to him, and he had almost made himself believe that this state of things might go on for years, perhaps forever, though that was scarcely possible. At all events he'd wait till the storm burst, and then meet it somehow. He was a Crompton and had faith in himself, and the faith was increased by the compliment paid by his townspeople; and as he was not one to receive a favor without returning it, he conceived the idea of giving an immense lawn-party, to which nearly everybody should be invited. He had shut himself up too much, he thought—he must mingle more with the people, and build around himself a wall so strong that nothing in the future could quite break it down.
Peter and the rest of his servants were consulted and entered heartily into his plan. Cards of invitation were issued bearing the Crompton monogram, and a notice inserted in the daily paper to the effect that any who failed to receive a card were to know it was a mistake, and come just the same. There was a great deal of excitement among the people, for it had been a long time since any hospitality had been extended to them, and they were eager to go, knowing that something fine was to be expected, as the Colonel never did anything by halves. The day of the lawn-party was perfect—neither too hot nor too cold—and the sun which shone upon that humble funeral in the palmetto clearing shone upon a very different scene in the Crompton grounds, where the people began to assemble as early as one o'clock. The grass on the lawn was like velvet, without a stick or stone to be seen, for two gardeners had been at work upon it since sunrise, cutting and raking, and sprinkling, until it was as fresh as after a soft summer shower. The late roses and white lilies were in full bloom, the latter filling the air with a sweet odor and making a lovely background. There were tables and chairs under the maples and elms, and rugs and pieces of carpet wherever there was a suspicion of dampness in the ground. There was a brass band in one part of the grounds, and a string band in another, where the young people danced under the trees. Refreshments were served at five o'clock, and the festivities were kept up till the sun went down, and half the children were sick from overeating—the mothers were tired, and some of the men a little shaky in their legs, and thick in their speech, from a too frequent acquaintance with the claret punch which stood here and there in great bowls, free as water, and more popular. The crowning event of the day came when the hundreds of lanterns were lighted on the piazzas and in the trees, and every window in the house blazed with candles placed in so close proximity to each other, that objects could be plainly seen at some distance.
The Colonel was going to make a speech, and he came out upon an upper balcony, where the light from ten tall lamps fell full upon him, bringing out every feature of his face distinctly. He was rather pale and haggard, but the people were accustomed to that, and charged it to the malaria. He was very distinguished looking, they thought, as they stood waiting for him to commence his speech. All the afternoon he had been the most courteous of hosts—a little too patronizing, perhaps, for that was his way, but very polite, with a pleasant word for every one. He knew he was making an impression, and felt proud in a way as Crompton of Crompton, when he stepped out upon the balcony and saw the eager, upturned faces, and heard the shout which greeted him. And still there was with him a feeling of unrest—a presentiment that on his horizon, seemingly so bright, a dark cloud was lowering, which might at any moment burst upon the head he held so high. He was always dreading it, but for the last few days the feeling had been stronger until now it was like a nightmare, and his knees shook as he bowed to the people confronting him and filling the air with cheers.
No contrast could have been greater than that between the scene on which he looked down—the park, the flowers, the fountains, and the people—and the palmetto clearing in far away Florida. He did not know of the funeral and the group assembled around the log-cabin. But he knew of the clearing. He had been there, and always felt his blood tingle when he thought of it, and it was the picture of it which had haunted him all day, and which came and stood beside him, shutting out everything else, as he began to thank the people for the honor conferred upon him by calling the town by his name.
He didn't deserve it, he said. He didn't deserve anything from anybody.
"Yes, you do," went up from a hundred throats, for under the influence of the good cheer and the attention paid them the man was for the time being a hero.
"No, I don't," he continued. "I am a morally weak man—weaker than water where my pride is concerned—and if you knew me as I know myself you would say I was more deserving of tar and feathers than the honor you have conferred upon me."
This was not at all what he intended to say, but the words seemed forced from him by that picture of the palmetto clearing standing so close to him. His audience did not know what he meant. So far as they knew he had been perfectly upright, with no fault but his pride and coldness by which he came rightfully as a Crompton. He must have visited the punch bowls too often, they thought, and didn't know what he was talking about. After a pause, during which he was trying to thrust aside the clearing, and the log-house, and the old woman in her chair, and Mandy Ann, and to pull himself together, he went on to say:
"You have been for a long time discussing the site of a new school-house, in place of the old one which stands so near the marshes, that it is a wonder your children have not all died with fever and ague. Some of you want it on the hill—some under the hill—some in one place, and some in another. Nobody wants it near his own premises. A school-house with a lot of howling children is not a desirable neighbor to most people. For my part I don't object to it. I like children."
Here he stopped suddenly as the image of a child he had never seen came before him and choked his utterance, while the people looked at each other, and wondered how long he had been so fond of children. It was generally conceded that he did not care for them—disliked them in fact—and he had never been known to notice one in any way. Surely he had been too near the claret bowls. He detected the thought of those nearest to him, and continued:
"I am not one to show all I feel. It is not my nature. I am interested in children, and as proof of it I will tell you my plan. There are two acres of land on the south side of the park. I fenced it off for an artificial pond, but gave it up. There is a spring of good water there, with plenty of shade trees for the children to play under. I will give this land for the new school-house."
Here he was obliged to stop, the cheers were so deafening. When they subsided he went on rapidly:
"I will build the house, too. Such an one as will not shame District No. 5 in Crompton. It shall be a model house, well lighted and ventilated, with broad, comfortable seats, especially for the little ones, whose feet shall touch the floor. It shall be commenced at once, and finished before the winter term."
He bowed and sat down, white and perspiring at every pore, and hardly knowing to what he had committed himself. The cheers were now a roar which went echoing out into the night, and were heard nearly as far as the village on the beach, the people wondering more and more at his generosity, and sudden interest in their little ones. And no one wondered more than himself. He did not care a picayune for children, nor whether their feet touched the floor or not, and he had not intended pledging himself to build the house when he began. But as he talked, the palmetto clearing stared him in the face, shutting out everything from his vision, except a long seat directly in front of him, on which several little girls whose feet could not touch the ground were fast asleep, their heads falling over upon each other, and the last one resting upon the arm of the settee. It was a pretty picture, and stirred in him feelings he had never experienced before. He would do something for the children, expiatory, he said to himself, as he sat down, thinking he ought to be the proudest and happiest of men to have the town called for him, and to stand so high in the esteem of his fellow citizens. What would they say if they knew what he did, and how cowardly he was because of his pride. Sometime they must know. It could not be otherwise, but he would put off the evil day as long as he could, and when, at last, his guests began to leave, and he went down to bid them good-night, his head was high with that air of patronage and superiority natural to him, and which the people tolerated because he was Col. Crompton.
That
