Mrs. Carew's candles, in the old candelabra hung with glass prisms, were
all lighted; in addition, her astral lamp was shining on a table in the
back drawing-room, and near this lamp she was standing.
The two rooms were large, square, separated by folding-doors which were
held open by giant sea-shells, placed upon the carpet as weights. Wide
doors led also from each room into the broad hall, which was lighted by
a hanging lamp in a pictured porcelain shade. From the back drawing-room
a second door led into the dining-room behind, which was also entered by
a broader door at the end of the hall.
"Now, Pompey," said the mistress of the house, "are you quite sure you
understand? Tell me what it is you are to do."
Pompey, a small, yellow-skinned negro, whose large, orb-like, heavily
wrinkled eyelids (underneath which but a narrow line of eye appeared)
were the most prominent features of his flat face, replied, solemnly:
"W'en eberyting's ready, I fuss slips inter de hall, steppen softly, an'
shets _dish_ yer do', de back parlo' do' inter de hall. I nex' announces
suppah at de _fron_' parlo' do'. Den, wiles de compahny's parsing inter
de hall, I hurries roun' tru _dish_ yer do'--de do' from de
_dinin_'-room--gits out dat ar lamp mighty quick, an' has it onter de
middle ob de suppah table befo' de _fuss_ head ob de compahny appeahs at
de hall do'. An' I follers de same course _ob_wersed w'en de compahny
retiahs."
"Very well," said Mrs. Carew. "Now mind you do it."
Hearing the gate-latch fall, she hurried into the front room to be ready
to receive her dearest Katrina. But it was only Mrs. Thorne, who, with
Garda, entered without knocking; the evening was warm and the hall door
stood open, the light from within shining across the broad piazza, and
down the rose-bordered path to the gate. Mrs. Carew herself accompanied
her friends up-stairs, and stood talking while they laid aside their
light wraps; these guests were to spend the night, having come up from
East Angels in their boat, old Pablo rowing.
"We shall be ten," said their hostess; "a good number, don't you think
so? I shall have whist, of course, later--whist and conversation." Here
Mrs. Thorne, having taken from her basket a small package, brought forth
from their careful wrappings two pairs of kid gloves, one white, the
other lavender; they did not appear to be new.
"You are not going to wear _gloves_?" said Mrs. Carew, interrupting
herself in her surprise. "It's only a small tea-party."
"No entertainment given by you, dear friend, can be called small; it is
not a question of numbers, but of scope, and your scope is always of the
largest," replied the mistress of East Angels, beginning to cover her
small fingers with the insignia of ceremony. "Our only thought was to do
you honor, we are very glad to have this little opportunity."
Garda put her gloves in her pocket. She had the white ones.
"My daughter," said Mrs. Thorne, admonishingly.
"But, mamma, I don't want to wear them; I don't like them."
"We are obliged, in _this_ world at least, my child, to wear many
things, gloves included, which we do not especially like," said Mrs.
Thorne, with the air of expecting to wear only the choicest garb (gloves
included) in the next. "Do not interfere with my plan for doing honor to
our dear friend."
Garda, with a grimace, took out the gloves and put them on, while the
dear friend looked on with much interest. There was not a trace of
jealousy in her glance, a Gwinnet, in truth, could not have cause for
jealousy; she was really admiring the little New England woman's
inspiration. "Gloves have never been worn here at small tea-parties,"
she said to Evert Winthrop afterwards. "But she thought that your aunt
and Mrs. Harold, coming as they do from New York, would have them, and
so she unearthed those two old pairs. There is really _no_ limit to that
woman's energy; I verily believe that if an East Indian prince should be
wrecked off Gracias, she would find an elephant to receive him with!
Her courage is inexhaustible, and if she had any money _at all_, she'd
move the world--like Archimedes, wasn't it, who only wanted a point for
his lever? To be sure, that is the great thing--the point, and Mr. Carew
used always to say that I forgot mine. I told him that he could pick
them up and put them in himself if he missed them so much, but he said
that anybody could put them in, but that it took a real genius to leave
them out, as I did." Here the good lady laughed heartily. "It was only
his joking way, of course," she added; "you see, Mr. Carew was a
lawyer."
The gloves having been duly put on, the three ladies descended to the
front drawing-room, where Mrs. Thorne seated herself in an attitude
which might have been described as suggesting a cultured expectation.
Her little figure remained erect, not touching the back of her chair;
her hands, endued with the gloves, were folded lightly; her countenance
expressed the highest intelligence, chastened by the memory of the many
trials through which she had passed; this, at least, was what she
intended it to express.
The fall of the gate-latch was now heard again.
"Had we not better be standing?" suggested their hostess, in a hurried
whisper. It was so many years since she had opened her old house for
what she called "evening company" that she felt fluttered and
uncertain--embarrassed, as imaginative people always are, by the number
of things that occurred to her, things she might do.
"I think not, dear friend," answered Mrs. Thorne, with decision. "We are
too few, it would have, I fear, the air of a tableau."
Mrs. Thorne was above flutter, a whisper she scorned. As the approaching
footsteps drew nearer, the listening silence in the drawing-room, whose
long windows stood open, became in her opinion far too apparent; she
coughed, turned to her daughter, and, in her clear little voice,
remarked, "I have always esteemed the pearl the most beautiful of
precious stones. The diamond has more brilliancy, the ruby a richer
glow, but the pearl--" Here the steps, entering the hall without
ceremony, showed that the new-comers were not the expected northern
guests, since they, of course, would have gone through the form of
raising the knocker upon the open door. It was Dr. Kirby who entered,
followed by the Rev. Mr. Moore.
The Doctor offered his salutations in his usual ceremonious fashion. He
made a compact little bow, and a formal compliment, over the hand of
each of the ladies in turn; he was dressed in black, but still looked
like a canary-bird--a canary-bird in mourning.
After some minutes, again came the sound of the gate-latch. Mrs. Carew,
who was talking, stopped short, even Dr. Kirby's attention flew to the
gravel-path; there was danger of another pause. But bravely Mrs. Thorne
came to the rescue a second time. "The emerald," she observed, to the
unlistening Kirby, "is clear, and even one may say translucent. And how
profound it is!--how deep the mysterious green which--" The new-comers
had crossed the piazza, lifted the knocker, and had then, without
waiting for Pompey's appearance, entered the hall; this showed
acquaintance, though not the familiar intimacy of the first guests; it
proved to be Manuel Ruiz, and with him Adolfo Torres.
But now came the sound of wheels, Mrs. Carew listened eagerly. "A
carriage!" she murmured, turning to the Doctor, as the sound stopped
before her house. He nodded and twirled his thumbs. This time there
could be no doubt, the strangers were coming up the path.
But silence had again attacked the little group, and Mrs. Thorne,
feeling that graceful conversation was now more than ever imperative, if
the strangers were to be impressed with the ease and distinction of
Gracias society, was again about to speak, when Garda, with a merry
gleam in her eyes, exclaimed, with sudden enthusiasm, to Manuel,
"Sapphires, oh, beautiful sapphires, how I wish I had a tiara of them!"
Manuel, though somewhat surprised by the unexpectedness of the topic,
gallantly answered that she was worthy to have her floors paved with
them if she should wish it; nay, that he himself would become a sapphire
for such a purpose. And then by the formal knock and the delay, all felt
that the strangers were at last within their gates. A few minutes later
they entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Rutherford, Margaret Harold, and
Evert Winthrop. Mrs. Thorne's eyes turned towards her daughter with one
quick single beam of triumph: the ladies wore gloves.
Mrs. Carew seated herself beside her dearest Katrina, and Dr. Kirby bore
them company; the Rev. Mr. Moore and Mrs. Thorne gave their attention to
Mrs. Harold. Evert Winthrop took a seat which had the air of being near
enough to the first group for conversational purposes, but which was in
reality a little apart. Garda and Manuel were on the opposite side of
the room, with Torres standing near them; Manuel was talking, but Garda
gave him a divided attention, she was looking at Evert Winthrop. At
length she rose and went across to his chair.
"Did you have a pleasant ride to-day?" she asked, standing with the
simplicity of a child before him, her hands clasped and hanging.
"Yes; I went down the King's Road," he answered, rising. "I like a
'King's Road;' we have no King's Roads at the North."
"Why not?" said Garda.
"We abolished kings more completely than you did perhaps; in 1776."
"What happened then? Something at the North?"
"Oh, a small matter, quite unimportant; it didn't include
Gracias-a-Dios."
"It might have, I don't pretend to know the history of Gracias-a-Dios,"
replied Garda, rather loftily; "all I know is the history of my own
family. In 1776 my grandmother Beatriz was five years old, and even
then, they say, water could run under her insteps."
"Why did they keep the poor child in such wet places? It must have been
very unhealthy. Won't you have this chair?"
"I'm so tired of chairs."
"Have you been asleep in the hammock all the afternoon?"
"Yes," she confessed. "But I hope I don't show it so plainly? It isn't
polite to look sleepy at a party."
"Let us walk up and down for a while: that will waken you," he said,
offering his arm.
"Do people walk up and down when the party is such a small one? Is that
a northern custom?"
"I am a northerner certainly; and it's my custom," he answered. As they
entered the back drawing-room, "I did not mean that you looked sleepy,"
he added, "but the contrary; the walking will be of use as a sedative."
"You need not be afraid, I shall not do anything out of the way; don't
you see that I have on white gloves?" And she extended her hands for his
inspection. "They are not mine, as you may well imagine, I never had a
pair of white gloves in my life; they are mamma's, and ever so many
years old, she wore them when she was married."
"I wish I could have seen her; she must have looked like a little
blossom of the May."
"Yes," answered Garda, "I am sure that mamma must have been very pretty
indeed when she was young." She spoke with seriousness, Winthrop
imagined that she had given the subject much consideration. They reached
the end of the second room, and turned to come back.
"I should never have asked the senorita to do that," said Torres in
Spanish to Manuel.
"Very likely not; but do at least sit down, people don't stand up
against the wall all the time at tea-parties, like wooden soldiers."
"It is my method," replied Torres; "I have always my own method about
everything."
"Change it, then; at least for this evening," suggested his New World
companion.
"If they do not, as you say, stand, it appears that they walk. And
continue to walk," remarked the Cuban, after a moment, his eyes still
upon Garda and Winthrop.
"Of course they do, if they wish to," replied Manuel, who was at heart
as much surprised by Winthrop's proceeding as Torres had been; but, if
surprised, quick also to seize and appropriate to his own use any
advantages which new codes of manners might offer. "But you cannot walk
all alone--don't try that. Take something and look at it, if you won't
sit down; a book; daguerreotypes. There's a Chinese puzzle; take that."
Thus adjured, Torres stepped forward, took the puzzle from a table, and
returned with it to his place. Here he stood still again, holding his
prize solemnly.
"Play with it," said Manuel; "I never saw such a fellow! Move the rings
up and down."
"I took it because you wished me to do so," replied the Cuban, with
dignity. "But to play with it is impossible; why should I play with an
ivory toy?--I am not a child."
Here the gray head of Pompey appeared at the front drawing-room door.
The old servant waited respectfully until he had caught his mistress's
eye; he then made a low bow, with his hands folded before him--"Miss
C'roo am serbed."
Dr. Kirby offered his arm to Mrs. Rutherford, Mr. Moore offered his to
Mrs. Harold; Mrs. Carew waved Winthrop towards Mrs. Thorne, while she
herself took the arm of Manuel Ruiz. Garda was left to Torres, who, thus
unexpectedly made happy, accompanied her into the hall, still bearing
his puzzle.
"What in the world are you carrying?" she asked, laughing.
"It is a toy of ivory which Manuel insisted that I should take. With
your permission I will now lay it aside." And he deposited it carefully
upon a chair.
The little procession now came to a pause, Mrs. Carew having asked her
dearest Katrina to look at a portrait upon the wall. "It was taken the
year after my marriage," she explained, watching for the increased glow
through the dining-room door which should proclaim to her anxious eyes
the arrival of the astral lamp in its destined place.
"I do not need a portrait, Betty; I have one in my memory," replied Mrs.
Rutherford, graciously. She could not see the picture without her
glasses, but she gazed at the gilt frame with an interested air, looking
at it with her head now a little on one side, now on the other, as if to
get the right light.
"I have never considered this portrait a faithful representation of our
friend," observed Dr. Kirby. He could not see even the frame, but he
surveyed the wall with disapprobation. "It quite fails to give her
vivacity, which is so characteristic a feature. But what painter's
brush, what limner's art, can fix upon canvas that delicate, that, I may
say, intangible charm which belongs to the fairer portion of our
humanity? It is, and must always be, a hopeless task."
Mrs. Rutherford admired the Doctor's way of expressing himself. It was
the fine old style. She herself had kept pace with the new, as she kept
pace with everything; but the old style was more stately, and she had
always preferred it; for one thing, she understood it better. Mrs.
Rutherford liked conversations to have a beginning, a middle, and an
end; the Doctor's conversations, and even his sentences, had all three.
The increased glow now showed itself through the distant door, and Mrs.
Carew moved on; the little company passed down the hall and into the
dining-room, where stood a bountifully decked table with the astral lamp
radiant in the centre, and Pompey, so dignified under his
responsibilities that he actually looked tall, in attendance. It was an
old-fashioned repast; they were all seated round the table as though it
had been a dinner. But the hostess did not place them in the order in
which they had proceeded through the hall; having paid what she
considered due acknowledgment to etiquette, she now arranged them for
the long repast in the way which she thought would please them best,
which is quite another matter. Winthrop found himself between Garda and
Mrs. Harold; Mrs. Harold had upon her left hand Manuel Ruiz, and Garda
upon her right the happy Torres, who, however, in spite of happiness,
looked more rigid and solemn than ever as the soft horizontal light of
the lamp, shining above the central plum-cake, illumined his dark face.
"You remember, of course, that he does not speak English," Garda said to
Winthrop. She was alluding to her right-hand neighbor.
"Does that mean that you intend to speak Spanish to him?" said Winthrop.
"He has quite enough as it is in being next you; you should not give too
much."
"I like generosity."
"That wouldn't be generosity, but squandering; you shouldn't give at
random."
"Poor Adolfo isn't at random! But I believe you are trying to instruct
me?" she said, surveying him frankly.
"Would it displease you if I were?"
Garda paused, as if considering the point. "You might try it," she
answered. "It would at least be new, and I generally like new things.
That is the reason, you know, that I liked you; you were new."
Manuel, meanwhile, was bringing forward his finest powers for the
entertainment of Mrs. Harold, by whose side he had been placed; and if
he talked in a somewhat more decorated strain than was prevalent in the
colder circles from which she had come, it was carried off easily by his
youth, his handsome face, his animated manner. Winthrop overheard
occasionally his fervid little speeches, he did not admire them. But it
was only occasionally, for he himself was fully occupied, Garda talked
to him, or listened to him, during the entire time they remained at the
table. And this was over two hours; there were many delicious things to
be eaten, or at least tasted, for Mrs. Carew's Cynthy, having been one
of the good cooks of the old days before the war, was still in
possession of a remnant of her former skill. As these "old days" lay but
six years back, it would seem that Cynthy must have worked hard to
forget all but a remnant, in so short a time. She had, however,
succeeded perfectly, and only upon great occasions, like the present,
would she condescend to revert to her ancient knowledge, as a favor to
"Miss Betty," whose fortunes were so sadly fallen. Cynthy and Pompey had
accompanied their young mistress from her Georgia home to the new one in
Florida many years before; they now remained with her for the excellent
reason that, owing to age and infirmities, it would have been impossible
for them to have found a home or employment elsewhere. This, however,
they never acknowledged, they spoke of their fidelity as a weakness of
which they were rather ashamed; but "dat poor Miss Betty, she nebber get
'long widout us nohow, Pomp, dat's a fac'." In reality, they adored Miss
Betty, and would have pined and died in a month if taken from her
kindly, indulgent rule, and from the old Carew kitchen, with its
disorder and comfort, where they had reigned so many years.
The superior table manners of Mrs. Thorne were never more apparent than
upon this occasion. In this lady's opinion, when one was required to
turn from intellectual occupations to the grosser employment of
supplying nourishment to the body, one could at least endeavor to
etherealize it as much as possible by confining one's self to that
refined implement, the fork. In accordance with this theory, she
scarcely touched her knife; once, under protest as it were, she
delicately divided with its aid the wing of a wild-duck, but that was
all. She encountered difficulties; slices of cold tongue betrayed a
remarkable tenacity of fibre, portions of broiled chicken manifested a
very embarrassing slipperiness under the silver tines, as she tried to
divide them or roll them up. But she persevered in her efforts to the
end, and succeeded, though her small fingers became deeply dented by the
force she was obliged to exert.
When the meal was at length over, Mrs. Carew, with a bow to Mrs.
Rutherford as her most distinguished guest, rose. Garda called
Winthrop's attention, as they also rose, to the fact that she had
scarcely spoken six sentences of Spanish during its entire continuance.
"See how well I have obeyed you," she said.
"Surely I did not venture a command?"
"I think you did. At least you came as near it as you dared, and you are
very daring."
"I? Never in the world! You are quite mistaken, Miss Thorne, I am the
exact opposite of that," he answered, laughing.
"But I should think you would like me to at least believe you so,"
responded Garda, looking at him with wonder.
"Believe me to be daring? We probably use the word in a different sense;
it isn't a word I am fond of, I confess; but I don't think you would
find me lacking in any emergency."
"Oh, emergencies!--they never come to Gracias. Now please don't say,
like the dear old Doctor, 'May they never come to _you_, my dearest
child!'"
"I will say, then--may I be present when they do."
"But you won't be," responded Garda, her tone suddenly changing; "you
will go away, Mrs. Harold will go away, everybody will go away, and we
shall be left alone again, mamma and I, on this old shore!"
"But you have seemed to me very happy here on this old shore," said
Winthrop, in a tone which was indulgent as well as comforting--she had
looked so young, so like a child, as she made her complaint.
"So I have been--until now. But now that I have seen you, now that I
have seen Mrs. Harold, I--I don't know." She looked at him wistfully.
This little conversation had gone on while they were all returning
through the hall to the front drawing-room. Manuel, however, who was
with Mrs. Harold, had a plan of his own, he turned boldly aside towards
the closed door of the back drawing-room, his intention being to
establish himself with the charming northern lady upon a certain sofa
which he remembered at the extreme end of that broad apartment; if
isolation were a northern fashion, he would be isolated too. But Mrs.
Carew (with the returning lamp on her mind) saw his hand upon the knob,
and summoned him in haste: "Mr. Ruiz! Mr. Ruiz!"
When he obeyed her call, she begged him fervently to promise to sing for
them immediately that "sweet little air" which it seemed was "such a
favorite" of hers, though when he asked her to define it more clearly,
she was unable to recall its name, the words, or any characteristic by
which he could identify it; however, by this effort of the imagination
the door of the back drawing-room was kept closed, and all her guests
were piloted safely to the front room by the way they had come. The lamp
was in position, only the retreating legs of Pompey were visible through
the dining-room door; the mistress of the house, unused to strategy,
sank into a chair, and furtively passed her handkerchief across her
brow.
Manuel was already tuning the guitar.
"Does he like to sing so soon after--after tea?" said Mrs. Rutherford.
But the handsome youth could sing as well at one time as another. He
looked about him, found a low ottoman and drew it towards the sofa where
Mrs. Harold was sitting, thus placing himself as nearly as possible at
her feet; then he struck a chord or two, and began. He had a tenor voice
(as Winthrop would have said, "of course"); and the voice had much
sweetness. He sang his little love song admirably.
Garda was standing near one of the windows with Winthrop. When the song
was ended, "How old is Mrs. Harold?" she asked, abruptly; that is,
abruptly as regarded subject, her voice itself had no abrupt tones.
"I don't know," Winthrop answered.
"Isn't she your cousin?"
"She is my aunt's niece by marriage; Mr. Rutherford was her uncle."
"But if you have always known her, you must know how old she is."
"I have not always known her, and I don't know; I suppose her to be
about twenty-seven or twenty-eight."
"She is over thirty," said Garda, with decision. "Do you think her
handsome?"
"She is considered handsome."
"But do you think her so?"
"That is rather a close question, isn't it?"
"It doesn't seem so to me; people are handsome or not handsome, it's
fact--not opinion. And what I wanted to see was whether you had any eye
for beauty, that was all. Mrs. Rutherford, for instance, is handsome,
Mrs. Carew is not. Manuel is handsome, Adolfo Torres is not."
"And Miss Thorne?"
"She hopes she is, but she isn't sure," replied the girl, laughing; "it
isn't 'sure' to be thought so by the four persons about here. And she
can't find out from the only stranger she knows, because he hasn't a
particle of expression in his face; it's most unfortunate."
"For him--yes. It's because he's so old, you know."
"How old are you?"
"I am thirty-five."
"You look younger than that," said Garda, after scanning him for a
moment.
"It's my northern temperament, that keeps me young and handsome."
"Oh, you're not handsome; but in a man it's of little consequence," she
added.
"Very little. Or in a woman either. Don't we all know that beauty fades
as the leaf?"
"The leaf fades when it has had all there was of its life, it doesn't
fade before. That is what I mean to do, have all there is of _my_ life,
I have told mamma so. I said to mamma more than a year ago, 'Mamma,
what are our pleasures? Let us see if we can't get some more;' and mamma
answered, 'Edgarda, pleasures are generally wrong.' But I don't agree
with mamma, I don't think them wrong; and I intend to take mine wherever
I can find them, in fact, I do so now."
"And do you find many?"
"Oh yes," replied Garda, confidently. "There are our oranges, which are
excellent; and Carlos Mateo, who is so amusing; and the lovely breeze we
have sometimes; and the hammock where I lie and plan out all the things
I should like to have--the softest silks, laces, nothing coarse or
common to touch me; plenty of roses in all the rooms and the garden full
of sweet-bay, so that all the air should be perfumed."
"And not books? Conversation?"
"I don't care much about books, they all appear to have been written by
old people; I suppose when I am old myself, I shall like them better. As
to conversation--yes, I like a little of it; but I like actions
more--great deeds, you know. Don't you like great deeds?"
"When I see them; unfortunately, there are very few of them left
nowadays, walking about, waiting to be done."
"I don't know; let me tell you one. The other day a young girl here--not
of our society, of course--was out sailing with a party of friends in a
fishing-boat. This girl had a branch of wild-orange blossoms in her
hand; suddenly she threw it overboard, and challenged a young man who
was with her to get it again. He instantly jumped into the water; there
was a good deal of sea, they were at the mouth of the harbor and the
tide was going out; they were running before a fresh breeze, and, having
no oars with them, they could not get back to him except by several long
tacks. He could not swim very well, and the tide was strong, they
thought he certainly would be carried out; but he kept up, and at last
they saw him land, ever so far down Patricio--he was only a black dot.
He walked back, came across to Gracias in a negro's dug-out, and just as
he was, without waiting to change his clothes, he brought her the wet
flowers."
"It is the old story of the Glove. Did he throw them in her face?"
"Throw them in her face!--is that what you would have done?" said Garda,
astonished.
"Oh, I should never have jumped overboard," answered Winthrop, laughing.
During this interval, Torres, wishing to show himself a man of
conversation, after his own method, had propounded no less than three
questions to the Rev. Mr. Moore, who understood something of Spanish. He
had first requested information as to the various methods of punishment,
other than the whip, which had been in use on the plantations in the
Gracias-a-Dios neighborhood before the emancipation, and which of them
had been considered the most effective. His next inquiry, made after a
meditative silence of some minutes, was whether, in the reverend
gentleman's opinion, the guillotine was not on the whole a more
dignified instrument for the execution of justice than the noose--one
more calculated to improve the minds of the lower classes? Finally, he
wished to know whether the clergyman supposed that a person suffered
more when an arm was amputated than he did when a leg was taken off, the
arm being nearer the vital organs; and whether either of these
operations could be compared, as regarded the torture inflicted, with
that caused by a sabre wound (such as one might receive in a duel with
swords) which had cut into the breast?
"That is a very blood-thirsty young man; his style of conversation is
really extraordinary," said the clergyman to Dr. Kirby, when Torres,
having exhausted all his topics, and not having understood one word of
the rector's Spanish in reply, returned gravely to his place on the
other side of the room.
"He is blood-thirsty because he is forced to be so dumb," answered the
Doctor, with one of his sudden little grins--grins which came and went
so quickly that, were it not for a distinct remembrance of about sixteen
very white little teeth which he had seen, the gazer would scarcely have
realized that it had been there at all. "No one here (besides yourself
and Manuel) can talk Spanish with him but Garda, and Mr. Winthrop has
kept Garda talking English every moment since he came; I don't wonder
the youth is blood-thirsty, I'm afraid that at his age I should have
called the northerner out."
But now Winthrop and Garda joined the others. Winthrop was addressed by
Mrs. Thorne.
"I have been begging Mrs. Rutherford and Mrs. Harold to pay us a visit
at East Angels some day this week; I hope, Mr. Winthrop, that you will
accompany them."
Winthrop expressed his thanks; he put forward the hope in return that
she would join them for an afternoon sail, before long, down the
Espiritu. Mrs. Thorne was sure that that would be extremely delightful,
she was sure that his yacht (she brought out the word with much
clearness; no one had ventured to call it a yacht until now) was also
delightful; and its name--_Emperadora_--was so charming!
She was perched, by some fatality, on a high-seated chair, so high that
(Winthrop suspected) her little feet did not touch the floor. She did
not look like a person who could enjoy sailing, one who would be able to
undulate easily, yield to the motion of the boat, or find readily
accessible in her storehouse of feelings that mood of serene
indifference to arriving anywhere at any particular time, which is a
necessary accompaniment of the aquatic amusement when pursued in the
lovely Florida waters. But "I enjoy sailing of all things," this brave
little matron was declaring.
"I am afraid there will be little novelty in it for you. You must know
all these waters well," observed Winthrop.
"Even if I do know them well, it will be a pleasure to visit them again
in such intelligent society," replied Mrs. Thorne. "We have lived
somewhat isolated, my daughter and I; it will be a widening for us in
every way to be with you--with Mrs. Rutherford, Mrs. Harold, and
yourself. I have sometimes feared," she went on, looking at him with her
bright little eyes, "that we should become, perhaps have already become,
too motionless in our intellectual life down here, my daughter and
myself."
"Motionless things are better than moving ones, aren't they?" answered
Winthrop. "The people who try to keep up with everything are apt to be a
panting, breathless set. Besides, they lose all sense of comparison in
their haste, and don't distinguish; important things and unimportant
they talk about with equal eagerness, the only point with them is that
they should be new."
"You console me--you console me greatly," responded Mrs. Thorne. "Still,
I feel sure that knowledge, and important knowledge, is advancing with
giant strides outside, and that we, my daughter and I, are left behind.
I have seen but few of the later publications--could you not kindly give
me just an outline? In geology, for instance, always so absorbing, what
are the latest discoveries with regard to the Swiss lakes? And I should
be so grateful, too, for any choice thoughts you may be able to recall
at the moment from the more recent essays of Mr. Emerson; I can say with
truth that strengthening sentences from Mr. Emerson's writings were my
best mental pabulum during all the early years of my residence at the
South."
"I--I fancy that Mrs. Harold knows more of Emerson than I do," replied
Winthrop, reflecting upon the picture of the New England school-teacher
transplanted to East Angels, and supporting life there as best she
could, on a diet of Mr. Emerson and "Paradise Lost."
"An extremely intelligent and cultivated person," responded Mrs. Thorne,
with enthusiasm. "Do you know, Mr. Winthrop, that Mrs. Harold quite
fills my idea of a combination of our own Margaret Fuller and Madame de
Stael."
"Yet she can hardly be called talkative, can she?" said Winthrop,
smiling.
"It is her face, the language of her eye, that give me my impression.
Her silence seems to me but a fulness of intellect, a fulness at times
almost throbbing; she is a Corinne mute, a Margaret dumb."
"Were they ever mute, those two?" asked Winthrop.
Mrs. Thorne glanced at him. "I see you do not admire lady
conversationalists," she murmured, relaxing into her guarded little
smile.
Dr. Kirby, conversing with Mrs. Rutherford, had brought forward General
Lafayette. On the rare occasions of late years when the Doctor had found
himself called upon to conduct a conversation with people from the
North, he was apt to resort to Lafayette.
The Rev. Mr. Moore, stimulated by Mrs. Carew's excellent coffee,
advanced the opinion that Lafayette was, after all, "very French."
"Ah! but Frenchmen can be _so_ agreeable," said Mrs. Carew. "There was
Talleyrand, you know; when he was over here he wrote a sonnet to my
aunt, beginning 'Aimable Anne.' And then there was little Dumont,
Katrina; you remember him?--how well he danced! As for Lafayette, when
he made his triumphal tour through the country afterwards, he grew so
tired, they say, of the satin sheets which Gratitude had provided for
him at every town that he was heard to exclaim, 'Satan de satin!' Not
that I believe it, because there are those beautiful memoirs and
biographies of all his lady-relatives who were guillotined, you know,
poor things!--though, come to think of it, one of them must have been
saved of course to write the memoirs, since naturally they couldn't have
written them beforehand themselves with all those touching descriptions
of their own dying moments and last thoughts thrown in; well--what I was
going to say was that I don't believe he ever swore in the least,
because they were all so extremely pious; he couldn't--in that
atmosphere. What a singular thing it is that when the French _do_ take
to piety they out-Herod Herod himself!--and I reckon the reason is that
it's such a novelty to them that they're like the bull in the china
shop, or rather like the new boy at the grocer's, who is not accustomed
to raisins, and eats so many the first day that he is made seriously ill
in consequence, for clear raisins _are_ very trying."
"The French," remarked Dr. Kirby, "have often, in spite of their
worldliness, warm enthusiasms in other directions which take them far,
very far indeed. It was an enthusiasm, and a noble one, that brought
Lafayette to our shores."
"_Such_ a number of children as were named after him, too," said Mrs.
Carew, starting off again. "I remember one of them; he had been baptized
Marquis de Lafayette (Marquis de Lafayette Green was his full name), and
I didn't for a long time comprehend what it was, for his mother always
called him 'Marquisdee,' and I thought perhaps it was an Indian name,
like Manatee, you know; for some people do like Indian names _so_ much,
though I can't say I care for them, but it's a matter of taste, of
course, like everything else, and I once knew a dear sweet girl who had
been named Ogeechee, after our Southern river, you remember;
Ogeechee--do you like that, Katrina?"
"Heavens! no," said Mrs. Rutherford, lifting her beautiful hands in
protest against such barbarism.
"Yet why, after all, is it not as melodious as Beatrice?" remarked Mr.
Moore, meditatively, his eyes on the ceiling.
Gracias society was proud of Mr. Moore; his linguistic accomplishments
it regarded with admiration. Mrs. Carew, divining the Italian
pronunciation of Beatrice, glanced at Katrina to see if she were
properly impressed.
Garda, upon leaving Evert Winthrop, had joined Mrs. Harold, at whose
feet Manuel still remained, guitar in hand. "Do you sing, Mrs. Harold?"
the young girl said, seating herself beside the northern lady, and
looking at her with her usual interest--an interest which appeared to
consist, in part, of a sort of expectancy that she would do or say
something before long which would be a surprise. Nothing could be more
quiet, more unsurprising, so most persons would have said, than Margaret
Harold's words and manner. But Garda had her own stand-point; to her,
Mrs. Harold was a perpetual novelty. She admired her extremely, but even
more than she admired, she wondered.
"No," Mrs. Harold had answered, "I do not sing; I know something of
instrumental music."
"I am afraid we have no good pianos here," pursued Garda; "that is, none
that you would call good.--I wish you would go and talk to Mr. Torres,"
she continued, turning to Manuel.
The young Cuban occupied a solitary chair on the other side of the room,
his method apparently having allowed him to seat himself for a while; he
had not even his ivory puzzle, but sat with his hands folded, his eyes
downcast.
"You ask impossibilities," said Manuel. "What! leave this heavenly place
at Mrs. Harold's feet--and yours--for the purpose of going to talk to
that tiresome Adolfo? Never!"
"But I wish to talk to Mrs. Harold myself; you have already had that
pleasure quite too long. Besides, if you are very good, I will tell you
what you can do; cards will be brought out presently, and then it will
be seen that there are ten persons present, and as but eight are
required for the two tables, I shall be the one left out to talk to
Adolfo, as he can neither play nor speak English; in this state of
things you can, if you are watchful, arrange matters so as to be at the
same table with Mrs. Harold; perhaps even her partner."
"I will be more than watchful," Manuel declared; "I will be determined!"
"I play a wretched game," said the northern lady, warningly.
"And if you should play the best in the world, I should never know it,
absorbed as I should be in your personal presence," replied the youth,
with ardor.
Mrs. Harold laughed. Winthrop (listening to Mrs. Thorne's remarks upon
Emerson) glanced towards their little group.
"People do not talk in that way at the North. That is why she laughs,"
said Garda, explanatorily.
"And do I care how they talk in their frozen North!" cried Manuel. "I
talk as my heart dictates."
"Do so," said Garda, "but later. At present, go and cheer up poor Mr.
Torres; he is fairly shivering with loneliness over there in his
corner."
Manuel, who, in spite of his studied attitude at the feet of Mrs.
Harold, was evidently the slave of whatever whim Garda chose to express,
rose to obey. "But do not in the least imagine that Adolfo needs
cheering," he explained, still posing a little as he stood before them
with his guitar. "He entertains himself perfectly, always; he is never
lonely, he has only to think of his ancestors. Adolfo is, in fact, a
very good ancestor already. As to his shivering--that shows how little
you know him; he is a veritable volcano, that silent one! Still, I obey
your bidding, I go."
"What do _you_ think of him?" said Garda, as he crossed the room towards
the solitary Cuban.
"Mr. Torres?"
"No; Mr. Ruiz."
"I know him so slightly, I cannot say I have formed an opinion."
Garda looked at the two young men for a moment; then, "They are both
boys," she said, dismissing them with a little wave of her hand.
"But Mr. Winthrop is not a boy," she went on, her eyes returning to the
northern lady's face. "How old is Mr. Winthrop?"
"I don't know."
"Isn't he your cousin?"
"Mr. Winthrop is the nephew of Mrs. Rutherford, who is only my aunt by
marriage."
"But if you have always known him, you must know how old he is."
"I have not always known him. I suppose he is thirty-four or five."
"That is just what he said," remarked Garda, reflectively.
"That I was thirty-four or five?"
"No; but he began in the same way. He said that he did not know; that
you were not his cousin; that you were the niece of Mr. Rutherford; and
that he supposed you to be about twenty-seven or eight."
"I am twenty-six," said Margaret.
"And he is thirty-five," added Garda.
"I suppose they both seem great ages to you," observed Margaret,
smiling.
"It's of very little consequence in a man--his age," replied the young
girl. "I confess that I thought you older than twenty-six; but it's not
because you look old, it's because you look as if you did not care
whether people thought you old or not, and generally it's only women who
are really old, you know, over thirty, like mamma and Mrs. Carew, who
have that expression--don't you think so? And I fancy you don't care
much about dress, either," she went on. "Everything you wear is very
beautiful; still, I don't believe you care about it. Yet you would carry
it off well, any amount of it, you are so tall."
"I think you are as tall as I am," said Margaret, amused by these
unconventional utterances.
"Come and see," replied Garda, suddenly. She took Margaret's hand and
rose.
"What is it we are to do?" inquired Margaret, obeying the motion without
comprehending its object.
"Come," repeated Garda.
They passed into the back drawing-room, and Garda led the way towards a
large mirror.
"But we do not wish to survey ourselves in the presence of all this
company," said Margaret, pausing.
"Yes, we do. They will not notice us, they are talking; it's about our
height, you know," answered the girl. She held Margaret's hand tightly,
and drew her onward until they both stood together before the long
glass.
Two images gazed back at them. One was that of a young girl with bright
brown hair curling low down over wonderful dark eyes. A white rose was
placed, in the Spanish fashion, on one side above the little ear. This
image in the mirror had a soft warm color in its cheeks, and a deeper
one still on its slightly parted lips; these lips were very lovely in
outline, with short, full, upward-arching curves and a little downward
droop at the corners. The rich beauty of the face, and indeed of the
whole figure, was held somewhat aloof from indiscriminate appropriation,
by the indifference which accompanied it. It was not the indifference of
experience, there was no weariness in it, no knowledge of life; it was
the fresh indifference rather of inexperience, like the indifference of
a child. It seemed, too, as if it would always be there, as if that face
would never grow eager, no matter how much expansion of knowledge the
years might bring to it; very possibly, almost certainly, this beautiful
girl would demand more of life in every way, year by year, as it passed;
but this would not make her strive for it, she would always remain as
serenely careless, as unconcerned, as now.
The mirror gave back, also, the second image. It was that of a woman
older--older by the difference that lies between sixteen years and
twenty-six. This second image was tall and slender. It had hair of the
darkest brown which is not black--hair straight and fine, its soft
abundance making little display; this hair was arranged with great
simplicity, too great, perhaps, for, brushed smoothly back and closely
coiled behind, it had an air of almost severe plainness--a plainness,
however, which the perfect oval of the face, and the beautiful forehead,
full and low, marked by the slender line of the dark eyebrows, with the
additional contrast of the long dark eyelashes beneath, could bear. The
features were regular, delicate; the complexion a clear white, of the
finest, purest grain imaginable, the sort of texture which gives the
idea that the bright color will come and go through its fairness. This
expectation was not fulfilled; the same controlled calm seemed to hold
sway there which one perceived in the blue eyes and round the mouth.
As Winthrop had said, Margaret Harold was considered handsome. By that
was meant that she was in possession of a general acknowledgment that
the shape and poise of her head were fine, that her features were
well-cut, that her tall, slender form was charmingly proportioned, her
movements graceful. Winthrop would have stated, as his own opinion, that
she was too cold and formal to be beautiful--too restricted; it was true
that in one thing she was not restricted (this was also his own
opinion), namely, in the high esteem she had for herself.
She had undoubtedly a quiet reserved sort of beauty. But other women
were not made jealous by any especial interest in her, by discussions
concerning her, by frequent introduction of her name. She was thought
unsympathetic; but as she never said the clever, cutting things which
unsympathetic women sometimes know how to say so admirably, she was not
thought entertaining as well--as they often are. Opinion varied,
therefore, as to whether she could say these things, but would not, or
whether it was the contrary, that she would have said them if she had
been able, but simply could not, having no endowment of that kind of
wit; one thing alone was certain, namely, that she continued not to say
them.
Her dress, as seen in the mirror, had much simplicity of aspect; but
this was owing to the way she wore it, and the way in which it was made,
rather than to the materials, which were ample and rich. The soft silk,
Quakerish in hue, lay in folds over the carpet which Garda's scanty
skirt barely touched; it followed the lines of the slender figure
closely, while Garda's muslin, which had been many times washed, was
clumsy and ill-fitting. The gray robe came up smoothly round the throat,
where it was finished by a little ruff of precious old lace, while the
poor Florida gown, its fashion a reminiscence of Mrs. Thorne's youth,
ended at that awkward angle which is neither high nor low.
But all this made no difference as regarded the beauty of Garda. Of most
young girls it can be said that richness of attire spoils them, takes
from their youthfulness its chief charm; but of Garda Thorne it could
easily be believed that no matter in what she might be clad, poor garb
as at present, or the most sumptuous, she herself would so far outshine
whichever it happened to be, that it would scarcely be noticed.
"You are the taller," said Garda. "I knew it!" The outline of the head
with the smooth dark hair was clearly above that crowned by the curling
locks.
"You are deceptive," said Margaret, "you look tall, yet I see now that
you are not. Are there many more such surprises about you?"
"I hope so," answered Garda, "I love surprises. That is, short ones; I
don't like surprises when one has to be astonished ever so long, and
keep on saying 'oh!' and 'dear me!' long after it's all over. But
everything long is tiresome, I have found _that_ out."
Winthrop had watched them pass into the second room. He now left his
place, and joined them.
"We came to see which was the taller," said Garda, as his face appeared
in the mirror behind them. Margaret moved aside; but as Garda still held
her hand, she could not move far. Winthrop, however, was not looking at
her, his eyes were upon the reflection of the younger face; perceiving
this, her own came back to it also.
"You two are always so solemn," said Garda, breaking into one of her
sweet laughs; "standing between you, as I do, I look like Folly itself.
There was an old song of Miss Pamela's:
"'Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say,
Went on a party of pleasure one day--'
Here they are in the glass, all three of them. Mrs. Harold is Beauty."
"I suppose that means that I am that unfortunate wretch, Reason," said
Winthrop. "Didn't he get a good many cuffs in the song? He generally
does in real life, I know--poor fellow!"
Garda had now released Mrs. Harold's hand, and that lady turned away.
She found herself near an interesting collection of Florida paroquets,
enclosed in a glass case, and she devoted her attention to ornithology
for a while; the birds returned her gaze with the extremely candid eyes
contributed by the taxidermist. Presently Dr. Kirby came to conduct her
to the whist-table. Pompey had arranged these tables with careful
precision upon the exact figures of the old carpet which his mistress
had pointed out beforehand; but though Pompey had thus arranged the
tables, the players were not arranged as Garda had predicted. Mrs.
Rutherford, Dr. Kirby, Mrs. Thorne, and the Rev. Mr. Moore formed one
group. At the other table were Mrs. Harold, Manuel Ruiz, and Mrs. Carew,
with a dummy. Evert Winthrop did not play.
This left him with Garda. But Torres was also left; the three walked up
and down in the broad hall for a while, and then went out on the piazza.
Here there was a hammock, towards which Garda declared herself
irresistibly attracted; she arranged it as a swing, and seated herself.
Winthrop found a camp-chair, and placed himself near her as she slowly
swayed in her hanging seat to and fro. But Torres remained standing,
according to his method; he stood with folded arms in the shadow, close
to the side of the house, but without touching it. As he stood there for
an hour and a half, it is possible that he found the occupation
tedious--unless indeed the picture of Garda in the moonlight was a
sufficient entertainment; certainly there was very little else to
entertain him; Garda and Winthrop, talking English without intermission,
seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely.
"Adolfo," said Manuel, on their way home, giving a rapier-like thrust in
the air with his slender cane, "that northerner, that Wintup, is
unendurable!"
"He is a matter of indifference to me," replied Torres.
"What--when he keeps you out there on the piazza for two hours in
perfect silence? I listened, you never spoke one word; he talked all the
time to Garda himself."
"_That_--I suffered," said Torres, with dignity.
"Suffered? I should think so! Are you going to 'suffer' him to buy East
Angels, too?"
"He may buy what he pleases. He cannot make himself a Spaniard."
"How do you know Garda cares so much for Spaniards?" said Manuel,
gloomily. "I suppose you remember that the mother, after all, is a
northerner?"
"I remember perfectly," replied the Cuban. "The senorita will always
do--"
"What her mother wishes?" (Manuel was afraid of Mrs. Thorne.)
"--What she pleases," answered Torres, serenely.