Kitabı oku: «The Bondwoman», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XXII
The O’Delaven, as he called himself when he was in an especially Irish mood, was Mistress McVeigh’s most devoted servant and helper in the preparations for the party. In fact, when Judge Clarkson rode over to pay his respects, a puzzled little frown persistently crept between his brows at the gallantry and assiduity displayed by this exile of Erin in carrying out the charming lady’s orders, to say nothing of the gayety, the almost presumption, with which he managed affairs to suit his own fancy when his hostess was not there to give personal attention; and the child Evilena was very nearly, if not quite ignored, or at any rate, was treated in a condescending manner almost parental in its character, and which he perceived was as little relished by the girl as by himself.
He was most delighted, of course, to learn who was the purchaser of Loringwood–it was such an admirable transaction he felt everybody concerned was to be congratulated; even war news was forgotten for a space.
All the day passed and no Kenneth! His mother decided he would be there the following morning, and, with flags draped over walls, and all the preparations complete for his reception, she retired, weary and happy from the day’s labors.
Judithe eyed those flags with the same inscrutable smile sometimes given to Matthew Loring’s compliments. She pointed to them next morning, when Delaven and herself stood in the hall waiting for their horses. She had accepted him as cavalier for the time, and they were going for a ride in the cool of the morning before the others were stirring.
Margeret was in sight, however–Judithe wondered if she ever slept–and she came to them with delicious coffee and crisp toast, and watched them as they rode away.
It was while sipping the steaming coffee the flags were noticed, and Judithe remarked: “Those emblems mean so much down here, yet I never hear you discuss them, or what they stand for. Your nation is one always in rebellion against its unsympathetic governess. I should think you would naturally tend towards the seceders here.”
“I do–towards several, individually,” and he looked at her over the rim of the cup with quizzical blue eyes. “But I find three factions here instead of two, and my people have been too long under the oppressor for me not to appreciate what freedom would mean to these serfs in the South, and how wildly they long for it. No; I like the Southerners better than the Northerners, because I know them better; but in the matter of sympathy, faith! I forget both the warring factions and only think of Sambo and Sambo’s wife and children.”
Judithe raised her finger, as Margeret entered with the toast and quietly vanished.
“I was afraid she would hear you. I fancy they must feel sensitive over the situation; speak French, please. What was it the Judge was saying about emancipation last evening? I noticed the conversation was changed as Mr. Loring grew–well, excited.”
“Oh, the old story; rumors again that the Federal government mean to proclaim freedom for the blacks. But when it was done in two states by the local authorities, it was vetoed at Washington; so it is doubtful after all if it is true, there are so many rumors afloat. But if it is done there will be nothing vague about it. I fancy it will be said so good and loud that there will be a panic from ocean to ocean.”
“Insurrection?”
“No; the Judge is right; there is a peculiar condition of affairs here precluding the possibility of that unless in isolated instances, a certain personal sympathy between master and slave which a foreigner finds difficult of comprehension.”
“What about the runaways?” she asked, with a little air of check, “several of them have escaped the sympathetic bonds in that way; in fact, they tell me Mr. Loring, or his niece, has lately lost some very valuable live stock through that tendency.”
“Whisper now!–though I believe it is a very open secret in the community, the gentleman in question, my dear Marquise, is one of the isolated instances. If you are studying social institutions in this country you must make a note of that, and underline it with red ink. He is by no means the typical Southerner. He is, however, a proof of the fact that it is a dangerous law which allows every one possessing wealth an almost unlimited power over scores of human beings. To be sure, he is mild as skim-milk these days of convalescence, but there are stories told of the use he made of power when he dared, that would warrant the whole pack taking to their heels if they had the courage. They are not stories for ladies’ ears, however, and I doubt if Miss Loring herself is aware of them. But in studying the country here, don’t forget that my patient is one in a thousand–better luck to the rest.”
“So!” and she arose, drawing on her glove slowly, and regarding him with a queer little smile; “you have been giving thought to something besides the love songs of this new country? Your ideas are very interesting. I shall remember them, even without the red ink.”
Then they mounted the impatient horses and rode out in the pink flush of the morning–the only hours cool enough for the foreigners to exercise at that season. They were going no place in particular, but when the cross-country road was reached leading to Loringwood, she suddenly turned to him and proposed that he conduct her to her new purchase–introduce her to Loringwood.
“With all the pleasure in life,” he assented gaily, somewhat curious to see how she would like the “pig in a poke,” as he designated her business transaction.
When they reached the gate she dismounted and insisted on walking through the long avenue she had admired. He was going to lead the horses, but she said, “No, tie them to the posts there, they were both well behaved, tractable animals;” she could speak for her mount at any rate. Pluto had told her it was Col. McVeigh’s favorite, trained by himself.
She wore a thin silken veil of palest grey circling her hat, covering her face, and the end fastened in fluffy loops on her bosom. Her habit was of cadet grey, with a military dash of braid on epaulettes and cuff; the entire costume was perfect in its harmonious lines, and admirably adapted to the girlish yet stately figure. Delaven, looking at her, thought that in all the glories of the Parisian days he had never seen la belle Marquise more delightful to the eye than on that oft-to-be-remembered September morning.
She was unusually silent as they walked along the avenue, but her eyes were busy and apparently pleased at the prospect before her, and when they reached the front of the house she halted, surveyed the whole place critically, from the lazy wash of the river landing to the great pillars of the veranda, and drew a little breath of content.
“Just what I expected,” she remarked, in reply to his question. “I hope the river is not too shallow. Can we go in? I should like to, but not as the owner, please. They need not know of the sale until the Lorings choose to tell them.”
Little Raquel had opened the door, very much pleased at their arrival. She informed them “Aunt Chloe laid up with some sort of misery, and Betsey, who was in the cook-house, she see them comen’ an’ she have some coffee for them right off,” and she was proceeding with other affairs of entertainment when Judithe interrupted:
“No coffee, nothing for me. Now, Doctor, if you want to show me the library; you know we must not linger, this is to be a busy day at the Terrace.”
They had gone through the lower rooms, of which she had little to say. He had shown her the dashing portrait of Marmeduke Loring and given her a suggestion of the character as heard from Nelse. He had shown her the pretty, seraphic portrait of Gertrude as a little child, and the fair, handsome face of Tom Loring, as it looked down from the canvas with a smile for all the world in his genial eyes.
They had made no further progress when Raquel appeared upon the scene again with a request from Aunt Chloe, “Would Mahs Doctor come roun’ an’ tell her jest what ailed her most, she got so many cu’eous compercations.”
He followed to see what the complications were, and thus it happened that Judithe was left alone to look around her new possessions.
But she did not look far. After a brief glance about she returned to the last portrait, studying the frank, handsome face critically.
“And thou wert the man,” she murmured. “Why don’t such men bear faces to suit their deeds, that all people may avoid the evil of them? Fair, strong, and appealing!” she continued, enumerating the points of the picture, “and a frank, honest gaze, too; but the painter had probably been false in that, and idealized the face. Yet I have seen eyes that were as honest looking, cover a vile soul, so why not this one?”
The eyes that were as honest looking were the deep sea-blue eyes she had described once to Dumaresque, confessing with light mockery their witchcraft over her; she thanked God those days were over. She had now something more to dream over than sentimental fancies.
She heard the quick beat of horse hoofs coming up the avenue and stopping at the door; then, a man’s voice:
“Good morning, Jeff–any of our folks over from the Terrace?”
“Yes, sah; good mawn, sah; leastwise I jest saw Miss Gertrude go in; they all stayen’ ovah at Terrace; I reckon she rode back for something. I reckon you find her in library; window’s open thah.”
The man’s voice replied from the hall, “All right,” and he opened the door.
“Good morning, little woman,” he said, cheerily, boyishly. “When I saw Hector at the gate with the side saddle I thought–”
What he thought was left unfinished. The slender figure in grey turned from the window, and throwing back the veil with one hand extended the other to him, with an amused smile at his mistake.
“Judithe!” He had crossed the room; he held her hand in both of his; he could not otherwise believe in the reality of her presence. In dreams he had seen her so often thus, with the smile and the light as of golden stars deep in the brown eyes.
“Welcome to Loringwood, Col. McVeigh,” she said, softly.
“Your welcome could make it the most delightful homecoming of my life,” he said, looking down at her, “if I dared be sure I was quite welcome to your presence.”
“I am your mother’s guest,” and she met his gaze with cordial frankness; “would that be so if–oh, yes, you may be very sure I am pleased to see you home again, and especially pleased to see you here.”
“You are? Judithe, I beg pardon,” as she raised her brows in slight question. “I am not accountable this morning, Marquise; with a little time to recover myself in, I may grow more rational. To find you here is as much a surprise as though I had met you alone at sea in an open boat.”
“Alone–at sea–in an open boat,” she repeated, with a curious inflection; “but you perceive, Col. McVeigh, the situation is not at all like that. I am under my own roof tree, and a very substantial one it is,” with a comprehensive glance about the imposing apartment; “and you are the first guest I have welcomed here–I am much pleased that it happened so.” When he stared at this bit of information she continued: “I have just made purchase of the estate from your friends, the Lorings–this is my first visit to it, and you are my first caller. You perceive I am really your neighbor, Monsieur.”
His eyes were bent on her with mute question; it all seemed so incredible that she should come there at all–to his country, to his home. He had left France cursing her coquetry; he had, because of her, gone straight to the frontier on his return to America, and lived the life of camps ever since; he had fancied no woman would ever again hold the sway over him she had held for that one brief season. Yet the graciousness of her tone, the frank smile in her eyes, and the touch of her hand–the beautiful hand!–
Delaven came in, and there were more explanations; then, to the regret of Raquel and Betsey, they left for the Terrace without partaking of the specially prepared coffee. Col. McVeigh had ridden from the coast with a party of the state guard, who were going to the river fortifications. Seeing his own saddle horse at the gate he had let them go on to the Terrace without him, while he stopped, thinking to find his mother or sister there.
The new mistress of Loringwood listened with an interested expression to this little explanation, and no one would have thought there was any special motive in leaving the horse tied there on the only road he would be likely to come, or that his statement that he traveled with a party of military friends conveyed a distinct message to her of work to be done.
She did not fail to notice that Col. McVeigh was a much handsomer man than the lieutenant had been. He appeared taller, heavier–a stalwart soldier, who had lost none of his impetuousness, and had even gained in self confidence, but for all that the light of boyhood was in his eyes as he looked at her, and she, well satisfied that it was so, rode happily to the Terrace beside him, only smiling when he pointed out a clump of beeches and said he never passed without thinking of the trees at Fontainbleau.
“And,” with a little mocking glance, “do the violets and forget-me-nots also grow among the bushes here?”
“Yes;” and he returned her mocking look with one so deliberate that her eyes dropped, “the forget-me-not is hardy in my land, you know; it lives always if encouraged.”
“Heavens!–will the man propose to me again before we reach the house or have breakfast?” she thought, and concluded it more wise to drop such dangerous topics. Until her expected messenger came she could not quite decide what was to be done or what methods employed.
“Forget-me-nots, is it?” queried Delaven, in strict confidence with himself; “oh, but you’ve been clever, the pair of you, to get so far as forget-me-nots, and no one the wiser;” then aloud he said, “I’ve an idea that the best beloved man on the plantation this day will be the one who announces your coming, Colonel; so if you’ll look after Madame la Marquise–”
And then he dashed ahead congratulating himself on the way he was helping the Colonel.
“It’s well to have a friend at court,” he decided, “and it’s myself may need all I can get–for pill boxes are a bad balance for plantations, Fitz; faith, they’ll be flung to the moon at first tilt.”
The two left alone had three miles to go and seemed likely to make the journey in silence. She was a trifle dismayed at Delaven’s desertion, and could find no more light words. She attempted some questions concerning the blockade, but his replies showed his thoughts were elsewhere.
“It is no use,” he said, abruptly. “I have only forty-eight hours to remain; I may not see you again for a year, perhaps, never, for I go at once to the front. There is only one thought in my mind, and you know what it is.”
“To conquer the Yankees?” she hazarded.
“No, to conquer some pride or whim of the girl who confessed once that she loved me.”
“Take my advice, Monsieur,” she said with a cool little smile. “No doubt you have been fortunate enough to hear those words many times–I should think it quite probable,” and she let her eyes rest approvingly for a moment on his face; “but it is well to consider the girls who make those avowals before you place full credence on the statement–not that they always mean to deceive,” she amended, “but those three words have a most peculiar fascination for girlhood–they like to use them even when they do not comprehend the meaning.”
He shook his head as he looked at her.
“It is no use, Madame la Marquise,” he said, and the ardent eyes met her own and made her conscious of a sudden fear. “You reason it out very well–philosophy is one of your hobbies, isn’t it? I always detested women with hobbies–the strong-minded woman who reasons instead of feeling; and now you are revenging the whole army of them by making me feel beyond reason. But you shan’t evade me by such tactics. Do you remember what your last spoken words to me were, three years ago?”
Her face paled a little, she lifted the bridle to urge her horse onward, but he laid his hand on her wrist.
“No, pardon me, but I must speak to you–day and night I have thought of them, and now that you are here–oh, I know you sent me away–that is, you hid from me; and why, Judithe? I believe on my soul it was because you meant those words when you said: ‘I love you now, and from the first moment you ever looked at me!’ I told myself at first, when I left France, that it was all falsehood, coquetry–but I could not keep that belief, for the words rang too true–you thought you were going over that bank to death, and all your heart was in your voice and your eyes. That moment has come back to me a thousand times since; has been with me in the thick of battle, singing through my ears as the bullets whistled past. ‘I love you now, and from the first moment you ever looked at me.’ It is no use to pretend you did not mean those words then. I know in my heart you did. You were bound in some way, no doubt, and fancied you had no right to say them. The announcement of your engagement suggested that. But you are free now, or you would not be here, and I must be heard.”
“Be satisfied then,” she replied, indifferently, though her hand trembled on the bridle, “you perceive you have, thanks to your stronger arm, an audience of one.”
“You are angry at my presumption–angry at the advantage I have taken of the situation?” he asked. “I grant you are right; but remember, it is now or perhaps never with me; and it is the presumption of love–a woman should forgive that.”
“They usually do, Monsieur,” she replied, with a little shrug and glance of amusement. For one bewildered instant she had lost control of herself, and had only the desire to flee; but it was all over now, she remembered another point to be made in the game–something to postpone the finale until she had seen Pierson.
“It is not just to me,” he said, meeting her mocking glance with one that was steadfast and determined. “However your sentiments have changed, I know you cared for me that day, as I have cared for you ever since, and now that you have come here–to my own country, to my mother’s house, I surely may ask this one question: Why did you accept the love I offered, and then toss it away almost in the same breath?”
“I may reply by another question,” she said, coolly. “What right had you to make any offers of love to me at any time? What right have you now?”
“What right?”
“Yes; does your betrothed approve? Is that another of the free institutions in your land of liberties?”
“What do you mean?–my betrothed?”
“Your betrothed,” she said, and nodded her head with that same cool little smile. “I heard her name that evening of the drive you remember so well; our friend, the Countess Helene, mentioned it to me–possibly for fear my very susceptible heart might be won by your protection of us,” and she glanced at him again, mockingly. “You had forgotten to mention it to me, but it really does not matter, I have learned since then that gentlemen absolutely cannot go around reciting the lists of former conquests–it is too apt to prevent the acquisition of new ones. I did not realize it then–there were so many things I could not realize; and I felt piqued at your silence; but,” with an expressive little gesture and a bright smile, “I am no longer so. I come to your home; I clasp hands with you; I meet your bride-elect, Miss Loring–she is remarkably pretty, Monsieur, and I am quite prepared to dance at your wedding; therefore–”
“Marquise, on my honor as a man,” he did not see the scornful light in her eyes as he spoke of his honor; “there has never been a word of love between Gertrude Loring and myself; it is nothing but family gossip dating from the time we were children, and encouraged by her uncle for reasons entirely financial. We have both ignored it. We are all fond of her, and I believe my mother at one time did hope it would be so arranged, but I hope she wins a better fellow than myself; she cares no more for me than I for her.”
They had turned into the Terrace grounds. Evilena was running out to meet them. She was so close now she could hear what he said if it were not for her own swiftness.
“Judithe! One word, a look; you believe me?”
She said nothing, but she did flash one meaning glance at him, and then his sister was at the stirrup and he swung out of the saddle to kiss her.
