July passed, and August began. Sara Carroll had spent the weeks in
trying to add to her father's comfort, and trying also to alter herself
so fully, when with him, that she should no longer be a burden upon his
expectation, a care upon his mind. In the first of these attempts she
was and could be but an assistant, and a subordinate one, filling the
interstices left by Madam Carroll. For the Major depended more and more
each day upon his little wife. Her remarks always interested him, her
voice he always liked to hear; he liked to know all she was doing, and
where she went, and what people said to her; he liked to look at her;
her bright little gowns and sunny curls pleased his eye, and made him
feel young again, so he said. He had come, too, to have a great pride in
her, and this pride had grown dear to him; it now made one of the
important ingredients of his life. He liked to mention what a fine
education she had had; he liked to say that her mother had been a
"Forster of Forster's Island," and that her father was an Episcopal
clergyman who had "received his education at Oxford." He thought little
Scar had "English traits," and these he enumerated. He had always been a
proud man, and now his pride had centred itself in her. But if his pride
was strong, his affection was stronger; he was always content when she
was in the room, and he never liked to have her long absent. When he was
tired, she knew it; he was not obliged to explain. All his moods she
comprehended; he was not obliged to define them. And when he did appear
in public, at church on Sundays, or at her receptions, it was she upon
whom he relied, who kept herself mentally as well as in person by his
side, acting as quick-witted outrider, warding off possible annoyance,
guiding the conversation towards the track he preferred, guarding his
entrances and exits, so that above all and through all her other duties
and occupations, his ease and his pleasure were always made secure.
Of all this his daughter became aware only by degrees. It went on so
unobtrusively, invisibly almost, that only when she had begun to study
the subject of her father's probable needs in connection with herself,
what she could do to add to his comfort, only then did she comprehend
the importance of these little hourly actions of Madam Carroll,
comprehend what a safeguard they kept all the time round his
tranquillity, how indispensable they were to his happiness. For the
feeling he had had with regard to his daughter extended, though in a
less degree, to all Far Edgerley society; he wished--and it was now his
greatest wish--to appear at his best when any one saw him. And, thanks
to the devotion and tact of his wife, to her watchfulness (which never
seemed to watch), to the unceasing protection she had thrown round his
seclusion, and the quiet but masterly support she gave when he did
appear, no one in the village was as yet aware that any change had come
to the Major, save a somewhat invalid condition, the result of his
illness of the preceding winter.
Sara herself had now learned how much this opinion of the Far Edgerley
public was to her father; he rested on Saturday almost all day in order
to prepare for Sunday, and the same preparation was made before each of
the receptions. At these receptions she could now be of use; she could
take Madam Carroll's place from time to time, stand beside him and keep
other people down to his topics, prevent interruptions and sudden
changes of subject, move with him through the rooms, as, with head erect
and one hand in the breast of his coat, he passed from group to group,
having a few words with each, and so much in the old way that when at
length he retired, excusing himself on account of his health, he left
unbroken the impression which all Far Edgerley cherished, the impression
of his distinguished appearance, charming conversation, and polished,
delightful manners.
During these weeks, the more his daughter had studied him and the ways
to make herself of use to him, even if not a pleasure, the greater had
become her admiration for the little woman who was his wife--who did it
all, and so thoroughly! who did it all, and so tenderly! What she, the
daughter, with all her great love for him, could think out only with
careful effort, the wife divined; what she did with too much
earnestness, the wife did easily, lightly. Her own words when she was
with him were considered, planned; but the wife's talk flowed on as
naturally and brightly as though she had never given a thought to
adapting it to him; yet always was it perfectly adapted. Sara often sat
looking at Madam Carroll, during these days, with a wonder at her own
long blindness; a wonder also that such a woman should have borne always
in silence, and with unfailing gentleness, her step-daughter's moderate
and somewhat patronizing estimate of her. But even while she was
thinking of these things Madam Carroll would perhaps rise and cross the
room, stopping to pat dog Carlo on the rug as she passed, and she would
seem so small and young, her very prettiness so unlike the countenance
and expression one associates with a strong character, that the daughter
would unconsciously fall back into her old opinion of her, always,
however, to emerge from it again hurriedly, remorsefully, almost
reverentially, upon the next example of the exquisite tact, tenderness,
and care with which she surrounded and propped up her husband's broken
days.
But the Major's life was now very comfortable. His daughter, if she had
not as yet succeeded in doing what she did without thought over it, had,
at least, gradually succeeded in relieving him from all feeling of
uneasiness in her society: she now came and went as freely as Scar. She
had made her manner so completely unexpectant and (apparently)
unobservant, she had placed herself so entirely on a line with him as he
was at present, that nothing led him to think of making an effort; he
had forgotten that he had ever made one. She talked to him on local
subjects, generally adding some little comment that amused him; she had
items about the garden and fields or dog Carlo to tell him; but most of
all she talked to him of the past, and led him to talk of it. For the
Major had a much clearer remembrance of his boyhood and youth than he
had of the events of later years, and not only a clearer remembrance,
but a greater interest; he liked to relate his adventures of those
days, and often did it with spirit and zest. He was willing now to have
her present at "Scar's lessons;" she formed sentences in her turn from
the chivalrous little manuscript book, and took part in the game of
dominoes that followed. The Major grew into the habit also of taking an
afternoon walk with her about the grounds--always at a safe distance
from the entrance gate. They went to visit the birds' nests she had
discovered, and count the eggs or fledglings, and he recalled his
boyhood knowledge of birds, which was clear and accurate; they went down
to the pond made by the brook, and sent in dog Carlo for a bath; they
strolled through the orchard to see how the apples were coming on, and
sat for a while on a bench under the patriarch tree. These walks became
very precious to the daughter; her father enjoyed them, enjoyed so much
the summer atmosphere, pure and fresh and high, yet aromatic also with
the scents from the miles of unbroken pine and fir forest round about,
enjoyed so much looking at the mountains, noting the moving bands of
light and shadow cast upon their purple sides as the white clouds sailed
slowly across the sky, that sometimes for an hour at a time he would
almost be his former self again. He knew this when it happened, and it
made him happy. And Sara was so glad to see him happy that she began to
feel, and with surprise, as if she herself too might be really happy
again, happy after all.
This first little beginning of happiness grew and budded like a flower;
for now more and more her father asked for her, wanted her with him; he
took her arm as they walked about the grounds, and she felt as glad and
proud as a child because she was tall enough and strong enough to be of
real use to him. She remembered the desolation of those hours when she
had thought that she should never be of use to him again, should have no
place beside him, should be to him only a care and a dread; thinking of
this, she was very thankfully happy. When she could do something for
him, and he was pleased, it seemed to her almost as if she had never
loved him so much; for, added to her old strong affection, there was now
that deep and sacred tenderness which fills the heart when the person
one loves becomes dependent--trustingly dependent, like a little
child--upon one's hourly thought and care.
The rector of St. John's had continued those visits which Miss Carroll
had criticised as too frequent. When he came he seldom saw his senior
warden; but the non-appearance was sufficiently excused by the state of
the senior warden's health, as well as made up for by the presence of
his wife. For Madam Carroll was charming in her manner to the young
clergyman, always giving him the kind of welcome which made him feel
sure that she was glad to see him, and that she wished him to come
again. As he continued to come, it happened now and then that the
mistress of the house would be engaged, and unable to see him. Perhaps
she was reading to the Major from his _Saturday Review_; and this was
something which no one else could do in the way he liked. She alone knew
how to select the items he cared to hear, and, what was more important,
how to leave the rest unread; she alone knew how to give in a line an
abstract that was clear to him, and how to enliven the whole with gay
little remarks of her own, which, she said, he must allow her--a
diversion for her smaller feminine mind. The Major greatly valued his
_Saturday Review_; he would have been much disturbed if deprived of the
acquaintance it gave him with the events of the day. Not that he enjoyed
listening to it; but when it was done and over for that week, he had the
sensation of satisfaction in duty accomplished which a man feels who has
faced an east wind for several hours without loss of optimism, and
returned home with a double appreciation of his own pleasant library and
bright fire. One's life should not be too personal, too easy; there
should be a calm consideration of public events, a general knowledge of
the outside world--though that outside world, tending as it did at
present too much towards mere utilitarian interests, was not especially
interesting; thus spoke the Major at the receptions (with that week's
_Saturday_ fresh in his memory), as he alluded briefly to the European
news. For they never discussed American news at the receptions; they
never came farther westward, conversationally, than longitude
twenty-five, reckoned, of course, from Greenwich. In 1868 there was a
good deal of this polite oblivion south of the Potomac and Cumberland.
When, therefore, Mr. Owen happened to call at a time when Madam Carroll
was engaged, Miss Carroll was obliged to receive him. She did not
dislike him (which was fortunate; she disliked so many people!), but she
did not care to see him so often, she said. He talked well, she was
aware of that; he had gone over the entire field of general subjects
with the hope, as it seemed, of finding one in which she might be
interested. But as she was interested in nothing but her father, and
would not talk of him now, save conventionally, with any one, he found
her rather unresponsive.
His congregation thought her, in addition, cold. Not a few of them had
mentioned to him this opinion. But there was something in Sara
Carroll's face which seemed to Owen the reverse of cold, though he could
not deny that to him personally she was, if not precisely wintry, at
least as neutral as a late October day, when there is neither sun to
warm nor wind to vivify the gray, still air. Yet he continued to come to
the Farms. His liking for the little mistress of the house was strong
and sincere. He thought her very sweet and winning. He found there, too,
an atmosphere in which he did not have to mount guard over himself and
his possessions--an atmosphere of pleasant welcome and pleasant words,
but both of them unaccompanied by what might have been called, perhaps,
the acquisitiveness which prevailed elsewhere. No one at the Farms
wanted him or anything that was his, that is, wanted it with any
tenacity; his time, his thoughts, his opinions, his approval or
disapproval, his ideas, his advice, his personal sympathy, his especial
daily guidance, his mornings, his evenings, his afternoons, his favorite
books, his sermons in manuscript--all these were considered his own
property, and were not asked for in the large, low-ceilinged
drawing-room where the Major's wife and daughter, one or both, received
him when he came. They received him as an equal (Miss Carroll as a not
especially important one), and not as a superior, a being from another
world; though Madam Carroll always put enough respect for his rector's
position into her manner to make him feel easy about himself and about
coming again.
He continued to come again. And Miss Carroll continued her neutral
manner. The only change, the only expression of feeling which he had
seen in her in all these weeks, was one look in her eyes and a sentence
or two she had uttered, brought out by something he said about her
mother. During one of their first interviews he had spoken of this lady,
expressing, respectfully, his great liking for her, his admiration.
Madame Carroll's daughter had responded briefly, and rather as though
she thought it unnecessary for him to have an opinion, and more than
unnecessary to express one. He had remembered this little passage of
arms, and had said no more. But having met the mistress of the house a
few days before, at a cabin on the outskirts of the town, where a poor
crippled boy had just breathed his last breath of pain, he had been much
touched by the sweet, comprehending, sisterly tenderness of the mother
who was a lady to the mother who was so ignorant, rough-spoken, almost
rough-hearted as well. But, though rough-hearted, she had loved her poor
child as dearly as that other mother loved her little Scar. The other
mother had herself said this to him as they left the cabin together. He
spoke of it to Sara when he made his next visit at the Farms; he could
not help it.
And then a humility he had never seen there before came into her eyes,
and a warmth of tone he had not heard before into her voice.
"My mother's goodness is simply unparalleled," she answered. "You admire
her sincerely; many do. But no one save those who are in the house with
her all the time can comprehend the one hundredth part of her
unselfishness, her energy--which is always so quiet--her tenderness for
others, her constant thought for them."
Frederick Owen was surprised at the pleasure these words gave him. For
they gave him a great pleasure. He felt himself in a glow as she
finished. He thought of this as he walked home. He knew that he admired
Madame Carroll; and he was not without a very pleasant belief, too, that
she had a respect for his opinion, and even an especial respect. Still,
did he care so much to hear her praised?--care so much that it put him
in a glow?
Towards the last of August occurred, on its regular day, one of Madame
Carroll's receptions. To Sara Carroll it was an unusually disagreeable
one. She had never been fond of the receptions at any time, though of
late she had accepted them because they were so much to her father; but
this particular one was odious.
It was odious on account of the presence of a stranger who had appeared
in Far Edgerley three weeks before, a stranger who had made his way into
society there with so much rapidity and success that he had now
penetrated even the exclusive barriers of the Farms. But this
phraseology was Miss Carroll's. In reality, the stranger's "way" had not
been made by any effort of his own, but rather by his manners and
appearance, which were original, and more especially by a gift for which
nature was responsible, not himself. And as to "penetrating the
barriers" of the Farms, he had not shown any especial interest in that
old-fashioned mansion, and now that he was actually there, and at one of
the receptions, too, he seemed not impressed by his good fortune, but
wandered about rather restlessly, and yawned a good deal in corners.
These little ways of his, however, were considered to belong to the
"fantasies of genius;" Madam Carroll herself had so characterized them.
The stranger had, indeed, unlimited genius, if signs of this kind were
to be taken as evidences of it; he interrupted people in the middle of
their sentences; he left them abruptly while they were still talking to
him; he yawned (as has already been mentioned), and not always in
corners; he went to see the persons he fancied, whether they had asked
him to do so or not; he never dreamed of going to see the persons he
did not fancy, no matter how many times they had invited him. He had a
liking for flower-gardens, and had been discovered more than once, soon
after his arrival, sitting in honeysuckle arbors which the owners had
supposed were for their own private enjoyment. When found, he had not
apologized; he had complimented the owners upon their honeysuckles.
Strangers were so rare in Far Edgerley--high, ancient little village in
the mountains, far from railways, unmentioned in guide-books--that this
admirer of flower-gardens was known by sight through all the town before
he had been two days in the place. He was named Dupont, and he was
staying at the village inn, the Washington Hotel--an old red brick
structure, whose sign, a weather-beaten portrait of the Father of his
Country, crowned the top of a thick blue pole set out in the middle of
Edgerley Street. He was apparently about twenty-eight or thirty years of
age, tall, slender, carelessly dressed, yet possessing, too, some
picturesque articles of attire to which Far Edgerley was not accustomed;
notably, low shoes with red silk stockings above them, and a red silk
handkerchief to match the stockings peeping from the breast pocket of
the coat; a cream-colored umbrella lined with red silk; a quantity of
cream-colored gauze wound round a straw hat.
But it was not these articles, remarkable as they were, nor his taste
for opening gates without permission, nor his habit of walking in the
middle of the street, ignoring sidewalks, nor another habit he had of
rising and going out of church just before the sermon--it was none of
these which had given him his privilege of entering "the best society."
The best society had opened its doors to Genius, and to Genius alone.
This genius was of the musical kind. Dupont played and sang his own
compositions. "What," said Madam Carroll, "is genius, if not this?"
Madam Carroll's opinion was followed in Far Edgerley, and Dupont now had
the benefit of it. The Rendleshams invited him to tea; the Greers sang
for him; he was offered the _Saturday Review_; even Mrs. General
Hibbard, joining the gentle tide, invited him to Chapultepec, and when
he came, showed him the duck yard. Miss Honoria Ashley did not yield to
the current. But then Miss Honoria never yielded to anything. Her
father, the junior warden, freely announced (outside his own gate) that
the "singing man" amused him. Mr. Phipps hated him, but that was because
Dupont had shown some interest in Miss Lucy Rendlesham, who was pretty.
Not that they cared much, however, for beauty in Far Edgerley; it was
so much better to be intellectual. Ferdinand Kenneway, when he learned
that the new-comer had been received both at Chapultepec and the Farms,
called at the inn, and left one of his engraved cards--"Mr. F. Kenneway,
Baltimore." He had once lived in Baltimore six months. Dupont made an
excellent caricature of Ferdinand on the back of the card, and never
returned the call. On the whole, the musician had reason to congratulate
himself upon so complete a conquest of Far Edgerley's highest circle.
Only two persons (besides Phipps) in all that circle disliked him. True,
these two disliked him strongly; but they remained only two, and they
were, in public, at least, silent. They were Miss Carroll and the rector
of St. John's.
Perhaps it was but natural that a clergyman should look askance at a man
who always rose and walked out of church at the very moment when he was
preparing to begin his sermon. Miss Carroll, however, had no such
sufficient reason to give for her dislike; when Dupont came to the Farms
he was as respectfully polite to her as he could be in the very small
opportunity she vouchsafed him. He came often to their flower-garden.
She complained of his constant presence. "I am never sure that he is not
there. He is either lying at full length in the shade of the
rhododendrons, or else sitting in the rose arbor, drumming on the
table."
"Very harmless amusements they seem to me," replied Madam Carroll.
"Yes. But why should we be compelled to provide his amusements? I think
that office we might decline."
"You are rather unkind, aren't you? What harm has the poor fellow done
to us?"
"Oh, if you are going to pity him, mamma--"
"Why should not one pity him a little?--a young man who is so alone in
the world, as he tells us he is, not strong in health, and often moody.
Then, too, there is his genius."
"I am tired of his genius. I do not believe in his genius. There is no
power in it. Always a 'little song!' A 'little song!' His little songs
are too sweet; they have no force."
"Do you wish him to shout?"
"I wish him to take himself elsewhere. I am speaking freely, mamma; for
I have noticed that you seem to like him."
"He is a variety--that is the explanation; we have so little variety
here. But I do like him, Sara, or, rather, I like his songs. To me they
are very beautiful."
[Illustration: "HE CAME OFTEN TO THEIR FLOWER GARDEN."]
Nothing more was said on either side. Sara had announced her dislike,
and it had been ignored; her regard for Madam Carroll kept her from
again expressing the feeling.
The present reception was considered an especially delightful one. One
reason for this was that Madam Carroll had altered her hours; instead of
from five to eight, they were now from eight to ten. True, the time was
shorter; but this was compensated for by the change from afternoon to
evening. For choice as had been the tone of elegant culture which had
underlain these social meetings heretofore, there was no doubt but that
they gained in the element of gayety by being deferred to candle-light.
The candles inspired everybody; it was felt to be more festal. The
ladies wore flowers in their hair, and Ferdinand Kenneway came out in
white gloves. The Major, too, had not appeared so well all summer as he
did this evening; every one remarked it. Not that the Major did not
always appear well. "He is, and always has been, the first gentleman of
our state. But to-night, how peculiarly distinguished he looks! His gray
hair but adds to his noble appearance--don't you think so?--his gray
hair and his wounded arm? And dear Madam Carroll, too, when have you
seen her look so bright?"
Thus the ladies. But the daughter of the house, meanwhile, had never
been more silent. To-night she merited, without doubt, their adjective
"cold." She had not been able to be of much use to her father this
evening. During the three quarters of an hour he had given to his guests
Madam Carroll had not left him; together they had gone through the
rooms, exchanging greetings, holding short conversations, inquiring
after the health of the absent. As had been remarked, the little wife
looked very bright. She had more color than usual; her complexion had
never had, they said, a more exquisite bloom. She was dressed in white,
with a large bunch of pink roses fastened in her belt, and as she stood
by the side of her tall, gray-haired husband she looked, the junior
warden declared, like "a Hebe." And then he carefully explained that he
meant an American Hebe of delicate outlines, and not the Hebe of the
ancient Greeks--"who always weighed two hundred."
The American Hebe talked with much animation; Far Edgerley admired her
more than ever. After the Major had retired she was even gay; the junior
warden having lost the spray of sweet-pea from his button-hole, with
charming sportiveness she called him to her and replaced it with one of
her pink roses.
Meanwhile Mr. Dupont was conducting himself after his usual fantasied
fashion. He strolled about and leaned against the walls--a thing never
done in Far Edgerley, on account of the paper; he stared at the
head-dress of Mrs. General Hibbard, an impressive edifice of black lace
and bugles; he talked a little to Miss Lucy Rendlesham, to the rage of
Phipps; he turned his back on F. Kenneway; and he laughed at the
poetical quotations of Mrs. Greer. And then he made no less than six
profound bows before Miss Corinna, the dignified leader of St. John's
choir.
He bowed whenever he met her, stopping especially for the purpose,
drawing his feet together, and bending his head and body to an angle
heretofore unwitnessed in that community. Miss Corinna, in chaste black
silk, became at last, martial though she was, disconcerted by this
extreme respect. She could not return it properly, because, most
unfortunately, as she had always thought, the days of the courtesy, the
only stately salutation for a lady, were gone by. She bowed as
majestically as she could. But when it came to the seventh time, she
said to her second sister, "Really, Camilla, his attentions are becoming
too pressing. Let us retire." So they retired--to the wall. But even
here they were not secure, Dupont discovering their retreat, and coming
by expressly every now and then to bestow upon the stately maiden
another salute.
Towards the end of the evening--or rather, of the reception--he sang,
accompanying himself upon the guitar. His guitar had a long loop of red
ribbon attached to it; Miss Carroll surveyed it and its owner with
coldest eye, as, seated upon a low ottoman in the centre of the room, he
began what she had called his "little songs." His songs were, in truth,
always brief; but they were not entirely valueless, in spite of her
prejudice against them. They had a character of their own. Sometimes
they contained minor strains too old for Far Edgerley to remember, the
wild, soft, plaintive cadences of the Indian women of tribes long gone
towards the setting sun, of the first African slaves poling their
flatboats along the Southern rivers. And sometimes they were love-songs,
of a style far too modern for the little, old-fashioned town to
comprehend. Dupont's voice was a tenor, not powerful, but deliciously,
sensuously sweet. As he sat there singing, with his large, bold dark
eyes roving about the room, with his slender dark fingers touching the
strings, with his black moustache, waxed at the ends, the gleam of his
red handkerchief, and the red flower in his coat, he seemed to some of
the ladies present romantically handsome. To Sara Carroll he seemed a
living impertinence.
What right had this person of unknown antecedents, position, and
character to be posturing there before them?--to be admitted at all to
the house of her father? And then her eyes happened to fall upon her
father's wife, who, in the chair nearest the musician, was listening to
him with noticeable enjoyment. She turned and left the room.
By doing this she came directly upon Frederick Owen, who had apparently
performed the same action a little while before. They were alone in the
wide hall; every one else was in the drawing-room, gathered round the
singer.
"It--it was cooler here," Owen explained, rather awkwardly. At this
instant Dupont's voice floated out to them in one of his long, soft
notes. "It has 'a dying fall,' has it not?" said the clergyman; he was
trying to speak politely of her guest. But as his eyes met those of Miss
Carroll, he suddenly read in them a feeling of the same strength and
nature as his own, regarding that guest. This was a surprise, and a
satisfaction. It was the first corresponding dislike he had been able to
discover. For his own dislike had been so strong that he had been
searching in all directions for a corresponding one, with the hope,
perhaps, of proving to himself that his was not mere baseless prejudice.
But until this evening he had not succeeded in finding what he sought.
It was all the other way.
It should be mentioned here that Owen had not betrayed this dislike of
his. If he had done so, if his objection to the musician had been known,
or even suspected, it is probable that Dupont would hardly have attained
his present position in Far Edgerley. For after Madam Carroll's opinion,
the opinion of the rector of St. John's came next. But he had not
betrayed it. There was nothing of essential importance against Dupont.
The fact that he was precisely the kind of fellow whom Frederick Owen
particularly disliked was simply a matter between the two men
themselves, or rather, as Dupont cared nothing about it, between Owen
and his own conscience; for he could hardly go about denouncing a man
because he happened to play the guitar. But after three weeks of
enduring him--for he met him wherever he went--it was great comfort to
have caught that gleam of contempt in Miss Carroll's fair gray eyes; he
was glad that he had been at just the right spot in the hall to receive
it as she came from the drawing-room with that alluring voice floating
forth behind her.
"It is a beautiful evening," he said, dropping the subject of the
musician; "the moonlight is so bright that one can see all the
mountains. Shall we go out and look at them?"
And Miss Carroll was so displeased with the scene within that she
consented to withdraw to the scene without; and there they remained as
long as the singing lasted. They walked up and down the broad piazza; he
talked about the mountain scenery, and the waterfalls. She did not
appear to be much interested in them. Her companion, however, was not so
much chilled by this manner of hers as he had sometimes been; he had had
a glimpse behind it.