THE SCARBOROUGH SPOONS
A STORY FOR ENGLISH AND AMERICANS
(DOINGS ON PERILOUS)
BY LUCY FURMAN
Author of “Mothering on Perilous,” etc.
DURING their talks in the Eastern States one winter, the head workers of the Settlement School on Perilous met Emily Scarborough, the distinguished essayist and college professor, and one of them said to her casually:
“In our work in the mountains we come across numbers of good, even aristocratic, English names, and are always wishing we might trace the families back through their century and more in Kentucky, and their previous residence in Virginia, to their old English homes.
“Your own name, Scarborough, is well known to us.”
A look of instant interest succeeded the polite but weary smile on Miss Scarborough’s face. This expression of weariness was the one flaw in the satisfying beauty of the essayist, one of those rare celebrities the sight of whom is not a shock to admirers. “Tell me about them,” she said.
“The only thing to tell is that all the males of the family perished in a feud twenty-five years ago—a feud so fierce that ‘the Scarborough-Bohun War’ is still referred to with horror. The climax came when Guilford Scarborough and his five sons were ambushed one day by twenty of the Bohuns, and with their backs against a rocky cliff fought until the last fell, a dozen Bohuns paying for victory with their lives. That cliff to-day is called Scarborough’s Doom. One daughter of the race survives.”
But Miss Scarborough seemed not to hear the last sentences.
“Guilford Scarborough!” she exclaimed.
“It was the name of the founder of our family, a poor knight who won renown and an earldom by saving the king’s life at Agincourt. From that day it has been the favorite name for our sons.
“The present earl, the head of our family in England, bears it; my great-great-grandfather—a second son of the twelfth earl—who left England and settled an estate in Virginia the middle of the eighteenth century, bore it.”
She spoke simply, rapidly,—evidently descent from and kinship with earls was only one of the many fortuitous circumstances of her brilliant life.
“This Guilford of Virginia,” she continued, “had two sons who at the outbreak of the Revolution took opposite sides. Lionel, my great-grandfather, remained a stanch Tory, Guilford joined the Continentals, and when last heard of, though a mere boy, was a captain in Washington’s army. Afterward he disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him. Surely it cannot be that—”
“Many Revolutionary officers received land-grants in Kentucky for their services,” interrupted the school woman, “and those who entered into the isolation of the mountains were afterward lost to the world.”
“Then your mountain family may, nay, must be descended from the lost Guilford,” exclaimed Miss Scarborough. “You will understand my excitement when I tell you I have always supposed myself the sole representative of the American line. You say that one woman there also survives?”
“Yes, Dosia Vance. Her little girl—by the way, she has your name, Emily—is in our school.”
“Theodosia and Emily,—how the old names come down through the centuries!” said Miss Scarborough, adding, “You must put me in communication with this Dosia Vance at once.”
“Oh, she is unable to write,” was the reply.
Miss Scarborough’s face paled. “A Scarborough not write!” she cried incredulously.
“What possible chance could she have, sixty miles away from a school or a church? One remarkable thing, however, she accomplished after her marriage. With the help of an old blue-back speller and the family Bible, she taught herself and her husband to read. Writing was less possible. She is a woman of great natural intelligence, and is ambitious for her children.
“Her two eldest sons are at Berea College; we have Emily, and shall take the younger ones. Emily shows remarkable home-training; on the day she came to us she was a perfect lady.”
The result of this casual talk was that Miss Scarborough began an immediate correspondence with Dosia Vance through little Emily.
Of its progress the school women knew little, for soon after their return in the spring, vacation began, and all the children, including Emily, went home to hoe corn.
In June, however, a letter came to the school from the essayist. She wrote:
I send to-day by express a package which I beg you will have delivered to Theodosia Vance. As soon as I was satisfied that Theodosia was a descendant of the lost Guilford, I wrote my kinsman the earl of the interesting survival. He and I are very good friends, and several times on my trips abroad I have visited his home, the ancient seat of our family. On one of these occasions, he had an old leather case brought in, and showed me the most precious heirloom of the family, six dozen worn spoons, the property of the original Guilford of Agincourt. Taking out a dozen, the earl gave them to me. Of course I prize them morethan anything I possess. When he heard of the finding of Theodosia, he sent me, for her, another dozen of the precious spoons. They are in this package.
I send to-day by express a package which I beg you will have delivered to Theodosia Vance. As soon as I was satisfied that Theodosia was a descendant of the lost Guilford, I wrote my kinsman the earl of the interesting survival. He and I are very good friends, and several times on my trips abroad I have visited his home, the ancient seat of our family. On one of these occasions, he had an old leather case brought in, and showed me the most precious heirloom of the family, six dozen worn spoons, the property of the original Guilford of Agincourt. Taking out a dozen, the earl gave them to me. Of course I prize them morethan anything I possess. When he heard of the finding of Theodosia, he sent me, for her, another dozen of the precious spoons. They are in this package.
The spoons at last arrived, and were sent on to Dosia. The school women had much curiosity as to their reception; but when they made inquiries of Emily on her return the first of August, the child only replied, with her usual dignity, that “Maw was proud to get them.”
In early October another letter came from the essayist. “I have a growing desire,” she wrote, “to follow up the Scarborough spoons and see my new-found relatives. Emily’s letters interest me a good deal. This being a sabbatical year with me, I purpose visiting your school and the Vance home before going abroad for the winter.”
LATEOctober found Miss Scarborough journeying across the mountains on her way from the railroad. To a woman accustomed to luxurious motor-cars, a ride of fifty miles had not seemed formidable; but as the heavy road-wagon crashed, thumped, and banged along its difficult way at the rate of two miles an hour, she decided differently. Also, as she saw women weaving and spinning in porches of lonely log-houses, men felling timber in virgin forest, whole families gathering corn in precipitous fields, some conception of the primitive hardships of the life dawned upon her.
Although at forty-seven Emily Scarborough was as vigorous as she was beautiful, before the two-days’ trip was ended, weariness possessed her, every bone seemed dislocated, and on her arrival at the school she had to be assisted to bed by the trained nurse.
The next morning the visitor was half awakened by a tap at the door and by the entrance of some silent-footed person, who set down a tray. Stillness followed; but increasingly aware that she was an object of scrutiny, Miss Scarborough at last opened her eyes.
A small girl of twelve stood by the bed, gazing with grave, controlled eagerness at the face on the pillow. When the eyes opened, she smiled ever so slightly, and said quietly:
“Will you have your breakfast now, Cousin Emily?”
Miss Scarborough sat up in bed so suddenly that the masses of her spun-silver hair fell in a cloud about her face and shoulders.
“Are you Emily?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied the child. Very gravely she extended a hand. “I am proud to see you,” she said.
Miss Scarborough took the small hand.
“You know we are of one blood, Emily,” she said; “may I offer you the salute of kinship?” She brushed the child’s delicate cheek with her lips.
The little girl as calmly returned the salute, and then stepped back.
“I was glad when I heared you was coming,” she said.
“Why?”
“Well, I craved to see a ginuwine Scarborough, I have heared maw tell such a sight about them.”
“I hope you did not expect so much that you are sadly disappointed in me?” Although Miss Scarborough smiled, there was a tone of real anxiety in her voice.
Emily’s gaze swept her slowly, critically, for some seconds.
“I was powerful afeared you wouldn’t be a pretty woman,” she said at last; “but you are. I like your looks.” She sighed, as though from relief, then made a more minute appraisement. “I like them big black eyes,” she said; “I like that tender skin. I like that quare hair; it favors the Scarborough spoons. I allow,” she summed up solemnly, judicially, “that you are the pine-blank prettiest woman ever I seed.”
Miss Scarborough laughed, but her face flushed deeply with pleasure. Then she in her turn scrutinized the slender figure in the checked homespun dress, the small face with its lines of purity and look of race, the well-carried head, smoothly plaited hair, and austere blue eyes.
“I like your looks, too,” she said.
At this the child again smiled the rare smile.
“I am glad,” she said; “now you must eat before it is cold.”
Miss Scarborough reached for the negligée of pink-flowered silk that hung beside her bed, and drew it over her delicate, embroidered gown, Emily looking on large-eyed.
“You dress up in blossoms, don’t you?” she exclaimed, with another joyous sigh.
“Emily,” said Miss Scarborough, “I do believe that you have the artistic temperament. You love beauty, don’t you?”
“Ugly things they hurts me here in my breast,” replied the child, solemnly, pressing both small hands upon her stomach.
For two days thereafter the distinguished guest remained in the school, visiting its departments, talking graciously with its workers; but she lingered longest in the classrooms where Emily recited, or at the table or loom where Emily worked, and the attraction between the two was plain to be seen.
On Friday morning the nag sent by Dosia arrived, and at noon Miss Scarborough and Emily set out for the Vance home, formerly that of the Scarboroughs. The last two miles the trail followed the summit of a ridge, with glorious views on each hand of mountains in autumnal splendor. At the highest point Emily reached around her cousin’s waist and stopped the nag.
“I allus take a far look from here,” she said. After both had drunk their fill of beauty, Emily pointed eastward, where against the horizon a great blue wall was dimly visible, remarking, “Yan side of them is where you lived at when you was little, maw says.”
Miss Scarborough looked once, then turned almost violently away, cutting the horse with her whip.
Going down the ridge, Emily pointed out her home in the valley below. Very lonely and remote it seemed, folded away here in the hills, with never another habitation in sight. No wonder that here a branch of the Scarboroughs had been swallowed up and lost. Drawing nearer, the visitor saw a large log-house in a strip of bottom-land, with corn-fields stretching up the mountains on all sides.
Dosia awaited them at the stile, and her greeting was full of kindness and dignity.
“Cousin Emily Scarborough,” she said with emotion, “it gives me the most gratefulest pleasure of my life to welcome you to my home and my family.”
Edwin Vance, her tall husband, lifted the guest down, and she was conducted into the principal room of the house.
Here, when there was opportunity, she looked about. It was a huge room, with bare floor, log walls, and massive beams of hewn timber. The furniture—all home-made—consisted of three bedsteads, a chest of drawers, and a number of splint-bottomed chairs. On the beds were beautiful woven coverlets, and a pitcher of rich dahlias adorned the “fireboard.” Nothing was ugly, nothing useless; and any effect of bleakness would have been obviated either by the great open fire, or by the presence of Dosia, sitting with her four youngest children crowded against her, her kind face, warm brown eyes, and auburn hair radiating light and cheer.
After a while Edwin and the two small boys left the room, and soon the lowing of cattle, whinnying of nags, squealing of hogs, and excited clatter of fowls announced the joyful hour of feeding, while melodious calls of “coo-nanny, coo-nanny, coo-sheep, coo-sheep,” echoed back from the mountain-tops. Then Dosia went, followed by the five little girls. Miss Scarborough heard her giving quiet orders out in the open hallway that separated the two large rooms of the lower story. Later Emily returned, to say with awe in her voice:
“Cousin Emily, we are aiming to eat out of the Scarborough spoons to-night.”
“You have never used them before?” inquired Miss Scarborough.
“No, indeed. Maw she wouldn’t hardly let us look at them.” After gazing into the fire a moment, the child spoke again. “Being as we are fixing to use the spoons to-night, I thought maybe you might want to put on that pretty dress that matches them so good.”
“Why, of course,” smiled Miss Scarborough. She had brought with her to the school a simple dinner gown of soft, silvery satin, as lustrous and shining as her own hair, and seeing Emily’s delight in it, had put it into the “poke” on starting to Dosia’s.
“You can get over in yan corner to change,” said Emily. She came again in a few moments, and, after pinning a splendid pink dahlia in the lace on her cousin’s bosom, stood back with clasped hands and an ecstatic sigh.
At last supper was ready, and the guest was taken into “t’ other house” and seated at Dosia’s right. This room, too, was huge and bare, with a long table in the middle. On the table was a handsome hand-woven cloth, and, at the guest’s place, a napkin. A second napkin wasspread over an oblong object beside Dosia’s plate.
When all were seated, Dosia reverently lifted this napkin, displaying a small leather case, the lid of which at a touch flew open, revealing a dozen teaspoons of thin old silver. Dosia then rose in her chair.
“Beloved offsprings and husband,” she began impressively, “we are gathered around this board to-night on a solemn occasion, not only to celebrate the coming of our honored kinswoman, but likewise to remember ourselves of past generations and dead-and-gone forefathers.
“You will one and all bear me witness, children, that never have I give you a chance to forget that you was Scarboroughs on your maw’s side, not casting no reflections on your paw’s, which is good as far as it goes. But many’s the time I have heared my paw relate, which he got from his paw, and so on back, that the Scarboroughs has been brave folk and faithful folk and gentle folk for five hundred year’, and has poured out their blood like water for the glory of Old England before they come over and poured it out for this present land. You have heared me tell all I know of their doings here—how your great-great-grandpaw fit under Washington, and had this land we now stand on, two thousand acre’ of it, granted him for his deeds; how his sons and grandsons kept right on fighting spang down through the century, Indians, and Mexicans, and then for the Union, dying mostly with their boots on, and before they was good grown; how, when there wa’n’t no more wars on the outside, they raised one here at home, for justice, and being few again’ many, died a-fighting, down to my little brother of fourteen. Never have I forebore to tingle your years with the braveness of our men and the honorableness of our women, and what you was bound to live up to.
“But little did I ever look to hear the history of them ’way-back forefathers of ours that flourished allus-ago in Old England. On which text Cousin Emily Scarborough is now raised up for to enlighten us. She knows ’em from lid to lid, and has writ me some of the marvelousest tales ever I heared, especially the antecedents of these here Scarborough spoons, which come down from a man that saved his king that was felled in battle five hundred year’ gone. These spoons, as you know, has been kindly sont us at this present time by another far-away relation in Old England. Him Cousin Emily speaks of as a’ earl, which entitlement I don’t rightly know the meaning of, but I take it to signify that he is a’ extry brave and God-fearing man, and one you would not be ashamed to claim kin with.
“I will now ax Cousin Emily Scarborough to rise and relate such glimpses of ancient history as she thinks befitting. Following which I will pour the coffee. Then I request all and singular—you too, Edwin, sence you may rightly be called a blood-relation—to rise in your chairs whilst I pass around the Scarborough spoons. And then, in solemn silence, I charge you to take, all together and simultaneous’, a sup of coffee with them spoons, being careful not to chaw down on them with your teeth, or so much as mumble them with your lips. Having done which, lay them back in your saucers and don’t touch another finger to them till Emily can gather and wash and restore them to their case. And my onliest regret is that our two boys Guilford and Lionel hain’t here to keep the feast, too.”
Miss Scarborough rose and related salient points in family history—the story of Guilford of Agincourt; of Austin, the bishop burned at the stake by Mary; of Lionel, the famous admiral of Elizabeth’s day; of later Scarboroughs great in war or peace.
Then came the solemn moment when the case was passed, and every member of the circle drew forth a spoon; then the still more awful instant when, hanging breathless upon Dosia’s movements, the family took the simultaneous sup of coffee.
Silence reigned until the spoons were collected, washed, and returned to the case, after which the meal proceeded with subdued cheer.
As Emily Scarborough sat there, another scene rose before her—the great old dining-room of Scarborough Castle, with its carved ceiling, splendid plate, and elaborate service. But she rejoiced in the fact that in log-house as in castle voices were gentle, manners kind, spirits simple and earnest. “Ah, the old blood runs virile and pure in whatever environment!” she said to herself with pride. But her next breath was a sigh. Was it that she herselfshould have no part in handing down such a heritage?
Bedtime came soon after all had returned to the first room, and Dosia said:
“Now, Cousin Emily, I have got four good, warm beds in the loft, every grain as nice as these. But they are purely for strangers and sojourners; I couldn’t have the heart to send blood-kin that far off from me to sleep. And I take it you feel the same, and would be better pleased to sleep right here with me and Edwin and the children, in the bosom of the family.”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Scarborough, repressing a smile. “Any arrangement that suits you, Dosia.”
Edwin considerately left the room during the undressing. Miss Scarborough and Emily had one bed, three of the little girls another, Dosia, Edwin, and the smallest child a third, while the two little boys occupied a pallet on the floor. There was general conversation for a while, and it was all very sociable. Miss Scarborough felt that she was indeed in the bosom of a family.
Days of large peace followed. With all the manifold, unceasing activities of the household,—everything eaten and worn was produced upon the land or manufactured in the house,—there was no stress or strain, hurry or worry. Dosia herself had saved up what she called a “good listening job” against Miss Scarborough’s visit, and while Emily and the smaller girls carded, reeled, knitted, or sewed, she herself, a picturesque figure in brown homespun and red yarn stockings, walked back and forth across the floor in that most ancient and graceful of all the occupations of women, spinning. At other times they ascended to the huge “loft,” where on a great loom Dosia wove awhile on winter clothing. Always the spirit of the home was perfect; the children hung reverently upon their mother’s every word, and the visitor noticed that Edwin never looked upon his wife without pride.
Dosia asked endless questions. “This great, unthinkable world of which I have seed nothing, I crave to l’arn about it, now I may,” she would say; and Miss Scarborough would tell tales, old and new, of the countries she had visited, the family listening spellbound.
As the two women talked and listened there day after day, one the typical woman of the past, with all her ancient duties and burdens, the other the most admired and brilliant product of the new day, it was the woman of the past whose eyes were clear and unclouded, whose step as she spun was buoyant, whose smile was assured and calm. In the other, with all her achievements and culture and beauty, a spring seemed to be broken, a profound sadness at unguarded moments seemed to brood. Only when little Emily brought knitting or sewing and sat at her kinswoman’s feet, or when the two started off for a walk together, did an expression of refreshment come into the beautiful, tired eyes.
ITwas not until the last afternoon of her stay that Emily Scarborough broached the subject nearest her heart. The day was a perfect one in early November, after a night of frost. The children were all in the fields helping their father, Dosia had moved her wheel to the porch, and the guest was with her there. After sitting silent for some time, Miss Scarborough said abruptly:
“I have a boon, a great boon, to ask of you, Dosia: I want Emily.”
Dosia’s yarn snapped, and the loose end whirled about the spindle.
“You mean to visit?” she asked.
“No, I mean to keep, all the time, for my own.” Miss Scarborough’s voice vibrated strangely. Then she said more calmly: “I will give her all she ought to have; the best possible education, travel, culture, opportunity to develop her artistic instincts. She shall take my full name and inherit my possessions. The old Virginia plantation after long years has become a valuable property, and there is more beside.”
Dosia listened silently, a line of painful thought in her forehead.
“And not these alone; better things shall be hers,” continued Miss Scarborough. “I have long been weary of teaching; I shall stop now and make a home for Emily. And as my adopted daughter, the best social life of two continents will be open to her. My very first act shall be to take her to Scarborough Castle; I have the greatest desire to show her to our kinsman the earl before she is in any way changed. All this, Dosia, I can do for her, and you never can.”
Dosia listened, troubled and pale.
“I desire that my children shall get l’arning and see the world,” she said slowly. “I feel as Scarboroughs they ought to. But has payrents ever a right to lay down their responsibilities? I allow not. I allow that me and Edwin is the ones accountable for Emily, and her proper guardeens. I would gladly send her to visit with you a spell; but to stay, that is different.”
“No,” interrupted Emily Scarborough in her imperious way; “it must be for all time. I must have her for my own.”
Dosia deliberated for a long while, then she answered quietly, but firmly:
“Well, then, Cousin, if all the time it must be, I can only say that is more than I can consent to—that, as her mother, I don’t feel called to part with my child.”
Miss Scarborough’s face flushed with sudden anger and resentment.
“But with all you have!” she exclaimed. “Nine children—nine!” Her voice trembled.
“Twelve I have,” corrected Dosia, quietly, “nine living and three dead,”—she lifted eyes and hand to a near-by hill-shoulder, where three small grave-houses were plainly visible,—“but not one to spare. I love the children God has give me, and I don’t aim ever to part with them till I have to. If things was different with us, I might feel it my duty to give up one; but my man is the workingest in this country, and being not far behind him myself, we prosper and have plenty, as you see. And now the women’s school has come, our young ones can get l’arning and still be under our admonition. No, Cousin Emily; I am greatly beholden to you for your kindness, I thank you from the deeps of my heart; but, as her mother, I cannot give up my child.”
Miss Scarborough had been leaning forward, body tense, face flushed, eyes feverishly bright. At Dosia’s final words she sank back in her chair, her face suddenly paled and aged, and her eyes sought the mountain-sides yesterday so glowing, but to-day dimmed as by a prophecy of death.
“It is ever the way,” she said at last slowly and bitterly. “‘From him that hath not shall be taken even that which he thinketh he hath.’ You women who have everything never consider those of us who have nothing.”
Dosia lifted startled eyes upon her kinswoman.
“Have nothing,” she repeated. “You!”
“Yes, I,” exclaimed Emily Scarborough. Her voice rang sharply.
“You, that the school women said was the knowingest and most-looked-up-to woman in all the land!”
“I that have knowledge, temporary fame, and what the world calls success, still lack the one thing necessary: I have no life for my heart,” cried Emily Scarborough.
Dosia gazed at her kinswoman, fascinated, dumb.
“Do you think a woman can be just a mind?” demanded the essayist, passionately, “that such husks as honors, flattery, success, can feed one’s real life? Do you not see that I am hideously alone, without a tie to link me to the race, and that the loneliness and isolation are killing me?”
After this outburst, Emily Scarborough sat a long while fronting the dimmed mountains, struggling for calmness. When she spoke again, it was with controlled utterance:
“You know, Dosia, that I was an only child, born at the close of the Civil War, and brought up by my father, a general of the Confederate army. Broken in health and spirit by the war, he found his chief solace afterward in handing down to me a portion of his ripe scholarship. On the next plantation lived a boy, a year or two older than I, of whom my father was fond, and whom he taught along with me. As we grew up, the comradeship between Godfrey and me became love. My father planned for me a college education. To this Godfrey could not look forward. Not only were all the old families land-poor in those days, but, as eldest son, he must stay and run the plantation and provide for a widowed mother and his sisters and brothers. When I left home, it was with the hope of marrying him on the completion of my course.
“I arrived at college just at the time when there came to the women of America, especially to the little band then receiving the higher education, the first thrilling realization of their own possibilities. To stand alone, to achieve, to prove to the world what woman’s unaided strength could do, seemed to many not only a worthy ambition, but a sacred duty.One of my professors, a brilliant woman and a leader in the new movement, hailed my gifts with joy. ‘Assuredly, Emily, if your development is not interfered with, you will one day be a torch-bearer of the new womanhood,’ she declared. ‘Marriage,’ she would say at other times, ‘is for the ungifted, the uninspired. Let the drudgery of home-making and child-bearing be performed by women incapable of higher things.’ When I ventured to tell her of my engagement to Godfrey, she was horrified. ‘Bury your talents, your gifts for speaking and writing, in the mud of a Virginia plantation!’ she exclaimed; ‘never shall you be guilty of such weakness!’”
Drawn by F. R. Gruger. Half-tone plate engraved by G. M. Lewis“‘YAN SIDE OF THEM IS WHERE YOU LIVED AT WHEN YOU WAS LITTLE, MAW SAYS’”
Drawn by F. R. Gruger. Half-tone plate engraved by G. M. Lewis
“‘YAN SIDE OF THEM IS WHERE YOU LIVED AT WHEN YOU WAS LITTLE, MAW SAYS’”
“Under influences of this kind my ideals and purposes gradually changed. I came to believe sincerely that my duty, as she said, was to develop and perfect my gifts, and that the pangs I should feel in renouncing Godfrey would be small in comparison with the lifelong regret consequent upon the burial of my talents.
“On my father’s death in my last college year, two courses lay open to me, one, marriage to Godfrey, the other, freedom to pursue my studies in foreign universities and fit myself for a career. And although I cared for Godfrey, and knew the gallant, unselfish struggle he was making and the need of me in his daily life, I chose self instead of him, freedom instead of love, a career instead of a life. He was too wise to reproach me; he only said, ‘Some day, Emily, the woman’s heart in you will awake, and you will know your need of me.’
“I hurried abroad, and threw myself absorbingly into study. Six years passed almost with the swiftness of as many months; I had the coveted degrees, the sense of power marked success brings, and at twenty-eight I was called home to fill an important professorship. During this time I kept up a correspondence with Godfrey. I said to myself I had a right to his friendship, though I stifled as weakness any regrets or longings for him and the eagerness I felt to see him again.”
Drawn by F. R. Gruger. Half-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins“DOSIA LISTENED SILENTLY, A LINE OF PAINFUL THOUGHT IN HER FOREHEAD”
Drawn by F. R. Gruger. Half-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins
“DOSIA LISTENED SILENTLY, A LINE OF PAINFUL THOUGHT IN HER FOREHEAD”
“The first news I received on the landing of the ship was that of his sudden death. It came as a shock—a shock the nature of which I did not comprehend, however, so quickly was it overlaid by the noise and excitement of my life, the glow of instant success, the thrill of power, the adulation of thousands of women. In such a swift and glittering current did my life sweep on during the ensuing years that I was thirty-five before I realized the shallowness of it, knew that I had not a real tie in the world, saw that I was poor, empty, selfish, and, above all, horribly alone, and that not my life alone, but my art, was starved and barren; for how could I, who had never known the elemental emotions of my kind, hope to touch with my pen the quick of feeling? Here, too, in saving my life, I had lost it.
“I awoke to suffering, to hunger, to knowledge that I had sold my birthright. In other words, I knew at last that I was a woman, with a woman’s deep and eternal needs. Love, home, children,—ties that grapple one to life, experiences that, whether in the white flame of joy or the seven-times heated furnace of suffering, weld one with the race,—these inalienable rights of woman I awoke to desire and crave. Too late, too late! For although even then I might have ended the mere solitude,—other men beside Godfrey have wanted me,—I knew that he alone was my mate, and, knowing it, nothing but loyalty was possible. You remember the Scarborough motto, ‘Keep Troth.’ I had broken it with him living; I would keep it with him dead.
“But, oh, the loneliness, the detachment, the need of something vital in my days, of some creature to live for and call my own! If I had had the man of my love for even a short while, and, dying, he had left me a child, how different all would have been! Let them say what they will, the deepest, most fundamental craving of every woman’s heart is for children of her own; nothing else fulfils or satisfies. Missing this, we only half live in our youth and not at all in our age. Knowing my great need, I have many times considered the adoption of a child;but in every case a selfish fastidiousness has held me back.
“When I heard of Emily, a child of my own blood, and already bearing my name, my thoughts turned at once to her; when I saw her, small embodiment that she is of the dignity and simplicity of our race, I knew she was the one thing necessary. Everything in her appealed. She drew me out of myself, warmed my cold heart; her admiration was like wine to me; my very flesh rejoiced at her touch. With her to love and be loved by, I could now set up the long-desired home. In my busy plans, my happy absorption, my belief that blessing was at last to crown my days, I did not even think of your refusal!”
Again Emily Scarborough sat silent, with stricken eyes fixed upon the waning colors of the season.
“I was wrong, presumptuous, wicked,” she broke forth bitterly, “as usual, absorbed in self, careless of the suffering of others. The door of hope is closed; I shall never see another child I want. Nothing remains but a return to the desolation of a life thrown back upon and hating itself.
“But you, Dosia, so rich in love and duties and burdens, so necessary to many, your children about you, your husband beside you, pity a lonely woman with starved heart and barren body!”
Flinging out her arms in a wild gesture, she dropped them on the porch railing, and bowed her head heavily upon them.
Scarcely breathing, and with wide, wet eyes, Dosia drew slowly nearer, and stood a moment with hands outspread above the beautiful, bowed head. Then laying them upon it, she said tenderly:
“Emily is yours, dear cousin. You have the better right, the greater need; I give her to you gladly.”
The Scarborough Spoons, tailpiece