"You are a little tired, Major?"
"Possibly. Somewhat. Sara has been reading aloud to me from the
_Review_. She read all the long articles."
"Ah--she does not know how that tires you. I must tell her. She does not
appreciate--she is still so young, you know--that with your extensive
reading, your knowledge of public affairs and the world at large, you
can generally anticipate, after the first few sentences, all that can be
said."
The Major did not deny this statement of his resources.
"I am going to the village for an hour or two," continued Madam Carroll;
"I shall take Sara with me." (Here the Major's face seemed to evince a
certain relief.) "We must call upon Miss Honoria Ashley. And also at
Chapultepec, upon Mrs. Hibbard."
"Yes, yes--widow of General Hibbard, of the Mexican War," said the
Major, half to himself.
"I do not pay many visits, as you know, Major; our position does not
require it. We open our house--that is enough; our friends come to us;
they do not expect us to go to them. But I make an exception in the case
of Mrs. Hibbard and of Miss Ashley, as you have advised me to do; for
the Ashleys are connected with the Carrolls by marriage, though the tie
is remote, and Mrs. Hibbard's mother was a Witherspoon. I know you wish
Sara to understand and recognize these little distinctions and
differences."
"Certainly. Very proper," said the Major.
"We shall be gone an hour and a half, perhaps two hours. I will send
Scar to you for his lessons; and I shall tell Judith Inches to allow no
one to disturb you, not even to knock at this door. For Scar's lessons
are important, Major."
"Yes, very important--very."
"Good-bye, then," said his wife, cheerfully, resting her hand on his
shoulder for a moment, as she stood beside his chair. The Major drew the
slender hand forward to his gray moustache.
"Fie, Major! you spoil me," said the little woman, laughing.
She left the room, making, with her light dress and long curls, a pretty
picture at the door, as she turned to give him over her shoulder a
farewell nod and smile. The Major kept on looking at the closed door
for several minutes after she had gone.
Not long after this the same door opened, and a little boy came in; his
step was so light and his movements so careful that he made no sound. He
closed the door, and laid the book he had brought with him upon a table.
He was a small, frail child, with a serious face and large blue eyes;
his flaxen hair, thin and fine, hung in soft, scanty waves round his
little throat--a throat which seemed too small for his well-developed
head, yet quite large enough for his short, puny body. He was dressed in
a blue jacket, with an embroidered white collar reaching to the
shoulders, and ruffles of the same embroidery at the knee, where his
short trousers ended. A blue ribbon tied his collar, and his slender
little legs and feet were incased in long white stockings and low
slippers, such as are worn by little girls. His whole costume, indeed,
had an air of effeminacy; but he was such a delicate-looking little
fellow that it was not noticeable. From a woman's point of view, he was
prettily dressed.
He crossed the room, opened a closet door, and took from a shelf two
boxes, which he carried to the table, making a separate journey with
each. He arranged these systematically, the book in the centre, a box on
each side; then he pushed the table over the carpet towards the Major's
chair. The table was narrow and light, and made no sound. He moved
onward slowly, his hands, widely apart, grasping its top, and he paused
several times to peer round the corner of it so as to bring it up within
an inch of the Major's feet, yet not to touch them. This accomplished,
he surveyed the position gravely. Satisfied with it, he next brought up
a chair for himself, which, while not the ordinary high-chair of a
child, seemed yet to have been made especially for him on account of his
low stature. He drew this chair close to the table on the opposite side,
climbed into it, and then, when all was prepared, he spoke. "I am quite
ready now, papa, if you please." His slender little voice was clear and
even, like his mother's; his words followed each other with slow
precision.
The Major woke, or, if he had not been asleep, opened his eyes. "Ah,
little Scar," he said, "you here?" And he patted the child's hand
caressingly. Scar opened his book; then one of the boxes, which
contained white blocks with large red letters painted upon them. He read
aloud from the book a sentence, once, twice. Then he proceeded to make
it from memory with the blocks on the table, working slowly, and
choosing each letter with thoughtful deliberation.
"Good--blood--can--not--lie," he read aloud from his row of letters when
the sentence was completed. "I think that is right. Your turn, papa."
And then the Major, with almost equal slowness, formed, after Scar had
read it, the following adage: "A brave father makes a brave son."
"That's you and I, Scar."
"Yes, papa. And this is the next:
'The--knights--are--dust.--Their--good--swords--rust.--Their--souls--are
--with--the--saints--we--trust.' That is too long for one. We will call
it three."
Father and little son completed in this slow way eight of the sentences
the little book contained. It was a small, flat volume in manuscript,
the letters clearly printed with pen and ink. The Major's wife had
prepared it, "from the Major's dictation," she said. "A collection of
the fine old sayings of the world, which he greatly admires, and which
he thinks should form part of the preliminary education of our son."
"Eight. The lesson is finished, papa," said Scar. "If you think I have
done sufficiently well, I may now amuse myself with my dominoes." As he
spoke he replaced the letters in their box, put on the cover, and laid
the manuscript book on the top. Then he drew forward the second box, and
took out his dominoes. He played by himself, one hand against the
other. "You will remember, papa, that my right hand I call Bayard and my
left Roland."
"Yes," answered the Major, looking on with interest.
Roland won the first game. Then the second. "The poor chevalier seems to
have no luck to-day. I must help him a little," said the Major. And he
and Scar played a third game.
While they were thus engaged, with Bayard's fortunes not much improved
as yet, the door opened, and Sara Carroll came in. The Major was sitting
with his spectacles on and head bent forward, in order to read the
numbers on the dominoes; his hand, poised over the game while he
considered his choice, had the shrivelled appearance, with the veins
prominent on the back, which more than anything else betrays the first
feebleness of old age. As his daughter came in he looked up, first
through his spectacles, then, dropping his head a little, over them,
after the peering fashion of old men. But the instant he recognized her
his manner, attitude, even his whole appearance, changed, as if by
magic; his spectacles were off; he had straightened himself, and risen.
"Ah! you have returned?" he said. "Scar had his lessons so well that I
have permitted him to amuse himself with his dominoes for a while, as
you see. You are back rather sooner than you expected, aren't you?"
"We had to postpone our visit to Mrs. Hibbard," said Sara.
The Major's lips formed, "of the Mexican War;" but he did not utter the
syllables aloud, and immediately thereafter seemed to take himself more
vigorously in hand, as it were. He walked to the hearth-rug, and took up
a position there with his shoulders back, his head erect, and one hand
in the breast of his frock-coat. "It is quite proper that you should go
to see those two ladies, my daughter; the Ashleys are connected with the
Carrolls by marriage, though the tie is a remote one, and the mother of
Mrs.--Mrs.--the other lady you were mentioning; her name has just
escaped me--"
"Hibbard," said Sara.
"Yes, Mrs. Hibbard of the Mex--I mean, that Mrs. Hibbard's mother was a
Witherspoon. It is right that you should recognize these--ah, these
little distinctions and differences." He brought out the last words in
full, round tones. The Major's voice had always been a fine one.
He was a handsome, soldierly-looking man, tall, broad-shouldered, with
noble bearing, and bold, well-cut features. He was dressed in black,
with broad, stiff, freshly starched white cuffs, and a high standing
collar, round which was folded a black silk cravat that when opened was
three-quarters of a yard square. His thin gray hair, moustache, and
imperial were cut after the fashion affected by the senior officers of
the old army--the army before the war.
"They are not especially interesting in themselves, those two ladies,"
remarked his daughter, taking off her little black bonnet. "Miss Honoria
cares more about one's shoes--whether or not they are dusty enough to
injure her oiled floors--than about one's self; and Mrs. Hibbard talks
all the time about her ducks."
"True, quite true. Those ducks are extremely tiresome. I have had to
hear a great deal about them myself," said the Major, in an injured
tone, forgetting for a moment his military attitude. "What do I know of
ducks? Yet she _will_ talk about them."
"Why should you listen?" said Sara, drawing off her gloves.
"Ah, we must not forget that her mother was a Mex--I mean, a
Witherspoon. It is not necessary for us, for you, to pay many visits, my
daughter; our position does not require it. We--ah--we open our house;
that is enough; our friends come to us; they do not expect us to go to
them."
Sara was now taking off her mantle; he watched to see whether she would
keep it or put it down. She threw it over her arm, and she also took up
her bonnet and gloves. "You will let me come back and read to you,
father?"
"Thank you, my dear; but it is not necessary. I have still another of
Scar's lessons to attend to, and Scar's lessons are important, very
important. There are, besides, various other little things which may
require my attention. In short, my--ah--mornings are at present quite
filled. Besides, reading aloud is very fatiguing, very; and I do not
wish you to fatigue yourself on my account."
"Nothing I was doing for you could fatigue me, father. You don't know
how I have longed to be at home again so that I _could_ do something for
you." She spoke warmly.
The Major looked perturbed. He coughed, and glanced helplessly towards
the door. As if in answer to his look, the door at that moment opened,
and his wife came in.
"Mr. Owen is in the drawing-room, Sara," she said. "Will you go in and
see him, please? I will follow you in a moment. I met him on his way
here, and offered him your vacant place in the carriage."
"He comes rather often, doesn't he?" said Sara, her eyes still on her
father's face.
"Yes, he comes often. But it is natural that he should wish to come. As
the Major has observed before this, the rector of St. John's must
always rely for his most congenial society, as well as for something of
guidance, too, upon Carroll Farms."
"Certainly," said the Major. "I have often made the remark."
"I suppose he comes more especially to see you, father," Sara said.
"Mr. Owen knows that he must not expect to see the Major in the
morning," said Madam Carroll. "The Major's mornings are always occupied,
and he prefers not to be interrupted. In fact, it is not Mr. Owen, but
you and I, Sara, who have been the chief sinners in this respect of
late; we must amend our ways. But come, you should not keep the rector
waiting too long, or he will think that your Northern education has
relaxed the perfection of your Carroll manners."
She took her daughter's arm, and they left the room together. But only a
few minutes had elapsed when the little wife returned. "Go get your
father's glass of milk, my pet," she said to Scar.
The boy climbed down from his place at the table, and left the room with
his noiseless step. The Major was leaning back in his easy-chair, with
his eyes closed; he looked tired.
"We went to the Ashleys'," said his wife, taking a seat beside him. "But
there we learned that Mrs. Hibbard was confined to her bed by an attack
of rheumatism, brought on, they think, by her having remained too long
in the duck-yard; and so we were obliged to postpone our visit to
Chapultepec. I then decided to take the time for some necessary
household purchases, and as Sara knows as yet but little of my method of
purchasing, I arranged to leave her at Miss Dalley's (Miss Dalley has
been so anxious to talk over Tasso with her, you know), and call for her
on my return. But she must have soon tired of Miss Dalley, for she did
not wait; she walked home alone."
"Yes, she came in here. She has been here a long time," answered the
Major. Then he opened his eyes. "It was in the midst of Scar's lessons,"
he said, as if explaining.
"Ah, I see. That must not happen again. She will at once
understand--that is, when I explain it--that Scar's lessons should not
be interrupted. She is very fond of Scar. You will have your lunch in
here to-day, won't you, Major? I think it would be better. It is
Saturday, you know, and on Saturdays we all rest before the duties of
Sunday--duties which, in your case especially, are so important."
But the Major seemed dejected. "I don't know about that--about their
being so important," he answered. "Ashley is always there."
"Oh, Major! Major! the idea of your comparing yourself with Godfrey
Ashley! He is all very well in his way--I do not deny that; but he is
not and never can be _you_. Why, St. John's would not know itself, it
would not be St. John's, if you were not there to carry round the plate
on Sunday mornings. And everybody would say the same." She laid her hand
on his forehead, not with a light, uncertain touch, but with that even
pressure which is grateful to a tired head. The Major seemed soothed; he
did not open his eyes, but he bent his head forward a little so that his
forehead could rest against her hand. Thus they remained for several
minutes. Then Scar came back, bringing a glass of milk, with the thick
cream on it; he placed this on the table beside his father, climbed into
his chair, and went on with his game, Bayard against Roland. The Major
took the glass and began to sip the milk, at first critically, then
appreciatively; he had the air of a connoisseur over a glass of old
wine. "How is it this morning?" asked Madam Carroll, with interest. And
she listened to his opinion, delivered at some length.
"I must go now," she said, rising; "Sara will be expecting me in the
drawing-room."
She had taken off her gypsy hat and gloves, and put on a little white
apron with blue bows on the pockets. As she crossed the room towards
the door, with her bunch of household keys at her belt, she looked more
like a school-girl playing at housekeeping than the wife of a man of the
Major's age (or, indeed, of a man much younger than the Major), and the
mother of Scar. But this was one of the charms among the many possessed
by this little lady--she was so young and small and fair, and yet at the
same time in other ways so fully "Madam Carroll" of "The Farms."
The Reverend Mr. Owen thought of this as she entered the drawing-room.
He had thought of it before. The Reverend Mr. Owen greatly admired Madam
Carroll.
When he had paid his visit and gone, Sara Carroll went up-stairs to her
own room. She had her mantle on her arm, her bonnet in her hand, for she
had not taken the trouble to go to her room before receiving his visit,
as Madam Carroll had taken it: Madam Carroll always took trouble.
Half an hour later there was a tap upon her door, and her step-mother,
having first waited for permission, entered. Sara had taken the seat
which happened to be nearest the entrance, an old, uncomfortable ottoman
without a back, and she still held her bonnet and mantle, apparently
unconscious that she had them; the blinds had not been closed, and the
room was full of the noon sunshine, which struck glaringly against the
freshly whitewashed walls. Madam Carroll took in the whole--the listless
attitude, the forgotten mantle, the open blinds, the nearest chair. She
drew the blinds together, making a cool, green shade in place of the
white light; then she took the bonnet and mantle from the girl's passive
hand, folded the mantle, and placed the two carefully in the closet
where they belonged.
"I can do that. You must not give yourself trouble about my things,
mamma," Sara said.
"It is no trouble, but a pleasure. I am so glad to see other feminine
things about the house; mine have so long been the only ones--for I
suppose we can hardly count the neuter gowns of Judith Inches. Don't you
like the easy-chair Caleb and I made for you?"
"It is very nice. I like it very much."
"But not enough to sit in it," said Madam Carroll, smiling.
"I really did not notice where I was sitting," said the girl, getting
up; "I almost always sit in the easy-chair. But won't you take it
yourself, mamma?"
"I would rather see you in it," answered Madam Carroll. "Besides, it is
too deep for me; there is some difference in our lengths." She seated
herself in a low chair, and looked at the long, lithe shape of Sara,
opposite, her head thrown back, her slender feet out, her arms extended
on the broad arms of the cushioned seat.
Sara, too, looked at herself. "I am afraid I loll," she said.
"Be thankful that you can," answered the smaller lady; "it is a most
refreshing thing to do now and then. Short-backed women cannot loll. And
then people say, 'Oh, _she_ never rests! _she_ never leans back and
looks comfortable!' when how can she? It is a matter of vertebræ, and we
do not make our own, I suppose. You did not stay long at Miss Dalley's.
Didn't you find her agreeable?"
"She might have been--unaccompanied by Tasso."
Madam Carroll laughed. "He is her most intimate friend. She has quite
taken him to her heart. She has been so anxious to see you, because you
were acquainted with him in his own tongue, whereas she has been obliged
to content herself with translations. She has a leaf from his favorite
tree, and a small piece of cloth from his coat--or was it a toga? But
no, of course not; doublet and hose, and those delightful lace ruffles
which are such a loss to society. These valuable relics she keeps
framed. It is really most interesting."
"I never cared much for Tasso," said Sara, indifferently.
"That is because you have had a large variety to choose from, reading as
you do all the poets in the original, from Homer down to--to our sad but
fascinating Lamartine," answered Madam Carroll, looking consideringly
about the room, and finally staying her glance at the toilet-table, upon
which she had expended much time and care. "But our poor Miss Dalley's
life has been harshly narrowed down, narrowed, I may say, to Tasso
alone. For all their small property was swept away by the war, and she
is now obliged to support herself and her mother by dyeing: there is,
fortunately, a good deal of dyeing in Far Edgerley, and so she took it
up. You must have noticed her hands. But we always pretend not to notice
them, because in all other ways she is so lady-like; when she expects to
see any one, she always, and most delicately, wears gloves."
Madam Carroll related this little village history as though she were but
filling an idle moment; but the listener received an impression, none
the less, somewhere down in a secondary consciousness, that she had not
quite done justice to poor Miss Dalley and her aspirations, and that
some time she ought to try to atone for it.
But this secondary consciousness was small: it was small because the
first was so wide and deep, and so filled with trouble--trouble composed
in equal parts of perplexity, disappointment, and grief. She was at
home, and she was not happy. This was a conjunction of conditions which
she had not believed could be possible.
She had never had any disagreements with her father's wife, and she had
been fond of her in a certain way. But the wife had never been to the
daughter more than an adjunct--something added to her father, of
qualifying but not independent importance; a little moon, bright, if you
pleased, and pretty, but still a satellite revolving round its sun. As a
child, she had accepted the new mother upon this basis, because she
could make everything "more pleasant for papa;" and she had gone on
accepting her upon the same basis ever since. Madam Carroll knew this.
She had never quarrelled with it. She and her daughter had filled their
respective positions in entire amity. But now that this daughter had
come home to live, now that she was no longer a school-girl or child,
this was what she had discovered: her father, her idol, had turned from
her, and his wife had gained what his daughter had lost. There could be
no doubt but that he had turned from her; his manner towards her was
entirely changed. He seemed no longer to care to have her with him; he
seemed to avoid her; he was not interested in anything that was
connected with her--he who had formerly been so full of interest; he
never kept up a conversation with her, but let it drop as soon as he
could; he was so--so strange! Although she had now been at home two
weeks, she had scarcely once been alone with him; Madam Carroll had
either been present from the beginning, or she had soon come in; Madam
Carroll had led the conversation, suggested the topics. The Major had
always been fond of his pretty little wife; but he had also been devoted
to his daughter. The change in him she could not understand; it made her
very unhappy. It would have made her more than that--made her wretched
beyond the possibility of concealment--had there not been in it an
element of perplexity; perplexity which bewildered her, which she could
not solve. For, while her own position and her father's regard for her
seemed completely changed, life at the Farms went on day after day upon
the distinct assumption that there was no change, that everything was
precisely as it always had been. This assumption was not only mentioned,
but insisted upon, the Major's wife often alluding with amusement to
what she called their "dear obstinate old ways."
"The Major ties his cravat precisely as he did twenty-five years ago--he
has acknowledged it to me," she said, glancing at him merrily. "We have
the same things for dinner; we wear the same clothes, or others made
exactly like them; we read the same books because we think them so much
better than the new; we discuss the same old topics for the same
prejudiced old reason. We remain so obstinately unchanged that even Time
himself does not remember who we are. Each year when he comes round he
thinks we belong to a younger generation."
The Major always laughed at these sallies of his wife. "You forget, my
dear, my gray hairs," he said.
"Gray hairs are a distinction," answered Madam Carroll, decisively. "And
besides, Major, they're the only sign of age about you; your figure,
your bearing, are as they always were."
And on Sundays, when he carried round the plate at St. John's, and at
his wife's receptions once in two weeks, this was true.
Sara came out of her troubled revery at the sound of Madam Carroll's
voice. This lady was going on with her subject, as her step-daughter had
not spoken.
"Yes, Caroline Dalley is really very intelligent; she is one of the
subscribers for our _Saturday Review_. You know we subscribe for one
copy--about twelve families of our little circle here--and it goes to
all in turn, beginning with the Farms. The Major selected it; the Major
prefers its tone to that of our American journals as they are at
present. Not that he cares for the long articles. With his--his wide
experience, you know, the _long_ articles could only be tiresome; they
weary him greatly."
"I must have tired him, then, this morning; I read some of the long
articles aloud."
"You had forgotten; you have been so long absent. It was very natural, I
am sure. You will soon recall those little things."
"How can I recall what I never knew? No, mamma, it is not that; it is
the--the change. I am perplexed all the time. I don't know what to do."
"It isn't so much what to do as what not to do," replied Madam Carroll,
looking now at the lounge she had designed, and surveying it with her
head a little on one side, so as to take in its perspective. "The Major
has not yet recovered entirely from his illness of last winter, you
know, and his strength cannot be overtaxed. A--a tranquil solitude is
the best thing for him most of the time. I often go out of the room
myself purposely, leaving him alone, or with Scar, whose childish talk,
of course, makes no demand upon his attention; I do this to avoid tiring
him."
"I don't think _you_ ever tire him," said Sara.
The Major's wife glanced at her step-daughter; then she resumed her
consideration of the lounge. "That is because I have been with him so
constantly. I have learned. You will soon learn also. And then we shall
have a very happy little household here at the Farms."
"I doubt it," said the girl, despondently. She paused. "I am afraid I am
a disappointment to my father," she went on, with an effort, but unable
longer to abstain from putting her fear into words--words which should
be in substance, if not in actual form, a question. "I am afraid that as
a woman, no longer a school-girl or child, I am not what he thought I
should be, and therefore whenever I am with him he is oppressed by this.
Each day I see less of him than I did the day before. There seems to be
no time for me, no place. He has just told me that all his mornings
would be occupied; by that he must have meant simply that he did not
want _me_." Tears had come into her eyes as she spoke, but she did not
let them fall.
"You are mistaken," said Madam Carroll, earnestly. Then in her turn she
paused. "I venture to predict that soon, very soon, you will find
yourself indispensable to your father," she added, in her usual tone.
"Never as you are," answered Sara. She spoke with a humility which,
coming from so proud a girl, was touching. For the first time in her
life she was acknowledging her step-mother's superiority.
Madam Carroll rose, came across, and kissed her. "My dear," she said, "a
wife has more opportunities than a daughter can have; that is all. The
Major loves you as much as ever. He is also very proud of you. So proud,
indeed, that he has a great desire to have you proud of him as well; you
always have been extremely proud of him, you know, and he remembers it.
This feeling causes him, perhaps, to make something of--of an effort
when he is with you, an effort to appear in every respect himself, as he
was before his illness--as he was when you last saw him. This effort is
at times fatiguing to him; yet it is probable that he will not
relinquish it while he feels that you are noticing or--or comparing. I
have not spoken of this before, because you have never liked to have me
tell you anything about your father; even as a child you always wanted
to get your knowledge directly from him, not from me. I have never found
fault with this, because I knew that it came from your great love for
him. As I love him too, I have tried to please, or at least not to
displease, his daughter; not to cross her wishes, her ideas; not to seem
to her officious, presuming. Yet at the same time remember that I love
him probably as much as you do. But now that you have asked me, now
that I know you wish me to speak, I will say that if you could remove
all necessity for the effort your father now makes, by placing yourself
so fully upon a lower plane--if I may so express it--that his former
self should not be suggested to him by anything in _you_, in your words,
looks, or manner, you would soon find, I think, that this slight--slight
constraint you have noticed was at an end. In addition, he himself would
be more comfortable. And our dearest wish is of course to make him happy
and comfortable, to keep him so."
As she uttered these sentences quietly, guardedly, Sara had grown very
pale. Her eyes, large and dark with pain, were searching her
step-mother's fair little face. But Madam Carroll's gaze was fixed upon
the window opposite; not until she had brought all her words to a close
did she let it drop upon her daughter. Then the two women looked at each
other. The girl's eyes asked a mute question, a question which the
wife's eyes, seeing that it was an appeal to her closer knowledge, at
length answered--answered bravely and clearly, sympathetically, too, and
with tenderness, but--in the affirmative.
Then the daughter bowed her head, her face hidden in her hands.
Madam Carroll sat down upon the arm of the easy-chair, and drew that
bowed head towards her. No more words were spoken. But now the daughter
understood all. Her perplexity and her trouble were at an end; but they
ended in a grief, as a river ends in the sea--a grief that opened out
all round her, overwhelming the present, and, as it seemed to her then,
the future as well. Madam Carroll said nothing; the bereavement was
there, and the daughter must bear it. No one could save her from her
pain. But the girl knew from this very silence, and the gentle touch of
the hand upon her hair, that all her sorrow was comprehended, her
desolation pitied, understood. For her father had been her idol, her
all; and now he was taken from her. His mind was failing. This was the
bereavement which had fallen upon her heart and life.