A BIT OF LOVE MAKING.
The party at General DeKay's broke up gradually, some of the
sportsmen going away on the morning of the day following the quail
shoot, the rest taking their departure in groups or singly, as
business necessitated or a sense of propriety dictated. At last the
Nobles, the Beresfords, Miss Crabb, Reynolds and Moreton were the
favored remnant, lingering at the old plantation to enjoy, as long as
possible, the sweets of its almost arcadian life.
Notwithstanding the great change wrought by the war, the DeKays had
been able to hold on to a picturesque residuum of their former wealth
and to keep up a fair show of that hospitality which had once been
almost unlimited. The guests of the mansion felt the perfect freedom
given them, and so the days went by without a circumstance to hinder
their enjoyment of every moment.
Uncle Mono was a source of great amusement to every body; his banjo,
his songs, his stories, his peculiar philosophy and that
individuality of thought and expression, so often exhibited by old
negroes, making him especially interesting to Moreton and Miss Crabb.
His life had been so saturated with slavery's influences that
freedom, coming to him after he had passed the meridian of life, had
not been able to change him much.
Along with his other gifts, Uncle Mono was a fortune-teller whose
fame held the admiration and the awe of all the negroes at highest
strain. He could tell when it was going to rain and when the wind
was going to change as well as he could predict the kind of
sweetheart the future would bring to the inquiring youth or maiden.
In fact he was the seventh son of a seventh son, and not a drop of
white-man's blood ran in his veins.
"I's pyo' blood dahky f'om away back," he was fond of saying. "None
yo' yaller niggah 'bout me. Nuffin' I 'spises mo' 'n one o' dese yer
no' 'count clay-faced merlatters. Steal! Dey des steal de sole of
'm yo' shoes! No sah, I's pyo' blood dahky."
Sometimes, when the evening air chanced to be warm enough, the guests
and the household would assemble on one of the wide verandas and send
for Uncle Mono to play for them while the gentlemen smoked their
pipes and cigars and the ladies promenaded back and forth to the
brisk tinkling of the banjo. They all enjoyed the touch of old-time
custom when a number of the plantation negroes, young and old, crept
up to within a respectful distance, looking on and listening.
The nights were superb, the splendor of stars or moon and sky adding
an almost weird sheen to the gray fields and silvery river. The
pronounced atmosphere of isolation which broods over all those large
low-country plantations gave to the guests at DeKay Place a
comforting sense of liberty, as if the restraints of conventional
life had been dissolved and dissipated, or had never come here.
Some swings had been made of huge muscadine vines brought from the
woods and suspended from the trees on the lawn. The young women,
especially Miss Noble and Miss Crabb, found swinging most
exhilarating sport. Moreton watched Cordelia as she oscillated, like
a gay pendulum, in the soft night-light under the dusky boughs, until
his heart timed its beating with her movements. He enjoyed every
phase of this delightful subtropical episode in his life. It did him
good to see Reynolds returning to something like his old-time
youthful enthusiasm and cheerfulness.
Among them all it was silently noted how Mrs. Ransom and Reynolds
were drawn towards each other.
"Dunno 'bout dat big, dahk young ge'man flyin' roun' de young missus
no how," muttered Uncle Mono to his colored companions; "seem lak
mebbe she better look sha'p 'bout 'im. He sort o' 'sterious lookin'
young man anyhow."
Miss Crabb for some reason failed to win favor with the negroes. She
was very much interested in them and tried hard to study them; but
her inquiring manner and insistent tones of voice did not touch their
warm African hearts. On the other hand, Miss Noble was a prime
favorite with them all.
"Bress dat sweet chile," said Uncle Mono, "she jes' lak de ripe peach
on de eend ob a limb, she sort o' glimmer an' look too good fo' to
pull off an' too ripe fo' to let erlone."
"Dat same lak what de young boss f'om way off fink, I 'spec,"
ventured a colored listener. "He look at 'er 'mazin' sof an' hongry
lak."
"Wha' yo' know 'bout it?" stormed Uncle Mono. "Wha' business yo' got
fo' to be a watchin' dem whi' folks? Fust ting yo' know yo' git yo'
backbone wa'med up wid a stick! Better not be peekin' 'roun', _I_
tell yo'."
"Ef yo' lak what yo' call peekin'," replied the other, with a comical
grin, "jes' cas' yo' eye on dat young leddy dat's got de leetle book
an' pencil; _she_ kin' peek fo' de Lor' sake!"
Miss Crabb was pretty well aware of the delicacy of her situation,
or, to put it fairly, the indelicacy of it; but she had gone too far
to retreat. She must brave it through to the end.
It chanced that Moreton discovered Miss Noble's pique at Reynolds
because of his neglect to fulfill his promise to teach her the art of
handling a gun. This gave him a most excellent excuse for offering
himself as her instructor. He borrowed Reynolds' little gun and made
the most of his opportunities. His patience was unbounded and Miss
Noble's zeal unflagging, so that between them they squandered a great
deal of time down on a little open plat between the house and the
river, banging away at an improvised target. As for Reynolds, his
promise to Miss Noble was entirely forgotten by him. His love for
Agnes Ransom had crowded every lighter thing from his consciousness.
General DeKay and Mr. Noble remained faithful to the object of the
occasion, pursuing the birds with dogs and guns each day with
unremitting ardor. Young Beresford and his sister, after a most
commendable effort to stem, with a show of good natured indifference,
the tide setting against the passion of one and the pride of the
other, went away, taking with them, much against their will, the
unflagging Miss Crabb, whose pencil had filled the little red book
with pot-hook notes of what she had seen and heard.
Miss Crabb had failed, however, to get any sketches from Moreton. He
had, at last, begged her to release him from the obligation of his
hasty promise.
"I did not think," he said to her; "I did not once think of
the--the--the propriety of the thing, don't you know, when we were
talking about it; but it would offend every one here. These people
are peculiarly exclusive--very proud people, Miss Crabb, and they
would take it as a gross breach of hospitality. I am very sorry, and
I hope you will not--not----"
"Oh, no, certainly, I see," she exclaimed, in confused haste. "It's
all right, Mr. Beresford--Moreton I mean, it's all right, I assure
you; but do you think they'll care for my writing them up? I don't
see how I can afford to waste all this material. It'll work up so
charmingly."
"I don't pretend to advise as to that," Moreton evasively answered.
"You needn't send them any copy of your paper. It takes any thing
new a century to get here, if it isn't especially sent. Use your own
good editorial judgment, Miss Crabb."
"Yes, of course," she responded, thoughtfully adjusting her gloves,
"it is a matter of business, a matter of bread and butter with me. I
must make every edge cut." She was silent for a moment. Presently
she looked up quickly and keenly, adding in a thin voice: "If one
writes for the public one must write what is of interest. One can't
afford to stand on small proprieties. I can't, at least: I'm poor."
Moreton had ready no response. He felt an impulse toward putting his
hand into his pocket to give her some money; but of course he did not
do it. Never before had a look conveyed to him so sudden a discovery
of the hard lines of the life of a woman who is thrown upon her own
resources for earning a livelihood. It suggested to him a phase of
human struggle hitherto quite shut out of his imagination, however
familiar to Americans.
"Well, good-by," she presently said, with an almost cheerful smile.
"I wish I could stay here always: this is pretty near my ideal of
what a home should be." She cast a slow glance around her, letting
her eyes linger on the picturesque old mansion and its embowering
trees. Moreton fancied that her face betrayed a feeling of weariness
and failure, as if her enthusiasm had suddenly vanished.
"Good-by, Miss Crabb, I wish you great success," he responded,
cordially taking her hand. It was the best he could do.
"Thank you," she quickly replied. "I am determined to deserve
success, at least; but it is a long way off, I sometimes fear." She
turned to go to the waiting carriage, but faced him again and added:
"This has been a most charming experience to me. What a sweet,
restful life it must be living here. I almost envy--I almost covet
Mrs. Ransom's lot. I have had such a hard----," but she did not
finish the sentence. "Good-by," she repeated, and went away.
Moreton felt a pang of sympathy for this poor girl, though he had no
very definite idea of what her struggles, her hopes and her failures
might be. It was enough for him to know that she was good and honest
and earnest, and that she felt the hardship of some galling
limitations.
"Will she ever come to any thing? Is there really any chance for a
person like her in this country?" he inquired of Miss Noble a little
later, as he sat by her side on a rustic seat under some trees by the
river.
"She may make a hit, as it is termed," was the answer. "Some of them
do, and then, if she will make the most of it, she may get to where
life is easier; but at best she can not hope for much."
"It seems queer and pitiful to me," he said, after a moment of
thoughtfulness, "that so good and kind a girl as she evidently is
should have to do such things. Her situation has deeply touched me."
"That is because you haven't been used to it. Young ladies probably
do not report for the press in England," replied Cordelia. "It is a
very common thing for them to do it here."
Moreton smiled, as one who gives up a sentiment rather reluctantly is
apt to do, and said:
"Still I would rather not see it; she appeared out of place, somehow."
"She was quite out of place here; but she has become so used to
overcoming such obstacles that she easily evaded any sense of the
impropriety of invading the privacy of General DeKay's----
"No, I beg your pardon," hastily spoke up Moreton. "You do her
wrong. She _did_ feel very keenly that she was _de trop_, that she
wasn't just free and welcome, don't you know. I saw it--she almost
acknowledged it to me, in fact, and I felt downright sorry for her."
"Poor thing!" exclaimed Cordelia, her voice softening with the sudden
change in her quick sympathy. "Poor girl! and we didn't try to help
her or to make her feel easy. I hate myself for it. I see how mean
I have been. It would have been so easy to have smoothed things for
her, too!"
Moreton felt a temptation to seize this warm-hearted, impulsive girl
and press her close to his breast. Indeed he had a right to be
sorely tempted, for she was a strong, lithe, blooming maiden, whose
steadfast honesty and purity glowed in her eyes and on her lips.
Then there was the dreamy sunshine and the checkered shade and the
softly rippling breeze to add to his mood, and yonder was the
slumberous river lapsing away between its brakes. But he satisfied
himself with simply looking at her and allowing her beauty to freshen
and sweeten his heart.
"I suppose it is selfish and narrow," he presently said; "but I am
heartily glad that all of them are gone--that we are left alone
together, aren't you?"
She laughed, but she blushed as well, and looked away from him as she
answered in what she meant for a very careless tone:
"Oh, I like company and bright talk and the excitement of numbers; it
exhilarates me. This will be a dull old place, now that the party
has dwindled down to four or five. I hope my father has almost run
the gamut of his cartridges."
"Not a dull place," he said with a peculiar emphasis, "a dreamy,
fascinating place, rather. The river yonder, see how it glimmers,
and this breeze; I never was so happy at any place as I am here and
now. There is a sort of mystery in the influence of things around
us."
She looked at him with a quick inquiry in her clear eyes, as if to
discover whether or not he was jesting. Something in his bold yet
tender gaze parried her glance and her lids dropped. She drooped her
head and shoulders a little, too, as if under some suddenly imposed
burden.
"Aren't you very happy here?" he went on, leaning a little toward
her. "I want you to be very happy."
"Oh, yes, I'm always happy. I never was unhappy in my life," she
answered with a show of vehemence, instead of the careless lightness
that she intended should appear. "I'm never serious enough to become
sad."
Moreton looked at her with tender fervor, the power of love full upon
him, and yet the silly rhyme kept ringing in his brain:
"The light of her eyes,
And the dew of her lips,
Where the moth never flies
And the bee never sips."
Truly love-making has all of human nature in it, from the grandeur of
extreme exaltation down to the mere piping of sheerest nonsense; but
the nonsense for the time, is just as sweet as any part, so much does
it borrow of the rapture of the occasion. There is comedy of a
slender sort in it, which it seems a sacrilege to separate from the
sacred part, and yet we all are tempted into poking quiet fun at the
big, strong men who awkwardly dabble in love's sweet stream. So few
of them can come boldly down to the current and at once arrest it and
have their will of it outright.
"What would you do if you were poor, like Miss Crabb, and had to face
the world and struggle for life?" he asked with an absurd
inconsequence in his manner and voice.
"I can't imagine such a thing," she quickly answered, "I really
can't. It would be very, very hard, no doubt. But I sometimes think
I might be of more use, that my life is quite empty of real value. I
shouldn't know how to do any useful thing."
"You might make some one happy. That would be good."
"I have no knack; I am selfish, frivolous, intent upon my own
happiness," she said, looking up with a bright smile.
"Just a word, sometimes, is better than any other alms," he continued.
"Eleemosynary cheerfulness and breath of charity, as our good
minister is fond of calling it," she responded with a gay little
laugh. "I do sometimes try to be agreeable and bright, just to
please people."
"That's mere social clap-trap, it doesn't mean any thing. It must be
genuine, don't you know--come right out from the heart. You must
really desire to make some one happy."
There was something in the vehemence of his voice and manner that
caused her to look into his eyes with a quick change from her
careless levity to a puzzled gravity of expression, that would have
amused a disinterested observer.
"How much would you do to make me very happy?" he went on, speaking
as if the question might be one of life and death. "You would like
to make me happy, wouldn't you?"
"Why do you ask that--what----" Her eyes had drooped and she made an
unavailing effort to lift them again to his face. Here was his
opportunity.
"Because I love you, love you better than all the world, Cordelia,"
came his hurried response. His arms made a quick initial movement,
instantly arrested, for the place was not just suited to any violent
demonstrations; then he added, breathlessly:
"Do you love me, Cordelia?"
She glanced rapidly around, as if expecting to find in the landscape
some relief from the embarrassment that flooded her cheeks with
blushes. Just then, Reynolds and Mrs. Ransom passed down the pathway
leading from the mansion to a little landing on the river, where a
small boat lay moored. They were too much absorbed in conversation
to notice the lovers, though they could almost have touched them as
they went by. Miss Noble remained silent, watching Reynolds assist
his graceful companion into the boat and draw in the little painter.
Suddenly she looked up and very demurely said:
"They're going for a row on the river: why didn't we think of that?
I delight in going out on the water."
"You would take a profound delight in any thing just now that would
help you to avoid answering my question, wouldn't you?" he grumbled.
"You've forgotten what it was I inquired about, haven't you?"
She laughed in a low, clear way. Reynolds and Mrs. Ransom, lightly
startled by the sound, turned their faces quickly and waved a
greeting, as they glided out upon the placid stream. They appeared
very happy.
"I shall not be put aside so lightly," he went on; "I can't bear it.
You must answer me, Cordelia."
"Answer you what?"
He sprang to his feet, and stood gazing down at her with his face
actually pale with emotion.
"You don't mean it? You can't mean to drive me from you in this
way?" he cried, his voice a little husky.
"Sit down, do, they're looking at us--they'll know what it is," she
murmured, making a deprecatory gesture with her hand.
He obeyed, saying rather ungraciously as he did so:
"What if they do know? We needn't care, they're no better. Reynolds
is nearly crazy about her; he means to propose to her as soon as
they're round the curve." He could not help laughing a little at his
own absurdity. But Cordelia pretended to pout.
"You should not say such things about Agnes; she doesn't deserve your
levity."
"I didn't say any harm of her," he hastened to reply. "I spoke of
Reynolds: he is very much in love. You do not blame him for thinking
a great deal of her--I don't blame him at all. I think it is deuced
clever of him, don't you know."
She rose as if to go away.
"Come, now, turn about is fair: you made me sit down again when I got
up," he said, catching her hand and gently pulling her down beside
him.
What further was said between them has never been gathered from the
sweet wind that bore their fragmentary murmurings away among the old
trees and down the silvery windings of the river. I presume that, no
matter how much the circumstances of courtship may differ, true love,
in the hey-day of youth, or in the vigorous prime of life, has
certain constant quantities by which it may readily be known; and one
of these is so sweet that, to one not personally interested, it
narrowly misses being entirely too sweet for deliberate discussion.
John Ruskin has, I believe, more than suggested an amendment to the
ordinary methods of love-making, but lovers seem inclined to follow
the old, familiar rose-scented plan, no matter how silly it may
appear to superannuated philosophers and art critics.