All this was long ago, and for seventeen years the grass had been
growing over the neglected graves of Daisy Forrest and Charlie
Fielding. The woman who bore his name, the mother of his children, had
long ago fled from the little Southern village that had been the scene
of such blighting scandal and bitter tragedy, and made her home many
miles away from that hated spot, far enough, she hoped, to bring up her
children out of all knowledge or hearing of the bitter past.
Into her new home and her new life none of her old household
accompanied her, save old Maria. Since her husband's death the cruel
Civil War had swept over the land and freed the slaves that belonged
to the heiress, whose gold had tempted Charlie Fielding to sin. Every
one deserted their mistress gladly, none remaining but Maria, who had
belonged to her husband. She remained, although not for love of her
mistress. She could not desert Massa Charlie's children, she said.
These two, Jewel and Flower, as their mother persisted in calling them,
had grown up so beautiful and charming that no one could decide to
which belonged the palm of greater beauty. Paris himself would have
been in despair, and the golden apple must have been divided, or never
awarded to either.
Fancy a brunette of the most decided type with a beautiful, passionate
face, a cloud of waving dark hair, and eyes of starry brightness. By
her tall, queenly figure place one equally lovely, yet as different in
her type as flowers from jewels, dawn from sunset, or day from night.
An exquisite form, less tall and full than Jewel's, but perfectly
proportioned, and with a fairy-like grace impossible to describe. Blue
eyes of the brightest, rarest tint, and hair that fell to her waist
in loose bright curls of that rich golden hue so dear to the artist's
heart. Small, perfectly molded features and a dazzling complexion
received a touch of piquancy from the delicate yet decided arch of the
slender brows and the thick curling lashes both several degrees darker
than her hair. Both girls had small hands and feet, and possessed every
attribute of beauty. It was no wonder that strangers could not decide
which was the lovelier, when their own mother was puzzled over the
question.
There were moments--few and far between--when Mrs. Fielding almost
said to herself that it was Flower to whom she would award the palm of
beauty. But these were the moments when she was softened by a memory of
the love she had borne Charlie Fielding before that last hour when her
hot jealousy and hate had made her curse him as he lay dead at her feet.
But these softened moments were few and short.
"I am mad, mad!" she would cry, coming out of these spells as though
from an abhorred trance. "I ought to hate Flower Fielding--ought to
hate my own child, because she has her father's face."
There were times when she was half maddened by the memory of the past,
by the thought of the horrible humiliation and pain she had endured
long ago--alas! that she endured still. The old hot resentment and
jealousy burned still in her heart, turned her blood to fire, and
fevered her pulse. The fierce aspiration breathed over her husband's
dead body for vengeance on the two who had blasted her life was fresh
on her lips still.
"It was with her the night long, in dreaming or waking,
It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking,
The burden of bitterness in her! Behold,
All her days were become as a tale that is told,
And she said to her sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see,
For the noonday is turned to darkness in me.'"
One very interesting event had occurred in the Fielding family since
their twins had entered upon their seventeenth birthday.
Faithful old Maria, after bringing them through their childish ailments
up to the years of girlhood, had bought a cabin near by with her
savings of years, and "gone to herself," as she expressed it. Silly old
soul, she had been beguiled by the attractions of a young mulatto buck
who had his eye on her small savings, and she married him and settled
down to married life with all its joys and woes, which in her case
proved chiefly the latter.
Jewel and Flower, who dearly loved their black mammy, sympathized
very much with her ludicrous love affair, and even with the access
of religion she acquired when she "jined de shoutin' Methody, for de
comfort o' my soul, chillen, for dat dissipated Sam 'most sen' my soul
to de debbil!"