Although consciously on his guard he found himself fascinated in spite of himself by her marvellous beauty, and his curiosity piqued more than ever. He discovered that her range of reading was wide, especially in modern European literature, and he was charmed by her broad, liberal views. Perhaps it was because he was singularly free from egotism that he was so conscious of her fine reticence which took the mask of apparent frankness. Most men would have been flattered by her seeming interest in them and willingness to listen to all they had to say about themselves. According to Clancy's opinion, conversation should be an equal interchange. He looked direct into Miss Ainsley's eyes. They bewildered and perplexed him, for they appeared to gather the rays of some light he did not understand and focus them upon himself. He wished he could see her in the society of other men and could learn more of her antecedents so that he might better account for her, but he went away feeling that she was more of an enigma than ever.
The glamour of her perplexing personality was upon him during much of his journey, but as he approached his native city thoughts of Mara predominated. Was she utterly estranged, and was the secret of her coldness due to the truth that he had never had any real hold upon her heart? If Mrs. Hunter had not so harshly interposed at the critical moment of their last interview, he believed that he would have discovered why it was she said he was "breaking her heart." Was it because he charged her with disloyalty to her kindred? Or had his own course which she felt was separating them some part in her distress? The fact that she had been silent to his last appeal, that she had proved his fears in regard to her poverty to be true, yet had sought aid from such an unexpected source, rather than permit him to endow her with his love and all that it involved, forced him to the miserable conclusion that she had at least decided against him.
But hope dies hard in a lover's breast. He longed to see her again, yet how could he see her except in the presence of others?
He knew they soon would meet; he was determined that they should; and possibly something in her involuntary manner or expression might suggest that she had thought of his words in his absence.
She had thought of his words as we know, but she had also been given other food for reflection which the following chapter will reveal.
In the division of labor between Mara and her aunt, the latter, with the assistance of their landlady's daughter, tried to leave the young girl few tasks beyond that of filling Aun' Sheba's basket.
Mrs. Hunter was also expected to be ready to receive callers, and excuse Mara during the morning hours. Under the new order of things, more people dropped in than in former times, for, as we have seen, it had become a kindly fashion to show good-will. The caller on a certain morning in April was not wholly actuated by sympathy, for she had news which she believed would be interesting if not altogether agreeable. Clancy's attentions had not been unknown, and he had at first suffered in the estimation of others as well as of Aun' Sheba, because of his apparent neglect. The impression, however, had been growing, that Mara had withdrawn her favor on account of his friendly relations with Northern people and his readiness to bury the past. The morning visitor had not only learned of a new proof of his objectionable tendencies, but also—so do stories grow as they travel—that he was paying attention to a New York belle and heiress. Mrs. Hunter was soon possessed of these momentous rumors, and when, at last, weary from her morning labors, Mara sat down to their simple dinner, she saw that her aunt was preternaturally solemn and dignified. The girl expressed no curiosity, for she knew that whatever burdened her aunt's mind would soon be revealed with endless detail and comment.
"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Hunter at last, "my impressions concerning people are usually correct, and it is well for you that they are. If it had not been for me you might have become entangled in association with a man false and disloyal in all respects. I say entangled in association, resulting from a moment of weakness, for assuredly the instant you gained self-possession and had time for thought, you would have repudiated everything. I saved you from the embarrassment of all this, and now you can realize how important was the service I rendered. I have heard of the performances of Mr. Clancy at the North."
The hot flush on Mara's cheeks followed by pallor proved that her indifference had been thoroughly banished, but she only looked at her aunt like one ready for a blow.
"Yes," resumed Mrs. Hunter, "the story has come very straight—straight from that young Mrs. Willoughby, who, with her husband, seems as ready to forget and condone all that the South has suffered as your devoted admirer himself. Devoted indeed! He is now paying his devotions at another shrine. A Northern girl with her Northern gold is the next and natural step in his career, and he said to her pointblank that if the South again sought to regain her liberty, he would not help. He wasn't a Samson, but he was not long in being shorn by a Northern Delilah of what little strength he had."
"How do you know that this is true?" asked Mara rigid, with suppressed feeling.
"Oh, Mrs. Willoughby must talk if the heavens fell. It seems that she met this Northern girl abroad, and that they have become great friends. She has received a letter, and it is quite probable that this girl will come here. It would be just like her to follow up her new admirer. Mrs. Willoughby is so hot in her advocacy of what she terms the 'New South,' that she must speak of everything which seems to favor her pestilential ideas. By birth she belongs to the Old South and the only true South, and she tries to keep in with it, but she is getting the cold shoulder from more than one."
Mara said nothing, but her brow contracted.
"You take it very quietly," remarked her aunt severely.
"Yes," said Mara.
"Well, if I were in your place I would be on fire with indignation."
"Perhaps I would be if I did not care very much," was the girl's constrained answer.
"I do not see how you can care except as I do."
"You are you, aunty, and I am myself. People are not all made exactly alike."
"But a girl should have some self-respect."
"Yes, aunty, and she should be respected. I am one to show my self-respect by deeds, not words. You must not lecture me any more now as if I were a child," and she rose and left her almost untasted dinner.
A little thought soon satisfied Mrs. Hunter that the iron had entered deep into the soul of her niece, and that her deeds would be satisfactory. She therefore finished her dinner complacently.
Mara felt that she had obtained a test which might justly compel the giving up of her dream of love forever. She was endowed with a simplicity and sincerity of mind which prompted to definite actions and conclusions, rather than to the tumultuous emotions of anger, jealousy and doubt. She would not doubt; she would know. Either Clancy had been misrepresented or he had not been, and he had seemed so true and frank in his words to her that she would not condemn him on the story of a gossip. From her point of view she concluded that if he had gone so far as to say to a Northern girl that he would not join the South in an effort to achieve independence, supposing such an attempt to be made, then he had passed beyond the pale of even her secret sympathy and regard, no matter what the girl might become to him. She scarcely even hoped that there would ever be a chance for him to make such a choice of sides as his reputed words indicated, but he could contemplate the possibility, and if he could even think, in such an imagined exigency, of remaining aloof from the cause for which his and her own father had died, then he would be dismissed from her thoughts as utterly unworthy.
So she believed during the unhappy hours of the afternoon which were robbed of all power to bring rest. She determined, if it were possible, to hear the truth from his own lips. She would subdue her heart by giving it proof positive that he had either drifted or had been lured far away. If this were true—and she would not be influenced by her aunt's bitter prejudice—then it was all over between them. If once so completely convinced that he did not love her sufficiently to give up his Northern affiliations for her sake, her very pride would cast out her own stubborn love.
The opportunity to accomplish all she desired soon occurred, for later she met him at a house where a few guests had been invited to spend the evening. Social life had ceased to divide sharply upon the opinions held by different persons, and the question as to what guests should be brought together had been decided by the hostess chiefly on the ground of birth and former associations. On this occasion when Clancy's eyes met those of Mara, he bowed, and was about to cross the room in the hope of receiving something like a welcome after his absence, but he was repelled at once and chilled by her cold, slight bow, and her prompt return of attention to the gentleman with whom she was conversing.
Clancy was so hurt and perturbed that he was capable of but indifferent success in his efforts to maintain conversation with others. When supper was served he strayed into the deserted library and made a pretence of looking at some engravings. A dear and familiar voice brought a sudden flush to his face, but the words, "Mr. Clancy, I wish to speak with you," were spoken so coldly that he only turned and bowed deferentially and then offered Mara a chair.
She paid no attention to this act, and hesitated a moment in visible embarrassment before proceeding.
"Miss Wallingford," he began eagerly, "I have longed and hoped—"
She checked him by a gesture as she said, "Perhaps I would better speak first. I have a question to ask. You need not answer it of course if you do not wish to. I am not conventional in seeking this brief interview. Indeed," she added a little bitterly, "my life has ceased to be conventional in any sense, and I have chosen to conform to a few simple verities and necessities. As you once said to me, you and I have been friends, and, if I can trust your words, you have meant kindly by me—"
"Miss Wallingford, can you doubt my words," he began in low, passionate utterance, "can you doubt what I mean and have meant? You know I—"
Her brow had darkened with anger, and she interrupted him, saying, "You surely cannot think I have sought this interview in the expectation of listening to such words and tones. I have come because I wish to be just, because I will not think ill of you unless I must, because I wish you to know where I stand immovably. If my friendship is worth anything you will seek it by deeds, not words. I now only wish to ask if you said in effect, while North, that if the South should again engage in a struggle for freedom you would not help?"
Clancy was astounded, and exclaimed, "Miss Wallingford, can you even contemplate such a thing?"
Her face softened as she said, "I knew that you could never have said anything of the kind."
How tremendous was the temptation of that moment! He saw the whole truth instantaneously, that she was lost to him unless he came unreservedly to her position. In that brief moment her face had become an exquisite transparency illumined with an assurance of hope. He had an instinctive conviction that even if he admitted that he had spoken the words, yet would add, "Mara, I am won at last to accept your view of right and duty," all obstacles between them would speedily melt away.
The temptation grappled his heart with all the power of human love, and there was an instant of hesitation that was human also, and then conscience and manhood asserted themselves. With the dignity of conscious victory he said gravely, "Miss Wallingford, I have ever treated your convictions with respect even when I differed with you most. I have an equal right to my own convictions. I should be but the shadow of a man if I had no beliefs of my own. You misunderstand me. My first thought as you spoke was surprise that you could even contemplate such a thing as a renewed struggle between the North and the South."
"Certainly I could contemplate it, sir, though I can scarcely hope for it."
"I trust not; and even at the loss of what I value far more than you can ever know, I will not be false to myself nor to you. I did speak such words, and I must confirm them now." She bowed frigidly and was turning away when he said, "I, too, perhaps have the right to ask a question."
She paused with averted face. "Can you not at least respect a man who is as sincere as you are?"
Again the vigilant Mrs. Hunter, uneasy that Mara and Clancy were not within the range of her vision, appeared upon the scene. She glared a moment at the young man, and Mara left the room without answering him.
It had been Mara's belief, indeed almost her hope, that if truth compelled Clancy to admit that he had spoken the obnoxious words he would become to her as a "heathen man and a publican." No matter how much she might suffer, she had felt that such proof of utter lack of sympathy with her and all the motives which should control him, would simplify her course and render it much easier, for she had thought that her whole nature would rise in arms against him. It would end all compunction, quench hope and even deal a fatal blow to love itself. She would not only see it her duty to banish him from her thoughts, but had scarcely thought it possible that he could continue to dwell in them.
The result had not justified her expectations, and she was baffled, exasperated and torn by conflicting feelings. Although he had admitted the words and confirmed them to her very face, he had not allowed himself to be put in a position which enabled her to turn coldly and contemptuously away. Brief as had been the interview, he had made it impossible for her to doubt two things; first, that the Northern girl was nothing to him and that he had not spoken the words to win her favor, for he had come back to herself with the same love in his eyes and the same readiness to give it expression despite her coldness and even harshness. No matter how bitterly she condemned herself, this truth thrilled and warmed her very soul. In the second place, however mistaken he might be, he had compelled her to believe him to be sincere, so loyal, indeed, to his own sense of right that not even for her sake would he yield. She could not doubt this as the eagerness of the lover passed into the grave dignity and firmness of a self-respecting man. Moreover, another truth had been thrust upon her consciousness—that she was more woman than partisan. As he had stood before her, revealing his love and constancy and at the same time asserting his right to think and act in accordance with his own convictions, he had appeared noble, handsome, manly; her heart acknowledged him master, and however vigilantly she might conceal the fact, she could not deny it to herself.
Nevertheless, his course had simplified her action; it had decided her that all was over between them. The case was hopeless now; for neither could yield without becoming untrue to themselves, and there could be no happy union in such radical diversity. The less often they met the better, as he only made her course the harder to maintain and the separation more painful than it had been before.
She might hide her unhappiness, but she could not banish the resulting despondency and flagging strength. Her aunt had half forced an explanation of the reason why she was alone with Clancy, and, in hasty self-defence, she admitted a resolve to know with certainty whether he had spoken the words charged against him. When Mrs. Hunter learned that he had acknowledged the truth of the story, she spoke of him with redoubled bitterness, making it hard indeed for Mara to listen, for her heart took his side almost passionately. Unintentionally Mrs. Hunter proved herself the young man's best ally, yet Mara outwardly was compelled to acquiesce, for she herself had proved the enormity which was to end everything. Consistency, however, was torn to tatters one day, and she said in sudden passion, "Aunty, never mention Mr. Clancy's name again. I demand this as my right."
When Mara spoke in this manner Mrs. Hunter yielded. Indeed she was not a little perplexed over the girl who had been so passive and subservient. She was not a profound reasoner upon any subject, nor could she understand how one step, even though Mara had been driven to it by hard necessity, led to many others. The girl had begun to assert her individual life, and her nature, once awakened, was proving a strong one. Deepening and widening experience perplexed and troubled her unguided mind, and prepared the way for doubtful experiments.
As before, Aun' Sheba was quick to discover that all was not well with Mara, but believed that she, like herself, was working beyond her strength. The old woman had a bad cold and was feeling "rudder po'ly" one evening when her minister came to pay a pastoral visit.
On so momentous an occasion as this, her son-in-law Kern Watson and his wife and children were summoned; a few neighbors also dropped in as they often did, for Aun' Sheba was better in their estimation than any newspaper in town. Since the necessity for much baking had been removed, she had hired out her stove in order to make more room and to enjoy the genial fire of the hearth. So far from being embarrassed because her head was tied up in red flannel, she had the complacent consciousness that she was the social centre of the group, an object of sympathy and the respected patron of all present.
The Reverend Mr. Birdsall, the minister, treated Aun' Sheba with much consideration; he justly regarded her as one of the "pillars of the church," knowing well from long experience that she abounded in liberality if not in long prayers and contentions. He was a plain, sincere, positive man who preached what he believed to be the truth. If he was sometimes beyond it, beneath it or away from it altogether, he was as serenely unconscious of the fact as were his hearers. There was no agnosticism in his congregation, for he laid down the law and the gospel in a way that discouraged theological speculation. Nevertheless, among his followers there were controversial spirits who never doubted that they were right, however much they might question his ecclesiastical methods and views. To many, freedom meant the right to have their say, and, as is often true, those having the least weighty matter on their minds were the most ready to volunteer opinions and advice. Aun' Sheba was a doer, not a talker, in her church relations. If she occasionally dozed a little in her pew during the sermon, she was always wide awake when the plate was passed around; and if a "brother" or a "sister" were sick she found time for a visit, nor did she go empty-handed. If it were a case of back-sliding she had a homely way of talking sense to the delinquent that savored a little of worldly wisdom. There were not a few who shared in her doubt whether she was "'ligious" or not, but the Reverend Mr. Birdsall was not of these. He would only have been too glad to have discovered more religion like hers.
"Mis' Buggone," he said, sympathetically, after Aun' Sheba had given her symptoms with much detail, "in you is a case whar de spirit is willin' but de flesh is weak. You'se been a-goin' beyon' you strengt."
"Yes, Elder, dat is de gist ob de whole business," affirmed Kern Watson."Moder's tromped de streets wid her big basket till she is dun beat out.She's undertook mo'n her share an' is s'portin' too many people."
"Kern, you means well," said Aun' Sheba with dignity, "but you mus' not 'fleet on young Missy. She am de las' one in de worl' to let a body s'port her while she fol' her han's. She's po'ly too, jes' kase she's a workin' harde'n me."
Uncle Sheba hitched uneasily in his chair, feeling that the conversation rather reflected on him, and he was conscious that old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," was glaring at him. "I reckin," he said, "dat de min'ster might offer a word ob prar an' comfort fore he go."
"What pressin' business," asked his wife, severely, "hab you got, Unc., dat you in sech a hurry fer de min'ster ter go? We ain't into de shank ob de ebenin' yet, an' dar's no 'casion to talk 'bout folks goin'."
"I dun said nothin' 'bout folks goin'," complained Uncle Sheba in an aggrieved tone, "I was ony a suggestin' wot 'ud be 'propriate ter de 'casionforedey go."
"Mr. Buggone is right, and prar is always 'propriate," said Mr. Birdsall in order to preserve the serenity of the occasion. "Before this little company breaks up we will sing a hymn and hab a word ob prar. But we mus' use de right means in dis worl' an' conform ter de inexorable law ob de universe. Here's de law and dar's de gospel, and dey both have dar place. If a brick blow off a chimley it alus falls ter de groun'. Dat's one kin' ob law. Water runs down hill, dat's much de same kin' ob law. If a man hangs roun' a saloon an' wastes his time an' money, he's boun' to git seedy an' ragged an' a bad name, an' his fam'ly gets po' an' mis'ble; dat's another kin' ob law—no 'scapin' it. He's jest as sure ter run down hill as de water. Den if we git a cut or a burn or a bruise we hab pain; dat's anuder kin' ob law, an' we all know it's true. But dar's a heap ob good people, Mis' Buggone, who think dey can run dis po' machine ob a body in a way dat would wear out wrought-iron, and den pray de good Lawd ter keep it strong and iled and right up to the top-notch ob po'r. Now dat's against both law and gospel, for eben He who took de big contrac' ter save the worl' said ter his disciples, 'come ye yourselves apart and rest a while.' I reckon dat's de law and de gospel for you, Mis' Buggone, about dis time." Nods of approval were general, and Kern Watson gave the sense of the meeting in his hearty way.
"'Deed it am, Elder," he said. "You'se hit de nail squar on de head. Own up, now, moder, dat you'se neber been preached at mo' convincin'. Hi! wot a book dat Bible am! It's got a word in season fer ebry 'casion."
"Well," said Aun' Sheba, meditatively, "I wants ter be open ter de truf, an' I does own up, Kern, dat de Elder puts it monstis peart an' bery conwincin'. But," she continued argumentatively, laying the forefinger of her left hand on the broad palm of her right, "dars gen'ly two sides to a question. Dat's whar folks git trip up so of'n—dey sees ony one side. I've 'served dat it's po'ful easy fer folks ter tell oder folks wat ter do and wat not ter do. No 'fence, Elder. You been doin' you duty, but you'se been layin' down rudder 'stended princ'ples. I know you'se got ter preach broad an' ter lay down de truf fer de hull winyard, but I wants ter know wat ter do wid my own little patch ob ground. Now here's me and dar's my young Missy 'pendin' on me."
"Dat's whar I jes' doesn't 'gree wid Aun' Sheba," put in her husband as she paused a moment for breath. He felt that public opinion was veering over to his side and might be employed to enforce his views. "It is all bery well fer one ter do all dey can 'sistently fer oders, but—"
"Mr. Buggone," remarked Aun' Sheba sternly.
Uncle Sheba subsided, and she went on, "Dere's my young Missy dat's pendin' on me, but she ain't pendin' in de sense ob hangin' on me," and she paused and looked impressively at Unc. "She's usin' her two little han's jest as hard as she know how, an' a heap too hard. Wat's mo' she's usin' dem to good puppus. I jes' declar' to you, Elder an' frens, dat since she took hole, de business am rollm' up an' it gettin' too big fer both ob us. Dat's whar de shoe pinches. I ain't loss notin'. I'se made a heap mo' by doin' fer young Missy. In dis 'fabulation, I doesn't want no 'flections on her, kase dey wouldn't be fair. Now, Kern, you'se right smart. You'se had my 'proval eber sence you took a shine ter Sissy. Ud you belebe it, Elder and frens, dat son-in-law ob mine offered ter s'port me an' me do nuffin but jes' help Sissy and look arter de chil'n. But dat ain't my way. I likes ter put my own money in my own pocket an' I likes ter take it out agin, an' it jes' warm my heart like a hick'y fiah ter help dat honey lam' ob mine dat I nussed. So you see, Elder, dat gen'l preachin' am like meal. Folks has got ter take it an' make out ob it a little hoe-cake fer dere selves. It's de same ole meal, but we's got ter hab it in a shape dat 'plies ter our own inards, sperital and bodily."
Again there were nods of assent and sounds of approval which old Tobe put into words. "Aun' Sheba," he said, "you puts you'se 'pinions monst'us peart, too. I'se an ole man an' has had my shar ob 'sperence, an' I'se alus 'served dat de hitch come in at de 'plyin' part. Dere's a sight ob preachin' dat soun' as true an' straight as dat de sun an' rain make de cotton grow, but when you git down to de berry indewidooel cotton plant dere's ofen de debil to pay in one shape or oder. Dere's a wum at de root or a wum in de leaves, or dey's too much rain or too much sun, or de sile's like a beef bone dat's been biled fer soup mo' dan's reasonable. Now Aun' Sheba's de indewidooel cotton-plant we's a-'siderin', an' I doan see how she's gwine to res' a while any mo'n I kin. Ef I shet up my rasteran de business gwine ter drap off ter some oder rasteran."
"But, bruder Tobe, isn't it better, even as you put it," protested the minister, "dat Mis Buggone's business should drop off an' yours too, dan dat you should drop off youselves? Howsumever, I see de force ob what you both say, and we mus' try ter hit upon a golden mean. I reckon dar's a way by which you can both keep your business and yet keep youselves from goin' beyon' your 'bility. You are both useful citizens and supporters ob de gospel, and I'm concerned fer your welfare, bodily as well as sperital."
"Aun' Sheba," said her daughter, "you'se my moder an' I ought ter be de fust one ter help ease you up. I just dun declar dat you'se got ter take Vilet ter help you up. I kin spar her, an' I will spar her. She's strong an' gwine on twelve, an' de babies is gitten so dat dey ain't aroun' under my feet all de time. Vilet's spry an' kin run here an' dar an' fill de orders. She'd ease you up right smart."
"Now, Sissy," said her husband, who always called her by the old household name, "dat's bery sens'ble and childlike in you to put yousef out fer you'se muder. I'd been tinkin' 'bout Vilet, but I didn't like de suggestin ob her leabin' you to do so much, ob de work. But go ahead, Sissy; go ahead, Vilet, an' you'll fin' me easy goin' at meal times."
"Come here, Vilet," said the minister.
The girl had been sitting on the floor at Aun' Sheba's feet, listening quietly and intelligently to all that had been said. She was tall for her age, and had the quiet steadfastness of gaze that was characteristic of her father. He was exceedingly fond and proud of her, for, with very little schooling, she had learned to read and write. Even as a child she had much of his patience and unselfishness, thus making herself very useful at home. She looked unshrinkingly at the minister, but trembled slightly, for she felt all eyes were upon her.
"Vilet," began Mr. Birdsall, "you are said to be a good chile, an' I like the sens'ble, quiet way in which you stan' up an' look me in de face. I reckon dar ain't much foolishness in you. Your fader and moder hab shown de right spirit, de self-denying spirit dat de Lawd will bless. Can you say the fifth commandment, chile?" Vilet repeated it promptly.
"Dat's right. Now your fader an' moder are honahing dar moder, an' you are goin' to hab a chance ter honah dem an' your granma, too. You will hab temptations in de streets ter be pert an' idle, ter stop an' talk to dis one and ter answer back to dat one in a way you shouldn't. But if you go along quiet an' steady, an' do what you're tole, an' be car'ful 'bout de money an' de messages an' de orders an' so forth, you will reflect honah on us all an' 'specially on all your folks. You understan', Vilet?"
"Yes, sir."
The minister put his hand on her head, and said solemnly, "You have my blessin', Vilet."
She ducked a little courtesy, and again squatted at the feet of Aun'Sheba, who, much affected, was wiping her eyes with her apron, whileSissy's emotion was audible.
"Now, frens," resumed Mr. Birdsall, "this 'mergency of Mis Buggone's health has been met in de right human and Scriptural spirit. Frens and fam'ly hab gathered 'roun' de 'flicted one, an' hab paid dar respect ter her usefulness an' value, an' hab shown her becomin' sympathy. Her own fam'ly, as is also becomin', hab been first ter ease her up accordin', first, to the law of primigeneshureship. I know dat dis is a long word, but long words of'en mean a heap, an' dat's why dey are so long. Dat good little girl, Vilet, is de oldes' granchile, an' she fulfils a great law in helpin' her granma. Den it's accordin' to the gospel, for a loving an' self-denyin' spirit has been shown. Mr. Watson has obeyed de great law of matrimony. He has marriedintodis fam'ly, an' he pulls with it an' for it instead ob against it as we see too of'en. De Lawd's blessin' will rest on dis fam'ly."
"I feels greatly comforted," said Aun' Sheba. "Dis has been a bressed season an' a out-pourin'. I mos' feels 'ligious dis ebenin'. De chilen an' dis deah chile" (patting Vi'let's head) "warm me up betteh'n flannel an' de fiah. Elder, you'se a good shep'd ob de flock. You'se a lookin' arter body an' soul. You'se got de eddication to talk big words to us, an', now we'se free, we hab a right to big words, no mattah how much dey mean. It's po'ful comfortin' ter know we'se doin' 'cordin' to de law an' de gospel."
"'Pears ter me," said old Tobe, "dat Uncle Sheba might hab a little law an' gospel 'plied ter him. He am one ob de fam'ly. I'se a heap ol'er dan he be, an' I'se up wid de sun an' I ony wish I could set when de sun sets. 'Pears like he orter tote some ob de tings ez well ez his slip ob a grandaughter," and old Tobe's wool seemed fairly to bristle with indignation and antipathy.
"I've no doubt," began Mr. Birdsall, "but Mr. Buggone'll emulate—"
"Elder," interrupted Aunt Sheba, with portentous solemnity, "dere's bobscure 'flictions in dis worl' dat can't be 'splained, an' de 'flictions ofen begin wen we say 'for bettah or wusser.' You'se say youself in de pulpit dat de gret an' bressed sinner, Paul, had a thorn in de flesh an' he couldn't git rid ob it nohow, dat he jes' bar wid it an' go 'bout his business. Ole Tobeamold, but he wasn't bawn tired. Dere's men dat's po'ful weak in de jints ob de body, yit dat doesn't hender dem from gittin' 'round, but wen de weak feelin' gits inter de jints ob de min' den dey's shuah to be kinder limpsy-slimpsy an' dey ain't no help fer it. Ez I sez afore, de 'fliction am bobscure. You see de feet an' you see de han's, an' you tink dat dey kin go an' do like oder han's an' feet, but dey doesn't an' dey can't. Dere ain't no backbone runnin' up troo de min' an' wen dere ain't no backbone in de min' de pusson jest flop down yere an' flop down dar whareber dere's a com'fo'ble place to flop. Dere's 'flictions dat we kin pray agin an' pray out'n ob, an' dere's oders we jes got ter bar, an' we gits so kinder used to'm at las dat we'd be mo' mis'ble ef dey wuz tooken away. We'se got to take de bittah wid de sweet, but, tank de Lawd! de sweet 'domernate in dis yere fam'ly. Now let's hab some praise an' prar. Vilet, honey, sing de hymn you'se moder lern you."
And in a somewhat shrill, yet penetrating, musical voice, the girl sang:
"I'se a-journeyin', I'se a-journeyin',An' de way am bery long;De road ain't known, de way ain't shown,Yit I journeys wid a song.
"De journey, de journey, howeber rough de road,It's a-leadin', it's a-leadin', to a hebinly abode.
"I'se a-travelin', I'se a-travelin',From de cradle to de grave,De road am rough and sho' anuff,De heart, hit mus' be brave.
"I'se a-wondrin', I'se a-wondrin',Wen de journey will be true;But I goes along wid sigh an' songAn' a cheery word fer you."
Kern Watson and his wife were gifted with those rich, mellow, African voices made so familiar in plantation songs and hymns. In the case of "Sissy" there was a pathetic, contralto, minor quality in her tones, and the first time young Watson heard her sing a spell was thrown round his fancy which led to all the rest. The same might be said of her, for when her husband, then a stranger, poured forth, in one of their evening meetings, the great rich volume of his voice, she ceased to sing that she might listen with avidity. It was not long after that before Kern mustered courage to ask "Miss Buggone, mout I hab de pleasure ob 'companyin' you home?" Not many months elapsed before he accompanied her home to stay, with Aun' Sheba's full consent.
Other hymns followed in which Uncle Sheba took part with much unction, for he wished to impress all present that in spite of the "bobscure affliction" he "injied 'ligion" as much as any of them. Mr. Birdsall offered a characteristic prayer, and then Aun' Sheba nodded to Sissy, who brought out a large supply of cakes and apples. Some gossip among the women and political discussion among the men occurred while these were being disposed of, and then the little company broke up, leaving Aun' Sheba much improved in health and spirits.
The next day was warm and sunny, and Aun' Sheba, rising much refreshed, felt herself equal to her duties in spite of her fears to the contrary. She took Vilet with her to a shop, and there purchased a much smaller basket, the weight of which when filled would not be burdensome to the girl. Thus equipped she appeared before Mara at the usual hour with her grandchild, and began complacently: "Now, honey lam', you'se gwine to hab two strings to you'se bow. I sometimes feel ole an' stiff in my jints an' my heft is kinder agin me in trompin'. Here's my granddaughter, an' she's spry as a cricket. She kin run yere an' dar wid de orders'n less dan no time, so you won't be kept kin' ob scruged back an' down kase I'se slow an' hebby. You see?"
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, and I am very glad to see. I have been worrying about you, for it has seemed to me that you were going beyond your strength, and yet I did not know of any one to help you or whether you wanted any one."
"Now, honey, you jes' took de words out'n my mouth 'bout you. You'se lookin' po'ly, an' I'se dreffle 'feared you'se gwine ter get beat ont. You want help mo'n me, an' I'se had it on my min' ter talk wid you."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I'm very well," protested Mara, yet glad to think that her paleness and languor were ascribed to fatigue.
"Now see yere, honey, I'se got my blin' side, I know, but it ain't toward you. I watch ober you too many yeahs not to know wen you po'ly. You'se gwine beyon' you strengt, too. Why can't you get some one ter he'p you an' den we go along swimmin'?"
"Well, I'll see. I reckon I'll be better soon, and I don't care to do more than can be done in a quiet way."
The new arrangement on Aun' Sheba's side of the "pana'ship" soon began to work well. Vilet proved quick and trustworthy, saving her grandmother many a weary step, and Mara was compelled to see that the mutual income might be greatly increased if she also had efficient help. She recognized the truth that she was becoming worn, and she also knew the cause to be that she worked without the spring of hopefulness or even the quietness of a heart at rest. She had almost decided to intrust Aun' Sheba with the task of finding a suitable helper, when she made two acquaintances who were destined to become intimately associated with her experiences.
One afternoon she felt so lonely, desolate and hopeless that she felt she must go out of herself. The future was taking on an aspect hard to face. Disposed to self-sacrifice, she was wretchedly conscious that there was nothing on which she could bestow a devotion which could sustain or inspire. There was no future to look forward to, no cause to be furthered, no goal to be reached by brave, patient effort. If she had lived at the time of the war she would have loved scarcely less than her mother, but her heart would have been almost equally divided between the cause and those who fought and suffered for it. If her lot had been cast in the North it would have been much the same. The same patriotic motives would have kindled her imagination and produced the most intense loyalty in thought and action. She was endowed with a spirit which, had she lived in the past, might easily have led her into an effort to restore some overthrown dynasty, and she would have so idealized even a very questionable conspiracy as to render it worthy, in her belief, of unstinted self-sacrifice. A girl of her character would have faced the wild beasts of the Roman amphitheatre for the sake of her faith, or she would have intrigued against the Spanish Inquisition although hourly conscious that she was exposing herself to its horrors. It was this very tendency to give herself up wholly to some object which she felt had a supreme claim upon her, that had enabled her to live so long upon the memories of the past. The lost cause, for which her father had died, had been as sacred to her as the old dream of freedom to a Pole, but Clancy's question in regard to the old phase of her life, "What good will it do?" combining with other circumstances, had awakened her to the futility of her course. Denied the hope of any future achievement, lacking a powerful motive to sacrifice herself and her love, her strong nature chafed and tended to despondency at the thought of a simple existence. It was not enough merely to earn a living and live. She craved an inspiring object, an antidote for her heartache, a consciousness that in giving up much she also accomplished much. Yet the future stretched away like an arid plain and she was depressed by the foreboding that every step carried her further from all that could give zest to life. She was, therefore, in a mood to accept anything which would relieve the dreary monotony.
On the afternoon in question she decided to call upon an old lady who had lost nearly all her kindred and property. "Surely," thought the girl, "she has nothing to look forward to in this world but a few more straitened years, then death. I wish I were as old as she."
Taking a little delicacy she started out to pay the visit, hoping to gain an insight into the philosophy of patient endurance. She veiled herself heavily, for she was ever haunted by the fear of meeting Clancy on the street, and that her tell-tale face might lead him to guess the cost of her effort to avoid him.
An old colored woman showed the way into the parlor while she went up to prepare her mistress for the call. Reading by the window was a middle-aged gentleman who bowed gravely and resumed his book.
He riveted Mara's attention instantly, for her first glance revealed that he had lost his right leg and that crutches leaned against the arm of his chair. He could not be other than a veteran of the Confederate army, as it would be strange indeed to find an ex-soldier of the North in that abode. His strong, finely-cut side face, distinctly outlined against the light, was toward her. It was marked by deep lines as if the man had suffered and had passed through memorable experiences. He wore no beard or whiskers, but an iron-gray mustache gave a distinguished cast to a visage whose habitual expression was rather cold and haughty.
Mara had time to note these characteristics before she was summoned to Mrs. Bodine's apartment. Although the day was mild, the old lady, wrapped in shawls, sat by an open fire, and her wrinkled face lighted up with pleasure as the girl came toward her. Indeed, there was something like excitement in her manner as she kissed her guest and said: "Bring your chair close, my dear, so I can see you and hold your hand. I've something to tell you which I reckon will interest you almost as much as it does me."
When Mara was seated in a low chair she resumed: "How much you would look like your father, child, if your eyes were bright and laughing instead of being so large and sad! Well, well, there has been enough to make all our eyes sad, and you, poor child, have had more than enough. Yet you are good and brave, my dear. So far from sitting down in helpless grieving, you are taking care of yourself and have time to think of an old woman like me. Poor Mrs. Hunter! what would she do without you? She, like so many of us, has been blighted and stranded, and she would have been worse off than I if it had not been for you, for I have a little left, but oh, it is so little. Never did I wish it were more so much as I do now. You must be patient with me, child. I sit here so much alone that it is a godsend to have some one to talk to, and you are the very one I wanted to see. I was going to send for you, for I knew you would like to see my guests. My cousin and his daughter are visiting me, and I wish they could stay with me always. I knew you would like to meet Captain Bodine—"
"Captain Bodine!" exclaimed Mara, "why, that is the name of an officer who used to be in my father's regiment."
"He is the very same, my dear."
"Was that he in the parlor?" Mara asked, trembling with excitement.
"Yes, he and his daughter arrived only yesterday."
"Oh!" said Mara, "I've received letters from him, and I've longed to see him for years. Can I not go down and speak to him at once? I surely do not need any introduction to the old friend of my father."
"No, my dear, no indeed. You need no formal introduction to any guest or relative of mine. Besides, he knows you well and all about you, although he has never seen you since you were a child. It would please him greatly to have you go down and speak to him at once, for he would know that I would tell you about his being here, and he might think you cold or formal if you delayed seeing him. I'm glad you feel so, my dear, but you must come back and sit with me awhile before you go home. I'll ring for Hannah and have a nice little feast while you are downstairs."
Mara scrupulously veiled her impatience until her kind, garrulous friend was through, and then stole with swift, noiseless tread to the parlor below. Standing in the doorway, she saw that the object of her quest was absorbed in his book. "He is my ideal of the soldier of that day," she thought. "How truly he represents us, with his sad, proud face and mutilated body!" In a sort of awe she hesitated a moment and then said timidly, "Captain Bodine."
He looked up quickly, and seeing Mara's lustrous eyes and flushed face, divined instantly who she was.
"Is not this Miss Wallingford?" he asked, his face expressing glad anticipation as he began to gather up his crutches.
"Do not rise," cried Mara, coming forward instantly with outstretched hands.
But he was on his crutches, and said feelingly, "Heaven forbid that I should receive the daughter of my old friend with so little respect." He took the girl's face into his hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Yes," he resumed gently, "you are Sidney Wallingford's child. God bless you, my dear," and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You won't mind this from an old comrade of your father," he said as he made her take his chair and sat down near her. "We have been bereft of so much that what remains has become very precious. I know all about you, Mara."
Tears were in the girl's eyes as she replied falteringly, "And I know of you, sir, and have longed to meet you. You can scarcely know how much your words mean to me when you say you were my father's comrade and friend. I knew this, but it seems more real to me now, and I feel that seeing you is coming as near as I can to seeing him."
"My poor child! Would to God that he had lived, for you would have been his pride and solace, as my daughter is to me. When I saw you last you were a little black-eyed girl and happily did not understand your loss, although you looked as if you did. I never thought so many years would pass before I saw you again, but we have had to fight some of our hardest battles since the war," and he sighed deeply.
"How soon can I meet your daughter?" Mara asked, her eyes full of sympathy.
"Very soon. I urged her to take a walk on the Battery, for she has not been very well of late. I said I knew all about you, as I have been told of your loyalty and brave efforts and your kindness to my aged cousin, but now that I see you, I feel that I know very little. Your face is full of stories, my dear child. You are young, and yet you look as if the memories of the past had made you far older than your years warrant That is the trouble with us. We have much more to look back upon than to look forward to. Yet it should not be so with you."
"It can scarcely be otherwise," Mara answered sadly; "you have touched the very core of our trouble, and I suppose it is the trouble with us all who are so closely linked with the past—we have so little to look forward to. But now that you can tell me about my father the past seems so near and real that I do not wish to think about anything else."
Time sped rapidly as Captain Bodine recalled the scenes and incidents of his life which were associated with his old commander, and Mara listened with an absorbed, tearful interest which touched him deeply. The proud, reserved expression of his face had passed away utterly, and the girl appreciated the change. His sympathy, the gentleness of his tones and the profound respect which was blended with his paternal manner made her feel that her father's friend was already her friend in a very near and sacred sense. While he was reserved about his own affairs, and she also was conscious of a secret of which she could never speak, they had so much in common that she felt that they could talk for hours. But the old lady in the apartment above grew impatient, and at last Hannah stood courtesying in the door as she said, "Missus p'sent her compl'ments an' say would be glad to see you."
"There, I've been selfish and thoughtless," said Captain Bodine, "but I shall see you again, for it will give Ella and me great pleasure to call upon you."
"Yes, indeed, we must meet often," Mara added earnestly. "I hope you are going to make a long stay in Charleston."
"I scarcely know," he replied, and again there was an involuntary sigh; "but I must keep you no longer."
"I'm not going to lose my visit altogether," said Mrs. Bodine, when Mara returned with an apology. "If the captain has only one leg, he can get out and around better than I can. Indeed it is wonderful how he does get around. He is the spryest man on crutches I ever saw, and you know, my dear, I've seen a good many. In that dreadful war we were only too glad to get our men back, what was left of them, and if an arm or a leg were missing we welcomed them all the more, but we couldn't give much more than a welcome. It was wreck and ruin on every side. If we had our own the captain would be well off, as you and I would be, but he is poor; poorer than most of us. In fact, he hasn't anything. He wasn't one of those supple jointed men who could conform to the times, and he wasn't brought up to make his living by thrifty ways. But he did his best, poor boy, he did his best. Would you like to hear more about him?"
"Yes, indeed," Mara replied, "you can't know how deeply I am interested in him and his daughter. He was my father's comrade in arms, his friend and follower. You must pardon me for staying away so long, but when he began talking of my father I felt as if I could listen forever, you know. I honor him all the more because he is poor."
"Yes, my dear, I know. Most of us are learning the hard lessons of poverty. I call him a boy because it seems only the other day he was a boy and a handsome one, too. He used to visit us here, and was so full of fun and frolic! But he has had enough to sober him, poor fellow. He was scarcely more than a boy when the war began, but he was among the first to enlist, and, like your father, he was a private soldier at first. He soon received a commission in the same regiment of which your father became colonel, and no doubt would have reached a much higher rank if he had not lost his leg. He met with this loss before your brave father was killed, but I suppose he told you."
"Yes," faltered Mara, "he told me why he was not with my father at the last."
"Yes, if he could he would have been with him and died with him, and sometimes I almost think he wishes that such had been his fate, he has suffered so much. During the remainder of the war he had command of inland positions which did not require marching, and he always made the record of a brave, high-minded officer. After the war he married a lovely girl, and tried to keep the old plantation: but his capital was gone, taxes were high, the negroes wouldn't work, and I suppose he and his wife didn't know how to practice close economy, and so the place had to be sold. It didn't bring enough to pay the mortgages. It cut him to the quick to part with the old plantation on which the family had lived for generations, but far worse was soon to follow, for his wife died, and that nearly broke his heart. Since that time he has lived in Georgia with his only child, Ella, getting such occupation as he could—office work of various kinds, but I suppose his reserved, gloomy ways rendered him unpopular; and even our own people, when it comes to business, prefer an active man who has a ready word for every one. I conjecture much of this, for he is not inclined to talk about himself. Poor as I am, I'm glad they accepted my invitation, and I mean to do all in my power to get him employment here. I have a little influence yet with some people, and perhaps a place can be found or made for him. He and his daughter don't require very much, and God knows I'd share my last crust with them, and," she concluded with a little apologetic laugh, "itisalmost like sharing a crust."
"Oh, he will get employment," cried Mara, enthusiastically; "his disabled condition in itself will plead eloquently for him. How old is Ella?"
"She must be eighteen or thereabout."
"I wonder if she wouldn't like to help me?"
"Help you? She'd be delighted. But then, my dear, you must not be carried away by your generous feeling. We're all proud of you because you have struck out so bravely for yourself; but surely you have burdens enough already."
"Perhaps Ella can lighten my burden, and I hers; but it is very homely, humble work."
"You dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, with her little chirruping laugh, "you are not a very homely, humble doer of the work. I reckon there's no prouder girl in town. But that's the way it is with the captain and all of us, in fact. The poorer we are, the prouder we are. Well, well, our pride is about all we can keep in these times. You need have no fear, however, that Ella will hesitate in helping you, except as she may very naturally think herself incompetent, or that you are wronging yourself in trying to help her."
"We'll see about it," Mara remarked thoughtfully; "I will invite her to spend a morning with me, and then she can obtain a practical idea of my work. She might not like it at all, or she might like to do something else much better, and so would be embarrassed if I asked her to help me, disliking to refuse, and yet wishing to do so."
"Ah, well," said Mrs. Bodine, smiling; "we have some right to think ourselves 'quality' still, as old Hannah calls us. We are just as considerate of one another's feelings as if we were all Royal Highnesses. Have it your own way, my dear, if you truly think Ella can be of service to you. I reckon you need help, for you don't look as well as when I saw you last."
"Yes," acquiesced Mara, "I think I do need help. Aun' Sheba's granddaughter is assisting her, and a good deal more could be sold if it were properly prepared. It would be a great happiness if my need opened the way for Ella, for I feel it would please my father as much as it would please me if I could be of service to his old friend and his daughter."
"I have heard, dear, that you are always trying to do what you thought your father and mother would like."
"God forbid I should do otherwise," said the girl solemnly.
"Well, perhaps they know all about it," said the old lady, wiping a tear from her eye. "How close our troubles bring us together. You are lonely for your parents, and I am lonely for my husband and children."
"And yet you are braver and more cheerful than I," responded Mara; "I was so sad and discouraged over the future this afternoon, that I came to you, thinking that you might unconsciously teach me patience and courage. Truly I was guided, for you face everything like a soldier. Then in meeting Captain Bodine, I seem to have been brought nearer my father than ever before. I can't hear about him without tears, yet I would turn from any pleasure in the world to hear about him. What happiness if he had lived and I could help him in some way!"
"Well, my dear, we all have our own way of bearing our burdens, and I often wonder whether I have done more laughing or crying in my life. It has been one or the other most of the time. I have always thanked the Lord that when the pain or the trouble was not too severe, I could laugh, and soon I know all tears will be wiped away. It's harder for you, my dear; it is harder for you than me. My voyage has been long and stormy; husband, sons, and the cause for which they died all lost; but I'm coming into the harbor. You've got your voyage before you. But take courage. Who knows but that your early days may be your darkest days? They can't always be dark when you are so ready to brighten the lives of others. There, I hear Ella's voice."
A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Ella Bodine entered. We have all seen bright-hued flowers growing in shaded places, and among cold, grim rocks. Such brightness had the young girl who now appears upon the scene of our story. One speedily felt that its cause was not in externals, but that it resulted from inherent qualities. As with Mara, there had been much in her young life sad and hard to endure. She had not surmounted her trouble by shallowness of soul or callousness, but rather by a spiritual buoyancy which kept her above the dark waves, and enabled her to enjoy all the sunshine vouchsafed. Yet, unlike her father and Mara, she lived keenly in the present. She sympathized truly and honestly with her father, and in a large measure intelligently recognized the nature of the deep shadows projected across his life from the past, but it was her disposition to keep as near to him as possible and yet remain just beyond the shadows. She possessed a wholesome common-sense which taught her that the shadows were not hers and that they were not good for her father; so she was ever making inroads upon them, beguiling him into a smile, surprising him into a laugh—in brief, preventing the shadows from deepening into that gloom which is dangerous to bodily and spiritual health. She made his small earnings go a great way, and banished from his life the sordidness of poverty. God outlines an angel in many a woman's heart, and often privations and sorrow, more surely than luxury, fill out the divine sketch. In the instance of Ella Bodine the angelic was so sweetly and inextricably interwoven with all that was human that to mortal comprehension she was better than a wilderness of conventional angels. She was depressed now under one of the few forms of adversity that could cast her down. Her father was out of employment, their slender income had ceased, and they were dependent. She felt this cruel position all the more because Mrs. Bodine out of her poverty gave her hospitality so unstintedly and ungrudgingly.
To the sensitive, fine-natured girl it was like feeding upon the life of another, and that other a generous friend.
During her walk a score of schemes to earn money had presented themselves to her inexperienced mind, but her hands had learned only how to eke out a small salary and to minister to her father. She had come home resolute to do something, but troubled because she knew not what to do.
She paused a moment on the threshold of Mrs. Bodine's apartment, and looked questioningly at Mara, at the same time half divining who she was.
"Come along, Ella," cried Mrs. Bodine, with a little joyous laugh of anticipation, "and kiss one of your best friends, although you never saw her before."
"Is it Mara?"
Mara's smile and swift approach answered her question. In an instant the two girls were in each other's arms, their warm Southern hearts touched by the electric fire of sympathy and mutual understanding. Mrs. Bodine clapped her little, thin hands and cried, "Oh, that's fine. Southern girls have not died out yet. Why, even my old withered heart had one of the most delicious thrills it ever experienced. Now, my dears, come and sit beside me and get acquainted."
"Oh, I know you already, Mara Wallingford," said Ella with sparkling eyes.
"And I am learning to know you, Ella. I know you already well enough to love you."
"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, raising her hands in a comic gesture, "I reckon the ice is broken between you."
They all laughed at this sally, and Mara was so cheered, her nerves all tingling with excitement, that she could scarcely believe herself to be the half-despairing girl of a few hours before. "Now come," resumed Mrs. Bodine, "let us all be girls together and have a good talk. At this rate I'll soon be younger than either of you. I haven't had my share yet. Do you believe it, Ella? Mara has been downstairs petting your father for an hour."
"I wonder where he is. He wasn't in the parlor when I came in."
"I reckon he followed your good example and went out for a walk. I heard the door shut. Well, you girls make a picture that it does my old eyes good to look at. Here's Mara with her creamy white skin and eyes as lustrous now as our Southern skies when full of stars, but sometimes, oh so sad and dark. Dear child, I wish I could take the gloom all out of them, for then I could think your heart was light. But I know how it is; I know. Your mother gave you her sad heart when she gave you life, but you have your father's strength and courage, my dear, and you will never give up. And here is Ella with complexion of roses and snow and eyes like violets with the morning dew still on them—forgive an old woman's flowery speech, for that's the way we used to talk when I was young—yes, here is Ella, a little peach blossom, yet brimming over with the wish to become a big, luscious peach. Lor, Lor—oh, fie! Am I saying naughty words? But then, my dears, you know my husband was a naval officer, and no man ever swore more piously than he. Bad words never sounded bad to me when he spoke them—he was such a good Christian! and he always treated me as he expected to be treated when he was on deck. I reckon that I and the Commodore are the only ones that ever orderedhimaround," and the old lady cried and laughed at the same time, while the faces of her young companions were like flowers brightened by the sun while still wet with dew.
"Let me see," continued the old lady, "where was I when I began to swear a little; just a little, you know. It is a sort of tribute to my husband, and so can't be very wicked. Oh, I remember, I was thinking what fun it would have been to chaperon you two girls at one of our grand balls in the good old times. I would sail around like a great ship of the line, convoying two of the trimmest little crafts that ever floated, and all the pirates, I mean gallant young men, my dears, would hover near, dying to cut you out right under my guns, or nose, as land-lubbers would say. Well, well, either of you could lead a score of them a chase before you signed articles of unconditional surrender," and Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair and laughed in her silvery little birdlike twitter. The girls laughed with her, pleased in spite of themselves with visions that, both in their nature and by tradition, accorded with the young romantic period of life. But memory speedily began to restore gravity to Mara's face. Mrs. Bodine recognized this, and her own face grew gentle and sorrowful. Laying a hand on each of the girls heads she resumed, "Do not think I am a frivolous old woman because I run on so. I do not forget the present any more than Mara, I see, cannot. Dear children, the circumstances of your lot render you as burdened and, in some ways, almost as old as I am. Ella can forget easier than you, Mara, but that is because God has put brightness into her heart. Let us all face the truth together. I am long past being an elegant matron. I am only a poor old childless widow with but a few more days of feebleness and suffering before me, yet I do not sigh in a bitter, murmuring spirit. Old as I am, I am still God's little child, and sometimes I think this truth makes me as mirthful as a child. When the pain is hardest to bear, when the past, oh, the past—with all its immeasurable losses, begins to crush my very soul, I turn my dim eyes upward and repeat to myself, 'Thereisa Heaven of eternal rest and joy,' and so I grow serene in my waiting. I have always loved the bright, pleasant things of this world—it was my nature to do so—but He who bears the burdens and heartbreak of the whole world has gently lifted my love up to Him. Didn't He have compassion on the widow of Nain, and say to her, 'Weep not'? My gallant husband, my brave boys and this poor little widow are all in His hands, and I try to obey His gentle command not to weep except sometimes when I can't help it and He knows I can't."
The two girls with their heads in her lap were crying softly from sympathy. With light, caressing touches to each the old lady continued, "Ella, my dear, you are like me in some respects. You, too, love the bright pleasant things of this world, and you are so divinely blessed with a buoyancy of heart that you will make what is hard and humdrum bright for yourself and others. You will embroider life with sunshine if there is any sunshine at all. Like myself, you will be able to smile and laugh whenever the pain is not too severe, yet I fear it will be very hard sometimes. Bat, as my husband would say, you are taut, trim and well ballasted, and good for a long, safe voyage. You have obeyed the Fifth Commandment, and its promise is yours.
"Mara, dear child my heart, for some reason, aches for you. I knew and loved your grandfather and your father and mother. You were born into a heritage of bitterness and sorrow, and I fear Mrs. Hunter, with all her good qualities, was not so constituted as to be able to counteract inherited tendencies. I wish I could have brought you up, for then we could have cried or laughed together over what happened.
"But you have learned to repress and to brood—two dangerous habits. You want to do some great thing, and alas! there is seldom a great thing which we poor women can do. You are not impelled by ambition or a desire for notoriety, but by a sort of passion for self-sacrifice.
"If you had lived twenty odd years ago no soldier of the South could have been braver or more devoted. You are not satisfied with mere living and making the best of life as it is. I don't know why, but I feel that there are depths in your heart which no one understands. Be careful, dear child, and be patient. Don't yield to some morbid idea of duty, or be involved in some chimerical plan of an achievement.
"Learn Ella's philosophy, and be as content with sunshine and daily duty as possible. Ella will do this unconsciously, my dear; you will have to do it consciously, just as a sick man seeks health. But you will both have to go forward and meet woman's lot. I was once a young girl, fancy free, like you. How much has happened since! I now feel like an old hen that would like to gather you both under her wing in shelter from all trouble," and again her little laugh chimed out while she wiped away the tears which sprang from her motherly heart.
The thump of Captain Bodine's crutches was heard on the stair. "Bring him in," said Mrs. Bodine, mopping her eyes vigorously.
Ella ran to the door and admitted him, and then, with a pretty custom she had, took away a crutch, and substituting one of her own round shoulders supported him to a large armchair. The low western sun flooded the room with light. He looked questioningly at the dewy eyes of the two girls and at the evidences of emotion which Mrs. Bodine had not been fully able to remove.
"Well," said he, "what part am I to have in this mournful occasion?"
Ella stood beside him with her arm about his neck, and was about to speak, when Mrs. Bodine said quickly in her piquant way, "You are to be chief mourner."
"A role for which I am peculiarly fitted," he replied sadly, not catching her humor.
"Oh, papa, you don't understand," cried Ella, "we have been having just a heavenly time."
He looked at Mara as she stood beside the old lady, and his very soul was touched by the sympathy expressed for him in her beautiful eyes. Standing there, enveloped in sunshine, it seemed to him that no angel of God could regard him more kindly. It was not pity, but rather honor, affection and that deep commiseration of which but few women are capable. He felt instinctively that she knew all and that her woman's heart was suffering vicariously with him and for him. The very air was electrical with deep human feeling, and he, yielding to a strong impulse scarcely understood, said earnestly, "God bless you, Mara Wallingford."
Sensible old Mrs. Bodine felt that it was time to come back to every-day life, so she said promptly, "Yes, and He is going to bless her, and bless us all. If there is any mourning to be done on this occasion you must do it. We three girls have been having a good talk, and are the better for it. That's the demmed total—oh, fie! there I am at it again. Well, Cousin Hugh, to take you into our entire confidence, we have been facing things and have arrived at several conclusions, one of which is—now, Ella, shut your ears—that you have one of the best daughters in the world, and that she and Mara have quite broken the ice between them and are going to be very good friends, and I was saying how I would like to convoy two such girls in one of our ballrooms in the good old times—oh, well, we have just been having a long lingo as girls will when they get together."
Captain Bodine was gifted with tact and a quick appreciation. He understood the old lady and her purpose.
"Cousin Sophy," he said, "you are just the same as when, a boy, I used to visit you—tears and smiles close together. Well, I believe that Heaven comes down very near when you three girls get together."
The old lady lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. "Oh, Ella, if you only knew what a mischievous boy your father was once! But, there, we have had enough of the past and the future for one day. Mara, my dear, you must stay and banquet with us. No, no, no, I won't hear any excuse. When I once get on quarter-deck every one must obey orders. Ella, direct Hannah to spread the festive board. You and Mara can lend a hand, and you can put on all we have in five minutes. To think that I should have eaten that delicious jelly you brought, greedy old cormorant that I am!"
A few moments later Mara supported the old lady down to the dining-room, and, though the viands were few and meagre, the banqueters, to say the least, were not commonplace. Mara said nothing of her plan, but Ella was invited to spend the following morning with her. In the late lingering twilight Captain Bodine escorted the young girl home. On the way thither they came plump upon Owen Clancy. He glanced keenly from one to the other as he lifted his hat. Mara's only response was a slight bow.