"Well, sir, you see, we hadn't quite paid for the place. You know it's hard with a big family of children on a little farm o' ten acres. It's hard to make a livin' let alone save money to pay for the land. But we wuz doin' it. We didn't have but two more payments to make when my man signed a note for his brother. His brother got sick and couldn't pay and they come down on us and we're turned out o' house and home. The sheriff's give us till Wednesday to get out and we've nowhere to go—"
A sob caught her voice.
"Don't say that, Madame. No neighbor of mine will ever be without a home so long as I have a house with a roof on it."
"Thank you, Colonel Lee," she interrupted, "but you know I can't let my man be a renter and see my husband and my sons workin' other people's land like nigger slaves. I got pride. I jus' can't do it. I'd rather starve."
"I understand, Madame," Lee answered.
The two older boys came awkwardly out into the yard. One of them was fourteen years old and the other sixteen.
The mother beckoned and they came to her with embarrassed step. Her face lighted with pride in their stalwart figures and well-shaped, regular features.
"Here's my oldest boy, William, Colonel Lee."
The Colonel took the outstretched hand with cordial grasp.
"I'm glad to know you, young man."
"And glad to see you, sir," he stammered, blushing.
"My next boy Drury, sir. He ain't but fourteen but he's a grown man."
Drury flushed red but failed to make a sound.
When they had moved away and leaned against the fence watching the scene out of the corner of an eye, the mother turned to the Colonel and asked:
"Do you blame me if I'm proud of my boys, Colonel?"
"I do not, Madame."
"The Lord made me a mother. All I know is to raise fine children and love 'em. My little gals is putty as dolls."
John suddenly appeared beside her and pulled her skirt.
"What's the matter?" she whispered.
"Pa's waked up. I told him Colonel Lee's here and he's washed his face and walks straight. Shall I fetch him out, too?"
"Yes, run tell him to come quick."
The boy darted back into the house.
"Johnnie's father wants to see you, Colonel Lee," the woman apologized.
"I'll be glad to talk to him, Madame."
"He'll be all right now. Your comin' to see us'll sober him. He'll be awful proud of the honor, sir."
Doyle emerged from the house and walked quickly toward the Colonel. His head was high. He smiled a welcome to his guest and his step was straight, light and springing, as if he were not quite sure he could rest his full weight on one foot and tried to get them both down at the same time.
Lee's face was a mask of quiet dignity. The tragedy in the woman's heart made the more pathetic the comedy of the half-drunken husband. Besides, he was philosopher enough to know that more than half the drunkenness of the world was the pitiful effort to smother a heartache.
The man's smile was a peculiarly winning one. His face was covered with a full growth of blond beard cut moderately long. He never shaved. His wife trimmed his beard in the manner most becoming to the shape of his head, the poise of his neck and evenly formed shoulders. He wore his hair full long and it curled about his neck in a deep blond wave. He might have posed for the model of Hoffman's famous picture of Christ. His eyes, a clear blue, were the finest feature of his personality. In spite of his lack of education, in spite of his shabby clothes, in spite of the smell of liquor he was a personality. His clean, high forehead, his aquiline nose, his straight eyebrows, his fair skin, his tall figure spoke the heritage of the great Nordic race of men. The race whose leaders achieved the civilization of Rome, conquered Europe and finally dominated civilization.
The difference between this man and the leader who wore the uniform of a Colonel was not in racial stock. It was purely an accident of the conditions of birth and training. Behind Lee lay two hundred years of wealth and culture. The poorer man was his kinsman of the centuries. The world had not been kind to him. He had lost the way of material success. Perhaps some kink in his mind, a sense of comedy, a touch of the old wanderlust of the ages.
Lee wondered what had kept him poor as he looked at the figure approaching. It was straight and fine in spite of the liquor.
Doyle's brain was just clear enough to realize that he had been highly honored in a call from the foremost citizen of Virginia. His politeness was extreme. And it was true. It was instinctive. It leaped from centuries of racial inheritance.
"We're proud of the honor you've done us, Colonel Lee," he announced.
He grasped the extended hand with a cordial, dignified greeting.
"I only hope I can be of some service to you and your family, Mr.
Doyle."
"I'm sure you can, sir. Won't you come in, Colonel?"
"Thank you, it's so pleasant outside, we'll just sit down by the well, if you don't mind."
"Yessir. All right, sir."
Lee moved slowly toward the platform of the well with its old oaken bucket and tall sweep.
His wife threw a warning at her husband under her breath.
"Don't you say nothin' foolish now—"
"I won't."
"Your tongue's too long when it gets to waggin'."
"I'll mind, Ma," he smiled.
The woman called softly to her distinguished guest:
"You'll excuse me, Colonel, while I look after the supper. I'll be back in a minute."
"Certainly, Madame."
He could not have bowed with graver courtesy to the wife of Stephen A.
Douglas.
"Have a seat here on the well, Colonel," Doyle invited.
Lee took his seat on the weather-beaten oak boards.
Doyle turned his foot on a rounded stone and set down a little ungracefully in spite of his effort to be fully himself. He saw at once his misstep and hastened to apologize.
"I'm sorry, Colonel, you've caught me with the smell of liquor, sir—"
He paused and looked over his garden in an embarrassed way.
"I know what has happened to you, Mr. Doyle, and you have my deepest sympathy."
"Thank you, sir."
"I might have done the same thing if I'd been in your position. Though, of course, liquor won't help things for you."
Doyle smiled around the corners of his blue eyes.
"No, sir, except while it's a swimmin' in the veins. Then for a little while you're great and rich and you don't care which a way the wind blows."
"The farm is lost beyond hope?"
"Yessir, clean gone—world without end."
"You had a lawyer?"
"The best in the county, old Jim Randolph. I didn't have no money to pay him. He said we'd both always voted the Whig ticket and he'd waive his retainer. I didn't know what he was wavin', but anyhow he tuck my case. And I will say he put up a nasty fight for me. He made one of the greatest speeches I ever heared in my life. Hit wuz mighty nigh worth losin' the farm ter hear him tell how I'd been abused and how fine a feller I wuz. An' when he los' the case, he cussed the Judge, he cussed the jury, he cussed the lawyers. He swore they was all fools and