M- 1M 
 
 . Cdi
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH
 
 THE 
 STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 BY 
 
 SIDNEY McCALL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TRUTH DEXTER," 
 " THE BREATH OF THE GODS," ETC. 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE BY 
 WILLIAM VAN DRESSER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1915
 
 Copyright, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Published, October, 1915 
 
 Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Gushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 Presswork by S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 URL 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. "LITTLE SUNSHINE" 
 
 II. COLONEL JIM 
 
 III. JULIA 
 
 IV. COLONEL JIM RECEIVES A LETTER . 
 
 V. JIM BREAKS AN OLD PROMISE, AND MAKES A 
 
 NEW ONE 
 
 VI. THE PELICANS 
 
 VII. JIM S TELEPHONE RINGS 
 
 VIII. ClCELEY AND THE "LITTLE EWE LAMB" 
 
 IX. THE WOMAN 
 
 X. THE ROSE OF DAWN 
 
 XI. CICELEY S GARDEN 
 
 XII. JULIA STARTS SOMETHING . 
 
 XIII. THE GIRLS 
 
 XIV. JULIA OUTLINES A CAMPAIGN . 
 
 XV. MOTHER AND SON ...... 
 
 XVI. THE PLANKS OF COLONEL JIM S BRIDGE BURN, 
 ONE AFTER ONE 
 
 XVII. PREPARATIONS; AND THE WRITING OF Two 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 XVIII. THE MELTING OF THE ICE-MAIDEN . 
 
 XIX. THE RETURN 
 
 XX. THE DANCE OF THE LITTLE SEA-MAID . 
 
 XXI. THE GARDEN OF HESPERIDES .... 
 
 XXII. THE FUTURE, THROUGH A HOLLY WREATH 
 
 PAGE 
 
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 288 
 
 37
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 "LITTLE SUNSHINE" 
 
 "LITTLE SUNSHINE", the home of Mrs. Ciceley 
 Bering, stood, vine-encumbered and shrubbery be 
 girt, in the exact center of a five-acre lot, seven miles 
 out from town. 
 
 Three borders of the domain, the front, and the two 
 rearward angles immediately dependent, were guarded 
 by an old-fashioned variety of wooden fencing known 
 as "cat s cradle." Between square posts, erected 
 fully thirty feet apart, were nailed, at top and bottom, 
 wide pine boards; while set in the long rectangle 
 of each space, two similar boards crossing at a long 
 slant gave, indeed, the look of an enormous game 
 of cat s cradle played with white tape, and held not on 
 the chubby fingers of childhood, but rigidly and taut, 
 on unseen, giant hands. Panel after geometric panel 
 stretched to right and left, until, at the far end, each, 
 sharpened by perspective, pointed a mere arrowhead 
 of white. 
 
 The fourth side of the enclosure, that to the north,
 
 2 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 had long since foregone the distinction of any sort of 
 spacing. It was at the rear of everything, the 
 dwelling faced due south, and it had been used as a 
 reserve fund for the patching of more conspicuous 
 portions. Each depredation had been hastily cov 
 ered by some sort of a substitute, until by now it 
 was an aggregation of irregular, leaning uprights 
 which held, and were in turn supported by, short 
 spans of warped pickets, bits of wire mesh, and even, 
 in a few ignominious instances, sagging surfaces of 
 rusty tin, hammered flat from old kerosene cans. 
 
 Little Sunshine, in common with the other "Fo h 
 de War" houses still standing in the once aristocratic 
 residence district of Richmond Hill, had known better 
 days. In common also with its neighbors it had man 
 aged to retain, along with wistfulness, much of the 
 old-world serenity and charm. 
 
 Each quiet sister-home was the nucleus of a broad 
 green environment, so that only the glimpse of a red 
 brick chimney here and there, the sound of a distant 
 piano tinkling softly through listening leaves, or the 
 bright flash, at times, of spontaneous young laughter, 
 told of human propinquity. 
 
 It was the proud boast of Richmond Hill that in 
 spite of decline it still tolerated no estate of less than 
 five acres. That was the minimum. Many of the 
 great mansions possessed ten times as many. The 
 weather-beaten homes stood to-day just as the war, 
 now a generation past, had left them. With most, 
 not even a coat of paint had been added. The dwellers 
 in them were, almost without exception, direct de 
 scendants of the original builders and owners.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 3 
 
 These had been, for the most part, young English 
 and Scotchmen, who nearly a century earlier had 
 come from the old country to the new, not pioneers 
 exactly, and by no means adventurers, but rather 
 alert and far-seeing young business men with already 
 established lines of enterprise in the commodities 
 of cotton, lumber, turpentine, rice, and sugar. 
 
 With them were several men of the various "pro 
 fessions", bankers, lawyers, physicians, and expert 
 accountants. At this time also was introduced the 
 first insurance company known to that part of the 
 world. This was the "Royal", of Liverpool and 
 London. As its ensignia it used an oval bronze plate, 
 perhaps eight inches in height, on which in bas-relief 
 was depicted a mother pelican tearing the flesh from 
 her own breast in order to feed two open-billed and 
 rapacious nestlings. This was by way of visualizing 
 the harrowing condition of a widow left, on an im 
 pecunious lord s decease, without the pale of the 
 "Royal s" benefactions. It is only fair to add that 
 in an age both sentimental and chivalrous this con 
 crete presentation of anguish went far toward the 
 company s success. 
 
 As each new convert admitted his conversion, and 
 paid in the first installment of his policy, there was 
 attached to his home one of the oval marks of merit. 
 A favorite place for it was directly over the front 
 door, and few were the houses on Richmond Hill 
 that lacked one. By the present generation the old- 
 fashioned tokens had come to be regarded as some 
 thing between a joke and a good-luck fetich. 
 
 Fortunes large for that sociological era were quickly
 
 4 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 amassed. Ships loaded with the far-southern prod 
 ucts went busily between the harbor of the little 
 town on the gulf, and the big docks at Liverpool. 
 In their home life the exiled ones, obeying an inher 
 ent law of all British exiles, proceeded to fashion for 
 themselves not only individual estates, but an entire 
 community which should conserve all usages of the 
 parent civilization. Richmond Hill, at the height of its 
 prosperity, was just a little more English than England. 
 
 But those golden days had vanished! The Civil 
 War, like a Medusa s head, froze what it had not 
 otherwise destroyed. The old houses became pas 
 sive, resigned, almost indifferent. Nature alone 
 knew no cessation; and inch by inch the growing 
 things encroached, moving always nearer to the 
 dwellings, weaving about them a deeper green si 
 lence and seclusion. 
 
 Once rigid hedges, abandoned to sun and wind and 
 rain, sprang into veritable young forests. Crepe- 
 myrtle, the fernlike fronds of the mimosa, evergreen 
 gloria-mundi and arbor vitae, and the star-set shrubs 
 of the gardenia, wrangled and intertwined with self- 
 sown, indigenous, free things, the wild azalea, high- 
 bush huckleberry, dogwood, red-bay, and occasion 
 ally a slender, dominant pine. 
 
 These various Sleeping Princess barriers were 
 kept in rude bounds from without by the nibbling of 
 strolling cows, and the more intelligent depredations 
 of "Ole Man Milliken s" large flock of goats, but 
 safe within the patched fences a harlequinade of 
 green bent inward, leaning all one way toward a 
 white pillared dwelling, and the long, waving, polyp
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 5 
 
 branches, distorted to undue length by eagerness, 
 seemed to say, "Some day, not very far off, now, some 
 day I shall touch you, you great dumb, disdainful 
 house." 
 
 Perhaps because of the man-less condition of Little 
 Sunshine, Mrs. Bering had been a widow for many 
 years, and her two daughters, though growing into 
 womanhood at a pace which terrified her, had intro 
 duced, as yet, no permanent male element, its 
 surrounding hedge-barrier had become the most law 
 less and most beautiful of all. 
 
 There were places where, in a green, rushing pha 
 lanx, it had gained and held a full forty feet into the 
 lawn. Each of the four corners had become a web- 
 footed thicket, where rabbits lived at ease, and every 
 bird known to the far south builded cheerily, feeling 
 its security inviolate. In spite of the pleadings, sel 
 dom denied, of little Sylvia, no cats were allowed. 
 After seeing a whole nestful of young mocking birds 
 dragged to earth, tortured, and then lingeringly 
 devoured, Ciceley, with an outburst of self-assertion 
 which amazed her quite as much as it did her daughter, 
 put her small foot down, once and for all, upon the 
 harboring of cats. Kittens were occasionally ad 
 mitted, and in them Sylvia found an intense, if some 
 what uncertain joy, for the kittens at Little Sunshine 
 were subject to a mysterious disappearance, coinci 
 dent with the first hint of a predatory instinct. 
 
 As if to encourage and abet the lovely boldness of 
 her special hedge, Ciceley had, with her own hands, 
 set all along the inner border innumerable vines of 
 that most beautiful of all wild flowers, the yellow
 
 6 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 jessamine. Each had been brought in tenderly, 
 not without whispered apology and explanation, 
 from the "woods." Not one of them had been 
 ungenerous enough to die. Indeed it was a saying 
 on the Hill that Ciceley could transplant anything, 
 from a live oak to an old broom handle, and it would 
 immediately send forth new and joyous shoots. It 
 gave the possessor a secret but intense satisfaction 
 to know that she had, among growing things, the lucky 
 hand. Perhaps the gift was hers by way of compen 
 sation, for in many other respects, Ciceley could not 
 regard herself as being altogether fortunate. 
 
 In her garden, at least, she could know herself to 
 be a dispenser of beauty and of joy. The name of 
 the place, Little Sunshine, had from the first given 
 her a cue for the amassing of a preponderance of golden 
 flowers. Yellow chrysanthemums in their time, 
 marigolds, daffodils, great trumpet narcissus, all 
 species of yellow roses, gladioli, and iris, and, in the 
 late autumn, a veritable Danae shower of the orange 
 Klondyke cosmos, kept the bright designation visible 
 in a calendar of bloom. 
 
 What more suitable, then, that the entire small 
 estate should, for at least a few weeks in each year, 
 be enclosed in a continuous golden filagree, a living 
 mesh of sunlight colored flowers ? When each spring 
 the yellow jessamines were in their glory, Ciceley felt 
 herself a queen. Even the sedate and more common 
 place neighbors who had remonstrated with her for 
 " bringing in all those weeds", came now to gaze and 
 marvel at the accomplished result. The entire hedge- 
 top, if a wavering lush growth reaching thirty
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 7 
 
 feet into the air can still be called a hedge, became 
 now a continuous scarf of golden mist, sprinkled with 
 topaz and with stars. The perfume, flowing inward, 
 hung over the house like incense over an altar. 
 
 At such times Ciceley, unable to resist the double 
 lure of beauty and odor, would steal from the house, 
 laying aside guiltily some bit of sewing, and begin a 
 luxurious, deliberate walk about the enclosure. 
 Now she would gaze upward to the flowers, now 
 slowly around, almost incredulous still of the miracle 
 she had helped to bring about. Then, without 
 warning, some too poignant stab of loveliness would 
 sting her quickly-lowered eyelids into tears. 
 
 In her girlhood she had read much poetry. This 
 in common with other personal delights had been 
 long foregone, but fragments of it now, very clearly 
 memorized, not always entirely relevant, reached 
 forward from the past, to disturb and quicken her. 
 She thought of Wordsworth s belief that each flower 
 enjoys the air it breathes. She felt the thrill of his 
 dancing daffodils. In a certain sense, her beautiful, 
 wild jessamines were a field of aerial daffodils. Then 
 for no clear reason she thought of music, likened to 
 the yearning of a "god in pain." Why must great 
 beauty so often bring that sense of yearning? For 
 this she had no answer. There was nothing in her 
 narrow, religious upbringing to solve such questions. 
 To all other such spiritual searching she had been 
 given the answer that there was much we human 
 creatures were not supposed to understand. 
 
 So this also she made no attempt to "understand", 
 only she felt dimly, with what was left of her child-
 
 8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 hood s faith, that Heaven must be a great, golden 
 moor, entirely surrounded with jessamines that did 
 not cause your heart to ache. 
 
 After all, the beauty and the sadness of the spring 
 blossoming were transient phases. For most of the 
 year, Ciceley s life passed in a succession of small 
 duties and adaptations. Her permanent spiritual 
 attitude was one of resignation. Not for a single 
 day did Ciceley fail to assure herself and her Maker 
 that the loss of Henry Bering, five years after mar 
 riage, had been a tangible cross laid upon her slender 
 shoulders, a burden which, as a devoted wife and 
 mother, it became her life-long obligation to bear. 
 
 That an all-wise Providence might have had, in 
 the removal of Henry, any purpose aside from the 
 chastening of Henry s widow, was a thought that 
 could never have been hers. She had from the first 
 accepted it as a personal "dispensation", a bereave 
 ment which unconsciously had grown into a habit, 
 and which she wore much as she did the unbecoming 
 arrangement of her hair. 
 
 When the last jessamine-star had fallen, and the 
 sudden up-rush of pointed foliage leaves on the 
 twisted, porphyry-colored stems mounted in small 
 twin flames, then the hedge became an intricate net 
 work as of jade and malachite. Portions of it be 
 came literally impenetrable. And now, anew, the 
 elderly matrons of the neighborhood, most of these 
 had known Ciceley Taliaferro in her cradle, reiter 
 ated protests against "the way that Bering jungle 
 was being allowed to overrun the place." 
 
 "In my opinion," declared old Mrs. Rogers, her
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 9 
 
 Victorian bonnet, slightly over one ear, emitting 
 jet sparkles of disapproval, "it is getting to be posi 
 tively indecent. Whenever I enter one of the Bering 
 gates, even the big front one, I hold my petticoats 
 and my breath in terror lest a serpent should rush 
 
 out and assail my 1 , er " she checked herself 
 
 with a little cough, "that is, my ankles." 
 
 The cough and apology were by way of deference 
 to the unwed condition of one of her auditors. This 
 was Miss Delia Turrentine, the youngest and most 
 frivolous of three ancient virgins who still main 
 tained existence, no one knew precisely how, 
 in the stately old Turrentine homestead. 
 
 "But it s so pretty and so green and somehow 
 so /zo/^y-looking," Ciceley had demurred when, 
 half an hour later, Delia, on her way home, had 
 stopped in at Little Sunshine for the purpose of 
 imparting the full flavor of Mrs. Rogers s discontent. 
 
 "Y-e-es," admitted Delia, striving to be polite. 
 She, like the elder dame, retained a biblical terror of 
 snakes. Then, in a sudden rush of generosity, 
 "Anyway, the paths leading from the gates are clear, 
 and there are lots of gates." 
 
 Ciceley brightened. "Yes, aren t there? Lots of 
 them! Let s see!" Here the slim, needle-pricked 
 fingers came into play. "One two three 
 five in all. Why, I hadn t realized there were quite 
 so many ! Of course," she amended, dropping a 
 little of the ardor of her tone, " that west one, leading 
 out into Cedar Grove, is all wired up. We had to 
 do it, to keep out old Mrs. Thompson s red cow." 
 
 Delia nodded sympathetically. She and her sis-
 
 io THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 ters knew the ways of that maurauding and intelli 
 gent beast. "It seems a kind o pity," she mused, 
 staring from the wide verandah where they were 
 seated down toward the now hidden front entrance, 
 "that all our gates couldn t have stirrup latches. 
 They keep anything out." 
 
 Ciceley gave a little cry and a quick gesture of dis 
 sent. "Oh, no! There couldn t be another stirrup 
 latch. There s only one, and it belongs right there. 
 Why," she explained, but more shyly, being over 
 come by a consciousness of her own unnecessary 
 vehemence, "Jim says that the stirrup latch is our 
 sanctuary-knocker and tuning-fork in one." 
 
 Recalling the words and the speaker, Ciceley threw 
 back her head, laughing softly. She seldom laughed 
 aloud, and when she did there was something intan 
 gibly incongruous in the sound, as if a little brown 
 hen on her prescribed nest should suddenly give forth 
 the notes of a wood thrush. 
 
 Delia betrayed a spontaneous access of rigidity. 
 She glanced sharply sideways, at her companion. 
 But Ciceley, still gazing toward the distant gate, 
 failed to perceive. 
 
 "Colonel Jim ought to know, I reckon," said Delia 
 meaningly. 
 
 This too passed Ciceley by. Her thoughts had 
 turned into their habitual channel. "Those naughty 
 girls of mine," she began, "have taken to running to 
 the front windows every time the latch falls. Of 
 course I laugh at them, but somehow" -here a 
 worried look drifted across her eager face "it 
 doesn t seem quite nice of them."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH n 
 
 She paused on a note of interrogation. Her gaze, 
 now seeking Delia s, held a shy pleading. It was as 
 if she challenged and implored the other to assert 
 that anything done by such girls could fail to be 
 " nice." 
 
 Delia, meeting the brown eyes, withdrew her own 
 as if they had been cold finger tips. "Well," she 
 remarked, getting to her feet, "I reckon I must be 
 running along home now. The girls not in?" 
 
 Ciceley, half-unconsciously, had risen also, and she 
 now descended the wide front steps with Delia. 
 It was quite the correct thing, on Richmond Hill, 
 to accompany a caller to the front gate. 
 
 "No," she said, in answer to the question, "they 
 have been away all day on a launch-party. I 
 hate to let them take these water-trips. I never 
 have an easy moment until they are safe at home 
 again." 
 
 Delia made no comment. In silence the two 
 walked down the center of the long, curving drive 
 way. Fountain-shaped bushes of bridal wreath 
 and syringa bent over it. Now and again Ciceley 
 paused to put aside some specially long, encroach 
 ing spray. Her manner in doing this had a subtle 
 quality of intimacy. A shrewd observer would 
 have seen at a glance that she was much nearer in 
 kinship to the graceful shrub than to Miss Delia. 
 
 Within a few paces of the gate the ladies instinc 
 tively paused, and stood regarding it with a height 
 ened interest. Each of the four other entrances, 
 including the wired-up western gate, mathematically 
 centered a long fence line; but this, the main one,
 
 12 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 cut across the southeast corner, severing it as cleanly 
 as a knife cuts into a wedge of cheese. 
 
 Between massive, square pillars of brick, from which 
 the last flake of the original cement coating had fallen, 
 swung two panels formed of horizontal bars of oak, 
 quite widely spaced. Across each panel ran a thin 
 crescent of black, slave-wrought iron, the points 
 bent abruptly into hinges that worked in heavy 
 staples, mortised deep into the old brick piers. 
 
 At the gate center, where the opposing crescent 
 backs nearly met, rose, several inches above the level 
 of the top bar, what seemed to be a wooden post, 
 terminating in a sharp point. On opening the gate, 
 however, this resolved itself into complementary 
 halves, and over these converging tips was placed 
 the famous stirrup latch. 
 
 Hung at the angle of one division, it was thrown 
 backward to a bar in opening, and forward over the 
 adjacent half-post in closing, meeting the bar be 
 yond. In either case it struck upon an iron boss, 
 round and squat as a stemless mushroom. The 
 sound thus made was peculiarly clear, sharp, and 
 unforgettable. It was claimed on the Hill that in 
 a windless atmosphere, and especially at night when 
 the dew gave a tinge of moisture, it could be heard 
 and recognized fully a mile away. 
 
 To all intents and purposes it was exactly what 
 "Colonel Jim" had called it, a sanctuary knocker, 
 with the sole difference of being used horizontally 
 instead of at the usual perpendicular. 
 
 Delia s scrutiny did not last long, nor did it engen 
 der comment. With the wiry alertness which char-
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 13 
 
 acterized all her movements she stepped forward. 
 Ciceley, murmuring some commonplace regret that 
 her guest must depart so soon, reached the gate be 
 fore her, and held the old stirrup upright. 
 
 When Delia had passed through, Ciceley slowly 
 rejoined the panels, and laid the latch upon its ancient 
 boss. No sound was made. A setter dog across the 
 street would not have twitched an ear. Ciceley s 
 eyes continued to watch the slight, nervous figure 
 as it hurried down a vista overhung with the dark, 
 earth-seeking branches of old juniper trees. There 
 was something pathetic in its very energy. What 
 reason had Delia to be energetic? The watcher 
 could not help contrasting her own full life with this 
 emptiness. Even her great bereavement showed as 
 a precious possession. Delia had nothing, not even 
 memories ! 
 
 This was by no means the first time she had sad 
 dened with the vicarious loneliness of Delia s arid 
 existence. Usually it had been a passing phase, 
 easily loosed; but now, for what reason she could 
 not say, it deepened, and was drawing irresistibly 
 near. From somewhere out of the golden afternoon 
 it had gathered. Now it enclosed her softly, a thin, 
 chill cloud. She shivered, and leaned more heavily 
 against the gate. Of course it was merely sympathy 
 for Delia. What else could it be? Her own life 
 was crowned, sanctified, by the glory of motherhood ! 
 She was dissolved in it, merged into it, as an Eastern 
 Yogi enters his golden lotos reverie. 
 
 From out of the impalpable mist the remembered 
 echoes of nearer and grosser voices came. Her
 
 i 4 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 friends and neighbors, many of them, as she knew, 
 most tender in their usual thoughts of her, had been 
 saying that she had not taken the wisest course with 
 her daughters, that she was "spoiling" them. Mrs. 
 Rogers, the most outspoken of all, had asserted to 
 Ciceley s face that unselfishness, carried to extremes, 
 might become a form of self-indulgence. Old Mammy 
 Nycie was relentless in criticism. "You gits no 
 thanks fum chillun by lettin em tromple you in 
 dedust!" 
 
 Always before she had been able to smile at the 
 well-meant admonitions and, with little effort, keep 
 the memory of them at bay. Old Mrs. Rogers was 
 childless. Mammy s concern was evidently a mere 
 exaggeration of devotion to her first nursling, 
 Ciceley herself. What could these two, or, in fact, 
 any of the other carpers know of the peculiar, wonder 
 ful, engrossing love that bound a widow to her 
 fatherless children? 
 
 But what, on the other hand, if there should be 
 some acid touch of truth in what was said ? Lucille, 
 especially of late, had seemed at times to ignore her. 
 When she did speak, it was invariably upon some 
 slight, domestic matter in which she demanded 
 service. Lucille had always been a difficult child 
 to understand. Perhaps it was only natural that 
 as she reached young womanhood the strangeness 
 and reserve should deepen. Her very beauty, 
 which in the eyes of others than the worshipping 
 mother had become practically flawless, had the effect 
 of withdrawing her from common interests. 
 
 And the other one, little Sylvia, that thing of
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 15 
 
 perfume, laughter, blowing tendrils, dimples, and 
 childish sweetness, was the little one entirely 
 unchanged ? 
 
 Here the stab of pain was a thing so tangible that 
 Ciceley uttered a cry, and pressed both hands against 
 her heart, where the stab was planted. This was a 
 possibility that she was literally unable to meet. 
 She was one who reasoned, not with her intellect, 
 but with her emotions. 
 
 There was an instant of fluttering inner protest, 
 then, with the instinct of a mother-bird instantly 
 rebuilding a demolished nest, her thoughts flew here 
 and there, picking up shreds of excuse for Sylvia. 
 She was too young to realize that sometimes she was 
 just a little inconsiderate. Every day she came, 
 apparently, more definitely under the influence of 
 her sister. After all, Lucille was the problem. If 
 only Lucille 
 
 But this twig would not carry. Over its broken 
 ends the mother-bird stood still. For the moment, 
 even the incentive to rebuild was checked. 
 
 She opened her eyes wide, as one emerging from 
 an unhappy dream, and, as if in search of some defi 
 nite, external hope, looked slowly about. Near her, 
 and as far as her senses could reach, was unbroken 
 green silence. The hedge tree-tops that nearly met 
 above her head were as motionless as the old brick 
 pillars. From somewhere among the crowding stems 
 near the earth, a wood thrush fluted introspectively. 
 The soft, monotonous, minor notes touched her as 
 a soft hand brushes the strings of a harp. She caught 
 her underlip between her teeth, to check a rush of
 
 16 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 tears. And, yet, as she told herself doggedly, she, 
 of all people, had little cause for tears. 
 
 Through the glimmer she felt, rather than saw, a 
 little flicker of visible life at her elbow. On one of 
 the horizontal bars of the gate, a tiny green lizard, 
 already beginning to turn brown from contact with 
 the unpainted wood, had started out of the jungle 
 toward her. As she looked, it came to an apprehen 
 sive pause, thought better of it, and then deliberately 
 regarding her out of its diamond slits of eyes, threw 
 back its chinless head, and from the place where a 
 chin belongs, produced, as by necromancy, a shining 
 half-circle of crimson tissue. 
 
 At sight of the absurd little creature, something in 
 Ciceley suddenly relaxed. She liked all lizards, not 
 only because of their useful habit of eating insects, 
 but for themselves. She recalled now, with a smile, 
 how one day many, many years ago, little Sylvia, 
 then a mere baby, after witnessing such a perform 
 ance had hurried back to the house and, catching up 
 a beloved, small gray kitten, conjured, lispingly, 
 "Puthy, puthy, show me your blanket out!" 
 
 Still smiling, she held out an ingratiating forefinger. 
 The tip of it was peppered with needle-pricks. To 
 one of them a small clot of blood still adhered, for 
 Miss Delia had called her down-stairs from the sewing- 
 room. The lizard was forgotten. Ciceley s one 
 thought now was of the unfinished party dre^ss, 
 promised to Lucille for that very evening. "How 
 stupid I am. How could I have forgotten," she 
 murmured, and, without a backward glance, turned 
 and fled in the direction of her sewing-machine.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 17 
 
 The lizard, thus abandoned, swallowed his miracle 
 in a series of indignant gulps, and having by this time 
 become exactly the colorless color of the weather- 
 beaten oak, flattened himself luxuriously upon it for 
 a sun bath.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 COLONEL JIM 
 
 IN all residence communities of long standing, there 
 obtains a hint of the primitive and tribal, demon 
 strated by the tacit acceptance of a chief, a sort of 
 modern "ealdorman", in other words, a leading 
 citizen. There is invariably a Big House, bigger than 
 all others, and in it a man or woman who remains in 
 the foreground of the general mind. 
 
 On Richmond Hill this dominant being, though he 
 himself would have been the last to admit it, was 
 James Roy, universally called "Colonel Jim." He 
 was sole dweller in the enormous mansion originally 
 known as "Roycroft", but since termed by its soli 
 tary inhabitant, "Stag Harbor." Architecturally 
 it was the Hill s most notable relic of antebellum 
 splendor, with a row of lofty, fluted columns support 
 ing so massive a pediment that one was vaguely 
 reminded of the Parthenon. 
 
 The driveway, exactly a quarter of a mile in length, 
 was an avenue of spreading live oaks, set, at the time 
 of planting, more than two hundred feet apart. 
 Under the oaks, well forward, ran continuous lines of 
 azalea bushes. No pruning shears had ever touched 
 
 18
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 19 
 
 them. The upper branches, commingling, sprang 
 to a height of at least fifteen feet, while at the border 
 ing sides, as if in recognition of their office, they had 
 maintained two parallel lines of verdant rectitude. 
 Being by nature lovers of shade, they continued to 
 flourish, even though all other forms of undergrowth 
 had gradually disappeared. 
 
 Above them the live oaks made a leafy tunnel, 
 suffused with chill, green light; and in the early 
 spring, just when Ciceley s yellow jessamines were 
 throwing their golden noose, Colonel Jim s azaleas 
 gave forth a cry of answering rapture. They were 
 all of one color, the deep, pulsating rose of a water 
 melon s heart, freshly cut. 
 
 In blossom time "town" picnics were an everyday 
 occurrence. To them the Colonel threw wide, not 
 only his gates, but literally all the doors of his great, 
 empty home, delighting to hear within the echo of 
 young voices and the laughter of children. The 
 show-room of the place was a semicircular ballroom 
 jutting out at the back, just where the Hill be 
 gan its long slope southward to the edge of Rag 
 Swamp. This province, as its name implies, was 
 a dismal and mysterious one, given over to mud, 
 tiny lagoons, mosquitoes, and, presumably, to alli 
 gators. 
 
 No one, not even the splendid old Englishman who 
 had been Jim s father, knew exactly how many 
 acres rightfully belonged to him. The frontal boun 
 dary of Stag Harbor, with its huge iron entrance 
 gate, and the little English lodge set cunningly 
 within it, just to the left, was clearly enough defined.
 
 20 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Past it ran the main road leading out from town. 
 This, lifting over the apex of the Hill, lost itself in 
 a vague, increasingly distant territory of red clay 
 and pine "timberlands." This road, paved to a 
 dazzling whiteness with crushed shell, had once 
 known only the rhythmic beat of the hoofs of high- 
 stepping horses. Now it was desecrated by a clang 
 ing tramway. 
 
 The right border of Stag Harbor was as definitely 
 if not as noisily conserved by a second thoroughfare, 
 a " county" road, branching at right angles to the 
 car tracks. 
 
 To the left, somewhere among crowding pine- 
 trunks, there was known to be a cheaply constructed 
 wire fence erected, under protest, by Colonel Jim, 
 through the menace of a newly arrived "Land Pro 
 moting Company." 
 
 This energetic organization, the first of the sort 
 to reach the quiet Southern town, had suddenly 
 appeared from nowhere. Rumor told of Western 
 millions backing it. Showy offices were opened on 
 the main business street, and for a while the air 
 resounded to alarming prophecies of a boom. 
 
 Not content with distracting an entire city, the 
 " hustlers", as they termed themselves, cast malev 
 olent eyes of progress upon the sacred "Hill." Im 
 passioned pamphlets declared that within a year this 
 "salubrious residence district" would see itself sub 
 divided into small building lots. The car-fare from 
 town was to be reduced from ten to five cents, thus 
 allowing the working classes access to a more favored 
 locality.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 21 
 
 Sprightly young civil engineers, conversing with 
 one another in a queer, nasal dialect in which the chief 
 letter appeared to be "r", set up their tripods, and 
 trailed long reels of metal tape through the outraged 
 forests. Old court-house records were unearthed, and 
 property rights, which until now had seemed to their 
 owners as secure as their personal skins, were openly 
 attacked. 
 
 Colonel Jim, very red as to face and inflated as to 
 diaphragm, had been forced to listen while a glib 
 youth in a checked waistcoat pointed out the fact 
 that his western boundary line was in jeopardy, and 
 that the one way in which his interests could be 
 protected was by cooperating with the Company and 
 putting up a fence. 
 
 At first the Hill was aghast. It shuddered to its 
 aristocratic marrow at the very thought of these vulgar 
 iconoclasts. Several indignation meetings were held. 
 Their first triumph was in a printed announcement 
 from the president of the Tramway Company that 
 the fare should not be reduced. There was nothing 
 the Hill wished less than to be arbitrarily "promoted." 
 
 After the initial tremor, it began slowly, but with 
 increasing satisfaction, to realize that no further 
 active opposition was needed. All it had to do was 
 to wait. Since this negative process was already 
 habitual, the Hill drew a long sigh, folded its hands 
 in its shabby silken lap, and waited. 
 
 Little by little the clamor of progress died away. 
 Promoters and civil engineers blew from their stalks, 
 like the filaments from seeding dandelions. The 
 Colonel s cheap wire fence, now sagging mournfully
 
 22 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 between ill-planted jumper posts, served as a trellis 
 for yellow jessamines, and the bright, thorny ever 
 green of the wild Cherokee rose. 
 
 This had all happened ten years before. Several 
 other syndicates had ravaged the little town, but 
 none of them had ventured to the Hill. 
 
 Being thus legally bounded at three points of the 
 compass, Stag Harbor still possessed, toward the 
 south, an indeterminate region leading down a long, 
 sun-warmed slope to the very edge of the swamp. 
 The fact that no promoter, however zealous, had ever 
 suggested the pacing off of its oozy floor, endeared it 
 to Jim anew. Its flat front, made up of water-fed 
 trees all of one height, cypress, palmetto, bays, 
 and blue gums, became to him a wall that shut out 
 the horrors of Yankee enterprise. The long gray- 
 beard moss among the branches waved a sort of 
 mournful warning. Jim felt that he loved even the 
 water moccasin and legendary alligators for their 
 part in keeping the intruder away. 
 
 Besides Stag Harbor, Jim had received other in 
 heritances. Down in the town, which was slowly 
 growing in spite of all efforts of the older citizens to 
 prevent, he had docks, and stores, and a few dwellings. 
 Also had come to him a cotton business, far gone in 
 decrepitude. 
 
 For the rental-paying property he was openly glad. 
 An agent relieved him of all the disagreeable exigen 
 cies. Had Colonel Jim elected to be his own manager, 
 it is safe to assert that his tenants would have re 
 mained in possession, irrespective of their ability to 
 pay monthly dues, for Jim was essentially of that
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 23 
 
 order of social enemy known as " kind-hearted." He 
 was the sort of man who could not easily say no. 
 However true this lamentable fact with regard to 
 others, it is certain that in his personal affairs he 
 could use the negative with vigor. After a few days 
 of puzzled bending over his dead father s desk, Jim 
 suddenly sprang up, shouted aloud, much to the con 
 sternation of his two clerks, "Nothin doing !" rushed 
 across the street to the Battle House bar, and, being 
 thus fortified, sought out his lawyer, to whom he gave 
 peremptory instructions to "sell out the darned, 
 moth-eaten old business for what it would bring!" 
 
 From that decisive moment onward, Jim pro 
 claimed himself to be a farmer. What it was he 
 hoped to farm on the arid clay and sand of the Stag 
 Harbor acres neither he or anyone else quite knew. 
 That inspiration was to come. 
 
 At that time, also, the title of "Colonel," which 
 was to cling to him through the latter part of his life, 
 had not been acquired. The Spanish War, and his 
 own gallantry therein, had yet to bestow it. He 
 was known in these earlier years, as simply "Jim." 
 Among the younger generation he was called indis 
 criminately "Cousin" or "Uncle" Jim, with little 
 regard to actual consanguinity. He was one of 
 those wholesome, ozone-exuding people, whose very 
 presence compels the softening of a mere baptismal 
 or hereditary name. Had any one of his associates 
 referred to him as "Mr. James Roy", it must have 
 been by way of an immense joke. 
 
 But there was another reason for Jim s great 
 popularity. Sentiment is rooted deep in the human
 
 24 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 heart, and the old saying "All the world loves a 
 lover" is a poignant phase of it. Since Jim s boy 
 hood, his devotion to Ciceley Taliaferro had been 
 unswerving and unconcealed. That it had proved 
 hopeless only made it the more secure. An ideal, 
 once fixed, has already achieved immutability. 
 
 During the days of their very happy childhood, 
 when Jim had been the recognized leader among the 
 big boys, and Ciceley never a leader of anything, but 
 rather a shy, dependent follower upon bolder spirits, 
 she had been singled out for his especial charge. No 
 jeers, nor ridicule, no scornful protests, "Aw, Jim, 
 come on ! Don t stop to help a kid over the fence !" 
 had the slightest influence upon him. Whenever a 
 fence or a tree was to be climbed, little Ciceley was 
 sure to find Jim s outstretched hand. That the 
 hand was invariably dirty made no difference to 
 either. The first chinquepins of the season were 
 always hers. Jim knew just where to find them. 
 These she would string into a long rosary, terminating 
 in a chinquepin cross formed by the help of a hairpin. 
 
 Ciceley loved the time to come when she could 
 fashion and wear a new chinquepin necklace. She 
 would lift the cross, and, gazing at it, feel a strange 
 stirring of religious sentiment. She almost wished 
 she had not been born " Piscerpalean ", to which creed 
 nuns were an abhorrence. It must be wonderful, 
 thought little Ciceley, to be a cloistered nun, spend 
 ing one s hours in a religious ecstasy. 
 But always, within a few days of acquiring the new 
 rosary, the beads, one by one, would be eaten. Cice 
 ley loved the keen, sweet savor of the nuts. Besides,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 25 
 
 if one kept them too long on the string, horrid worms 
 were certain to appear. So, by degrees, the necklet 
 and finally the cross would be devoured, and for 
 that season the vague longing for devotional seclu 
 sion would pass away. 
 
 As Ciceley grew from childhood into young maiden 
 hood, there came upon her, in Jim s presence, an 
 unconquerable shyness. She still depended upon 
 him ; still received at his hands all the fresh beauties 
 of the forest ; still she liked him to be near, and yet, 
 at his approach, she shrank, and a tremor of virginal 
 fear shook her. 
 
 Jim, utterly untroubled by psychic fantasies, 
 loved the wide, startled look in her brown eyes. 
 Somehow it seemed to make of him a conqueror. 
 Each day she grew more lovely and more desirable. 
 Their future life together was, for him, a thing pre 
 ordained. He could not conceive of his soul s exist 
 ence as apart from her. , 
 
 Then, early in one summer, Ciceley being just 
 seventeen and recently graduated from the leading 
 girls seminary in the town, Jim s cousin, Henry 
 Bering, also fresh from school, or rather "The Uni 
 versity", where for two years of absence he had been 
 understood to be studying law, this young hero, 
 dapper, self-confident, and quite obviously superior, 
 made sudden reentry into the rose-jar scented par 
 lors of the Hill. 
 
 Henry focussed, at once, in his exotic person, the 
 social interest of the community. All the women 
 voted him approval : the men, that is the older men, 
 were noticeably reserved.
 
 26 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 The boy was very good-looking, in a finished, slim, 
 blond way. His mother proudly declared him to be 
 a perfect specimen of British aristocracy. His 
 attire, an exaggeration of all the latest male fashions, 
 would have convulsed a Broadway vaudeville audi 
 ence, but on Richmond Hill, where the very term 
 "vaudeville" was unknown, the appalling ensemble 
 was accepted without question as "the thing!" 
 
 The other boys, all but one, instantly essayed 
 timid semblance. Scarlet neckties blossomed on 
 various rose-embowered verandahs; and cigarettes, 
 heretofore gallantly dispensed with in the presence of 
 ladies, rivalled, in their fitful glow, the antics of 
 summer fireflies. 
 
 Something about this slavish adaptation infuriated 
 Jim. His dull anger was the more persistent because 
 of his inability to state, even to himself, the exact 
 cause of it. In all crises of his life, beginning with 
 this disastrous summer, it was Jim s misfortune to 
 remain, inarticulate. Now, with his very spine 
 bristling at sight of Henry s swaggering gait and 
 reverberating garments, he found no outlet except 
 in the muttered words, "Sissy! Dude, and darned 
 fool!" 
 
 Jim too was blond ; but the sun and wind that he 
 loved had tanned him to the hue of his native clay 
 hills. His mouse-colored hair, under the ministra 
 tions of local barbers, had a fashion of sticking out 
 in unexpected points. He had grown too rapidly, 
 acquiring, with the sudden access in height, that 
 broad-shouldered, long-armed awkwardness which 
 develops later into splendid strength. In a vague,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 27 
 
 boyish way, he was conscious of regarding himself 
 as being ugly, but this fact acquired real significance 
 only after Henry s return. 
 
 This hero, having enjoyed an interval of general 
 homage, languidly bestirred himself to more personal 
 aims. There was nothing concealed about Henry s 
 mental processes. One glorious afternoon when the 
 Hill boys were congregated, after the immemorial 
 custom of rural males, at the village store, Henry 
 quite suddenly announced his intention of " looking 
 over" the girls. The statement provoked an out 
 burst of admiring laughter. Henry was a devil and 
 no mistake ! Big Jim alone went a murderous red. 
 He opened his lips, and, finding that he had nothing 
 to say, shut them to a livid, twitching bar of disap 
 proval. One of the younger boys, catching sight of 
 him, foolishly piped up: " You d better keep yo 
 hands off Sis Taliaferro. She s Jim s girl!" 
 
 All eyes now turned to him. He dared not meet 
 them. Lowering his head between quivering shoul 
 ders, he plunged away from his tormentors in the 
 direction of home, but not quickly enough to escape 
 Henry s high- voiced taunt. "Jim! Why, old Jim 
 Roy wouldn t know a girl from his grandmother!" 
 
 At a candy-pulling party that very evening, the 
 admired one, with serene deliberation, lifted his 
 perfumed handkerchief, and being assured, by a 
 swift comprehensive glance, that Jim was watching, 
 dropped it at Ciceley s feet. 
 
 From that hideous moment, Jim felt he was lost, 
 and by the self-admission inevitably hastened defeat. 
 For a while, with the instinct of fair play which had
 
 28 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 always been a characteristic, he tried to be just, to 
 put himself in his cousin s place. After all, as he 
 told himself, it was inconceivable that Henry or any 
 one else should be able to care for another girl while 
 Ciceley was near. 
 
 She was unbound, unrestrained as to choice. He 
 himself had never made love to her, at least in the 
 way that Henry evidently conceived it. She was 
 still so young, so innocent, so childishly immature. 
 Before the wide purity of her look, the very thought 
 had seemed desecration, and yet here was Henry 
 not only seeking her out, but committing the blas 
 phemy of stating his hopes and intentions in public. 
 
 Perhaps until this dreadful awakening Jim had not 
 realized how completely he loved, had loved, and 
 always must love her. That she really was his had 
 been taken for granted. It still seemed as if such a 
 bond, though unspoken, must be liable for both. 
 
 Then one day at a picnic near the old Rogers s 
 Mill, a favorite spot for such gatherings, all at once, 
 from the menacing cloud of his boyish forebodings, 
 the lightning of certainty struck him down. 
 
 He had turned from the others, goaded to forest 
 retreat by the open persistence of Henry. One 
 more amorous ogle, with the response of Ciceley s 
 pleased laugh, one more touch, even conventionalized 
 by the game they were playing, of Henry s ringed 
 hand on the girl s, Jim felt would incite him to murder. 
 
 With his dog at his heels, he had followed the clear 
 running creek, and finally, spent with his anger, 
 flung himself down on a bank. The dog promptly 
 stretched himself near, for a nap. The boy, though
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 29 
 
 most wretchedly alert in his mind, was as still. Intent 
 on his thoughts, he failed to hear the approach of 
 two figures, and sent his startled glance upward just 
 in time to see their lips meet. 
 
 With a groan, his head went to earth. He shut 
 his eyes tightly, as if to crush out the vision. He 
 wished that the waters would rise and submerge him 
 for ever. Now he pressed his hands close on his ears, 
 and lay stark, cursing fate. 
 
 When he ventured again to look up, they were 
 gone. He was never to know whether Henry had seen 
 him. After this, the picnic moved on without Jim. 
 
 At home, in his room, frenzied plans were in prog 
 ress. He was roused to the combat at last. He 
 would fight for his own. If Ciceley really loved 
 Henry and she must, to have given that kiss 
 his own hopes were already ashes ; and yet, from 
 no lips but Ciceley s the remorseless and final "thumb 
 down ", must be given. 
 
 He waited to find her alone. This befell the next 
 day in her garden. She had always delighted in 
 flowers : and from childhood had been given a small 
 fertile spot where she planted, and sowed, and reaped 
 at her will. This year, for some reason already 
 grown misty, she had chosen for dominance small 
 clove pinks. It was midsummer when the goaded 
 and reckless boy Jim attempted the taking of hap 
 piness by storm. She was kneeling, her hand on a 
 flower, but at his sudden appearance, she sprang to 
 her feet, with the bloom snapped off short. For 
 many years after, Jim would turn from a path where 
 a clove pink was growing.
 
 3 o THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Poor Jim had no finesse. His gestures and stam 
 mering, fierce words roused, at once, all her latent 
 defiance. Yes, she loved Henry, she told him. Her 
 eyes were bright with excitement, and her look almost 
 hard. That day she had promised to marry him, 
 just as soon as it could be arranged. 
 
 Again Jim, like some wounded animal, sought out 
 the still forest. His blind, stumbling feet led him 
 unconsciously to the knoll by the stream, where his 
 death-blow had fallen. 
 
 It was here, hours later, that a friend found him 
 out. A voice low and compassionate breathed to 
 the half -hidden ear, "Jim, Jim! Dear old Jim. 
 It s your chum, Julia Wickford. It s Jule."
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 JULIA 
 
 IF, among the boys of his generation, Jim Roy 
 was securely dominant, the Hill girls had possessed 
 also among themselves a personal leader. 
 
 This was a girl of Jim s own age, a cousin to Cice- 
 ley, Julia Wickford, familiarly known as "Jule." 
 Most of the young people of the Hill were cousins, 
 once, twice, or thrice removed. That a line of de 
 marcation still held between the several branches of 
 Taliaferros and Roys was looked upon as something 
 of a social paradox. 
 
 At this time all post-bellum aristocrats were 
 wretchedly poor. It would have argued disloyalty 
 to the "lost cause" had their condition been other 
 wise. But even with them there were degrees of 
 penury, and it had been whispered that for a few 
 years the Wickfords had entered the limbo of utter 
 destitution. 
 
 Stephen Wickford, though a bridegroom of but a few 
 weeks, had been among the first to enlist. From the 
 disastrous struggle he returned, lacking not only an 
 arm, but all hope, incentive, or power of readjust 
 ment. Shortly after the war the beautiful Wickford 
 
 31
 
 32 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 homestead was burned. Its owners always declared 
 and believed this final tragedy to be the work of re 
 vengeful incendiary negroes. 
 
 A few unrelated pieces of furniture were saved, 
 and conveyed by the rescuers into the detached 
 kitchen building which fortunately had stood at 
 quite a distance from the main residence. Vaguely, 
 like ghosts not clearly realized, or cloud-wraiths 
 bending toward a current of warm air, the bewildered 
 couple drifted in the wake of the furniture, and, being 
 neither alive nor quite yet dead, kept up, in the old 
 brick building, a sort of travesty of existence. But 
 for the tenderness and compassion of their friends, it 
 is certain that at this time the Wickfords would have 
 starved to death. 
 
 A little later the office of postmaster to the small 
 community was secured for Mr. Wickford. To be 
 more accurate, it was created for him. He took it 
 apathetically. In his embittered heart what he 
 wanted most of all was to be let alone. The starving 
 of his maimed body seemed, in his eyes, a trivial 
 addition to the sum of already accumulated mis 
 fortunes. For his wife s sake he meekly undertook 
 the duties of his new position. The small salary it 
 brought proved ample for their diminished needs. 
 
 Then, to the astonishment and delight of all, a 
 boy-child somehow found his way into their arid 
 lives. That patient, uncomplaining ghost, the mother, 
 was transformed into a vital, throbbing, human 
 being. The boy became her idol, her elan vital. 
 From his rosy warmth she drank, as from a spring, 
 the elixir of rejuvenation.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 33 
 
 When two years afterward a girl was born, there 
 remained little for her but the husks of maternal 
 ecstasy. There had been but a single box of precious 
 ointment, and it was squandered. 
 
 As the two children grew, Mrs. Wickford, abject 
 before the idol of her firstborn, apparently made no 
 effort to conceal her preference. The very look in 
 her eyes when feasting upon his sturdy comeliness 
 changed at the little Julia s approach into a sort of 
 patient kindness. 
 
 Children, of course, do not reason; but their 
 hearts have antennae more sensitive than those of 
 any night-moth. Julia learned to keep to herself. 
 But for the stereotyped mother-duties at table and 
 at bedtime, she made no demands. She played alone 
 in the white sand under the oak-trees, fashioning her 
 self dolls from short-stemmed flowers, and fairy furni 
 ture from twigs, the plastic red clay, leaves, and moss. 
 
 Sometimes, after breakfast, the wistful little figure 
 would follow Mr. Wickford to the gate through 
 which it passed so seldom. One morning and the 
 daring of this initial venture was never to be forgot 
 ten she reached up and caught him by the arm. 
 
 Daddy, I wish you would take me with you. 
 It s so lonesome here." 
 
 "Lonesome !" the man repeated, in vague surprise. 
 Why? Won t your brother play with you?" 
 
 "He never will," Julia said rather breathlessly. 
 "He is always over in the Stuart lot with some other 
 boys or else 
 
 The words were choked by a little sob. Some 
 thing in the man s dulled senses stirred.
 
 34 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Mother " she began again. 
 
 "All right come on with me," said Wickford, 
 hurrying forward as if to escape the sight of the up 
 turned face. "I reckon your mother won t care," 
 he added, by way of concession to the higher author 
 ity. 
 
 "Oh, no. Mother won t even know I m gone." 
 
 An instant later, with the old gate safely closed, 
 and a dew-sweet world spreading before her, the sober 
 restraint of the usual was tossed aside like an elf s 
 brown cloak. She darted from one side of the road 
 to the other, catching up sylvan treasures, only to 
 toss them aside at a fresh revelation. Now with 
 outstretched, empty hands, and the mane of her 
 thick no-colored hair streaming flat in the wind, she 
 would rush suddenly forward to what seemed, in her 
 childish eyes, an incredible and heart-catching dis 
 tance, and then, wheeling, fly back in a glorious panic 
 to cling to, and drag upon, the hand of her new-found 
 friend, her Daddy. 
 
 After this, as a matter of course, she went with 
 him. Mrs. Wickford made no protest. Julia was 
 still too young to be of assistance about the house. 
 
 The small, shabby, post-office building, with its 
 meager vestibule and the one pine-boarded room 
 where Mr. Wickford sat, tilted back in a kitchen 
 chair, perpetually self-hypnotized into a sort of de 
 fensive apathy, became the child s real habitat. 
 
 Her alphabet was acquired from the printed labels 
 on newspapers. Soon she had advanced to a sight- 
 reading of various letter addresses. It was a day of 
 never-to-be-forgotten pride and importance when,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 35 
 
 unassisted, she was allowed to reach up into old Mr. 
 Warriner s box, extract a letter and a pamphlet, and 
 somewhat tremulously thrust them toward him 
 through the small oval window cut with miraculous 
 precision in the square pane of unwashed glass. 
 
 The old man started in surprise. His mail was 
 moving toward him apparently of its own volition, 
 for Julia s hand and arm remained hidden. He 
 crinkled his eyes to peer through the window to 
 ward that level where he was accustomed to meet 
 Mr. Wickford s somewhat irresolute gaze. Nothing 
 was to be seen. Then, all at once he became aware 
 of a pair of steady, childish eyes, wide opened and 
 fixed upon his own, that appeared just above the 
 level of the small wooden shelf within. 
 
 " God bless my soul ! " cried old Mr. Warriner. "If 
 it isn t little Jule Wickford, turned postmistress!" 
 
 He took his letters with the deep bow of an an 
 cient courtier, and thanked the child gravely, but 
 as he turned away he was chuckling. To each 
 chance-met acquaintance the episode was retailed. 
 Before nightfall the entire community had assured 
 itself that "Wickford had a mighty smart little 
 girl." "Shouldn t be a bit surprised," avowed one 
 appreciative listener, "if she turned out to be worth 
 all the rest of the Wickfords put together. That 
 brother of hers is a young ruffian!" 
 
 Now daily the "smart little girl" was allowed to 
 pass out letters through the magic aperture. It 
 became to her literally the casement bearing out 
 upon a different and a brighter universe. Smiles, 
 jokes, and commendatory remarks came to her.
 
 36 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Soon she felt a deep and childish conviction that it 
 was her special window, her post-office, her Hill, 
 and above all, her own Daddy. 
 
 Home life in the old brick kitchen became less 
 and less of a reality. She ate and slept there with as 
 little sense of belonging as a young business man 
 feels toward his hall bedroom in an uncongenial 
 boarding house. 
 
 During the long pauses between the delivery of 
 letters, she studied. Old Mr. Warriner brought her 
 a battered primer that had belonged to his daughter, 
 now a married woman in New York. Another friend 
 supplemented the gift by one of a first reader, illus 
 trated with old English woodcuts. All visitors to 
 the post-office were eager to question and to assist 
 her. Finally the lethargic father was himself aroused, 
 and in a more gradual way the little Julia began to 
 do for him what the birth of a son had done for Mrs. 
 Wickford. 
 
 But tragedy was again nearing the unconscious 
 mother. The other ladies of the Hill felt an in 
 creasing indignation at the way that Julia, how 
 ever intelligent and helpful to her father, was 
 allowed to spend her days away from home. 
 Surely if Mr. Wickford needed assistance, it was 
 the place of that unruly boy, Stephen Jr., now 
 rapidly becoming the terror of the village, to stand 
 beside his father. 
 
 Popular sentiment reached such a pitch that Mrs. 
 Wickford was finally "spoken to ", at which the faded 
 woman, usually so concessive, flared into a veritable 
 shrew, stating in no gentle words that she was able
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 37 
 
 to manage her own household and would thank her 
 neighbors to do the same. 
 
 The truth is that by this time young Stephen was 
 utterly beyond her control. He had refused to go 
 to school, and the suggestion that he accompany his 
 father to the post-office would have been met, as 
 Mrs. Wickford knew, by jeers and profanity. 
 
 That, from the first, she had taken the wrong course 
 with him, even her besotted heart realized. But it 
 was too late now to change. With a sense of bitter 
 inward as well as outward defiance, she continued 
 to subject herself to the caprices of her tyrant, losing 
 no opportunity to demonstrate in the presence of 
 others her pride and belief in him. 
 
 The old negroes began to mutter that Mis Wick- 
 ford was callin down a jedgment on herse f an dat 
 onery son o hern ! 
 
 Whatever the force of prophecy, it is certain that 
 within a year of Julia s establishment as her father s 
 colleague the boy died. It was a short illness, last 
 ing but three days. With him, though her unnamed 
 malady extended over as many months, died the wan 
 creature who, in giving him life, had replenished her 
 own. 
 
 Existence in the little post-office went on almost 
 tragically, as usual. For a while Julia attempted to 
 keep up, unaided, the household duties also ; but 
 finding that the double work interfered too much 
 with her reading, she employed, for a ridiculous pit 
 tance, the services of an elderly negress. From this 
 time onward the child s real intellectual and moral 
 life might be said to have begun.
 
 38 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 When little Ciceley Taliaferro started to school in 
 town, taking her place in the threadbare but still 
 aristocratic establishment known as the "Misses 
 Hallonquest s Female Seminary," and Julia was 
 shown the immaculate new text-books, the elder 
 girl took them into her hands, turning them over, 
 staring first at one shining cover and then its reverse 
 as if doubting the evidence of her own eyesight. It 
 was literally the first time she had seen or touched a 
 new book. Vaguely she had believed them all to 
 be either battered and much ruffled at the corners, or 
 else securely armored in heavy leather bindings. 
 
 Before this she had, of course, found her way into 
 all the remaining Hill libraries. The splendid Wick- 
 ford collection had gone down into ashes; but Mr. 
 Warriner held his long rows of classics unbroken, and 
 old Mrs. Bering, whose father had been an English 
 archdeacon, was particularly vain of her inherited 
 literary stores. She never by any chance opened one 
 of the sacred volumes herself, but in allowing Julia 
 access to them, impressed her with a sense of being 
 given some sort of posthumous benediction. It 
 contained an appalling array of "Dick s Commen 
 taries", and somber series of the discourses of Jeremy 
 Taylor, John Donne, and other noted divines. Of 
 all the musty hoard, Julia, in those earlier days, 
 found but two which came to be a part of her, "Pil 
 grim s Progress" and a realistically illustrated copy 
 of "Fox s Book of Martyrs." 
 
 The one great, free, and vital treasure house was 
 in the low-beamed library of Roy croft. The elder 
 Roy was still a great reader. He alone upon the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 39 
 
 dwindling Hill had been known to purchase a few new 
 books since the war. Most of these, to Julia s sub 
 sequent delight, proved to be novels. On his open 
 shelves for very properly he disdained the coffin- 
 like, locked doors of the conventional bookcase 
 one could reach up, tilting at random some gold- 
 lettered tome, certain of finding a new joy. Classics 
 and treatises on cricket, imperishable poems and 
 German philosophy, fat books of history and Dickens 
 latest novel here rubbed friendly shoulders. 
 
 Under the stimulus of Julia s ardor, the boy Jim 
 began to read. Fenimore Cooper was his first idol. 
 Through all the many tales Julia followed breath 
 lessly, and for a while the two friends repeopled for 
 themselves the glades and dim pine forests of their 
 native Hill. There were moments of shivering de 
 light when almost they saw, standing grim and re 
 proachful among sylvan shadows, the form of some 
 noble Red Man. Their mode of greeting was a 
 smothered war cry, and whole bands of younger 
 children were trained in the mazes of the death dance. 
 Julia s very vocabulary became Cooperian. Old 
 Mrs. Rogers, being acquainted with this latest ex 
 hibition of Julia Wickford s "queerness", gave a 
 characteristic sniff and remarked that if the poor 
 motherless girl had followed her advice and concen 
 trated her reading on Mrs. Sherwood s excellent tales, 
 this new scandal might have been avoided. 
 
 With the passing of the Indians came early English 
 history, of which the favorite book was "Froissart s 
 Chronicles." Mr. Roy possessed of this a tome so 
 venerable that each page held the yellow stains of time,
 
 40 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 and throughout the letter "s" continued to be a thrill 
 ing "f." It was a source of deep regret to Julia that 
 neither she nor Jim had an "s" to their name, which 
 might have been so transformed. 
 
 Meanwhile little Ciceley, attending five days of 
 each week her Female Seminary, found happiness in 
 the acquisition of many new girl friends, but, on the 
 other hand, a Slough of Despond in the necessity of 
 preparing lessons. All studying was supposed to be 
 done at home ; the use of a schoolroom was merely 
 for parrot-like recitations. Arithmetic was her 
 special bane. In calling upon Julia for assistance, it 
 grew to be a regular custom that the elder girl should 
 spend each "study" evening in the Taliaferro home, 
 equipping her timid cousin for the next day s tilt 
 with learning. Even at the time, Julia was entirely 
 conscious of the advantage to herself. She was 
 always one to see clearly, not only for others, but 
 what is far rarer for herself as well. In her grati 
 tude to the unconscious Ciceley, a deep and tender 
 regard found permanent place in her heart. 
 
 Besides, there were things about Ciceley hard to 
 resist, a fact which the growing Jim was soon to 
 realize. The elder ladies referred to her as "that 
 sweet child." There was no one on the Hill who 
 did not love her. 
 
 It was in the spring of Ciceley s graduation from 
 the Misses Hallonquest that Henry Bering returned. 
 He too became a favorite of old ladies. They called 
 him "a nice youth." In their sentimental hearts 
 the union of these favored ones appeared a desirable, 
 even a predestined accomplishment.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 41 
 
 But Jim Roy read no more. From the moment of 
 Henry s open challenge and the dropping of his 
 handkerchief at Ciceley s feet, Jim changed from a 
 genial, rollicking leader into a sulking cave-man. No 
 one but Julia realized how deep his hurt. She went 
 to Ciceley. "Can t you see," she demanded, her 
 gray eyes black with the intensity of her pleading, 
 "that Jim is the real thing, and Henry just a lot of 
 finishing touches, with the essential man left out?" 
 
 Ciceley had wept. Her tears always lay in a 
 shallow basin. She did not attempt to argue, but 
 between the childish sobs, Julia caught phrases, "Oh, 
 Jule, how can you? Jim never has cared for me 
 like like you think. Henry isn t just finishing 
 touches. Everybody but you thinks he s wonderful ! " 
 
 "But I tell you, Sis, Jim does care for you as I 
 think," vehemently insisted the other. "I know 
 Jim. He is made up of you. You re his core, 
 his medulla!" Even Julia at times fell before the 
 temptation to air recent knowledge. "Do you feel 
 sure, this soon, that you like Henry better than Jim?" 
 
 Ciceley nodded, still sobbing, at which, after a 
 quiver of something related to scorn, Julia smiled. 
 
 The afternoon following the picnic Julia sat alone in 
 the room back of the post-office boxes. She was bent 
 in absorption over some papers on her desk. This 
 useful if somewhat cumbrous article of furniture had 
 been built for her out of old boxes by the Hill car 
 penter, "Buck" Johnson. She wore a frown of con 
 centration ; and well might she frown, for this latest 
 task set for herself was no less than the mastery of 
 shorthand.
 
 42 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 For nearly a year past the girl had toiled for profi 
 ciency in this comparatively lucrative calling. By 
 its means she had determined to secure a fixed and 
 more adequate salary, instead of the fluctuating pit 
 tance of her government office. Money was dread 
 fully needed. 
 
 Being now definitely the breadwinner, she assumed, 
 - though quite conscious of the Hill s almost fren 
 zied opposition to the New Woman movement then 
 just come to its ears, her right to attempt and 
 receive, in hard cash, what her services might be made 
 to command. 
 
 The first open step in her venture was soon to be 
 taken. She had never yet entered a real town office. 
 The prospect held something for thrills. She could 
 see herself passing the small, gilded sign, "James 
 Preston, Attorney-at-Law ", mounting boldly the 
 shadowy flight of uncarpeted steps, and knocking, 
 still boldly, no matter what her inner tremors, on 
 the door with the same gilded name. From her 
 reading she knew that all lawyers had their names on 
 a misty glass door. 
 
 Now the feminine Julia leaned back. There was 
 still one detail to be settled. What clothes should 
 she wear? In the books, the brave heroine adven 
 turing for employment went invariably clad in dark 
 blue, with white collars and cuffs. Her only blue 
 coat-suit was shabby and much out of date, but she 
 thought, with a lifting of hope, of some old-fashioned 
 collars and cuffs that had belonged to her mother, 
 and which, after mending and starching, would be 
 quite perfect as accessories.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 43 
 
 Into the smiling prevision crept Ciceley Talia- 
 ferro. Julia started, and caught herself back to the 
 present. 
 
 "You were right, Jule!" the girl cried, in coming. 
 "Poor old Jim did care, just as you said. I told 
 him that Henry and I were engaged, and he looked 
 awful ! Most like that old bull when he s trying to 
 chase us. I never dreamed Jim could get mad ! 
 When?" she gasped out, in reply to the other s 
 sharp question. "Oh, only just now in my 
 garden. He made me pull off this poor pink by 
 the head. It s a shame, too," she murmured, caress 
 ing the stemless flower. "The first on the bush, 
 and so sweet!" 
 
 "Yes, I m sure that the pink feels its tragedy," 
 remarked Julia drily. "You have told Jim Roy 
 definitely No ? You are certain you never will 
 change? That you love Henry Bering?" 
 
 "Why, of course I am sure," answered Ciceley, 
 displaying some spirit and also a little astonishment 
 at her friend s strange emotion. "I have promised! 
 Besides," here her lovely face flushed, and she broke 
 into school-girlish giggles, "over there by the mill 
 yesterday, on the picnic Henry kissed me. You 
 know that I ve got to marry him after he s done 
 that!" 
 
 "Where did Jim go just now when you told 
 him?" 
 
 "Jim!" echoed the other, "Oh Jim! I don t 
 know. Somewhere, with Rover following him." 
 
 When finally Ciceley had left, Julia sprang to her 
 feet. Her papers were pushed, anyhow, to the back
 
 44 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 of the desk. She turned the old key, at the same time 
 her left hand upheld toward her hat on its peg. 
 A glance at the clock showed her that closing time 
 was a full hour off, but for once she did not care. Her 
 course through the woods never swerved. She had 
 not loved Jim all her life to be baffled by physical 
 hindrances. 
 
 From her hour with Jim she came back very slowly. 
 All the youth, all the hopes of her girlhood were 
 drained out of her face. She recalled few of his 
 actual phrases. Only one, there was one, had 
 burned deep in her heart. 
 
 You remember, Jule, in those Western stories 
 we used to read and act there was a dog called a 
 one-man dog ?" 
 
 "Yes, Jim," she had answered. 
 
 "Well, I know I m a one-woman man. Sis can 
 marry that ninny. She could marry a dozen more 
 like him, and still there could never be any girl in 
 the world for me, except Sis." 
 
 Julia went to Judge Preston, and was given at once 
 a position. The Hill ladies, led by old Mrs. Rogers 
 and cadenced by Miss Delia Turrentine, set up a 
 nine days protestation. Julia Wickford, always 
 "queer", had finally disgraced herself, and with it 
 thrown scorn on the Hill. A girl of her birth, of her 
 present connection, of a lifetime association with 
 them, to turn to a clerk, and in a man s office at that ! 
 Even the Judge s vague and protecting relationship 
 did little to quiet the storm. In the midst of it Julia 
 committed a still greater outrage. The old Wickford 
 kitchen was rented to negroes, and Julia, seeking
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 45 
 
 neither counsel nor advice, moved with her father to 
 town. The Hill ladies admitted, with nods of gloomy 
 satisfaction, that under the unfortunate circumstances 
 it was best to have her away. 
 
 A few months later she and the Judge were quietly 
 married. At the news fresh but now laudatory clam 
 ors arose. Julia clearly had sacrificed herself for her 
 father ; and, strangely enough, the proud dames who 
 had been most against her for seeking to earn her own 
 and her father s living by work, now wept with delight 
 at this evidence of filial devotion. In a mass they 
 went into the town to leave cards. Julia, in her 
 stately and beautifully furnished mansion, received 
 them as if nothing had happened. She showed them 
 her father s neat rooms, his study and private bath. 
 Mr. Wickford s pride in his daughter s latest achieve 
 ment was pathetically obvious. 
 
 At the end of a year a son lay in Julia Preston s 
 arms. If before she had seemed merely contented, 
 it was certain that now she knew rapture. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the Hill things adjusted themselves 
 to the old lines. Whatever Jim s inner desolation, 
 he became, to all outer appearances, the same genial 
 and popular boy. He avoided neither Ciceley nor 
 Henry, whose engagement became one of the every 
 day facts. They were not to be married immediately ; 
 the delay on one side was because of Ciceley s youth 
 and her mother s increasing ill-health ; on the other, 
 as Henry grandiloquently stated, because he wished 
 to be settled in business, to be sure he could earn his 
 own living, before assuming a married man s burdens. 
 
 At Julia s request, he was taken into Judge Pres-
 
 46 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 ton s law office. The admixture of friendship and 
 business, always a precarious benefice, became in this 
 instance something far worse. Not only was Henry 
 incapable, but so lazy, so sure of his own superior 
 attainments, that his presence became a scourge. 
 
 Then Ciceley s mother died. Henry, who since his 
 hour of triumph in winning her from Jim had been 
 far from an ardent fiance, now openly neglected the 
 grief -stricken girl. 
 
 At this, old Mrs. Bering, who had grown sincerely 
 fond of Ciceley, declaring her "one of those yielding, 
 domestic girls who make the best wives", took a 
 hand in her son s tangled affairs. She resented his 
 treatment of the bereaved child and the comments 
 she knew it provoked. Deeper than this, thrust deep 
 in her proud mother-heart, was the fear, grown of 
 late to black knowledge, that Henry both gambled 
 and drank. 
 
 With the fatuous belief of such mothers, she was 
 sure that the one thing to curb his wild tendencies, to 
 steady him once and for all, was marriage. Little 
 Sis, in her part of sacrificial lamb, was given no chance 
 of escape. One bleak autumn day in the parlor of 
 "Woodbine", as the Bering place then was called, 
 Ciceley became Henry Bering s wife. 
 
 With the coming of her first child, Lucille, the 
 young mother, feeling the whole world reborn in her 
 personal joy, re-christened the home, with old Mrs. 
 Bering s sanction, with the name Little Sunshine. A 
 second child, also a girl, was born. Buring these 
 years Henry had not made advance, either in the 
 hoped-for steadiness or in his capacity for earning.
 
 47 
 
 But Ciceley was one who never questioned. The 
 late hours in town, explained always by the care 
 lessly flung phrase, "troublesome business", were 
 accepted in childish good faith. 
 
 But the mother at last could see clearly. When, 
 in the fourth year of her son s marriage, an attack of 
 grippe brought complications which were shortly 
 to terminate in death, it was rather the corrosion of 
 disappointment than the actual effect of disease, 
 which proved fatal. 
 
 This fact Ciceley, of course, never guessed. She 
 had grown deeply to love and respect the somewhat 
 reserved old aristocrat, and her loss was a blighting 
 renewal of all she had suffered in losing her own 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Bering s will left the homestead, Little Sun 
 shine, to Ciceley and Ciceley s children. The other 
 few pieces of property and some bonds out at excel 
 lent interest were given to Henry. 
 
 Henry opened a suite of shining new offices. His 
 name was painted large, in gold letters, on the door. 
 They announced him not only a lawyer, but a broker, 
 promoter, transactor of mortagages, stocks, and 
 bonds. He took Ciceley in town that she might 
 gaze on the splendor. But Ciceley, behind her 
 black veil, wept softly, and whispered that now she 
 hoped he would be with her oftener in the evening. 
 
 But instead of prompt home-comings, Henry re 
 mained away whole nights at a time. Now his 
 keen-eyed old mother was gone, he had ceased to 
 offer Ciceley either apology or excuse. Others knew 
 that in a few months he had run through all the cash
 
 48 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 left him ; and of what landed property he had been 
 possessed nothing remained but the homestead, 
 secure by its title to Ciceley, and a worthless few 
 acres impinging upon a negro settlement called, ap 
 propriately, "Sand Town." 
 
 And then, one golden day, when the air was so 
 rilled with perfume that one hardly knew whether it 
 was bird or flower that sang, Henry Bering was 
 brought home dead. It was due to a sudden heart 
 collapse, the compassionate old family doctor told her. 
 
 He lay in state, in the long, shadowy parlor. White 
 flowers rose in a pyramid about him. To Ciceley 
 the rigid white face was more beautiful than that of 
 any carved knight on an old-world sepulchre. They 
 placed him in the near-by mausoleum where all of 
 the exiled Derings slept, and Ciceley, on her knees 
 before the blinding Power that gives and takes away, 
 consecrated her young life to her husband s memory, 
 to impassioned and selfless life-service to his children. 
 
 All these things came to pass, and had been ac 
 cepted, but no whisper did the widow hear of the 
 small black wound in her husband s breast, or the 
 hand of self-cowardice which had made it. 
 
 Quietly Jim took upon himself the care of his dead 
 cousin s family. He called himself Henry s executor, 
 a barren term which, in a less close-knit community, 
 would surely have caused heartless gibes. 
 
 Julia was often with Ciceley. Some months of 
 each summer she, with her boy, spent at Little Sun 
 shine, alternating between the Hill and the town, to 
 which the Judge, who cared little for country living, 
 stubbornly clung.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 49 
 
 When Julia s boy, Wickford, was eleven, his 
 father died, leaving what was then considered in the 
 South a fair fortune to his "beloved wife, Julia Wick- 
 ford Preston, the best and the wisest of women." 
 There had been no restrictions and only one personal 
 request, that she should take their boy to England, 
 there to receive education at the school and the uni 
 versity still dear to the English father s heart. 
 1 The futile existence of old Mr. Wickford had 
 come to a peaceful end some years before, and she 
 had no excuse for deterring the wish of " Wick s" 
 father. So it came about that Julia, still young, 
 entirely inexperienced in travel, a little daunted for 
 perhaps the first time in her life by the great, new 
 adventure, clothed from head to the arch of her very 
 beautiful instep in the "weeds" which her part of 
 the world still considered essential, took her boy s 
 hand in her own, and set forth.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 COLONEL JIM RECEIVES A LETTER 
 
 COMMUNITIES, like individuals, conserve in direct 
 ratio to their isolation the advantage of flattering 
 personal convictions. Where, for instance, in this 
 temperate zone of ours can be found a locality which 
 does not claim at least certain phases of climatic per 
 fection ? Most frequently the month of October is 
 arrogantly held forth for proof. 
 
 At any rate, it is not to be denied that Richmond 
 Hill, while admitting that other parts of the world 
 might sometimes know the meaning of fine weather, 
 retained a profound assurance that nowhere else did 
 this " season of mist and mellow fruitfulness " material 
 ize in so personal, so fragrant, and so loving a spirit 
 of benediction. 
 
 On a certain morning, early in this month of gold, 
 Jim Roy, now a middle-aged bachelor, and long since 
 established in the community as " Colonel Jim ", 
 stepping out upon his wide verandah into an aura of 
 early sunshine, might well have been pardoned his 
 involuntary thrill of pride. The long avenue of 
 live oaks, stretching to a huge front entrance gate so 
 
 so
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 51 
 
 distant that it had the look of a fairy stile, had in 
 creased in growth until now he peered along what 
 seemed a concrete arch of green. Whole families of 
 subway trains could have rushed, side by side, under 
 its muffled roof. Armies could have marched there, 
 and their elbows scarcely brushed the azalea bushes 
 fringing the distant borders. It lay now wide and 
 cool and empty as a forsaken church. From the east 
 the sun thrust in great quivering columns of pink 
 light. Just where one fell, spreading a pool of radi 
 ance, a wild rabbit, dashing in from the undergrowth, 
 paused and deliberately sat upright, his pointed ears 
 like the petals of an orchid. 
 
 At this vision, old Rover Stag Harbor had always 
 maintained a succession of Rovers gave a single in 
 dignant yelp, and hurled himself down the steps. 
 He might as well have chased a sunbeam. 
 
 His master, descending with less precipitancy, 
 paused to take in a long breath of green-filtered air ; 
 and afterward, turning sharply to the left, made his 
 way through shrubbery dripping with morning wet, 
 and emerged at the rim of a great clearing. All about 
 it stood the thick pine growth of the original forest, 
 trees dark and slender, the cloud-shaped crests 
 ranged as immovably as hill tops against the clear 
 morning sky. 
 
 On the flat, open space with its slight Southern 
 slope, appeared row after row of symmetrically planted 
 trees, shrubs, rather, for no central stems were 
 visible, low, crouching bushes of compact, ever 
 green foliage, polished and deep and vital in hue as the 
 leaves of ivy, newly drenched. Each was self-rounded
 
 52 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 and humped to an almost humorous similitude, 
 and each being equi-distant from its neighbors, the 
 area had the mathematical look of a checkerboard 
 set with gigantic green gumdrops. 
 
 Not in idle boasting had Colonel Jim announced him 
 self to be a farmer. He had found a thing to do with 
 his presumably barren lands. Here before him grew 
 and flourished the first Satsuma orange grove known 
 to that part of the world. Already it was famous. 
 
 At all seasons the grove was beautiful. In early 
 spring each leafy igloo whitened under a snow of 
 blossoms. The scent of them hung heavy in the air 
 for miles around. Almost, it would seem, the mocking 
 birds must burst into a wedding march. This was 
 the time at which the young people loved to visit it, 
 coming in pairs, strolling silently with covert, shy 
 side-looks, or else romping among the fragrant hum 
 mocks, with outbursts of giggling and shrill laughter, 
 according to their kind. 
 
 Its exhibition period, so to speak, was in No 
 vember, when the long-ladened branches poured 
 to the very sands a cataract of golden fruit. But to 
 the owner, who now stood literally "loving it" with 
 kind, blue eyes, the present phase of quiet, untheatri- 
 cal, green bearing, was the most touching and beautiful 
 of all. There was something so darned plucky" 
 about the staggering little trees. How dared they 
 offer him such bounty? Not a slender limb was left 
 unstrained. Each sagged to the utmost limit of 
 resilience. Many were propped up from beneath, on 
 stakes, but even with this aid, the thick-set twigs 
 dragged cruelly.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 53 
 
 From one to another overloaded growth he went, 
 often reaching a hand out in instinctive encourage 
 ment. In his heart he was thankful for them that 
 harvest time was now so near. Only a few more 
 weeks, and the gold of their branches was, by the com 
 monplace magic of demand and supply, to be trans 
 muted into the more durable gold of national currency. 
 Jim, somewhat to his own astonishment, had become 
 wealthy. Externally, at least, he was in every way a 
 properous and most fortunate man. Of his long, 
 lonely hours in the vast apartments of Stag Harbor 
 he complained to none, not even to himself. The 
 great house, kept now in a state of meticulous repair, 
 was more than ever the "show place" of Richmond 
 Hill. Jim used it as casually as an Indian his small 
 peaked tent. 
 
 His real life was lived either out in the orange grove, 
 or "over to Sis s", as he habitually referred to Little 
 Sunshine. Here were kept two chairs, one of oak with 
 a split hickory bottom, that had its nook on the 
 verandah, and the other a huge concave of worn 
 leather and delightfully responsive springs, just at 
 the left corner of Ciceley s dining-room fire. Both 
 were known preemptively as "Uncle Jim s." 
 
 As a transition phase of these alternating existences 
 might be mentioned his daily visit to the post-office, 
 where he was always sure of finding loitering friends 
 and a vociferous welcome. The shabby little building 
 over which Mr. Wickford and his " smart little girl " once 
 held sway had long since blown down, its scattered 
 boards serving literally as a windfall of firewood to 
 the negroes. The site was not rebuilt. Mr. Bean,
 
 54 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 the storekeeper, after some desultory handling of red 
 tape, had persuaded an indulgent government to 
 place the new post-office under his roof. By this 
 astute move he not only added by obvious and legiti 
 mate means to his source of revenue, but more subtly, 
 with wily tentacles that clutched the skirts of distant 
 villages, established "Bean s Emporium" as the 
 social and mercantile focus of an entire countryside. 
 
 Although it had not been quite six o clock on this 
 particular October morning when the Colonel had 
 sauntered out among his orange trees, the clang of 
 Uncle Snow s great, brazen, breakfast bell, an hour 
 later, broke through his reverie with a start of surprise. 
 Surely a whole hour had not passed ! Uncle Snow 
 was "shoving up" the time on him. With a boyish 
 impulse to plague the old man, Jim pretended not to 
 hear. 
 
 Uncle Snow, the one permanent house-servant at 
 Stag Harbor, had received his name originally by 
 way of satire. His skin was of that dull blue-black 
 ness which indicates the purest African descent, 
 and in youth the thick woolly head-covering had been 
 an answering mass of soot. Quite early it had begun 
 to gray, and then became as white as the cotton bolls 
 he used to gather. It had now the look of a foaming 
 lather emerging from an ebony bowl. All the children 
 of the Hill believed that Uncle Snow had been born 
 with white hair. 
 
 Again the bell clamored. Rover, leaping into the 
 air, yelped an agonized response. Jim gazed inno 
 cently toward the sky. 
 
 "You, Marse Jim," came a thin, cracked voice
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 55 
 
 from somewhere in the direction of the house, "you 
 know you heers dat bell. De angel Gabrul might a 
 heered it ! Come to yo breakfus dis minnit !" 
 
 The dog, crouching for a second spring, fixed his 
 brook-brown eyes on the upturned face, and then sud 
 denly, with a sound of tearing cloth, hurled himself 
 full against his master s waistcoat. 
 
 "Get down, you ydu catapult!" roared Jim, 
 beating him off. "There s my last button gone !" 
 
 " Marse /f-z-w / " 
 
 "All right! I m coming! Between you and this 
 fool dog I don t dare call my soul my own." 
 
 Rover, ecstatic now, and callous to objurgation, 
 led the way in a squirming crescent. Each moment 
 his eye flashed backward to see whether the recal 
 citrant one was following. 
 
 Jim ate his meals from a cloth spread across one 
 end of a mahogany table that would have seated 
 twenty guests. Rover took his usual place on the 
 floor, well within reach of a frequently extended hand 
 of benefice. As the last waffle was being thus dually 
 devoured, Jim asked of the hovering Snow, "Hands 
 beginning to come in yet?" 
 
 "Yassur. Jes three on em to-day." 
 
 "Is Josh one of em?" 
 
 "Yassur. An Buck Jones, an dat blue-gum nigger, 
 Tode Cornstalk. Sumhow I don t hold much wid 
 dat Tode." 
 
 "Oh," said Jim carelessly, " Comstock s a fool all 
 right, but he s strong as an ox." 
 
 "He s sassy, he is. Ain t got no respecterbul word 
 fer nobody, white or black," persisted Uncle Snow.
 
 56 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "He s what I calls a dangerus nigger to have eround. 
 Rover don t like him none too well, needer," the old 
 man added, with Machiavellian craft. 
 
 Jim s face sobered. He looked down at Rover 
 as if for corroboration. The dog s eyes answered 
 steadily. His shaggy tail swept in agitated semi 
 circles. 
 
 "I seen him kickin at Rover. He lowed as how he 
 wuz gwinter bust his slats." 
 
 "Huh," said Jim thoughtfully. "Well, pay him 
 off this Saturday, and tell him we won t need him any 
 more. And, Snow " 
 
 "Yassur." 
 
 "You see to it that he doesn t ever get a job on 
 Miss Ciceley s place." 
 
 "Yassur." 
 
 "Reminds me," said Jim, now rising, while Rover, 
 with an expression of resigned disappointment, pre 
 pared to follow, "I promised to stroll over there this 
 morning and see about having that west field har 
 rowed. It s plumb eaten up with pigweed." 
 
 "Yassur," murmured Snow, suspiciously demure. 
 
 As Jim swung out of the room, the old man watched 
 with a sort of somber wistfulness the tall, slouching 
 figure. Uncle Snow, no less than Jim, had his unful 
 filled romance. For more years than the "young 
 folks" could remember, he and Aunt Nycie, Ciceley s 
 devoted nurse, had been "keepin company." They 
 longed to be married, to possess the certainty of com 
 radeship, hand in hand, down the gray slope of later 
 life. There was nothing to withhold them, for each 
 was free, nothing but that sense of loyalty, of deep
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 57 
 
 devotion to a charge, which, not infrequently, is 
 found among the older generations of their race. 
 They had talked it over placidly, sitting by Aunt 
 Nycie s fire of winter nights, while sweet potatoes and 
 corn pones slowly crusted in the ashes ; or during the 
 summer weather, out on her tiny individual "porch", 
 over which the Lady Banksia roses foamed, and potted 
 plants, geranium, "wandering Jew", or, clove pinks, 
 set each in a rusty tin, sent forth shoots more lush 
 and beautiful than those from any costly jardiniere. 
 
 From time immemorial, or so it seemed to the 
 young folks, Uncle Snow had gone "co tin" Aunt 
 Nycie on Sunday evenings. Always he brought a 
 little gift, a few sticks of peppermint candy, a ball of 
 "honey" pop-corn carefully wrapped in its pink 
 tissue coating, or sometimes a cheap and worthless 
 trinket, prized by these simple souls in direct propor 
 tion to its utter worthlessness. 
 
 At least once during each visit, the subject so near 
 the hearts of both was touched upon. 
 
 "I jes kaint leave Marse Jim along of hissef 
 in dat bigjhouse o hisn s," Uncle Snow would say, 
 generally apropos of nothing. 
 
 "An my Miss Ciceley needs her mammy more 
 dan ebber, wid dem gals o hern growin up into young 
 pelikims, same as de sign ober de front do . Dey 
 would tear de las pin-fedder outer my baby s breas , 
 ef dey took de notion," Aunt Nycie would respond. 
 
 "Ef only Marse Jim an Miss Ciceley would open 
 dey eyes an see each odder, an git ma a ied," was 
 Uncle Snow s invariable, if hopeless, following remark. 
 Then both would sigh, and gaze deep into glowing
 
 58 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 coals, wondering in loyal dumbness at the "contrari 
 ness" of white folks. 
 
 Colonel Jim, on his way to Little Sunshine and the 
 pigweed, stopped in at Bean s Emporium. It was 
 an act of habit rather than definite intention. In 
 approaching the integral nook which held the post- 
 office, Jim s footsteps noticeably lagged. Of recent 
 years his mail had grown to be distressingly volumi 
 nous. The reading and answering of business letters 
 was the one hated penalty incurred by success. Jim 
 literally shrank from the sight of letters. A special 
 largesse, thrust grinningly at him through the window, 
 had been known to incite loud outbursts of profanity. 
 It was therefore with a blenching eye, but a voice of 
 challenging cordiality that he asked, "Anything for 
 me this mornin , Mr. Bean?" 
 
 The postmaster and general proprietor of the Em 
 porium, being rubicund both as to face and hair was 
 known inevitably as "Red Bean." 
 
 "Lots!" encouraged Bean, and proceeded to sort 
 them from a tottering heap. 
 
 "Good Lord!" moaned Jim, while near-by "box- 
 warmers ", as the store loafers were ignominiously 
 termed, rose and strolled nearer. 
 
 "There s one here that smells mighty sweet, 
 Colonel," said Mr. Bean, with a grin. 
 
 "Quit your kiddin ," growled Jim. "Nobody 
 writes to me but citrus men and fertilizers." 
 
 " There ain t no fertilizer on this billy-doo ! " de 
 clared Mr. Bean, his enjoyment deepening with the 
 flush on Jim s countenance. 
 
 "Here, you fellows," cried Jim, flinging his arms to
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 59 
 
 right and left. "Back off a little til I see who 
 it is." 
 
 Instantly, with exaggerated haste, they drew away, 
 flattening themselves against the narrow confines 
 of the wall. On each weather-beaten face was a wide 
 and meaning smile. Four pairs of twinkling eyes 
 focussed on the pale-blue tinted missive. 
 
 Jim, who knew few reserves, cautiously opened it. 
 It had many pages, closely written in a hand unmis 
 takably feminine. In the unfolding a perfume, ex 
 quisite and in some subtle way intellectual rather than 
 sensuous, crept through the tense air. Nudges of 
 those against the wall, and suggestive clearings of 
 manly throats, ensued. Jim, sheepish but deter 
 mined, turned hastily to the last page, and its signa 
 ture. 
 
 " By the Lord Harry ! " he exclaimed, almost letting 
 it fall. " If it isn t from Jule Wickford ! " 
 
 All grins ceased. A deep interest grew in eyes that 
 had suddenly lost their mischievous twinkle. 
 
 "Little Jule Wickford !" breathed one, in a tone of 
 incredulity. 
 
 "She s Mrs. Judge Preston now," amended another, 
 while a third observed, "That boy of hers must be 
 nearly a grown man, by this time." 
 
 "He s just through college, that English one," 
 corroborated Jim, his eyes darting eagerly among the 
 fluttering pages. "She s bringing him home. Says 
 she don t want him to be cut off from his own home and 
 people. That s just like Jule, God bless her. One 
 of the finest women ever made!" 
 
 His listeners, supplemented by the Red Bean who,
 
 60 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 being a comparative newcomer, had never so much 
 as heard the name of Julia Wickford, enthusiastically 
 seconded the encomium. 
 
 "She s in New York now," read Jim, tossing out 
 scraps of information much as he did bits of waffle 
 to his dog. " She s starting south almost any day. 
 Don t want Gee ! " He paused, and a look of con 
 sternation grew. "She says for me not to tell any 
 body. Wants it to be a surprise; and here I ve 
 bleated out the whole shebang ! " 
 
 With one accord his audience assured him that the 
 delightful news should not go further ; but as most of 
 the group were married men, Jim displayed a not 
 unnatural skepticism. 
 
 "It s Sis, Mrs. Bering, that she wants to 
 surprise most. You-all must see to it that she 
 doesn t get a hint." 
 
 All nodded violent assent. With this he left 
 them, his eyes still bent upon the pages. All other 
 letters had been deposited, unopened, in a coat 
 pocket. 
 
 Under the wayside shadows, Jim strolled along, 
 unconscious of direction. The scented sheets were 
 carefully placed in sequence, and were now given an 
 uninterrupted perusal. 
 
 DEAR OLD JIM, 
 
 How many years ? Perhaps it is wiser not to count 
 them ! And now I am coming home. The boy has 
 finished his course at Oxford, and did wonderfully 
 well. The dear Hill people are going to think him 
 a typical English "Johnnie", I m afraid, but it will 
 not take them long to rediscover the sound, sweet
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 61 
 
 kernel of the boy who left them, only because of his 
 father s wish. I am so proud of Wick ! I think 
 you are going to be proud, too. In the very thought 
 of being home again among "you-all", I feel myself 
 changing back into a girl. I want my coming to be 
 a surprise. The whole lot of you have been horrid 
 about not writing. This is going to be a sort of a 
 merry revenge. I am specially anxious to startle 
 Ciceley. Don t you dare give me away ! I am only 
 telling you because I felt that I would burst if I 
 didn t. Dear little Ciceley ! I can hardly imagine 
 her with two daughters nearly grown. In the nature 
 of things she must have changed. That lovely, 
 bright bronze hair of hers may even have a few white 
 threads. Mine is quite gray, but, since it never 
 possessed any particular color, it makes little differ 
 ence in my usual neutral appearance. And how about 
 Jim ! Well, dear old friend, no matter what may 
 have happened to our outsides, I feel sure that, once 
 back among you, I shall be just a happy Hill child. 
 How we shall live again, in speech and memory, 
 those wonderful, distant days! Is old Mrs. Rogers 
 still alive and dominant? And how is Uncle 
 Snow? 
 
 For another page she went on asking eager ques 
 tions, then, with a flash of common sense that brought 
 back her personality with startling vividness, dashed 
 in: 
 
 But how utterly absurd to deluge you with queries, 
 when there is no time for you to answer, and when, 
 thank Heaven, I shall soon be finding out the millions 
 of things I want to know, for myself ! Be sure to 
 keep Sis in the dark. I can scarcely wait to get there.
 
 62 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Until that joyous moment when your two dear, big, 
 cordial fists are in my own, and with my impatient 
 lips I can "ax you howdy" I am, devotedly always, 
 
 JULE. 
 
 Jim drew a long, long breath, slowly folded the 
 letter, and stood still. A queer sensation as of having 
 been bodily lifted and set down in a vanished environ 
 ment made the very sunshine unfamiliar. A dog 
 brushed against his knees, whining softly. The man 
 stared down. Surely it was the same Rover, who, 
 perhaps an hour before, had barked at a cow which 
 frightened two little girls, thin-legged little girls, 
 named Jule and Ciceley ! 
 
 And whose was this deep green avenue where he and 
 Rover had come to a pause ? The trees were thicker, 
 the shade more dense than really they should be. 
 And whose the white pillared mansion at the far 
 end? 
 
 With a disgusted, " Shucks ! What has Jule s letter 
 done to me anyway?" Jim pulled himself together. 
 : Yet the fact remained that it was without personal 
 volition he had entered his own gate, and proceeded 
 half way toward the house. His intention, until 
 Jule s letter had cast its spell, was to visit Little 
 Sunshine. The better part of the morning still 
 remained, and yet Jim hesitated. He glanced back 
 ward, over a broad shoulder, to his gate, then forward 
 again, to where steps seemed to beckon him. Where 
 he stood was exactly midway between the two. 
 
 "If I go to Sis now," he murmured aloud, "she ll 
 be sure to see that something s the matter, and before 
 I know it, she ll guess what. Women are built like
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 63 
 
 that. Reckon I d better wait until my mind gets used 
 to keeping a secret from her." With which sapient 
 self-communication, he flung up his chin, and, loudly 
 encouraged by his leaping dog, made his way toward 
 his home.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 JIM BREAKS AN OLD PROMISE, AND MAKES A NEW 
 
 ONE 
 
 THE afternoon leaned far toward the sunset hour 
 before Jim, feeling himself at last a safe custodian 
 of Julia s confidences, ventured to set forth for Little 
 Sunshine. 
 
 He went down the steps, Rover, as usual, close at 
 his heels. The air was motionless. A blue vapor 
 dragged across the wide plain which held the dunes of 
 his orange trees, changing their polished green surfaces 
 into knolls of inky blackness. Under the shadowing 
 live oaks quivered already the chill of coming night. 
 Somewhere a drowsy and contented cricket chipped 
 off silvery flakes of sound. 
 
 Once through his gate and out under the open sky, 
 the scene, by contrast, presented an almost urban 
 activity. An electric tramcar was rushing down the 
 Hill. Rover, to whom the passing of each car was 
 a personal challenge, hurled himself into pursuit. A 
 gruff " Come here, you fool ! What would you do with 
 the blamed thing if you caught it?" drew him back, 
 fawning and sheepish. 
 
 Charcoal and "light- wood" wagons, emptied now 
 6 4
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 65 
 
 of their primitive commodities, crept wearily up the 
 slope, their drivers for the most part slumbering peace 
 fully on the bare board floorings, while the jaded 
 beasts which drew them plodded toward home, that 
 goal so dumbly and steadily craved. Negroes in 
 groups of two and three, returning from the day s 
 work, lifted their rich, throaty voices in snatches of 
 concerted song. 
 
 "Good evenin , Marse Jim," or "Good evenin , 
 Colonel," said each in turn, raising a quick hand to a 
 battered cap-rim. Invariably there was a second 
 greeting and a stooping pat for Rover, who was quite 
 as well known of the Hill as his master. Indeed, so 
 inseparable were the two that it would have been 
 difficult to think of one without the other. 
 
 Ciceley s place, unlike that of Colonel Jim s, did 
 not face directly upon the main road. To approach it, 
 one needed to turn into a broad, sandy street which 
 might have been called a lane but for its width. 
 On each side grew enormous junipers, the branches 
 meeting at so low a pitch overhead that a tall man 
 could reach up almost anywhere to pluck a shaggy 
 spray. In midsummer, when the sun drew forth the 
 secret, resinous odor of these boughs, the air became 
 steeped in an Oriental incense. 
 
 From the moment of turning one could see, at no 
 great distance, the big, brick-pillared gate of Little 
 Sunshine, bearing its stirrup latch. 
 
 Jim, reaching this, raised it softly, and then, gaining 
 the farther side, let it fall with deliberate force. Against 
 the stillness, as upon some vast, hollow, sanctuary 
 door, rang the sharp summons. Its echo, a keen
 
 66 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 stipple of sound reluctantly disintegrating, shivered 
 along the earth and rose among tree-tops. 
 
 As if in answer to an awaited signal, a black-clad 
 figure, wearing a small, gray, crocheted shoulder-shawl, 
 ran out from the house door, and stood at the top of 
 the verandah step, gazing tense and motionless toward 
 the gate. 
 
 The two girls were, as usual, overdue. They should 
 have returned by the last car. This was what they 
 had promised her. By the time the next one could 
 arrive, it would be quite dark. This was a source of 
 constant dread to Ciceley, the fear that her young 
 daughters should at some time, because of tardiness, 
 be forced to walk home from the car, at night, without 
 masculine protection. Under the stimulus of mater 
 nal forebodings, the country lane, usually so open 
 and secure, became a veritable dark grotto from 
 Dante s hell. Repetition was powerless to dull the 
 edge of her imagination. Always, as now, she had 
 terrifying visions of ambushed highwaymen, mad 
 dogs lathered as if for shaving, or, worst of all, a 
 fierce, rampaging bull, pawing the earth in his eager 
 ness to gore her two imprudent darlings, one upon 
 each bloody and triumphant horn. 
 
 She peered now, almost praying aloud in her earnest 
 ness, for a sight of those two empty, adored young 
 heads above the gate. But it was only Jim, and the 
 loud cheerfulness of his "Hello! Sis!" did little to 
 mitigate the watcher s disappointment. 
 
 Jim, happily unconscious of his blighting effect, 
 strode up the walk ; while Rover, on his best be 
 havior as always when the stirrup latch was passed,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 67 
 
 ambled decorously in the rear, his low-hung head 
 and shaggy mane swinging in rhythm with the broad 
 shoulders of his master. By the time the foot 
 of the steps was reached, Mrs. Bering had achieved 
 an absent-minded smile, intended by way of wel 
 come. 
 
 "Worrying about those girls again, I ll bet my hat," 
 remarked the visitor, as he slowly mounted toward 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, I am. I can t help it. I am always worried 
 when they don t come on the car they promised. 
 Now it will be pitch dark before they can possibly 
 get here." 
 
 Lifting the article of headgear so casually jeopar 
 dized, the Colonel made as if to pass, moving in the 
 direction of the big hickory rocking-chair, known as 
 his. A second impulse checked him. Ciceley had 
 not stirred by an inch. Anxiety ruffled her forehead ; 
 her dark eyes rested on the gate through which the 
 tardy ones should have entered. 
 
 The man had yet two steps to ascend. This 
 brought his face on an exact level with hers. In all 
 his life he had never gazed, with conscious scrutiny, on 
 Ciceley, and it was now with a dull sense of disloyalty 
 that he found himself looking among the carelessly 
 arranged masses of her hair for the white strands 
 suggested by Jule. His own temples, as he knew, 
 were noticeably brushed with silver. Instinctively 
 he put up a hand to one of them. 
 
 Rover suddenly threw back his head. His faithful 
 eyes had a troubled questioning. The sensitive 
 dog-soul, made up for the most part of love for these
 
 68 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 two beings, felt the unusual in their greeting. He did 
 not like it. A few more volts of this subtle menace, 
 and he would have howled. The Colonel, however, 
 was just drawing a long breath of satisfaction. No, 
 Ciceley s dark locks were as yet unassailed. 
 
 Now Jim moved over to his chair, and Rover, also 
 strangely relieved, though by what influence he did 
 not know, stretched himself at full length. The 
 world was good again ! 
 
 Jim, with the unconsciousness of habit, plunged a 
 hand into one of his sagging coat pockets, drawing 
 out a much-used pipe, with its complementary pouch 
 and box of matches. A tiny, votive flame danced 
 for an instant above this small altar of masculine 
 content. 
 
 "Oh, come along, Sis. Sit down," he urged, after a 
 few reposeful whiffs. "You know if those young uns 
 of yours are late, it only means that each of em has 
 caught a beau." 
 
 Ciceley slowly turned. Her anxious expression 
 lightened just a little. For the first time since his 
 arrival, she looked at Jim as if he were really there. 
 Now she reached a tentative hand toward her own 
 smaller rocking-chair. Jim, at ease, made no motion 
 to assist. He and Ciceley were too well used to each 
 other for such punctilious courtesies. 
 
 "If I could only be sure," she murmured, seating 
 herself. 
 
 "You can! Aren t they eternally coming home 
 with a new kill?" 
 
 Ciceley displayed a shy dimple. Catching his 
 humorous, half-accusing eyes, her smile deepened,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 69 
 
 and a flush made her cheeks young. One would 
 have thought her charged with personal coquetry. 
 
 "They are disgraceful young flirts, the two of em ! " 
 fumed the Colonel. Under her look of merry skepti 
 cism he was goaded into the accusation. "And you 
 are just as bad as they are, for you glory in their devil 
 ment ! I m ashamed of the whole bunch of you !" 
 
 At this scathing denunciation his listener threw 
 back her head and laughed. It was a sound low and 
 exquisite, thrilled with a woodland freedom. Ciceley 
 did not often laugh, but when she did, one thought 
 of ferns in wind-swept, shadowed nooks, of birds 
 fluting from hidden choirs. One seemed to see, as 
 well as hear, the lovely cadences. Jim watched her 
 hungrily. He thought of the small, brown, Southern 
 butterfly, usually so inconspicuous and demure, 
 which suddenly, and always unexpectedly, flashes 
 apart the tightly closed wings, showing a dazzling 
 flash of gold. If only he could win for his own this 
 small, brown butterfly ! could, at the touch of 
 love, make the bright wings gleam for him ! 
 
 He drew a heavy sigh, which was broken in upon, 
 midway, by the laughing words, "You dear old hum 
 bug ! You re as proud of them this minute as I am !" 
 
 "Proud!" vociferated the Colonel, taken unaware. 
 "Nothing of the sort!" 
 
 "You can t help seeing that they are What 
 Ciceley wished to say was "beautiful ", but since, in 
 the minds of the conservative Hill, such terms in the 
 mouth of a parent were not only unseemly but posi 
 tively indelicate, she transformed it hastily into the 
 milder "sweet."
 
 70 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 The Colonel understood. " They re neither of them 
 a patch on what you were at their age," he averred 
 with emphasis. 
 
 " Oh, Jim ! " she cried at this, aghast at such wanton 
 desecration of her idols, "You know that isn t true. 
 I was never really pretty, and Lucille why, just 
 look at Lucille ! She s everybody says " Again 
 forbidden adjectives stayed her. 
 
 "Lucille s not bad-looking," admitted Jim, but 
 immediately qualified the concession with, "for those 
 who happen to like marble images." 
 
 Ciceley made no reply. Her hurt expression 
 deepened into something touched with anger. Into 
 the man s mind flashed a phrase of Julia s letter, "I 
 am so proud of Wick!" Was it a necessity for all 
 mothers to be blind? And was Julia s "pride" of 
 the same touch-me-not, sensitive-plant variety as 
 Ciceley s ? A dull resentment against the whole race 
 of mothers drove Jim more recklessly into disparage 
 ment. 
 
 "It wasn t whether your girls are pretty or not, 
 Sis, that I was thinking. It s their selfishness with 
 regard to you. Of course you ve spoiled them, I 
 suppose that was natural ; but they re old enough now 
 to have a little sense of their own. The very way 
 they speak to you makes me mad. They re regular 
 young " 
 
 He sat upright, and let his eyes travel meaningly 
 upward until they rested upon the bronze medallion 
 over the front door, where internally the mother- 
 pelican bared her torn breast to her rapacious 
 fledglings.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 71 
 
 Ciceley flung him an indignant half-glance then, 
 turned her head, keeping her face rigidly averted. 
 
 "Now, Sis," placated the offender, seeing that he 
 had gone too far. "You mustn t get mad. I didn t 
 mean " 
 
 "It is not worth getting mad about. Only, I 
 sometimes wonder at the blindness and ignorance of 
 the people who call themselves my friends." 
 
 Coolly she met his astonished gaze. It seemed 
 another Ciceley. Was everything, to-day, being 
 turned upside down? 
 
 "I have noticed," she pursued relentlessly, "that it 
 is always those with no children of their own, Old 
 Mrs. Rogers, Mammy Nycie, and you, who have the 
 most to say about mine. If you d try to help and 
 encourage me a little, instead of merely criticising 
 what you cannot possibly understand She 
 paused on a note that matched her h fted eyebrows. 
 
 Jim, after all, was human. "I have tried to 
 help just a little," said he. Again Rover turned 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 Ciceley maintained her chill stare a moment longer. 
 The big, familiar figure was huddled now deep into 
 its hickory chair. The head and eyelids were lowered, 
 and one hand, holding the old pipe, hung over a chair- 
 arm limply. The attitude bespoke utter defenceless- 
 ness. A swift compunction seized his tormenter, 
 and there was a thrill of tenderness in the voice that 
 cried, "Forgive me, Jim! I m ashamed of myself. 
 I didn t mean it. You have been everything, every 
 thing, to my fatherless girls!" 
 
 Jim s gloomy face betrayed no answering rapture.
 
 72 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Why, you dear Jim," she hurried on, insistent 
 now upon his virtues, "none of us could have even 
 kept alive but for you. The splendid price you got 
 for that old Sand Town tract, when everybody said 
 it was worthless, and then the way you invested 
 the money for us ! It was wonderful !" 
 
 Jim writhed as if in bodily anguish, and dropped 
 his pipe. Perhaps it was the stooping for it that made 
 his face so swift and deep a crimson. 
 
 In lifting his head, he caught her gaze more 
 fairly. She was leaning toward him, a hint of gold 
 between brown wings that quivered apart in pleading. 
 
 "Jim, Jim! Say that you forgive me. I know I 
 am not myself when anything is said about the girls. 
 Jim !" this last in a sort of wail, for his look had not 
 softened. "You couldn t be really angry with me 
 for long!" 
 
 Jim made a sound, half groan, half sigh. "No, 
 Sis, you are right, I couldn t." 
 
 "Then we can begin all over again, and play I 
 never said it!" she cried, affecting a sprightliness 
 and composure that she was far from feeling. "I ve 
 got something funny, something really awfully 
 queer that I ve been wanting to tell you." 
 
 He made no response. She caught her breath at 
 this, but forced her bright tone into saying, "Guess 
 who I ve been thinking about to-day?" 
 
 "The pelicans, of course !" growled Jim, and imme 
 diately felt better. 
 
 "No. Not the pelicans," she laughed, determined, 
 for her part, on being generous. "It s somebody 
 far, far away from us."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 73 
 
 A premonition of the truth caught him. He sat sud 
 denly upright. Good Lord ! . Had she already dug out 
 his secret ! Women were witches of intuition, and no 
 mistake! Because it was the last name he should 
 have mentioned, and the one his saner self strove, 
 even now, most desperately to withhold, some demon 
 of malice spoke out clearly. "Not Jule!" 
 
 Ciceley nodded. "Exactly Jule." 
 
 The hairs on the back of Jim s neck stiffened. He 
 clenched his teeth against the possibility of further 
 betrayal, but, to his surprise Ciceley was accepting 
 without astonishment or question the seeming mir 
 acle of telepathy. 
 
 "I hadn t really thought about Jule for months," 
 the speaker went on confidently, "and all at once 
 this morning 
 
 "This morning !" 
 
 "Why, yes, quite early. I was in the room with 
 the girls, helping them dress to go into town." 
 
 Her wide, candid eyes questioned the incredulity 
 of his. 
 
 "All right. It s nothing. Go on," he muttered, 
 slouching back to his former position. 
 
 "Just when they had finished and I stood looking 
 at them, it came over me, all at once, how much I 
 longed for Jule, so that she could see them too. They 
 never were nicer," added Ciceley in a fatuous, if 
 slightly appealing afterthought. 
 
 Jim grunted. 
 
 "She used to write to me real often," continued 
 the speaker, ignoring tactfully the unsympathetic 
 sound. "I did love to get Jule s letters."
 
 74 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Did you love em enough to answer em?" 
 
 Ciceley hung her head. Jim watched her from the 
 corner of an eye. "Thank heaven!" was now his 
 inward ejaculation, "I ve sidetracked her!" But 
 his relief was short. "Do you always answer Jule s 
 letters?" came as if from a shotgun. 
 
 "Me! What!" gasped Jim. "What ever made 
 you think she wrote to me?" 
 
 "Why, naturally she does. Do you want to keep 
 it a secret?" 
 
 There, she had spoken it, " secret." She had used 
 the very word which since early morning had fretted 
 his honest soul like a bit of thistle in the throat. 
 He might have known he was no match for a woman. 
 Flight alone remained. He attempted to rise, fell 
 back, and finally got to his feet so heavily that Rover 
 sprang up barking, and Ciceley stared in unfeigned 
 astonishment. Jim s gaze met hers, only to be 
 caught away. 
 
 Now Ciceley too sprang up. A prescient thrill sped 
 between them, turning her cold. He could see through 
 the deepening gloom, for night was falling rapidly, 
 how the two small hands, clutching at each other, 
 went up tightly against her breast. The white oval 
 of her face was a rose-petal, drifting upon the dark 
 ness. Almost he knew its fragrance. 
 
 Instinctively he hurried toward her, while she as 
 instinctively cowered back, flinging out a hand to 
 keep him off. The look, the gesture, each so elo 
 quent of what she had begun to fear, set a quick torch 
 to longings never in her presence completely under 
 rein.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 75 
 
 An instant before there had been in his thoughts 
 no hint of freeing such words as now surged through 
 him, battering for egress at the gateway of his lips. 
 A flame had suddenly leaped up from nowhere. Love 
 and a new hope were scorching him. 
 
 "No, no !" cried out a woman s voice, fear-touched 
 to a high and ringing sweetness. "You promised, 
 Jim; you promised!" 
 
 Her tone pierced the last barrier of self-con 
 trol. "I know I did, Sis. But I m going to break 
 that promise." 
 
 " You mustn t Jim. You said you would never hurt 
 me by speaking this way again. I ve trusted you." 
 
 "It s not your trust I want. It s love, it s you! 
 Oh, Ciceley, how long will you keep me waiting? 
 It has been you and you only all of my life ! Does 
 that count in your heart as nothing?" 
 
 Ciceley, shrinking farther, covered her face with 
 both hands. 
 
 "Don t you see, Sis," he urged, the first flare of his 
 passion sinking down into tenderness, "that you 
 need me almost as much as I need you? The girls 
 are getting beyond you. Think what I could be 
 in helping you with them." 
 
 "I do, Jim," she whispered. "It is of them only 
 that I am thinking. My life belongs to them." 
 
 "It wouldn t belong to them any the less if you 
 married me." 
 
 "You don t understand," she moaned. "It would 
 be different. They would resent my putting any one 
 else before them or even You know what I 
 mean I can t seem to find the right words. You
 
 76 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 help me now, dear Jim. I ve told you so. Why 
 can t you be satisfied with things as they are?" 
 
 "Good Lord!" said the man, as if speaking out to 
 the night. "And she asks me that!" 
 
 "I I care for you, Jim more than any 
 thing or anybody in the world, next to my girls. 
 You believe that, don t you?" 
 
 "Then give me a little real happiness in my life 
 before it is too late." 
 
 At this she shook her head. "It s too late now for 
 what you mean. We re past that time, Jim, you 
 and I." 
 
 "Speak for yourself," cried Jim, pain making his 
 voice loud and rough. "I m not! And in my eyes 
 you re just as sweet and pretty as you ever were." 
 
 Ciceley, letting her two hands fall, smiled faintly. 
 She was terribly, terribly sorry for Jim, but after 
 all it was his own fault for keeping up this silly atti 
 tude. The pleadings of impassioned love did not 
 belong to middle-aged friends who might justly be 
 supposed to have outgrown their youthful ardors. 
 There was something about it hinting of the ridiculous. 
 Come to think of it, Jim was distinctly unkind to 
 break his promises of silence and cause her to feel so 
 self-conscious and absurd. 
 
 Jim had been watching her. The small face was 
 still pallidly vague, but, knowing her as he did, each 
 movement of shoulders, head, and hands, was filled 
 with meaning. 
 
 "You feel perfectly sure, then, that you are never, 
 under any circumstances, going to be willing to marry 
 me?"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 77 
 
 Ciceley hesitated the fraction of a second, then 
 stated firmly, "I am sure, Jim." 
 
 He was silent and motionless for so long that a 
 faint alarm assailed her. The little gray shawl had 
 fallen. She stooped for it, wrapping herself slowly 
 with absent-minded precision. 
 
 "Jim!" 
 
 He made no answering sound. A tiny shiver, born 
 of the chill night, ran through her. She stepped closer. 
 
 "Jim!" 
 
 "Yes, Sis." 
 
 "You won t change to me because of this ? " There 
 
 was a lilt of anxious questioning in her tone. "You 
 
 will be my very best friend always ? And and 
 
 - you won t let it make any difference to poor 
 
 Henry s children ? " 
 
 "Don t worry," he said to her quietly, after a 
 moment s pause. "It isn t going to make any dif 
 ference to poor Henry s children." Ciceley started 
 at the note of bitterness. Was it really good old Jim 
 who spoke in such a voice? Rover whined softly, 
 brushing against his master s knees. For once he 
 was ignored. 
 
 Ciceley involuntarily stooped down. Her hand 
 caressed the dog s head as she said plaintively, 
 "And not to me either, Jim. I couldn t bear for any 
 real difference to come between you and me. Why, 
 you are my big brother, my counsellor, my friend, 
 everything ! " 
 
 At the last word, Jim gave a sort of grimace, meant 
 for a smile. Then he drew himself very straight, and 
 threw back his shoulders determinedly. "If it suits
 
 78 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 you, all right! From now on, I ll remember. You 
 shall not be bothered again, Sis." 
 
 Ciceley smiled up at him with a look not unlike 
 that of a mother who encourages the somewhat vain 
 glorious boasting of a small son. Her lips murmured 
 a few grave words of appreciation, but unfortunately, 
 at one of the corners, a betraying dimple played. 
 
 Jim caught its shy twinkle. A flush of hurt pride, 
 tinged with anger, made his cheeks burn. So it still 
 seemed a joke to Ciceley ! 
 
 "You think that I won t!" he flung out. "You 
 think I ll break this as I have all the others. Well, 
 you re mistaken ! A man can t eat dirt all his life. 
 This time it s a promise to me to what s left of my 
 own self-respect; and by the Lord Harry, this time 
 it is going to be kept!"
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 THE PELICANS 
 
 CICELEY withdrew her caresses from Rover. She 
 like Jim, stood up straight. Her lips parted in amaze 
 ment, still tinged just a little with incredulity. That 
 he meant it this time, or thought that he meant it, 
 was not to be doubted. 
 
 Against the deepening night his bulk loomed, a 
 figure of bronze. The dog now drew back, changing 
 into a bronze, dog that set hard, watchful eyes upon 
 her. The air began draining away, leaving the 
 space thin and cold. 
 
 She gave a short, nervous laugh. She had asked 
 for this thing. All along she had believed herself 
 to have desired it, but now, being given, it brought a 
 queer feeling of loss. 
 
 Jim had turned to descend. "No, wait, Jim," she 
 cried, on an impulse. The man hesitated. "I can t 
 let you go like this," she faltered. "I Jim 
 wait ! There s something 
 
 Through the vacuum of embarrassed silence, as from 
 a world very far away, came the rumble of a trolley- 
 car climbing the slope of the Hill. For Ciceley it 
 
 79
 
 8o THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 was as if a troubled dream were pricked by a sudden 
 waking. 
 
 "There s the car!" she announced quite unneces 
 sarily, "I knew it was just about time. The girls 
 are sure to be on it!" 
 
 Entirely herself once more, she ran to the top step, 
 poised in her attitude of expectancy. Her eager, 
 outward gaze was fixed in the direction of the gate. 
 Jim had become no more than one of the empty 
 verandah chairs. 
 
 For the second time in his honest, genial life, the 
 man knew the savor of a great bitterness. Only a 
 few moments before he had snapped with his own 
 hands, as it were, and at this woman s will, the last 
 filament of hope that held him to a personal joy. 
 It was his final sacrifice. To her it meant appar 
 ently little more than riddance of a thorn. 
 
 He stepped down quickly. "Oh, Jim," she pro 
 tested, catching at his shoulder, "don t go like this. 
 Besides," she added brightly, knowing well her power 
 over him, "I want you to help me light the lamps." 
 
 He wrenched himself from her touch, but she 
 ignored the unfriendly gesture, and hurried back 
 into the house. 
 
 "Jim," rose her plaintive voice a moment later, 
 "come here. I can t reach up to this tall piano lamp." 
 
 With something as near a shrug as he had ever 
 managed to attain, Jim went in, followed reluctantly 
 by Rover. 
 
 Together he and Ciceley lighted all the lamps. 
 Mammy Nycie had evidently overlooked them. In 
 her reaction from the crisis just passed, Ciceley had
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 81 
 
 swung into a mood of animation, touched with an 
 underlying excitement. In moving about the room, 
 she kept up an incessant flow of conversation. It 
 was as if she fought off a new menace of silence. 
 
 "You see, Jim, I was specially anxious to-day, 
 because the girls had gone out to a luncheon on that 
 big battleship that is in the harbor now. Of course 
 I knew there couldn t be any real danger on such a 
 big boat, and with all the sailors trained to keep visi 
 tors from falling overboard ; but, somehow, I just 
 can t outgrow a feeling of terror when I know that 
 Sylvia and Lucille are on the water." Here she 
 broke in upon her monologue to demand of him 
 eagerly, "Isn t that the car, stopping down at the 
 corner ? " 
 
 "Yes, quite a long stop," answered Jim from the 
 doorway. "There s a whole bunch getting off." 
 
 "I m glad the old room looks so tidy," self-con 
 gratulated Ciceley, glancing about her with a smile. 
 "Mammy Nycie and I gave it a thorough cleaning 
 only this morning. Of course the old furniture is 
 pretty shabby," she conceded. "But then," bright 
 ening, "flowers make a lot of difference, don t 
 they?" 
 
 She went over to the old-fashioned square piano 
 to finger lovingly a great bowl of yellow roses. Her 
 small face, turned backward over the gray crocheted 
 shawl, pleaded for confirmation of the statement. 
 
 Jim, with head rigid, answered gruffly "Yes", 
 supplementing the laconic utterance with the remark, 
 "Well, I reckon Rover and I had better be trotting 
 home."
 
 82 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 This time Ciceley made no protest. She did not 
 need him now that her idols were so near. Indeed, 
 in her heart, she wished him to be gone ; for not in 
 frequently of late, he and Lucille had, as he expressed 
 it, "locked horns." 
 
 "Good night, then, if you must," said his hostess 
 pleasantly, extending a somewhat oily hand. 
 
 " Good night," responded Jim dully. 
 
 Through the night, as the two hands met, came 
 from the stirrup latch a loud, clear stroke, followed 
 immediately by a second. 
 
 "Hello! What s that?" cried the man. "Sounds 
 like a signal !" 
 
 "It is a sort of one," said Ciceley, laughing a 
 little nervously. "You see the girls and I- 
 she went on, "we have lots of private signs. This 
 one it really isn t anything she broke off in 
 obvious confusion. 
 
 Jim did not relax his puzzled frown. "It was a 
 signal, then?" 
 
 "It is nothing. I ve told you it was nothing," 
 she reiterated, with an edge of sharpness. "Good 
 night." 
 
 The gate could be heard to slam. Again resounded 
 two crisp detonations, carefully spaced. 
 
 Jim s curiosity and stubbornness sprang simul 
 taneously to the fore. 
 
 "If it is nothing, why should you look scared to 
 death? Those girls are up to some mischief, and I 
 am going to stay right here until I find out what it 
 is." 
 
 "You mustn t, Jim. Please don t. I have told
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 83 
 
 you that it is something between the girls and 
 me." 
 
 "And therefore," he added grimly, "none of my 
 business." 
 
 "I didn t say that. How can you be so unkind?" 
 
 Jim waved aside the implication of malevolence. 
 "As far as you are personally concerned, I ll admit 
 my hands are tied. But " here he regarded her 
 steadily, "you forget how recently you urged me to 
 keep up my interest in poor Henry s children." 
 
 Ciceley was on the verge of tears. She looked up 
 imploringly, her eyes luminous with their sheen. 
 Jim set his teeth. The sound of laughter and young 
 voices without drew close. 
 
 "Well, if you must know," cried she, striving des 
 perately to conserve an air of sprightliness, "those 
 two raps are a sign that the girls have strangers with 
 them. It is to give me time." 
 
 "Time!" stared Jim. "Time for what?" 
 
 "Oh, you old stupid ! Time to get out of the way, 
 of course. There, they are at the bottom of the steps. 
 Let s hurry into the dining room." By this a white 
 panic was on her upturned face. 
 
 Jim reached out and caught her firmly by the arm. 
 "You are not going to stir an inch. This is your 
 house, and this is the place for you to receive your 
 daughters guests." 
 
 "You don t understand ! " she wailed. "Let me go, 
 Jim. Please let me go ! Lucille will be furious." 
 
 Jim s taut lips stiffened. Nothing is quite so 
 brutalizing as pain ; and the man, through his suffering, 
 found a sort of grim satisfaction in persistence. The
 
 84 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 truth of the situation had begun to dawn. He had 
 long suspected that Ciceley was in actual fear of her 
 elder daughter. Now he was sure of it. "Perhaps 
 I don t understand," he granted harshly. "But 
 I m going to, and that mighty soon." 
 
 For an instant she drooped, only to rouse herself 
 to a new and more desperate defiance. 
 
 "Release me at once, Jim. Do you hear?" she 
 commanded, struggling in his hold. "You must 
 have gone out of your senses to act this way ! I 
 want to get out of the room before they come. I 
 haven t dressed since morning. I am not fit to re 
 ceive guests." 
 
 "You received me." 
 
 "Oh, you!" The angry laugh was vibrant with 
 scorn. Then again her eyes turned fearfully toward 
 the door. " They are on the steps. Release my arm, 
 Jim Roy, or I shall never forgive you !" 
 
 For answer he merely tightened his relentless 
 grasp. 
 
 By this, Rover, who had been cowering at a little 
 distance, sprang up, and, hearing the voices without, 
 rushed toward them, barking frantically. 
 
 A girlish squeal followed by bright laughter cold 
 that little Sylvia was trying to beat the dog away. 
 
 In a moment came the clear, beautifully modulated 
 tones of Lucille. "It s only Rover. He won t 
 bite. That means Uncle Jim." The name was 
 given with an intonation of impatience. 
 
 "The icy mitt for Uncle Jim, whoever he may be," 
 responded a boyish, laughing voice, unknown to the 
 straining ears within.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 85 
 
 /Ciceley stood now apparently passive; but every 
 fiber of her slender body ached with rage. 
 
 Little Sylvia rushed in. "Mother!" she warned 
 in a breathless whisper, "didn t you hear the signal? 
 We ve brought two naval officers home." 
 
 "What of it? They won t bite your mother, will 
 they?" demanded Colonel Jim, with an ogre s glare. 
 
 "Oh," faltered Sylvia, backing swiftly, "of course 
 they won t. Only Lucille 
 
 "Lucille! Where is she? Tell her that Mrs. 
 Bering is waiting to receive her and her companions, 
 here in the drawing-room," ordered Jim, in a sten 
 torian voice. 
 
 Lucille entered, her golden head high in air. Hers 
 was the kind of anger that steadies and burns cold. 
 Her face was white flint. Behind her, following 
 uncertainly, came the young officers. 
 
 Conventional presentations were made, in which 
 Ciceley, who, after all, was integrally an aristocrat, 
 had little difficulty in finding pleasant words and 
 even, once or twice, a smile. The young men, horribly 
 if vaguely embarrassed, were overwhelming in the 
 cordiality of their responses. Only Colonel Jim, 
 standing apart, was like a cliff with a black cloud on 
 its summit. The air was charged as if before a 
 thunderstorm ; and it was with a heart sick with its 
 longing to escape that Ciceley took advantage of the 
 first courteous opportunity. 
 
 Blindly she groped her way toward the dining 
 room. She was not clearly conscious of direction, 
 only to get away, somewhere somewhere to 
 herself !
 
 86 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 In the old room, which was indeed the chief living 
 nook of the entire household, no light but the dull 
 flicker of logs was seen. A sense of gratefulness 
 toward the friendly semi-darkness touched her like 
 a comforting hand. Now, if the others would leave 
 her to herself ; if only they would not follow ! 
 
 Stifling something like a sob, she ran toward the 
 familiar hearth. For an instant she paused here, 
 lifting her eyes toward her husband s portrait, hang 
 ing above. The fire-gleam did not reach it. Even 
 the picture had deserted her. 
 
 Now, all at once, she realized how she was trem 
 bling. Stretching her hand toward a chair, she grasped 
 the back, and was at the point of collapse when the 
 single word "Mother!" stinging like a whiplash, 
 startled her back to rigidity. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this this pe-cu-liar 
 exhibition?" asked Lucille, drawling contemp 
 tuously upon the adjective. 
 
 The tone of the words, rather than their content, 
 spread like an eating acid over Ciceley s heart. 
 
 "I cannot talk about it now, Lucille. I am all 
 upset. See how my hands are shaking ! Go back to 
 your guests, please." 
 
 " Sylvia is in the parlor. I do not care to postpone 
 what I have to say." 
 
 "I m really ill, Lucille. I am not able 
 
 "It s not to be wondered at," commented the girl, 
 with a sneer. "Of course Uncle Jim, with some of 
 his ridiculous ideas, put you up to this!" 
 
 At the mention of Jim s name, the badgered woman, 
 not realizing that she did so, sent an imploring look
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 87 
 
 toward the big leathern chair known as his. The 
 established place for Uncle Jim was at the corner of 
 the hearth, just opposite. In the instinctive glance 
 she had had no thought except to find it empty. 
 With the sense of a miraculous happening, she per 
 ceived that the big figure had come in noiselessly, 
 and, quite as usual, preempted its sanctioned niche. 
 Terror sank down before this bulwark of defence. 
 
 At the swift change in her mother s face, Lucille, 
 off guard, wheeled around. The voice was less 
 restrained which challenged sharply, "This affair 
 is entirely between my mother and myself, Uncle 
 Jim!" 
 
 Jim, smiling pleasantly, took out his pipe, and 
 proceeded to stuff it. Rover, at peace once more, 
 curled himself close about his master s feet. 
 
 Lucille took her underlip between her teeth. The 
 beautiful, hard face grew, if possible, more bloodless. 
 
 "You insist, then, upon remaining?" 
 
 Jim drew a match along his trouser leg, and calmly 
 applied it to his pipe. 
 
 "Come to my room, Mother," ordered the girl. 
 "Perhaps " she paused to send a triumphant glance 
 toward Jim "we shall be allowed privacy there." 
 
 "Stay exactly where you are, Sis," counter 
 manded the Colonel. "And," he added, "you d 
 better sit down." 
 
 Ciceley obeyed him quickly. She did not dare 
 to look toward Lucille. For years the girl s strong 
 will and latent violence had dominated her house 
 hold group. Before the first symptom of "one of 
 Lucille s tantrums ", as covertly they were termed,
 
 88 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Ciceley and little Sylvia invariably fled. Only old 
 Mammy Nycie, goaded beyond the limits of African 
 constraint, had ventured now and again to fight the 
 rising flames. With each encounter Lucille, needless 
 to say, had emerged victorious. 
 
 Now had appeared in the open this new, but long 
 suspected antagonist. "Well," thought the girl, 
 "I ve seen it coming, and I might as well have it 
 over here and now." The prospect had, for her, no 
 terrors. The high-bred nostrils, scenting battle, 
 quivered with a pleasurable excitement. Besides, 
 the Colonel s weakest spot his heart had long 
 been to her an open book. It was here that she 
 would strike. 
 
 From the drawing-room came intermittently 
 snatches of Sylvia s nervous laughter and the murmur 
 of masculine voices striving for heartiness and uncon 
 cern. Lucille, still standing, moved her head slightly 
 in that direction, and appeared to hesitate. 
 
 The two figures seated, one at each side of her, 
 watched every motion, Ciceley with wide-eyed 
 apprehension, the Colonel furtively, out of the corner 
 of one eye. 
 
 Suddenly the girl gave a low laugh. The abrupt 
 ness of it was uncanny. It had the sound of water 
 under ice. Ciceley with difficulty stifled a cry. 
 
 "Mammy Nycie is growing very careless," re 
 marked Lucille, letting her calm gaze rest upon the 
 unlighted lamps. "Shall I light them, Mother?" 
 
 Not pausing for reply, the girl went first directly 
 up to the Colonel. "Any matches, Uncle Jim? 
 Ours are never in place."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 89 
 
 He handed her a box in silence, but when the slim, 
 almost boyish back was turned, followed it with 
 puzzled eyes. Ciceley, noting the perplexity, felt 
 her own fears rush in anew. 
 
 "There," cried Lucille. "That s better, isn t 
 it?" From the two old-fashioned burners, on the 
 sideboard, a swift radiance possessed the room. 
 "Now we can see each other better as we talk." 
 
 Ciceley s small hands clenched beneath the shabby 
 shawl. Even the Colonel felt something within him 
 beginning to turn cold, as the young figure, confident, 
 moving in careless grace, retraced deliberate steps 
 toward the hearth. 
 
 Smiling, she drew a chair forward, seating herself 
 between her two companions. There was a fleck of 
 something, probably a mark from Rover s welcom 
 ing paw, on her dark blue skirt, near the crossed 
 knees. This she brushed off with feminine, deft 
 touches, her shining head tilted first to one side and 
 then the other. When satisfied with the result, she 
 suddenly, without warning, lifted her gaze to Jim. 
 Instinctively he started. He could have cursed 
 himself for the default. 
 
 "It has just occurred to me, Uncle Jim," began 
 she, in a voice treacherously sweet, "that perhaps I 
 am being kept in ignorance." 
 
 "I am no guesser of riddles," gruffly rejoined the 
 man to this amazing prologue. What, in heaven s 
 name, was the girl driving at? 
 
 "It was you, I feel sure, who prevented mother 
 from leaving." 
 
 "It was."
 
 90 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Who literally forced her to remain, looking as 
 she did as she does," added the clear voice sneer- 
 ingly, with a glance toward her mother that sent the 
 small figure cowering deeper in its chair. 
 
 "Your mother s place is in the drawing-room! 
 You girls have no right to try to shove her off, 
 as if as if It s the most outrageous thing 
 I ever heard of!" vociferated the Colonel, gathering 
 heat. 
 
 "Will you kindly refrain from shouting, there are 
 still guests in mother s drawing-room." Her words 
 were the snapping of icicles. 
 
 "I am only trying to understand," she continued 
 smoothly. "This move on your part is so very 
 revolutionary I feel that at last mother must have 
 given you the right to interfere." 
 
 Jim, for an instant, could only gasp. So this was 
 it! She had dared to aim at the core of his heart, 
 his love for Ciceley, with her poisoned arrows ! 
 . "Lucille, Lucille! What are you saying!" came 
 a cry from the huddled figure at her other side. 
 
 The girl seemed not to hear. Her eyes triumphed 
 over Jim. No one not well acquainted with her could 
 have suspected that she was fast losing self-control. 
 
 "If," she pursued, with just a touch of shrillness, 
 "what I suspect is true, allow me to be the first to 
 offer my congratulations." 
 
 Before malignity so deep, so unashamed, Jim s 
 anger died. A sort of hopeless grief replaced it. 
 The blow dealt to himself was less of a calamity than 
 the fact that Ciceley s child had given it. Poor 
 little Sis! No wonder she had been afraid!
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 91 
 
 It was with a restraint and dignity far more dis 
 concerting to Lucille than the expected flare of rage 
 that he made his quiet answer. 
 
 " If you are trying to find out whether your mother 
 has honored me by consenting to be my wife, it is 
 easily told. She has not. Only a few moments 
 before you returned she finally refused me. But in 
 doing so, she asked me, in the name of our lifelong 
 friendship, not to give up my interest or my legal 
 guardianship in my dead cousin s children. How 
 much your mother needs assistance, I m just begin 
 ning to learn. No, don t try to stop me. It s no 
 use, I have a few things yet to say. I suspected some 
 thing wrong when I heard that sweet little signal of 
 yours on the stirrup latch. I stayed deliberately 
 and against your mother s will just to find out. Well " 
 - here he drew a deep breath, with a sort of shudder 
 in it "I ve found out, all right! And let me tell 
 you, Lucille, that this side of a Red Indian torturing 
 white babies, your conduct is about the most savage 
 and unnatural that human depravity can show. 
 You ought to be tied to a whipping post !" 
 
 The big room filled with a terrifying silence. Lu 
 cille, shivering in all her slender body, strove in vain 
 for speech. None of the three had taken cognizance 
 of a more definite stir in the adjoining drawing-room. 
 
 Now Sylvia, thrusting her head in at a partly 
 opened door, summoned Lucille in a whisper. " Come 
 back in here, Lucille. They are both going." 
 
 "Let them go!" said Lucille, through set teeth. 
 
 Sylvia vanished, but her appearance had in some 
 way broken, for the elder girl, the ban of inarticula-
 
 92 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 tion. Infuriated phrases broke from her lips, and 
 tossed themselves in utterance. A frenzy of abandon 
 ment caught her. For the first time in all her 
 sheltered life, she gave the open road to violence. 
 
 "Yes, they have gone!" she panted. "Why 
 shouldn t they? Men of the world soon learn to 
 shun a house like this ! Hayseeds, and country 
 bumpkins are the kind we cater to ! They feel at 
 home here, in a ramshackle barn, falling to pieces 
 with old age. They never notice that our mother 
 looks like a servant. Look at her now," raged the 
 girl, pointing a shaking finger. "Do you suppose 
 that if she ever did anything but shrivel up and cry, 
 I d be talking to her like this ! Sylvia s another ! 
 But I ve managed to put a little spirit into her 
 kittenish soul. We have both asked mother to 
 keep up appearances a little better, but she will 
 not listen. She says she is too old. Well, if she s 
 too old, let her keep out of the way of those who 
 are not." 
 
 Ciceley, stung at last into self assertion, got to her 
 feet. "Be silent, Lucille. You shall not speak to 
 me in such a way." 
 
 "And how are you going to prevent it?" the demon 
 in Lucille began, when Jim, who had also risen, strode 
 up directly in front of her, saying, "Be silent." 
 
 From the doorway, where unseen by the others 
 little Sylvia had again made her appearance, the 
 sound of stifled sobbing came. Jim, insensate to the 
 little one s terror, cried out to her, "Come here!" 
 
 She drew nearer, weeping openly, like the child she 
 was.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 93 
 
 "Are you too, like Lucille, ashamed of your own 
 mother?" 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Jim no no ! " 
 
 "You are a liar, Sylvia/ said the elder girl. "You 
 have told me so a dozen times." 
 
 "Jim, Jim!" came the cry of the mother, "I can 
 not bear any more!" 
 
 He wheeled just in time to prevent Ciceley from 
 sinking to the floor. For an instant he held her 
 close. She strained against him, her whole racked 
 body clamoring for his strength. "All right, little 
 Sis," he said, thinking her most poignant wish to be 
 for his absence, "I ll go." 
 
 "One minute, Jim," she gasped. "Don t leave 
 me." His heart gave a single leap, then quivered 
 back into steadiness. 
 
 "I m here as long as you need me, Sis. I ll tell 
 you what!" he exclaimed, trying to speak brightly. 
 "Before I go, suppose I see you to your room !" 
 
 The head against his shoulder nodded acquiescence. 
 He caught her up as if she had been a child. " Same 
 corner room?" 
 
 Again she nodded, at which Jim, throwing his 
 head well back, carried her past the astounded girls 
 and up the wide staircase, not pausing until her door 
 was reached. 
 
 "Got any key?" he asked, setting her down. 
 
 "No, but I think there s a bolt inside," she told 
 him, using the smothered accents of a conspirator. 
 
 "Well, shoot it, and keep it shot. And in the 
 morning" here, seeing her wince, he took both icy 
 hands in his, moving them playfully up and down
 
 94 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "things always look much better in the morning." 
 
 She tried to give an answering smile, but her eyes 
 were still imploring. At that moment some instinct 
 told him that by the urging he could have what he 
 had coveted so long. Again came the heart-leap. 
 "No!" said he to it sternly. There was a certain 
 pride, a tender bigness in the man, that held him. 
 Not in reaction from a scene like this would he win 
 her. 
 
 "Good night, dear little Sis. God bless you." 
 
 "Good night, dear Jim." 
 
 She closed the door reluctantly. 
 
 "I m waiting to hear that bolt," he said. 
 
 Ciceley gave a little sob, and the bolt slid, creaking, 
 into place. 
 
 Jim strode heavily down-stairs. The girls were 
 standing exactly where he had left them. Shaking 
 a fist first in one young face and then the other, he 
 said with savage earnestness, " If either of you young 
 pelicans dare to bother that poor heart-broken little 
 mother again to-night, I ll come over here and skin 
 you alive with my own hands."
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 JIM S TELEPHONE RINGS 
 
 As a sword-blade snatched from fire is thrust into 
 tempering oil, so Jim, making his escape from Little 
 Sunshine, plunged into the cooling night. Almost he 
 expected to hear himself hiss. 
 
 The dog, vaguely perturbed, followed. 
 
 Once in the grateful darkness, the Colonel s twitch 
 ing lips went wide, drinking the clean air ; his head 
 was thrown far back. "God!" he cried out, and let 
 the word shudder away into silence. Somehow, 
 because of his personal share in Ciceley s humiliation, 
 he felt betrayed, in some curious way dishonored. 
 In spite of his threats of flagellant reproof, he had 
 been conscious all along of personal impotence. 
 Ciceley had cast off the one life belt which he had to 
 throw. Her daily existence, unless some help from 
 within could be given, must continue to be subjec 
 tion to an unnatural tryanny. 
 
 "If it were only Lucille !" said the Colonel to him 
 self, rinding a sort of safety valve in speech. "But 
 the little one too is absolutely in her power. Lucille s 
 got both of them just where she wants them. Lord ! " 
 
 It was through the "little one", he knew, that 
 
 95
 
 96 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Ciceley s deepest hurt could come. She was mar 
 vellously like Ciceley, a sort of radiant incarnation 
 of the mother s youth. 
 
 But the other ! Here the Colonel s teeth rasped 
 audibly. Lucille was Bering through and through ! 
 Her eyes, with their cool, devilish challenge, might 
 have been Henry s eyes as he announced his easily- 
 won triumph over Jim, with the girl Ciceley. 
 
 Jim s hand struck sideways at the tree-trunk 
 nearest. The pain of the blow was a relief. He 
 rushed forward and, gaining an open space, paused. 
 Under the crowding trees he had felt damp suffocation. 
 Now he could see the sky, and the heat of his tor 
 mented soul rose in an escaping flame. The early 
 autumn night had spread to a remote, uniform blue- 
 gray, the color of an old granite slab in a churchyard. 
 The stars pricked through in hard, bright points. 
 To the west, just over a continuous silhouette of 
 pines, hung, by its invisible thread, a sharp new moon. 
 The tilt of its chin was Lucille s chin as she had said, 
 11 Look at her!" The Colonel turned his eyes away, 
 and hurtled on. 
 
 At his own gate, Rover, having acquired a little 
 courage by the way, ventured a "woof!" of satis 
 faction, and pushed his cold nose into his master s 
 swinging palm. 
 
 "This is a hell of a world, Rover," groaned the 
 man. The feel of the warm, shaggy head which he 
 fondled brought his first throb of comfort. Together 
 they paced down the center of the ink-black avenue. 
 A feeble light burned from the house, nearly a 
 mile away, it seemed.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 97 
 
 At the sound of Jim s heavy feet upon the steps, an 
 answering shuffle within doors heralded the eager 
 approach of Uncle Snow. One glance at the set 
 face of "de Kunnel" was enough. 
 
 "Miss Ciceley done turnt him down ergin!" was 
 the unerring intuition. In such affairs the old man 
 made no mistakes. The voice, now lifted, matched 
 his master s face in despairing gloom. 
 
 "Yo supper s on de table, soon ez you wants it, 
 Marse Jim." 
 
 "Any whiskey out?" 
 
 "No, sir, but I ll git a bottle," said Snow, retreat 
 ing toward the sideboard. The "turning-down" this 
 time, must have been unusually severe. 
 
 "Well, do it quick ! And, Snow " 
 
 "Yass, Marse Jim." 
 
 "Is there any reason why you should be so darned 
 stingy with the lights?" 
 
 "Nossir." 
 
 "Light em all. And the fire, too." 
 
 The old man shambled about, making false starts, 
 retracing steps, only to dive, with queer, sidewise 
 motions, back along the same direction. 
 
 Jim strode up to him, snatching the whiskey bottle 
 from his hands. Snow fell over himself on his pre 
 cipitate way to the hearth. 
 
 "There isn t a sign of a glass on the table !" roared 
 Jim. "Bring some water, too." 
 
 "Lord! Marse Jim," protested the old servant. 
 "How kin I do ennything wid you bellowin at 
 me lak de Bull o Bashum in de Bible? Does you 
 want yo fiah fust, or yo water fust?"
 
 98 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Bring the water," said Jim, beginning to be 
 ashamed of his childish vehemence. "I m all shot 
 to pieces, Snow. You mustn t mind my bellowing." 
 
 Forcing himself back into self-control, he turned 
 toward the table. At the far end of it, filling a seg 
 ment absurdly small, were a "hunk" of cheese, a 
 ham-bone that looked as if Rover had been gnawing 
 it, some cold potatoes, and a few slices of bread. 
 Jim gazed upon the meager outlay in disgust. 
 
 Old Snow brought in the glass and a small pitcher 
 of water, and was making his way again toward the 
 hearth when Jim checked him. "I ve changed my 
 mind about the fire. I m hot enough. You can go 
 now. I want to be alone." 
 
 "Yassur. But whar bouts is I gwinter go to?" 
 
 "The devil, for all I care! And don t come back 
 in here to-night. Understand?" 
 
 "Yassur," admitted Snow, in a voice of tragedy. 
 He had never seen Jim in so bitter a mood as this. 
 Backing slowly toward the door of the butler s 
 pantry, his mournful eyes upon his Master, he had 
 just reached the lintel when the telephone, a black- 
 box, wall affair hanging in the dining room just at 
 the angle where old Snow now stood, rang with so 
 sharp a suddenness, that both figures jumped. 
 
 Jim, in the act of pouring a stiff drink, rapped out 
 a stififer oath. The servant came to a halt. Without 
 a glance in that direction, the Colonel, determined to 
 ignore the interruption, continued to pour, and de 
 liberately raised the glass to his lips. 
 
 Next to writing business letters, Jim hated to use a 
 telephone. He spoke of it as a "necessary evil."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 99 
 
 It got on his nerves with its arrogance. It was 
 always so cockily sure of its prey. 
 
 Again came its shrill summons, extended this time 
 to an exasperating length. 
 
 Jim took a second gulp. But Uncle Snow, firm in 
 the discharge of what he felt to be his duty, 
 said patiently, "Yo telefoam is foamin , Marse 
 Jim." 
 
 "What do you think I ve got ears stuck to my 
 head for, you old fool?" cried Jim, laughing in spite 
 of himself. "Git out, or I ll" The old negro 
 ducked and ran. 
 
 "Hello! Hell low!" Then, without pausing 
 to listen, " Itsjimroywhatdoyouwant ? " all in an 
 angry breath. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed a feminine voice, a 
 startled break in its bright merriment. "Are you 
 as mad as all that?" 
 
 Jim could have sunk bodily through the polished 
 floor. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Ma am," he managed to 
 articulate. "I hadn t an idea it was a lady. There 
 don t many ladies ring me up. I beg ten thousand 
 pardons ! " 
 
 "Jim," repeated the voice, now with a wonderful 
 little thrill to it, "don t you know who it is?" 
 
 " Good God A mighty," exploded Jim, again driven 
 beyond the limits of decorum. "If it isn t Jule al 
 ready! Juki " 
 
 "Right-o!" rippled over the telephone. "When 
 can I see you?" 
 
 "Where are you?"
 
 ioo THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Down at the New Battle House, having hard 
 chills of impatience." 
 
 "Well, I ll be " murmured Jim, but was recalled 
 dynamically by the sudden query, "Have you any 
 thing on for this evening?" 
 
 "Have I anything on ?" gasped the Colonel, who 
 had never chanced to hear this special form of social 
 badinage. "Wha wha what in the world - 
 
 Muffled but ecstatic sounds assailed him. "I 
 don t mean clothes, you goose ! Dates engage 
 ments ! Have you a previous engagement for this 
 evening, Mr. James Roy?" 
 
 "Oh," breathed Jim in absurd relief. "No, I 
 haven t." 
 
 "Then you are to take the very next car for town. 
 Don t bother to ask for me at the desk. I ll give 
 orders that you are to be shown up at once. Hurry ! " 
 
 "Well, I ll be " again said the man helplessly. 
 
 "Here, Jule. Hold on!" he protested, nearly 
 tearing the receiver-hook from its socket. But 
 before an answer could come, he put it back. 
 
 Taking out his watch, he saw that a car was nearly 
 due. In a sort of daze, he went into the big hallway 
 where on a rack of antlers hung various battered 
 hats, with coats of a kindred shabbiness. It was 
 characteristic of the man that not once did he think 
 of his personal appearance. His was a singularly 
 direct and uncomplex mind, harboring, by preference, 
 one object at a time. Now it was Jule, the dear old 
 Jule of his boyhood days, so close, after all these 
 years. And Jule had wanted to see him first of all ! 
 
 Even the poignancy of Ciceley s trouble faded a
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 101 
 
 little in the excitement of this new interest. And 
 yet the radiance might be said to have a fitful glow. 
 The vision of Ciceley s stricken face peered now and 
 again from impinging shadows. 
 
 Suddenly he recalled what she had said of her per 
 sonal longing for Jule. What if the need had risen 
 from something deeper than, as he had fancied, a 
 mere telepathic hint from him? In the old days 
 there had been few perplexities, those trivial dis 
 agreements and oppositions that loom so portentously 
 before the eyes of inexperience, which Julia s 
 keen insight and good judgment had been unable 
 to unravel. 
 
 "And, after all," said Jim to himself, in pursuance 
 of this comforting reflection, "the sort of a fix poor 
 Sis has gotten herself into doesn t need a man s help 
 so much as that of an older and wiser woman, just 
 like Jule." 
 
 By this he had caught up a hat and assumed the 
 first pendent coat that chanced to meet his careless 
 hand. Rover, all eager anticipation and waving 
 tail, prepared to follow. "Nothing doing, old sport," 
 cruelly remarked his master, at which the humbled 
 beast, with an oblique look of protest, turned and 
 trotted down the long, dark hall in search of his 
 companion in exile and ignominy, Uncle Snow. 
 
 During the long ride in, the Colonel, too restless 
 to sit quietly, kept to his feet on the back platform 
 of the car, pulling vigorously upon his pipe. With 
 each jolt of diminishing distance, his agitation grew. 
 It was no joke, come to think of it, this meeting 
 with a girl you were "raised with ", after an absence
 
 102 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 of years ! Lord ! How the time slid by ! Only yester 
 day they were all out climbing trees, and now ! A 
 little ruefully the big hand went up to graying tem 
 ples. At least there was plenty of hair left. Julia 
 had told him that she too was quite gray. He must 
 nerve himself at showing consternation when they 
 met. Probably she was fat also. Most of the 
 middle-aged women he knew were fat. As the 
 saying is, they had "let their figures go." Ciceley 
 was a notable exception to this depressing rule, but 
 then, of course, she would be. Ciceley did not 
 belong to categories. 
 
 The lights of the town began to flash in passing. 
 Now they were in the business district. In another two 
 minutes they would reach the Battle House corner. 
 
 Jim, swinging off with the ease of a boy, faltered 
 on the threshold of the wide, illuminated main en 
 trance. The hotel, as such, was necessarily a 
 familiar haunt. His Northern purchasers all stopped 
 there, but if the lamentable truth must be spoken, 
 Jim s previous visits had been made chiefly through 
 a smaller and less conspicuous door, one on a side 
 street bearing the brief but alluring word, "Bar." 
 He cast a single wistful side look toward it now. The 
 image of a highball, iced and sparkling, dangled in 
 maddening allurement before his mental nose. The 
 Colonel half closed his eyes, and wavered. If he 
 dared ! But no, Jule would certainly perceive it. 
 Women had a sense of smell equal to dogs. He 
 mustn t risk it, at least on this first meeting. So, 
 squaring his broad shoulders, he told himself not to 
 be a fool and marched defiantly within.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 103 
 
 The countless electric lights of the rotunda immedi 
 ately focussed upon him. In the relentless nucleus, 
 he could feel himself growing small, and all in an 
 instant he realized the shabbiness of his attire. 
 He was glad that the hat, at least, was remov 
 able. He jerked it off, crushing it hard under his 
 left arm. 
 
 Two agile bell-boys, resplendent in gilt-touched 
 uniforms, sprang simultaneously toward him. He 
 could have kicked them both. Now the chief clerk 
 had seen him. Leaning confidentially across the 
 curve of his marble-topped enclosure, he called, 
 " Good-evening, Colonel. Fine weather we re having. 
 Mrs. Preston wants you to be shown up-stairs at 
 once. Elijah ! " in a sharp, commanding tone to one 
 of the grinning boys, "Show Colonel Roy to 515." 
 
 The hand that clutched the old felt hat gripped 
 harder, and Jim followed the vibrant Elijah into the 
 elevator. In the slow progress upward, the boy 
 essayed ingratiating utterance. The Colonel did 
 not pretend to listen, but he knew the tone. In 
 absent-minded fashion he inserted two fingers into 
 a waistcoat pocket, from which they emerged, clasp 
 ing, scissors-wise, a silver coin. Elijah delicately 
 withdrew his gaze, but a slightly knitted brow be 
 trayed mathematical calculation. 
 
 The Colonel s thoughts also were active, but not 
 with sordid problems. 
 
 At the door of Number 515 the little negro, finding 
 at last a tongue for gratitude, paused officiously, as if 
 to assure himself that so beneficent a guest should 
 receive proper welcome. This excellent intention,
 
 104 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 however, scattered before the impatient words, "All 
 right, Lijah. Now get out !" 
 
 Alone, the Colonel stood quite still a moment, then 
 suddenly forced himself to give a vivacious knock. 
 
 Instantly, from the other side, came a low excla 
 mation. He could not doubt the note of joy. The 
 swish of silk came toward him; the knob turned; 
 the door went wide; and a tall, slender woman, 
 whom surely in all his life he had never seen before, 
 smiled up, without speaking, into his astonished face.
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 ClCELEY AND THE "LITTLE EWE LAMB" 
 
 THE largest bedchamber of Little Sunshine, the 
 one facing south and east, was occupied jointly by 
 Ciceley s two daughters. 
 
 The open fireplace, almost as massive as the parlor 
 one down-stairs, of which its great chimney was a 
 continuance, jutted far out into the room, forming at 
 each side a deep recess. In that nearest the one 
 entrance door, had stood for years an enormous four- 
 poster bed brought, as was most of the furniture, 
 straight from England in Grandfather Bering s cotton 
 ships. It still possessed the faded draperies of old 
 peacock chintz, a round, stiff bolster, and in winter 
 a voluminous feather mattress, little Sylvia s special 
 joy. The mother s room, just opposite, across a 
 dark, bare hall, was smaller and more plainly fur 
 nished. 
 
 During the years of their childhood the girls had 
 slept together in the huge bed, but recently Lucille, 
 having become interested in a series of articles on 
 modern Hygiene had declared companionship and 
 feather mattresses alike unsanitary. 
 
 Although each unforeseen encroachment upon her
 
 106 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 scanty income caused Ciceley sleepless nights, wonder 
 ing how on earth she was to "manage it", the deter 
 mined Lucille insisted upon ordering for herself a 
 small iron bed, spotlessly enameled, and with it a 
 new and expensive mattress of fiber. This she had 
 placed in the farther alcove, directly beside a window. 
 Fresh air, exercise, and diet had become a passion 
 with the tall girl; and though already she was as 
 white and slim and exquisite as a newly opened an 
 nunciation lily, the treatment seemed, in truth, to 
 add new loveliness. 
 
 Little Sylvia, who feared the dark and hated to 
 sleep alone, wept bitterly at first over this desertion. 
 She even threatened to go in and share her mother s 
 bed. Ciceley s heart, at this suggestion, had given 
 a throb of joy. Her lips parted in eagerness to second 
 it, when a curt, decisive "Don t be silly, Sylvia" 
 from the elder daughter put a swift end to hope. 
 
 So the little one, curled like a kitten in a particu 
 larly fluffy tea-cosey, remained the sole tenant of a 
 bed that could have held a dozen like her; and 
 Lucille, heroically pillowless, carefully keeping always 
 those postures commended by modern science, 
 dreamed her long, quiet dreams alone. 
 
 On the morning following the dreadful scene in 
 the dining room, Sylvia awoke unusually early. Her 
 first conscious thought was a stab of guilt that she 
 could have slept at all. She sat up instantly, listen 
 ing to hear if Lucille stirred. From the narrow bed 
 came not even the sound of breathing. Cautiously 
 the little one climbed down, lowering herself by 
 degrees over the edge of a warm, feathery cliff. The
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 107 
 
 chill of morning caught at her bare ankles ; and, as 
 the pink toes touched the floor, they curled spas 
 modically. "Ugh!" broke in a stifled cry from their 
 owner s lips. 
 
 Once safely down, she began to dress quickly. An 
 other restriction lately imposed by Lucille was that 
 all their articles of clothing should not only be kept 
 in different bureaus, but that the bureaus themselves 
 should stand as far apart as the given space allowed. 
 
 "I do wish, Sylvia," was a frequent expostulation, 
 uttered generally in a tone of patient hopelessness, 
 "that you would ever learn to keep your things 
 in your own part of the room!" 
 
 The little one, usually restless and inwardly protes- 
 tive against such discipline, found herself, for once, 
 in keen accord with it. The whole process of dress 
 ing, even to the taking from its allotted hook of her 
 old red sweater, had been accomplished well without 
 Lucille s line of vision. Still unseen and presumably 
 unheard, she slipped through the door, and went 
 across the hall to that of her mother. 
 
 A soft turning of the knob, followed by a push, 
 told her that the inexorable bolt had not been with 
 drawn. She ventured the softest of raps, and stood 
 for a moment, hoping. The room within was even 
 stiller than the one she had just quitted. With a 
 shake of the brown head, and a little sigh of disap 
 pointment, she tiptoed along the hall and down the 
 stairway. j 
 
 The lower floor of the house was cold and somehow 
 amazingly desolate. It was evident that Mammy had 
 not yet been in. Sylvia opened the back door, and,
 
 io8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 with an audible gasp at the chill, misty breath of 
 morning, ran along an old flagstone walk toward the 
 warmth and comfort of the kitchen. 
 
 The old stove purred and trembled with the fervor 
 of a recently created fire. Mammy Nycie, the 
 dusky goddess of this humble realm, stood at a pine 
 board table, kneading biscuit dough. She did not 
 turn her head as Sylvia entered. "Mammy!" 
 shivered the girl, nearing a large brown elbow, 
 "Mammy, I m freezing!" 
 
 "What s got de matter wid yo bed, all of a sud- 
 dint?" demanded Mammy unkindly. 
 
 "Nothing. Only I couldn t stay in it. I don t 
 see how I ever went to sleep ! I m so worried, 
 Mammy. It s it s Mother." 
 
 Mammy flung down the moist dough with a snap, 
 and, wheeling ponderously, planted a huge, closed 
 fist upon each rotund hip. "An Gawd knows hit s 
 erbout time one uf you wuz beginnin to think about 
 yo mudder," she burst out. Then, with a tone of 
 almost primitive passion, "What you gals gone done 
 to my baby?" 
 
 Sylvia cowered into a chair. "It wasn t me did 
 anything!" she protested. 
 
 "Hit s all de same. What Lucille does, you do!" 
 vociferated Mammy. "An hit ain t Lucille all by 
 hersef what s hurt her like she is hurt." 
 
 Sylvia s brown eyes fell. 
 
 "I didn t say nothin las night when I brought in 
 yo supper," Mammy went on more humanly. "I 
 sensed dey wuz sumpin I hatter find out fust. And 
 whilst you two wuz stufnn yo selves
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 109 
 
 "I never ate one mouthful! I was crying all the 
 time, and Lucille was eating and scolding me!" 
 Sylvia broke in, stung to defence by the injustice. 
 
 "Whilst you wuz stumn yo selves," resumed 
 Mammy implacably, her large white eyeballs rolling 
 menace to a second interruption, "I fixed up ez nice 
 er little bait o supper ez ennybody could fix, and took 
 it up to my baby s do . An when I got to dat 
 do - She paused dramatically. "Do you know 
 
 what I foun ?" 
 
 "I know; it was locked!" said Sylvia, beginning 
 to cry. 
 
 Mammy drew a long, deep breath. "Yes, hit 
 wuz shet an bolted. De fust time I knowed Miss 
 Ciceley s do had a bolt. Hit wuz shet against me, 
 aginst her Mammy, what done love an nuss her 
 sence de day she wuz bawn. And when I seen dat " 
 again she paused, and let a hostile glance fall on the 
 culprit, "I knowed dat somethin mo dan onery 
 sassiness had tukken place wid her." 
 
 "Did you ever get in?" questioned the little one. 
 "I tried twice after Lucille was asleep 
 but" 
 
 "Did I ebber git in!" snorted the old woman. 
 "Me! I wasn t gwineter leave until I did. When 
 Miss Ciceley didn t answer, I jes nachally told her 
 thoo de keyhole dat I was gwineter bust dat do into 
 kindlin wood !" 
 
 Sylvia stared up in wonder and admiration at such 
 prowess, but Mammy was not yet to be conciliated. 
 
 "When you got in," whispered Sylvia, "what 
 how did mother seem? Did she "
 
 no THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "She wuz standin jes inside," said Mammy, 
 watching almost cruelly to see the effect of her words. 
 "Her po little han s wuz helt up crost her, lak dis." 
 The narrator clutched huge, dough-splotched mahog 
 any-colored hands across her breast, in illustration. 
 "She jes stood dare, wid her big eyes on me, er 
 shakin an er shiv in lak a wild rabbit in er trap. 
 When I sot down dat tray and thoo my arms eroun 
 her, she helt on tight, an sez, Hole me close, Mammy 
 closer dan ever you did in all yo life befo , she 
 sez. Fer, she sez, I think my heart is broke! 1 
 
 Long before the termination of this speech, little 
 Sylvia s face had been covered. Now the slight figure 
 in the old kitchen chair rocked to and fro, giving at 
 each forward movement a little moan of suffering. 
 
 The old woman stared down gloomily. She was 
 conscious of the satisfaction the picture brought. 
 Yet the tousled brown head was terribly like that of 
 the "baby" whose battle she was fighting. She 
 steeled her kind heart against the hint of softness, 
 and went on. 
 
 "An when yo maw sed dat," she emphasized, 
 "I know d only too well dat you is played some part 
 in hit. Lucille is allays obstrep rus. We don t 
 expect nothin mo . But you ! You an yo maw is 
 lak David an his little ewe lamb !" 
 
 "Oh, Mammy, Mammy!" the little one sobbed 
 out. "Don t be mean to me any more. I can t 
 stand it! Isn t there something I could do? Some 
 way I could show mother that I was sorry? Won t 
 you help me find a way?" 
 
 Mammy, apparently unrelenting, began to roll
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH in 
 
 out the biscuit dough. Sylvia, gathering sudden 
 courage, put her small hand, quite brown by contrast, 
 sheer in the middle of the cool, waxen surface. 
 
 "You ve got to help me, Mammy. I am your 
 baby, too, and I don t believe that even mother is 
 any more miserable than I am right now." 
 
 Before this appeal and the brown eyes, Ciceley s 
 own, lifted in an ecstasy of pleading, the last ferocious 
 battlement of Mammy s rage went down. A sob 
 rose in her throat, giving, when she spoke, a deep and 
 vibrant sweetness to the words. "Honey," she said, 
 looking down with eyes now suffused in tears, "hit s 
 a bad thing to hurt enny heart ez tender an lovin 
 as yo maw, let erlone dat she is yo maw." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes! I know it is, Mammy. I am 
 going to try never to hurt her again as long as I live." 
 
 "You ain t never gwineter pay no tention to dat 
 sassy Lucille, even when she tries to egg you on?" 
 bargained Mammy. 
 
 "No, I m not ! I will just think of mother. What 
 can I do to show her, now ! " 
 
 All at once the troubled black face broke into 
 smiles of encouragement. 
 
 "I shouldn t be supprised," she began, her voice 
 now matching her lightened expression, " ef a little 
 waiter all fixed up wid a clean napkin and one o de 
 purtiest china cups an some fresh, steamin 
 coffee" 
 
 She needed to go no further. Sylvia, with rain 
 bows instead of tears on her long lashes, was halfway 
 to the door. "I ll go and get the cup and napkin 
 right away!" she cried, in transit.
 
 ii2 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 With incredible promptitude she was back. "Is 
 the coffee finished yet?" she interrogated, standing 
 on tiptoe beside the stove in order to sniff at closer 
 range the steam just issuing from a granite pot. 
 
 "Not yit," beamed Mammy. "An dey is sugar 
 in a little sugar-bowl, an cream in dat littlest pitcher 
 to be got. An min you be keerful bout skimmin 
 off all my cream!" she admonished, reverting by 
 instinct to the tone of the autocrat. 
 
 Sylvia nodded, and in a happy whirlwind flew upon 
 the new errands. 
 
 "Here here are both of them," she announced 
 breathlessly. "And while you are pouring the coffee 
 out, I am going to run into the garden and see if I 
 can t find a big pink rose with the dew on it. Mother 
 will love to see a rose upon her tray !" 
 
 "She will love better dan enny rose de purty little 
 face over dat tray," thought Mammy, with deep 
 wisdom, but she did not voice the thought. 
 
 The charming outfit being at last complete, little 
 Sylvia, quite sobered with the responsibility of carry 
 ing it alone, started with measured steps along the 
 flagstones. 
 
 "Look out an don t stump yo toe on dat lump 
 what de fool coal-man broke tryin to drive his 
 wagon over yistiddy," warned Mammy from her 
 doorway. 
 
 That danger skirted, Mammy retired within, her 
 mind upon her biscuits. Catching up the rolling-pin as 
 if it were a weapon of defence, she wiped it on a corner 
 of her apron, at the same time giving her eyes two 
 furtive dabs. Then the wooden implement was
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 113 
 
 lifted high in both hands, and brought down on the 
 dough with a force that made the windows rattle. 
 With her first push, Mammy broke forth into song, 
 
 "In eighteen hundered an ninety-nine, 
 
 De Lord turnt water into wine. 
 In nineteen hundered an ninety-fo 
 He pushed dem virgints thoo de do . " 
 
 Now she was ready to cut out the biscuits. An 
 empty yeast-powder can served this purpose well. 
 Each downward motion came with the exactness 
 and, to judge from Mammy s scowl, the vindictive- 
 ness inherent in the falling of a guillotine. But it 
 was only Mammy s way of working. Her childlike 
 mind was one to concentrate, with primitive intensity, 
 upon the occupation of the moment. The low 
 contralto crooning of her gospel hymns was part 
 of it. 
 
 Now, as the cutter fell, each flaccid disc engendered 
 was, in her thought, an enemy overcome. Still 
 heavily frowning, she ranged her limp victims with 
 care in the long, black rectangle of the baking pan, 
 and was moving toward the stove as to a crematory, 
 when suddenly her gaze encountered the face of the 
 kitchen clock. 
 
 "My Gawd!" she exclaimed aloud, her vague 
 triumph fading before its accusation, "ef it ain t atter 
 sebben, an not a fiah in de house done made ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, the Little Ewe Lamb, having re- 
 entered the chill loneliness of the back hall, felt all 
 at once the fresh glow of her enterprise change into 
 something unpleasantly like fear. What if Lucille
 
 ii4 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 had missed her, and being suspicious for Lucille s 
 wits were keen of this voluntary and independent 
 desire to make amends, should even now be lying in 
 wait, primed with her quick, scornful, "Don t be 
 silly, Sylvia!" to annihilate it all! 
 
 The little one stepped very softly. Her ears, 
 straining in apprehension, listened for sounds along 
 the stairs and in Lucille s room. The mother s door, 
 at least, had been reached without intervention. 
 She stood panting a little, and then, both hands 
 being filled, struck the lower panel with her foot. 
 
 "Mother," she whispered, leaning close to the 
 crack. 
 
 There was no answer. The closed door in front 
 of her and that across the hall were equally dumb. 
 
 "Mother!" she then cried out quite clearly, ven 
 turing all upon one moment s cast. " It is me, Mother. 
 It s Sylvia. I have brought you up some coffee. 
 Please let me in, quick, quick !" 
 
 On the last word, the bolt grated back. Sylvia 
 slipped in, at which the other, obeying the unspoken 
 thought in each beating heart, slid the bolt back into 
 place. 
 
 With that sound and its decree of isolation, a curious 
 thing happened. Neither of the two could find a 
 word for speech. Their eyes were instinctively 
 averted. An insidious sense of embarrassment, al 
 most of hostility, grew in the quiet room. It was as 
 if two strangers had, for a common misdemeanor, 
 been suddenly constrained. 
 
 Ciceley, who had begun to feel the very boards 
 beneath her bare feet waveringly insecure, made her
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 115 
 
 way back a little unsteadily to the just quitted ^bed, 
 where, keeping her face still averted, she drew the 
 covering high. ^ 
 
 The little one took a few steps, and paused. 
 
 "I ve I ve brought some coffee," she stammered. 
 
 "It was very good of you," came from the stranger 
 in the bed. "Will you place it on this little table?" 
 
 Sylvia obeyed, not without a few frightened shiv- 
 erings of china. 
 
 "Thank you," said the low, courteous voice. It s 
 possessor did not turn. 
 
 Sylvia, backing slowly away, encountered the 
 corner of the footboard, and, not having the energy 
 to resist the impact, sat down. At the protesting 
 squeak of the old spring mattress, she tried to jump 
 up, but failed. Now her eyes, wide, frightened, and 
 vaguely incredulous, fixed themselves on her mother. 
 
 Ciceley was lying with her face toward a window. 
 The old-fashioned green shutters, still drawn close, 
 had two slats missing. Through the aperture a shaft 
 of morning light streamed in, and lay like a hand on 
 Ciceley s throat, just where the coarse, serviceable 
 nightdress bared it. The girl found herself gazing 
 wonderingly. Somehow she had never thought of 
 her mother having a throat like that, a throat soft, 
 sweet, and rounded, more fit for a setting of delicate 
 lace than the dull high-collared black which invari 
 ably surrounded it. The chin was tilted back a 
 little. It, too, was firm and pink and round. 
 
 "Mother!" the girl cried out impulsively. 
 
 Ciceley s mouth quivered. She caught her under- 
 lip between her teeth.
 
 n6 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Mother, I m sorry!" 
 
 Ciceley sat upright. Still she shrank from meeting 
 her daughter s eyes. She turned toward the tray 
 and for the first time seeing the exquisite peace 
 offering of the dewy rose, caught it up and held it, for 
 a moment, to her hot cheek. The tears were coming 
 and she did not want them yet. Swallowing back 
 a sob, she managed to say quite calmly, " It is beauti 
 ful. Please put it in the vase under your father s 
 picture. I will try to drink the nice coffee you have 
 brought." 
 
 Sylvia, thankful for definite occupation, sprang 
 toward the rose. 
 
 The wall space directly across from the foot of 
 Ciceley s bed had been, as long as her children could 
 remember, a sort of devotional shrine. In the center 
 hung an enlarged photograph of Henry Bering, a face 
 spirited, indubitably handsome, and with a sort of 
 weak daring which makes its chief appeal to immature 
 young girls. Under it was a small wooden bracket 
 fashioned by him during the jig-saw period of boy 
 hood, and upon this stood a flower vase, never allowed 
 to go untenanted. 
 
 At each side of the large picture were groups of 
 smaller ones, those to the right of Lucille in various 
 stages of infancy, childhood, and young womanhood, 
 while to the left was hung a similar display of Sylvia. 
 
 A large crewel motto, "Thy Will Be Done", worked 
 in purple wool on perforated paper and framed in a 
 wide black border, crowned this pathetic revelation 
 of fidelity. 
 
 To little Sylvia and presumably to Lucille, the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 117 
 
 exhibit had become so much a part of ordinary 
 visible life that it had long since ceased to have a 
 deeper meaning than, for instance, the pattern of the 
 faded wall paper, or the number of cracks in the 
 floor. 
 
 But through the loosened fibers of this troubled 
 morning, the usual was slipping away. Even to 
 herself Sylvia had become weirdly unfamiliar. Her 
 little universe had suddenly disintegrated : from its 
 readjustment anything might come. 
 
 Holding the rose as if it were the traditional spar 
 of safety, she walked toward her father s picture. 
 
 From the vase she took out a fading sprig of sweet- 
 olive, and, setting the rose in its stead, clasped her 
 loose hands in front of her, and remained looking into 
 the pictured semblance. Ciceley, knowing herself 
 unobserved, watched eagerly. 
 
 Without turning, Sylvia said, "I wish that father 
 had not died." 
 
 A shiver ran through her listener s heart. Perhaps 
 in that one intuitive cry the little one had revealed 
 the cause of this bitter failure ; for that she had failed, 
 Ciceley was now all too sure. Life had been too 
 great a struggle to maintain alone. All of herself, 
 her hopes, her faith, her personal happiness, she had 
 poured into the crystal vase of motherhood, and this, 
 by a few harsh words, had been broken. In an 
 existence narrowed to the limits of a few predominant 
 actualities, the trivial takes on the semblance of 
 finality. Ciceley had no perspective. Hers was a 
 mandrake nature, that sent forked roots into the 
 shallowest soil.
 
 n8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 All through these later years she had deliberately 
 blinded herself to Lucille s growing arrogance. Others 
 had warned her, but to their words, though kindly 
 meant, she had been deaf as well as blind. Even the 
 promptings of her own fears had been smothered. 
 She had refused to credit suspicions in themselves 
 incredible. Now, at one blow, she was stripped, dis 
 closed a plant uptorn and flung to the mercy of 
 the pavement. In proportion to the depth of her 
 cringing self-deception, she seemed now, in the agony 
 of awakening, helplessly destroyed. 
 
 The climax of the intimate, domestic tragedy had 
 been a climax possible only to limited perceptions. 
 Lucille s white fury, her words, her scornful looks, 
 burned, as they were, upon the retina of Ciceley s 
 heart, should not have been sufficient cause for such 
 seemingly final desolation. 
 
 A dim realization of this found place among the 
 unstable images of her bewildered mind. Her reason 
 leaned toward it; but the obsession of motherhood, 
 nourished on fallacies, guarded by chronic refusal to 
 look beyond its glimmering confines, had been Cice 
 ley s too long. Now, in her hesitance, the phantom 
 tide rose higher. She had no steady hand of logic 
 with which to grasp a vanishing reality. Instead of 
 this, the luminous outline, half-submerged, took on 
 the form of excuse for her daughter. 
 
 "After all," she reflected, and with the thought a 
 great relief, the sensation of being received again into 
 a safe and familiar embrace, came over her, "it was 
 not so much Lucille s fault as that of Jim." 
 
 Eagerly she elaborated the new and comforting
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 119 
 
 verdict. Yes, surely it was his presence, forced 
 against Ciceley s judgment and her openly expressed 
 command, it was his angry words and merciless 
 denunciations which not unnaturally had stung the 
 high-spirited girl out of all semblance to her real 
 self. "I might as well hold the ravings of delirium 
 against her," thought the little mother, and with it 
 the blessed feeling of relief grew deeper. If only 
 people and by people she meant the weighed-and- 
 found-wanting Jim would allow her to manage 
 her daughters in her own way ! 
 
 The human heart is capable of nimble and at times 
 incredible evasions. The emotions, where guidance 
 of will is weak, play often a juggler s part. So was 
 it now with Ciceley. All of the hurt, the latent, 
 unbearable resentment against Lucille which had been 
 the night s grimacing horror, went in a flash of trans 
 ference to the image of Colonel Jim. His tenderness 
 she forgot. All women, even the gentlest, have some 
 where in their natures an atavistic fiber of cruelty. 
 Ciceley now dwelt with relish on the fact that she had 
 so definitely refused to marry him. Last night she 
 had grieved at the thought of paining him ; now she 
 was glad. 
 
 She looked straight at her husband s picture. On 
 the handsome, slightly sneering face, she caught the 
 gleam of her own triumphant satisfaction. All at once 
 she felt strong, capable of dealing with any situation. 
 
 Sylvia, after receiving no response to her plaintive 
 remark, had sunk down to a chair. From the slight 
 motions of her bowed shoulders, Ciceley knew that 
 she was weeping.
 
 i 2 o THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Sylvia, come here," she commanded. 
 
 For answer, the sobs deepened. A flood of ex 
 quisite yearning swept through the mother s heart. 
 
 "Sylvia, my little girl my littlest girl," she cried 
 out, "come to the mother who loves you better than 
 anything in the whole world." 
 
 Sylvia arose at this, and neared the bed stumblingly, 
 wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her old red sweater. 
 Ciceley held out her arms. At that moment they 
 were as alike as two roses, blown but a day apart, 
 upon the same branch. 
 
 "Curl up here on the bed near me,"crooned Ciceley, 
 "just as you used to do. Nothing must come be 
 tween you and your mother, darling." 
 
 Sylvia, her young face bright, was about to obey 
 when from the hall came Lucille s peremptory voice. 
 "Sylvia, where are you?" 
 
 Sylvia stood upright, caught her breath, and turned 
 instinctively toward the closed door. 
 
 "Sylvia," warned Ciceley, from the bed. 
 
 Now the knob rattled impatiently. "Why, what 
 on earth " murmured a voice in evident surprise ; 
 then, with a new note of sharpness, "Sylvia!" 
 
 "Yes," answered the little one, not realizing that 
 she spoke. 
 
 Ciceley sank back to watch her. 
 
 "Hadn t I better ?" the child almost gasped. 
 Without waiting for the mother s dictum, she ran to 
 the door, unbolted it, and held it at a narrow aperture. 
 
 "Come along. Don t be silly. I want my break 
 fast," declared Lucille, catching her by the arm. 
 
 The little one looked back. "Mother," she cried.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 121 
 
 In face and voice alike were protesting, a pleading to 
 be forgiven for yielding to a stronger force. 
 
 Lucille, not noticing her mother, reiterated in a 
 low, fierce tone, "Come!" 
 
 "Go go, then both of you," cried Ciceley. 
 "Shut the door after you." 
 
 When they were gone, she lay still for a long, long 
 time.
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 ,THE pause that followed Julia s opening of her door 
 gave apparently no thought to time. Had its ces 
 sation depended on Jim s initiative, it might have 
 gone on forever. 
 
 The slight moving of the woman s gray-clad figure 
 at last broke the spell. Jim, wrenching his gaze 
 away, strode forward ; at which his companion softly 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 He found himself in the midst of charming drawing- 
 room furniture, white and pink and gold. No 
 focussed electricity was here to daunt him. The 
 soft, alluring radiance, evenly distributed, might 
 have been filtered through the petals of the great 
 sheaf of Brabant roses standing on the center table. 
 Sofas and deeply cushioned chairs invited him on 
 every hand. 
 
 The hostess, who had been watching breathlessly, 
 now showed a faint hint of amusement. She tried to 
 clear her throat, but no sound came. Silence grew 
 tense. Then, as if impelled, the Colonel veered 
 slowly around, and let deliberate eyes rest on his 
 companion s face. 
 
 122
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 123 
 
 "So it is you, after all! It s Jule," he breathed, 
 and with the words came a long sigh, as if a burden 
 had fallen. 
 
 "Of course it s Jule! What did you expect? 
 Do you find me so terribly altered?" 
 
 "Altered!" repeated Jim. "If it wasn t for your 
 eyes But what in God s name," he broke out, 
 "have you been doing to yourself?" 
 
 Now on her face came a deeper tinge of pink. The 
 admiration in his eyes and voice was unmistakable. 
 
 "It isn t, then," she hesitated archly, "that I 
 have grown so old or so much uglier?" 
 
 "Old! Ugly!" flouted Jim. "Why, you re a 
 queen ! That s why the first sight of you You 
 never used to be pretty!" he finished crudely, at 
 which she gave a merry, satisfied laugh. 
 
 "There isn t any room for doubting you to be 
 just Jim!" 
 
 "Unfortunately there s not," grinned he. "But 
 just look at my temples white as Uncle Snow ! 
 And I m gettin fat! The way my clothes pull on 
 me is something awful!" He tugged ruefully at the 
 buttonless gap in the center of his waistcoat. 
 
 "Well," admitted Julia, with mischievous eyes, 
 "your clothes might be improved. Fortunately, 
 that s easy! Come sit down. I want to talk. 
 But first " Now she came swiftly up to him. 
 Ease, grace, and a sort of conscious nobility moved 
 in the air with her. "Do you realize," she demanded, 
 a look of beautiful and loving candor on the upturned 
 face, "that we haven t even shaken hands?" 
 
 "No more we have!" he cried, and, seizing in his
 
 124 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 own rough paws the two exquisitely-kept members 
 held toward him, crushed them to a numbing pain. 
 
 "Do you know, Jule?" he confided impulsively, 
 "I honestly believe I have never been as glad to see 
 anybody as I am right now. You make me feel alive 
 all over ! I sho would like to kiss you ! " 
 
 "And I sho would like you to," she responded 
 instantly, lifting her face to his. There was no hint of 
 self-consciousness or coquetry in her frank surrender. 
 
 He pressed his lips against her cheek. It was 
 resilient smooth cool the cheek of a girl. In 
 her nearness he perceived the same intangible, vaguely 
 intellectual fragrance that had breathed from her 
 morning s letter. 
 
 He held her close, and again would have kissed her, 
 but she drew back and laughed, not quite steadily. 
 "No! Once is quite enough! It has been a long, 
 long time since I let a man do that ! Now we must 
 sit down and talk. Here, take this big armchair. 
 You ll find it comfy." 
 
 As he obeyed, looking just a little dazed, his hostess, 
 with a swift, decisive gesture, drew a second chair 
 close. "Now," she exclaimed, with almost childish 
 satisfaction, "this is fine! The next thing is to 
 light your pipe. Oh, you needn t put on that inno 
 cent expression. I can see the end of one sticking 
 out of your coat pocket !" 
 
 "B-b-but to smoke in here in a lady s parlor," 
 demurred the Colonel. Ancient objurgation from 
 old Mrs. Rogers anent the profanation of her stately 
 drawing-room darted to the surface of his mind. His 
 questioning gaze was troubled, but distinctly hopeful.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 125 
 
 "You needn t be afraid with me," she encouraged 
 brightly. "I like to talk to a man when he is smok 
 ing. A man with his favorite pipe, and a woman 
 sewing on baby clothes represent, in my opinion, 
 the two nuclei of absolute human self-realization." 
 
 "I say, Jule," ventured her companion, in a voice 
 slightly clouded with awe, after a few thoughtful 
 puffs had aided him to digest this unusual statement, 
 "you haven t gone in for the high-brow stuff, New 
 Thought emancipated women and all that rot, 
 have you?" 
 
 "If you mean to ask," evaded Julia, "whether you 
 see before you an acknowledged bluestocking, or a 
 bomb-throwing Suffragette, I can ease your mind at 
 once. Most certainly you do not! As for my in 
 terest in emancipated women," she went on more 
 slowly, her grave, considering eyes on his, "there, 
 I ll admit, you touch something real. I have come 
 to believe that emancipation , as it is called, is seldom 
 sought by the women who are supposed to possess 
 it, and is equally as seldom desired. It is a hard 
 condition imposed from without. All women, all 
 real women, know that personal happiness conies to 
 them only along the old, established thoroughfares 
 of home, and love, and children, most of all, love. 
 Make no mistake about that! But this sort of 
 happiness is not for every woman. In this lies their 
 tragedy ! And, Jim," here she bent forward, her 
 eyes and voice taking on the appeal so dear to the 
 heart of man, "it is because I know this that it seems 
 to me neither unfeminine nor illogical for women who 
 find themselves out in the world, doing a man s work,
 
 126 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 paying taxes, managing property, serving the pro 
 fessions, or more often earning by the toil of their 
 hands their daily bread, for such unsheltered 
 women to desire and demand, along with man s 
 responsibilities, a man s full, legal status. But 
 there !" she broke off suddenly. "I ve left my stump 
 at a bound! This is too precious an occasion to 
 waste on theories ! I have a thousand things to 
 ask you, and about as many to impart." 
 
 She leaned back with a wave of the hand to indi 
 cate that she had banished serious discussion, and 
 smiled at her companion reassuringly. To herself 
 she was saying that perhaps already she had let her 
 enthusiasm carry her too far. Jim was looking a 
 little afraid of her. Besides, it was inconceivable 
 that a man living the life he did, and tucked away in 
 the cotton-wool of a country suburb, should have 
 evolved a vital interest in up-to-date polemics. All 
 of his instincts, inherited and acquired, would be 
 against the claims of the New Woman. Until she 
 had had time to gauge more accurately the present 
 poise of her old friend s thought, the only topics safe 
 would be those conserving personalities. Seizing 
 the first of these that came, she asked, "And Ciceley ! 
 Dear little Sis. How are things going with her?" 
 
 A light flashed into Jim s face, only to die down 
 instantly to gloom. He shook his head. "Not 
 very well. I want to talk about her later. First 
 I want to know " the effort he made to deflect his 
 mind from Ciceley s affairs was obvious "a lot 
 more about yourself." 
 
 "Oh, there isn t much to tell," she answered lightly.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 127 
 
 "Over there, on the other side, I naturally learned a 
 few things. Can you believe that I ve become really 
 a good business woman?" i 
 
 But Jim, no less than she, felt evidently that the 
 strictly personal was to be preferred. 
 
 "I didn t mean that sort of thing so much," he 
 answered. "It s about yourself your looks. 
 What you did to turn yourself into a beauty." 
 
 "Oh, Jim," she deprecated, with a happy blush, 
 "you know I m not a beauty. I never was and 
 never can be ! If I seem to have improved, it s only 
 because I ve found out ways of making the most of 
 what I possess. Few people do make the most of 
 themselves, you know!" 
 
 He grimaced at the look of meaning turned upon 
 his bulging waistcoat, and parried her thrust by the 
 challenge, "You told me in your letter that your hair 
 had turned gray!" 
 
 "And so it has," she reiterated calmly. "Only, 
 by a lucky chance, it has come in evenly instead of in 
 streaks. It never had any definite color, you know. 
 This gives it a sort of sheen." 
 
 "It surely does," he said admiringly, his eyes upon 
 the exquisite coiffure. "It s like the pond at Stag 
 Harbor when the moon is full, and a whole lot of 
 little ripples across the top." 
 
 Julia sat upright in her astonishment. "Why, 
 Jim ! What a lovely speech !" 
 
 "Wasn t so bad, was it?" murmured Jim, in a huge 
 pleased bashfulness. "Just wait till you see the 
 pond now, and the new pagoda on that little island 
 in the middle, and all my orange trees! You re
 
 128 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 going to find a lot of changes, Jule. I wonder " 
 he mused, falling back into a note of despondency, 
 "what you re going to think of everything, anyway?" 
 
 "What is there for me to think?" she mocked him 
 brightly, "except that I am glad glad glad to 
 be back with you-all again!" Her smile was one 
 that could not go unheeded. "You re all right, 
 Jule," he told her earnestly. Then suddenly, re 
 membering something overlooked, he glanced about 
 the room, demanding, "Where is that boy of yours?" 
 
 "Oh, I sent him off to a Cinema, a Movie , 
 as you call them over here, before you came. I 
 wanted you entirely to myself for this first hour." 
 
 "That was awfully good of you," he approved, but 
 despite the emphasis, his voice lacked in conviction. 
 The troubled, pent-up thoughts struggled in a new 
 demand for utterance. 
 
 Julia, watching him intently without seeming in 
 the least to do so, felt in her soul what was to come. 
 By sheer will-power, she kept the smile upon her 
 lips. 
 
 "I was thinking," began Jim stumblingly, "that if 
 the boy is to get back soon, maybe I d better 
 He broke off with a look that pleaded for her further 
 ance. 
 
 "You mean that you think it better for us to talk 
 about Ciceley before there is any chance of interrup 
 tion?" 
 
 "Yes," he responded gratefully. "That s just it! 
 You always did understand things, Jule!" 
 
 To this, his companion attempted no rejoinder. 
 She was consciously gathering her forces against the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 129 
 
 disclosure to come. Upon it, or, rather, upon his 
 way of stating it, depended, for her, more that the 
 man who spoke could ever dream. 
 
 "You said," her low and perfectly controlled 
 voice led on, "that poor little Sis was in trouble." 
 
 "She is," groaned Jim. "The worst sort of 
 trouble. That kind which seems as if nobody on 
 earth could help you. It s those two ungrateful 
 girls of hers!" he flung out suddenly, warned by the 
 surprise on his listener s face into a more concrete 
 form of expression. 
 
 "Her girls!" echoed Julia. "That does astonish 
 me. I have understood, all along, that they were 
 both growing up into perfect beauties." 
 
 "Pretty is as pretty does," quoted Jim senten- 
 tiously. "I wasn t thinkin about their looks. It s 
 the way they act, the way they treat that poor 
 little mother!" 
 
 A tiny gleam, as of steel, flashed for an instant 
 into Julia s eyes. "But surely " she exclaimed, 
 then, with an effort, held back the half formed words. 
 
 By this the floodgates of Jim s wrath were opened. 
 In a torrent of words, choking at times into incoher 
 ence, he retailed to the tense and silent woman before 
 him the scene in which, so recently, he had borne a 
 part. Toward the last, the surge of his anger con 
 centrated upon the remembered image of Lucille. 
 "If you could have seen her, Jule!" he cried, with a 
 shudder. "That white face of hers might have been 
 chipped from a solid block of ice. And the way she 
 looked at Ciceley! God!" he broke out, and all 
 at once let his shaggy head fall to his hands, "I d
 
 130 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 rather have two lead bullets go through me, than 
 meet that look in the eyes of a child of mine !" 
 
 Julia had remained utterly without speech. Al 
 most, he would have said she did not breathe. Surely, 
 not by an inch had the gray figure moved ! It was, 
 therefore, with a sensation of incredulity that Jim, 
 finally lifting his face, saw that she had risen and 
 stood with a hand outstretched. 
 
 "Don t say any more just now," she commanded, 
 rather than entreated. "You must remember that 
 all of it is very new to me. I must have time to 
 think." 
 
 She moved away, with this, and passing over to a 
 window, stood just within the white draperies, ap 
 parently gazing down into the lighted street. 
 
 "It doesn t seem right fair to you," murmured the 
 man remorsefully, "and on your very first evening, 
 too." He turned beseeching eyes, but Julia did not 
 see them. 
 
 "If there was anybody else on earth " he 
 stumbled on. "But you see for yourself that it is 
 a big trouble ; and the minute I got your letter, 
 even this morning, before I knew how bad things 
 really were with Sis, Again he broke off un 
 certainly. 
 
 "Yes?" encouraged a clear voice from the window. 
 
 " Ciceley herself has been wishing you d come home 
 and when I heard that you were really coming, 
 why, Jule, " here he essayed a tone of natural hearti 
 ness, " I said to myself right off, Well ! If this arrival 
 of dear old Jule, just in the nick of time, isn t a regular 
 godsend!"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 131 
 
 "For Ciceley, of course." 
 
 "Why ye-es. For poor little Sis. I know how 
 fond you ve always been of her. You are yet, ain t 
 you ? " he queried ungrammatically, but with pleading. 
 
 "Oh, of course." 
 
 Frowning a little, the man turned in his chair 
 that he might view more squarely so perplexing a 
 companion. Her profile was still all of her face that 
 he could see, but in the poise of her upright figure 
 was a sort of high courage, at which Jim again took 
 heart. She was altogether a most pleasant vision 
 for man s eyes to rest upon. Her gown of soft, mist- 
 colored crepe clung in such lovely and such quiet 
 folds that it seemed to be a sentient part of her. The 
 Oriental moonstones at her girdle and around the 
 long, white throat gleamed as if with her own luminous 
 thoughts. Yes, here was the one to help him. Com 
 fort grew warm. Again he assured himself, in con 
 scious phrasing, that what Ciceley needed most of all 
 was the counsel and loving aid of such a woman. 
 
 In the completion of this cheering thought, Julia s 
 gray draperies, as if stirred by her breathing, began 
 to sway lightly. She turned, and moved toward him 
 with swift decision. 
 
 Instinctively he would have risen, but she waved 
 him back, and at a short distance stood looking deeply 
 down into his eyes. He gazed back, wondering a 
 little. On her lips there grew the shadow of a smile, 
 a smile such as he had never seen before. In some 
 vague way it thrilled him, but back of the thrill 
 there was a fine, keen edge that drew along the very 
 nerves of his spine. He blinked unconsciously;
 
 i 3 2 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 then looking up again, saw only the face of his old 
 friend Jule, the woman whom he was asking to be 
 his helper, his close confederate in the redemption of 
 another woman, and this the one whom all his life 
 he had loved and striven to win.
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 THE ROSE OF DAWN 
 
 AVOIDING the small rocker in which she had been 
 sitting, Julia drew a stiff upright chair so near the 
 center table that she could rest an elbow on its 
 polished surface. With a gesture of clearing the 
 decks for action, she pushed to one side the obstruct 
 ing, if lovely, large vase of roses. This left, between 
 herself and Jim, only a space of pink-tinged air. i 
 
 Her opening remark was at once so practical, yet 
 seemingly so irrelevant, that Jim felt the impact like 
 a small explosion. 
 
 "You had better light another pipe. You ll need 
 it!" 
 
 The suggestion was accepted, but not without a 
 certain guarded thoughtfulness. In Jim s experi 
 ence, women did not usually approach a subject ; they 
 merely shut their eyes tight, and jumped. 
 
 She attempted to appear unconscious of his vague 
 perturbation, and fingered delicately a bracelet on 
 her left arm. When smoke from the small altar of 
 peace across from her began rhythmically to ascend, 
 Julia, with a smile and a brisk assumption of con- 
 
 133
 
 i 3 4 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 fidence, began, "First of all, Jim. If we are to help 
 Sis, we ve got to understand each other." 
 
 "But we do, already. Don t we?" parried Jim. 
 "Well," she hesitated. "I am not altogether sure 
 of that we. Your position is unmistakable, of 
 course. The fact is, - here she let her eyes rest 
 upon him with a ruminative, and again disturbing 
 serenity, "I am afraid that I take an entirely 
 different view. It is my own summary of the situa 
 tion that I want to make clear." 
 
 "Oh," said Jim, moving uneasily. "Well, fire 
 ahead." 
 
 "There is no doubt at all that things are in a bad 
 way between Ciceley and her daughters?" 
 
 "In a bad way!" echoed Jim. "That s too mild 
 a statement. They are ungrateful young wretches, 
 those two girls. I never " 
 
 "And, of course, every one considers Ciceley en 
 tirely blameless," Julia pursued evenly, cutting the 
 threatened diatribe off cleanly at its very source. 
 
 Jim sat more upright, his blue eyes growing a little 
 hard. "Look here, Jule," he began, threateningly. 
 
 "You must have patience, Jim," she interpolated. 
 "It is all to help Sis. I think I can do it, but it s 
 got to be in my own way." 
 
 "That s all right too," answered Jim, only partially 
 placated. "But when you hint that poor little Sis is 
 at fault " he broke off, mumbling. 
 
 Julia considered him for a long moment. A shade 
 of doubt grew in her face. Jim, after a few indignant 
 puffs upon his pipe, brought his eyes back to hers. 
 
 "I m listening," he encouraged, when she remained
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 135 
 
 silent, "I ll try not to flare up. Only Again 
 he broke off, his tone betraying impatience. 
 
 "I am as sorry for poor little Sis as you are," Julia 
 said, speaking at last, and choosing her words care 
 fully. "I think I am a good deal sorrier, for I can 
 see things that you, and probably most of the Hill 
 people with you, do not see. At first I was sure that 
 I could help, but now - 
 
 You don t mean that you are going to give it up 
 before you ve really begun!" protested Jim. "Why, 
 Jule, that isn t a bit like you." 
 
 She smiled at him a little wistfully. "You don t 
 realize, I suppose, that I had begun." 
 
 Jim s head hung down like a punished schoolboy s. 
 "I see. I deserved it. Please don t give up. I 
 won t break out again." 
 
 Her expression of doubt did not fade. 
 
 "I mean it, honest, Jule," the man pleaded. "It s 
 only this confounded temper of mine. But I can 
 hold it in. I can do anything that will help Sis." 
 
 Julia leaned back suddenly, and put one hand be 
 fore her eyes. When her face showed again, it was 
 clear, self-controlled, and a little judicial. She bent 
 toward him. "I warn you, then, the next time you 
 break out , I shall throw the whole thing over." 
 
 "I understand. You can count on me," he pledged 
 himself. 
 
 "Just keep in your mind that it is entirely for Sis," 
 she said, with the ghost of a quiver on her lips. 
 
 "That s just what I m doing." 
 
 "Then, for another start. When a snarl is to be 
 untied, the best way is to begin at the tightest knot."
 
 136 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "It is," said Jim submissively. 
 
 "And, obviously, you ll never untie it as long as you 
 pretend it isn t there." 
 
 Jim nodded. She was getting rather deep. 
 
 "Yet that is exactly what you and Ciceley s other 
 friends have been doing. You pull and tug at the 
 loose ends of the problem, the behavior of the girls, 
 and you refuse to see that the hard knot, the core 
 and center of all the trouble, is Ciceley herself." 
 
 She paused, and her keen look gave out a gleam of 
 challenge. 
 
 " Go on," muttered Jim, swallowing hard. 
 
 "I have no doubt that the entire Hill regards 
 Ciceley as a martyr. She is held up as an example 
 of devoted widowhood, giving her whole life up to 
 her dead husband s memory and his children." 
 
 "I don t see how even you, Jule, can help seeing 
 the truth of that," ventured Jim. 
 
 " Truth ! " flared the other. " There has never been 
 one molecule of truth in the whole affair ! Ciceley 
 has been kept from reality as if it were the smallpox. 
 Why, probably to this day she has never been told 
 the facts of her husband s death. Has she?" was 
 the sudden demand. 
 
 "N-o-o, I don t think she has," said Jim, looking 
 from side to side as if he longed, now that the torrent 
 was upon him, to escape. 
 
 But Julia was relentless. "If ever there was a 
 ne er-do-well, a scapegrace on this earth, it was that 
 same Henry Bering," she hurtled on. "When he 
 died, it was a good riddance to all concerned. You 
 knew it then, and you know it now. You shielded
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 137 
 
 Ciceley from that first moment. You have literally 
 supported her and Henry s children. Oh," she cried, 
 "you needn t try to stop me. I have had means of 
 finding out. Of course this has been kept back from 
 Ciceley. You have treated her soul, her mentality, 
 in just the way it would be if you took a normal child, 
 and encased its two legs in steel braces. Whose fault 
 is it if the child learns to depend upon the braces, and 
 ceases to use the power it was born with! Truth! 
 Ciceley doesn t know its meaning ! " 
 
 Jim kept his tongue, but his eyes blinked rapidly. 
 
 "I started out," said Julia, with a softening little 
 break at the beginning of her words, "to say that 
 Ciceley was the one at fault. I take that back. It 
 isn t Ciceley only. It is her friends, and most of 
 aU " 
 
 "Don t say it, Jule," the man interrupted harshly, 
 "I m beginning to see too well. We all meant it 
 for the best. She seemed the sort of person that had 
 to be shielded and protected." 
 
 "The sort of person, you mean, who liked to be 
 lied to!" Julia corrected. "Poor little Sis, swaddled 
 in sentimentality, fed up with outworn traditions, 
 pitied, and loved, and encouraged in her self-destroy 
 ing weaknesses by the very ones who should have tried 
 to strengthen her. Is it to be wondered at that when 
 a new, alert, and vital intelligence such as Lucille 
 begins to match her growing powers against an in 
 effectual opponent, she should learn to despise it?" 
 
 "That s an awful word to use between a mother 
 and her child," reproved Jim solemnly. 
 
 "Words! Words! Words!" was the impatient
 
 i 3 8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 retort. "In a small, shut-in community like Rich 
 mond Hill, you people use words and hang your 
 moth-eaten ideas on them, just as you hang your 
 clothes on rusty nails. If the fact is there, why 
 blench and turn pale at the word? We are after 
 the truth of things, and the unhappy truth that faces 
 us right now is that Ciceley has failed, or rather," 
 she corrected herself, " is failing, in the biggest enter 
 prise ever entrusted to a woman s hands, that of 
 intelligent motherhood." 
 
 Jim could not answer. The old pipe had gone out, 
 and mechanically he had thrust it back into a sagging 
 coat pocket. He was huddled down in the pink 
 brocaded chair, an almost ludicrous image of flaccid 
 despondency. 
 
 The woman watching him felt all at once a 
 curious reversal of time. Again she faced the big, 
 despairing boy who was just telling her of Ciceley s 
 refusal. "I m a one-woman man, Jule," the dumb 
 lips were saying. Again it was her part to comfort 
 him. A smile of maternal tenderness irradiated her 
 face. 
 
 "Don t look so wretched, dear old Jim," she begged. 
 "Remember I do not think the situation hopeless. 
 Ciceley has a lot of sense in her quiet way. That 
 clash with Lucille has probably done much to wake 
 her up. It is our part to see that she doesn t fall 
 back into stupor." 
 
 Jim s fixed and gloomy stare refused to change. 
 
 "Now listen!" she cried, in a tone of bright com 
 mand. "Just to show you that I know a little some 
 thing about Ciceley s problem, I am going to inflict
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 139 
 
 you with my own experience. Shall you care to 
 hear?" 
 
 "Why, of course," murmured the other, trying 
 with only partial success to appear polite. "Any 
 thing about you, Jule. You know - 
 
 She had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. 
 
 "Well, to begin, we shall have to go back a good, 
 long time, to the very day, in fact, that you put Wick 
 and me on the train, and started us off for England. 
 Heavens!" she flung in, "And what a woebegone, 
 crepe-hung effigy of widowhood I was ! Old Mrs. 
 Rogers had helped me in selecting my weeds. My 
 handkerchief I can see it yet was a two-inch 
 square of white, let into a four-inch black border. 
 There was not a mortuary detail overlooked. I am 
 sure I had black ribbons in my underwear ! But the 
 blackest fibers of them all were those connected with 
 my mental outlook." 
 
 Jim was beginning to show a faint interest. She 
 talked on vivaciously. 
 
 "At that time I was obsessed with the idea 
 Ciceley s idea that the remainder of my existence 
 was to be dedicated to just one thing, the welfare 
 of my child." 
 
 Jim s honest eyes here expressed a sort of hurt as 
 tonishment that so obvious and altogether commenda 
 ble a thought should have been subject to revision. 
 
 "Like Ciceley, I took devotion, maternal dedica 
 tion, to imply unceasing sacrifice, the abrogation of 
 all personal desires, and consequently personal devel 
 opment." 
 
 "Well?" queried Jim. "And doesn t it?"
 
 140 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Oh, you blind bachelor-man!" she chaffed him 
 merrily. "Suppose you had a spirited horse to tame, 
 would you begin by cutting your arm-muscles?" 
 
 Giving this homely simile a moment to sink in, 
 she pursued. 
 
 "The training of a child is, in more ways than one, 
 like the training of a colt. The higher the breeding 
 of the colt, the more intelligence and muscle the 
 trainer needs. With a child you have, in addition 
 to physical guidance, a thousand complexes of mind 
 and soul and inherited tendencies. The ideal, per 
 fect, modern mother," she declared with vehemence, 
 "should be, first, a biologist, secondly a business 
 woman, third, a physician, and, most important of 
 all, a technical psychologist. No wonder you look 
 amazed!" Here a gay laugh rang out. "Don t 
 fear. I am only the mere superficial skimming of 
 these social sciences. I have read a good deal, it is 
 true, but all that I learn merely has the effect of 
 making me realize how little it is. One never knows 
 enough to be a wise mother !" 
 
 She leaned back now, deliberately controlling the 
 excitement that her own words had aroused. 
 
 "The real secret, Jim," she said a little later, 
 speaking with more restraint, "the fundamental 
 necessity in attempting to influence a growing mind 
 is to keep yours as young in spirit, and ages older in 
 knowledge." 
 
 "Poor little Sis," murmured Jim, apparently ir 
 relevant. Julia understood. 
 
 "But I am miles away from where I started!" 
 she cried out. "This isn t to be a theory, but a
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 141 
 
 quite definite demonstration. Well, we got over to 
 England somehow. I took Wick to his preliminary 
 school and left him there. For business reasons, in 
 order to keep in touch with the firm of solicitors who 
 were managing my husband s English investments, I 
 went to live in London, taking a suite at one of the 
 less expensive hotels. I knew a little about business, 
 even then. Judge Preston had fallen into the way 
 of consulting me; but somehow, in this crisis, it 
 never occurred to me as a possible and vital interest. 
 I was a heartbroken widow, consecrating my crepe- 
 hung life to my boy. Therefore it seemed the proper 
 thing to remain in darkened chambers, brooding 
 over the past and shrinking at thought of the future. 
 A cheerful and vitalizing atmosphere for a boy 
 to come back to at the end of a normal, out-of-door 
 week with other boys ! " she denounced, with a note 
 of scorn. 
 
 "Then you had the boy with you part of the time," 
 remarked Jim sympathetically. 
 
 "Yes, from each Saturday noon till early the fol 
 lowing Monday, poor lad." 
 
 Jim frowned, but without waiting for comment 
 she hurried on. 
 
 "Just at the first I used to go up to his school by 
 an early train on Saturdays, just for the bliss of having 
 him a little longer. I met a few of his friends. They 
 seemed to avoid me, and Wick, while they were 
 around, was so utterly unlike his affectionate self 
 that I was annoyed and troubled. At last he found 
 courage to tell me that the other fellows laughed, 
 because they said I came after him, as if I didn t
 
 142 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 trust him to ride on the train alone. I was deeply 
 hurt, but I stayed away." 
 
 "The young cub!" growled Jim. 
 
 "Not at all. I was the one to blame. After I 
 stopped going to his school, I literally existed only 
 in the thoughts of his visit. All of my meals were 
 served in a private dining room. I considered it 
 more delicate to avoid publicity. Wick and I 
 ate in solemn state, with two butlers to serve us. 
 Oh, what a fool I was!" 
 
 "I can t see that, Jule." 
 
 "No, but you will." 
 
 "One Saturday, a day, I remember, that was 
 all blue and gold outside, with a heavenly, soft little 
 wind blowing in from the Thames, the boy was late. 
 I stood, glued to the window, watching this way and 
 that, a hundred different scenes of horror painted on 
 my self-tormenting mind. Finally he came, and I 
 said to myself that the mother-anxiety instinct was 
 sacredly true. He had been injured. His head was 
 bandaged in white, and one arm was in a sling. I 
 flew down to the hotel door, dragging him through 
 it bodily, hurling my terrified questions, while the 
 servants and the other guests stood grinning. I 
 never saw them, but Wick did. He wrenched him 
 self away, beseeching me to wait until we got to our 
 room. This did not stop me. Finally, Wick could 
 shut the door on the world that had grinned at him, 
 and to my horror I saw that he faced me with some 
 thing like anger in his eyes. I had never before seen 
 that look ! Stricken by it, but still unwarned, I con 
 tinued my demands for an explanation. He was surly.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 143 
 
 I nagged and tormented him." A sob caught in her 
 throat and for an instant she held a tight hand 
 against it. 
 
 "I want you to bear well in mind," she resumed in 
 a more ordinary voice, "that during all this four 
 months, I think it was I had gone nowhere, and 
 made no friends. Sometimes, at twilight, I would 
 creep about the Park or along the Thames in my black 
 veil. When Wick was with me, I did not wish even 
 this. I kept him there, a prisoner to my own morbid 
 ness. I often wonder how the poor lamb stood me as 
 long as he did." 
 
 She smiled a reminiscent smile, touched with a 
 sad self-scorning. 
 
 "But the fight," reminded Jim. "Of course he d 
 been fighting." 
 
 "Yes, he admitted that, but when I insisted upon 
 knowing the cause, he was silent. Like the idiot 
 I then was, I jumped to the conclusion that it was 
 something he was ashamed of, something he dared 
 not tell. At this, I started in quoting scripture. I 
 censured him first for deceiving and concealing things 
 from his poor mother. Of course the fifth command 
 ment was dragged in. Then I began a tirade on the 
 wickedness of fighting. Here was a piece of con 
 temptible self-deception, for I really believed in a 
 boy s fighting, when the provocation is unbearable. 
 But I gave neither Wick nor my morbid self the 
 benefit of this doubt. I was simply in terror that he 
 might be hurt. I am sure he saw through me, even 
 at the moment. Nevertheless, I kept on. I tried 
 to make him promise never to fight again, and was
 
 144 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 fool enough to point out how pained and shocked his 
 father would have been. At this the poor child, 
 goaded and lashed beyond control, told me the 
 cause for his fighting." 
 
 Jim s eyes, by this, were eager. "Yes," he en 
 couraged. Again it was the boy Jim, who sat be 
 fore her. 
 
 "It seems," continued the narrator more deliber 
 ately, "that all along, from the time of my first 
 lugubrious appearance at the school, the boys had 
 been ragging him. They referred to me as his nurse, 
 his keeper. Boys at their age are not very con 
 siderate. They had invented nicknames for me, the 
 raven , the inky fountain , and a lot of others I 
 have forgotten. But the final sneer, the one that 
 sent Wick in a red fury against the speaker, was 
 when one of the big boys called me the Great Ameri 
 can Hearse. Rather clever, now, wasn t it?" 
 
 Jim, after a gleam of appreciation, instantly sub 
 dued, protested hotly. "No, it was brutal! The 
 scallawag! I hope Wick pounded him to a jelly!" 
 
 Julia shook her head. "He was twice Wick s 
 size. He might have done a lot more harm physi 
 cal harm, I mean than actually he did. All 
 English boys like pluck. And as for his part as 
 inciter, I shall love that boy until his life s end." 
 
 "Love him!" echoed the astonished man. "Well, 
 I ll be tee- totally " 
 
 "You needn t be," she suggested calmly. "I 
 repeat, that English boy was the direct means to 
 my salvation. Afterward he became one of our most 
 frequent guests. You see, I thanked him."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 145 
 
 Her eyes, bright and a little quizzical, set them 
 selves on his. 
 
 "I reckon you know what you are talking about," 
 smiled Jim, using that tone of kindly patience which 
 so flatly contradicts the surmise. 
 
 "I know," she nodded, "and so will you in a 
 minute, for this is what it did. After the first shock, 
 in which I seemed to be caught up in a cyclone, 
 whirled in ten directions, and set down in the same 
 spot, I seemed to feel, all at once, the volt of a new 
 electricity in my atrophying brain. Everything 
 cleared ! I was, as by a miracle, delivered from my 
 self. It took just that one volt to change my whole 
 conception of what motherhood really means. I had 
 been thinking of myself, my own sorrow, loneliness, 
 homesickness, and various other mental maladies, 
 and really not of Wick at all. He was being used as 
 a sort of clothes rack, on which I aired my crepe, 
 or hung my tear-soaked handkerchiefs out to dry. 
 Those week-end visits, made so faithfully, must have 
 been nightmares to a healthy boy. 
 
 "While I stood there thinking planning de 
 ciding with a swiftness and surety my mind had 
 never known before, Wick lay on the bed, his face 
 averted, sobbing his little heart away. I drew my 
 self up ; and, marching as much like a soldier on 
 parade as I knew how, strode past him to an old- 
 fashioned wardrobe, banged the doors wide, and 
 jerked from its hook my widow s bonnet and its 
 long, baneful draperies. 
 
 "By this time Wick had begun to watch me from 
 the corner of one swollen eye. I punched that hat
 
 146 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 and veil into a wad the size of a football, and, almost 
 running to the fire, thrust it into the coals, and held 
 it rigidly with a poker, till the last writhing crisp 
 had fallen to white ash. Wick was now sitting 
 upright on the edge of the bed. I heard him 
 give a gasp. Then I sprang from my knees and, 
 crossing to him, Wick, I said, and somehow I 
 managed a smile, Wick, dear boy, there went the 
 last of the Great American Hearse. I think we ll 
 have dinner down-stairs in the main dining room 
 to-night. And what do you say to a musical comedy 
 afterward ? 
 
 "There isn t much more more to tell," she said, 
 after a pause in which apparently she had relived, 
 with a new perspective of satisfaction, the described 
 scene. "During that very week I moved out of my 
 gloomy, ultra-respectable hotel, and took a cheerful 
 little apartment in Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde 
 Park. There was an extra bedchamber for Wick s 
 school friends. He seldom, after that, came down 
 alone. I tried to make them all like me, and I 
 believe that I succeeded. Since then I have never 
 worn crepe, or solid black. I took up the study of 
 stocks and bonds as if it were a game. All of Wick s 
 scientific work was new to me. I began to study it, 
 and to go further. There are no such libraries as 
 those in London. Also I made good friends, both 
 men and women. The boy and I had more invita 
 tions than we could meet. He accepted my popular 
 ity with grown folks as a matter of course, but his 
 pride in the boys admiration and liking was touching. 
 We became not so much mother and son, as comrades,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 147 
 
 chums, fellow-students, and playmates. His favorite 
 name for me yet is chum. " 
 
 Again she would have fallen into happy reverie, 
 but a certain restless movement from the chair 
 before her brought recollection of the real issue 
 involved. 
 
 "Of course," she said a little hastily, "I cannot 
 pretend that my particular problem bears a very 
 close relation to Ciceley s. It is possible that girls 
 are different. " 
 
 "Yes," seconded Jim eagerly. "That s just what 
 I ve been thinking all along. If Wick had been a 
 girl, now?" 
 
 There was questioning, almost a challenge, in his 
 eyes. She met them fairly. He could not fail to 
 read in the bright and steadfast intelligence of her 
 returning look complete self-confidence. 
 
 "Whether a boy or girls," she summarized, "the 
 one supreme necessity is in keeping oneself in touch 
 with them. Mental inertia, the lure of the line of 
 least resistance, are the snares of middle age. Some 
 people, like Ciceley, are born with a tendency toward 
 negation. But negation is a path that no one, least 
 of all a mother, can afford to tread." 
 
 She waited now for Jim to speak. As a preliminary 
 he drew a long, discouraged sigh. "Hasn t poor 
 little Sis gone pretty far along that road already?" 
 In even so slight a concession, he felt himself dis 
 loyal. 
 
 "Yes, but not hopelessly," cried Julia. "That s 
 what I won t believe. It will take time, and patience, 
 and more tact than either of us has ever used before,
 
 148 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 but between us I feel certain it can be done. Lucille 
 has already discharged her stick of dynamite," she 
 went on, smiling to see the growing animation of her 
 listener s face. "I have a few sticks of that excellent 
 commodity up my own sleeve." 
 
 Jim, glancing toward the diaphanous draperies, 
 grinned. 
 
 "Then I descend on Sis to-morrow !" she declaimed. 
 "Now, don t look terrified. I m not going to bite her. 
 But in the morning, early, it is to be. I am specially 
 anxious to take her by surprise. Listen!" she cried 
 out in another tone, her head turned swiftly. "I 
 hear Wick." 
 
 "Why, I don t hear a thing," declared Jim, but 
 even with the words, a quick knock sounded. 
 
 At Julia s joyous "Come," a boy entered. He was 
 slender, and not very tall. Judge Preston had been 
 a short, stout man. The first impression given by 
 Wick was that of straightforward energy. He moved 
 instantly and directly toward his mother s guest, 
 who sprang up to meet him. On hearing the Colonel s 
 name, the boy smiled suddenly, disclosing an array of 
 teeth marvellously white and even. His mouth, 
 slightly repressed when in repose, broke, with the act 
 of smiling, into winning curves. An almost girlish 
 dimple, cordially and ungratefully detested by its 
 owner, played at the left corner of his lips. 
 
 "Colonel Jim !" he exclaimed, a hand outstretched, 
 "I should say I did remember! My! But I m 
 jolly well pleased to be at home once more !" 
 
 "God bless my soul !" rejoined the Colonel in huge 
 delight, plying with energy his numbing grip. "It s
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 149 
 
 the boy all right ! But look here, sonny, that Eng 
 lish accent of yours is going to get you a lot of 
 knocks!" 
 
 "Oh, I m well coached," said Wickford. "My 
 chum there," he turned a merry, affectionate look 
 upon his mother, "has seen to that. The boys have 
 already been after a bit of ragging down in the hotel 
 lounge." 
 
 " He means vestibule corridor foyer what 
 ever they call the place you sit in, over here," 
 explained Julia, laughing from one face to the 
 other. 
 
 Standing before Jim, who was as big as a man ever 
 gets to be without being too big, the boy seemed a 
 mere stripling. Julia unconsciously moved nearer, 
 thrusting an arm through his. Her bright, intelli 
 gent face glowed with tenderness. 
 
 To her suggestion that they all sit down, the 
 Colonel demurred that he must catch the car now 
 due, as the night schedule between "town" and 
 Richmond Hill was remarkable chiefly for its wide 
 spacing. 
 
 His hosts went with him to the elevator door. 
 Partly in the act of descent Jim won from the boy a 
 promise to visit him the following morning. "We ll 
 knock around Stag Harbor till after lunch," said 
 Jim. "Then we can both stroll over to Little Sun 
 shine , and see for ourselves how that giddy young 
 mother of yours has been behaving." 
 
 When the last echo of his hearty voice was still, 
 the mother and son paced slowly along the carpeted 
 corridors, their arms about each other. Wick had
 
 150 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 begun to talk already of his evening s experiences, 
 the strange rising to the surface of memories he 
 thought forgotten, the almost miraculous sensations 
 of familiarity mingled with unrealities. 
 
 "I understand too well," she answered him. "It 
 is a little terrifying. It makes one realize that 
 nothing ever vanishes. It only lies in wait." 
 
 As he opened her drawing-room door, he paused. 
 "I don t believe I ll come in, mother. It s on to 
 eleven, and you look a bit fagged." 
 
 "Not for one cigarette?" 
 
 "It never stops at one when I m with you," he 
 smiled. 
 
 "Then good night, boy." 
 
 "Good night, dear chum." 
 
 Within her apartment, the door securely locked, 
 she first snapped off the lights. Moving softly and 
 gropingly, she neared the table, guided by the scent 
 of roses, and, reaching them, put her face far down 
 among their petals. Perfume may be an anaesthetic, 
 or a stinging irritant. 
 
 After a single, long, indrawn breath, she turned 
 away, and, passing into her bedchamber, began a 
 feverish search for the electric switchboard. With 
 all lights at their fullest, she went deliberately toward 
 a mirror, and stood there, looking, with hard, ap 
 praising eyes at her own charming semblance. A 
 smile, if anything so grim and mirthless should 
 be called a smile, twisted her well-cut lips. 
 
 Again she wheeled, and, moving always as if im 
 pelled by a strange, underlying excitement, went to 
 her trunk, and threw back the lid. Tray after tray
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 151 
 
 was lifted, and set down at random. At last, reach 
 ing unerringly to one of the deepest corners, she un 
 covered a small, tin box. This, still unopened, she 
 carried to the dresser. It would seem now as if she 
 wished to avoid the eyes of that woman in the glass. 
 With face averted, she put one hand up to a slender 
 platinum chain quite hidden by the moonstones at 
 her throat, and drew out, very, very slowly, two 
 objects hanging from it. One was a tiny key, the 
 other a flat gold locket. 
 
 The key she fitted instantly to the box, setting the 
 top back with a single gesture. The locket presented, 
 evidently, a graver problem. She regarded it un 
 certainly, turning it over, closing her hand on it, 
 only to spread it wide again. Suddenly, with a 
 tiny shiver of resolution, she opened it. The face of 
 the boy Jim smiled at her. 
 
 She closed her eyes, throwing her head far back. 
 Her lips were pressed together to a line of determina 
 tion that, in some way, was infinitely pathetic. 
 Blindly she closed the locket, shivering again at the 
 sharp click it gave. Then she lowered it, as to a 
 tiny grave, within the gaping box. 
 
 Whatever kindred mementos were already hidden 
 there, she did not trust herself to review. There 
 was no use, anyway. Each one was duplicated in 
 her heart. Now, last of all, the locket must be 
 hidden. 
 
 She had taken the key from its chain. The box 
 with its recent accession, went back into the trunk. 
 Only the key was left for reminder. She gazed at 
 it for an instant, and then deliberately wrenched it
 
 152 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 apart. On the palm of her steady right hand the 
 tiny fragments lay. 
 
 "There, Julia Wickford," she said aloud, "there 
 lies the last shattered prism of your rainbow, the 
 last torn petal from your Rose of Dawn."
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 CICELEY S GARDEN 
 
 FORGETTING, or more probably deliberately ig 
 noring her mother s stifled request to close the door, 
 Lucille, her chin high in air, and a jealous, possessive 
 arm encircling little Sylvia, led her, in spite of panto 
 mimic remonstrance, along the bare hallway and down 
 the stairs. 
 
 The elder s high, sweet voice, just a trifle clearer 
 now than the circumstances seemed to demand, 
 scattered bright echoes. She was planning viva 
 ciously their dual "dates" and pleasures for the day, 
 and her words swept back. The mother strove hard 
 not to hear them. Now the speaker laughed. It 
 was a mellifluous sound. Lucille had been at some 
 pains to cultivate it. Ciceley shrank back as though 
 it were the swinging tips of a knout. It was not so 
 much panic or surprise at Lucille s laughing which 
 sent her cowering down, but a sick dread of the little 
 one s answering mirth. But Sylvia did not laugh. 
 Assured of this, Ciceley drew a long quivering breath 
 of thankfulness, and for an instant let her lids droop. 
 
 After the two had reached the dining room, with 
 the door closed behind them, the mother again lay
 
 154 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 silent and still. She felt the quiet as it were a tide 
 of deep warm influence on which she could let her 
 weary spirit drift. In a moment more, through the 
 window, she heard old Mammy shuffling along the 
 flagstone walk. From the slow, measured tread, 
 Ciceley knew that she was bringing in breakfast. 
 The sudden alarm that Mammy might think it neces 
 sary to bring a second tray to her mistress room drove 
 the small figure to an upright posture. She frowned 
 anxiously, and glanced here and there as if for escape. 
 It was certain that she could not remain in bed, the 
 prey not only of circling, unhappy thoughts, but of 
 constant fear of intrusion. 
 
 On one corner of her footboard she had hung the day 
 before a shabby old black skirt. This was to remind 
 her that it needed a new binding. It was always 
 difficult for Ciceley to remember to do things for her 
 self. 
 
 A desire to begin the homely occupation seized her. 
 She was always more tranquil when she sewed. 
 There was something of hypnotic soothing in the 
 rhythmic process. 
 
 Revivified by the definite objective, she was half 
 out of bed when, all at once, she remembered that 
 her sewing materials were in a room directly over 
 that in which the girls were breakfasting. She 
 stiffened in the attitude of egress. 
 
 Sewing had become of recent years a large dimension 
 of Ciceley s habitual drudgery. This upper wing 
 room, otherwise unused, had been fitted up for the 
 sole purpose. The old family machine was there, a 
 clattering, archaic specimen. To the girls it was the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 155 
 
 object of much merry scorn. Lucille declared its 
 noise got on her nerves. Down on the cool verandah, 
 or, in winter, by the great dining-room fire, she would 
 sometimes work upon the daintier accessories, whip 
 ping on lace, or making up bows of ribbon. The little 
 one generally kept close. Besides, one would as soon 
 think of having a butterfly wash windows as of seeing 
 little Sylvia sew ! Ciceley remained alone in the 
 sewing-room for many hours at a time, unquestioningly 
 content with her self-imposed toil. 
 
 The machine was piled high this morning, as 
 Ciceley well knew, with diaphanous lengths of white 
 organdie, "sprigged" with a small green fern, des 
 tined to be made into a dress for Lucille. There was 
 nearly always on the old machine a similar heap of 
 fragile beauty. Because of it Ciceley, quite cheer 
 fully oblivious of the fact, went shabby. It was one 
 phase in her passionate pride in their beauty, this 
 choosing and fashioning of new garments for her 
 daughters. In her adoring eyes each triumph, when 
 completed, when patted, pinned, and adjusted by her 
 own careful hands upon its allotted possessor, brought 
 to the surface some fresh and hitherto unappreciated 
 loveliness. 
 
 Under these self-annihilating reflections, Ciceley s 
 weak mother heart, discarding personal necessities, 
 began to yearn toward the fern-sprigged fabric. She 
 held out a hand, moving her fingers dreamily. The 
 soft fabric moved between them. She knew just how 
 she wished those folds about the throat to lie. And 
 what joy it would be, just seeing that moonlight- 
 colored throat of Lucille s rising above the folds !
 
 156 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 A clear, mocking laugh, darting into the silence, 
 came in small silvery shivers to her ears. Her face 
 changed. She set her mouth as sternly as its gentle 
 curving would permit, and, getting from the bed at a 
 single bound, said to herself that Lucille s sewing 
 should go untouched for that day at least. An in 
 stinct, wise as it was unusual, told her that a resump 
 tion of servitude at this point would be construed by 
 Lucille as utter and complete capitulation. 
 
 Both for her own sake and for that of the tall girl 
 who had humiliated, and was still defying her, the 
 mother knew that she must find some way of self- 
 assertion. But where was she to turn? What path 
 had been left open ? No Gulliver was ever more help 
 lessly bound by Lilliputian filaments than she by her 
 self-wrought chains of maternal thralldom. 
 
 With an anxious little frown, she rose and walked 
 on bare feet to the nearest window. She pushed the 
 old green shutter wide, and for an instant caught her 
 breath, dazed by the sudden brilliancy. It was a 
 world of blue and gold and green. No wind stirred. 
 The mocking-birds were as busy as if it had been 
 May. After her first delighted sense of beauty came 
 the reaction of a plaintive questioning. "How can 
 the old, familiar world be so beautiful, when I am so 
 unhappy?" 
 
 She leaned out farther. The sunshine encircled 
 her with warm and sentient arms. Serene and still 
 under her gaze lay the sun-steeped garden. And at 
 the sight, her heart, as though it had been a thing of 
 separate volition, moved softly out of her breast 
 to go straying along the flower-bordered paths. At
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 157 
 
 last she had found and recognized her conscious 
 haven. 
 
 Now she began to dress with such celerity that one 
 might have thought her striving to outrace a second, 
 and this time an hindering impulse. Her imagina 
 tion was held rigidly to the single goal. " My garden ! 
 My dear garden!" she kept whispering. The words 
 were a sort of invocation. 
 
 She swerved a little in wondering why the vision of 
 this refuge had not come to her first of all ; but, being 
 peculiarly unversed in self-analysis, did not persist 
 to the obvious solution. This work among her 
 flowers, being Ciceley s one and only personal joy, was 
 inevitably the last to be indulged and the first to suffer 
 inhibition. To give, as now she was determined upon 
 giving, the rise of a busy forenoon to its alluring 
 practice, showed an advance toward individual 
 freedom little short of anarchy. 
 
 The black skirt, still unrepaired, was hastily as 
 sumed. For a waist she put on a cast-off blouse of 
 Lucille s ; and, reaching about for a warmer covering, 
 caught up a shapeless garment that had once been a 
 white sweater, the property of little Sylvia. Perceiv 
 ing that it had been definitely discarded, Ciceley, in 
 one of the spurts of thrift employed only toward her 
 self, had attempted to dye it black. The result, both 
 as to general outline and to color, had been something 
 distressingly resembling an ancient, piebald horse. 
 
 The summit and completion of this outfit awaited 
 her down-stairs, in the shape of a wide straw hat. 
 In antithesis to the sweater, it had started in by being 
 a glossy black, and had assumed by less arbitrary
 
 158 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 methods its present aspect of mottled, dingy grayness. 
 It was kept always on a certain nail, rusty, of 
 course, in a tiny shed where Ciceley housed her 
 gardening implements, stacks of empty flower-pots, 
 earth-sifters, stakes for tying up discouraged plants, 
 and a great, shaggy bunch of raffia. 
 
 At her door seemed to lie in wait a wraith of her 
 usual timidity. Only for an instant it held her, then 
 throwing up her chin with a gesture, had she known it, 
 not unlike that of Lucille, she moved with quick steps 
 down to the lower hall and out through the back door 
 to her tool-house. She would not let herself surmise 
 what the girls were thinking. Instead, she said to 
 herself that she hoped old Mammy had not noticed 
 her. 
 
 With the trowel securely grasped, and the old hat 
 tied at a most unbecoming angle over her hastily- 
 brushed hair, she felt a definite accession of valor. 
 Now, in a sense, she was queen. Humbly and 
 quaintly crowned, indeed, and with a mud-stained 
 scepter ; but none the less a sovereign, the undisputed 
 holder of a wide, green realm. 
 
 She hurried on, not daring a backward glance until, 
 knowing herself well-screened by a thick gardenia 
 hedge, she came to a standstill, her whole body droop 
 ing in an instinctive and soothing relaxation. 
 
 There was no special place to begin. The dear 
 flowers at all times and seasons were grateful for her 
 ministrations. Now, in the autumn months, the 
 worst of the marauding weeds were over. She looked 
 about with slow, appraising ease. A little holiday 
 wind rose in her heart, blowing away the mists.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 159 
 
 A redbird, which year after year had builded in the 
 same down-hanging limb of an old pear tree, swung on 
 a near-by twig to welcome her. She smiled at the 
 crimson chorister, so like a heart set free. After 
 all, the world had its own right to be beautiful ! 
 
 The fall crop of violets was in full bloom. Stooping 
 to a purple mass, she noticed among the leaves intrud 
 ing stems of the alert green duckweed. Even in 
 winter these jaunty pirates often ventured among the 
 legitimate anchorage. High on the tips waved a few 
 white stars of flowers, small hopeless flags of truce. 
 
 The gardener sighed. Destruction of a weed 
 brought to her always a tiny stab of remorse. Nerv 
 ing herself to the distasteful necessity, she ran bare 
 fingers along the earth until the central stem of the 
 interloper met her touch, at which she gave a des 
 perate, though reluctant tug. It came up whole. 
 Ciceley would never wear gloves while digging among 
 her flowers, having a secret theory that they under 
 stood and in their own way resented the fastidious 
 snobbery. 
 
 On her outstretched palm, conserving its posture 
 of vitality, the chickweed lay. She gazed long at it, 
 and to her mind came a troubled analogy between 
 its forcibly uprooted condition and her own. A few 
 green, oval seed-pods had already formed. They 
 would make a dainty salad-course for Sylvia s canary s 
 breakfast. In lieu of the forbidden kittens, the little 
 one had transferred her desire for living pets first to 
 a family of white rabbits, and later on to a particularly 
 shrill canary. All such objects of emotional appeal 
 were by the elder girl frankly and openly despised.
 
 160 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 She had no need of pets. For a long moment Ciceley 
 struggled against the temptation to lay it aside in 
 some sheltered nook where she could find it later. 
 Then, with a tightening of the lips, she threw it from 
 her. It caught among the stems of a leafless rosebush, 
 sprawled like a pigmy octopus, and finally hung 
 flaccid and ignominiously undone. At this she rose 
 quickly and moved on, well from the sight of it. 
 Weeding was not to be her chosen occupation for this 
 particular morning. 
 
 Next she was claimed by a small camellia bush, 
 which, for no reason she had been able to fathom, 
 persisted in being an "ailing child." Its blossoms, 
 though always sparse, were of a peculiar beauty, a 
 transparent, waxen white, shading in the center to a 
 luminous green, the hue of chrysoprase. If Lucille 
 could be said to have a favorite flower, it was this. 
 
 As a mother over a cradle, Ciceley now bent down 
 to the little shrub. She counted, as many times 
 before, the number of round, tightly folded buds. 
 There were but five, a scantier yield than usual. She 
 must see to it that none of these fell off. How 
 exquisite Lucille had looked that day, now nearly a 
 year ago, as she had started off to Betty Ravenel s 
 party. Her gown, all white and clinging, had been 
 made of course by the little mother s hands. Even 
 now, in retrospect, she smiled at the triumph of it. 
 For ornament the girl had worn a single bloom of 
 this camellia. Against that calm young breast it 
 had seemed to take on the virtue of a talisman, a 
 symbol of purity, passionless, mystical, wrought 
 out of distant, moonlit snows. She held the lovely
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 161 
 
 image in her memory as one holds a priceless treasure 
 in the two hands. Then, with a splintering blow, 
 the thought struck, it was this same exquisite, 
 virginal thing, her own child, who last night 
 
 With a low cry she fell to her knees and commenced 
 a precipitate digging. Her trowel-stabs thrust deep, 
 one after the other, into the very substance of per 
 plexity. Yet to what purpose ? This was at best an 
 outlet, a mere physical relief from an inner tension ! 
 Where could she go, or what employment turn to, 
 when each encountered object, be it weed or flower, 
 served as a swift, malignant clue to drag her back 
 ward into the blind maze of her problem ? 
 
 She must assert herself ! This was indubitably 
 clear. But how? Was she not at the very moment 
 essaying it? And for all result that she could see, 
 there was only a deepening of chaos. She paused in 
 her work to give this phase of impotence a wider con 
 sideration. After all, it had a tinge of the unreason 
 able, the fantastic, that a mother should feel so utterly 
 baffled by the perversity of her own child. If only 
 she could manage to detach the thousand filaments 
 of habit. If she could see with an outside mind. 
 Prayer had not helped her, nor the long sleepless 
 hours through which she had wept and striven in her 
 attempt at resolution. She was too close to the core 
 of her dilemma, too much a part of it. Vaguely she 
 was conscious that the thing she most needed was that 
 which least she could give, an intelligent perspec 
 tive. And who was to grant it ? 
 
 As if silence had spoken, came the word "Jim." 
 Ciceley started and looked fearfully about. The
 
 i 62 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 sound had been astonishingly real. Nothing moved 
 except the redbird, which, on the earth a few feet 
 from her had been watching with a hopeful and 
 expectant eye the swift upturnings of her trowel. 
 
 Yes, Jim was of course always ready to help her, 
 but his presence last night had done more harm than 
 good. His persistent and ludicrous attitude toward 
 herself, apart from his now declared hostility to Lucille, 
 made him, in Ciceley s mind at least, an impossible 
 and undesirable ally. 
 
 Yet if he had really meant what he said last night ! 
 Strange that of all his words, these should remain so 
 clearly: "This time it s a promise to me! This 
 time it is going to be kept." 
 
 The trowel hung suspended. Ciceley s face grew 
 just a little dreamy. For the first time in all that 
 troubled morning, her thoughts were away from the 
 girls. "Pshaw!" she exclaimed, under her breath. 
 "Of course it was mere bravado. He s promised it a 
 hundred times before. Jim couldn t really Poor 
 silly Jim!" The brown head under its faded hat 
 tossed with a hint of coquetry. Though all the rest 
 of her universe should shift, here was a point of im 
 mobility. No matter what his absurd, sporadic 
 efforts to escape, no matter how she chose to treat 
 him, Jim was her own, her bonded slave. 
 
 A specially vigorous dig emphasized her conviction 
 of this sentiment. The contents of the trowel were 
 scattered high in air. Then, with a stifled shriek, 
 Ciceley sat back to her heels, quivering with re 
 pugnance. She had bisected a large, pink earth 
 worm!
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 163 
 
 The redbird, catching the wriggling sight, echoed 
 her cry with a note of ecstasy. Two bounds on the 
 spring wires of his feet set him upon a partial victim. 
 Ciceley again fled. 
 
 When, with a little hysterical laugh, she came back 
 to a more rational present, she found herself leaning 
 deep into the yielding pyramid of an arbor-vitas bush. 
 Though not particularly tall, its apex rose a foot above 
 her. It was warm, resinous, caressing, almost 
 sentient. She held a flat spray against her face, 
 loving it for its screening and its perfume. 
 
 She had moved forward, in the act of quitting it, 
 when the sound of young voices coming from the 
 direction of the house drove her back farther into her 
 leafy tent. 
 
 The girls, their arms entwined, moved straight 
 toward her. The curve of the driveway they fol 
 lowed would bring them almost within touch of her 
 hand. She decided on the instant to remain in 
 hiding. She was not ready to face them both, just 
 now. 
 
 Sylvia was bareheaded, her brown curls lit to copper 
 in the sun. Lucille, who took no chances with her 
 marvellous complexion, wore a pale green Dutch" 
 bonnet tied with wide strings under her chin. Framed 
 in its cool green shadow, the girl s face was more than 
 ever like a perfect flower. 
 
 "There is no need of worrying about it any longer, 
 Sylvia," she was saying in her clear, decisive voice. 
 "You know that mother goes around the house looking 
 like a scarecrow ; and you were just as much annoyed, 
 last night, as I was, to have those strangers see her."
 
 164 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Still, she is mother !" demurred little Sylvia, 
 a quaver in her voice that made the thrilled eaves 
 dropper long to rush forth, and clasp the speaker in 
 her arms. 
 
 "Of course she is mother. That s the whole 
 trouble. If she wasn t, why should we care?" re 
 torted Lucille, with a logic as pitiless as it was un 
 answerable. 
 
 "When it comes to Uncle Jim," she pursued scorn 
 fully, "the sight of his baggy trousers and grease- 
 spotted waistcoat literally makes me ill. I am not 
 sorry for a single word I said to him last night. The 
 idea of his trying to bully me ! I only wish I had 
 said more." 
 
 The abysmal silence of the little one, following this 
 spirited declaration, might well have been filled with 
 conjectures as to what more her sister could have said. 
 
 "I m tired of seeing the lovesick old thing about, 
 anyway," was Lucille s next heartless asseveration. 
 As an indication of the contempt in which she held 
 the Colonel s middle-aged devotion, she flecked lightly 
 a spray of the very shrub where Ciceley crouched. 
 
 "And furthermore," the clear young voice rang out, 
 "I wish that mother would come to a decision for once 
 in her life, and either send him away, or make up her 
 mind to marry him." 
 
 Down its entire length the arbor vitae shivered. 
 Its denizen made a swift, indignant, forward step. 
 The scorn in her daughter s voice, touching on Jim, 
 was more than loyalty to that lifelong friend could 
 bear. Words of remonstrance burned unuttered on 
 her lips, as the two girls paced on.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 165 
 
 Ciceley, now well in the open, watched their 
 retreat. Even at the gate, in their pause over the 
 lifting of the latch, not a backward glance was thrown. 
 
 For once in her life Ciceley trembled, not with 
 timidity, but real anger. As if the girl s outrageous 
 attack of the evening before had not been sufficient 
 for rancour, here, under the open sky, with no excuse, 
 provocation, or incentive, again she denied Jim s 
 deepest reserves with her levity. Again she was 
 speaking, not only of him, but of her own mother 
 with as little of tenderness or reverence as though 
 it were Mammy and Uncle Snow. 
 
 Until last night s sinister awakening, Ciceley had 
 believed Jim s secret inviolate. The shame of its 
 open derision reflected on her. Truly, the time had 
 come for Lucille s recalcitrant spirit to be given a 
 curb. But anew came the blank query, "How?" 
 Was Jim in the right when he said she could no longer, 
 unaided, manage her children? Was he only too 
 right when he called them "young pelicans"? 
 
 Ciceley glanced back to the house. Over the 
 door, at this distance, the bronze, oval sign was a 
 mere dot of darkness. Instinctively she pressed 
 both hands on her breast. Yes, the image was true. 
 No physical wounds would be more tangible than 
 those Lucille s cruelty had dealt. 
 
 She lifted her head, looking around as if to assure 
 herself that her environment, at least, should be 
 familiar. Now she drew in long breaths. She must 
 think now, as never before. Surely deep, prayerful 
 thought would lead her to some resolution. 
 
 Careless of direction, she moved forward in reverie,
 
 166 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 and stepped down to the long curving drive. It 
 was deep in white sand. Each footprint so recently 
 made by the girls had left a clear intaglio. Sub 
 consciously she followed in these, matching her 
 small shoe first to one, then another. Her down 
 cast eyes, still for a time half unseeing, became 
 of themselves, as it were, aware of a something 
 in the tracks that was not just right. The sense 
 of this vague incongruity teased her. Her deeper 
 mental process resented the distraction, which, gain 
 ing strength, yet persisted. She frowned. Yes, 
 there was something quite wrong with those tracks. 
 Now, all at once, it was clear. One of the heels had 
 run down. Run-down heels, if not straightened, 
 would distort the wearer s ankles. Both of her girls 
 had the feet of young thoroughbreds. Lucille was 
 specially complacent about hers. 
 
 Ciceley stooped lower. All of her inner ratiocina 
 tions had fled. She felt that she must determine at 
 once just which of the girls was wearing the menacing 
 heel. Old Peter, the Hill cobbler, could fix it. She 
 tracked it, step by step, and thus led, had come up 
 to the gate. 
 
 Now, with a fling vital, imperious, compelling, the 
 stirrup latch went back upon its boss. Ciceley, with 
 a convulsive start, looked up. A lady was entering, 
 a stranger, gowned in quiet though unmistakable 
 elegance. Ciceley s first thought was one of conscious 
 thankfulness that Lucille was away and could not 
 score her with a look for her imprudence in being 
 "caught " by so wonderful a visitor. Of course she 
 was one of Lucille s new, fashionable friends !
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 167 
 
 But no, the slim, gracious figure, entirely at ease, 
 kept swiftly on its forward course. There was no 
 hesitation, as surely there would be on a first visit to 
 a home entirely unfamiliar, especially at a chance 
 encounter with an unknown hostess. 
 
 Now she was smiling directly into Ciceley s eyes. 
 The charming face brightened with its certainty of 
 welcome. 
 
 "Why, Sis, dear little Sis !" she cried. 
 
 Then Ciceley knew.
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 JULIA STARTS SOMETHING 
 
 " JULE," cried out Ciceley, in a voice that splintered 
 the tense silence. After, she stood there quivering. 
 Astonishment, incredulity, and a thing that touched 
 on fear, made of her face a veritable emotional play 
 ground. 
 
 Julia ran up to her, and, daring the frayed edges 
 of the hat, leaned to bestow on either cheek a warm, 
 deliberate kiss. 
 
 Ciceley submitted, half -uncomprehending, and then 
 drew back, as if dimly conscious of wishing to retain 
 a better focus upon the apparition, a clearer space of 
 air in which to breathe. Though by her external 
 senses she knew it to be Julia, something still deeper 
 kept whispering that she might be harboring a 
 phantasy. It was as if her cousin s youth, resusci 
 tate and gloriously transfigured, had suddenly come 
 back to find her old. Out of the sting of this revela 
 tion a single question flew, "Has Jim seen you yet?" 
 
 A queer light danced for an instant behind Julia s 
 spotted veil. Then she began to laugh. Among her 
 social tenets one of the most successful was " When 
 ever you find yourself in a tight place, laugh ! " 
 
 1 68
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 169 
 
 This she now did and at such length that Ciceley 
 began to display an added phase of stupefaction. She 
 could not know that behind the spangled screen of 
 artificial merriment, Julia s quick mind was under 
 going a series of vaudeville transformations. At 
 last the chosen guise stepped out. 
 
 "The idea of your asking me if I have seen any one 
 else before coming to you!" she cried, with tender 
 reproach. "Why, Sis, from the very minute I turned 
 my face south, I said to myself, First of all I shall 
 go straight to Little Sunshine. Now I am really 
 here," she skurried on, not daring to draw breath, 
 "it is lovelier and dearer than all my homesick dreams 
 of it. You too, dear little Sis, are sweeter and prettier 
 than dreams have had you. I am so glad to be with 
 you once more. Are you not just a little glad to see 
 me?" 
 
 "Of course," stammered Ciceley, her instinct of 
 hospitality beating a pathway through chaos. "But, 
 but why didn t you write anybody? When did 
 you get here ? What what on earth have you done 
 to yourself?" 
 
 Again Julia laughed, but now it was spontaneous. 
 Her purpose had already been achieved. From 
 Ciceley s maze of questioning more than one clue of 
 safety could be drawn. Grasping the first, and assum 
 ing an air of reproof, humorously exaggerated, she 
 flung out, "And have you the nerve, Ciceley Talia- 
 ferro, to ask me why I didn t write?" 
 
 Ciceley s eyes fell. 
 
 "Well, never mind. I forgive you. I am too 
 happy right now to hold a grudge against anybody."
 
 170 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Here she caught Ciceley s arm in hers. "Come, let s 
 go in, so we can talk." 
 
 For a few paces they moved silently toward the 
 house. Julia was sending her smiling gaze this way 
 and that, touching each instant some long forgotten 
 object with the light of reminiscence. For Ciceley 
 there was but one thing visible, the shimmering gray 
 figure at her side. 
 
 "Oh, Jule," she finally exclaimed, in a tone that 
 held a sort of naive and childish despair, "you are 
 prettier than you ever were as a girl." 
 
 "Now don t you go trying to turn my gray head! 
 I was just looking at the dear, rose-covered summer- 
 house, and thinking what centuries it had been since 
 we used to go over your lessons there." 
 
 "Gray! Where s any gray?" demanded Ciceley, 
 peering up at what tendrils could be seen beneath the 
 close-fitting toque, at the side of which perched airily 
 a single long stiff quill of white. Then, with apparent 
 irrelevance, "Where is your boy?" 
 
 "He rode out with me, but I sent him on to Stag 
 Harbor, to give Jim a surprise. He ll be here later. 
 Just at first I had a fancy for seeing you alone." 
 
 "Yes, that is better," approved Ciceley, with an 
 under satisfaction more obvious than she realized. 
 "My girls have just stepped up to the post-office." 
 
 This fact she stated in a composed, maternal way, 
 as if it had been her errand on which the girls were 
 sent. 
 
 "I m glad to sort of get used to you before they 
 come back," she went on, but the attempted laugh 
 ended in an uncertain quaver. "I don t seem able
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 171 
 
 to get used to you. It s not only that you look so 
 different. Even the sound of your voice is changed." 
 
 "Oh, just a taint of Anglophobia," tossed Julia 
 lightly, "I ll shed it soon enough down here!" 
 
 As the front steps were reached, Ciceley stopped 
 short, her eyes brightening with mischief. "Let s 
 go round by the kitchen and see if Mammy Nycie 
 will recognize you." 
 
 Hand in hand, giggling in the subdued, anticipatory 
 manner of naughty schoolgirls, the two contrastingly 
 attired figures, one an advance of modishness from 
 the Rue de la Paix, the other a shapeless bundle of 
 rejected garments, ran through the hedges and with 
 out ceremony into the unsuspecting Mammy s domain. 
 
 The old woman was seated on a stool facing the 
 door. She held precariously on her fat knees a large 
 tin dish-pan of "cow peas" which she was shelling. 
 The process had swung, as was usual in the perform 
 ance of her homely tasks, into a definite rhythm, 
 accompanied by the contralto humming of a gospel 
 tune. 
 
 At the abrupt incursion, the singer glanced up 
 frowning. Such lack of ceremony had generally 
 heralded the advent of one or both of "dem gals." 
 
 Mammy s lips formed themselves quickly for a 
 sharp reproach. She had warned them too often 
 against "bustin in on her" like this. Once she had 
 hinted darkly at a possible result of "nervous per 
 spiration." 
 
 But the lips so instinctively relaxed widened and 
 stayed apart, and seemingly had no power to close. 
 The large eyes rolled, and then fixed themselves on the
 
 172 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 smiling and already half-familiar ones in the door 
 way. Swift certainty flashed an electric spark 
 between, and in her wonder of recognition, Mammy 
 gave forth a cry, and threw both hands in air. 
 
 At this the pan slipped down, striking the bare 
 floor with a frightful clatter. The peas, both shelled 
 and unshelled, skipped wide, heaping themselves 
 into games of vegetable jackstraws. 
 
 "Good Gawd A mighty!" breathed out the awed 
 one, when she could speak. "Ef it ain t little Miss 
 Julia Wickford done turnt into de Queen ob Sheeby !" 
 
 At this Julia, laughing hugely, wheeled round to 
 Ciceley in order to share the delight. Mammy s eyes 
 went there too. Then slowly the childish, vaguely- 
 puzzled gaze returned to the radiant visitor. 
 
 "Well, this is better than we could have hoped for, 
 isn t it, Sis?" cried out the quick-witted Julia. "Do 
 you know, Mammy, you recognized me a whole lot 
 sooner than Miss Ciceley did? But I am sorry about 
 the peas. Let me help you gather them up." 
 
 Not for nothing had Julia been born a Southerner. 
 At the first tentative reach of her gloved hand toward 
 a heap of shells, Mammy, with one bound, came 
 literally and figuratively into her own. "He-ah! 
 He-ah, now ! Miss Julia," she remonstrated, shooing 
 the would-be helper away as she might a hen, "you 
 stop dat grubbin on my flo . Dis ain t no place fer 
 you, no-how." 
 
 "That means that we re to get out," said Ciceley 
 merrily. " Come on." 
 
 They entered by the back door of the house, Ciceley 
 instinctively leading toward the dining room. A
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 173 
 
 pleasant low fire was at home. Over it and the big 
 mantel hung a large gold-framed portrait of Henry 
 Bering, done in oils. The pictured face, under the 
 dual lighting of morning and the reflected glow of the 
 fire, showed a mysterious animation. The dark, 
 narrow eyes menaced the doorway. The lips, red 
 as they were in life, thin and subtly ironic, flickered 
 an instant, then shut close. The whole tense coun 
 tenance now seemed to be watching Julia. 
 
 Ciceley had not glanced up. The dominant 
 presence had with her become a habit. But Julia, 
 deliberately halting, challenged the cold eyes with 
 her own. On her lips too came the ghost of a 
 scornful flicker. "You varnished hypocrite!" she 
 thought. 
 
 Becoming conscious of the other s fixity, Ciceley, 
 still sparkling with merriment, looked round. As if 
 by a stroke of grim magic, the bright face sobered 
 to the image of inconsolable grief. She crept back to 
 Julia softly, leaning against her arm. A sigh, long- 
 drawn, plaintive, and filled with resignation, issued 
 through quivering lips. Now the brown eyes, ador 
 ingly lifted, fawned on the painted icon. 
 
 Julia encircled the drooping figure, holding it close 
 as she mused aloud, "What a great comfort it must 
 be to Henry, even if he s dead, to know that he left 
 behind him such a flattering portrait. I really think 
 I shall have to look up the artist. You remember 
 how dreadfully one-sided poor Henry s nose was? 
 In his picture it is made to appear quite straight." 
 
 The sigh broke into a horrified gasp. The eyes fell 
 suddenly, two birds at a single shot. Pushing her-
 
 174 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 self off, Ciceley fixed them in shrinking incredulous 
 dismay on she who had uttered blasphemy. 
 
 But that artless person, smiling and singularly 
 self-possessed, was already moving forward to the 
 fireplace. 
 
 ! " May I sit here ? Is it dear old Jim s special corner 
 still ? " she enquired in a breath, waving a gloved hand 
 in the direction of the leather chair. 
 
 Ciceley replied to both queries by a dazed nod. For 
 a few moments she was literally without power to 
 move. Her nightmare of unreality was beginning to 
 creep in from a new quarter. Was she never again to 
 feel natural, or had something at the very foundation 
 of her intelligence gone wrong? Somewhere she had 
 read that a too-poignant mental strain produced 
 phenomena called hallucinations. One saw and heard 
 things that were not there. Surely it could be only 
 incipient insanity that evoked what had seemed to 
 be Julia s recent remarks. There was something said 
 about Henry s nose. Desperately the little widow 
 again looked at the portrait. There was the profaned 
 member, Praxitelean in symmetry. 
 
 She drew in a breath of relief, throwing at the same 
 time a glance of indignation toward Julia, who chanced 
 to be at that moment calmly removing her gloves. 
 
 Ciceley went back to the straight nose-bridge, 
 clinging as to a life-saving spar. She whispered aloud 
 to it her belief, her undying loyalty. Every one knew 
 that Henry was beautiful ! And yet and yet 
 what was this hideous clamor of reason, this stripping 
 of memory that now shrieked to her, "Each of your 
 husband s many photographs, and this portrait as
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 175 
 
 well, were most carefully posed to secure the one 
 straight line of his crooked nose, and you know it" ? 
 
 Until this dreadful moment, her memory of the 
 distortion had been as utterly buried as some trivial 
 incident of her personal infancy. She would have 
 sworn on many bibles that Henry s nose had been a 
 model of its kind. Not only pride and deep sentiment 
 were affronted. There was a tang, as of ridicule, 
 that poisoned her very soul. 
 
 "What is the matter?" now questioned Julia. "Is 
 there some housekeeping you must attend to, before 
 we can have our talk ? If so, just forget me till it is 
 over. I m utterly comfy here." 
 
 She looked it. Two perfectly shod feet were crossed 
 far in front of her. With little luxurious, nestling 
 movements she was adjusting her slim figure to the 
 responsive chair. On her bright face was a smile 
 of unmistakable content. 
 
 "N-n-no," stammered Ciceley, feeling more than 
 ever that she had been the sport of a sinister delusion. 
 "There is nothing to do just yet." 
 
 "Good!" beamed the visitor. "Then hurry and 
 pull up your little rocking-chair. You see I remember 
 it, too ! I want you quite close, close enough to 
 lean out and touch you. And what do you say to 
 taking off that barbed-wire hat? It has nearly put 
 out one of my eyes already." 
 
 Peace and good will chimed silver in her voice. 
 
 Ciceley, advancing like an automaton, obeyed all 
 behests as one under hypnosis. 
 
 "We are really together at last," approved Julia 
 as the other took her seat. "Here goes my hat, too."
 
 176 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 With quick, deft movements she untied her veil, 
 extracted two jewelled hatpins, thrust them back at 
 random into the hollow shell, and then tossed the 
 dainty entanglement out across Ciceley s shoulder to 
 the dining room table. 
 
 "Now, little Sis!" With the initiatory words she 
 bent forward, taking the small brown hands in her 
 own. "I want you to tell me everything about your 
 self, what you ve been doing all these years, what are 
 your plans for the future. How this funny adventure 
 we call life looks to you from our present viewpoint 
 of middle-aged perspective, well, in fact, every 
 thing!" 
 
 The gray eyes were kind, but compelling. Ciceley 
 made no attempt just yet to meet them. After a 
 moment of embarrassed hesitation, in which her hands 
 had been slowly withdrawn, she replied, "There s 
 so little to tell, Jule. The girls " 
 
 " Girls !" broke in Julia. "They can come later, - 
 in fact they are coming. This is our one little talk 
 enlre nous. I m not to be thrown off the track by your 
 girls!" 
 
 "But," faltered Ciceley, "there doesn t seem to 
 be any me apart from them." 
 
 "That s where you make your mistake. There is. 
 Lots more than ever before. Why, don t you realize, 
 Ciceley Taliaferro, that with very little effort you 
 could be prettier and more attractive than you ve 
 ever been?" 
 
 The dark, startled eyes, now uplifted, shrank with a 
 look of pain. For an instant it seemed as if Julia 
 mocked her. Then with an effort she drew herself
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 177 
 
 well up, and said a little primly, "You must remember, 
 Jule, that having two daughters nearly grown is a 
 very different thing from having one boy. It is all 
 very well for you to wear beautiful dresses and look 
 so young, but what would people think of me, if after 
 all this time I should begin to fix up, and try to be 
 pretty?" 
 
 "What do they think of you now?" questioned 
 Julia, with disconcerting abruptness. As the other 
 gasped, she thrust in more deeply, "What do your girls 
 think?" 
 
 Now the brown head went down. In the big room 
 there was silence. 
 
 "Sis, little Sis," whispered Julia, "don t think I 
 want to hurt you. The wounds of a friend I ve 
 known and loved you so long." The charming voice 
 stopped suddenly, but its echoes thrilled. 
 
 "Even though Wick was a boy, I had problems. 
 There were things that the big, outside world had to 
 teach me. Won t you tell me yours?" 
 
 But Ciceley remained wordless. Even to this close 
 friend she could not admit her need. 
 
 "Old age has gone out of fashion," the other went 
 on in a lighter tone. "Nobody needs to look old or 
 to feel old until well after fifty, and by that time other 
 interests have come. It is good for one s growing 
 children to keep up with things. There s so much to 
 do for them, so many fine, tactful ways of helping, but 
 it can be done only by remaining at their side, and not 
 slumping back helplessly into the slough of a former 
 generation. Don t you see this for yourself, dear?" 
 
 Ciceley shook her head. From a low, choking
 
 178 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 murmur, the listener believed she caught the phrase 
 "too late." 
 
 " There s nothing that s ever too late !" pronounced 
 Julia. "Nothing, that is, but actually being dead. 
 It is the one finality, and it should be. You are 
 not out of your thirties yet, Ciceley. That sounds a 
 mere infant to me. Your hair hasn t a single white 
 thread, and your cheek is as smooth as a rose. You 
 are lovely, quite lovely if only - This time the 
 shake of the head had more vigor. Noting it, Julia 
 smiled. 
 
 "Surely," she urged, and now partially to voice her 
 own thoughts, "at your age, before forty, you cannot 
 have persuaded youself that no personal joy is left ! 
 Every one dreams. Dreams are the ichor of being. 
 I remember once a brilliant young thinker and student 
 saying to me, The chlorophyll of the soul is anticipa 
 tion. Its sun is hope. Without them, the spirit 
 dies. If you don t know what chlorophyll is, I 
 didn t, of course, I will tell you. It is that marvel 
 lous green of all living plants that turns the sun s rays 
 into energy. It might almost be used as a term for 
 life. Now you are not dead. There must be some 
 thing hidden away, some dream of happiness that 
 you take out when no one is looking. Yes, I can feel 
 that there is. Your face shows it. Tell me about it, 
 dear, tell me. The telling will help." 
 
 The tender low voice had betrayed no faltering, but 
 at Ciceley s slow, upraised look, one of the ringed 
 hands gripped hard the arm of the Colonel s chair. 
 
 "Yes, Julie dear, there is something," Ciceley 
 whispered. " I am not ashamed only only "
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 179 
 
 "Well you queer little soul, well, only ?" 
 
 "It would sound so crude, so indelicate, to tell." 
 
 "Even to me, your big sister?" 
 
 "Well, then," cried Ciceley, spurred to a sudden 
 courage. "Maybe I can, to you. It s grand 
 children!" 
 
 For once Julia Preston s control fled in panic. 
 "Grandchildren!" she echoed. After a struggle for 
 breath, in a louder voice, "Grandchildren!" Then 
 she collapsed. Prone in the chair she began to laugh 
 hysterically, as though she could never stop. 
 
 "I didn t intend being funny," suggested the other. 
 
 "Forgive me, my dear. I m utterly disgusting," 
 gasped Julia, as she fumbled about for her handker 
 chief. "I just couldn t help it was so unexpected." 
 
 "What did you think, then?" probed the indignant 
 Ciceley, conserving her new role of mentor. "Have 
 you never, yourself, dreamed of having them?" 
 
 This was the carrying of war into Africa. 
 
 "Have I? Not dreamed, merely. I am deter 
 mined I shall !" home-thrust Julia, rallying her bright 
 cohorts of defence. "That s one thing I ve brought 
 Wick back here for. You know how I ve always loved 
 children. I wish I had had six. I adore them from 
 the moment they enter this world, blind as young 
 kittens, their pink fists curled as if they realized what 
 a fight was on. I revel in the smell of the fuzzy 
 flannel bunches. Violet powder paregoric cat 
 nip even asafetida is sweet when it emanates from 
 them ! I d rather kiss that velvet hollow at the back 
 of a baby s neck than win the Derby. But, all the 
 same, -
 
 180 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Here she leaned back to regard more at leisure her 
 now half -subdued and wholly-approving listener. 
 The gray eyes sparkled mischief. Why hurry on 
 what is sure? A woman can have grandchildren 
 when she can t have anything else." 
 
 "But but fended Ciceley, blinking before 
 the new flash. 
 
 Julia s laugh checked her. "Suppose, just for 
 argument, we look to the future. We are conspira 
 tors. All our dark plots and our secrecies bend toward 
 making us grandmammas." 
 
 Again came the pause, into which Ciceley, after 
 a feeble resistance, sent a small "yes." 
 
 "Well, in the meantime, as an intelligent prepara 
 tion for welcoming them, are we to sit still, rusting, let 
 ting our sympathies as well as our muscles grow stiff ? 
 Shall we choose to appear to the newcomers as a mere 
 inert mass of wrinkles, surmounted by gold-rimmed 
 specs, with perhaps the allurements of biscuit and 
 tea-cakes suspended from our feeble anatomies in a 
 black bag? That s the conventional picture I ll 
 admit, Grandma in spectacles near a table, an open 
 Bible, a sprig of rosemary, and a window ! The light 
 of a better world touches already, with its sacred light, 
 Grandma s white hairs. Pathetic, now, isn t it ! 
 Rot ! sentimental idiocy ! pure laziness ! One should 
 keep living as long as they are here ! And the less one 
 is tread down by hungry generations, the more respect 
 those generations have for you. As for myself," 
 vaunted Julia, "I warn you right now that I expect to 
 play tennis with my grandson, and beat him, and to 
 learn all the new dances with my granddaughter!"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 181 
 
 She threw back her spirited head in defiance to 
 meet the horrified objections Ciceley was sure to give. 
 But Ciceley was not even listening, at least not 
 to her. One hand was now raised, claiming silence. 
 The brown eyes turned away toward the front of the 
 house ; her face held a brightness that Julia had not 
 seen before. But behind the swift radiance a cloud 
 of apprehension passed. 
 
 "There ! I was certain the stirrup latch. It is 
 the girls." 
 
 Julia sprang to her feet with the stab of a sudden 
 impatience. " Is Sis hopeless, after all ? " she thought. 
 Then as a second inner reflection, "I haven t had the 
 chance to say a single word for Jim." 
 
 "Shall we go to the door and meet them?" she 
 suggested, knowing it to be Ciceley s desire. 
 
 "Yes. Will you? We ll surprise them like we did 
 Mammy." Already she was up and at the dining- 
 room door. 
 
 "Not exactly as we did old Mammy," said the other 
 to herself a little grimly, and followed, wondering 
 what new impressions were in store.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 THE GIRLS 
 
 FROM the front door, as the two friends emerged, 
 the girls were at first invisible. Ciceley reached out 
 and caught her cousin s hand. Her own was trem 
 bling. Her whole figure had grown tense, thrilled with 
 expectancy. No honeymoon bride ever watched with 
 more eagerness for her first glimpse of a returning 
 mate. 
 
 From around the fringed edges of a great pampas 
 cluster, halfway along the curved drive, the two slim 
 figures showed. Julia s quick glance, seizing them, 
 touched the pink face of little Sylvia, and then 
 flashed in an instant to Lucille. There her gaze hung 
 fixed and incredulous. 
 
 She had been well-prepared for prettiness, even 
 to an unusual degree. Jim s muttered objurgation, 
 " Pretty is as pretty does," told her more than any 
 careless praise. But at first sight of Lucille s flawless 
 loveliness, her heart seemed to stop. "There s not 
 an acknowledged beauty to compare with her," 
 was the traveler s astonished decree. Close on the 
 heels of it came the thought, "Poor little Sis!" 
 
 Lucille, glancing up, met the appraising eyes 
 182
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 183 
 
 fairly. The little one, seeing a visitor, dimpled and 
 flushed, nestling close, like a child, to the stronger 
 arm. 
 
 After one long grave look, Lucille continued to 
 move forward, tall, slender, deliberate, with no more 
 self-consciousness than a flower. Her rhythm did 
 not alter by a breath. Julia instinctively thought 
 of tall lilies, of cliffs rendered white in the moon, of 
 poised, jewelled coronets. " Heavens!" she mur 
 mured, half-audibly, "surely I m dreaming. No 
 living girl can be as perfect as this. What a beauty ! " 
 
 Ciceley had watched Julia intently. Now a low 
 cry, instinct with triumph, broke from her lips. Here 
 in the flesh was her warrant, here her bright refuta 
 tion against an absurd idolatry. Who would not 
 idolize such beings? And Julia had keen eyes to 
 see. 
 
 Spurred by excitement, the mother ran forward. 
 At the top of the steps she bent down, curving low, 
 her impatience silently urging the approaching figures 
 to haste. Lucille, though apparently oblivious of 
 her mother, noticeably slackened her speed. Her 
 head was held high, the eyes, under drooping white 
 lids, were cast down. Sylvia, clinging and fluttering 
 at her side, might not have been in existence. 
 
 After a moment of quivering expectation, Ciceley 
 stood up. Her radiant expression sobered. De 
 spite the wide space all about them, the sky overhead, 
 the long pillared cloisters of "gallery" stretching to 
 right and left, a swift circling eddy, as it were, of 
 more highly charged atmosphere, an influence at 
 once sinister and compelling, swept round the
 
 184 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 focussing group, and enclosed it in its own definite 
 dimension. 
 
 Rasped by the fret of it, Sylvia, breaking away 
 from her sister, ran like a fawn up the steps. 
 Ciceley s arms were ready. After an instantaneous 
 but passionate embrace, she thrust the small figure 
 backward toward her cousin with the words, "This 
 is my little one, Sylvia." 
 
 Julia accepted an outstretched, small hand almost 
 gravely. "It is Ciceley herself," thought the woman. 
 "It is the core of the mother s heart." 
 
 Before she could find words to speak, Lucille, still 
 calm, still reserved, stood in some way just beside 
 them. Julia s eyes turned to her. Neither extended 
 a hand, and the look in the two pairs of eyes held 
 so long that Ciceley, becoming embarrassed, started 
 an aimless chattering. 
 
 "Don t you know yet who it is, girls? Haven t 
 you guessed? Why just try to think. Lucille, 
 you surely remember!" 
 
 "I m sorry," replied the tall girl, using her voice 
 of water that rippled below thin ice, "I am waiting, 
 you see." 
 
 The words were courteous, her manner that of a 
 gracious young empress. Yet she had managed to 
 infuse into both something of stinging rebuke. A 
 swift, scornful glance at her mother, lashing at once 
 the whole figure, made every stain, every snag in 
 the shabby old garments dart forth a clamoring head. 
 
 Julia s mouth tightened. "I am your cousin, 
 Julia Preston," stated she. Ice clinked here, too. 
 "Your mother and I, in our girlhood, were like sisters.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 185 
 
 I ve been living abroad for so long it is only to 
 be expected that her children should not remember 
 me." 
 
 " Ah ! Now I recall you quite clearly," vouchsafed 
 Lucille. Mother, and Uncle Jim too, have spoken 
 of you often." 
 
 Her smile had the chill of perfection; and the 
 hand now conventionally stretched forth might have 
 served as a model in the show-window of a manicure 
 establishment. 
 
 Julia just touched the white fingers. Here was 
 the problem, indeed ; here gentle Ciceley s crucible. 
 Through the sense of hostility that quickened in 
 Julia s veins ran a long thrill of exultation. Dearly 
 she loved a fight, and here before her stood a keen 
 opponent, only a girl indeed, but, as the other 
 judged, with equipment to test all her own mature 
 powers. It seemed almost too good to be true that 
 on the sleepy old Hill had been forged such a blade. 
 Reason and justice and defence of a weaker matched 
 against panoplied selfishness ! Her high spirit loved 
 the tall girl for her very defiance. She yearned for 
 the combat. 
 
 "/ remember you too, Cousin Julia," the little one 
 dimpled. At the words she crept close, quite between 
 Lucille and Julia, and sent up a shy, long-lashed look. 
 You gave me the prettiest doll I ever had. She s 
 named Lady Julia. I ve got her yet. Where s 
 Wick?" 
 
 "Bless your brown eyes!" cried out Julia. "So 
 you remember Wick, too?" 
 
 Sylvia nodded, her face more than ever a rose.
 
 186 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "You will be stopping for lunch, Cousin Julia?" 
 the other girl s clear voice enquired. 
 
 "If your mother will do me the honor." 
 
 "Why, of course you will stay," fluttered Ciceley. 
 "The idea of Lucille s asking!" 
 
 Julia could not deny herself a swift, almost mali 
 cious look. Lucille, as though no one had spoken, 
 had begun calmly untying her bonnet strings. Her 
 indifferent face did not change. 
 
 "Nevertheless," chuckled the inner Julia, "she 
 does not miss a trick." 
 
 As the four entered the big, pleasant dining room, 
 constraint all at once seemed to vanish. Julia had 
 set herself the task of subjugation. All of her mar 
 vellous best was consciously put forth. Soon Ciceley 
 and Sylvia were laughing until it was hard to tell 
 one happy face from the other. Lucille, instinc 
 tively wary, kept watch, but there were moments 
 when even her defences went down. 
 
 Julia s delight in the girl and her angry impatience 
 at the way Ciceley was ignored kept her own senses 
 keyed. Under her breath she found herself hurling 
 anathemas into which, with disconcerting frequency, 
 fragments of panegyric cut. "You iceberg! Regan 
 and Goneril fused into rose-colored flint!" were 
 shattered to atoms with the intruding thought, 
 "But look at the line of her chin as it melts to the 
 throat!" 
 
 Little by little her restless intelligence ferreted out 
 chinks in the girl s crystal armor. In one interval 
 of comparative lack of restraint, Lucille admitted 
 her fondness for the reading of novels.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 187 
 
 "She always is reading even in bed," supple 
 mented the little one, in a tone indicating her childish 
 resentment against the isolating practice. 
 
 "What else is there to do?" parried Lucille. 
 
 Her eyes, discontented and questioning, went 
 straight to Julia. That astute person, after a light 
 ning calculation of probable effect, permitted herself 
 a quick nod of sympathy. "I know," she just 
 breathed. Now, again sparkling, she rapidly men 
 tioned the titles of a few recent books which Lucille 
 would have been apt to have read. The lure was 
 successful. Lucille, now almost vivacious, men 
 tioned the names of the characters. Julia apparently 
 was on terms of the closest intimacy with them all. 
 She began to talk of them, criticising, commenting, 
 laughing, as though they were beings of flesh, who 
 might, at a wave of her magical wand, spring into sight. 
 
 Even the two other listeners, neither of whom 
 ever read, found themselves as eager as if personal 
 acquaintances were involved. From her gay dis 
 course upon printed heroes, Julia now veered, with 
 the wrist of a master of fencing, into the more inti 
 mate topic of living ones. Of course such dear girls 
 had admirers dozens of them, no doubt ! She 
 wanted to hear all about them. Nothing on earth 
 was quite so interesting. It was the one disappoint 
 ment of her life that Wick had no sweetheart. And 
 with the girls, was there by chance, with either, 
 an already definite, preferred Lothario ? 
 
 Sylvia, all blushes and radiant confusion, cried 
 out denial. "They had their boy friends," she con 
 fessed. "All the girls had. Some of them, the
 
 i88 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 boys," she paused to explain, "had been awfully 
 nice, bringing them candy and music, and taking 
 them about to parties. But as for there being a 
 special one A violent shake of brown curls 
 ended her statement. 
 
 Ciceley drank in every syllable. Next to the fact 
 of their beauty, the well-known "popularity" of 
 her daughters was Ciceley s greatest pride. All 
 pretty girls should have beaux. 
 
 Julia now turned with a deepening interest to the 
 silent elder girl. Lucille had neither flushed nor 
 smiled. 
 
 "We have to accept such attentions," she answered, 
 "simply because there s no choice. The men down 
 here are cut from a single coarse pattern. They 
 never have seen, read, or thought anything worth 
 while in their lives. Their one thought of a girl is a 
 silly creature, open-mouthed as a young mocking 
 bird for their compliments. When we do get a 
 glimpse of real men," here a swift frown of resent 
 ment darkened, "it only shows up the stupidity of 
 our usual crowd. I am sick of it all !" she cried out 
 with a sudden and most unexpected vehemence. "I 
 wish oh, I wish 
 
 She caught herself back. Julia could see the 
 tightening of reins. The long arms had been par 
 tially uplifted, giving the look of wings. Now they 
 fell back. "But what is the use of wishing," came 
 in a low, muttering voice so withheld that none but 
 the visitor heard it. 
 
 "Don t be too sure there s no use," whispered Julia 
 as guardedly. Leaving the molecule of yeast to
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 189 
 
 ferment, she passed on, apparently in unthinking 
 caprice, to a brilliant recital of her experiences in 
 England. She had visited at many of the country 
 places so well known that their names had a part in 
 novels. Titles and personages fell as in a shower of 
 gems from her mouth. Lucille again listened breath 
 lessly. Now Julia told them of her presentation at 
 the English court. 
 
 "And speaking of courts/ she broke in, addressing 
 herself directly to Ciceley, "do you realize, Madame 
 Bering, that one of your faithful adorers is quite a 
 persona grata at Buckingham Palace?" 
 
 "Mine! What do you mean?" stammered 
 Ciceley. 
 
 "As usual, just what I say. This time I can give 
 it a name. Mark Stanwood." 
 
 "Mark Stanwood!" echoed Ciceley, beginning to 
 dimple and smile. "That little boy. I had for 
 gotten the dear child was alive." 
 
 "Not much dear child about the Honorable Mark 
 now," bantered Julia. "He s a dashing young 
 guardsman, frightfully good-looking and nearly as 
 tall as Jim, that is," she corrected hastily, "as I 
 remember Jim." 
 
 "Uncle Jim s awfully fat now," affirmed little 
 Sylvia, but fortunately no one heeded her. Lucille s 
 gray eyes were twin stars. 
 
 "After Mark s father died here," continued the 
 speaker, "and his mother decided to return for good to 
 England, two cousins of theirs were killed in South 
 Africa. This brought Mark a pot of money. Besides, 
 it left only one life between him and the title."
 
 190 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Would you mind telling us," came in an awe- 
 stricken voice from Lucille, "what title?" 
 
 "Sir Mark Stanwood of Stanwood Manor," pro 
 nounced Julia grandiloquently. "Of course," she 
 said lightly in afterthought, "the title s not much. 
 Only a baronetcy." One would have thought from 
 her gesture that baronetcies buzzed about like mos 
 quitoes. "But the Manor is a show place, and the 
 income quite dazzling. There s many an English 
 girl wasting her time in the attempt to be made Lady 
 Stanwood." 
 
 "But, Cousin Julia," asked Sylvia, "what did you 
 mean about his being an adorer of mother s? Why, 
 mother : 
 
 "As a boy he was crazy about her," came the 
 quick statement. "He used to follow her about like 
 a dog. He admitted to me, over there, that when he 
 heard she had married your father, he very nearly 
 threw himself into the Thames. He s cursed with 
 fidelity, poor man ! I honestly believe that it s only to 
 see his old love, that he s on his way to America now." 
 
 "On his way now!" echoed Ciceley in horror. 
 
 "Why, yes. Didn t I mention it? When he 
 
 heard Wick and I were coming, and that you were 
 
 still unmarried Well, the fact is, he asked me to 
 
 - er well, to speak of him to you make the 
 
 path clear, as it were." 
 
 "I wish, Jule," now said the beet-colored Ciceley, 
 with a pathetic attempt at dignity, "that you 
 wouldn t joke about such absurdities, especially 
 before the girls. It makes me feel Why, Mark 
 is a child to me."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 191 
 
 "But, dear, I am not in the least joking," pro 
 tested the other, with wide-opened, innocent eyes. 
 "I m utterly serious, and so is poor Mark. He s only 
 a few years your junior, and, besides, it s quite a 
 fad now among Englishmen to marry their grand 
 mothers." At the last word she gave a small, 
 meaning grimace. 
 
 "Excuse me," gasped Ciceley, routed with 
 slaughter, "I must see about lunch - I ll I won t 
 be a minute - As she fled, the tormenter leaned 
 back. On her face was a deep satisfaction. 
 
 Now Lucille rose. She betrayed not a hint of 
 disturbance. Each supple movement flowed into 
 the next with a quiet and measured grace. "You ll 
 excuse me too, Cousin Julia?" she suggested sweetly. 
 "I d like to hang up this bonnet and brush my hair 
 before luncheon." 
 
 Julia bowed graciously. The smile on her face, 
 as it lifted, was as impersonally correct as Lucille s 
 own. They might have been two ladies in waiting, 
 just brushing each other in the royal antechamber. 
 
 For Julia, at least, the whole situation was gilded 
 by humor. Lucille, it was evident, had no such 
 redress. All that pertained to herself became, by 
 that fact, of deep moment, centering at once her 
 whole conscious universe. 
 
 Julia knew so much by instinct. Watching the 
 poise of the head, the light, swinging carelessness of 
 her slim figure as she walked down the room, all of 
 the elder woman s fine sympathy rushed in to shame 
 her, to tell her anew how unequal the contest. 
 
 "And yet," cried the knight errant in Julia, "even
 
 i 9 2 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 a thoroughbred is nobler for taming. It is not 
 merely for Ciceley, but for the good of this lovely, 
 defiant thing too, that a whip and the spurs must 
 be used." 
 
 Sylvia, during the skirmish which ended in two 
 separate flights, not knowing what else to do, had 
 remained seated. Her eyes, opened wide and ob 
 viously imploring, had followed her mother, blinking 
 with sudden dismay as the door closed. Now, at 
 a different angle, they vainly adhered to Lucille. 
 When that source of defence and initiative was 
 likewise removed, the little one, shrinking as if she 
 had been a small, cornered rabbit, brought her eyes 
 round to her companion. 
 
 Julia was ready for her. 
 
 "Come to me zw-stantly, Sylvia." 
 
 The child, although palpitant, sped. 
 
 "Do you know, you dear kitten, what all along I ve 
 been dying to do?" 
 
 "No," faltered Sylvia. 
 
 "This!" cried out Julia, and flung both arms 
 tightly around her, straining her close. "You re a 
 lamb. You re a darling," she murmured. "If you 
 had been my little girl, I know I should have eaten 
 you up long ago, just as I nibble rose-leaves." 
 
 "Oh oh!" blushed and twittered the small one, 
 nestling down nearer. 
 
 "You re just a pink nosegay. You ought to be 
 in a vase now, sitting on somebody s table. Sylvia, 
 I want you to like me a lot! I have reasons!" 
 
 "I do like you now I just love you," cried 
 Sylvia, and, at the words, turned round to fling
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 193 
 
 herself once and for all into idolatry. Later she 
 ventured, still shyly, " Cousin Julia." 
 
 "Yes, kitten." 
 
 "Why did you tease mother so about that Mark 
 man? Didn t you see she was afraid Lucille was 
 going to make fun of her?" 
 
 "Was she now!" marvelled the other, hiding her 
 mischievous eyes in brown curls. 
 
 "Yes," nodded Sylvia impressively. 
 
 "Lucille s got a few things to learn," was Julia s 
 next comment. "And the first is that her mother is 
 still a young and pretty woman." 
 
 Sylvia drew back, the better to see her companion s 
 face. She started to laugh, thinking the words a 
 new jest, but at sight of the earnestness in the gray 
 eyes so near, sobered instantly into a puzzled stare. 
 
 "We know she s pretty and sweet," decoyed Julia. 
 "Don t we, you dear?" 
 
 "Ye-e-s. Were you and mother really girls to 
 gether?" 
 
 "Of course. Do I seem all that older?" 
 
 "You ! I was thinking of mother." 
 
 A curious light came into Julia s face, then as 
 swiftly as Sylvia s laugh had faded, it too disappeared. 
 
 "Get down," she commanded, with a brusque 
 affectation of anger, "I won t have so stupid a child 
 on my lap. I am years and years older than Ciceley, 
 and I never was, or will be, one tenth as good-look 
 ing." 
 
 Though Sylvia apologized, and clung, pleading for 
 forgiveness, the irate one took her by both arms, 
 and slid her down bodily to the hearth-rug. Over
 
 194 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 her she stood, menacing fiercely. "I m going to 
 find your mother," she declared. "Even though she 
 doesn t belong in the cradle, like a few others I 
 could mention, she at least has a little sense." She 
 strode off, not heeding the cries of apparent distress 
 that arose from the hearth, nor deigning a glance 
 toward the giggling, impenitent culprit. 
 
 Just without the door, she laughed softly. "That 
 will do you, little kitten, for a first inoculation of 
 common sense," she remarked. Then her voice rang 
 out clearly, "Ciceley! Oh, Sis! Where are you?"
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 JULIA OUTLINES A CAMPAIGN 
 
 SELDOM had luncheon at Little Sunshine proceeded 
 with such brightness and laughter. Seldom had 
 Henry Bering s portrait fixed its glazed eyes on so 
 many happy faces. Into the stagnant waters of the 
 usual, a fresh and revivifying energy had been thrown. 
 1 Mammy bore dishes in, smiling; and, with a 
 broader grin, waddled out kitchenward for more. 
 Over and over again Julia asserted, and always 
 where Mammy could hear, that cooking like this 
 made all of the royal tables of Europe seem like so 
 many horse-troughs of bran. 
 
 After the meal, the four, by unanimous impulse, 
 moved toward the long front "gallery", where now 
 the October sun heaped up great stores of evanescent 
 gold. Julia plunged into it, holding her arms wide, 
 and drawing in breaths of warm radiance, as though 
 it had been wine. 
 
 "They don t know the poor things over there 
 in England what real sunshine can be," she 
 declared. "For days at a time you can trace 
 where the sun is by only a dull sort of gleam, just 
 as if on a huge, tarnished pewter dish somebody 
 
 195
 
 i 9 6 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 had begun to polish a single spot, and turned away 
 in disgust. When, once in a fortnight or so it really 
 does shine, it is less an event than an emotion." 
 
 Disdaining the suggestion of a chair, she threw 
 herself down to the steps, where, after an instant, 
 the others laughingly grouped themselves. It was 
 here that the Colonel and Wick found them, at 
 least, found the girls and their mother, for even 
 before the stirrup latch could be lifted, Julia, covertly 
 on watch, had heard them coming, and sped down 
 the drive like a girl. 
 
 "Show more surprise, Jim," she ordered breath 
 lessly, when well within hearing. "Open your eyes 
 wide, no, wider ! Your mouth, too ! Remember 
 you ve not seen me for ages ! Well, if there isn t old 
 Rover, a new incarnation, of course, but, to all 
 practical purposes Jim I Now stand still, throw 
 up your hands and say, God bless my soul ! You re 
 making a mess of your part. The first question 
 Ciceley asked me was whether I had seen you first. 
 I had to evade !" she laughed ringingly. "There ! 
 That s much better. Now pump my hands up and 
 down frantically, as you used to do the Richmond 
 Hill church organ. Good, couldn t be better ! That 
 will get Ciceley all right ! " 
 
 "After this painful display of a parent s duplicity," 
 murmured Wick in a mournful aside to the Colonel, 
 "do you wonder I m old and sedate for my years?" 
 
 "Oh, go climb a tree, little boy!" grimaced Julia. 
 "This is a grown-up affair." 
 
 The three chaffing merrily, with Rover displaying 
 his joy by the performance of weird canine
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 197 
 
 gymnastics, moved toward the waiting group on the 
 steps. Julia felt that she knew the appraisal in 
 Lucille s calm eyes as she watched Wick approaching. 
 Among other useful attainments Julia had learned 
 how to see everything while appearing to notice 
 nothing. She waited, with intense curiosity, for 
 the expression on Wick s face when he should get his 
 first glimpse of Lucille. 
 
 It was quite as anticipated, a swift look of in 
 credulous wonder, a second, more searching glance, 
 a low exclamation, the lips formed to a sort of sound 
 less "Whew!" and then forced self-control to blot 
 the offence of staring. And also she saw, and was 
 well pleased thereby, that after Wick s pleasant, 
 conventional greetings, and the three handshakes, 
 impartially bestowed, it was at the side of little 
 Sylvia he remained. 
 
 Ciceley s excited phrases and questionings were 
 all for Jim, with Julia as objective. "Just look 
 at her, Jim," she repeated, many times over. "Isn t 
 she the most wonderful thing ! I feel and look eighty 
 beside her!" 
 
 The steps were abandoned. Verandah rocking- 
 chairs were drawn into a convivial ring. After a 
 rather short interval, Julia stood up, declaring that 
 she must go in to fetch her hat. 
 
 "Your hat !" echoed Ciceley, while Jim contributed 
 a sound of protesting dismay. "You re not thinking 
 of going this soon!" 
 
 Julia assured them regretfully that going was the 
 one thing she was of necessity driven to consider. It 
 was a frightfully hard thing to do, she averred, but
 
 198 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 there chanced to be letters, tiresome letters, some of 
 them of business importance, which must be written 
 in time to catch the next post. 
 
 Her manner was suave and convincing, in spite of 
 the fact that she was assiduous in avoiding the 
 twinkle of her son s eyes. These two knew each 
 other appallingly well. 
 
 "But, Mater, - he now cried out, forcing her 
 attention. Then, as suddenly, he stopped. 
 
 "There s not the least need of your coming along, 
 Wick," she flung round instantly. Now she could 
 look at him, and did so, in roguish satisfaction. 
 Honors were easy between them. "You just stay 
 where you are. That is," she added, with a smile 
 for the little hostess, "if Ciceley is good enough to 
 put up with you." 
 
 Before Ciceley could speak, a low, breathless 
 "Please!" came from Sylvia. 
 
 Wick flushed like a schoolgirl. "May I stay, 
 Cousin Ciceley?" 
 
 At her cordial assent, and further to voice his 
 felicity, he stated with emphasis, "After that, don t 
 you know, I should jolly well need to be blasted away ! " 
 
 Lucille and her mother were already smiling. 
 Their quick deepening of amusement might well 
 have been passed. But Sylvia, emitting one choked 
 gurgle of delight, bent herself over, rocking with 
 violence to and fro, in her effort to restrain a par 
 oxysm of mirth. It was useless; the laughter rang 
 out like the chiming of elves in a glade. 
 
 Wick s happy flush went deeper. Boyish wrath shot 
 from his pleasant gray eyes, and his head went high.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 199 
 
 "Was I by way of being funny?" he questioned 
 stiffly. 
 
 "No! Y-e-es. Oh, please do forgive me!" 
 tinkled the naughty one. "I know I am being 
 most dreadfully rude. It was awfter , and blawst 
 that just made me I couldn t help Here 
 the bright current, striking the rocks anew, dashed 
 into rainbows of merriment. 
 
 "Oh," said the boy, now joining the chorus, "it 
 was only my English accent. I don t mind that!" 
 
 When Julia emerged, veiled and hatted, she walked 
 straight to Jim. Wick had of course risen. Ciceley 
 was standing near. The Colonel, noting the purpose 
 ful look in Julia s face, moved uneasily in his chair, 
 and then he too rose. 
 
 "Will you walk down to the car with me, Jim?" 
 asked Julia. "As I told you-all, one of my letters 
 concerns business. There seems to be a bit of a 
 tangle. I want Jim s advice." 
 
 Ciceley s upturned face, which at the beginning of 
 the little speech had been eager, sobered at close 
 of it into chagrin. She had only been waiting a 
 pause to suggest that she too should walk down to 
 the car-line, leaving the young folks to themselves. 
 Julia s words pushed her back as one pushes a child. 
 
 "Well, I do hate for you to go, Jule," she now said 
 in a voice plainly touched by disappointment. 
 "When am I to see you again?" 
 
 "To-morrow, of course. Can t you come and 
 have luncheon?" 
 
 Ciceley shook her head. The girls gave simulta 
 neous glances of hope, but Julia ignored them.
 
 200 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Then I shall come out here," she decided crisply. 
 "And Wick," she turned on the steps to send back a 
 parting injunction, "be sure you come back in plenty 
 of time to change. Remember we re dining out. 
 The old friends in town have begun to discover us," 
 she explained to the company at large. "We are 
 going to the Beldens this evening." 
 
 It was of these and of other old friends that she 
 talked lightly during their progress toward the 
 stirrup latch. Jim made no attempt at reply. His 
 heart and his mind were too full of concerns nearer 
 home. As he held the gate open, Julia, pausing an 
 instant, looked back. Lucille had disappeared. 
 Wick and the little one sat with their chairs very 
 close. Ciceley alone was watching. At Julia s gay 
 wave, she responded more temperately, then, wheel 
 ing about, entered the house. The stirrup latch 
 clicked its farewell. Jim swung into step with his 
 companion. Rover shot like a catapult between 
 them, rushing forward as though to hurl himself 
 over the edge of the world, only to spring in the air, 
 come down facing them, and hurtle back, yelping 
 his rapture. Jim growled out "fool !" at which rap 
 ture subsided. Still Julia did not speak. 
 
 Stealing an impatient glance down at her, Jim saw 
 an expression that baffled him. There was some 
 thing remote and withdrawn in its brooding serenity. 
 Had he bent to her eyes, he might have seen deeper 
 things, the stirring of tender prophecies. 
 
 He kicked at a mushroom, ruthlessly crushing the 
 pink-quilted miracle. Then came a suggestive cough, 
 followed by loud raspings of an outraged throat.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 201 
 
 "Well !" he broke out, at the end of restraint. 
 
 "Well?" she rejoined, and smiled up at him. Her 
 dream faded slowly, leaving a long trail of star-dust. 
 
 "You ve been there," he said. "You have seen. 
 What do you make of the situation ? Did Ciceley 
 Do you think now there s a chance to straighten 
 things out?" 
 
 Julia reached through the fence, and broke off a 
 twig of wax-myrtle. The lot where it grew was the 
 one where her home, as a girl, had once stood. She 
 looked at the small clustered berries, pellets of lead, 
 they appeared, caked with white dust. She lifted 
 the spray to her face, sniffing aromas. 
 
 "Do you happen to have a good surplus amount 
 in the bank?" was the astounding question now 
 shot at him. 
 
 Jim s loud ejaculation was, this time, spontaneous. 
 "I don t understand." 
 
 "Few people do, when money is mentioned. To 
 make it more clear, how much are you willing to 
 spend?" 
 
 "I can t see where spending comes in," he ob 
 jected, gazing into her radiant face with a frown. 
 Her words, to his honest, chivalrous soul, were both 
 flippant, and strangely indelicate. " Ciceley s trouble 
 goes deeper than money. If it didn t," he said, "she 
 could have every nickel I ve got. But she won t 
 take it." 
 
 "Thanks ! That s quite all I require. And you ve 
 got it?" 
 
 "Yes," growled the man. "Worse luck." 
 
 "Oh, you idiot!" laughed Julia. "As if there
 
 202 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 was ever a situation where money couldn t help! 
 Now brace yourself, friend. Are you willing for 
 Ciceley s sake, mind you ! to squander within the 
 next few weeks, well, say fifteen hundred dollars?" 
 
 Jim did not flinch. "Twice that, and then some, 
 if only I could know what you re driving at." 
 
 "Prepare for the stroke. Here it is. As you 
 remarked, I have seen. Not only seen, but unsus 
 pected, unless by that white witch, Lucille, I have 
 weighed, probed, and measured for hours. I ve got 
 it all here." With the words she tapped lightly the 
 line of white forehead shadowed by her jaunty hat. 
 "Better still, I ve a plan. It s a good one. It s 
 bound to succeed, if you help. Can I count on you, 
 Jim? Are you game?" 
 
 "I m resigned," muttered Jim. "That s next 
 best. Pull your trigger." 
 
 "You re to take Ciceley s girls for a little pleasure 
 trip to New York." 
 
 "To New York! A pleasure tri - Me! With 
 young females in tow ! Holy smoke ! To New 
 York!" sputtered Jim, his eyes jutting glassily. 
 
 "You should start pretty soon," discoursed Julia. 
 "There s no time to waste. Let s see. This is Tues 
 day. Thursday night would be fine. I ll make it my 
 business to have the girls packed. Can you do it?" 
 
 "Thursday night! Jumping Jehosephat! Have 
 you lost all your wits, Jule, or just having fun string 
 ing me ? Thursday night, and already it s Tuesday." 
 
 "If you d realize, dear man, that you re not a 
 defective record on a phonograph," Julia suggested 
 mildly, "we d make better headway."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 203 
 
 "But the girls. Have they said they would go?" 
 "Not yet. I couldn t very well tell them until I 
 was sure that they could. They ll know it to 
 morrow." 
 
 "Here, hold on a little," panted the man. "I ve 
 got to get breath. Do you realize 
 
 "I m not wasting time on realizing," she struck in. 
 "My part is more active. Is there any procedure 
 connected with oranges why you can t leave?" 
 
 "No," answered Jim, after a brief, sharp struggle 
 with mendacity. "There s nothing to do for em 
 just now but watch em get ripe. I ve got to be back 
 for the crating, though," he added with hopefulness. 
 "And when does the crating begin?" 
 "About the third week in November." 
 "November," mused Julia. "And October is not 
 more than half over. Good ! That will give you a 
 full three weeks in New York. Now please listen 
 carefully. Thank heaven, I see a bench over there 
 under a juniper. I d like to sit down. Never mind 
 whether or not I miss my car. When your mouth 
 stays wide open, and your eyes roll like marbles, it 
 gets on my nerves. Remember I m not advocating 
 murder, but happiness, your happiness, Jim, as 
 well as Ciceley s." 
 
 "I know you mean well, dear old Jule," he con 
 ceded, taking his place rather heavily beside her. 
 "But how in the thunder is anybody s happiness 
 going to be helped by my making a darned fool of 
 myself, hiking off to a place where I don t want to 
 go, and trailing two girls that probably won t want to 
 come? Lucille is sore on me now."
 
 204 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "At the first hint of so glorious a trip, Lucille s 
 reserve will melt into honey," Julia prophesied. 
 "The little one, bless her! will have a few qualms 
 about leaving her mother and, maybe somebody 
 else. But she ll follow Lucille," was added so quickly 
 that any one not born a man would have noticed. 
 "I tell you, Jim, they simply must go. It s not only 
 for the good effect it will have on themselves and you." 
 Here her listener moaned deeply. "But, for my own 
 purposes I want them out of the way for awhile, 
 definitely removed from Ciceley. This is funda 
 mental for all our plans and hopes; and I can t for 
 the life of me, figure out another way of accomplishing 
 it." 
 
 "But what, in God s name, am I to do with myself 
 and them, when we get to New York?" he intoned 
 gloomily. His shoulders were now bent over. The 
 big, shaggy head went down into his hands. His 
 whole relaxed figure was so instinct with despondency 
 that Julia s keen eyes softened. 
 
 " You sha n t have a bit of the trouble of managing," 
 she soothed, laying one hand on the great shoulder 
 next her. "I ve thought everything out. The de 
 tails will be carried on by me personally through 
 telegrams and letters. All you will need to do is to 
 step on the New York express at our depot, and step 
 off again when it stops. I shall see that a special 
 taxicab is sent by a certain New York hotel to meet 
 you. Even your suite of rooms will be already en 
 gaged. Besides, the girls won t be hanging to your 
 coat-tails day and night. I shall write Jennie Brandt 
 to call on them at once, and establish herself as
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 205 
 
 official chaperone. You remember Jennie, don t 
 you, Jennie Tarleton, that was?" 
 
 Jim nodded vaguely. He refused to be consoled. 
 
 She married a Brandt of Virginia, connected 
 with one of the big tobacco trusts. He is a multi 
 millionaire now, and has a ripping big house in New 
 York, besides one at Tuxedo. They never had any 
 children, and Jennie will be wild with delight at the 
 chance of exploiting such girls. You see," she 
 elaborated, "I ve just visited her, and I know. 
 She ll not only entertain them, drive them all over 
 the State in her wonderful touring car, and see that 
 they meet other young people, but I shall put her in 
 special charge of their shopping." 
 
 The last word came with a meaning emphasis. 
 Julia s eyes lighted with fun. But Jim, for all his re 
 sponse to her sally, might have been a large lump of clay. 
 
 "Of course they ll have any amount of shopping," 
 she spurred deeper. ^"Richmond Hill fashions won t 
 pass on the Avenue. That s where the first hole in 
 your check book will start." 
 
 All she extorted by this was a gesture of scornful 
 repudiation. Julia looked blank for an instant. 
 Then her wits rallied. "You ll have quite a lot of 
 buying for yourself, you know," she announced 
 cheerily. "At least two new suits, neckties, shirts, 
 and neither the shirts nor the ties with a touch of 
 red." Jim swallowed, and dragged on his tie, which 
 bore a resemblance to the strip of red flannel Aunt 
 Nycie employed for sore throat. 
 
 "Smart shoes are a passion this season," she went 
 on. Her glance traveled downward, at which Jim,
 
 206 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 starting convulsively, withdrew his large feet with 
 such swiftness that the bench was pitched forward, 
 and very nearly sent them to earth. 
 
 Under this final and most bitter decree, the victim 
 writhed silently. His eyes, seeking hers, were those 
 of a suffering animal. Of all things distasteful to 
 Jim, the purchase and wearing of new clothes were 
 the worst. 
 
 Julia, to outward appearance, remained unrelent 
 ing. "Yes, at least three pairs of shoes," she pur 
 sued. "And all in the latest style. I ll write you 
 names and addresses of both tailor and shoemaker. 
 With your splendid shoulders, Jim, and your looks, 
 it is nothing short of an outrage to humanity to go 
 round all spotted and wrinkled like this. Just look 
 at your waistcoat this minute!" Jim writhed like 
 a worm stung by ants. 
 
 "You naive, curious creatures called men," she 
 went on, with light, scorn- touched lashes, "take for 
 granted that women care nothing about your clothes. 
 Well, they do, all of them, even when they don t 
 know it. I want you to turn from a grub to a butter 
 fly on this trip, Jim, and come back looking as un 
 like the elderly pucker of wretchedness you now are 
 as I, in this Doucet creation, am unlike poor Sis, 
 in her children s cast-off clothes. You will do it? 
 You promise?" 
 
 The muttered assent was a clod, heaved up from 
 black depths. 
 
 "Dear Jim," crooned her voice, "you ll be glad. 
 It is all in the quest for your heart s desire. That is 
 worth any trouble and effort, now, isn t it?"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 207 
 
 Jim sighed, but his face showed a lifting of gloom. 
 "You re a wonderful planner," he said, after a little 
 pause. "Have you considered yet what is to become 
 of Ciceley with both of her girls away?" 
 
 "Have I!" she vaunted. "That s a pretty big 
 slice of the whole. The very day you leave, Wick 
 and I shall move out to Little Sunshine." 
 
 "Does Ciceley- he began, then shut up his 
 eyes. She caught the twinkle. 
 
 "Not yet. How could I say anything until I 
 was sure of you?" 
 
 "And what kind of a hoodoo are you working out 
 for Sis?" 
 
 I She made a small grimace. "None of your busi 
 ness," she parried. "My work is here yours in 
 New York. And I think," she threw in with bright 
 malice, "that you ll find yours enough." 
 
 "Don t joke, Jule," he groaned. "It s not funny. 
 It s hell!" 
 
 "Mossback!" she flouted. "You think that way 
 now. But wait till you get in the midst of the white 
 lights. Wait till that marvellous glitter and bubble 
 of New York stirs in your blood ! My only real 
 fear," she avowed, "is that you won t come back 
 when I need you." 
 
 Jim glared in disgust at the charge. 
 
 "But listen," she said to him quickly, "that was 
 chaff. I know you ll come back. Now I have some 
 thing exciting to tell you, a piece of good news 
 that I ve saved to the last. Besides Jennie Tarleton 
 and all she can do for the girls, you re to have an 
 assistant, a man, and a corker at that, who
 
 208 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 will be at the same hotel. It is some one you 
 know." 
 
 "Do you mean it?" cried Jim. "A man a 
 real man who will tag about with them, and sit 
 at our table ? If you re fooling me, Jule ! - Is it 
 sure?" 
 
 "Sure as that we re sitting on this rickety bench, 
 and I hear my car starting down from the top of the 
 Hill," answered Julia, springing to her feet. 
 
 Jim followed. "His name for God s sake." 
 
 "Mark Stanwood." 
 
 "Mark Stanwood," cried Jim, a shadow of swift 
 disappointment blotting the hope from his face. 
 "That cub!" 
 
 "Not much cub left to him now," laughed the 
 other. "He s well over thirty, and also six feet. 
 He s an officer in a crack London regiment, and al 
 together one of the most eligible young men on this 
 earth." 
 
 Jim was duly impressed. "Then will he, you 
 think can I count on him helping me out hang 
 ing round? Won t he be off chasing girls?" 
 
 "Be off with Lucille and that cluster of clove- 
 
 9 
 
 pinks called Sylvia under Uncle Jim s wing!" 
 
 "I see," grinned the Uncle. "Lord, Jule, you 
 have taken a ton of bricks off my chest ! Here s the 
 car. But I m sorry. Can t you stay for the next?" 
 "No, those letters, the business one specially," 
 she grimaced. From the platform she leaned down 
 to him. " Come over to Little Sunshine at just about 
 the same time to-morrow. And - " here she shook a 
 dainty forefinger so close to his nose that he blinked,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 209 
 
 "whatever else you do, don t dare to go near it till 
 then." 
 
 "All right, Xantippe," he agreed. "I ll go hide in 
 the swamp till that hour." 
 
 As the car sped, Rover, with invariable idiocy, 
 started in frantic pursuit. Jim, as inevitably, 
 hurled bloodthirsty adjectives, emphasized now and 
 again by small stones. 
 
 Her last glimpse of them showed a repentant, 
 panting canine, hanging his head by a tall figure, 
 which to the watcher s loving eyes seemed, all at 
 once, to have gained a new hope in its bearing.
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 MOTHER AND SON 
 
 WICKFORD returned to the hotel barely in time for 
 his change. Julia had been ready for quite ten 
 minutes, and already had ordered a taxicab to stand 
 in waiting, when Wick s signal on the door, three 
 quick, successive taps, given this time, or so it 
 appeared to the listener, with the effect of nervous 
 energy, announced his arrival. 
 
 At her gay "entrez", he shot in. Her lifted eyes 
 sparkled to see that, despite haste and tardiness, he 
 had not forgotten her flowers. It was an established 
 love-custom between them that in dining together it 
 should be her son s flowers that she wore. No matter 
 what others had been sent, or how much more suit 
 able the lesser offerings might prove, those of her 
 boy had the preference. 
 
 This evening, by happy instinct, he had brought 
 a loose cluster of the white, waxen stephanotis, 
 backed with small ferns. Nothing could more per 
 fectly have harmonized with her gown of white chif 
 fon, shading to cream, with a fold here and there of 
 pale yellow green, the color of lily-of-the- valley foliage 
 grown swiftly beneath glass. In her shining gray
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 211 
 
 hair she had dared a green butterfly, fashioned from 
 velvet, with two long, quivering silver antennae. 
 
 The boy s face, already more than a little flushed, 
 deepened at sight of her. "Oh, I say, chum," he 
 cried. "But you do look a stunner!" 
 
 Julia laughed happily, and, taking the flowers, 
 passed into the next room to her dresser where, after 
 a few tentative and unsatisfactory attempts at loca 
 tion, she began pinning them to the exact, needed 
 place. 
 
 Wick followed, and lovingly watched every move 
 ment. 
 
 "Do you know, I rather fancy myself this partic 
 ular evening," she said saucily, nodding toward him 
 from the mirror. "My gown is quite sure to be the 
 prettiest in the room; and it s even more certain 
 that I shall be envied, by all, for my escort. What 
 more could a mother desire?" 
 
 "You re the very best sort in the world, Mater 
 mine," he assured her, between kisses. "Can you 
 wonder I ve never been able to fall in love with any 
 one else?" 
 
 Through the long, somewhat over-set dinner, she 
 frequently caught his bright eyes fixed on hers. His 
 pride and delight in her shone there for all lookers to 
 see. No Broadway electric sign, spinning its scin- 
 tillant antics, was ever more patent. 
 
 With no effort, or even desire, to preempt, Julia 
 became, with the first course, the focus, the unchal 
 lenged center of interest. Her commonplace host 
 grew vivacious. By the serving of salad, he became in 
 his own eyes, a wit. Others leaned forward to
 
 212 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 catch Julia s phrases. The whole table waited on 
 her. 
 
 Even in London, where dining-out ranks as a fine 
 art, Wick had been used to this gratifying process; 
 but somehow, down here in the South, clustered 
 about by old friends and associates, it took on a 
 subtler triumph. 
 
 This look on her son s face Julia called, in her heart, 
 her "reward", spelling the word with a very large 
 capital "R." 
 
 During the short drive back to the hotel, neither 
 spoke ; though Julia sighed once in a sort of luxurious 
 satisfaction; and the lips of both smiled. All the 
 gay chatter just left, the glamor of compliments, the 
 certainty of having created delightful impressions, 
 lifted and passed out from them, like a luminous, in 
 consequent vapor. They grew more consciously 
 silent. Each felt, through the mood of the other, 
 a portent of things to be said. 
 
 Without question or statement, Wick followed his 
 mother to her sitting room, closing the door softly 
 as Julia snapped on the electric lights. 
 
 "I hope," she smiled, speaking at last, "that you re 
 not tired or sleepy." 
 
 At his swift gesture of repudiation, she threw in, 
 "For myself, I am fiendishly wide awake. I feel 
 as if I never should sleep again. I want a long 
 talk, a regular powwow. I m bursting for speech." 
 
 "Same here !" he declared, and at the spontaneous 
 Americanism, Julia gave a pleased grin. 
 
 "Then tuck yourself somewhere away in a big, 
 comfy chair, and light a cigarette, while I slip into
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 213 
 
 the next room, and lay aside my splendor. One 
 really can t talk vital things to the clinking of hard 
 ware." 
 
 She went from him laughing, her two arms upheld 
 in the act of unfastening the necklace so ignomin- 
 iously described, and returned in a loose, clinging 
 garment, more charming and chic than the evening 
 gown just superseded. Great shadowy pink poppies 
 appeared floating beneath a thin swirl of foam. A 
 pink girdle bound it, and all about her throat the 
 foam surged and fretted into a fairy-like spume of lace. 
 All jewels were gone, except the plain, narrow wedding 
 ring. The green butterfly, stuck in a pincushion, 
 quivered alone. She looked young, almost girlish, in 
 spite of the sheen on her gray-touched coiffure. 
 Since the historic moment of burning her veil, Wick 
 had never seen her except charmingly arrayed. 
 
 "Now this," she exclaimed, sinking into the big 
 chair he drew up for her, "is what I call living ! Yes, 
 you can give me a cigarette." As she held up her 
 face for the lighting, her eyes crinkled mischievously. 
 "I m getting a picture," she told him, as she gave 
 out a long, happy puff, "of the faces of the Rich 
 mond Hill dames, when they first catch me smoking." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Wick. "I ll wager they all do 
 it on the side. All women smoke. I ve never met 
 one yet who didn t." 
 
 "That was in England. You ve much yet to learn 
 of your native land. Down here it ranks with the 
 breaking of biblical commandments. Your Cousin 
 Ciceley, for instance. She would just as soon murder 
 a baby as smoke. Poor, dear, little Sis."
 
 2i4 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 At the mention of this name, the boy ceased to 
 smile. "Mother," he questioned, speaking slowly 
 and with evident earnestness, "what is it wrong with 
 Mrs. Bering, Cousin Ciceley, I mean ? What is 
 the matter with her?" 
 
 "With Sis?" parried Julia, pretending surprise. 
 "How do you mean, what s the matter ?" 
 
 "Her looks her her timidity. She isn t so 
 old, not much older than you, I should say. And 
 yet, see the difference ! Somehow she gives the im 
 pression of the typical poor relation." 
 
 "And that is precisely what Ciceley has allowed 
 herself to become. She s a mere household drudge, 
 a bound, cringing slave to her daughters, and you see 
 for yourself how much they appreciate it! She s a 
 warning against the dry-rot of Victorian sentimental 
 ity. It is partly about Ciceley, and a plan I have 
 thought out to revitalize her, that I am so eager to 
 talk. But, first, before Ciceley, there s some 
 thing - She leaned toward him swiftly. Wick, 
 true to his English schoolboy training, remained out 
 wardly impassive, but she saw in his steady gray eyes 
 the spark of a new, vivid interest. 
 
 "I want you to tell me," she said, "how you felt 
 when you first saw Lucille." 
 
 The little flame died, though he answered her 
 promptly. "What is there to think, except that 
 she is an incredible, astounding beauty? I don t 
 believe that a microscope would discover a flaw in 
 Lucille, and yet, all the same - 
 
 "Yes, and yet all the same?" led on Julia, with 
 evident eagerness.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 215 
 
 "There s something, it s hard to describe. 
 Something negative and withdrawn. She reminds 
 a chap, somehow, of that girl in Tennyson, icily 
 regular, splendidly null. She is too complete for a 
 girl, too assured of herself. When she is sitting or 
 standing quite still, she appears to be waiting." 
 
 "You are near being right," Julia nodded, and 
 could not forbear a pleased smile at her son s keen 
 analysis. "But Lucille is not null. Make no mis 
 take there. She s alert and aware to each separate 
 thread of gold on her head. As for waiting, I know 
 what you mean, but I should say, rather, that Lucille 
 abides." 
 
 "Trust you every time for the right word!" 
 cried he, and then, twitching his shoulders as if 
 in impatience of the topic, he demanded quite 
 boldly, "And what of the other the little one, 
 Sylvia?" 
 
 "The little one, Sylvia." The echo was scarcely 
 more than a breath. Without answer at once, she 
 leaned back, and her eyes wandered past Wick, seeing 
 again her dream. In the silence, she almost could 
 hear the quickened beats of the boy s heart. "Little 
 Sylvia," she smiled, "is a nosegay a small, close- 
 set nosegay of roses, wee, pink, ruffled roses. Per 
 haps there s a clove-pink slipped in. Wherever the 
 little one moves, there should be the wings of small 
 yellow butterflies. Within the first hour, Sylvia 
 went deep into my heart." 
 
 And still she did not look at him. He gave a low 
 sound, then swallowed hard. His hands, on the arm 
 of the chair, had been moving. Now they clenched
 
 2i6 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 sharply, and he sprang to his feet. He strode to a 
 night-darkened window, sent the shade up, and stood 
 near the frame, looking down. 
 
 Now Julia s eyes followed. They held an expres 
 sion that mothers alone understand. 
 
 "Yes, both of those girls are undoubtedly beauties," 
 she now lightly declared, catching back her usual 
 tone of voice. "They re wonders to look at, of 
 course, but nevertheless they need a good smacking." 
 
 Wick wheeled at the outrage. Calmly she lighted 
 a new cigarette. 
 
 "You admitted to having noticed it, my dear," 
 she recalled. "It s the way that they treat, or 
 rather ignore, their mother. Any woman with a 
 spark of spirit had much rather be beaten than ig 
 nored. I am sure that Ciceley would ; only she has 
 let things go on so far that now she doesn t know how 
 to assert herself. As soon as you have sufficiently 
 absorbed the landscape, Mr. Preston, I d like you to 
 stroll back here. That s right. Sit down. Fire 
 up another ciggy. I am now about to confide to 
 that shrinking young ear, on which, by the way, 
 at this moment, a large, frost-bitten mosquito hangs, 
 a brief outline of my latest, proposed undertaking. 
 At its magnitude, even I suffer qualms. If you, my 
 poor child, live to the end of the story, I am sure you 
 will agree that in all your fond mother s long and 
 checkered career, this is the culm of audacity. To 
 revivify a half -atrophied existence, to lead a dull 
 horse to the waters of life, and getting it there, 
 make it drink, to humble arrogant youth, and 
 exalt down-trodden seniority ! But there ! I antici-
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 217 
 
 pate ! Yes, you got the mosquito, and, thank 
 heaven, did not smear him over your visage. All s 
 right with the world! Now, attend!" 
 
 In crisp, lucid phrases she told him of Jim s long 
 romance, of his recent despair, and his appeal to 
 herself as an advocate. Humorously she sketched 
 her conception of Ciceley s absurd and untenable 
 attitude. "Her heart in the grave with her hus 
 band!" scoffed Julia. "Pooh! Rubbish! That 
 early Victorian mush makes me ill ! Think how un 
 pleasant, if true. She d need antiseptics. And her 
 life s dedication to his children ! Just a weak way 
 of announcing her acceptance of all the negatives 
 and none of the radium-thrilled positives ! I blame 
 Sis far more than the girls. All the same, I ve decided 
 to save her." As a climax to his part of her oration, 
 she informed Wick of her advice to Jim, about taking 
 the girls to New York. 
 
 Wick had been listening with most commendable 
 attention. His bright face had showed all along 
 not only keen comprehension, but unmistakable 
 assent. Now, at the mention of New York, he cried, 
 in quick protest, "Sylvia to be taken away!" 
 
 "Of course, goose! Lucille couldn t very well go 
 without Sylvia. The fact is, they both must get out. 
 I ve lots to do here with their mother, and I simply 
 can t stir with the handicap of their presence. I 
 need a free field and no critics. Surely you must 
 see this !" 
 
 Wick, nodding dejectedly, confessed that he did. 
 "You don t think," he ventured, "that I had better 
 go along too?"
 
 2i8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "By no means! I need you too badly right here. 
 There is plenty to busy us." She hurried on, giving 
 him her idea of moving out to Little Sunshine. 
 "Ciceley can t stay there alone, and besides, it is 
 best for my plans to keep near her. We ll need a 
 machine at this distance from town. Let s go out 
 and look for one, first thing to-morrow. You re 
 member," she said, as if to excuse the extravagance, 
 "we had already decided to get a new model. The 
 old Siddeley you sold in London fetched a good price, 
 due to your cleverness. Of course," she flung in, 
 while still the boy smiled at her tribute, "we ll ar 
 range with Ciceley, first of all, that we are to put in 
 our share of expenses." At the word "share", she 
 gave him a most significant wink. "Think of the 
 fun of speeding along that dear Old Shell Road, in 
 and out from town ! We must take Cousin Ciceley 
 for long drives, and try to coax some color back into 
 her poor little face. There ll be parcels to bring, - 
 heaps of parcels ! And, best of it all, we will make 
 Ciceley fix the old place up as a welcome and a sur 
 prise to the returning travelers." 
 
 Wick struck at the bait like a trout. "That sounds 
 bully. There s nothing more fascinating than get 
 ting a neglected place back into order. But, how 
 about money? Cousin Ciceley doesn t seem to be 
 very well off." 
 
 "Here s where our share of expenses comes in." 
 
 "I ought to have known without asking," he 
 laughed. "Mater, you are a peach! Jove, I long 
 to begin this minute. The first thing will be to paint 
 over those big, mildewed columns. Next, I should
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 219 
 
 say, cut the road-borders clean. A lot of the bricks 
 at the edge of the flower-beds need straightening. 
 They look like old teeth after a fight. t I didn t realize 
 before that I had noticed such details, but it seems 
 that I did. Somehow, a line out of place has a weird 
 way of jumping at me, hitting me right in the eyes." 
 
 Julia leaned back, and from sheer happiness began 
 to laugh, It was all working out better than even 
 her optimistic spirit had ventured to hope. She led 
 him on tactfully, commending, suggesting, enhancing, 
 - until to the vision of both, Little Sunshine arose 
 recreated, its long vanished splendors restored. 
 
 "You get it from me straight enough," sighed the 
 mother contentedly. "Your passion, I mean, for 
 reclaiming things going to waste. Whether a home 
 in decay, or a person, the aesthetic effect is the same. 
 You remember what we made out of our cottage in 
 Surrey? Well, there are great things to be done 
 right here. But next," she declared, sitting upright, 
 "by order of the court, we re to talk just of you." 
 
 The word came as sharp as a bullet. Wick s eyes 
 opened wide. "Talk of me! We ve been talking 
 of me all along, at least, in some part. I am in 
 it, I fancy. There s nothing more special of me!" 
 
 "Oh, isn t there, though," she retorted. "Well, 
 for one little thing " 
 
 "Here, hold on there, Mater! Shift to second. 
 You don t need more power, God knows. But I ve 
 got to slow down on this curve. I m beginning to 
 skid!" 
 
 "You re a nice sort of sport for a running mate," 
 Julia derided. "If you really feel queer, here s my
 
 220 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 foot on the brake, and the road ahead is as bare as a 
 church aisle on Monday. It s your future, your 
 material future, I want to discuss, whether, by 
 now, you have begun to feel anything like a pref 
 erence for any special profession or business, or, 
 more important still, in what locality you would 
 care to practise it." 
 
 "Oh, that all!" exclaimed Wick, with a relish soon 
 followed, to Julia s secret delight, by something re 
 sembling chagrin. "I thought - 
 
 "Do you recall," she put in rather quickly, "that 
 on the night of your twenty-first birthday we had a 
 long heart-to-heart, something like this?" 
 
 "The idea of asking! You wanted me then, when 
 I spoke of choosing some business, to wait until 
 after this visit to the South. It was so unlike you 
 to suggest postponing things, I was awfully puzzled. 
 I couldn t quite get you 
 
 "And now that you re here, do you begin to under 
 stand?" 
 
 For an instant his eyes fell from hers ; then meet 
 ing them bravely, he cried, "Hang it all, Mater. A 
 chap might as well be made of glass !" 
 
 She smiled, but her face had grown wistful. 
 "Wick, dear boy," she said earnestly, "don t you see 
 it s because Roentgen rays are mere putty, compared 
 with a love such as mine? But don t think that 
 because of the insight I shall ever attempt to impose 
 my beliefs or convictions on you. Your will is 
 yourself. I gave you life, that is true, but sometimes 
 I have shivered to realize all that it means. It s 
 like loosing a bird from the hand, a soul from the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 221 
 
 golden security of Nirvana. We mothers can love, 
 we can help just a little, but the soul, when once 
 freed, must work out its own strength and purpose. 
 You know that in my eyes each individual is sacred. 
 You can realize, with such a belief, what you mean 
 to me, you, my own son." 
 
 Mother," he cried, with a break in the clear, boy 
 ish voice, "no girl has ever been, or ever can be to me, 
 just what you are !" 
 
 "I know it," she answered, with a proud lifting of 
 the head. "Perhaps better than you, my dear boy, 
 do I know it. I wear it always, and consciously, 
 as my diadem. No sweetheart, no wife, not even 
 your children, can ever usurp just my place. But 
 Wick, in a full, normal life, those niches should have 
 their saints too. No mother worth being a mother can 
 look to her only son s future, not wishing them filled. 
 
 "But we re getting at things rather fast, are we 
 not?" she veered suddenly. "We haven t finished 
 planning for now. We ve been at home barely a 
 day, and yet I can see that for you, as for me, the 
 old influences quicken. We love England well, and 
 surely shall go back there often. But each man must 
 have some definite, certain nook on the old world s 
 green surface, a place he calls his he calls 
 home. Shall your nook be in England, a great 
 Northern city, or here?" 
 
 "Here, Mater! By all the Gods of the Greeks, 
 right here!" shouted Wickford, and in excitement 
 sprang to his feet. 
 
 Julia held tight to her chair, she longed so to follow. 
 
 "It s slow, our old South," she now tempted and
 
 222 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 tested. "Only lately she has begun really to lose 
 the paralysis of war. There is more money to make, 
 many more opportunities for pleasure, up North." 
 
 "Darn the North. Why, this this is already - 
 home." 
 
 "And about your taking up business? You must 
 realize, dear," she urged very softly, though her 
 clutch was so tense that the knuckles had turned 
 greenish- white, "that unless you are keen upon try 
 ing it, there s really no need. Your father left money. 
 There are building lots houses right here. And 
 besides, by good luck, my investments are all doing 
 well. We are rich." 
 
 Wick stopped short of her chair. His gray eyes 
 were flashing. "And a hell of a cad I would be," 
 he cried angrily, "to be willing to hang on for life. 
 That money is yours. I shall make my own living. 
 I don t know quite yet how I ll do it, but there are 
 plenty of ways. And what s more," he reiterated 
 warmly, "my choice of a place is the South, where 
 you and my father and I all belong." 
 
 At this Julia, abandoning pretence and restraint 
 in a single ecstatic cry, rose to hurl herself bodily 
 upon him. 
 
 "Oh, you dear boy you one blessing! You 
 incredible dear!" she sobbed out. "I thought that 
 I loved you before, Wick, but now Oh, I hardly 
 can stand it !" 
 
 She searched about blindly for a pocket handker 
 chief, and finding none, slipped her fingers into Wick s 
 left cuff for his. 
 
 The boy strained her close. "Why, Mater, what s
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 223 
 
 wrong? Are you crying? I never have seen you 
 like this in my life ! Have I said what I shouldn t? 
 Have I hurt you, my dear, darling mother?" 
 
 "Oh, most precious of idiots!" answered she, in 
 laughter and tears "You have said everything 
 done everything with such heavenly perfection that 
 I scarcely can hope it is true. No, I m not crying, 
 not now. The tears are just oozings of radium. Now 
 let s sit down again, for I ve found, or I think that 
 I ve found, the exact sort of work for you. Will 
 you take mother in as a partner?" 
 
 "Will I just you dear angel !" 
 
 "What we do out at Ciceley s will be a sort of be 
 ginning. I ve had this in my mind all along. My 
 plan is to buy up old places, or even especially 
 hideous new ones, remodel, restore, and make 
 each one beautiful. We will fashion a garden that 
 will be an artistic extension of the architecture. 
 Even the colors of flowers and of course the shrub- 
 grouping will be part of a whole. Then we can 
 rent or sell, and go on to others. I am sure we ll 
 make money, and better even than that, we can lift 
 the whole tone of our small sleepy home-town. Does 
 it seem good in your eyes?" 
 
 The town clock struck two before Wick could be 
 driven to bed. Not only a group of old homes, but 
 long streets had been rebuilt and glorified. He went 
 from her room a young conqueror, his battle of life 
 already won. 
 
 "Pleasant dreams to the builder of beauty," she 
 called after him softly. For awhile she sat on in 
 her chair. She needed no sleep for her dreaming.
 
 224 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 At last in her chamber she disrobed slowly, re 
 placing each article with care. This punctilious 
 neatness, which had not been part of her girlhood, 
 had grown, through the necessities of travel, into a 
 fixed and meticulous habit. She busied herself 
 quite unthinking, her mind far away. 
 
 At the bedside she did not kneel, but drew herself 
 upright more slenderly. Her head, with its trailing 
 gray hair, went up slowly, and her shining eyes closed. 
 "Dear God," she said, speaking aloud as one speaks 
 to a beloved and familiar friend, "I thank You for 
 life."
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 THE PLANKS OF COLONEL JIM S BRIDGE BURN, 
 ONE AFTER ONE 
 
 JIM woke the next morning buoyant and tingling 
 with an excitement not at first clearly realized. All 
 of his dreams had been golden. Even the episode 
 where he had believed himself Rover, pursuing eter 
 nally, with long, dripping tongue, a New York ex 
 press train which eternally kept a scant three thunder 
 ous inches in front of his nose, did no more than 
 awake him to laughter. Audibly he flung to this 
 dream-dog, himself, a random assortment of epi 
 thets, usually kept for the orthodox canine. 
 
 This put-upon beast, sleeping on the floor near 
 the foot of his master s bed, sprang to his feet, growl 
 ing fiercely. It took a rough rub of his head and 
 some reassuring speech to send him back partly, if 
 not utterly convinced, that his Deity was sane. 
 
 With his next dream Jim literally entered Paradise. 
 He walked in a Garden of Hesperides, but the fruit 
 was of his own growing. Ciceley moved beside him. 
 On her head was a small wreath of the blossoms. The 
 smile that she lifted was that of a bride. This magic 
 
 225
 
 226 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 dream-fragrance reached far out into waking. Jim 
 dressed himself slowly, his very breath consciously 
 restrained, lest the aroma should vanish. The trip 
 to New York gained fresh meaning. Now, to his 
 own great surprise, he was eager to start. As Julia 
 had pointed out, it was all in the quest of his Heart s 
 Desire and worth any trouble. It took a woman s 
 intuition to see to the core of a sister-woman. 
 
 But even supposing that Ciceley should change, 
 should show by her sweet, brown eyes that she 
 could love him, he had pledged himself and her 
 never again to suggest marriage. 
 
 At this blighting recollection, the dingy red neck 
 tie, which in his absent-mindedness he had taken up, 
 jerked round his throat like the noose of a hangman. 
 
 Never, no, never, would he break that last solemn 
 pledge. If he did, Sis would rightly despise him ; 
 not to mention his own self-disgust. Finding him 
 self nearly strangled, he loosened his bonds with 
 an oath. He glared at the magenta-colored face in 
 the mirror, and told it savagely that the game was 
 up even before it had started. "What possessed 
 you to promise, you fool?" he burst out, shaking a 
 fist at his glowering reflection. "Why, in God s 
 name, did you mean it!" The incense of flowers 
 vanished before sulphurous fumes. Even Rover 
 was glad to escape. 
 
 Then the dark mood knew a sudden reaction. 
 Well, he had asked Julia s help ; he had promised 
 to follow her lead. The gamble was on, and he 
 would not be a quitter. "I ll doll myself up to the 
 limit," he told himself bitterly, and with the words
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 227 
 
 gave out a low hiss, copied from some long-forgotten 
 stage villain. "I ll stand by my ally; it s only the 
 fair thing to her. I ll try to get Sis if I can ; but I 
 won t, not for her or Jehovah, deliberately eat any 
 more dirt!" 
 
 With this he emerged from his door, crossed the 
 huge, chilly hall, and strode into the dining room. 
 Uncle Snow was just entering from the farther end, 
 a large tray of breakfast precariously posed. 
 
 "Hurry up, there!" roared Jim. "I m going to 
 New York!" 
 
 Uncle Snow gave a cry. The tray lurched to wind 
 ward, and by a swift act, as of legerdemain, was 
 caught back from a crash. When finally the old man 
 set it down before Jim, each dish and utensil chattering 
 with a separate ague, he reproved, with solemnity, 
 "Didn t you have no mo sense dan dat, Marse Jim? 
 To holler a scarifyin statemint right out when you 
 seen I wuz totin yo breakfus? Hit s de Lawd s 
 mussy yo coffee ain t leaking down thoo de flo dis 
 minnit." 
 
 "Well, it isn t," retorted Jim, "so suppose you pour 
 out a cup, and don t stand there enjoying St. 
 Vitus dance all to yourself. Yes, I m going to New 
 York." 
 
 At each repetition of his amazing statement Jim had 
 the bewildering sensation of having set fire to a fresh 
 plank of his bridge. Water swirled dizzily beneath 
 him. The fair, farther bank hung in mist. Only he 
 felt that upon it grew fruit more golden than his, and 
 white blossoms steeped in ambrosia. 
 
 Uncle Snow, by an effort, had recovered his jeopard-
 
 228 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 ized calm. "Dis is too soon in de mawnin fer proj- 
 ekin , Marse Jim," he remonstrated patiently. 
 "You knows you ain t gwinter no New Yawk. Don t 
 you see mor n enuff of dem Yankee agints of yourn, 
 right down here ? " 
 
 "Oh, this isn t a business trip, it s for pleasure," 
 said Jim, with a small grimace at the word. "I m 
 thinking of taking Miss Ciceley s two girls." 
 
 Snow s incredulity showed symptoms of breaking 
 down. "What in de name of de Lawd does dey want 
 to go to New Yawk fer?" 
 
 " Oh, partly," vouchsafed Jim, quite as if it had been 
 a matter of course, "to get themselves clothes. I m 
 going to buy some too. All my suits have grown 
 shabby." 
 
 But this was too much for belief. The old man 
 grinned broadly, shaking his white head the while. 
 
 " Go on bout yo bizness, Marse Jim ! I knows 
 you is foolin me now. You wid new close, huh! 
 Yo close wuz bawn rusty. You likes em dat way. 
 You ll be tellin me next," he chuckled, "dat you 
 gwinter buy Rover a new tail !" 
 
 "You can grin, you old Chessy Cat," said the 
 other. "But it s true, just the same. We re start 
 ing this coming Friday night. I want you to look 
 over my old trunks and valises, and see if I ve got 
 anything fit to take." 
 
 Old Snow scratched his head. His rolling eyes 
 ceased their gyrations. He looked straight at his 
 master, and then, all at once, a smile tinged with 
 cunning and lit with a gleam, as of hope, spread his 
 mouth.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 229 
 
 "You means dat fact, Kunnel bout buyin new 
 close? You means it, fo Gawd?" 
 
 Jim glanced at the speaker in a little wonder. " Do 
 you want me to take up a hammer and drive it in, 
 you old mule?" he demanded. "Why in the devil 
 do you look so pleased? I don t propose fitting you 
 out." 
 
 "No, not wid new close," murmured Snow, with 
 an air of concealed satisfaction. " I wuzn t er studyin 
 bout dem. But hit s come to my mind bout dat 
 ole long-tailed black coat of yourn, what you never 
 wears nohow. Fer dese menny years now," Snow 
 confided, "I se been hopin to git mah ied some day 
 in dat coat." 
 
 " So that s where the grin starts ! " laughed Jim. 
 "Well, go get it now. I don t want to hold back your 
 wedding. You can have the pants, too and the 
 vest," he shouted to vanishing heels, for the old man, 
 after a single ecstatic gasp, had hurled himself into an 
 angular Marathon. Before the beneficiary could re 
 turn, Jim made his escape to the orange grove. 
 
 This giving away of his one Prince Albert loomed in 
 his mind as another charred plank. He was being 
 more and more definitely committed to the plunge, 
 and less and less now did it daunt him. 
 
 He paced the long ribbons of sand between heavily- 
 laden shrubs. Instead of his usual eager searching 
 for prophetic gold spots on the fruit, he now paused 
 in thoughtful consideration near the smallest and 
 greenest of clusters. 
 
 "Not for a good four weeks yet, I should say," he 
 remarked, fingering a spheroid of malachite.
 
 230 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 After this brief, if reassuring survey, time came all 
 at once to a maddening halt. The forenoon had 
 apparently been nailed down to earth. Never had 
 hours dragged so slowly. The case of his big hunting- 
 watch acquired a new polish from the number of times 
 it was withdrawn and impatiently returned to its 
 pocket. 
 
 Luncheon found him taciturn, but Uncle Snow, 
 faithfully serving, and jellied in personal bliss, could 
 well afford temporary exclusion. 
 
 One o clock finally arrived. In about half an hour 
 Jim would dare to set forth. Recalling, with a start 
 not entirely agreeable, Julia s comments of the day 
 before on his garments, he pulled out a fold on his 
 waistcoat and gazed at the spots. 
 
 "Snow," he called sharply, "come here !" 
 
 "Yassir," rose instantly from the pantry. Snow, 
 a large ebony crab, scuttled into view. 
 
 "Bring me a bucket of water and a scrubbing 
 brush." 
 
 "Yassir," said Snow again breathlessly. He won 
 dered, in going, what new phase of delirium was on. 
 
 "I didn t ask you to wash my feet, did I?" roared 
 Jim, as he executed an enforced and undignified jig 
 to escape a great splash of water. " You ll be cleaning 
 my teeth with it next. Here, if you can let up on the 
 palsy long enough, scrape some of this muck off my 
 vest." 
 
 The old man obeyed with alacrity. His expres 
 sion, in working, was not unlike that of the schoolboy 
 who makes a laborious copy. His woolly head canted 
 to one side, his breathing came heavily.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 231 
 
 Just as the reeling earth had begun to grow steady 
 beneath him, a quick, imperious, "Snow, you old 
 rascal !" caught him back to alarm. 
 
 He stopped the painstaking brush-strokes, and 
 drew off to lift censuring eyes ; but, perceiving where 
 those of "Marse Jim" were now fixed, dropped the 
 brush, and with a gurgle which might have been 
 thankfulness at the chance of escaping that stare, 
 fell to his knees, and began scrubbing the floor in 
 wide, frantic semicircles. 
 
 "I don t seem to have any recollection," came the 
 voice of the accuser terrifyingly restrained, from the 
 still air above him, "of giving you that particular 
 cravat." It was a scarf of dark blue, with small, 
 inconspicuous white spots. Snow clutched at it 
 wildly. 
 
 "You didn t, Marse Jim. Leastways not eg- 
 zacterly," he quavered. " I took hit myse f . It was 
 layin on de flo by y o bureau. I thought you d 
 done thow d it away." 
 
 "You lying, black scoundrel," cried Jim, striving 
 hard not to laugh. "You know perfectly well if you 
 helped yourself to all of my things you found layin 
 on de flo , I d be going round naked. No, I don t 
 want it now !" he exclaimed, seeing the old man begin 
 a tremulous jerking. "Do you suppose I d wear the 
 thing after it s been round your horny old neck? 
 You can hustle yourself to my room," he ordered. 
 "Here, wait, take this bullfrog bait with you." 
 With the words he began stripping from about his 
 collar the streaked red necktie which yesterday Julia 
 had scorned. "See if you can t find me another like
 
 232 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 that of yours, under the bureau. If there isn t a blue 
 one, get black." 
 
 At last he could start. What would he find waiting 
 at Little Sunshine ? He had not felt such excitement 
 in years. At one instant he knew a keen hope that 
 the girls would decline his, or rather, Julia s sugges 
 tion. At the next he was just a great boy promised 
 a circus, and now suddenly smitten by terror that 
 before he could get there the biggest elephant would 
 die. He turned from the main-thoroughfare corner 
 into the dark, shaded lane leading to Ciceley s. 
 Eagerness quickened his stride. Rover, as usual, 
 swung within a few inches of his heels. 
 
 Halfway down the green tunnel, two young figures, 
 both laughing, swept in from an opposite street. 
 They were evidently racing each other. He had been 
 unperceived. He drew back to a thick juniper 
 trunk, and in the same motion bent to stifle Rover s 
 half-uttered bark into an outraged, low whining. 
 
 It was Sylvia, with Wickford in close pursuit. 
 
 From the time the two Bering girls could reach the 
 old stirrup latch, and even before that desirable period, 
 when the bars of the gate served as stepladder, they 
 had delighted in playing the game, "Who ll get it 
 first?" 
 
 For an hour or more these two, at Julia s behest, 
 had been strolling. "Wick was dying to see," or, 
 at least, so his smiling mother averred, " the old haunts 
 of his childhood." The little one very demurely 
 accepted the office of guide. All along she had been as 
 conscious of "company manners" as though they 
 had been a pair of squeaking new shoes.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 233 
 
 She answered Wick s questions sedately, but often, 
 when his look was turned elsewhere, fastened her 
 brown eyes on him. The boy s somewhat exotic 
 courtesy, and, still more, the queer English accent 
 which kept her eternally on guard not to laugh, 
 wrought an effect of restraint. 
 
 She liked Wick, of course. He was "nice." She 
 had never met any one like him. There was no one 
 with eyes just like his. Their bright look, as he met 
 hers, and this she avoided as often as possible, 
 made something inside her breast quiver and shrink. 
 When at last he consented to turn their steps home 
 ward, she was conscious of definite relief. 
 
 At first sight of her gate through the trees, the 
 strange feeling of respite flared to excitement. "Oh, 
 there is the gate," she cried out. "I bet I can reach 
 the stirrup latch first !" 
 
 She whirled from his side like a leaf in a storm. 
 It took Wick one moment to realize the challenge 
 and very few more to speed past her. He hung to the 
 gate, his hand curved, triumphantly over the old iron 
 boss. 
 
 "You are mean," panted she, crimson-cheeked, 
 pouting, and dimpled. "You let go. It s my 
 latch!" Vainly the small fingers prodded. "Ouch! 
 Now you have hurt me," she wailed. 
 
 Wick abandoned his clutch. Instead, he bent down 
 to her hands, catching and holding them. They were 
 tender and soft as the young leaves of spring. "I 
 don t see a bruise. Where s the hurt?" he asked 
 anxiously. "I wouldn t have hurt you for worlds !" 
 
 For answer she caught them away, slid through the
 
 234 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 gate, and, sending back showers of elfin-like laughter, 
 ran across the lawn and into the house. 
 
 Jim, smiling but looking quite thoughtful, emerged 
 from behind the thick tree. Was this part of Julia s 
 plan, too? Nothing she did would surprise him. 
 He shook his head in a mute, if profound, recognition 
 of that marvellous woman s abilities. 
 
 Rover, now free, galloped furiously away. He 
 didn t intend risking another such grip on his nozzle. 
 Not even at the gate would he trust Jim s discretion, 
 but, writhing beneath the lowest bar, made his way in. 
 At his loud bark of triumph, Jim glanced apprehen 
 sively toward the house. Of course, when they heard 
 the fool barking, they would know he had come. 
 They would all be upon him now. Escape was cut off. 
 
 He groaned, and his knees turned to sand. 
 
 But the long verandah remained empty. " Hello ! " 
 whistled Jim to himself. What does this mean? 
 Surely they haven t all left without giving me warn 
 ing!" Sylvia and the boy Wickford were, to his 
 plans, of no more concern than a pair of gay humming 
 birds. 
 
 From an upper-storey window a bright golden head, 
 that of Lucille, was suddenly thrust forth, and as 
 quickly withdrawn. He felt, rather than heard, her 
 swift feet on the stairway. 
 
 "Jumping Jehosephat!" he groaned, "Have I got 
 to get her first, and all by myself !" 
 
 Yes, here she came shining toward him, an arrow 
 aimed straight, its shaft glinting sunlight. "Oh, 
 Uncle Jim. Dear Uncle Jim," she was crying. "Of 
 all blessed angels!"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 235 
 
 So he was the cause of this radiance ! Curses, all 
 deep muttered curses on Julia, and all meddlesome 
 women of her kind. He braced himself doggedly for 
 the attack, and essayed a pleased smile, but the effort, 
 had Julia been there to observe it, was strangely like 
 that of the martyr, St. Sebastian, when turned to a 
 quivering pincushion. 
 
 "Crash !" was Jim s conscious, if smothered impreca 
 tion, as the girl s strong young arms tightened about 
 him. "There goes the last plank of my bridge !"
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 PREPARATIONS ; AND THE WRITING OF Two LETTERS 
 
 "ALL right. That s all right, Lucille," sputtered 
 the agonized recipient of her raptures. "So you and 
 the little one do want to go ! " He fought his way past, 
 detaching her lovely arms as though they had been 
 octopus tentacles. "Where s your mother and Jule ? " 
 
 "We ve all been up-stairs, looking over old trunks 
 to see if any of them would do to take," answered she, 
 now a few steps in the rear. She smiled with a slight 
 touch of malice to notice that even the back of 
 his neck quivered and burned with discomfiture. 
 "They ll be down before long. I told them I wanted 
 to be the first to thank you. How did you ever happen 
 to think of such a glorious, wonderful thing, Uncle 
 Jim?" 
 
 In terror at the new note of gratitude, the Colonel 
 plunged forward. His eyes, fixed on the still distant 
 door, cried for help. Dignity alone kept him from 
 breaking into a run. Then he froze for a second time 
 to a pillar of salt. The little one had heard, and was 
 coming. "Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim!" she cried out. 
 "Are you really going to take us to New York? I 
 
 236
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 237 
 
 just can t believe it. It sounds like one of my fairy 
 stories." 
 
 He bent, with a groan, to her kisses. Would Julia, 
 the treacherous, the unfeeling, never come to his 
 aid? 
 
 Yes, there she was now, moving slowly and with 
 as much smiling assurance as if her pledged ally were 
 not being pulled on a rack. Beside her, though rather 
 less genial, strolled Wick. At some little distance 
 behind both, he could see the downbent head of 
 Ciceley. Julia turned about now, and was speaking 
 in a low, yet emphatic voice to her cousin. Ap 
 parently no answer was given. 
 
 Jim strode through the group, straight to her of the 
 downcast demeanor. She shrank, as if pleading, and 
 then slowly lifted a face stained with tears. 
 
 "Why, Sis, you ve been crying!" 
 
 She tried to release a wan smile, but instead cowered 
 back, and burst into sobbing. 
 
 "Look here," Jim declared, swinging a sword glance 
 of defiance about him, and then planting himself before 
 Ciceley in the posture presumed to be that of the 
 Rhodian Colossus. "Not one step do I budge if 
 Ciceley don t want it ! Get that ? " 
 
 "Of course Ciceley wants it," threw in Julia hur 
 riedly. "She s ecstatic at the thought of her girls 
 having such a wonderful trip. It is only natural that, 
 just at the first 
 
 Jim cut her short rudely. "I m waiting to hear, 
 Sis, from you." 
 
 Into the silence crept Sylvia. "I don t want to go, 
 either, Uncle Jim, if mother takes it so hard." One
 
 238 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 arm went around the lax figure, but her shy, shining 
 eyes were for Wick. 
 
 Lucille gave a sound of impatience, and opened her 
 lips to speak. At a swift, warning gesture from Julia, 
 she shut them to lines of stiff wax. 
 
 "I don t call it fair to the girls," spoke up Julia, 
 ignoring her recent rebuff, "to force a decision that 
 means so much to them both while Ciceley is not 
 quite herself." 
 
 "Don t notice em, Sis. Don t you hear em. Just 
 tell Jim you want em to stay, and they stay ! " 
 Again he glared fury. 
 
 "You know I don t m-m-mean to be selfish," wept 
 Ciceley. "I only live for my children." 
 
 A low "tschk" of scorn from Lucille made her 
 start. "I realize what a great chance it is for them. 
 It was kind of you, Jim, very kind to propose it. I 
 don t want to stand in the way of such a great treat. 
 But they ve n-n-never been away from their mother a 
 whole single night in all of their 1-1-lives !" The final 
 word rose in a crescendo of woe. 
 
 Lucille threw back her head and walked off. The 
 frozen disgust in her eyes caught more than a gleam 
 of response in Julia s. Little Sylvia stood still near 
 her mother. Her hands, loosely clasped, hung in front 
 of her. Her long lashes brushed her pink cheeks. 
 
 "Then it s settled !" cried Jim, in a tone which he 
 strove to make hearty. "No trip. We ll be happy 
 right here!" 
 
 But at this, Ciceley, smitten with terror, flew to 
 him as a bird flies defending her nest. "No, no! 
 I don t want you to say that ! They re to go, do you
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 239 
 
 hear? They re to go! I ve already agreed. It is 
 lovely of you, Jim, to take them. You can t back out 
 now. If you did 
 
 She threw a frightened look at Lucille, who, turning 
 again, had stood still, and was watching with cruel 
 intentness. "Oh, Jim! Please don t disappoint 
 them now!" 
 
 "But, Sis," stammered the bewildered man, "do 
 you know what you re saying ? You re shaking and 
 shivering now as if you had chills. If this is to be a 
 new species of martyrdom, and I am the cause, I cry 
 quits. You have enough to put up with already !" 
 
 His eyes, sapphire-blue now with menace, went first 
 to Lucille, who, in meeting them, looked down de 
 murely ; and then flashed, with more meaning, to 
 Julia. Ciceley s reiterated protests vanished in air. 
 
 "As I told you before," remarked Julia, "and was 
 snubbed for my pains this is no time for forcing 
 a statement. We all know the girls are to go. And 
 now, if you can stop glaring at me long enough, sup 
 pose you come out and take a look at our new car?" 
 
 She wheeled with the air of a victor, and went down 
 the steps. At the far corner of the house, half hidden 
 from view by overgrown shrubs, stood a car, almost 
 startlingly new. Every wind-stirred leaf gleamed 
 in it : even the clouds far above moved in its black 
 lacquered surface. 
 
 " We are going to town in a little while," Julia in 
 formed him. "That is, Wickford and I are to take 
 the girls in. I have some things at the hotel I am to 
 lend them for the trip. Ciceley refuses to go. She 
 is nervous, she tells me, about riding in motors.
 
 240 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 You had better stay here and keep her company. 
 We will be back again in less than two hours." 
 
 On the drive Lucille sat on the rear seat with Julia. 
 
 "Haven t you thought," asked the girl, in a tone 
 pitched too low for the others to hear, "that it may be 
 dangerous this leaving Uncle Jim alone with 
 mother?" 
 
 "You mean she may yet influence him to give 
 up the trip?" 
 
 Lucille nodded. Her face, in the strong afternoon 
 light, was as flawless and pure as the petal of a just- 
 opened magnolia flower. 
 
 "No," answered the elder woman, after a moment 
 of consideration. "Of course, I had not ignored the 
 possibility ; but I don t think it really a risk. If I 
 had, I should never have left them." 
 
 Lucille leaned back softly. From her lips came a 
 sigh of relief. "I am sure that you know, Cousin 
 Julia." 
 
 At this the Commended One, looking swiftly away 
 to hide her intelligent smile, knew that much had 
 been given. 
 
 She began now to chatter irrelevantly, pointing out 
 things near the road, but soon a distrust of the girl s 
 concentration came over her. It was intensified by 
 the perception that Lucille never looked where the 
 oratrix pointed, nor made the slightest effort at 
 response. "Now she s abiding, " thought Julia. 
 "It won t do to let this run on. I m not ready for it." 
 
 Throwing herself back into the one topic Lucille 
 had broached, she said, as if lightly continuing a 
 theme never abandoned :
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 241 
 
 "Yes, I am quite sure there s no risk. For one 
 thing, Jim wants to go now. I am not at all certain 
 he knows it, but his mind s set on going. Then 
 Ciceley your mother is very intuitive. Oh," 
 she flung in, as Lucille gave an incredulous start, "I 
 presume you don t think so. Neither of you girls 
 has the slightest conception of the real person you 
 have fallen in to the habit of calling mother , but she 
 has intuition, and much else besides. As soon as she 
 sees how Jim feels, she ll adapt her ideas to his. 
 That s Ciceley s way." 
 
 "She s never adapted herself enough to marry him," 
 stated Lucille. 
 
 Julia was for a moment, as Wick would have said, 
 "knocked off her pins." 
 
 "Oh, well," she cried, laughing, "you ll admit that 
 an adventure like marriage scarcely comes under the 
 term adaptation. I d call it absorption, or even, 
 in an extreme case, annihilation." 
 
 Lucille did not join in the merriment. For an 
 answer she shifted her pose, so that, instead of her 
 exquisite profile, her whole thoughtful countenance 
 was set towards her companion. 
 
 Julia stirred, with an amused, if irritated con 
 sciousness of intrigue. It was not part of her 
 design to submit to questioning thus early in the 
 game. She marvelled at the country girl s temerity 
 in daring it. 
 
 Lucille s eyes, clear, steady, and appraising, moved 
 over her cousin s face with the touch of cold finger 
 tips, and came back to the now-guarded eyes. 
 
 "I wonder," she mused reflectively, "how it has
 
 242 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 happened that you never married again, Cousin 
 Julia?" 
 
 Julia gave a light gesture of dismissal. "Some 
 people," she fenced, "have a deep-rooted prejudice 
 against second marriages." 
 
 "Not people with your intelligence," retorted 
 Lucille. "I am sure that you get that you take 
 what you want. It s the only sensible way. There s 
 something you are after right now, though of course 
 I cannot guess it yet. But this trip to New York " 
 She paused, and in her face Julia saw a gleam as of 
 malice. "This trip so generously offered us by Uncle 
 Jim " here she threw in the fragment of a laugh, 
 "it would never have entered his head from now until 
 Doomsday. You are doing it all." 
 
 "Help! Help!" uttered Julia in affected alarm. 
 She leaned forward, sending her voice straight to the 
 ears of the murmuring pair on the front seat. They 
 turned simultaneously; Wick for an instant only, 
 as he needed his attention for the wheel, but Sylvia 
 in wide-eyed arrested surprise. 
 
 "I m being dissected," cried Julia to her. "I 
 thought I had just a nice girl in the car here beside 
 me, and now she has changed to a Sibyl, a mind 
 reader. I fear for my reason. What do you-all do 
 with her, Sylvia, when these attacks come on?" 
 
 "Nobody ever tries to do anything with Lucille," 
 confided the little one, dimpling. "All of us let her 
 alone." 
 
 "But how can I let her alone when she s chained 
 by my side? Thank heaven, here s town. Lucille, 
 you appalling young person, use your X-rays for the
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 243 
 
 shop windows, and keep them well turned from Cousin 
 Julia, or I will not answer for consequences." 
 
 Lucille submitted with smiling complacency. That 
 she relished the effect just produced was quite evi 
 dent. Julia, vibrating beside her, had the uncom 
 fortable emotions of a much-ruffled hen, whose 
 feathers refused to stay down. 
 
 In the hotel, before opening of trunks and the dis 
 closure of one after another of Julia s marvellous 
 possessions, Lucille cast off subtleties, and became 
 equally with Sylvia a wondering, exclamatory young 
 girl. She realized that the clothes she had longed for, 
 and dreamed of, were like these. None of her fash 
 ion books showed them. Something hidden and fine 
 in her whispered that they were not mere fashionable 
 garments, but that each was an artist s creation. 
 
 To the question in her bright, uplifted eyes, Julia 
 answered, "Yes, they are lovely. I know it. I was 
 pupil to one of the greatest of modern French artists, 
 just to learn from him how to design and wear clothes. 
 He believes woman s dressing to be a legitimate part of 
 Fine Art. That is why I nearly always appear better- 
 looking than I really am," she explained frankly. 
 "I haven t a decent physical point that isn t 
 enhanced, nor an indecent one that isn t consciously 
 remedied." 
 
 "It is wonderful won-derful!" murmured Lucille, 
 and from her enraptured expression one of her listeners, 
 at least, knew she was thinking, "If my good points 
 could be enhanced !" 
 
 "Of course," went on Julia, as she flung a confection 
 of mauve and pale green to the bed, "such training
 
 244 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 brings penalties. It is torture to me to see women in 
 blasphemous gowns. It s a crime against beauty. 
 And so few women know. It has got to be a sort of 
 passion with me," she confessed, her eyes sparkling, 
 "to mentally undress and reclothe all the women I m 
 thrown with." 
 
 "Have you ever done it to me and Lucille?" de 
 manded the little one, with such charming naivete 
 that Julia laughed out, and even Lucille flashed an 
 appreciative smile. 
 
 "Dress you, you small kitten! Well, rather! 
 You and Lucille both. I am going to write a twenty- 
 page letter to New York this very evening, and all 
 about clothes for you two. Just wait till you get 
 there ! Just wait " here she paused, as one holds 
 a gay toy out of reach of a child, "till you come back 
 to dazzle the town !" 
 
 "Oh, oh!" gurgled Sylvia, for happiness. "But 
 what about mother?" 
 
 "Oh, mother," said Julia, deliberately misunder 
 standing, "Wickford and I are going to be so nice to 
 her she won t have time to grieve." 
 
 "I didn t mean grieving," persisted the little one. 
 "Are you going to try to do anything about mother s 
 clothes?" 
 
 Julia s swift side-glance toward Lucille caught the 
 expected sneer. 
 
 "I m afraid," she said gently, with a note of regret, 
 "it s almost too late to help mother. Besides, as you 
 know, it will make her much happier if I concentrate 
 all my talents on you girls." 
 
 Lucille made no comment, but her look showed
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 245 
 
 relief. Seeing it, Julia stiffened, and said something 
 under her breath. 
 
 Their return to Little Sunshine found the aban 
 doned ones sitting in Darby and Joan contentment in 
 the late sunlight, near the top of the verandah steps. 
 
 While Ciceley went up-stairs with her daughters 
 to marvel and thrill over the treasures that Cousin 
 Jule had lent them , Julia, motioning Wick out of 
 ear shot, leaned closer to Jim. 
 
 "Is Ciceley quite all right?" 
 
 "All right!" echoed Jim, with what seemed to his 
 listener deliberate stupidity. 
 
 "Yes, goose. All right about letting the girls take 
 the trip?" 
 
 "Why, of course," he now answered, as if pained 
 and astonished that she thought questioning necessary. 
 "You don t know Sis if you think she d let her own 
 feelings hold back her girls from their fun. She only 
 lives for her children." 
 
 Julia gritted her teeth, and with the sound inwardly 
 erased one of the black marks against Lucille. Jim 
 could be sometimes maddeningly dense ! 
 
 She sprang to her feet. "Come on, Wick," she 
 cried out. "Let s go look at the stable, and see what 
 it needs to be turned into an up-to-date garage." 
 
 After the pleasant, light supper, to which Jim had 
 been persuaded to remain, Julia announced, in arising, 
 that she must go back to town almost at once. 
 
 "Yes, letters again," she explained airily, and this 
 time gave a wink at Lucille. "Long letters, and all 
 most important. I ll declare," she averred in pre 
 tended despair, "I am sure that some day I shall
 
 246 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 turn to a typing-machine. Do I use one !" she flung 
 back to Ciceley s somewhat startled query. "Why, 
 I play on the sheets in my sleep ! I carry a type 
 writer round with me. It s a lamb of a folding one, 
 not much bigger than a jewelry case. I d as soon 
 start a journey minus a toothbrush !" 
 
 The young people, more specially Sylvia and Wick, 
 now gave vocal protest against having their evening 
 cut short. 
 
 "I ll tell you what, girls !" cried She of the Hundred 
 Resources, "you run up-stairs and fetch some warm 
 coats, and any old rug you can find, and drive in with 
 Wick and me. He will bring you out again. I don t 
 want him round when I m writing. Keep him out here 
 as long as you can stand it. But," here the stern 
 note arrested young figures already poised for running, 
 "let it be understood here and now that my feeble 
 intellect is not a stray bone for any one s picking! 
 Do you hear, you white witch ? " 
 
 "I hear," laughed Lucille, "and I promise." 
 
 All events having taken place according to the 
 strategist s planning, eight o clock found her alone in 
 her hotel apartment, orders given at the desk that 
 no caller or telephone rings should disturb her, the 
 typewriter opened and ready, and on her white fore 
 head a frown, hinting of measured thought. 
 
 With a sudden, decisive gesture she stuck in the 
 paper, and began. The keys swung into a merry 
 clog-dance. This letter evidently held no pitfalls, 
 no problems. Frequently the writer smiled. Once 
 she laughed out. When finished, she slipped it into 
 an envelope addressed to "Mrs. George Brandt."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 247 
 
 "Jennie s going to be pleased to the bone," said the 
 writer aloud. "I wish I could go, if only to see her 
 face when she first catches sight of Lucille." 
 
 Two very short missives came next. One was to 
 the proprietor and manager of the hotel where Jim 
 was to stop, the other to a New York dressmaker 
 whose name conveyed meaning, even along the Pa 
 risian Rue de la Paix. 
 
 With the fourth, the nerve-core of the complex was 
 touched. She adjusted the paper, wrote out the full 
 date, and then started, "My very dear Mark." 
 Then she stopped. The famous rogation of Steven 
 son, "Only show me, dear Lord, the things to leave 
 out. I can manage the things to put in," came to 
 her. 
 
 She rose and went over to a window. It is instinc 
 tive in those who have a room-pent perplexity to 
 seek the appearance of space. She looked out, per 
 ceiving nothing. 
 
 To give others advice honest sympathy her 
 best counsel these were old stories to Julia, but 
 never before, as it seemed now to her, had she dared 
 to play puppet with souls. 
 
 For a long while she stood in deep thought. "The 
 thing s begun now," finally she muttered. "If 
 you re crossing a Rubicon, especially with others 
 in tow, you ve got to keep on." 
 
 And, still slowly, but with an increase of determina 
 tion at each nearing step, she went back to her "lamb 
 of a .typewriter."
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 THE MELTING OF THE ICE-MAIDEN 
 
 LUCILLE BERING stood, one early November morn 
 ing, at the window of a certain New York hotel. Out 
 before her Central Park led off into luminous hillocks 
 of mist, whether tree or rounded earth, she could not 
 determine, for all swam alike in a shimmering autumn- 
 tinged mist. Directly beneath her ran the great, 
 bared artery of life called Fifth Avenue. 
 
 In New York, the month of November holds to no 
 medium grade. Either it is a detestable welter of 
 mud, cold, and rain, or else, as now, a thing of sur 
 passing loveliness. Not even in her far Southern 
 home had Lucille seen sunshine more golden; but 
 the air of New York, unlike that of her wrapt, tranquil 
 Hill, was alive with myriad small bubbles of energy. 
 She had read in novels of the vital and inspiring 
 atmosphere" of the great city. Now she was breath 
 ing it in, stirring and thrilling to its influence, was 
 tantalized, urged, almost, she felt, in a subtle, mys 
 terious way, being re-created. 
 
 For the girl at the window this morning seemed to 
 conserve but a vague, distant kinship in spirit to the 
 self-assured, smiling young creature who, only a few 
 
 248
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 249 
 
 weeks ago, had been immanent in this same fair flesh. 
 The change had commenced at her hand-clasp with 
 Mark Stanwood, and the swift look of wonder and 
 joy in his eyes. At first she had thought it merely a 
 component part of excitement, the exhilaration of 
 being at last in New York, of buying new clothes, 
 meeting charming new people, and, most of all, of 
 being for a time freed from the dullness of home. 
 
 There was scant time to give to her reveries. 
 Jennie Brandt, as a chaperone and instigator of 
 " parties," had been all that Julia predicted, and 
 more. Each day was packed close with adventures 
 which ran over the edges far into the night. 
 
 Jim, boyishly immune from the urge of such intro 
 spection, declared buoyantly that he was having "the 
 time of his life." Little Sylvia was equally objective ; 
 while the fourth of the party, Mark Stanwood, as 
 courteous and perfect in manner as only a well-born 
 Londoner can be, showered equal attentions on all. 
 His advice to Jim, at the tailor s, was invaluable. 
 Mrs. Brandt, whose one fear in life was of getting 
 too stout, announced herself promptly Mark s victim. 
 "I can go back to butter and sweets again, now/ 
 she said plaintively, and yet with a leaven of hope. 
 "I have heard there is nothing so infallible for making 
 one thin as an unrequited passion. And what chance 
 have I got?" she demanded, in humorous despair, 
 "with a husband who loves me at home, and two 
 rivals like these," sending glances of scathing at both 
 girls, "under Mark s nose from morning till mid 
 night?" 
 
 Within a few days she began to show interest in
 
 250 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 which one of her rivals would win. "Surely one of 
 you must," she insisted. "Mark s too frightfully 
 good-looking and clever to send back to England 
 alone. If it wasn t for George !" 
 
 Her tone, always chaffing, always bright with good 
 will and impartial attachment to her fair "borrowed" 
 daughters, began, for some reason, to stir secret pangs 
 in Lucille. 
 
 "Is Cousin Julia behind this, too?" she wondered 
 uneasily. "But what part of her plan could it 
 serve?" There were moments when Mrs. Brandt s 
 smile held an edge. 
 
 And Mark after that first keen, incredulous 
 flash of delight had displayed in her presence no 
 more self-consciousness than Jim. Flowers came to 
 both girls, matched, it would seem, bud by bud. 
 The boxes of candy were sent to the " Misses Bering." 
 
 Lucille found herself watching with breathless 
 intensity for some hint of preference, a longer clasp 
 of the hand as he assisted them in turn from a taxi ; 
 a more lingering touch to the evening wrap which he 
 folded about her young shoulders. Even at times 
 she attempted, and, with a quiver of scorn, self- 
 acknowledged the effort, to compel an unveiling 
 of choice. But Mark, as if warned, kept a debon- 
 naire balance between them; and each day Lucille 
 knew deeper thorns. 
 
 Recently the desire for a few hours of solitude had 
 grown to a physical need. She must be alone with 
 these new, acid thoughts. She must face them, 
 adjust herself to them, win her way through the forest 
 of doubts. But complete isolation was not easily
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 251 
 
 compassed. At last, in despair, she fell back on the 
 immemorial feminine plea of sick headache. 
 
 A trip for that day had been planned, the party to 
 leave about nine o clock. There was luncheon to be 
 taken at Tuxedo, and afterward a circuitous motor- 
 drive home along a justly famed country road. 
 
 About eight, the girl summoned the little one, and 
 to her, with moans, lied convincingly. Sylvia, 
 instantly solicitous, wished to remain, but the sufferer, 
 acquiring a martyr-like tone not unlike that of her 
 mother, said that all she needed was quiet and rest. 
 A morning alone in her room and some bromide 
 would make her, as Mark said, "quite fit" by the 
 time that the others returned. 
 
 She lay on the bed tense and watchful through closed 
 lids, to see that her plans did not stray. At last came 
 the telephone announcing, "Mrs. Brandt waited." 
 
 Lucille gave a long sigh of relief, followed quickly 
 by the sharp cry, "Oh, don t let her come up here, 
 Sylvia. She s a dear, and I love her, of course. But 
 sometimes she s dreadfully vivid ! I ll go mad if you 
 bring her up now." 
 
 As the door closed on Sylvia, the figure, a moment 
 before prone in anguish, sprang up, and flinging about 
 its shoulders a dressing-robe, rushed toward the 
 window. She could see by a down-tilting glance 
 from one side the edge of the pavement that bordered 
 the hotel s main entrance. 
 
 In front of it, blocking all others, stood the Brandts 
 enormous green car. The chaffeur and liveried foot 
 man, dressed to match, held dummy-like postures 
 in front. In the rear, a mass of bright colored veils
 
 252 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 and potential energies, waited impatiently the hostess. 
 Now she threw out a gay hand of welcome. The foot 
 man sprang down as though she possessed him on 
 wires. Little Sylvia was tripping toward them. 
 
 Close behind little Sylvia came Mark. "When he 
 moves," thought the watcher, "all the other men 
 seem stiff and common." In his hands the Honorable 
 Mark bore two clusters of roses. The first, a deep 
 crimson, was lifted towards Mrs. Brandt. The 
 second, of delicate pink, he now offered, with a bow 
 of exaggerated homage, to Sylvia. Swift phrases of 
 merriment flew between. The long-lashed, dark eyes 
 of the girl dwelt on his. Her face, now all smiles and 
 shy dimples, outmatched her roses in hue. Mark also 
 was laughing. His teeth shone white as he helped her 
 small figure into the car. Mrs. Brandt beamed on 
 both, well pleased. Lucille, without knowing it, 
 took a sharp breath. 
 
 What if, already, it was Sylvia he cared for ? Sylvia 
 was only a child, but it was no strange happening for 
 a man of mature years to love such a child. There 
 was middle-aged Mr. Barnes on the Hill. It had nat 
 urally made him a laughing stock, and no one had 
 laughed quite so long or so heartlessly as Sylvia. 
 Yet the fact still remained that the idiot had fallen 
 in love, as he called it, with Sylvia. Then too there 
 was Wick, and some others. From the first Wick 
 had been devotee. His mother had seen and ap 
 proved it ; and Sylvia, at least there in the South, had 
 appeared not only flattered, but gracious. 
 
 This reflection, however, brought nothing to assuage. 
 She had little confidence in Sylvia s sincerity. All
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 253 
 
 Southern girls of that type were born flirts. Lucille s 
 lips curled at the thought. Whatever her faults, 
 this tawdry and sometimes most cruel indulgence of 
 cheap personal vanity was not one of them. 
 
 "Besides," she reasoned, and through the swift 
 current of thoughts not a turn of the hand in the still- 
 waiting car went unnoticed, "Wickford is almost as 
 much of a child as Sylvia. What hope of success 
 could a boy, or indeed any other man have, should 
 Mark Stanwood happen to care?" 
 
 Jim at last entered the car. Mrs. Brandt evidently 
 chaffed him for tardiness. Smartly tailored, now 
 perfectly hatted and shod, Colonel Jim might have 
 passed for an up-to-date Metropolitan clubman. 
 
 Lucille smiled, but the smile was not pleasant to 
 see. Here was one phase of Julia s strategy which 
 from the first had been patent. Jim, in sudden 
 despair at his last rejection, had confided his sorrows 
 to Julia. She was trying to help him to win. So 
 tame an affair could not hold the girl s interest long. 
 Whether Jim gained his long-sought-for desire, or 
 whether he knew final defeat, the life at the Hill 
 would proceed just the same. He and his "Sis" 
 would jog on, side by side, to their elderly graves. It 
 all seemed dull, tepid, almost a farce. 
 
 Now the car blew its siren for starting. Lucille 
 pressed her face to the pane. Mark suddenly turned 
 his head as if to look up, at which, with a gasp, she 
 recoiled. Had he seen her ? And if so, would he guess 
 why she needed to stay there alone? For an instant 
 she shut her eyes close. 
 
 When she dared look again, the great car was gliding
 
 254 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 away, smooth and silent as a slender canoe in deep 
 waters. She strained her vision until it faded into 
 golden mists, then, returning to the center of the 
 room, lifted slowly her long white arms. Here, at 
 last, was her boon of a day which no one need share. 
 There was much to deliberate. She must think, plan, 
 determine, adapt. If, as her instinct assured her, 
 this Machiavellian scheme had dared to include 
 arbitrarily her own vital tissues of character, using her 
 soul, as it were, for a thumb tack to hold down the 
 edges of a chart, this day s ponderings were to free 
 her. That jeopardized being, the Lucille she believed 
 herself, a creature wrought slowly and consciously 
 through years to be strong, self-sufficing, secure, 
 she must arise purged and strengthened from the crux 
 of this day s fearless percipience. " If only," and here 
 the golden head went down, "her falling in love with 
 Mark Stanwood had not been foreseen!" This 
 indeed would be the final degradation. 
 
 A knock came at the door. Her pulse quickened 
 with a premonition of what it might mean. Again, 
 in a vision, she saw Mark with his cluster of roses 
 leaning above little Sylvia. He had never yet given 
 flowers to one and neglected the other. 
 
 She sped to the door. Yes, there was the bell boy, 
 and in his arms a long florist s box. She received it 
 composedly, and bidding the messenger wait, gave 
 him money. Now, locking the door, after sending 
 down word to the office that on no account was she 
 to be disturbed, she went over to a table, and, with a 
 clumsiness born of unsteadied nerves, began to untie 
 the gold cords.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 255 
 
 Inside the box lay a sheaf of white roses, long, 
 perfect buds, each worth a separate scrutiny. She 
 pushed them aside quite unseeing, in her quest for a 
 hidden card. She found it at last, in its small, sealed 
 envelope, a visiting card, with Mark s name. The 
 trembling of fingers disclosed, on the other side, a few 
 lines written in pencil. At this, all her breath seemed 
 to stop. It was what she had hoped. This had been 
 Mark s first chance of addressing her solely. 
 
 Some queer, unfamiliar influence held her back from 
 immediate reading. It might mean so much and 
 
 so little ! She sank to a chair, and, after a few 
 moments, with a word of impatience at her schoolgirl 
 folly, deliberately raised it, and read : 
 
 " Sorry ! Not only for the victim but for ourselves. 
 With regrets, and hoping that by evening you will 
 be quite all right, M. S." 
 
 Her lips had been drawing to a hard, whitish line. 
 She read once again, and then, with a sound that 
 travestied laughter, flung the card wide. It skimmed 
 through the air in a circle; fluttered an instant in 
 poise and fell into her lap. Now she crushed the 
 frail thing into angles so sharp that they hurt her 
 soft palm. She was glad of the pain. 
 
 Mark s words might have been written to Sylvia, 
 
 for the matter of that, to Colonel Jim. There was 
 not even a waver of sympathy in the firm, pencilled 
 lines. 
 
 She crept back to her bed. She had heard some 
 where that one could think more clearly when lying 
 down. Here the fictitious headache, as if lying in 
 wait, clutched her temples. And, after all, what was
 
 256 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 there to think? Her task, more objective, more 
 devastating, was merely to face what had happened. 
 She had entered the lists of reality, decked and visored, 
 to find that her armor was glass. She, Lucille the 
 fastidious, the unapproachable, the self-assured, had 
 fallen in love like a gum-chewing shopgirl with some 
 Prince of the " Movies"; and that with a man who 
 had not sought her love. She had even put forth 
 conscious effort to win him. The shame of this fact 
 scorched her brain. No, she would not admit that 
 she loved him ! She was not of the sort who goes mad. 
 It was only that somehow, from that first, breathless 
 instant of meeting, he had seemed to be part of her 
 dreams. There were doubtless a score of other men 
 quite as attractive. If this one were foolish enough 
 to prefer an infant like Sylvia, it proved him no true 
 mate for her. 
 
 At this she sat up, the throbbing head lifted, and 
 summoned her "unconquerable soul." Then, under 
 the proudly drooped eyelids, stole the image of Sylvia 
 looking up into Mark s face. It had held at the 
 moment a heart-catching resemblance to the mother 
 -to Ciceley as she must once have been. "He is 
 cursed with fidelity, poor man ! It is only to see 
 his old love that he s on his way to America now." 
 The memory of Julia s words worked like the point 
 of a blade. Perhaps here, just here, lay the quivering 
 core of Mark s secret. In Sylvia he found his first 
 love renewed. If this were the case, she, Lucille, was 
 indeed irremediably desolate. No mortal could 
 strive against phantoms. 
 
 "Well," she said aloud bitterly, clutching at pride,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 257 
 
 "I wanted to find out a reason. This absurdity 
 explains every point. The thing for me now is to 
 accept it, and fling off my own silly frenzy." 
 
 For a few moments longer she fenced. She would 
 still be herself, would repel this degrading encroach 
 ment. Then, in the next moment, with a cry as the 
 walls of her House of Life seemed to fall, she threw 
 herself back to the pillows, and gave herself over to the 
 tempest. Not since childhood had she known such 
 tears. Her whole slender frame rocked and writhed 
 in its yielding to passion. She felt it a strange, untried 
 luxury, and literally revelled in grief. 
 
 "It is true !" she sobbed out in an ecstasy of abase 
 ment. "I do love you, Mark. I can never love any 
 one else. I shall go to my grave an old maid ! " 
 
 Like Mark, she knew herself cursed with fidelity; 
 but agonizingly unlike, no waiting could bring her 
 reward. Later on, finding that the paroxysms had a 
 tendency to lessen, she began goading and lashing 
 her imagination with pictures of tragedy in which she 
 played the chief part. Now she had entered a con 
 vent. Her vow had been taken until death. She 
 saw her sad face, white as its austere setting, and a new 
 gush of tears brought relief. 
 
 Next, she decided to go in for trained nursing, 
 connected perhaps with some Settlement work. In 
 her novels, girls who, like her, had seen happiness die, 
 went as instinctively to nursing as a child with a penny 
 to the nearest candy shop. 
 
 A third thought, this time of her mother, 
 came with such swiftness and poignancy that every 
 thing else was blotted out. She waved it aside,
 
 258 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 querulous and impatient. A vision of commonplace 
 mothers had no place in a tragic romance ! But it 
 held, an immovable, radiant silence. Wherever her 
 mind or her heart strove to turn, it was there in the 
 pathway before them. And through its persistence, at 
 last and with her high soul quite spent in the conflict, 
 the girl knew a second and more tender defeat. 
 
 All the best in her bruised heart came out, as sweet- 
 smelling herbs send forth fragrance in the crushing. 
 And like them, with the hurt came the power of 
 healing. For the first time in all of her centered 
 and callous young life, she consciously yearned 
 toward her mother. With the longing she knew a 
 dull stir of regret. A thousand neglects, careless 
 phrases, requests brushed aside for their seeming in 
 consequence, hurried in from the past to accuse her. 
 
 Her weeping was over. These last thoughts had 
 steadied and calmed her. She rose from the bed, 
 moving precisely. "This is the thing to be done with 
 my life," she said, speaking aloud. "I can never be 
 happy myself. That is past. But I can and I will 
 make up to mother for what I should have been to 
 her all of the time." 
 
 Already she knew a material incentive. She ran 
 to the desk, drew out writing materials, and impetu 
 ously dashed off, "My dear Mother." Here she 
 paused, nibbling the long feather on the quill. She 
 would like to have used a more demonstrative epithet ; 
 but after a moment she shook her blond head with 
 the thought, "No, I must go at things slowly. If I 
 said dearest now, she would know that something 
 in me had changed."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 259 
 
 As again she bent to the page, a current of chill air 
 about her bare ankles reminded her that she had 
 neither bathed nor dressed. She went through these 
 offices perfunctorily, her mind all the while on her 
 letter. 
 
 It proved one of many pages. She recounted their 
 various "frolics" ; enlarged, not without conscious 
 ness of a certain martyrdom, on Mark s many 
 attractions ; made light of the personal indisposition 
 which, as she said, in keeping her away from the day s 
 outing had given an opportunity for sending at last 
 a real letter ; and at the close she allowed momentary 
 rein to her new impulse by saying, "Now I ve seen 
 this marvellous New York. I always had wished to, 
 and would not have missed the trip for worlds. I 
 am more grateful to Uncle Jim than I can make him 
 believe. It sounds queer to say, but somehow, instead 
 of losing myself in this great city, I seem for the first 
 time to have found myself. The whole experience 
 has been wonderful, but, now, little mother, I 
 want to come back to you and to Little Sunshine." 
 
 With the closing and sealing of this, which to her 
 was the initial move in a life s dedication, and de 
 spite of her sense of deliverance, a strange, physical 
 faintness, increasing, it seemed, with each tick of the 
 small desk clock, became so intense that she was 
 forced to regard it. 
 
 At the moment the clock rang out two. Lucille 
 laughed. "What an idiot I am," she exclaimed. 
 "No breakfast and still no lunch. No wonder I 
 feel like a shell." 
 
 She rang for a waiter, and giving some thought to
 
 260 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 selection, ordered a meal to her room. After eating, 
 her energy rushed back with such force that upon 
 its swift tide all her recent emotional pangs threatened 
 return. She flew for her coat and hat. A long walk 
 in the Park would be best to repel the unbearable 
 renascence. 
 
 As she swung to her wrist the smart shopping-bag, 
 a new and arresting thought made her eyes bright. 
 She would first buy her mother a present. On the 
 pavement, where she needed to thread a jostled way 
 to the outer half in order to join the current of south 
 erly-moving humanity, her white brow was still 
 knitted in perplexity as to what she should buy. It 
 came to her now, with compunction, that never since 
 childhood had she gone forth like this with the object 
 of selecting an individual gift for her mother. The 
 stereotyped Christmas and birthday ones took inva 
 riably the form of a new dish or ornament for use in 
 the home. It was true that Ciceley desired it. 
 There were so very few things, she averred, that she, 
 in herself, actually needed. 
 
 But this time, said the girl to herself, answering 
 the remembered words, "It is going to be a present 
 for mother, and not for the house." 
 
 But what to select? Even Mark and her own 
 blighted hopes knew eclipse. The inevitable, and 
 usually exhilarating looks of delight, of instinctive, 
 spontaneous admiration flashed toward her during all 
 such walks on The Avenue, for the true New 
 Yorker there is but one, and which heretofore had 
 been culled as a child gathers flowers, bloomed through 
 this stress and vanished, entirely unnoticed.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 261 
 
 She turned in to the first great "Emporium." 
 Laces, ribbons, long counters of glittering personal 
 ornaments were swept by a negative glance. At a 
 fluttering display of handkerchiefs, she stopped short. 
 Handkerchiefs were proverbially acceptable. "They 
 are no use here," she reflected, with wisdom. "If I 
 got her the sheer hand-worked ones I certainly should, 
 she never would keep them. In a very few days 
 Sylvia and I would be finding them in our top bureau 
 drawers." 
 
 It was not until her arrival at a section redolent of 
 joss-sticks, and alluringly termed Oriental, that 
 inspiration came. There were shawls of all sizes 
 and colors, fringed and embroidered shawls ; shawls 
 just tossed off from the shoulders of Carmen ; black 
 shawls for huddled old age. Between these two latter 
 extremes, she fixed on a gray one, with a sheen that 
 recalled Cousin Julia s beautiful hair. Before leaving 
 the counter she purchased a second, much cheaper, 
 but making up in reverberant hues what it lacked 
 in textile requirements. That was for Mammy, 
 not only a home-coming gift, but a peace-offering. 
 With spirits and pocketbook each considerably light 
 ened, Lucille emerged, shouldering herself into the 
 endless chain of pedestrianism. She now chose that 
 half of the pavement that led northward. Soon her 
 familiar hotel entrance was passed, and from this she 
 could make a diagonal crossing directly into the sun- 
 steeped Park. 
 
 There was here no timepiece but the lengthening 
 of shadows. Her swift motion, the buoyant, 
 rhythmic steps, were already bringing healing.
 
 262 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 When she came back in thought to the material 
 present, she was quite close to the Northern Park 
 limit. Realizing that her hotel must be miles 
 away, she decided to return by a Fifth Avenue 
 omnibus. 
 
 She climbed to the top of one of these lurchy and 
 ponderous vehicles, and congratulated herself on 
 securing a front seat. This satisfaction, however, had 
 but a brief existence. Each forward jerk plunged 
 them more deeply into the congestion of late afternoon 
 traffic. They made one of a long line of cars, vans, 
 and equipages. Their progress became a mere series of 
 starts, followed, after a few grating inches of advance, 
 by an irritating and gasoline-tinctured quiescence. 
 
 It was well after dark when she reached her own 
 room. Sylvia, half dressed, and evidently nearly 
 distracted with apprehension, rushed in to question 
 her. With the instinct of visual foreboding, derived 
 surely from the anxious small mother at home, she 
 had been picturing her sister as prone in some doctor s 
 office, or hospital. She had not alarmed Uncle Jim 
 yet, so she said, but had waited, hoping with every 
 moment 
 
 "Well, you see that I m safe," smiled Lucille. 
 "What are our plans for the evening?" 
 
 These proved to include dinner at the Brandts and 
 a "first night" afterward. Because of the theater, 
 dinner would be early, at seven. The car was to be 
 sent at a quarter before. "I m getting dressed 
 now," volunteered Sylvia. "I m going to wear my 
 new pink one, with the wreath of pink roses. You d 
 better begin, too. It s late."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 263 
 
 "It won t take me long," said Lucille, in a voice 
 that held so little interest that her sister involuntarily 
 looked up. "Oh, my head is entirely well," she 
 vouchsafed to the look. "It s only that I don t feel 
 particularly flossy to-night. I m she paused, 
 and her eyes set on Sylvia s. "I am homesick !" she 
 cried. "Aren t you?" 
 
 By this they both stood in the doorway which 
 connected the two rooms. To the abrupt, startling 
 question, little Sylvia at first merely gasped. Then 
 her brown eyes began to glow. Before she could 
 speak, Lucille, with a curt and dismissing gesture, 
 pushed her away, and shut the door close. 
 
 Youth is nothing if not dramatic. Lucille, for 
 this evening, instinctively dressed her new part. 
 Her gown was of white, filmy layers of straight- 
 hanging net over ivory silk. The neck, low and 
 round, and the sleeves puffed in Kate Greenaway 
 fashion, gave her young throat and arms an appealing, 
 almost a childish beauty. She wore neither jewels nor 
 ornaments. Conventional, long gloves were dis 
 carded. The golden wonder of her hair had been 
 caught by a few amber pins to a loose-hanging coil at 
 the back of her neck. Gazing in a sort of plaintive 
 admiration at her own lovely image, she heroically 
 forebore the usual touch of powder upon her nose. 
 Such vanities belonged to a phase of her life already 
 relinquished. 
 
 After a moment of hesitation, and with a gesture 
 that deprecated the vanity, she went to Mark s roses, 
 selected a few perfect buds, and pinned them upon her 
 breast. Now, indeed, she was ready. Sylvia, knock-
 
 264 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 ing rather timidly, informed her in a whisper that the 
 car waited. The elder girl caught up a scarf of white 
 tulle, drawing it carelessly about head, throat, and 
 shoulders. As she opened the door, the little one 
 caught her breath. " Wha what," she stammered, 
 "is the matter with you, Lucille ? You look so so 
 different !" Then with a cry of delight, "But you 
 never were prettier in all your life ! When do you 
 think Uncle Jim will let us start home?" 
 
 "To-morrow, I hope. Don t you hint of it, Sylvia, 
 to either Uncle Jim or Mark. I want to spring it on 
 them suddenly. Are they both in the sitting room?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," palpitated the little one. "I heard 
 Uncle Jim letting Mark in. Are you going to speak 
 of it now?" 
 
 Lucille nodded, then swept, a vision of snow and 
 spring flowers, into the presence of the two men. 
 Both were standing. In her guarded excitement she 
 did not realize that each gave an impetuous start; 
 or that into Mark s eyes had flashed once again the 
 coveted echo of rapture. Her intent was just now 
 all for Jim. 
 
 She moved straight up to him, at which he, 
 always vaguely disturbed in her presence, fell 
 back a few steps. 
 
 "Uncle Jim," said the crystalline voice, "this trip 
 you have given us has proved the most wonderful 
 thing in my life. I shall never, never forget all your 
 kindness. I appreciate every minute of my stay in 
 New York, and all of the lovely things you have 
 bought us but now - her voice lowered to a 
 musical thrill, "there s just one thing more."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 265 
 
 "Fire ahead!" cried the Colonel, with a somewhat 
 unsuccessful attempt at heartiness. "A new hat, or 
 some gew-gaw, I ll bet! You could have the whole 
 town, if my saying so would give it. Only remember 
 that I m a fake, not a real, millionaire." 
 
 "No millions could buy what I want what we 
 want," she corrected, and reached out an arm for 
 pink Sylvia. "We are homesick," she said, with a 
 break in the exquisite voice. "We want to go back."
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 THE three stated weeks of Jim s absence were 
 nearing their close. For the first two, the conspira 
 tors, mother and son, left behind, plied vigorous and 
 remediable wills without hindrance. No phase of 
 their planning went wrong. From the weather, 
 which continued its Indian summer tranquillity to the 
 humblest "Jack-leg" negro carpenter engaged in 
 nailing new boards to the fence, all elements of recon 
 struction moved as in magic accord. Little Sunshine, 
 with snowy white columns, and lawns rolled to silver- 
 green plush, appeared a fit candidate for "postcard" 
 publicity. 
 
 But Julia had once heard a business friend say, 
 "When there s nothing to worry you, then, look 
 out ! " She confided to Wick her belief that it was 
 too good to last. Nemesis surely was crouching. 
 And then Nemesis came. In her lean, trembling 
 hand, was a telegram. 
 
 "Sick of this hole girls want to come home start 
 to-morrow, arriving Thursday one P.M. Jim." 
 
 Julia stood very still to watch Ciceley read. Her 
 eyes could not leave the terse message. Apparently 
 
 266
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 267 
 
 she spelled out each word. Her face slowly became 
 a surface of shifting emotions. Red crept into her 
 cheeks. Her form, her whole poise, subtly changed. 
 Julia, seeing it all, felt her heart sink. If a mere 
 written wire could engender disintegration, what 
 hope could there be of stability, when the sender 
 or senders appeared ? 
 
 After a long pause the engrossed one, recollecting 
 herself with an effort, held out the paper to her 
 cousin. Julia glanced through it. Her eyes had the 
 stroke of an editor s blue pencil. Ciceley, with 
 clasped hands, and happy lips parted, awaited her 
 comment. 
 
 "Wick and I," announced Julia, with banal dis 
 regard of the expected, and folding the telegram into 
 its former neat lines, "must start into town rather 
 earlier than usual, this evening." (Already she had 
 fallen back into the southern way of referring to after 
 noon hours as "evening.") "There are some pack 
 ages from New York waiting to be called for at the 
 express office. And didn t you have a last fitting at 
 Madame Provost s?" 
 
 Ciceley, bewildered at first, gave a quick frown. 
 "How can you expect me to think about dressmakers, 
 with this?" she demanded, and, reaching up, caught 
 back her precious telegram, holding it jealously 
 against her breast. "Why, didn t you read? They 
 are coming ! Day after to-morrow, they ll be home. 
 My girls - The first time in their lives And 
 you," she broke out, "are standing there as uncon 
 cerned as if nothing at all had happened !" 
 
 "I chance to be thinking," said Julia, her eyes, like
 
 268 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 her voice, cool and steady, "of the things that may 
 happen or may not after they come. Already 
 your purpose is wavering. I am beginning to fear 
 you may slump back in one minute at sight of them, 
 to the same spineless jellyfish." 
 
 "Why, Jule what on earth?" 
 
 "You know perfectly well what I mean !" cried the 
 other. " Oh, Sis, try with all your might to remember 
 that you mustn t slump now. It s for their sakes, 
 not yours. Be the thoroughbred I ve come to believe 
 that you are. Play the square deal with me. Keep 
 your promises!" 
 
 "I intend to keep all of my ridiculous promises," 
 declared Ciceley, with a good show of spirit. "Didn t 
 I give you my word? But just now, I want to get 
 used to the thought of their coming so soon. I haven t 
 really caught my breath, yet. I won t go to the 
 dressmaker. I intend to stay here by myself. You 
 needn t try to bully me now ! " 
 
 Julia went forth in search of her boy. After some 
 desultory wandering, she traced him to what had been 
 known for years as the old, deserted "stable." In 
 the North or the West it would have been called a 
 "barn." The huge, ramshackle edifice, a mere shell 
 when Julia and Wick had essayed its restoration, 
 stood now as an up-to-date garage. The main room 
 had been given a curved floor of cement. It was here 
 she found Wick, in blackened and oily condition, 
 "going over" more for the fun than from any neces 
 sity, the machinery of their new car. 
 
 Julia without speaking leaned rather disconso 
 lately against a long carpenter s bench.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 269 
 
 Wick turned to her, black hands held wide to avoid 
 self-contamination. "Well?" he enquired, with a 
 quizzical smile. He had known on the instant that 
 some quirk in more vital machinery had caused the 
 unusual droop. 
 
 "A wire has just come from Jim. They will all 
 be here Thursday, at noon!" 
 
 "Jove! That s good news ! But you re not dart 
 ing radium, my mother. What s wrong?" 
 
 "It s Sis. Sis I The darned little fool ! " cried out 
 Julia, and immediately felt great relief. "Of course," 
 she went on, in the tone of one who finds in mere 
 speech an assuagement, "from the first I have dis 
 counted the probability of these sentimental back- 
 slidings. The wonder is that there haven t been 
 more. I know, in my brain, that this is probably 
 only temporary. It s got to be, Wick ! Even you 
 don t know how I ve worked on that idiot ! Some 
 how, just now, as I studied her face while she read 
 the wire, her fatuous, adoring expression turned me 
 cold. She seemed to be desiccating under my eyes, - 
 to be crumbling into sugar. A little more rapture, 
 and she would have melted to treacle, and the need 
 of a floor-mop. I felt like a sculptor who thinks he s 
 been chiselling marble, and wakes up to find it soft 
 chalk." 
 
 "Now never you mind, chum," soothed Wickford, 
 beginning to clean off the worst dirt on a handful of 
 waste. "Just buck up for the finish. Cousin Sis 
 is all right. You ll find her a sport at the pinch. Let 
 the treacle run now. There ll be less of it leaking 
 about when the real time comes."
 
 270 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 During the first of this sapient allocution, Julia s 
 frown of perplexity remained. At its close, her head 
 went up with new courage. 
 
 "I like you," she solemnly stated, her gray eyes 
 shining with fun. "I approve of you highly. Al 
 ready I am pumped full of ozone anew. Now what 
 do you say to a spin in the car, just the two of us. 
 To a speed, using up our full limit, and leaving these 
 staid country roads fringed with dead chickens?" 
 
 "Suits me!" laughed the boy. "When little 
 Cousin Sis is along, I feel as if I straddled the neck 
 of a tortoise. We ll both wear our speed-goggles. 
 Go tie on your hair while I wash." 
 
 Their ride of Walpurgis lasted until nearly dark. 
 Returned, they knew still further satisfaction in 
 seeing that the absence had been equally beneficial 
 at home. Ciceley declared herself and her looks 
 bore out the assertion, once more serene. With 
 Wick standing near for a witness, she went up to 
 Julia, and said, "Don t be worried, dear Jule, for 
 fear I am going to fail you. You have been 
 too wonderfully good to us all. I have promised. 
 I am going to do just exactly what we have 
 planned." 
 
 Next day, with the arrival of Lucille s long letter, 
 and those mysterious and somehow most suggestive 
 words at its close, the starry-eyed mother suffered 
 symptoms of a new "saccharine degeneration." 
 But Wick played up nobly just here. Between them, 
 he and Julia again set the wanderer s feet in the path 
 way. 
 
 On the third forenoon, the start of the actual
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 271 
 
 day when her idols were to be restored, Ciceley 
 threatened to run amuck. Julia, escaping from 
 torture, hurled herself upon Wick, demanding to 
 be told whether or not her head had turned per 
 fectly white. 
 
 "I can do nothing with her!" wailed Julia. "Did 
 you ever try catching one of those small, up-and-down 
 moths in your hands ? I feel like a man in a zoo, put 
 in charge of a new, scientifically important find, 
 some shy, shivering creature, that may, any time, 
 give up its ghost. Ciceley now is demanding in 
 frenzy the return of all her old clothes. She says 
 they will think her a madwoman, a Mardi Gras 
 masker gone wrong that neither Jim nor the girls 
 will acknowledge her." 
 
 "And how about Mark? " grinned the boy. 
 
 Julia s gesture betokened despair. "Don t joke. 
 She s forgotten Mark lives!" 
 
 "But just think of it, Wick," she insisted, as though 
 the fact was too loathsome to hold all alone. "Those 
 odious, revolting old clothes ! You remember how 
 her skirts used to hang? And now she is losing her 
 mind, or says that she is, because I won t give 
 them back." 
 
 "Well," deliberated the boy, his eyes dancing, 
 "if it s a question between restoring a few dingy 
 rags, or having her turn to a lunatic, don t you think 
 you had better relent?" 
 
 Julia shot him a glance meant to pierce. "For 
 one slight objection, they happen to be at this moment 
 adorning " (the word sizzled forth like hot vinegar) 
 "the backs of old women in Sand Town. That is
 
 272 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 where they belong. For another " she stopped, not 
 trusting her voice. 
 
 Wick, an arrow of tender remorse, flew to her. 
 "Don t worry, you dear. I was a cad and a beast 
 to try ragging you just at a crisis. But my own 
 brain is doing queer things. I seem, all on top, to 
 be lit with a sort of Alpine glow. If Cousin Ciceley s 
 old clothes are forfeit, it is sure she s got to wear new 
 ones. You know Cousin Sis isn t likely to start off 
 without any ! Cheer up, now, old sport," he adjured, 
 shaking her playfully, "The worst as they say 
 over here is yet to come. No, your hair isn t 
 white. It s blue-silver, the prettiest hair in the 
 world. Now trot back to your victim, and remember, 
 while dolling her up, not to lose sight of the fact that 
 I want you to look just as smart. You know I m a 
 regular peacock for pride when it comes to this 
 Mother o Mine." 
 
 Julia kissed him, and tried hard to smile. Had 
 the arch-strategist been just a little less keenly and 
 vitally involved, all her reading of Freud and other 
 advanced psychologists would have found, in this 
 duel with Ciceley, juicy meat. As it was, appre 
 hension destroyed mental appetite. Her one thought 
 at this juncture, was "Lord, how long?" 
 
 As the time to begin dressing neared, Ciceley 
 reminded her more than ever of a small entrapped 
 animal at bay. When at last convinced that her 
 tyrant, or, more justly, her tyrants, for 
 Mammy and Wick were both shamelessly adjuvant, 
 had neglected no turn of their plot to force her into 
 wearing the now-hateful, "absurd" recent clothes,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 273 
 
 she wheeled from them all, white with anger, and 
 went with firm steps to her room. 
 
 On her bed lay the pre-arranged costume, 
 scented, shimmering, and exquisite. Even the hat 
 pins and veil were in place. Almost she thought she 
 could see Julia s deft hand hovering over them. But 
 that hand, at the instant, began a tattoo on the door. 
 Ciceley shut her teeth hard, and stood silent. 
 
 "Sis, Ciceley! I know you are in there. I m 
 coming." 
 
 The handle squeaked once, the door-panel rattled, 
 but the rusty old bolt was in place. The figure within 
 did not move. She felt like a totem-pole carved 
 with shrieking, yet silent, grotesques. 
 
 "It s beyond her powers to turn into exactly the 
 same scarecrow she was," moaned the ostracized 
 one at the door. "She ll chuck powder and paint, 
 as a matter of course. She may even put soap on 
 her hair. But that gown and the hat " here the 
 pride of the artist gleamed wanly "she can t mu 
 tilate them. She won t dare, since they are mine. 
 They will save us ! " 
 
 Now her own toilet needed attention. Heedful of 
 Wick s last monition, she made her selection with 
 care. But along with the personal motive, she was 
 canny in choosing just those colors which would best 
 enhance and supplement Ciceley. 
 
 "Yes, you ll do. You look quite all right, Mrs. 
 Preston," she remarked aloud, with a final quick nod 
 in the mirror. "But Ciceley! Oh, Ciceley! If I 
 only felt surer of you !" 
 
 She hurried down for the comfort of being near
 
 274 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Wick, and encountered him sitting at ease on the 
 gallery. The car, shining in all its length like new- 
 polished glass, stood ready to start. 
 
 At the sound of approaching, swift feet, Wickford 
 rose to his own. In his buttonhole glowed one small, 
 pink rosebud. It looked strangely like Sylvia. 
 
 "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, his mouth spreading. 
 "You re some girl all right! Even if Cousin Sis 
 balks" 
 
 "Hush! Hush!" cried the other in warning. 
 "She is coming! Oh, Wick, shall I live through 
 this day?" 
 
 Little Ciceley swept out. Whether paint or de 
 spair, some magician had touched both her cheeks 
 with bright carmine. The white gloves, her gown, 
 her smart wrap, even the slight rakish tilt of the hat, 
 were perfection. "Good heavens!" thought Julia, 
 and then with a grin, well concealed, of pure fun, 
 "Sis was mad when she knocked that adorable hat 
 over one ear !" 
 
 Wick, rejoiced as his mother, and wise for his years, 
 made no comment. In strained silence all three 
 moved down the steps. Ciceley reached the car 
 first, and was assisted, perhaps with a shade too 
 much deference, by the boy. He felt that she sent 
 him a glance. She sat all alone in the back. The 
 space called for five passengers. Of people her size 
 it might hold at least nine ; but Julia, hastily taking 
 her place in the seat by the driver, felt that her cousin, 
 plus all of her pent-up emotions, had no more room 
 than vibrations could fill. As they sped into town, 
 each subtly soothed and relaxed by swift motion, no
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 275 
 
 banal attempt at mere pleasantry was made. The 
 climax was "on", and all knew it. 
 
 When in sight of the station, stung to speech, per 
 haps by the faint acrid smell of train smoke, Julia 
 leaned to Wick s ear, and whispered, "I count on 
 your help to win through. Remember, your chief 
 charge is Sylvia. I can count on the pride of the 
 other. You must reach Sylvia at once. Prevent her 
 from speaking, or even looking surprise. I don t 
 want Mark to guess, at least, not at first. As 
 for Jim - This in answer to his muttered ques 
 tion, "Well, God s got to help us with Jim !" 
 
 The train was on time. A few moments later it 
 came puffing in. Then, by some incomprehensible 
 miracle, the details of which Julia could never 
 quite clearly recall, the whole crisis was over. 
 The seven had met. They were talking. And still 
 the world rolled as it should, still the pavement lay 
 flat, and the sun did not flicker an eyelash. 
 
 She retained, through the maze, a vague image of 
 Wickford rushing from them, a small fluttering 
 figure in veils held by the arm. She remembered 
 one look on Jim s face. Something rose in her throat, 
 and then everything blurred worse than ever. It was 
 Lucille, smiling, calm, and unnaturally lovely, who 
 first caught her hands, and, with the touch, dragged 
 her back into partial composure. After this, they 
 were all in the car. They had started toward Little 
 Sunshine. With the chill autumn breath in her 
 nostrils, and her boy exuding pure rapture by her 
 side, and whispering tenderly, "Buck up, Mater 
 mine. It s all over. It went smooth as an eel
 
 276 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 swimming in oil ! You can t show the white feather 
 now !" the real Julia came back, chin in air. 
 
 She drew a long breath of reviving. "Yes, it did 
 go all right," she told herself proudly. "I could 
 hardly have hoped for such perfection. Little Sis 
 was a wonder ! The bunch is all there, just behind 
 me, laughing and chatting as easily as if at an after 
 noon tea. I ve got everything now as I want it. 
 But, Oh," here the sob rose again, "Jim didn t need 
 to be quite so good-looking in his new clothes!"
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 THE DANCE OF THE LITTLE SEA-MAID 
 
 IN the pleasure-packed days that ensued, Julia was 
 fated to meet with a complex, unforeseen, and 
 startlingly new even to her wide experience. At 
 its initial appearance she pooh-poohed the suggestion 
 as ludicrous. But it hourly deepened and neared, 
 until she was literally forced to acknowledgment. 
 Incredible as it seemed, the menace lay in a sudden, 
 complete introversion of what she had believed her 
 personal attitude toward Lucille. 
 
 On the very threshold of middle-aged victory, this 
 young girl, inexperienced and untried, her uncon 
 sciousness of what she now threatened the most potent 
 weapon that Love could have put into her hand, this 
 Lucille whom Julia had called the fly in the ointment, 
 the recalcitrant cog in the wheel, through sheer splen 
 dor of courage, was making insidious encroachment 
 upon the very foundation of motive, the Archplotter s 
 womanly heart. 
 
 In vain, with fists clenched, Julia muttered, "She 
 is getting no more than she richly deserves. I ought 
 to be glad that she suffers. When I think what she s 
 put Ciceley through ! Of course I threw Mark in her 
 
 277
 
 278 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 path. I did it deliberately, for I needed his help. 
 He s been splendid ! But it isn t my fault if Lucille, 
 at first sight, went head over ears into the trap. I 
 expected her to be more on guard. She knew very 
 well we were duelists, and that I fought on Ciceley s 
 behalf." 
 
 In vain she plied whip and spur to her lagging 
 austerity. Lucille moved among them, a part of their 
 revelry, but serene, unbetraying, impersonal as light. 
 Her pride in her radiant mother was, apparently, as 
 genuine as that of the little one, or of Jim. For the 
 once misprized "Pelican," now a newly fledged 
 Phcenix, with the last hidden fear that Lucille would 
 "make fun of her" removed, was expanding into the 
 colors and the perfume of youth. 
 
 The one noticeable change in the outer Lucille was 
 her tenderness and deference to Ciceley. Julia 
 watching, as one watches for chemical valences, could 
 detect not a quiver of torment. The girl s defence 
 was perfection. Out of the group, Julia alone sus 
 pected, Julia knew ! Her scars from a similar 
 baptism of fire cried aloud. There were times when 
 it required on her part a lacerating self-control to 
 keep her from throwing herself at the feet of this 
 heroine, and saying, "You have won me, you splendid 
 patrician ! I give up. You re a queen in a tumbril, 
 and I an old red-hatted fury, shrieking for guillotine 
 blood. Sis isn t worth it. I am not sure even Jim 
 is. Don t you see, don t you feel that Mark knows ? 
 He could be quite as madly in love as you are, but 
 has held himself under tight rein because I have asked 
 him to help. It s all to make Ciceley marry Jim."
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 279 
 
 As for Lucille, in her innermost self, from that 
 moment down at the station, already because of the 
 subsequent strain it seemed to have happened ages 
 ago, when her eyes first encompassed a decked and 
 rejuvenant Ciceley, the full meaning of Julia s deep- 
 laid stratagem grew clear. It was all just a brilliantly 
 organized scheme, centripetal to the small, helpless 
 mother, the mother of whom she had been, until 
 now, openly ashamed. Ciceley was being remodelled, 
 revivified ; and, in spite of her own cloying fantasies, 
 being led, as a wondering child by the hand, to the 
 giving and taking of happiness. For the outer 
 processes of her client s transformation, Julia had 
 wished a free field and no critics. Hence the trip to 
 New York ! What pleasure, advantage, or hurt she 
 and Sylvia might get from it, were negligible by 
 products. 
 
 All Lucille s thoughtful reading and crude attempts 
 at self-training, stood her now in good stead. Her 
 pride was her one inviolable sanctuary, an arid and 
 chill crypt indeed, with the bones of dead hopes 
 scattered wide, but withal a retreat, a seclusion. In 
 that underground cell she could pluck out her arrows 
 and view them ; and not even here did one moan of 
 self-pity escape. 
 
 She, Lucille, had been used with as little compunc 
 tion as one uses a broom to clear pathways for feet 
 more beloved. Like herself, Mark Stanwood, and 
 all that his boyish ideals might be made to subserve, 
 was only a slip in the lottery of middle-aged hearts. 
 For once, youth had gone to the wall. 
 
 Wick and Sylvia, having prettily spoken their lines,
 
 280 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 were set free and, already, two unthinking, most- 
 blissful humming-birds, had sped to a double-winged 
 heaven of their own. 
 
 Yes, let her face it, let her crush this bitter, black 
 grape of despair on her lips. They had used her, the 
 once proud and disdainful Lucille. Between them 
 they had broken her heart. To each pull of the 
 marionette string she, like a silly, blind fool, had re 
 sponded. If it snapped at the last, none would care. 
 The two chief puppets, Jim and Ciceley, still jigging, 
 would soon measure their steps to the rhythm of a 
 wedding march. With that one thing accomplished, 
 all* the rest of the automata could be flung to a dust- 
 heap. 
 
 "And yet, " here the thought came in fibers of fire 
 and ice intermingled, "was it certain that Jim was to 
 win?" Even Julia s omnipotence had human limits. 
 Mark s devotion to Ciceley was obvious and intense, 
 and Ciceley did not repulse him. In their jaunts and 
 excursions the small group fell always into pairs. 
 Julia led off with the Colonel. Close behind, when 
 not actually with them, came Mark and her mother. 
 The consciousness of being again "pretty," again loved 
 and desired, had magically brought back to Ciceley 
 much of the sweetness, the charm, the gentle yet gay 
 repartee of a girlhood she had believed irrevocably 
 foregone. 
 
 Invariably the last of the couples, and as far from 
 the others as they dared, little Sylvia, with Wick s 
 head bent over, smiled through their rose-colored 
 cloud of first love. 
 
 She, Lucille, was the odd, the unmated one. Like
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 281 
 
 some rootless, exquisite water-plant, bearing blossoms 
 that none care to cull, she drifted from one to another 
 extraneous current of pleasure. She was welcomed, 
 of course, with a courtesy and simulated warmth 
 that was perhaps the bitterest fiber of all her humilia 
 tion. She was urged to remain with each pair. But 
 smiling, with dignity untarnished, she would soon 
 glide away to the next. 
 
 Julia, who now strove, more for her own sake than 
 that of Lucille, not to watch her, often, in unguarded 
 flashes of apprehension, caught her breath in a marvel 
 at the girl s perfect poise. So young, so untried before 
 this test in the hottest of furnaces, Lucille was achiev 
 ing the seemingly impossible. She was turning, 
 indeed she had turned, the substance of a flung- 
 cloak of scorn, into ermine, her scourge, now stiff 
 with heart s blood, to a scepter. 
 
 But as Julia alone of them knew, the girl s feet trod, 
 each new inch, on a thorn. There were times of such 
 torture that Lucille would think of herself as the 
 Little Sea-Maid, dancing her dance of love s anguish, 
 just to be near the Prince of her Dreams. "Smile, 
 smile," she would cry to her spirit. " Don t let the 
 others suspect. Be thankful the soul does not bleed." 
 
 In the pauses of quieter reverie, when her personal 
 hurt was less keen, the girl found time to wonder at a 
 phase that from the first had intrigued and perplexed 
 her. This was the continued, and apparently genuine 
 equanimity of "Uncle Jim." He seemed to resent 
 not at all the young Englishman s absorption in 
 Ciceley. He even appeared to connive with Julia in 
 throwing them together. Then too, after the first
 
 282 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 incredulous stare, the astonishing transformation of 
 "Sis" had been accepted as a matter of course. 
 
 For a day or two after returning, the old friends, 
 Jim and Ciceley, might have been caught exchanging 
 glances of quizzical self-consciousness, looks like those 
 which two newly-hatched butterflies, long associate as 
 grubs, might steal each to the golden spread wings of 
 the other. But such consciousness had been quickly 
 absorbed into the usual. 
 
 New thoughts crowded in. The girl, sitting alone 
 in her room, knitted her brows with the tension. 
 Colonel Jim and his supposedly unselfish ally were 
 strangely contented together. They had whispers, 
 nods, and quick murmured conferences which none of 
 the rest of the group was allowed to share. Cousin 
 Jule, always perfectly gowned, seemed, in herself, to 
 be undergoing a fresh recrudescence. Somewhere 
 some time, in the past, it had then seemed too 
 trivial for retention, Lucille distinctly recalled hav 
 ing been told, or, more probably having overheard in 
 a conversation of elders not meant for her ears, that 
 from childhood Julia Wickford had cared for Jim Roy 
 in the same hopeless way he had always loved Ciceley. 
 The narrator, whosoever it was, had gone on to 
 say that Julia s marriage to the elderly Judge Preston 
 had been a direct outcome of despair, tempered by the 
 grace of self-sacrifice to a derelict father. 
 
 Now, fingering each remembered passage of indi 
 vidual experience with Julia, as one tries the stops of a 
 flute, she paused, vividly arrested by the image of 
 Mrs. Preston s face, when asked so abruptly, "How 
 has it happened that you never married again, Cousin
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 283 
 
 Julia?" She had scored there. The material point 
 of her brief triumph had then been invisible. Now it 
 lay in full view, as a coin or a trinket fallen in grass 
 and long sought for, makes impish and sudden ap 
 pearance. 
 
 This she held as a clue, following far. Cousin Jule 
 neither did or said things without a full consciousness 
 of their effect. Her most trivial and apparently spon 
 taneous remarks had betrayed, more than once, keen 
 forethought. Was it thinkable, possible, that any 
 mere human creature, her youth nearly gone, her 
 powers of intellect and will at their height, would 
 spend time, money, and effort, or use her most intri 
 cate processes of diplomacy, all for the mere bringing 
 together of a cousin whom she had not seen for years, 
 who had not even taken the trouble to answer her 
 letters, and a man with whom she was still probably 
 in love ? 
 
 "No ! " moaned the girl from the depths of her own 
 hopeless misery, "No woman alive could do that !" 
 
 If this last and most blighting solution were true, 
 then not only Mark and herself, but Ciceley in equal 
 degree, were mere tools for Julia s self-using. And 
 with what marvellous, incredible cleverness she was 
 working it out ! That part of the girl s mind where 
 intellect swung free from the personal, bowed in 
 acknowledging a master. It was queer too, that de 
 spite what she thought was a life irrevocably shattered, 
 she could not feel hatred against Julia. Somehow 
 love and its chastening grief had so filled her, there 
 was no room left for hate. 
 
 Her one throe of bitterness inhered in a sort of
 
 284 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 fierce championship for Mark. If he really loved 
 Ciceley with all the full strength of his passion, and 
 was trying to make her his wife ! There was only 
 great tenderness for Ciceley. She could not yet bring 
 herself to believe that her mother would marry a man 
 several years younger. People did not do things like 
 that on the Hill ! But if Julia succeeded in turning 
 Jim s heart or his fancy, might not Ciceley, reacting 
 to such a defection, and goaded, of course, by the 
 others, might she not, after all 
 
 But this proved the unbearable thought. The girl 
 cowered, and distractedly rocked to and fro. That 
 the only man she had loved, or ever should love, 
 might fantastically, inconceivably become the husband 
 of her own mother ! Her mind could not admit such 
 a horror. It seemed one of those hideous complexes 
 about which old Greek drama is wrought. 
 
 Whether, at the drawing together of Julia s mario 
 nette curtains, tragedy or comedy would prevail, the 
 stage setting loaned her by nature for the final act 
 was brilliant beyond human art. Since arriving, there 
 had been just one day of incessant, roof-pounding rain. 
 They consoled themselves, saying, with truth, that 
 the farmers were needing it. Jim grinned to himself. 
 He, too, needed the rain. His oranges had been 
 ripening fast. This generous soaking would add the 
 last gleam to their beauty. Besides, there was always 
 that other thing he now desired of his trees, that 
 magical twig for which, every day, he and Rover 
 went searching. After this, it would surely 
 materialize. 
 
 All day long, through the storm, the seven friends
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 285 
 
 kept indoors at Little Sunshine. Every hearth was 
 ablaze. In the huge open grate of the drawing-room, 
 behind andirons of brass, roared, coiled, exploded to 
 stars and then danced, a fire of big, misshapen pine- 
 knots like which, in the burning, there is no other 
 such fire in the world. As Mark classically mused, 
 "If Prometheus, poor old chap, could be sneaked out 
 of torment to see it, he d not care quite so much, 
 after that, how quickly his vulture-devoured liver 
 grew." 
 
 Wick and Sylvia, like the two happy children they 
 were, popped corn in a long-handled wire-mesh basket 
 held over the coals, or thrust sweet potatoes and chest 
 nuts deep into red-gray ashes. Sylvia, the puss, as a 
 matter of course, burned her fingers ; a disaster neces 
 sitating immediate, dual flight into privacy, where 
 Wick s kisses could be given for balm. 
 
 All at once, toward sunset, the black, basalt sky 
 splintered into cubes. In immense drifts, as of ice 
 floes, the wedges of cloud drew apart, revealing a 
 golden-red sky underneath. 
 
 Jim, cautiously deserting the group, strode out to 
 the driveway, where he stood, feet planted at a 
 Colossus-like distance, and began to appraise the 
 round sky with the slow-moving eye of a weather 
 prophet. 
 
 What he saw seemed to please ; but his solitary 
 communing with the elements was brief. The rest 
 had missed him, and now laughingly came in pursuit. 
 Wick and Sylvia, as usual, were "racing." It was 
 obvious to all but the beneficiary that he allowed little 
 Sylvia to reach the set goal.
 
 286 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim!" she called out, while 
 speeding, and a moment later having won, she clung 
 for support to his arm. " It s all clearing up ! There s 
 a mocking bird starting to sing. You said you d been 
 waiting for rain. Won t you take us to see the oranges 
 now?" 
 
 "What ! Just before night, and my trees all beaten 
 and sandy? Well, I rather think not!" flouted the 
 Colonel. "But it won t be long now," he relented, 
 in the voice of tolerance and concession peculiarly 
 maddening to youth. "I should say, by the day 
 after to-morrow, at latest." 
 
 "Why not to-morrow? It s nearer," suggested 
 Wick boldly. 
 
 Julia reached them in time to hear this remark of 
 her son. "They will be still a bit sandy all to 
 morrow," she threw in. "But, as Jim says, by the 
 day after, surely Her words were for Wick, but 
 the bright, meaning smile of confederacy flashed to Jim. 
 Lucille, now quite close, intercepted it. She had no 
 wish to see ; but these days, wherever she might turn, 
 there was always a new thrust of pain to be fended. 
 
 From the look and her haste to avoid it, her eyes 
 met, and by sinister magnetism were constrained to 
 watch, a scene which her mother and Mark, oblivious 
 of an audience, had begun to enact. 
 
 The two, loitering behind all the others, but mov 
 ing, it seemed, with the purpose of ultimately joining 
 them, had come to a definite pause. The small 
 hostess, her sweet face uplifted, now spoke. Her 
 words were, of course, quite inaudible. She gave a 
 quick gesture out toward the left, where a path ran,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 287 
 
 half-hidden in shrubbery. Side by side, they turned 
 into the path. 
 
 Again they came to a standstill, and with a pang 
 surely disproportionately ravaging, Lucille saw that 
 they stooped to a small evergreen bush, upon which, 
 even at this distance, the star of an opening flower 
 could be seen. This was the rare, white camellia, the 
 blossom of snow, with a chrysophrase heart which 
 alone, out of the wide, herbal plenitude of the garden, 
 Lucille had desired for her own. 
 
 Mark, with a nod and a gesture that asked for his 
 companion s permission, broke the one flower short, 
 and bowing, proffered it. His face was invisible. But 
 Ciceley s brown eyes and quick blushes glowed out 
 with the clearness of gems. 
 
 Now she fastened it with fingers that were appar 
 ently unsteady, to the front of her brown velvet 
 blouse. Mark s sleek, shining head bent down lower. 
 Whatever it was that he said, Ciceley shrank. Her 
 two hands went out, as if warding. She made a swift, 
 gasping response, faltered backward, then, seeing the 
 others, came towards them in what was almost a run. 
 Through the saturate, gold light of evening, she looked 
 a mere girl in her teens. To Lucille, even, stung and 
 writhing with new anguish, she was exquisite, desir 
 able, compelling. 
 
 The sulking of clouds overhead was all ended. The 
 sun at the rim of the world tipped his hat. A myriad 
 birds gave salute in shrill song. 
 
 "Well," remarked Julia, with a sob in her throat, 
 quite inexplicable, "we shall be able to dine in town 
 as Mark s guests, after all !"
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
 
 THE GARDEN OF HESPERIDES 
 
 SINCE his return, now two weeks past, Colonel 
 Jim had been host at more than one "frolic." Not 
 only this but, incited by the wonders of restoration 
 achieved at Little Sunshine, he had put his own huge 
 mansion, together with its surroundings, into the 
 hands of the new firm, Preston and Preston, House 
 and Landscape Architects. Remodeling a Specialty. 
 
 Their sagacious, initial step had been a somewhat 
 ruthless trimming of the live oaks that engloomed 
 the big house. Great arcs of low-hanging limbs were 
 cut off, the scars hidden from view by a smearing 
 of wood-colored oakum. Next the entire vast floor 
 of the avenue, from gateway to stately white columns, 
 was spread with the snow of pounded shell. The 
 improvement wrought by these changes alone bor 
 dered upon the miraculous. 
 
 The house must be painted both inside and out. 
 This was Julia s decree. Last of all was to come the 
 great feminine orgy of selecting new draperies, 
 carpets, rugs, portieres, window curtains, new uphol 
 stery for the Chippendale chairs, and a fresh store 
 of dainty house linen. In this part of the undertaking, 
 
 288
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 289 
 
 Ciceley and her daughters had already announced 
 their intention to cooperate. 
 
 Until now Colonel Jim had used money with the 
 primitive casualness of a savage, stripping off, at 
 his need, beads of wampum. His own wants were 
 boyishly few. On "Sis and the girls" he had spent 
 to the limit of generous trickery; but being by 
 nature neither ingenious nor a hypocrite, this road 
 had not led very far. 
 
 Now Julia, along with more vital things, was 
 teaching him the rapture of spending. He revelled 
 in waste like an urchin loose in a sweet-shop, dis 
 pensing largesse to his mates. New York is a mad 
 school for squanderers. The germ had first entered 
 him there. 
 
 No suggested extravagance could daunt him. " Get 
 the best. Order more!" he would cry. "I am 
 quite well aware," he said, grinning, "that I ve 
 given myself over to sharks. But I ll never call 
 quits while there s a nickel in the bank ; and even 
 if you skin me to that, I ve a crop of oranges, the 
 biggest and best ever grown, just yelling out 
 dollars." 
 
 "We re eternally hearing about those oranges," 
 challenged Mark to this statement. "We never 
 open our mouths but you fling metaphorically 
 a cartload in our faces. It s beginning to look a 
 bit thick! Why the mystery? Why the keenness 
 to keep us away?" 
 
 Jim smiled, an exasperating smile of assurance. 
 Since their return from New York, no matter how 
 open and generous his other forms of hospitality, the
 
 2QO THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 whole "bunch", as he called them, was sternly for 
 bidden a glimpse of his oranges. He was keeping 
 that show for the final one. Even the house windows 
 facing that way had been barred. 
 
 The excuses wrung from him were banal. One 
 day was too hot; another too cool. Of late, and 
 with more show of reason, he said that the drought 
 was holding them back. "After a good heavy rain, 
 they ll be in perfection. Then you shall see what you 
 shall see!" 
 
 The rain had obligingly come down, but not so 
 Colonel Jim. "Pretty soon, pretty soon now," he 
 evaded. "Perhaps by the day after to-morrow." 
 
 That night at Mark s dinner, given in a private 
 room at the hotel, Jim announced that by way of 
 compensation for the waiting, he had thought up 
 a new and a typically Southern entertainment. If the 
 assembled ones would honor him with their presences, 
 he would give, the following evening at Stag Harbor, 
 a regular "possum supper." 
 
 When the chorus of acceptances died down, he said, 
 with quizzical eyes full on Ciceley, "I will give it, 
 that is, if Sis says I may have Mammy Nycie to 
 help." 
 
 From Ciceley s quick nod he wheeled around to 
 Mark. "That she-nigger," he explained somewhat 
 crudely, "together with my coon, old Snow, can fix 
 up a platter of possum, with taters-in-de-gravy 
 that would make St. Peter at the gate let Beelzebub 
 slip through." 
 
 This "loaning" of one or the other faithful ser 
 vant had come to be part of the programme. For
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 291 
 
 the old couple themselves, it was a visible nearing 
 of joy. Oftentimes, when working together in kitchen 
 or pantry, the bright turbaned head and the snowy 
 one almost touching, they would pause, their thick 
 lips widening to the sound of "Miss Ciceley s" laugh 
 ter. It had been a long toll of years since "Mammy s 
 Baby" had laughed just like that. The antiphony 
 of "Marse Jim s" louder mirth never failed them. 
 
 To the ears of the listeners outside both were 
 equally star-singing music. Through the cadence 
 each heard sounds of bells wedding bells a 
 prophetic and heavenly chiming rung not alone for 
 "de white folks." A second chime followed hum 
 ble covert jangling softly through trees in a 
 valley, from the spire of the "Fust Foot-Washin 
 Baptist Ch uch," down in Sand Town. 
 
 It meant for these two sure companionship down 
 the long slope of years; the laying forever of old 
 age s dread specter of loneliness. They could see, 
 as through mist, the bright gleam of a hearthstone, 
 and they two, lifelong friends, side by side in its 
 warmth. For the summer would be the two split- 
 bottomed chairs on the porch. Lady Bansias would 
 tumble about it, and in their own bit of "yard" a 
 few pet chickens would scratch and preen. They 
 thanked God, these reverent old children, for the 
 peace and content of their lot. 
 
 Colonel Jim s possum supper was more than suc 
 cessful ; it was a triumph. For its creation his new 
 traits of extravagance and secrecy were both brought 
 into play. Apart from the eager darkies, Julia 
 alone was admitted to the arcana of preparation.
 
 292 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 All through the forenoon, she and Jim kept to them 
 selves and their work. At the gate was posted a 
 negro urchin, as sentry, with orders to give warning 
 at the first attempt on the part of the others to in 
 trude. (What Jim really had said was "butt in.") 
 
 That night, about six, when the guests, still grum 
 bling and pretending high dudgeon, were ushered 
 in, even the most spleenful small member which was 
 Ciceley, granted amnesty. 
 
 The dining-room walls were half covered with 
 pine branches, set thick with their brown velvet 
 cones. Among them were limbs of the red-oak and 
 maple, frost tinted to carmine and orange. On the 
 table, for centerpiece, lay a round bed of moss, from 
 which sprang laden sprays of puckered persimmons, 
 chinquepins in a green explosion of burrs, and racemes 
 of bloomy, purple whortle-berries. 
 
 The cloth was of coarse unbleached linen, its 
 edges embroidered literally sewn by needle and 
 thread with a striking key-pattern done in point- 
 lapping autumn leaves. Conspicuously upon it 
 sat the huge platter holding the possum. Sweet 
 potatoes lay about it like petals, and to make the 
 dish really a creation, Julia had placed, in a continu 
 ous wreath near the rim, a cirrus of scraped carrot- 
 parings, mingled with parsley. 
 
 There were cold meats in plenty, thin broiled 
 ham sizzlingly hot, various dishes of relish, homemade 
 spiced peaches, walnut pickles, stuffed mangoes, and 
 gherkins. 
 
 Mammy Nycie did not appear. Her concern was 
 creation, not dispersal ; but old Snow, with the tremu-
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 293 
 
 lous awe of an acolyte, shuffled round the gustatory 
 shrine. Every few moments he would dart again 
 toward the pantry, summoned apparently by a 
 mystical warning, and return, holding aloft a new 
 and fragrant oblation of hot rolls. 
 
 When the banquet was ended, and all sat before 
 the hickory-wood fire, Jim imparted the great news 
 that at last his orchard was in trim to receive them. 
 In the morning, about ten, they could come. Even 
 yet there were minor restrictions. He insisted on 
 meeting Mark at the car, to "hold on to his coat 
 tails," as he said, until the entire group had gathered. 
 No one must take a step until he, Jim, had given the 
 signal. However others might regard it, the affair, 
 in the eyes of the Master of Ceremonies, evidently 
 loomed as a national event. 
 
 Next morning before the most eager of "Little 
 Sunshiners" could have been stirring, the Colonel, 
 already dressed and great-coated, with Rover inevi 
 tably at heel, went out in the dawn to his oranges. 
 
 A fog thick and damp as wet moss lay upon them. 
 The trees showed symmetrical humps under a wide 
 spreading coverlid. The pond with its island was 
 invisibly part of a misty gray void. Behind inky 
 pine-tops, far distant, the hampered sun strove for 
 ascendency. His red breath was as cold as the fog. 
 Jim drew up his collar, emitting a loud, shuddering 
 "B-r-r-r-r!" 
 
 At this, Rover, inspired by the sound to a similar 
 rousing, gave one yelp and a long forward leap. 
 The mist soaked him up, a brown splotch on an end 
 less expanse of gray blotting-paper; but Jim fol-
 
 294 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 lowed the dog s scampering diagonal, as if tied to a 
 string. 
 
 Not until he reached the orchard s most distant 
 angle of growth did he pause. Rover panting, 
 triumphant, and now seated, welcomed him from 
 among the boughs of a tree. The man grinned. 
 "We know what we re after, old Sport!" 
 
 Jim moved eager, tentative hands through the 
 foliage. The mist seemed to thin where he stood. 
 An odor, exotic, enchanting, crept into the dense, 
 chilly air. All at once the great sun, pushing down 
 cowering pines to a threshold, stood erect at the por 
 tals of day. A red shaft of glory struck Jim s shoulder 
 and gilded his outstretched hand. The white flowers 
 that he touched blushed to rose hues. On them dew 
 hung in tears, happy tears. A mocking bird 
 nesting beneath fluttered out, and in going scattered 
 rapturous echoes and trills. Jim smiled at the 
 bird. Pretty soon might not he, too, know rapture? 
 
 His flower, his talisman, had bloomed. Only once 
 in a long, long while did the sporadic wonder occur, 
 - did a full, fruit-laden tree put forth such an echo 
 of spring in late autumn. Heretofore he had watched 
 for them merely as exquisite fantasies. Last year 
 there had been none at all. 
 
 But now, from some hidden, unrealized inception, 
 Jim found himself nurturing a desire, a fond hope, 
 that had deeped into something resembling obsession. 
 From the hour of his recent home-coming, he and 
 Rover had searched, tree by tree. Surely, after all 
 the love and care he had given, they could not refuse 
 him this boon !
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 295 
 
 Leaning, seeking, parting dark branches, with 
 Rover as breathlessly keen as himself, Jim had come 
 to believe in his heart, even though reason derided, 
 that a spray of these flowers, with their age-long 
 associations of joy, would, if blown to his hand in 
 this crux, prove the wand of necromancy and open 
 at last the Closed Door. 
 
 Then, in one heart-catching instant, he found it 
 he or Rover he never knew which. It was hidden 
 near the crest of a small, remote tree, a mere finger 
 of green, crowding buds, and yet quite enough for 
 the beckoning of hope. At dawn and at twilight 
 Jim sought it. No child in its garden digging up 
 seeds to find whether or not they had sprouted, no 
 midsummer boy promised his first rifle "next Christ 
 mas," ever watched time with more desperate eager 
 ness than did Jim for this blooming of flowers. For 
 this, he had kept friends at bay. Because of it, and 
 its interminable tardiness, agents were mumbling 
 anathema, and the still empty orange-crates, heaped 
 into tottering, pyramids, threatened collapse. 
 
 The Colonel was obdurate. "Let the darned rob 
 bers wait," he said, scowling. "Yes, I know that I 
 promised delivery, and the time s overdue, but 
 what of it! I reckon the oranges are mine while 
 I ve got them." 
 
 But now after rain and the warm sun-steeped 
 day that followed, all reason for waiting was ended. 
 There was never more perfect a spray. The few 
 wide-opened florets were marvels of ivory and gold. 
 Great, rounded white buds, tapering thickly to smaller 
 ones, drooped like the lids of a girl.
 
 296 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 Jim, after a long, smiling, ecstatic survey, and one 
 parting sniff of delight, turned and strode back to the 
 house. It was still very early. Uncle Snow was 
 just making the fires, but Jim went to the telephone, 
 demanded Mark s hotel, and in tones that made the 
 drowsy night-clerk first blink, and then giggle, ordered 
 immediate connection with Mark. 
 
 For a moment, it seemed to Jim hours, no 
 response could be gained. "Keep on ringin ! Bust 
 the wires. Yes, I know he s in bed ; what I want is 
 to get him out of it. Don t give up. You can put 
 all the blame on Jim Roy." 
 
 Then carne the Englishman s voice "What the 
 dev ! Oh, it s you, Colonel Jim ! Are you there ! 
 You re a bally old bird to do this to a chap close on 
 midnight!" 
 
 "Oh, shut up. You re to catch the eight-thirty 
 car to the Hill. The whole bunch is to meet early 
 at Little Sunshine. Don t you fail, or I ll skin you 
 alive!" 
 
 "Skin on and be d / Mark began, but the 
 
 Colonel, chuckling hugely, rang off. 
 
 It was barely nine when the two men, Mark still 
 "peeved", as the Colonel termed it, and protesting 
 against being hauled from his bed before dawn, neared 
 the gate where the stirrup latch rested. 
 
 Just without, by a common instinct, they paused 
 and stood looking over the lawn to the sunlit old home. 
 A light frost, too delicate even to taint the pure petals 
 of camellias, was beginning to trickle into gems. 
 The air smelled of chilled violets. Mocking birds 
 and the flashing of cardinals showed in the hedges.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 297 
 
 "Outside of England," said Mark in a low voice, 
 and as if speaking in part to himself, "there are no 
 homes with just the repose, the serenity, of these old 
 Southern ones. It looks like a dream set in crystal." 
 
 Jim vouchsafed a pleased grunt. "And here goes 
 a big crack in the dream," said he, lifting the stirrup 
 latch high. 
 
 At the percussion, five figures appeared on the gal 
 lery. Laughing gestures were given, and when the two 
 drew nearer, gay queries and exclamations. "Isn t 
 the morning too lovely ! We ve been up and dressed 
 since daybreak. We re ready to start at a word." 
 
 Jim maintaining his warrant of despotism, shouted 
 orders to stop where they were. In a glimpse he 
 had noted that Ciceley was dressed all in black. 
 This was not to his fancy and he intended to ask her 
 to change it. This was his Great Day, great at 
 least in luminous possibilities. Fate might cut him 
 down at the last, but until then he would move as a 
 conqueror. 
 
 "Say, Sis," he began, drawing her aside and 
 essaying finesse in the asking, "you look mighty 
 sweet, and I know that is one of your new dresses 
 you re wearing " 
 
 "It is!" put in Ciceley. "My latest, and I tell 
 Julia that I simply cannot and will not afford another. 
 But I love this; just look at the braiding, and the 
 shiny big buttons, and the wonderful set of the skirt ! " 
 
 Jim laughed out for joy. That "Sis Pelican", 
 in so short a time, should be actually defending with 
 vehemence an attack on the cut of her feathers ! 
 It was all part of hope and renascence.
 
 298 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "Yes, I can see it s the thing," he assured her. 
 He tried to speak soberly, but his eyes, crinkling, 
 darted blue lights. "You re as smart as a little new 
 pin. It s the color I kick at. You ve worn black 
 so long, and I hate it. Now to-day Won t you 
 humor old Jim cause he asks it, and put on well 
 that chipmunky brown one you wore when you met us 
 at the station?" 
 
 "Why, of course, if you want it so much funny 
 boy ! Wait here. It won t take me a minute." 
 
 Wick and Sylvia now raced to the garage and 
 emerged seated in their two usual places at the front 
 of the car. Their coming was announced by a series 
 of yelps, wheezes, and shrieks on the "siren", that 
 immediately threw Rover into frenzy. It had been 
 another of Jim s conditions that, instead of walking 
 the short distance, they should drive to his orchard 
 in state. The two happy, giggling creatures now 
 rending the sky with their fooling were taking this 
 way of informing him that their part was being done 
 well. 
 
 Jim rushed forward to check them, and to save, if 
 not already too late, the few molecules of intelligence 
 still left to his prostrated dog. Julia slipped back into 
 the house to help Ciceley. Lucille and Mark Stan- 
 wood on the gallery were left, for a moment, alone. 
 
 "One would think," said the girl, smiling up at 
 him, "from this uproar and dear Uncle Jim s per 
 turbation that we were going to be led to the original, 
 authentic Gardens of Hesperides." 
 
 "Who knows," rejoined Mark thoughtfully, his 
 gaze on the lawn. "Who ever can tell?"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 299 
 
 Ciceley came running down-stairs. Her high 
 heels beat a tattoo of excitement. The skirt of 
 brown velvet edged with fur swirled and clung and 
 swept out from her trim silken ankles. Her slippers 
 were of bronze, with huge, gold-bronze buckles. 
 The short jacket, fur bordered, hung in straight lines 
 to her hips. The collar went high, and into the fur 
 of it her chin nestled. It had the look of a delicate, 
 warm fruit. On her head was a cap of brown velvet, 
 edged and pomponed with fur. 
 
 All the soft browns and tans, with their gleamings 
 of yellow, blent to tones which Jim rightly called 
 "chipmunky." At sight of her one thought instinc 
 tively of soft furry things bred in copses, of the 
 mottling of fawns, the stripings of newly fledged 
 partridges, of butterflies, golden and brown. 
 
 She went up directly to Jim. They looked long 
 in each other s eyes. 
 
 "All you need, Little Sis," said the man, "is a 
 chinquepin necklace and cross." 
 
 Ciceley s lids fluttered down. "And the chin- 
 quepins are getting ripe fast." 
 
 Now they started. Uncle Snow, on watch at 
 the Stag Harbor entrance gate, saluted with pomp 
 as they passed. In the great rioting hedge which 
 had shut out the view of Jim s oranges, a hedge 
 running parallel to the live oak avenue but at quite 
 a distance toward the east, there had always been an 
 arch cut through the foliage and known by the darkies 
 as "de white folks do h." For the past two weeks it 
 had been concealed by the pile of brushwood and 
 evergreen. This morning the orifice showed clear.
 
 300 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 While yet some yards from it, Jim ordered the chauf 
 feur to halt. " You re to go through it one by one," 
 stated he ; "I ll lead you in person, and I want each 
 man-Jack to shut his eyes tight and keep em that 
 way, till you re all side by side facing the orchard, and 
 I tell you to look." 
 
 There was no use opposing the overlord. Authority 
 flashed from his eyes, and fulminated in his voice. 
 By this time the small conclave was a group, not of 
 rational adults, but of nudging and giggling school 
 children. "Now play fair!" threatened Jim, as he 
 led through the enfilade. Just beyond he ranged 
 them in line, elbows touching. They were almost 
 hysterical now, feeling themselves to be idiots, de 
 lighting in such merry fooling, with lips parted wide, 
 and eyelids obediently screwed down to mere slits, 
 until Jim boomed the word of release. 
 
 The first to find utterance was Mark. "Oh, my 
 eye!" moaned that gallant young guardsman, erst 
 while a pet jewel of courts. "Now I m utterly sure 
 that I m dippy." 
 
 "Take heart, man!" cheered Jim, who by now 
 evinced symptoms of explosion. "Step right out. 
 Don t be scared. Seeing s believing, you know, but 
 feeling s stark truth. Pick em peel eat bust 
 em wide open make sure they are there." 
 
 Mark, pretending a rope-walker s caution, ad 
 vanced to the golden-flung gage. The others, to 
 whom the orchard was no such revelation, at first 
 spurned the sight, watching him. 
 
 About five acres of clearing, a place where Mark, 
 as a boy, had often dodged among giant pine trees,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 301 
 
 stretched now in a huge tilted basin, slightly con 
 cave. The earth, which used to be russet with pine 
 straw, shone white with a sparkle like sea sand. On 
 its dazzling expanse there were set, line on line, what 
 appeared to be mammoth green baskets, brimmed 
 and foaming with golden globules. In the center of 
 all gleamed the pond, a lagoon of pure sapphire, 
 held in by an atol of gold. Mark s delight and ap 
 preciation satisfied even Colonel Jim. 
 
 "And now," said the autocrat boldly, though his 
 throat as he spoke seemed to close, "if the rest of 
 you-all don t object, I ve a special small tree over 
 there by the lake," he pointed, and Julia smiled 
 softly to note that the big hand was steady, "that 
 I first want to show just to Sis." 
 
 There were two starts of instinctive surprise. One 
 came from Ciceley, the other, instantaneously checked, 
 from Lucille. A palsying silence ensued, that sort of 
 a social hiatus where each gasps in a wordless vacuum, 
 where every one travails for speech, only to throw on 
 the brakes, in terror of verbal collision. 
 
 Lucille gazed in impersonal absorption at the sky. 
 Sylvia s eyes went to Wickford and stayed there. 
 Mark, Julia, and Jim alike struggled nobly to see 
 nothing at all. 
 
 The small figure in brown plainly faltered. Her 
 wide-opened, brown eyes went to each face in turn. 
 With each instant, they seemed to grow wider. 
 Julia, leaning close, touched her. "Go, Ciceley, 
 go with Jim." 
 
 As her mother obeyed, the tall girl moved un 
 certainly toward Julia. One hand was outspread as
 
 302 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 if groping her way through a blinding radiance. 
 Julia drew the girl s face to her own. Their cheeks 
 quivered close for an instant and in parting disclosed 
 the shimmer of tears. 
 
 Through the sunshine Jim s great shoulders swung 
 ahead. Rover trotted sedately at heel. Ciceley s 
 feet, more than once, seemed to stumble, at which 
 Jim turned. "Am I walking too fast for you, Sis?" 
 
 Julia, rousing herself with an effort, asked, "Shall 
 we go back to the house?" They denied through the 
 hedge, silent, speechless, a passage of low-breathing 
 shadows. 
 
 On reaching the avenue, Wick suddenly sprang into 
 life. "Come on, Sylvia. I ll race you as far as the 
 gate for a big box of sweets ! " The abandoned ones, 
 still strangely silent, kept meticulous tread toward the 
 house. 
 
 With a hand on the gold of his tree, Jim s tramp 
 ended. His companion gave one questioning glance. 
 The look, swift and demure, had been quite enough 
 to assure her that to no seasonable exhibit of fruit 
 had she been led. It was autumn indeed, and the 
 harvest, but here on Jim s special, small tree had 
 grown something that whispered of springtime and 
 joy. Its perfume flowed out in a rapture. She 
 lifted one hand, touched the flowers, and then eyes 
 and hand suddenly fell. 
 
 Though she tried, she could not force her eyes to a 
 meeting. She felt that he gazed down upon her, his 
 soul in his own. The intent of his planning had 
 caught her. She knew why he had wanted "just 
 Sis." That ridiculous old promise was broken, and
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 303 
 
 he had taken this tender and beautiful way of sur 
 render. How lover-like thoughtful romantic ! 
 Dear old Jim ! Dear, faithful retainer ! Well, at 
 last she could give all he craved ! 
 
 Her lids were down-freighted with gladness, the 
 gladness that giving can bring. Her cheeks flew 
 bright banners of scarlet. Now both hands fluttered 
 up to the blossoms. Without breaking it, she bent 
 the lithe spray to a coronet of ivory, topaz, and pearl, 
 and held it in place, held it there in the sunlight 
 before him, and the blood in her veins ran in fire. 
 
 Wave after wave of exquisite shyness assailed her. 
 And then, out of nowhere, a menace. Why, why was 
 the man standing silent ? Was he never to speak, 
 never stir ? Rover whimpered and crept into shadow. 
 Then out of the dark came Jim s voice, quiet, deter 
 mined. "Even that s not enough, Little Sis." 
 
 For an instant she found herself reeling. The 
 spray, like a whiplash, sprang back into place. With 
 clenched fists she drew herself upright. "I m afraid 
 that I don t understand." 
 
 "But you will; but you must, Little Ciceley. 
 You must make me be sure once for all. You re 
 member that promise I made us?" 
 
 Through lips gray as ashes she repeated more 
 clearly, "I do not understand." 
 
 Jim shook his bared head in the sunlight. "I 
 am sure that you do, Little Sis." 
 
 "Do you mean?" she cried now, half-incredulous, 
 "that you brought me out here that you dared 
 bring me way off out here just with you and these 
 flowers" here she gave them a fleck of disdain,
 
 304 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 "in the hope, with the definite intention, of forcing 
 me to to The sentence snapped short. Those 
 were words that her voice could not carry. 
 
 Jim, in silence, replaced his felt hat. 
 
 With a low, stifled cry, she went past him. Anger, 
 scorn, outraged dignity burned in her eyes. At her 
 look the man s heart stopped its beating. He stood 
 like a thing carved in stone. 
 
 A few feet away Ciceley hesitated. Then she 
 paused, her face still turned away. She seemed to 
 be fighting an impulse. Jim gritted his teeth and 
 said" God!" 
 
 Now the pink chin turned slightly toward him. 
 "So you thought," she flung over her shoulder, "that 
 in this way you d even old scores ! You had dared 
 to believe you could make me, make me, Ciceley 
 Taliaferro, get down on my knees at your feet ! You, 
 the man I had thought such a gentleman, to descend 
 to an insult like this. Well, I won t never 
 never ! Not to save you from death. You should 
 have known me and yourself better, Mister Jim 
 Roy." 
 
 She moved round by a few inches more to observe 
 him. Jim this time did not brave the brown eyes. 
 He stared down at the earth, hopeless, beaten, and 
 offered no word of defence. 
 
 At such moments of /passion nothing flays like 
 persistence in silence. A new swirl of wrath caught 
 her up bodily, flung her round, and deposited her 
 facing him. 
 
 "There s just one thing more, Mr. Roy, and I ll 
 leave you. Perhaps you ll have enough decency,
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 305 
 
 enough manliness, to assure me that if I had 
 had - Again she choked on the words. 
 
 Jim looked up. His voice sounded weary. "Are 
 you trying to get me to say whether, if you had been 
 the thoroughbred I thought you, my answer would 
 have been yes or no ?" 
 
 "You re a monster! But tell me, Jim, tell me. I 
 must know so much, or I can t live. Oh, surely it 
 was not all for my punishment, for only this hideous 
 humiliation ! You could not hate a leper like that ! " 
 
 Jim writhed and groaned as under thumbscrews. 
 Ciceley s smile, winning, pleading, flashed light. 
 She hastened to reach him. One cajoling small 
 hand touched his sleeve. The man felt himself 
 vanquished, then, with one supreme effort, more 
 demoniac than human, laid hold of his struggling 
 purpose and compelled it to bend to his will. 
 
 "It won t work, Sis. This isn t a game we are 
 playing. It means for me a break-up of everything 
 now existing. I am going to sell my plantation. 
 I ll give your girls all that I ve made, if you ll let me. 
 God knows the stuff s useless to me. I m no quitter 
 of life. I shall do nothing desperate or cowardly, 
 but I m going to clear out from the Hill ! That s 
 about all, I believe. Come. It s time we went 
 back to the others." 
 
 He turned and had started when she, with the cry 
 of a child in the night suddenly waking, called "Jim ! 
 Oh, dear Jim!" 
 
 "Yes?" said he, stoically. 
 
 "Just a minute. The flowers, the orange-spray. 
 You said you had kept them for me."
 
 3 o6 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 For answer he drew out his pocket-knife. "Wait 
 wait," she implored, catching the hand that 
 opened it. " Give me give me just just Oh !" 
 she sobbed, "I do want to. But I can t. I just 
 can t. I do not know how!" 
 
 Jim sent the knife spinning. He stooped and took 
 into his own her small, icy hands. 
 
 " Don t you see, Sis," he reasoned. "Can t you 
 understand what this test means to me? All my 
 life long I have cared for you have tried hard to 
 win you. Ghosts and phantoms have kept you 
 away. They are gone now, because Julia came back 
 to rout them. I know they are gone. I believe 
 that you, too But I swore to you, God, and 
 myself, that my last chunk of dirt had been swallowed. 
 If this wonder of happiness is true, and you care for 
 me, even a little, don t you see," here the low voice 
 fell ragged, "that you should not be willing, you of 
 yourself shouldn t want me to eat any more ? " 
 
 "And you shan t!" she broke in, with a voice 
 that felled the last shadow. Before he could sus 
 pect her intention, she was down on her knees, and 
 a pink palmfull of sand was on its way to her lips. 
 
 He caught it and scattered it far. "Not for you 
 either, you, my one love," said he brokenly. "Oh, 
 Sis. Oh my little brown butterfly, have I won you 
 at last?" 
 
 "Yes," murmured Ciceley, as well as she could 
 from her ambush, "that is, if you re sure that you re 
 willing to marry me, Mister James Roy."
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 THE FUTURE, THROUGH A HOLLY WREATH 
 
 THE wedding took place on Christmas morning, 
 at Little Sunshine. Immediately after the cere 
 mony, and on the same spot, with the same smiling 
 and furtively teary assemblage looking on, Mammy 
 Nycie and old Uncle Snow joined their black, toil- 
 worn hands for the rest of life s pilgrimage together. 
 
 The two bridal parties adjourned directly to Stag 
 Harbor. The splendid old mansion had, of itself, 
 the look of a bride. The high, fluted columns, white 
 now as linen newly bleached, were festooned and 
 twined in wild smilax, interwoven with berries in 
 clusters of coral red. From the open door down to the 
 last gallery step and beyond it ran a strip of crimson 
 carpeting, its borders concealed by holly and smilax. 
 
 On the top step, like Midas-touched flunkies, 
 stood two orange trees in a tumult of fruiting. These 
 had been withheld from the general harvesting and 
 transplanted into mammoth green tubs. 
 
 In the house the enormous half-circular ballroom, 
 embellished with flowers and evergreens, was in 
 use as a central refectory. On tables, sideboards, and 
 buffets, stood all manner of savory roast meats, fowl, 
 
 307
 
 3 o8 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 ducks, pigs, ham, spiced beef, and the delectable wild 
 turkey. 
 
 Not content with the prodigal outlay, Julia had 
 managed to secure, through the hands of the genii 
 who served her, the piece de resistance of a genuine 
 boar s head. For its cooking a special brick oven 
 had needed to be built. Encrusted, brown, gaunt, it 
 sprang from its platter of parsley, and its eyes, now 
 two radishes cut to show centers of white, glared a 
 dreadful defiance on all who dared to approach. 
 Ciceley, seeing it, shuddered. "Why," she whispered 
 to Jim, clinging close, her startled face averted, "I 
 would just as soon try to eat the head of John the 
 Baptist!" 
 
 In an alcove which Jim and his confreres quite 
 shamelessly frequented, could be found various 
 Brobdingnagian vessels conserving eggnog, apple 
 toddy, claret cup, sherry cobbler, and mulled port 
 for the ladies. More than one heirloom punch bowl, 
 extracted from dust-covered corners, had been prof 
 fered for use. 
 
 It was truly an all-day, and far-into-the-evening, 
 symposium. The entire Hill, white and black, had 
 been bidden. By midnight, with the stopping of 
 tramcars, and the long string of motors in waiting, 
 it would seem that quite half of the town had come, 
 also. 
 
 Mrs. Rogers grew alarmingly giddy, even essaying 
 some moth-eaten jokes. The three Misses Turren- 
 tine, three timid, starched figures, contributively 
 arrayed by the kind-hearted Hill, exchanged awe- 
 stricken whispers behind sandal-wood and turkey-
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 309 
 
 tail fans. It was Yuletide, said they, as they always 
 had dreamed of the revel. It was wassail, as their 
 own sturdy ancestors had known it. In the midst 
 of rejoicing they grew sad, these wan souls, in think 
 ing of long vanished splendors. 
 
 But the Big House, rocked and vibrant as it was 
 with the ring and the echoes of laughter, showed but 
 part of celebration. At the edge of the orchard stood 
 the packing shed, a low, cheaply constructed build 
 ing, as long as the drive of a bowling alley. Having 
 served its annual purpose, it was given, without 
 question or restriction, into the hands of Uncle Snow. 
 The rough walls now gloomed behind banners of 
 red and white cheesecloth. Some poetic and over 
 wrought assistant had to this pasted huge tinsel 
 stars. Holly, mistletoe, cedar, and smilax hid securely 
 the crude wooden ceiling. A continuous table, with 
 benches, ran almost the length of the floor. At one 
 end sat "de bride s cake", vast and white, with a 
 pagoda-like structure surmounting it, and crowned at 
 a neck-breaking angle by a filagree cupola, in which 
 stood two figures, a miniature bride and her groom. 
 At the other end a similar achievement, on the apex 
 of which fluttered a naked pink Cupid, denoted the 
 place of "de bridegroom." These marvellous struc 
 tures, one concealing a white cake, the other a black, 
 rich with raisins and sherry, had been gifts from 
 Ciceley and Jim. 
 
 Not all at once was a knife to assail them. The 
 main banquet was yet to be served. Not so far away 
 that the exquisite aromas could not rush in to tanta 
 lize and spur, in glowing earthen trenches, where for
 
 310 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 three days oak and hickory had steadily crackled, 
 now roasted, writhed, dripped, sputtered, and hissed 
 such a barbecue as the world had not previously 
 seen. To the viands acceptable to " white folks " 
 had been added a family of possums. Surely if Hymen 
 possessed even rudimentary nostrils, he would flee 
 from Olympus for this. 
 
 Mark did not remain for the wedding. His leave 
 of absence had expired, and there were certain busi 
 ness necessities calling. His true reason, he said to 
 them mournfully, essaying glances of haggard reproach 
 first to Jim then to Ciceley, "was that after the 
 anguish already received at their hands, it was quite, 
 don t you know, quite beyond a chap s powers of 
 endurance." 
 
 "When I reflect," mused the Honorable Mark, 
 in a tone of most bitter resentment, "that that same 
 perjured woman might have had me !" 
 
 As if in the final abyss of dejection, Mark bowed 
 his sleek head. But in spite of such melancholy dis 
 courses, his demeanor was far from being that of a 
 heartbroken man. 
 
 At the station where, still protesting and reluc 
 tant to lose him, the six gathered to bid him "God 
 speed", his last clasp of the hand was for Lucille. 
 The others, with bright, interchanged glances, moved 
 away. But for the passing and repassing of shadowy 
 strangers, the two were alone. 
 
 The man, without speaking, stared down to a 
 face waxen white and more beautiful than moonlight 
 on mist. Her eyes lifted to his.
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 311 
 
 "When the harvest is with you again if I come 
 he asked slowly, "will you walk in the Garden of Hes- 
 perides ? I had hoped I have dared to believe 
 that earth s most exquisite flower might be blooming 
 there, just for me." 
 
 The girl kept his look without shrinking. All her 
 latent nobility, her fineness grown deeper through 
 suffering, rose through her soul. The cloak of false 
 pride slipped away, and forever. 
 
 "Into that garden, Mark, or into the Valley of 
 Shadows. Either would be golden if you wanted me 
 there." 
 
 Being English, with others about them, he neither 
 kissed nor embraced her. For an instant his hand 
 closed on hers till the pressure, had she felt it at all, 
 might have been physical agony. "Oh, my darling 
 my dear," said he raggedly, and was gone. 
 
 Julia, her son, and the two Bering girls remained 
 on at Little Sunshine. One day early in summer, 
 without warning, the Executive calmly announced 
 her intention of going for "a little run over to Eng 
 land." 
 
 "Why!" gasped Ciceley, she and Jim chanced 
 to be present, "You talk like it was no more than 
 stepping up to the Hill post-office !" 
 
 "And no more it is, when you re used to it," 
 sparkled Julia. More seriously she bent to explain 
 that the firm of Preston and Preston were in need of 
 certain wall papers and a few "Adam" accessories 
 which even New York had been unable to supply. 
 
 "I ve had samples sent," complained Julia, "till 
 my brain has become a crazy quilt. We must have
 
 3 i2 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 them to finish that Belden remodelling. Of course 
 Wick can t leave too," she flung, laughing, to a half- 
 smothered cry from the Posy. "He must stay on 
 the job till it s finished. The only objection to the 
 trip; I can see," - here she paused, and at her 
 bright quizzical expression, each listener grew tense 
 and alert. "You girls can t live on here with Wick- 
 ford. Sis and I should have to divide you trouble 
 some young creatures between us. Now, Jim," she 
 cried to that smiling and most blissful person, "you 
 and Mrs. James Roy have had a full six months of 
 honeymoon. In spite of your doting conviction 
 that you re still a week-old bridegroom, you ought to 
 be willing to shelter two babes in the woods." 
 
 "Well, rather!" grinned Jim, and Ciceley fer 
 vently echoed, "Oh, can we have the two darlings? 
 How lovely ! But my big girl, Lucille?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," sighed Julia, as if burdened. 
 "We must find a place for tethering the future Mrs. 
 Stanwood. Engaged girls are a nuisance. Now my 
 plan of course the future Mrs. Mark may not be 
 willing is to ask her to come al " 
 
 The sentence was strangled to gurgles. Lucille, 
 forgetting her dignities in as madcap a whirl as had 
 ever spun Sylvia, was prone in her cousin s arms. 
 " Oh, you seraph you angel ! How is it that always 
 you think of things so perfectly beautiful and wonder 
 ful we don t dare to think them ourselves?" 
 
 They returned in October, Mark with them. By 
 now he was in acute stages of love s madness. He 
 would not wait for harvests, nor Christmas, nor even 
 the finishing of a trousseau. "I want her right now,"
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 313 
 
 he declared and maintained, in the face of all femi 
 nine objection. "When I see Colonel Jim, with a 
 mug like the sun at noon, ramping around in that 
 two-year-old fashion, I want my dip in the fountain 
 of youth, too. Dash it all, can t you see that I m 
 dying without her ! Yes, I ll bring her back soon." 
 
 This to the pleading and quivering-lipped Ciceley. 
 "I fancy that neither of us can be kept from the Hill 
 very long. And Jim s going to bring you to England 
 next summer. But I warn you, I m going to marry 
 her now, in a week at the longest. She s willing, 
 God bless her ! the good sort she is ! And if any 
 of you kill-joys try to prevent us !" 
 
 Consent being thus wrested, Mark, keyed to excite 
 ment already, his voice and his eyes full of light, 
 turned suddenly to Wickford and Sylvia, demand 
 ing, "And when are these juvenile nuptials to take 
 place?" 
 
 Sylvia squealed and fled in a panic. Wick fol 
 lowed as inevitably as the tail to a kite. 
 
 "Not yet not quite yet," answered Julia, when 
 the two best-beloved, scampering figures had rounded 
 the end of a hedge. "She s our littlest girl our 
 one baby. Sis and I are not willing to give her up 
 altogether, not even to Wickford. And then, you, 
 bold robber, are stealing Lucille. The young birds 
 have plenty of time for their happiness. We allow 
 them to twitter of nesting. Wick and Sylvia work 
 every evening together on the plans of a lamb of a 
 cottage to be built on the old Wickford lot." Now 
 herfeyes were on Mark s, straight and shining. " Once 
 on a time, long ago," she said softly, her voice taking
 
 314 THE STIRRUP LATCH 
 
 the croon and the rhythm of a fairy tale, "there 
 lived on that spot a queer little girl called Julia 
 Wickford. Isn t it sweet?" 
 
 "Yes, it s sweet," Mark made answer, and held 
 Lucille very close at his side. "But you, dearest 
 lady. The unselfish one the giver of good gifts to 
 others what of you ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear Jule dear, dear Cousin Julia," came 
 in low breaths. 
 
 Julia looked slowly from one loving face to another. 
 "Don t be sorry for me," she cried bravely. "If it s 
 true and I know that in some part it is true 
 that I ve helped you all win in the quest of the heart s 
 desire, don t you see that each tiny fiber of your hap 
 piness is part of my being? I have mothered the 
 brood of fledgling dreams-that-came-true. Now, if 
 you re asking for plain facts, not rhapsodies well, 
 they re all worked out, too. Jim and Sis have given 
 me outright, have made me accept for my lifetime 
 - this dear place, Little Sunshine, which I have al 
 ways loved. It s to be my own haven, my sanctuary. 
 All my trivial, precious possessions I shall bring 
 here. My books, papers, typewriter, sewing-machine, 
 my big copper preserving kettle all the material 
 me ! I shall work out in Ciceley s garden know the 
 wind and the rain and the sun know the joy, as 
 the old Chinese poet has phrased it, of seeing all 
 things fall due in their season. Through the yellow 
 jessamine hedge one more gate, a wee, fringy gate 
 shall be cut. Soon its call shall be answered, on the 
 opposite side of the road, by another in Wick- 
 ford s new fence. I shall never be lonely not here
 
 THE STIRRUP LATCH 315 
 
 on the Hill, with so many dear, precious friends to 
 love me 
 
 "Love you! Well, they had better!" roared Jim, 
 in this way barely escaping the horror of bursting 
 into tears. "If I find a man-jack in the bunch who 
 doesn t love you, who wouldn t lie down on his 
 back and let you wipe your shoes on his face if you 
 wanted to why why," here he glowered the threat 
 of impartial annihilation, "I d skin em alive with my 
 own hands, and sing Hallelujah while skinnin em ! 
 Love the finest, best woman God ever sent down to 
 this earth well, they d better, that s all ! " 
 
 Julia, a little tremulous with the laughter that 
 followed this chivalric outburst, said once more, very 
 gently, "And the best of it all is just this I can 
 never be lonely. Sis will come to me, perhaps every 
 day. Jim will never be far. Little Sylvia and my 
 dear boy will be living scarcely a stone s throw away. 
 And then, as the soft years brush past us, new feet 
 will stray into my paths little feet stealing in, 
 just to find me. Then more years. Sis and I shall 
 be getting to be white-haired old ladies. But the 
 bringers of new life are here. Little hands our 
 own hands it may be, folded just now in a golden 
 Nirvana will stretch down reaching reaching 
 - to touch the old stirrup latch. It will be sweet 
 very sweet here in my garden, when the eve is 
 cool. " 
 
 THE END
 
 A worthy successor of" Truth Dexter." Boston Globe. 
 
 ARIADNE OF ALLAN WATER 
 
 By SIDNEY McCALL 
 
 Author of " The Stirrup Latch," " Truth Dexter," etc. 
 Illustrated. 12mo. $1.35 net. 
 
 A thoroughly charming Virginia love story. Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 No sweeter heroine has come upon the scene for many 
 months. Philadelphia Record. 
 
 The novel is rich in spontaneous humor, shrewd observations 
 on human nature, and truly delightful pictures of real Virginia 
 folk, while the author s style is engagingly crisp and readable. 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 A well-told story, whose strong emotional interest is sus 
 tained from the first to the last, while its many dramatic situa 
 tions are handled with strength and skill. Many of the scenes 
 take place on an old homestead in Virginia, of which the author 
 makes tender and graphic pictures. New York Times. 
 
 Ariadne is always beautiful, always good another Truth 
 Dexter, who will be warmly welcomed by friends of her pred 
 ecessor and enjoyed by everyone who meets her, for her own 
 many good qualities and because of the stirring narrative of 
 her remarkable adventures. The plot of the story is original, if 
 somewhat improbable, and well developed. Boston Transcript. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
 The work of a genius. A story that will live * 
 
 THE BEEATH OF 
 THE GODS 
 
 By SIDNEY McCALL 
 Author of "Truth Dexter" 
 
 12mo. Cloth, 431 pages. $1.35 net 
 
 A great American novel, if not the American novel. 
 New Orleans Times Democrat. 
 
 A novel that has the real Japan in it as has no other 
 novel ever written in the English tongue. Philadelphia 
 Press. 
 
 An absorbing love story that throws unusual light upon 
 the inner life of Japan. Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 A powerful story with vivid descriptions and a thrilling 
 and unexpected climax. Boston Herald. 
 
 Strikes an unusual note and will live beyond the 
 passing hour. St. Paul Pioneer Press. 
 
 A masterly delineation of men and women caught in 
 the swift current of events. Baltimore Sun. 
 
 Yuki is a charming characterization, dainty, exquisite, 
 flowerlike, and fascinating. Chicago Journal. 
 
 JJTTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHED, BOSTON
 
 The Most Lovable Heroine in Modern Fiction 
 
 TRUTH DEXTER 
 
 By SIDNEY McCALL 
 Author of " The Breath of the Gods " 
 
 New Illustrated Edition, with 8 full-page pictures by Alice 
 
 Barber Stephens and title-page vignette by 
 
 Jessie Willcox Smith 
 
 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.35 net 
 
 A novel of united North and South of rare power and 
 absorbing interest. It is but fair to say that not one of 
 the novels which appeared last year on either side of the 
 Atlantic (including those from the pen of the most gifted 
 writers) was superior to this in artistic quality, dramatic 
 power, and human interest combined. We do not hope to 
 see it surpassed, even if equalled. Philadelphia Telegraph. 
 
 Exceptionally clever and brilliant, it has what are rarely 
 found with these dazzling qualities, delicacy and genuine 
 sentiment. Brooklyn Times. 
 
 A fine, sweet and strong American romance. New York 
 World. 
 
 I don t know how to praise it enough. I can t recall any 
 novel which has interested me so absorbingly for years. 
 It is a matchless book ! Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 
 The author at once takes place among the foremost 
 novelists of the day. Boston Transcript. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
 Sidney McCalVs New American Novel 
 
 RED HORSE HILL 
 
 By SIDNEY McCALL 
 
 Author of " Truth Dexter," " The Breath of the Gods," etc. 
 
 12mo. Decorated Cloth. $1.35 net 
 
 A dramatic story, big and splendid in theme, and 
 handled in masterly style. Albany Times-Union. 
 
 Fresh, vigorous, wholesome, well written. . . . Holding 
 the absorbed interest from first page to last. Chicago 
 Record Herald. 
 
 The best work Mrs. Fenollosa has given us. It will be 
 one of the best read and most talked about books of the 
 year. It is intensely human. Springfield Union. 
 
 The reader must be dull, indeed, who is not stirred and 
 thrilled by this book, even in the light of a human docu 
 ment. Lilian Whiting in New Orleans Times-Democrat. 
 
 A story of emotion, intensely dramatic, and told with 
 the constructive skill and power of narrative which 
 Sidney McCall has evidenced so effectively in her earlier 
 novels. Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 A story of the Southland which promises in a way to do 
 as much for the white slave of to-day as did "Uncle Tom a 
 Cabin " for the black man. Besides the problem of child 
 labor in the mills there is a love story and romance 
 that keeps the attention of the reader to the very end. 
 St. Louis Globe Democrat. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
 
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