When Mara realized that her lover had indeed gone, that in fact he had been driven forth, and that she had said not one word to pave the way for a future meeting, a sense of desolation she had never known before overwhelmed her. Hitherto she had been sustained by an unfaltering belief that no other course than the one which her aunt had inculcated was possible; that, cost what it might, and end as it might, it was her heritage. All now was confused and in doubt. She had heard her lofty, self-sacrificing purpose virtually characterized as vain and wrong. She had idolized the memory of her father and mother, and yet had been told that her course was the very one of which they would not approve. The worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud.
"Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak."
Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought.
"I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me."
Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty to her.
At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it."
"That's just where the trouble is," Mrs. Hunter tried to say reassuringly."In the morning you will be your own true, brave self again."
"What's the use of being brave; what can I be brave for?" thought Mara in the solitude of her room.
Although her sleep was brief and troubled, she had time to grow calm and collect her thoughts. While she would not admit it to herself, Clancy's repeated assertions of his love had a subtle and sustaining power. She could see no light in the future, but her woman's heart would revert to this truth as to a secret treasure.
In the morning after sitting for a time almost in silence over their meagre breakfast, her aunt began: "Mara, I wish you to realize the truth in regard to Mr. Clancy. It is one of those things which must be nipped in the bud. There is only one ending to his path, and that is full acceptance of Northern rule and Northern people. What is more, after his words to me, I will never abide under the same roof with him again."
"Aunty," said Mara sadly, "we have much else to think about besides Mr.Clancy. How are we going to keep a roof over our own heads?"
Compelled to face their dire need, Mrs. Hunter broke out into bitter invective against those whom she regarded as the cause of their poverty.
"Aunty," protested Mara, almost irritably, for her nerves were sadly worn, "what good can such words do? We must live, I suppose, and you must advise me."
"Mara, I am almost tempted to believe that you regret—"
"Aunty, you must fix your mind on the only question to be considered. What are we to do? You know our money is almost gone."
Mrs. Hunter's only response was to stare blankly at her niece. She could economize and be content with very little as long as her habitual trains of thought were not interrupted and she could maintain her proud seclusion. Accustomed to remote plantation life, she knew little of the ways of the modern world, and much less of the methods by which a woman could obtain a livelihood from it. To the very degree that she had lived in the memories and traditions of the past, she had unfitted herself to understand the conditions of present life or to cope with its requirements. Now she was practically helpless. "We can't go and reveal our situation to our friends," she began hesitatingly.
"Certainly not," said Mara, "for most of them have all they can do to sustain themselves, and I would rather starve than live on the charity of those on whom we have no claim."
"We might take less expensive rooms."
"What good would that do, Aunty? If we can't earn anything, five dollars will be as hard to raise as ten."
"Oh, to think that people of the very best blood in the State, who once had scores of slaves to work for them, should be so wronged, robbed and reduced!"
Mara heaved a long, weary sigh, and Clancy's words would repeat themselves again and again. She saw how utterly incapable her aunt was to render any assistance in their desperate straits. Even the stress of their present emergency could not prevent her mind from vainly reverting to a past that was gone forever. Again her confidence was more severely shaken as she was compelled to doubt the wisdom of their habits of seclusion and reticence, of living on from year to year engrossed by memories, instead of adapting themselves to a new order of things which they were powerless to prevent. "Truly," she thought, "my father and mother never could have wished me to be in this situation out of love for them. It is true I could never go to the length that he does without great hypocrisy, and I do not see the need of it. I can never forget the immense wrong done to me and mine, but Aunty should have taught me something more than indignation and hostility, however just the causes for them may be."
While such was the tenor of her thoughts, she only said a little bitterly: "Oh, that I knew how to do something! My old nurse, Aun' Sheba, is better off than we are."
"She belongs to us yet," said Mrs. Hunter, almost fiercely.
"You could never make her or any one else think so," was the weary reply. "Well, now that I have thought of her, I believe I could advise with her better than any one else."
"Advise with a slave? Oh, Mara!—"
"Whom shall I advise with then?" And there was a sharp ring in the girl's tone.
"Oh, any one, so that it be not Mr. Clancy," replied her aunt irritably. "Were it not that you so needed a protector, I could wish that I were dead."
"Aunt," said Mara, gently yet firmly, "we must give up this hopeless, bitter kind of talk. I, at least, must do something to earn honest bread, and I am too depressed and sad at heart to carry any useless burdens. Mr. Clancy said much that was wrong last night, and there are matters about which he and I can never agree, but surely he was right in saying that my father and mother would not wish to see me crushed body and soul. If I am to live, I must find a way to live and yet keep my self-respect. I suppose the natural way would be to go to those who knew my father and grandfather; but they would ask me what I could do. What could I tell them? It would seem almost like asking charity."
"Of course it would," assented her aunt.
Then silence fell between them.
Before Mara could finish her morning duties and prepare for the street, a heavy step was heard on the stairs, then a knock at the door. Opening it, the young girl saw the very object of her thoughts, for Aun' Sheba's ample form and her great basket filled all the space.
"Oh, Aun' Sheba," cried the girl, a gleam of hope lighting up her eyes,"I'm so glad to see you. I was just starting for your cabin."
"Bress your heart, honey, Aun' Sheba'll allus be proud to hab you come. My spec's, Missus," and she dropped her basket and a courtesy before Mrs. Hunter.
"Aun' Sheba," said Mara, giving the kindly vender a chair, "you are so much better off than we are. I was saying just that to aunty this morning."
"Why, honey, I'se only a po' culled body, and you'se a beauty like you moder, bress her po' deah heart."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you were a blessing to her," said Mara with moist eyes. "How you watched over her and helped to take care of me! Perhaps you can help take care of me again. For some reason, I can speak to you and tell you our troubles easier than to any one else in the world."
"Dat's right, honey lam', dat's right. Who else you tell your troubles to but Aun' Sheba? Didn't I comfort you on dis bery bres time an' time agin when you was a little mite? Now you'se bigger and hab bigger troubles, I'se bigger too," and Aunt Sheba shook with laughter like a great form of jelly as she wiped her eyes with sympathy.
"Aun' Sheba," said Mara in a voice full of unconscious pathos, "I don't know what to do, yet I must do something. It seems to me that I could be almost happy if I were as sure of earning my bread as you are."
"Now, doggone dat ar lazy husban' o' mine. But he got his 'serts an'll git mo' ob dem eff he ain't keerful. I jes' felt it in my bones las' night how 'twas wid you, an I 'lowed how I'd see you dis mawnin', an' den he began to go on as ef you was nothin' but white folks stid ob my deah honey lam' dat I nussed till you was like my own chile. But he won' do so no mo'."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, believe me, I don't wish to interfere with any of your duties to him," began Mara earnestly.
"Duty to him," exclaimed the colored woman with a snort of indignation. "He mout tink a little 'bout his duty to me. Doan you trubble 'bout him, for he's boun' to git mo' dan his shar anyhow. Now I know de good Lawd put it in my min' to come heah dis mawnin' case you was on my min' las' night. You needn't tink you kin go hungry while Aun' Sheba hab a crus'."
"I know what a big heart you've got, but that won't do, Aun' Sheba. Can you think I would live idly on your hard-earned money?"
"Well, 'tis my money, an' I make mo dan you tink, an' a heap mo' dan I let Unc. know about. He'd be fer settin' up his kerrige ef he knew," and she again laughed in hearty self-complacency. "Why, honey, I can 'sport you an' Missus widout pinchin', an' who gwine to know 'bout it?"
"I'd know about it," said Mara, rising and putting her hand caressingly on the woman's shoulder, "yet I feel your kindness in the very depths of my heart. Come, I have a thought. Let me see what's in your basket."
"Ony cakes dis mawnin', honey. Help you's sef."
"Oh, how delicious they are," said Mara eating one, and thoughtfully regarding her sable friend. "You beat me making cakes, Aun' Sheba, and I thought I was good at it."
"So you am, Missy, so you am, fer I taught you mysef."
"Aun' Sheba, suppose we go into partnership."
"Pahnaship!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in bewilderment.
"Oh, Mara!" Mrs. Hunter expostulated indignantly.
"Well, I suppose it would be a very one-sided affair," admitted the girl, blushing in a sort of honest shame. "You are doing well without any help from me, and don't need any. I'm very much like a man who wants to share in a good business which has already been built up, but I don't know how to do anything else, and could at least learn better every day, and—and—I thought—I must do something—I thought, perhaps, if I made the cakes and some other things, and you sold them, Aun' Sheba, you wouldn't have to work so hard, and—well, there might be enough profit for us both."
"Now de Lawd bress you heart, honey, dar ain't no need ob you blisterin' you'se pretty face ober a fiah, bakin' cakes an' sich. I kin—"
"No, no, Aun' Sheba, you can't, for I won't let you."
"Mara," protested Mrs. Hunter, severely, "do you realize what you are saying? Suppose it became known that you were in—in—" but the lady could not bring herself to complete the humiliating sentence.
"Yis, honey, Missus am right. De idee! Sech quality as you in pahnaship wid ole Aun' Sheba!" and she laughed at the preposterous relationship.
"Perhaps it needn't be known," said Mara, daunted for a moment. Then the necessities in the case drove her forward, and, remembering that her aunt was unable to suggest or even contemplate anything practicable, she said resolutely, "Let it be known. Others of our social rank are supporting themselves, and I'm too proud to be ashamed to do it myself even in this humble way. What troubles me most is that I'm making such a one-sided offer to Aun' Sheba. She don't need my help at all, and I need hers so much."
"Now see heah, honey, is your heart set on dis ting?"
"Yes, it is," replied Mara, earnestly. "My heart was like lead till you came, and it would be almost as light as one of these cakes if I knew I could surely earn my living. Oh, Aun' Sheba, you've had troubles, and you know what sore troubles my poor mother had, but neither you nor she ever knew the fear, the sickening dread which comes over one when you don't know where your bread is to come from or how you are to keep a roof over your head. Aunty, do listen to reason. Making cake and other things for Aun' Sheba to sell would not be half so humiliating as going to people of my own station and revealing my ignorance, or trying to do what I don't know how to do, knowing all the time that I was only tolerated. My plan leaves me in seclusion, and if any one thinks less of me they can leave me alone. I don't want to make my way among strangers; I don't feel that I can. This plan enables us to stay together, Aunty, and you must know now that we can't drift any longer."
While Mara was speaking Aun' Sheba's thrifty thoughts had been busy. Her native shrewdness gave her a keen insight into Mrs. Hunter's character, and she knew that the widow's mind was so warped that she was practically as helpless as a child. While, in her generous love for Mara and from a certain loyalty to her old master's family, she was willing temporarily to assume what would be a very heavy burden, she was inwardly glad, as she grew accustomed to the idea, that Mara was willing to do her share. Indeed it would be a great relief if her basket could be filled for her, and she said, heartily, "Takes some time, honey, you know, fer an idee to git into my tick head, but when it gits dar it stick. Now you'se sensible, an' Missus'll see it soon. You'se on de right track. Ob cose, I'd be proud ob pahnaship, an' it'll be a great eas'n up to me. Makes a mighty long day, Missy, to git up in de mawnin' an' do my bakin' an' den tromp, tromp, tromp. I could put in an hour or two extra sleep, an' dat counts in a woman ob my age an' heft. But, law sakes! look at dat clock dar. I mus' be gitten along. Set you deah little heart at res', honey. I'se comin' back dis ebenin', an' we'se start in kin' ob easy like so you hab a chance to larn and not get 'scouraged."
"I can't approve of this plan at all," said Mrs. Hunter, loftily, "I wash my hands of it."
"Now, now, Missus, you do jes' dat—wash you hans ob it, but don' you 'fere wid Missy, kase it'll set her heart at res' and keep a home fer you bof. We's gwine to make a pile, honey, an' den de roses come back in you cheeks," and nodding encouragingly, she departed, leaving more hope and cheer behind her than Mara had known for many a month.
To escape the complaining of her aunt, Mara shut herself in her room and thought long and deeply. The conclusion was, "The gulf between us has grown wider and deeper. When Mr. Clancy learns how I have sought independence without his aid—" but she only finished the sentence by a sad, bitter smile.
"Neber had sech luck in all my bawn days," soliloquized Aun' Sheba as she saw the bottom of her basket early in the day. "All my cus'mers kin' o' smilin' like de sunshine. Only Marse Clancy grumpy. He go by me like a brack cloud. I'se got a big grudge against dat ar young man. He use to be bery sweet on Missy. He mus' be taken wid some Norvern gal, and dat's 'nuff fer me. Ef he lebe my honey lam' now she so po', dar's a bad streak in his blood and he don' 'long to us any mo'. I wouldn't be s'prised ef dey hadn't had a squar meal fer a fortnight. I can make blebe dat I wants to take my dinner 'long o' dem to sabe time, an' den dey'll hab a dinner wat'll make Missy real peart 'fore she gin to work," and full of her kindly intentions she bought a juicy steak, some vegetables, a quantity of the finest flour, sugar, coffee, and some spices.
Mara had slipped out and invested the greater part of her diminished hoard in the materials essential to her new undertaking. Not the least among them, as she regarded it, was an account book. When, therefore, Aun' Sheba bustled in between one and two o'clock, she found some bulky bundles on the kitchen table over which Mrs. Hunter had already groaned aloud.
"Law sakes, honey, what all dese?" the colored aunty asked.
"They are my start in trade," replied Mara, smiling.
"Den you's gwine to hab a mighty big start, fer I got lots o' tings in dis basket."
"Why, Aun' Sheba! Did you think I was going to let you furnish the materials?"
"Ef you furnish de makin' up ob de 'terials what mo' you oughter do, I'd like ter know?"
"Aun' Sheba, I could cheat you out af your two black eyes."
"Dey see mo' dan you tink, Missy," she replied, nodding sagaciously.
"Yes, I reckon they do, but my eyes must look after your interests as well as my own. I am going to be an honest partner. Do you see this book?"
"What dat ar got to do wid de pahnaship?"
"You will see. It will prevent you from ever losing a penny that belongs to you."
"Penny, indeed! As if I'se gwine to stand on a penny!"
"Well, I am. Little as I know about business, I am sure it will be more satisfactory if careful accounts are kept, and you must promise to tell me the whole truth about things. That's the way partners do, you know, and everything is put down in black and white."
"Oh, go 'long wid you, honey, an' hab you own way. All in my pahnaship go down in black, I s'pose, an' you'se in white. How funny it all am!" and the old woman sat back in her chair and laughed in her joyous content.
"It is all a very humiliating farce to me," said Mrs. Hunter, looking severely at the former property.
"Yas'm," said Aun' Sheba, suddenly becoming stolid as a graven image.
"Aunty," said Mara firmly but gently, "the time has come when I must act, for your sake as well as my own. Nothing will prevent me from carrying out this plan, except its failure to provide for Aun' Sheba as well as for ourselves."
"Well, I wash my hands of it, and, if your course becomes generally known, I shall have it understood that you acted without my approval." And she rose and left the kitchen with great dignity.
When the door closed upon her, Aun' Sheba again shook in vast and silent mirth.
"Doan you trubble long o' Missus, honey," she said, nodding encouragingly at Mara. "She jes' like one dat lib in de dark an' can't see notin' right." Then in sudden revulsion of feeling she added, "You po' honey lam', doan you see you'se got to take keer ob her jes' as ef she was a chile?"
"Yes," said Mara, sadly, "I've been compelled to see it at last."
"Now doan you be 'scouraged. 'Tween us we take keer ob her, an' she be a heap betteh off eben ef she doan know it. You hab no dinner yit?"
"We were just going to get it as you came."
"Well now, honey, I habn't had a bite nudder, an' I'se gwine to take dinneh heah ef you'se willin'."
"Why, surely, Aun' Sheba. It's little we have, you but know I'd share my last crust with you."
Again the guest was bubbling over with good-natured merriment. "We ain't got to de las' crus' yit, an' I couldn't make my dinneh on a crus' nohow. Dar's one ting I'se jes' got to 'sist on in de pahnaship. I don't keer notin' 'bout 'count books and sich, but ef we'se gwine to make a fort'n you got to hab a heap o' po'er in you'se arms. You got to hab a strong back and feel peart all ober. Dis de ony ting I 'sist on. Now how you gwine to be plump and strong?"
"Oh, I'm pretty strong, and I'll get stronger now that I have hope, and see my way a little."
"Hope am bery good fer 'sert, honey, but we want somep'n solider to start in on. You jes' set de table in de oder room, an' I'll be de brack raben dat'll pervide. Now you must min' kase I'se doing 'cording to Scripter, an' we neber hab no luck 'tall if we go agin Scripter."
"Very well," said Mara, laughing, "you shall have your own way. I see through all your talk, but I know you'll feel bad if you can't carry out your purpose. You'll have a better dinner, too."
"Yeh, yeh, she knows a heap moah'n me," thought Aun' Sheba when alone, "but I know some tings too, bress her heart. I kin see dat her cheeks am pale and thin an' dat her eyes am gettin' so big and brack dat her purty face am like a little house wid big winders. She got quality blood in her vein, shuah, but habn't got neah 'nuff. Heah's de 'terial wat gibs hope sometimes better'n preachin," and she whipped out the steak and prepared it for the broiler. Then she clapped some potatoes into the oven, threw together the constituents of light biscuit, and put the coffee over the fire. A natural born cook, she was deft and quick, and had a substantial repast ready in an amazingly short time. Soon it was smoking on the table, and then she said with a significant little nod at Mara, "Now I'se gwine to wait on Missus like ole times."
Mara understood her and did not protest, for she felt the necessity of humoring her aunt, who quite thawed out at the semblance of her former state. While the poor lady enlarged on the thought that such should be the normal condition of affairs, and would be if the world were not wholly out of joint, she nevertheless dined so heartily as to prove that she could still enjoy the good things of life if they were provided without personal compromise on her part. Mara made a silent note of this, and felt more strongly than ever that her aunt's needs and not her words must control her actions. After dinner she said, "Come, aunty, you have had much to try your nerves of late, and there must be much more not in harmony with your feelings. It can't be helped, but I absolve you of all responsibility, and I know very well if you had what was once your own, I would not have to raise my hand. You see I am not seeking relief in the way that is so utterly distasteful to you, and, when you come to think this plan all over, you will admit that it is the one that would attract the least attention, and involve the least change. Now lie down and take a good rest this afternoon."
"Well," said Mrs. Hunter, with the air of one yielding a great deal, "I will submit, even though I can not approve, on the one condition that you have nothing more to say to Mr. Clancy."
A painful flush overspread Mara's features, and she replied in a constrained voice, "You will have no occasion to worry about Mr. Clancy. After—" then remembering that Aunt Sheba was within ear-shot, she concluded, "Mr. Clancy will have nothing to say to me when he knows what is taking place. When you have thought it over you will see that my plan makes me independent of every one."
"That is, if you succeed," remarked Mrs. Hunter, "and it will be about the only thing to be said in its favor."
This degree of toleration obtained, Mara prepared to join Aunt Sheba in the kitchen, with the purpose of giving her whole thought and energy to the securing of an independence, now coveted more than ever. In spite of the influences and misapprehensions of her life which had tended to separate her from Clancy, when she fully learned that he was affiliating with those who dwelt as aliens in her thoughts, she had been overborne by his words and the promptings of her own heart. She was glad, indeed, that she had not revealed what she now regarded as her weakness, feeling that it would have complicated matters most seriously. While she had been compelled to see the folly of seclusion and inaction, the natural result of a morbid pride which blinds as well as paralyzes, she was by no means ready to accept his views or go to his lengths. She would have shared poverty with him gladly if he would continue to be "a true Southerner," in other words, one who submitted in cold and unrelenting protest to the new order of things. In accepting this new order, and in availing himself of it to advance his fortunes and those of his State as he also claimed, he alienated her in spite of all his arguments, and his avowed love. She felt that he should take the ground with her that they had suffered too deeply, and had been wronged too greatly, to ignore the past. They were a conquered people, but so were the Poles and Alsatians. Were those subject races ready to take the hands that had struck them and still held them in thraldom? Their indignant enmity was patriotism, not hate. Now that the habitual thoughts of her life had been given time to resume their control, she felt all the more bitterly what seemed a hopeless separation. The North had not only robbed her of kindred and property, but was now taking her lover. She knew she loved him, yet not for the sake of her love would she be false to her deep-rooted feelings and convictions. If he had seen how nearly she yielded tohim, not to his views, the previous evening, it would have been doubly hard to show him in the end that she could never share in his life, unless he adopted her attitude of passive submission to what could not be helped.
Others might do as they pleased, but their dignity and personal memories required this position, and, as she had said to him, she could take no other course without hypocrisy, revolting alike to her feelings and sense of honor. His strong words, however, combining with the circumstances of her lot, had broken the spell of her aunt's influence, and had planted in her mind the thought that any useless suffering on her part was not loyalty to the memory of her father and mother. Her new impulse was to make the most and best of her life as far as she could conscientiously: and the hope would assert itself that if she were firm he would eventually be won over to her position. "If he loves as I do," she thought, "he will be. He, no doubt, is sincere, but he has been beguiled into seeing things in the light of his immediate interests. Love to me, if it is genuine, and loyalty to the cause for which his father gave his life, should lead him to the dignified submission of the conquered and away from all association with the conquerors that can be avoided. I'll prove to him," was her mental conclusion, accompanied with a flash of her dark eyes, "that a girl ignorant of the world and its ways, and with the help only of a former slave, can earn her bread, and thus show him how needless are his Northern allies."
Thoughts like these had been swiftly coursing through her mind while dining, and therefore, when she joined Aun' Sheba in the kitchen, she was ready to employ every faculty, sharpened to the utmost, in the tasks before her.
In that humble arena, and by the prosaic method contemplated, she would assert her unsubdued spirit, and maintain a consistency which should not be marred, even at the bidding of love, by an insincere acceptance of his views and associations.
While Ann' Sheba finished her dinner Mara began to open and put in their places the slender materials which she had purchased as her first step toward self-support. The generous meal, and especially the coffee combining with the strong incentive of her purpose, gave elasticity to her step and flushed her face slightly with color. The old aunty watched her curiously and sympathetically as she thought, "Bress her heart how purty she am, bendin' heah an' dar like a willow an' lookin' de lady ebery inch while she doin' kitchen work! Quar pahner fer sech an ole woman as me ter hab, but I dun declar dat her han's, ef dey am little, seem po'ful smart. Dey takes hole on tings jes' as if dey'd coax 'em right along whar she wants dem!" Then she broke out, "Wot a fool dat Owen Clancy am!"
Mara started and was suddenly busy in a distant part of the room. "I reckon you are the only one that thinks so, Aun' Sheba," she remarked quietly.
"Ef he could see you now he'd tink so hisself."
"Very likely," and there was a little bitterness in Mara's accent.
"De mo' fool he be den," said Aun' Sheba with an indignant toss of her head. "Whar ud his eyes be ef he could see you and not go down on his marrow-bones, I'd like to know? Habn't I seen all de quality ob dis town? and dat fer de new quality," with a snap of her fingers, "an you take de shine off'n dem all eben in de kitchen. Law sakes, what kin' ob blood dat man Clancy hab to lebe you kase you po'? Pears ter me de ole cun'l, his fader, ud be orful figety in his coffin."
"Mr. Clancy has not left me because I am poor, Aun' Sheba," said Mara gravely. "You do him great injustice. We are not so good friends as we were simply because we cannot agree on certain subjects. But I would rather you would not talk about him to me or to any one else. Come now, you must give me some lessons in your mystery of making cakes that melt in one's mouth. Otherwise people will say you are growing old and losing your high art."
"Dey better not tell me no sech lies. Law, Missy, you is gwine ter beat me all holler wen onst you gits de hang ob de work. You little white han's gib fancy teches dat ain't in my big black han'. Arter all, tain't de han's; it's de min'. Dere's my darter Mis Watson. Neber could larn her much mo'n plain cookin'. Dere's a knack at dese tings dat's bawn in one. It's wot you granpa used ter call genus, an' you allus hab it, eben when you was a chile an' want ter muss in de kitchen."
Thus full of reminiscence and philosophy eminently satisfactory to her own mind, Aun' Sheba taught her apt and eager pupil the secrets of her craft. Mara was up with the dawn on the following day, and achieved fair success. Other lessons followed, and it was not very long before the girl passed beyond the imitative stage and began to reason upon the principles involved in her work and then to experiment.
One day an old customer said to Aun' Sheba: "There's a new hand at the bellows."
"Dunno not'n 'bout bellus. Ain't de cakes right?"
"Well, then, you've got some new receipts."
"Like a'nuff I hab," said the vender warily. "De pint am, howsumeber, isn't de cakes good?"
"Yes, they seem better every day, but they are not the same every day. I reckon some one's coaching you."
"Law sakes, Massa, wo't you mean by coachin' me?"
"Do you make the cakes?" was asked pointblank.
"Now, Massa, you's gittin' too cur'us. Wot de Scripter say? Ask no questions fer conscience' sake."
"Come, come, Aun' Sheba; if you begin to wrest Scripture, I'll take pains to find you out."
She shuffled away in some trepidation and shook her head over the problem of keeping her relations with Mara secret. "Missy puttin' her min' in de cakes an' I didn't hab much min' to put in an' folks know de dif'ence," she soliloquized. Later on she was down among the cotton warehouses, and finding herself weary and warm, stopped to rest in the shade of a building. Suddenly Owen Clancy turned the corner. His brow was contracted as if in deep and not agreeable thought.
Aun' Sheba's lowered at him, for he seemed about to pass her without noticing her. The moment he became aware of her presence, however, he stopped and fixed upon her his penetrating gray eyes. His gaze was so persistent and stern that she was disconcerted, but she spoke with her accustomed assurance: "You ain't gwine ter call de perlice, is you, Mars' Clancy?" and she placed her arms akimbo on her hips.
This reference was shrewd, for it reminded him that his grievance was purely personal and one that he could not resent in her case, yet his heart was so sore with the suspicion that Mara was looking to this negress for help instead of to himself, that for the time being he detested the woman. Love is not a judicial quality, and rarely has patience with those who interfere with its success. He had hoped that eventually the pressure of poverty would turn Mara's thoughts to him, especially as he had revealed so emphatically his wish to help her disinterestedly as a friend even; but if his present fears were well grounded, he would have to admit that her heart had grown utterly cold toward him.
"Why should you think of the police, Aun' Sheba, unless you have something on your mind?" he asked, coolly removing the cover of the basket and helping himself. "You didn't make these cakes. Did you steal them?"
"Marse Clancy, what you take me fer?"
"That depends on how honest your answers are."'
"I ain't 'bliged ter answer 'tall."
"Oh, you're afraid then."
"No, I ain't afeerd. Ef dey is stolen, you'se a 'ceivin ob stolen goods, fum de way dem cakes dis'pearin'."
"You're pert, Aun'Sheba."
"Oh co'se I'se peart. Hab to be spry to arn a libin' in dese yer times, but I can do it fum dem dat's fren'ly and not fum dem dat glower at me."
"Will you tell me if Miss Wallingford—"
"Marse Clancy, hab Miss Wallingford sent you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs?"
"I understand," he said almost savagely, and throwing a quarter into the basket he passed on.
There had been a tacit understanding at first that Mara's part in Aun' Sheba's traffic should not be revealed. The girl had not wholly shaken off the influence of her aunt's opposition, and she shrank with almost morbid dread from being the subject of remark even among those of her own class. The chief and controlling motive for secrecy, however, had been distrust, the fear that the undertaking would not be successful. As the days had passed this fear had been removed. Aun' Sheba did not come to make her returns until after she had taken her supper in the evening, and at about ten in the morning she reached Mara's home by an unfrequented side street. There were those, however, who had begun to notice the regularity of her visits and among them was Owen Clancy. We have also seen that the daintiness of the viands had caused surmises.
Mara had become preoccupied with her success and with plans for increasing it. At first Aun' Sheba had supplemented her attempts, and her plan had been entered on so quietly and carried forward so smoothly that even Mrs. Hunter was becoming reconciled to the scheme although she tried to conceal the fact. It would be hard to find two women more ignorant of the world, or more averse to being known by it, yet from it the unsophisticated girl now hoped to divert a little sustaining rill of currency without a ripple of general comment until the hour should come when she could reveal the truth to Clancy as a rebuke to his course and as a suggestion that a man might do more and yet not compromise himself. Full of these thoughts and hopes, her life, if not happy, had at least ceased to stagnate and was growing in zest and interest.
The day on which occurred the events just narrated was destined to prove a fateful one. When Aun' Sheba came in the evening it was soon evident that she had something on her mind. She paid little heed to the accounts while Mara was writing them down and explaining the margin of profit, as the girl was always careful to do, for it satisfied her conscience that her over-loyal partner was prospering now as truly as before. After everything had been attended to and the programme arranged for the morning, Aun' Sheba still sat and fidgeted in her chair. Mara leaned back in hers and looking across the kitchen table said: "Be honest now. There's something you want to say."
"Don't want ter say it, but s'pose I ought."
"I reckon you had, Aun' Sheba."
The woman's native shrewdness had been sharpened by the varied experience of her calling, and she had become convinced that the policy of secrecy would be a failure. What would be Mara's course when compelled to face the truth, was the question that troubled her. The kind soul hoped that it would make no difference, and proposed to use all her tact to induce the girl to continue her enterprise openly, believing that this course would be best for several reasons. She had the wit to know that Mara would yield far more out of consideration for her than for any thought of self, so she said as a masterpiece of strategy, "Marse Clancy ax me to-day if I stole de cakes."
"What," cried Mara, flushing hotly.
"Jes dat—ef I stole de cakes; an' anoder man say I was gittin' new reseets or dat somebody was coachin' me, whateber dat is. Den he put it right straight, 'Did you make 'em?'"
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I've thoughtlessly been causing trouble. I should have continued to make the cakes just as you did, and it was only to divert my mind that I tried other ways. I won't do so any more."
"Dunno 'bout dat, honey."
"Indeed I will not when I promise you."
"I doesn't want any sech a promise. De folks like de new-fangle' cakes betteh, an' gwine back to de ole way wouldn't do no good. It's all boun'ter come out dat I'se sellin' fer you as well as fer me. Marse Clancy axed ef you wasn't, leastways he 'gan to ax when I shut him up."
"How did you shut him up?" said Mara, breathing quickly.
"By axin' him anoder question. Yah, yah, I'se Yankee 'nuff fer dat. I say, 'Hab Miss Wallingford sen' you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs'?"
"Didn't he say anything after that?"
"Yes, he say 'I understand,' an' I'spect he do, fer he drap a quarter in my basket an' look as if he was po'ful mad as he walk away. He better min' his own business."
Mara understood Clancy and Aun' Sheba did not. The young girl was troubled and perplexed, for she could not but see in her lover's mind the effect of her step. She felt that it was natural he should be hurt and even angered to learn that, after all he had offered to do for her, she should avail herself of Aun' Sheba's services instead of his. What she feared most was that he would take it as final evidence that she was hostile to him personally and not merely estranged because he would not conform his views and life to her own. Her secret and dearest purpose, that of teaching him that he could live without compromise as she could, might be defeated. What if the very act should lead to the belief that she no longer wished to have any part in his life? A girl cannot feel that same toward a man who has told her openly of his love, for such words break down the barriers of maidenly reserve even in her own self-communings. Since he had spoken so plainly she could think more plainly. She knew well how mistaken Aun' Sheba was in her judgment, but could not explain that Clancy felt he was not only rejected as a lover but had been ignored even as a helpful friend; and her own love taught her to gauge the bitterness of this apparent truth.
She soon became conscious that Aun' Sheba was watching her troubled face, and to hide her deeper thoughts she said, "Yes, I suppose it is all bound to come out. Well, let it. You shall not be misjudged." "Law sake, Missy, wot does I keer! De ting dat trouble me is dat you'se gwine to keer too much. I doan want you to gib up and I doan want you to be flustered ef you fin' it's known. De pa'hnership, as you call 'im, been doin' you a heap o' good. You'se min' been gettin' int'usted an' you fo'gits you'se troubles. Dat's wot pleases me. Now to my po' sense, folks is a heap betteh off, takin' keer ob dem selves, dan wen dey worry 'bout wat dis one say an' dat one do. Dere is lots ob folks dat'll talk 'bout you a month dat won't lif' dere finger for you a minit. An' wat can dey say, honey, dat'll harm you? You prouder'n all ob dem, but you got dis kin' ob pride. Ef de rent fall due you fight again eben you'se ole nuss payin' it. Talk's only breff, but an empty pocket mean an orful lot ob trouble to folks who ain't willin' to take out ob dere pocket wat dey didn't put dere."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, I think it would be the worst kind of trouble."
"I know it ud be fer you, but dar's Unc. He'd like his pocket filled ebery day an' he wouldn't keer who filled it ef he could spend. He'd say de Lawd pervided. Unc.'d rather trust de Lawd dan work any day."
"I am afraid you are not very religious," said Mara, smiling.
"Well, I of'n wonder wedder I'se 'ligious or no," resumed Aun' Sheba, introspectively. "Some sarmons and prars seem like bread made out ob bran, de bigger de loaf de wuss it is. Unc. says I'se very cole an backsliden, but I'd be a heap colder ef I didn't keep up de wood-pile.
"And you help others keep up their wood-piles."
"Well, I reckon I does, but dere ain't much 'ligion in dat. Dat's kin' ob human natur which de preacher say am bad, bery bad stuff. De Lawd knows I say my prars sho't so as to be up an' doin'. Anyhow I doan belebe he likes ter be hollered at so, as dey do in our meetin' an' Unc. says dat sech talk am 'phemous. But dat ain't heah nor dar. We'se gwine right along, honey, ain't we? We'se gwine ter min' our own business jes' as if we'se the bigges' pahners in de town?"
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you can say what you please hereafter, and I want you to come and go openly. I should have taken the stand before and saved you from coming out evenings. It has been far more on Aunty's account than on my own."
"Well, honey, now my min's at res' an' I belebe we do po'ful lot ob trade. Dat orful human natur gwine to come in now an' I belebe dat folks who know you an' all 'bout you'se family will help you, 'stid ob talkin' agin you. You see. You knows I doan' mean no disrespec' to ole Missus, but she'd jes sit down an' starbe, tinkin' ob de good dinners she orter hab, an' did hab in de ole times. All you'se folks in hebin is a smilin' on you, honey. Dey is, fer I feels it in my bones. You'se got de co'age ob you pa an' granpa an' dey know, jes' as we knows, dat ole Missus take a heap mo' comfort grumblin' dan in bein' hungry."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, do you truly think they know about my present life?" the girl asked, with wet eyes.
"Dat's a bery deep question, honey, but it kin' a seem reason'ble ter me dat wen you gettin' on well an' wen you doin' good to some po' soul de Lawd'll sen' an angel to tell 'em. Wen dey ain't hearin' notin' I spects dey's got to tink as we does dat no news is good news."
The girl was deeply moved, for the vernacular of her old nurse had been familiar from childhood and did not detract from the sacred themes suggested. "Oh, that I could have seen my father," she sighed. "Portraits are so unsatisfying. Tell me again just how he looked."
"He'd be proud ob you, honey, an' you kin be proud ob him. You hab his eyes, only you'se is bigger and of'n look as if you'se sorrowin' way down in you soul. Sometimes, eben wen you was a baby, you'd look so long an' fixed wid you big sad eyes as if you seed it all an' know'd it all dat I used to boo-hoo right out. Nuder times I'd be skeered, fer you'd reach out you'se little arms as ef you seed you'se moder an' wanted to go to her. De Lawd know bes' why he let such folks die. She was like a passion vine creepin' up de oak—all tender and clingin' an' lubin', wid tears in her blue eyes ebin wen he pettin' her, an' he was tall an' straight an' strong wid eyes dat laffed or flashed jes as de 'casion was. I kin see him now come marchin' down Meetin' Street at de head ob his men, all raised hisself. He walk straight as an arrow wid his sword flashin' in de sunshine an' a hundred men step tromp, tromp, arter him as ef dey proud to follow. Missy Mary stood on de balc'ny lookin' wid all her vi'let eyes an' wabin' her hank'chief. Oh, how purty she look! de roses in her cheek, her bref comin' quick, bosom risin' an' fallin', an' she a-tremblin' an' alibe all ober wid excitement an' pride an' lub. Wen he right afore de balc'ny his voice rung out like a trumpet, 'Right 'bout, face. 'Sent arms.' I dun declar dat 'fore we could wink dey was all in line frontin' us wid dere guns held out. Den he s'lute her wid his sword an' she take a red rose fum her bosom an' trow it to him an' he pick it up an' put it to his lips; den it was 'Right 'bout! March!' an' away dey went tromp, tromp, towa'ds de Bat'ry. I kin see it all. I kin see it all. O Lawd, Lawd, dey's all dead," and she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her apron.
Mara sprang up, her streaming tears dried by the hotness of her indignation as she cried, "And I too can see him, with his little band, dashing against almost an army and then trodden in the soil he died to defend. No, no, Owen Clancy, never!"
"Ah," said a low stern voice, "that's the true spirit. Now, Mara, you are your father's child. Never forget; never forgive," and they saw that Mrs. Hunter stood with them in the dim kitchen.
"Dunno 'bout dat, Missus. Reckon de wah am ober, an' what we gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar? Dar, dar, honey, 'pose you'se nerves. 'Taint bes' to tink too much ob de ole times, an' I mustn't talk to you so no mo'."
On her way home Aun' Sheba shook her head more than once in perplexity and disapprobation over what she had heard. She had the freedom of speech of an old family servant who had never been harshly repressed even when a slave, and now was added the fearlessness of a free woman. Her affection for Mara was so strong that in her ignorance she shared in some of the girl's prejudices against the North, but not in her antipathy. The thought that Clancy had waned in his regard or that he could even think of a Northern girl after having "kep' company" with Mara, had been exasperating, but now Aun' Sheba began to suspect that the estrangement was not wholly his fault. "She set agin him by his gwine Norf an' his habin' to do wid de folks dat she an' ole Missus hates. Doan see why he is mad at me 'bout it. Reckon he's mad anyhow an' can't speak peac'ble to nobody. Well, I likes him a heap betteh in dat view ob de case an' he kin glower at me all he please 'long as he ain't 'sertin' young Missy case she is po'. Couldn't stan' dat no how. He's willin' an' she ain't, an' dat wat she mean by sayin' 'No, Owen Clancy, nebbeh.' She won't lis'n to him kase he doan hate de Norf like pizen. Now dat is foolishness, an' she's sot up to it by de ole Missus. De Norf does as well as it know how. To be sure, it ain't quality like young Missy, but it buy de cotton an' it got de po'r. Wat's mo', it gib me a chance to wuck fer mysef. I would do as much fer young Missy as eber. I'd wuck my fingers off fer her, but I likes ter do it like white folks, kase I lub her. She orten' be so hard on young Clancy. He got his way ter make and dere'd be no good in his buttin' his head agin a wall. Tings am as dey is, an' I'm glad dey is as dey am. Dey's a long sight betteh fer cullud folks and white folks too, ef dey's a min' ter pull wid de curren' sted ob agin it. Massa Clancy's no fool. He know dis. He los' his pa an his prop'ty too, but he know betteh dan to go on hatin' fereber. Dey can't spec' me to uphole dem in dis fer it agin de Scripter an' my feelin's. Ole Missus bery 'ligious. She dun fergit wat de words mean she say ebry Sunday, But den, wot de use ob callin' ole Missus to 'count. She neber could see ony her side ob de question. It don make any dif'ence to her how many widers dere is in de Norf an' she hab jes dinged her 'pinions inter young Missy eber sence she was bawn. I'se glad ter do fer dem long as I lib, but I'se gwine ter speak my min' too."
With such surmises and self-communings she reached her home and found Uncle Sheba asleep in his chair and the fire out. She nodded at him ominously and muttered, "I gib him anuder lesson." Slipping quietly into the bedroom, she bolted the door, and, unrelenting to all remonstrances left him to get through the night as well as he could in his chair. The result justified the wisdom of the means employed, for thereafter Uncle Sheba always had a good fire when she returned.
Aun' Sheba had correctly interpreted the ellipsis suggested by Mara's passionate utterance. The scenes called up by her old nurse's words and rendered vivid by a strong imagination again presented themselves as an impassable barrier between herself and her lover unless he should feel their significance as she did. As a woman her heart was always pleading for him, but when strongly excited by the story of the past her anger flamed that he should even imagine that she would continue her regard for him. Indeed she wondered and was almost enraged at herself that she could not at once blot out his image and dismiss him from her thoughts when he was taking the course of all others most repugnant to her. At such moments she could easily believe that all was over between them, but with quiet persistence her heart knew better, and preferred love to enmities and sad memories.
Moreover, passionate as had been her mood there was a hard, homely common-sense in her old nurse's words, "Reckon de wah's ober an' wat you gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar?" that quenched her fire like cold water. No one can be in a false position, out of harmony with normal laws and principles, without meeting spiritual jars. Mara was too young and too intelligent not to recognize the difficulties in maintaining her position, but she believed sincerely that the circumstances of her lot justified this position and made it the only honorable one for her. Northerners were to her what the Philistines were to the ancient Hebrews, the hereditary foes from which she had suffered the chief ills of her life. To compromise with them was to compromise with evil, and therefore she was always able to reason away the significance of all words like those of Aun' Sheba, although for the moment they troubled her.
Mrs. Hunter, however, had long since been incapable of doubts or compunctions. She tolerated Aun' Sheba's outspokenness as she would that of a child or a slave babbling of matters far above her comprehension.
The day marked a change in Mara's policy and action, and these led to some very important experiences. A false pride had at first prompted, or at least induced her to acquiesce in secrecy; now an honest pride led her to openness in all her efforts to obtain a livelihood. She would volunteer no information, but would simply go on in an unhesitating manner, let the consequences be what they might.
They soon began to take a surprisingly agreeable form, for the quick warm sympathies of the Southern people were touched. Here was a young girl, the representative of one of the oldest and best families, seeking quietly and unostentatiously to support herself and her aged aunt. There had been scores of people who would gladly have offered her assistance, but they had respected her reticence in regard to her affairs as jealously as they guarded the condition of their own. Frank in the extreme with each other in most respects, there was an impoverished class in the city who would suffer much rather than reveal pecuniary need or accept the slightest approach to charity. Poverty was no reproach among these families that had once enjoyed wealth in abundance. Indeed it was rather like a badge of honor, for it indicated sacrifice for the "lost cause" and an unreadiness for thrifty compacts and dealings with those hostile to that cause. In the class to which Mara belonged, therefore, she gained rather than lost in social consideration, and especial pains were taken to assure her of this fact.
Those in whose veins, even in Mrs. Hunter's estimation, flowed the oldest and bluest blood, called more frequently and spoke words of cheer and encouragement. That good lady, in a rich but antiquated gown, received the guests and was voluble in Mara's praises and in lamentation over the wrongs of the past. The majority were sympathetic listeners, but all were glad that the girl could do and was willing to do something more than complain. To their credit it should be said that they were ready to do more than sympathize, for even the most straitened found that they could spare something for Mara's cake, and Aun' Sheba's basket began to be emptied more than once every day. Orders were given also, and the young girl had all she could do to keep up with the growing demand.
It was well for her that each day brought its regular work, and its close found her too weary for the brooding so often the bane of idleness. Yet, in spite of all that was encouraging, the cheering words spoken to her, the elation of Aun' Sheba and the excitement resulting from her humble prosperity, she was ever conscious of a dull ache at heart. Clancy had gone North for an indefinite absence, and it looked as if their separation were final. In vain she assured herself that it was best that they should not meet again until both were satisfied that their paths led apart. She knew that she had hoped his path would come back to hers—that in secret she hoped this still, with a pathetic persistence which defied all effort. She believed, however, that such effort was her best resource, for he was again under the influences she most feared and detested. At times she reproached herself for having been too reserved, too proud and passionate in her resentment at his course. He had asked her to convince him of his error if she could, and she had not only failed to make such effort, but also had denied him the hope that would have been more than all argument. Thus, at variance with her heart, she alternated between the two extremes of anger at his course and regret and compunction at her own. As a rule, though, her resolute will enabled her to concentrate her thoughts on daily occupations and immediate interests, and it became her chief aim to so occupy herself with these interests that no time should be left for thoughts which now only tended to distress and discourage.
Mara was a girl who consciously would be controlled by a few simple motives rather than by impulses, circumstances or the influence of others. We have seen that loyalty, as she understood it, was her chief motive. Her love for parents she had never seen was profound, and all relating to them was sacred. To do what she believed would be pleasing to them, what would now reflect honor upon their memory, was her supreme duty. All other motives would be dominated by this pre-eminent one and all action guided by it. She felt that the effort to provide for her aunt, the one remaining member of her family, and to enable her to spend her remaining days in the congenial atmosphere of the past, would certainly be in accord with her parents' wishes. Then by natural sequence her sympathies went out to those whose fortunes, like her own, had been wrecked by the changes against which they could interpose only a helpless protest. In various ways she learned of those of her own class who had been disabled and impoverished, whose lives were stripped of the embroidery of pleasant little gratifications only permitted by a surplus of income. It gradually came to be a cherished solace after the labors of the morning, to carry to the sick and afflicted, dwelling in homes of faded gentility like her own, some delicacy made by her own hands. While these were received in the spirit in which they were brought, the girl's lovely, sympathetic face was far more welcome, and the orphan began to embody to those of the old regime the cause for which they all had suffered so much. Within this limited circle Mara was kindness and gentleness itself, beyond it cold and unapproachable. Occasionally some, with whom she had no sympathy, sought to patronize her. They intimated that they were willing to buy lavishily, but it was also evident that they wished their good-will appreciated and reciprocated in ways that excited the girl's scorn. In spite of her poverty and homely work, it was known that she was a favorite in the most aristocratic circle in the city, and there are always those ready to seek social recognition in many and devious ways. These pushing people represented to Mara the Northern element and leaven in the city, and she soon made it clear that there was an invisible line beyond which they could not pass. Their orders were either declined or scrupulously filled, if her time permitted, but with a quiet tact which was inflexible she warded off every approach which was not purely commercial.
While in New York, Owen Clancy had been kept informed of the drift of those events in which he was especially interested. While Mara's effort had increased his admiration for her, its success had still further discouraged his hope. In his way he was as proud as she was. He had committed himself to a totally different line of action, for in his business relations he had been led into friendly relations with many Northern people in both cities. He had accepted and returned their hospitalities in kind as far as it was possible for a young bachelor of modest means. This courtesy had been expected and accepted as a matter of course, and to exchange it for cold, freezing politeness limited only to matters of trade, would not only subject him to ridicule but cut short his business career. Considerations supreme in Mara's circle were ignored by the great world, and, having once felt the impulses of the large currents of life, it would be impossible for Clancy to withdraw into the little side eddy wherein thought was ever turning back to no purpose. Having clasped hands and broken bread with the men and women of the North, he felt that he could not, and would not stultify himself, even for the sake of his love, by any change toward them. They would despise him not only as a miracle of narrowness but also as an insincere man, whose courtesy had been but business policy, easily dropped at the bidding of some more pressing interest.
His last interview with Mara had depressed him exceedingly, for while it had increased his love it had also revealed to him the radical divergence in their views and made it more clear that he could only hope to win her love by the sacrifice of self-respect. He must cease to be a thinking, independent man, a part of his own day and generation, and fix his thoughts upon the dead issues of the past. "The idea," he would mutter, "of sitting down and listening to Mrs. Hunter's inane and endless lament." He could not conform to Mara's views without being guilty of hypocrisy also, and she proved her narrowness by not recognizing this truth.
After all, the point of view was chiefly the cause of the trouble between them. She had ever dwelt in the shaded valley; he had been on the mountain-top, and so had secured a broad range of vision. He had come into contact with the great forces which were making the future and the men of the future, and he recognized that his own State and his own people must be vitalized by these forces or else be left far behind. And he represented a large and increasing class in his native city. In birth and breeding he was the peer of Mara or any of her aristocratic circle. He had admission to the best society in the State, and, if looked upon coldly by some, it was for the same reasons which actuated the girl for whom he would gladly yield everything except his principles and right of private judgment.
While he had many warm, sympathetic friends he felt that the old should give way to the new, he yet ran against the prejudices which Mara embodied so often that he began to feel ill at ease in Charleston.
He thought of removing permanently to cosmopolitan New York more than once during his absence North. If he should be fully convinced after his return that Mara was lost to him, unless he became a part of her implacable and reactionary coterie, it might be better for his peace of mind that he were far away.
One evening, before his departure home, he was invited to dine with a gentleman who had large railroad interests in the South. Mr. Ainsley was a widower, a man of wealth, and absorbed in the pleasure of its increase. He had made a business acquaintance with Clancy, and, finding him unusually intelligent and well informed in regard to Southern matters, naturally wished to converse more at length with him. The cordial invitation, the hearty welcome of the Northern capitalist could scarcely fail in gratifying the young Southerner, who keenly felt the importance of interesting just such men as his host in the enterprises under consideration. During the preliminary talk in the library of his palatial home, Mr. Ainsley soon discovered that his guest was not only well informed but frank and honest in statements, giving the cons as well as the pros, in spite of an evident desire to secure for the South all the advantages possible.
Before going to the dining-room, Miss Caroline, his host's only daughter, entered the library and was presented. Clancy was fairly dazzled by her remarkable beauty. She was a blonde of the unusual type characterized by dark eyes and golden hair. Naturally, therefore, the first impression of beauty was vivid, nor was it banished by closer observation. As she presided with ease and grace at her father's table, Clancy found himself fascinated as he had never been before by a stranger.
Although their table-talk lost its distinctively business and statistical character, Mr. Ainsley still pursued his inquiries in a broad, general way, and the daughter also asked questions in regard to life and society at the South which indicated a personal interest on her part.
At last she said, "Papa thinks it quite possible that we may spend some time in your region, and in that case we should probably make Charleston our headquarters. I have a friend, Mrs. Willoughby—do you know her?"
"Yes, indeed; a charming lady. She resides on the Battery."
"I'm glad you know her. I met her abroad, and we became very fond of each other. She has often asked me to visit her, but as I rarely leave Papa, the way has never opened."
"My daughter is very good in accompanying me in my various business expeditions," her father explained, "and you know they do not often lead to fashionable watering-places, nor can they always be adjusted to such seasons as I could desire. I wish I could go to Charleston at an early date, but in view of other interests, I cannot tell when I can get away."
"When I do come, I shall make the most of my name and insist on being regarded as a Carolinian," said Miss Ainsley, laughing.
Clancy was pleased with the conceit and the delicate compliment implied, but he was already impressed with the idea that his hostess was the most cosmopolitan girl that he had ever met. She piqued his curiosity, and he led her to talk of her experiences abroad. Apparently she had been as much at home in Europe as in America, and had been received in the highest social circles everywhere. When after dinner she played for him some brilliant, difficult classical music, he began to regard her a perfect flower of metropolitan culture. Yet she perplexed him. She revealed so much about herself without the slightest hesitation, yet at the same time seemed to veil herself completely. He and her father could broach no topic of conversation in which she could not take an intelligent part. Matters of European policy were touched upon, and she was at home in regard to them. She smiled broadly when he tried to explain to her father that patience would still be required with the South, but that in time the two parts of the country would be more firmly welded together than ever. "Such antipathies amuse me," she said. "It is one side keeping up a quarrel which the other has forgotten all about."
"The circumstances are different, Miss Ainsley," Clancy replied. "The war cost me my father, my property, and impoverished my State."
He could not tell whether her eyes expressed sympathy or not, for they had beamed on him with a soft alluring fire from the first, but her father spoke up warmly: "The North has not forgotten, especially the older generation. We have not suffered materially and have become absorbed in new interests, but the heart of the North was wounded as truly as that of the South. I wish to assure you, Mr. Clancy, how deeply I sympathize with and honor your spirit of conciliation. What is there for us all but to be Americans? Believe me, sir, such men as yourself are the strength and hope of your section."
"I believe with you, Mr. Ainsley, that it has been settled that we are to have but one destiny as a nation, but in justice to my people I must say that our wounds were so deep and the changes involved so vast that it is but reasonable we should recover slowly. You may say that we committed errors during the reconstruction period, yet they were errors natural to a conquered people. In the censure we have received from many quarters we have been almost denied the right to our common human nature. Possibly the North, in our position would not have acted very differently. But the pastispast, and the question is now, what is right and wise? I know that I represent a strong and growing sentiment which desires the unity and prosperity of the entire country. I in turn, sir, can say that men like yourself, in coming among us and investing their money do more than all politicians in increasing this sentiment. It proves that you trust us; and trust begets trust and good feeling. The North, however, will always be mistaken if it expects us to denounce our fathers or cease to honor the men who fought and prayed for what they believed was right."
"Suppose, Mr. Clancy," Miss Ainsley asked, with mirthful eyes, "that a party in the South had the power to array your section against the North again, would you go with your section?"
"Oh, come, Carrie, it is scarcely fair to ask tests on utterly improbable suppositions," said her father laughing, yet he awaited Clancy's answer with interest.
"No," he said quietly, "not with the light I now possess. I would have done so five years ago. Are Northern young men so intrinsically wise and good that they are not influenced by their traditions and immediate associations?"
"Mr. Clancy, where are your eyes? Go to the Delmonico cafe at noon to-morrow, and observe the flower of our patrician youth taking their breakfast. You will see beings who are intrinsically what they are."
"I fear we are rather even in this respect," said Clancy, laughing. "You have your metropolitan dudes and manikins, and we our rural ruffians, slaves of prejudice, who hate progress, schools and immigration, as they do soap and water. There is some consideration for our fellows, however, for they scarcely know any better, and many of their characteristics are bred in the bone. It would almost seem that the class you refer to are fools and nonentities from choice."
"I fear not," she said, lifting her eyebrows, "if I were a medical student I should be tempted to kill one of them—it wouldn't be murder—to see if he had a brain."
"You think brain, then, is absolutely essential?'
"Yes, indeed. I could endure a man without a heart, but not if he were a fool. If a man is not capable of thinking himself into what is sensible he is a poor creature."
Clancy shrugged his shoulders in slight protest and soon after took his leave, having first acquiesced in an appointment with Mr. Ainsley at his office in the morning.
On the way to his hotel and until late into the night, he thought over his experiences of the evening. Did Miss Ainsley intend to compliment him by suggesting that he was thinking himself into what was sensible? It was difficult to tell what she intended as far as he was concerned. "She could only have the most transient interest in such a stranger as I am," he reasoned, "yet her eyes were like magnets. They both fascinate and awaken misgivings. Perhaps they are the means by which she discovers whether a man is a fool or not; if he speedily loses his head under their spells, she mentally concludes, weighs and finds wanting. Probably, however, like hosts of pretty women, she simply enjoys using her powers and seeing men succumb; and men not forearmed and steeled as I am, might well hesitate to see her often, for my impression is right strong that she has more brain than heart. Yet she is a dazzling creature. Jove, what a contrast to Mara! Yet there is a nobility and womanly sincerity in Mara's expression than I cannot discover in Miss Ainsley's face. However wrong Mara may be, you are sure she is sincere and that she would be true to her conscience even if she put the whole North to the sword; but this brilliant girl—how much conscience and heart has she? Back of all her culture and accomplishments there is a woman; yet what kind of a woman? Well, the prospects are that I may have a chance to find out when she comes South. One thing is certain, she will not discover that I am a fool by speedily kindling a vain sentiment. Yet I would like to find her out, to discover the moral texture of her being. A girl like Miss Ainsley could more than fulfil a man's ideal or else make his life a terror."
He called again just before his departure, and saw her alone. As at first, she appeared to veil the woman in her nature completely, while, at the same time, the mild lightning of her eyes played about him.