“Dar’s nuffin lef fer me but ter put out
fer freedom,” he soliloquized; “ki!
I’se a-gwine ter git eben wid dat yallar gal
yet. I’ll cut stick ter-morrer night and
she’ll tink I ’sconded alone, totin’
de box wid me, and dat she was too sharp in dat ’liance
business.”
So it turned out; Jeff and his fiddle vanished, leaving
nothing to sustain Suky under the gibes of her associates
except the ring, which she eventually learned was
as brazen as her own ambition.
Jeff wandered into the service of a Union officer
whose patience he tried even more than that of his
tolerant Southern mistress; but when by the camp-fire
he brought out his violin, all his shortcomings were
condoned.
The August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert
Scofield’s brow was clouded. He had wandered
off to a remote part of the grounds of a summer hotel
on the Hudson, and seated in the shade of a tree,
had lapsed into such deep thought that his cigar had
gone out and the birds were becoming bold in the vicinity
of his motionless figure.
It was his vacation time and he had come to the country
ostensibly for rest. As the result, he found
himself in the worst state of unrest that he had ever
known. Minnie Madison, a young lady he had long
admired, was the magnet that had drawn him hither.
Her arrival had preceded his by several weeks; and
she had smiled a little consciously when in looking
at the hotel register late one afternoon his bold
chirography met her eye.
“There are so many other places to which he
might have gone,” she murmured.
Her smile, however, was a doubtful one, not expressive
of gladness and entire satisfaction. In mirthful,
saucy fashion her thoughts ran on: “The
time has come when he might have a respite from business.
Does he still mean business by coming here? I’m
not sure that I do, although the popular idea seems
to be that a girl should have no vacation in the daily
effort to find a husband. I continually disappoint
the good people by insisting that the husband must
find me. I have a presentiment that Mr. Scofield
is looking for me; but there are some kinds of property
which cannot be picked up and carried off, nolens
volens, when found.”
Scofield had been animated by no such clearly defined
purpose as he was credited with when he sought the
summer resort graced by Miss Madison. His action
seemed to him tentative, his motive ill-defined even
in his own consciousness, yet it had been strong enough
to prevent any hesitancy. He knew he was weary
from a long year’s work. He purposed to
rest and take life very leisurely, and he had mentally
congratulated himself that he was doing a wise thing
in securing proximity to Miss Madison. She had
evoked his admiration in New York, excited more than
a passing interest, but he felt that he did not know
her very well. In the unconventional life now
