kivered it all over with daisy haids an’ call herse’f bringing a zine. I riz up an’ spoke my mind in my dream an’ I let all these here niggers in Jeff’son County know that if they don’t see that I gits a fust class fun’ral, I gonter rise up when I ain’t a dreamin’ an’ speak my min’.”
Sukey Jourdan listened to this tirade with her eyes bulging out of her head, much to Aunt Mary’s satisfaction, as she very well knew that the way to manage her race was to intimidate them.
“I done been carryin’ insuriance in two clubs an’ a comp’ny, an’ betwixt ’em I’s entitled ter seventeen hacks. I’m a trustin’ ter Miss Milly an’ that there Paul ter make ’em treat me proper. Paul done say he will black list ’em in his newspaper if’n they leave off one tit or jottle from the ’greement. I sho would like ter see my fun’ral. I low it’s a goin’ ter be pretty stylish. I done pinted my pall buriers an’ bought they gloves an’ I low ter be laid out myself in my best black silk what Miss Milly done gimme goin’ on sixteen year, come nex’ Christmas. I ain’t a wo’ it much, as I had in min’ ter save it fer my buryin’. Some of the mimbers gits buried in palls made er white silk. They do look right han’some laid out in ’em, but then palls is made ’thout a piece er back an’ I has a notion that when Gabrel blows his trump on that great an’ turrerble day that ole Mary Morton ain’t a goin’ ter be caught without no back ter her grabe clothes. It mought make no diffrunce if’n Peter will let me pass on in, ’cause I low that the shining robes will be a waitin’ fer me – but sposin’ – jes’ sposin’ – ” and the dear old woman’s face clouded over with anguish, “jes’ sposin’ Peter’ll say: ‘You, Mary Morton, g’long from this here portcullis. You blongs in the tother d’rection,’ an’ I’ll hab ter tun ’roun’ an’ take the broad road ter hell! What’ll I feel like, if’n I ain’t got no back ter my frock? No, sir! I’s a goin’ ter have on a dress complete. It mought be that Peter’ll think better er me if I shows him sech a spectful back.”
“You not get in Heaven!” exclaimed Kent. “Why, Aunt Mary, there wouldn’t be any Heaven for all of us bad Brown boys if you weren’t there.”
“Well, now them is words of comfort what beats the preacher’s. I done always been b’lievin’ in ’fluence an’ I mought er knowed my white folks would look arfter me on the las’ day jes as much as ever. I kin git in as Miss Milly’s cook if’n th’aint no other way. I been a ’lowing whin I gits ter Heaven I wouldn’t have ter work no more, but sence I been a laid up in the baid so long I gin ter think that work would tas’e right sweet. Cookin’ in Heaven wouldn’t be so hard with plenty of ’gredients ter han’ and no scrimpin’ and scrougin’ of ’terials. A lan’ flowin’ with milk an’ honey mus’ have aigs an’ butter. Here you, Sukey Jourdan! Whar you hidin’?”
“Here I is, Sis Ma’y, I jes’ stepped in the shed room ter men’ the fire ginst ’twas time ter knock up a bite er dinner fer you.”
“Well, while I’s a thinkin’ of it, I want you to git my bes’ linen apron outn the chist – the one with the insertioning let in ’bove the hem, an’ put it in the highboy drawer with my bes’ black silk. I low I’ll be laid out in a apron, ’cause if’n I can’t git inter Heaven no other way, I am a thinkin’ with a clean white apron on I kin slip in as a good cook.”
“Dear Aunt Mary, you have been as good as gold all your life,” declared Mrs. Brown, wiping a tear from her eye, but smiling in spite of herself at Aunt Mary’s quaint idea of a way to gain an entrance through the pearly gates.
Aunt Mary had had many doubts about her being saved and had spent many weary nights, terrified at the thought of dying and perhaps not being fit for Heaven, but now that she had thought of wearing the apron, all doubts of her desirability were set at rest; indeed, her last days were filled with peace since she felt now that even Peter could not turn back a good cook.
“I must be going, Aunt Mary,” said Kent, taking the old woman’s withered hand in his strong grasp. “I’ll be home again in a few weeks, I fancy, maybe sooner.”
“They’s one thing I ain’t arsked you yit: whar’s that there Judy gal? I been a dreamin’ you would bring her back with you.”
“She is the thing I am going back to France for, Aunt Mary.”
“Sho nuf? Well, well! They do tell me they’s fightin’ goin’ on in some er them furren parts. Sholy Miss Judy ain’t nigh the fightin’ an’ fussin’?”
“Yes, I am afraid she is. That’s the reason I must go for her.”
“Oh, Kent son! Don’t you git into no scrap yo’sef. It’s moughty hard fer young folks ter look on at a scrap ’thout gittin’ mixed up in it. Don’t you git too clost, whin you is lookin’, either. Them what looks on sometimes gits the deepes’ razor cuts with the back han’ licks. You pick up that gal an’ bring her back ter you’ maw jes’ as fas’ as yo’ legs kin carry you.”
“I’ll try to,” laughed Kent.
“Don’t try! Jes’ do it! That there Judy gal is sho nice an’ ’ristocratic, considerin’ she ain’t never had no home. She done tell me whin she was here to little Miss Milly’s weddin’ that she an’ her folks ain’t never lived in nothin’ but rented houses. That’s moughty queer to me, but ’cose niggers don’t understan’ ev’y thing. Well, you tell her that ole Mary Morton say she better pick up an’ come back to Chatswuth.”
“I certainly will, Aunt Mary, and good-by!”
The old woman put her hand on his bowed head for a moment, and while she said nothing, Kent took it for a benediction.
CHAPTER IV.
AFTERNOON TEA
Molly had established the custom of afternoon tea in her orchard home, and while she had been greatly teased by her brothers for introducing this English custom into Kentucky country life, they one and all turned up on her porch for tea if they were in the neighborhood.
“It is one place where a fellow can always find some talk and a place to air his views,” declared John, as he reached for another slice of bread and butter. “It isn’t the food so much as the being gathered together.”
“Well, you are gathering a good deal of food together in spite of your contempt for it,” put in Paul. “That’s the sixth slice! I have kept tab on you.”
“Why not? I always think plain bread and butter is about the best thing there is.”
“Yes, why not?” asked Molly, calling her little cook Kizzie to prepare another plate of the desirable article. “Aunt Clay, you had better change your mind and have some tea and bread and butter.”
Mrs. Sarah Clay had driven over in state from her home when she heard Kent had arrived. She wanted to hear the latest news, also to tender her advice as to what he was to do now. She presented the same uncompromising front as of yore, although her back had given way somewhat to the weight of years. Judy Kean always said she had a hard face and a soft figure. This soft figure she poured into tight basques, evidently determined to try to make it live up to her face.
“Tea!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I never eat between meals.”
“But this is a meal, in a way,” said Molly hospitably bent, as was her wont, on feeding people.
“A meal! Whoever heard of tea and bread and butter comprising a meal?” and the stern aunt stalked to the end of the porch where the baby lay in her basket, kicking her pink heels in the air in an ecstasy of joy over being in the world.
“Molly, this baby has on too few clothes. What can you be thinking of, having the child barefooted and nothing on but this muslin slip over her arms? She is positively blue with cold.”
Molly flew to her darling but found her glowing and warm. “Why, Aunt Clay, only feel her hands and feet! She is as warm as toast. The doctor cautioned me against wrapping her up too much. He says little babies are much warmer than we are.”
“Well, have your own way! Of course, although I am older than your mother, I know nothing at all.”
“But, Aunt Clay – ”
“Never mind!”
Poor Molly! She could never do or say anything to suit her Aunt Clay. She looked regretfully at the old lady’s indignant back as she left her and joined Kent, who was sitting on a settle with his mother, holding her hand, both of them very quiet amidst the chatter around the tea table. They made room for their relative, who immediately began her catechism of Kent.
“Why did you not come home sooner?”
“Because I had some work to do, sketches illustrating an article on French country houses.”
“Humph! Did you get paid for them?”
“Yes, Aunt Clay!”
“Now, what are your plans?”
“I have landed a job in New York with a firm of architects, that is, I had landed it, but I am not so sure now since – ”
“Good! You feel that you had better stay at home and look after Chatsworth.”
“Oh, no! I am sure I could not be much of a farmer.”
“Could not because you would not! If I were your mother, I would insist on one of you staying at home and running the place.”
“Ernest is thinking of coming back, giving up engineering and trying intensive farming on Chatsworth.”
“Ernest, indeed! And why should he have wasted all these years in some other profession if he means to farm?”
“Well, you see,” said Kent very patiently because of the pressure he felt from his mother’s gentle hand, “farming takes money and there wasn’t any money. Ernest always did want to farm, but it was necessary for him to make some money first. Now he has saved and invested and has something to put in the land, and he is devoutly hoping to get out more than he puts in.”
“If putting something in the land means expensive machinery, I can tell him now that he will waste money buying it. But there is no use in telling Ernest anything – he is exactly like Sue: very quiet, does not answer back when his elders and betters address him, but, like Sue, goes his own way. Sue is very headstrong and simply twists my husband’s nephew around her finger. I was very much disappointed in Cyrus Clay. I thought he had more backbone.”
Sue Brown, now Mrs. Cyrus Clay, had been the one member of the Brown family who always got on with the stern Aunt Clay; and Kent and his mother were sorry to hear the old lady express any criticism of Sue. It seemed that Sue had done nothing more serious than to persuade Cyrus to join the Country Club, but it was against Mrs. Sarah Clay’s wishes, and anything that opposed her was headstrong and consequently wicked.
“But to return to you – ” Kent let a sigh escape him as he had hoped he had eluded further catechism, “what are you going to do now?”
“Well, to-night I go back to New York, and day after to-morrow I take a French steamer for Havre.”
“Havre! Are you crazy?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do in France with this war going on?”
“I am not quite sure.”
This was too much for the irate old lady, so without making any adieux, she took her departure, scorning the polite assistance of her three nephews. Professor Green called her coachman and helped her into the great carriage she still held to, the kind seen now-a-days only in museums.
“Kent, how could you?” laughed Mrs. Brown, in spite of her attempt to look shocked.
“I think Kent was right,” declared Molly. “How could he tell Aunt Clay he was going to France to get Judy? She would never have let up on it. I’m glad she has gone, anyhow! We were having a very nice time without her.”
“Molly!” and Mrs. Brown looked shocked. She always exacted a show of respect from her children to this very difficult elder sister Sarah.
“Oh, Mumsy, we have to break loose sometimes!” exclaimed Molly. “The idea of her saying Mildred was blue with cold! Criticising poor Sue, too! Goodness, I’d hate to be the one that Aunt Clay had taken a shine to. I’d almost rather have her despise me as she does.”
“Not despise you, Molly, – you don’t understand your Aunt Clay.”
“Well, perhaps not, but she puts up a mighty good imitation of despising. I think it is because I look so like Cousin Sally Bolling and she never forgave the present Marquise d’Ochtè for making fun of her long years ago. And then to crown it all, Cousin Sally got the inheritance from Greataunt Sarah Carmichael and married the Marquis, at least she married the Marquis and then got the inheritance. It was too much for Aunt Clay.”
Mrs. Brown looked so pained that Molly stopped her tirade. Aunt Clay was the one person whom Molly could not love. She had a heart as big as all out doors but it was not big enough to hold Aunt Clay.
“Here comes Sue! How glad I am! She ’phoned she would be here before so very long. What a blessing she missed Aunt Clay! See, she is running the car herself and isn’t it a beauty? Cyrus just got it for her and Sue runs it wonderfully well already. I forgot to write you about it, Kent. But best of all! What do you think? Cyrus has had the muddy lane that was the cause of Sue’s hesitating whether to take him or not all drained and macadamized. The approach to Maxton is simply perfect now.”
“Good for Cyrus!” said Kent, jumping up to meet his sister, who drove her big car through the gate and up the driveway as though she had been running an automobile all her life.
“Only think, five Browns together again!” exclaimed Paul, as they seated themselves on the porch of the bungalow after duly admiring the new car. Molly had Kizzie brew a fresh pot of tea and John was persuaded to eat some more thin slices of bread and butter.
“Yes, five of you together again,” said Mrs. Brown wistfully. “Ah, me! I wish I could get all seven of you at Chatsworth once more. Indeed, I wish I had all of you back in the nursery again.”
“But where would I come in then?” said Edwin Green whimsically.
“And little Mildred?” from Molly, hugging her infant.
“And Sue’s new car, not to mention Cyrus?” teased Kent.
“You are right, children. I should be more of a philosopher.
“‘The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.’”
Molly stood over Kent with a cup of steaming tea and taking her cue from her mother’s quotation from the Rubaiyat and prompted by his knownothing attitude with his Aunt Clay, she got off the stanza:
“Yesterday This Day’s Madness did prepare;
To-morrow’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.”