Q. E. D.
As Mollie Ainslie grew stronger day by day, her kind host had done
all in his power to aid her convalescence by offering pleasing
attentions and cheerful surroundings. As soon as she was able to
ride, she had been lifted carefully into the saddle, and under his
watchful supervision had made, each day, longer and longer rides,
until, for some days preceding the events of the last few chapters,
her strength had so fully returned that they had ridden several
miles. The flush of health had returned to her cheeks, and the
sleep that followed her exercise was restful and refreshing.
Already she talked of returning to Red Wing, and, but for the
thoughtfulness of Eliab Hill in dismissing the school for a month
during her illness, would have been present at the terrible scenes
enacted there. She only lingered because she was not quite recovered,
and because there was a charm about the old plantation, which she
had never found elsewhere. A new light had come into her life.
She loved Hesden Le Moyne, and Hesden Le Moyne loved the Yankee
school-marm. No word of love had been spoken. No caress had been
offered. A pall hung over the household, in the gloom of which the
lips might not utter words of endearment. But the eyes spoke; and
they greeted each other with kisses of liquid light when their
glances met. Flushed cheeks and tones spoke more than words. She
waited for his coming anxiously. He was restive and uneasy when
away. The peace which each one brought to the other's heart was
the sure witness of well-grounded love. She had never asked herself
where was the beginning or what would be the end. She had never
said to herself, "I love him;" but his presence brought peace, and
in her innocence she rested there as in an undisturbed haven.
As for him--he saw and trembled. He could not shut his eyes to
her love or his own. He did not wish to do so. And yet, brave man
as he was, he trembled at the thought. Hesden Le Moyne was proud.
He knew that Mollie Ainslie was as proud as himself. He had the
prejudices of his people and class, and he knew also that she had
the convictions of that part of the country where she had been
reared. He knew that she would never share his prejudices; he had
no idea that he would ever share her convictions. He wished that
she had never taught a "nigger school"--not for his own sake, he
said to himself, with a flush of shame, but for hers. How could she
face sneers? How could he endure insults upon his love? How could
he ask her to come where sneers and insults awaited her? Love
had set himself a hard task. He had set before him this problem:
"New England Puritanism and Southern Prejudice; how shall they be
reconciled?" For the solution of this question, there were given on
one side a maiden who would have plucked out her heart and trampled
it under her feet, rather than surrender one tenet in her creed of
righteousness; and on the other side a man who had fought for a cause
he did not approve rather than be taunted with having espoused one
of the fundamental principles of her belief. To laugh at locksmiths
was an easy thing compared with the reading of this riddle!
On the morning when Eliab was brought to Mulberry Hill, Mrs.
Le Moyne and Mollie breakfasted together alone in the room of the
former. Both were troubled at the absence of the master of the
house.
"I cannot see why he does not come," said Mrs. Le Moyne. "He is
the soul of punctuality, and is never absent from a meal when about
home. He sent in word by Laura early this morning that he would not
be at breakfast, and that we should not wait for him, but gave no
sort of reason. I don't understand it."
"I hope he is not sick. You don't think he has the fever, do you?"
said Mollie, with evident anxiety.
The elder woman glanced keenly at her as she replied in a careless
tone:
"Oh, no indeed. You have no occasion for anxiety. I told Laura to
take him a cup of coffee and a roll in his room, but she says he
is not there. I suppose something about the plantation requires his
attention. It is very kind of you, I am sure; but I have no doubt
he is quite well."
There was something in the tone as well as the words which cut
the young girl to the heart. She could not tell what it was. She
did not dream that it was aimed at herself. She only knew that
it sounded harsh and cold, and unkind. Her heart was very tender.
Sickness and love had thrown her off her guard against sneers
and hardness. It did not once occur to her that the keen-sighted
invalid, whose life was bound up in her son's life, had looked into
the heart which had never yet syllabled the love which filled it,
and hated what she saw. She did not deem it possible that there
should be aught but kindly feeling for her in the household she
had all but died to serve. Moreover, she had loved the delicate
invalid ever since she had received a letter from her hand. She
had always been accustomed to that unconscious equality of common
right and mutual courtesy that prevails so widely at the North, and
had never thought of construing the letter as one of patronizing
approval. She had counted it a friendly commendation, not only of
herself, but of her work. This woman she had long pictured to herself
as one that rose above the prejudice by which she was surrounded.
She who, in the old times, had bravely taught Eliab Hill to read
in defiance of the law, would surely approve of a work like hers.
So thought the silly girl, not knowing that the gentle invalid had
taught Eliab Hill the little that he knew before emancipation more
to show her defiance of meddling objectors, than for the good of
the boy. In fact, she had had no idea of benefiting him, other than
by furnishing him a means of amusement in the enforced solitude of
his affliction. Mollie did not consider that Hester Le Moyne was
a Southern woman, and as such, while she might admire courage and
accomplishments in a woman of Northern birth, always did so with
a mental reservation in favor of her own class. When, however, one
came from the North to teach the negroes, in order that they might
overpower and rule the whites, which she devoutly believed to be
the sole purpose of the colored educational movement, no matter
under what specious guise of charity it might be done, she could
not go even so far as that.
Yet, if such a one came to her, overwhelmed by stress of weather,
she would give her shelter; if she were ill she would minister
unto her; for these were Christian duties. If she were fair and
bright, and brave, she would delight to entertain her; for that
was a part of the hospitality of which the South boasted. There was
something enjoyable, too, in parading the riches of a well-stocked
wardrobe and the lavish splendors of an old Southern home to one
who, she believed, had never seen such magnificence before; for
the belief that poverty and poor fare are the common lot of the
country folks at the North is one of the fallacies commonly held
by all classes at the South. As slavery, which was the universal
criterion of wealth and culture at the South, did not prevail at
all at the North, they unconsciously and naturally came to associate
self-help with degradation, and likened the Northern farmer to
the poor white "cropper." Where social rank was measured by the
length of the serving train, it was not strange that the Northern
self-helper should be despised and his complacent assumption of
equal gentility scorned.
So Mrs. Le Moyne had admired the courage of Mollie Ainslie before
she saw her; she had been charmed with her beauty and artless grace
on the first night of her stay at Mulberry Hill, and had felt obliged
to her for her care of the little Hildreth; but she had not once
thought of considering her the peer of the Richardses and the Le
Moynes, or as standing upon the same social plane as herself. She
was, no doubt, good and honest and brave, very well educated and
accomplished, but by no means a lady in _her_ sense of the
word. Mrs. Le Moyne's feeling toward the Northern school-teacher
was very like that which the English gentry express when they use
the word "person." There is no discredit in the term. The individual
referred to may be the incarnation of every grace and virtue, only
he is of a lower degree in the social scale. He is of another grade.
Entertaining such feelings toward Mollie, it was no wonder that
Mrs. Le Moyne was not pleased to see the anxious interest that
young lady freely exhibited in the health of her son.
On the other hand, the young New England girl never suspected the
existence of such sentiments. Conscious of intellectual and moral
equality with her hostess, she did not imagine that there could
be anything of patronage, or anything less than friendly sympathy
and approval, in the welcome she had received at Mulberry Hill.
This house had seemed to her like a new home. The exile which she
had undergone at Red Wing had unfitted her for the close analysis
of such pleasing associations. Therefore, the undertone in Mrs.
Le Moyne's remarks came upon her like a blow from an unseen hand.
She felt hurt and humbled, but she could not exactly tell why. Her
heart grew suddenly heavy. Her eyes filled with tears. She dallied
a little while with coffee and toast, declined the dainties pressed
upon her with scrupulous courtesy, and presently, excusing her lack
of appetite, fled away to her room and wept.
"I must be nervous this morning," she said to herself smilingly,
as she dried her eyes and prepared for her customary morning ride.
On going down stairs she found a servant in waiting with her horse
ready saddled, who said: "Mornin', Miss Mollie. Marse Hesden said
ez how I was ter tell yer dat he was dat busy dis mornin' dat he
couldn't go ter ride wid yer to-day, nohow. I wuz ter gib yer his
compliments, all de same, an' say he hopes yer'll hev a pleasant
ride, an' he wants ter see yer when yer gits back. He's powerful
sorry he can't go."
"Tell Mr. Le Moyne it is not a matter of any consequence at all,
Charley," she answered pleasantly.
"Yer couldn't never make Marse Hesden b'lieve dat ar, no way in de
world," said Charles, with deft flattery, as he lifted her into the
saddle. Then, glancing quickly around, he said in a low, earnest
voice: "Hez ye heerd from Red Wing lately, Miss Mollie?"
"Not for a day or two. Why?" she asked, glancing quickly down at
him.
"Oh, nuffin', only I wuz afeared dar'd been somethin' bad a gwine
on dar, right lately."
"What do you mean, Charles?" she asked, bending down and speaking
anxiously.
"Don't say nuffin' 'bout it, Miss Mollie--dey don't know nuffin'
'bout it in h'yer," nodding toward the house, "but de Ku Kluckers
was dar las' night."
"You don't mean it, Charles?"
"Dat's what I hear," he answered doggedly.
"Anybody hurt?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't know dat, Miss Mollie. Dat's all I hear--jes dat dey'd
been dar."