A LITTLE GIRL GROWN UP
Summer stole out a-tiptoe, and October had come among the live-oaks
and the pines, and touched the wide marshes and made them brown, and
laid her hand upon the barrens and the cypress swamps and set them
aflame with scarlet and gold. October is not sere and sorrowful with
us, but a ruddy and deep-bosomed lass, a royal and free-hearted
spender and giver of gifts. Asters of imperial purple, golden rod fit
for kings' scepters, march along with her in ever thinning ranks; the
great bindweed covers fences and clambers up dying cornstalks; and in
many a covert and beside the open ditches the Gerardia swings her pink
and airy bells. All down the brown roads white lady's-lace and yarrow
and the stiff purple iron-weed have leaped into bloom; under its faded
green coat the sugar-cane shows purple; and sumac and sassafras and
gums are afire. The year's last burgeoning of butterflies riots, a
tangle of rainbow coloring, dancing in the mellow sunshine. And day by
day a fine still deepening haze descends veil-like over the landscape
and wraps it in a vague melancholy which most sweetly invades the
spirit. It is as if one waits for a poignant thing which must happen.
Upon such a perfect afternoon, I, reading my worn old breviary under
our great magnolia, heard of a sudden a voice of pure gold call me,
very softly, by my name; and looking up met eyes of almost
unbelievable blue, and the smile of a mouth splendidly young and red.
I suppose the tall girl standing before me was fashionably and
expensively clad; heaven knows _I_ don't know what she wore, but I do
know that whatever it was it became her wonderfully; and although it
seemed to me very simple, and just what such a girl ought to wear, my
mother says you could tell half a mile away that those clothes smacked
of super-tailoring at its costliest. Hat and gloves she held in her
slim white ringless hand. One thus saw her waving hair, framing her
warm pale face in living ebony.
"Padre!" said she. "Oh, dear, dear, Padre!" and down she dropped
lightly beside me, and cradled her knees in her arms, and looked up,
with an arch and tender friendliness. That childish action, that
upward glance, brought back the darling child I had so greatly loved.
This was no Queen-of-Sheba, as John Flint had thought. This was not
the regal young beauty whose photograph graced front pages. This was
my own girl come back. And I knew I hadn't lost Mary Virginia.
"I remembered this place, and I knew--I just knew in my heart--you'd
be sitting here, with your breviary in your hand. I knew just how
you'd be looking up, every now and then, smiling at things because
they're lovely and you love them. So I stole around by the back
gate--and there you were!" said she, her eyes searching me. "Padre,
Padre, how more than good to see you again! And I'm sure that's the
same cassock I left you wearing. You could wear it a couple of
lifetimes without getting a single spot on it--you were always such a
delightful old maid, Padre! Where and how is Madame? Who's in the
Guest Rooms? How is John Flint since he's come to be a Notable? Has
Miss Sally Ruth still got a Figure? How are the judge's cats, and the
major's goatee? How is everything and everybody?"
"Did you know you'd have to make room for me, Padre? Well, you will. I
picked up and fairly ran away from everything and everybody, because
the longing for home grew upon me intolerably. When I was in Europe,
and I used to think that three thousand miles of water lay between me
and Appleboro, I used to cry at nights. I hope John Flint's
butterflies told him what I told them to tell him for me, when they
came by! How beautiful the old place looks! Padre, you're _thin_. Why
will you work so hard? Why doesn't somebody stop you? And--you're
gray, but how perfectly beautiful gray hair is, and how thick and wavy
yours is, too! Gray hair was invented and intended for folks with
French blood and names. Nobody else can wear it half so gracefully.
Now tell me first of all you're glad as glad can be to see me, Padre.
Say you haven't forgotten me--and then you can tell me everything
else!"
She paused, fanned herself with her hat, and laughed, looking up at me
with her blue, blue eyes that were so heavily fringed with black.
I was so startled by her sudden appearance--as if she had walked out
of my prayers, like an angel; and, above all, by that resemblance to
the one long since dust and unremembered of all men's hearts save
mine, that I could hardly bear to look upon her. That other one seemed
to have stepped delicately out of her untimely grave; to sit once more
beside me, and thus to look at me once more with unforgotten eyes.
Thou knowest, my God, before whom all hearts are bare, that I could
not have loved thee so singly nor served thee without fainting, all
these years, if for one faithless moment I could have forgotten her!
My mother came out of the house with a garden hat tied over her white
hair, and big garden gloves on her hands. At sight of the girl she
uttered a joyful shriek, flung scissors and trowel and basket aside,
and rushed forward. With catlike quickness the girl leaped to her feet
and the two met and fell into each other's arms. I wished when I saw
the little woman's arms close so about the girl, and the look that
flashed into her face, that heaven had granted her a daughter.
"Mother complained that I should at least have the decency to wire you
I was coming--she said I was behaving like a child. But I wanted to
walk in unannounced. I was so sure, you see, that there'd be welcome
and room for me at the Parish House."
"The little room you used to like so much is waiting for you," said my
mother, happily.
"Next to yours, all in blue and white, with the Madonna of the Chair
over the mantelpiece and the two china shepherdesses under her?"
"Then you shall see the new baby in the bigger Guest Room, and the
crippled Polish child in the small one," said my mother. "The baby's
name is Smelka Zurawawski, but she's all the better for it--I never
saw a nicer baby. And the little boy is so patient and so intelligent,
and so pretty! Dr. Westmoreland thinks he can be cured, and we hope to
be able to send him on to Johns Hopkins, after we've got him in good
shape. Where is your luggage? How long may we keep you? But first of
all you shall have tea and some of Clélie's cakes. Clélie has grown
horribly vain of her cakes. She expects to make them in heaven some of
these days, for the most exclusive of the cherubim and seraphim, and
the lordliest of the principalities and powers."
Mary Virginia smiled at the pleased old servant. "I've half a dozen
gorgeous Madras head-handkerchiefs for you, Clélie, and a perfect duck
of a black frock which you are positively to make up and wear now--you
are _not_ to save it up to be buried in!"
"No'm, Miss Mary Virginia. I won't get buried in it. I'll maybe get
married in it," said Clélie calmly.
"Married! Clélie!" said my mother, in consternation. "Do you mean to
tell me you're planning to leave me, at this time of our lives?"
Clélie was indignant. "You think I have no mo'sense than to leave you
and M'sieu Armand, for some strange nigger? Not me!"
"Who are you going to marry, Clélie?" Mary Virginia was delighted.
"And hadn't you better let me give you another frock? Black is hardly
appropriate for a bride."
"I'm not exactly set in my mind who he's going to be yet, Miss Mary
Virginia, but he's got to be somebody or other. There's been lots
after me, since it got out I'm such a grand cook and save my wages.
But I've got a sort of taste for Daddy January. He's old, but he's
lively. He's a real ambitious old man like that. Besides, I'm sure of
his family,--I always did like Judge Mayne and Mister Laurence, and I
do like 'ristocratic connections, Miss Mary Virginia. That big nigger
that drives one of the mill trucks had the impudence to tell me he'd
give me a church wedding and pay for it himself, but I told him I was
raised a Catholic; and what you think he said? He said, 'Oh, well,
you've been christened in the face already. We can dip the rest of you
easy enough, and then you'll be a real Christian, like me!' I'd just
scalded my chickens and was picking them, and I was that mad I upped
and let him have that dish pan full of hot water and wet feathers in
his face. 'There,' says I, 'you're christened in the face now
yourself,' I says. 'You can go and dip the rest of yourself,' says I,
'but see you do it somewhere else besides my kitchen,' I says. I don't
think he's crazy to marry me any more, and Daddy January's sort of
soothing to my feelings, besides being close to hand. Yes'm, I guess
you'd better give me the black dress, Miss Mary Virginia, if you don't
mind: it'd come in awful handy if I had to go in mourning."
"The black dress it shall be," said Mary Virginia, gaily. She turned
to my mother. "And what do you think, p'tite Madame? I've a rare
butterfly for John Flint, that an English duke gave me for him! The
duke is a collector, too, and he'd gotten some specimens from John
Flint. The minute he learned I was from Appleboro he asked me all
about him. He said nobody else under the sky can 'do' insects so
perfectly, and that nobody except the Lord and old Henri Fabre knew as
much about certain of them as John Flint does. Folks thought the duke
was taken up with _me_, of course, and I was no end conceited! I
hadn't the ghost of an idea you and John Flint were such astonishingly
learned folks, Padre! But of course if a duke thought so, I knew I'd
better think so, too--and so I did and do! Think of a duke knowing
about folks in little Appleboro! And he was such a nice old man, too.
Not a bit dukey, after you knew him!"
"We come in touch with collectors everywhere," I explained.
"And so John Flint has written some sort of a book, describing the
whole life history of something or other, and _you've_ done all the
drawings! Isn't it lovely? Why, it sounds like something out of a
pleasant book. Mayn't I see collector and collection in the morning?
And oh, where's Kerry?"
"Kerry," said my mother gravely, "is a most important personage. He's
John Flint's bodyguard. He doesn't actually sleep in his master's bed,
because he has one of his own right next it. Clélie was horrified at
first. She said they'd be eating together next, but the Butterfly Man
reminded her that Kerry likes dog-biscuit and he doesn't. I figure
that in the order of his affections the Butterfly Man ranks Kerry
first, Armand and myself next, and Laurence a close third."
"Oh, Laurence," said Mary Virginia. "I'll be so glad to see Laurence
again, if only to quarrel with him. Is he just as logical as ever? Has
he given the sun a black eye with his sling-shot? My father's always
praising Laurence in his letters."
Now my mother adores Laurence. She patterns upon this model every
young man she meets, and if they are not Laurence-sized she does not
include them in her good graces. But she seldom lifts her voice in
praise of her favorite. She is far, far too wise.
"Laurence generally looks in upon us during the evening, if he is not
too busy," she said, non-committally. "You see, people are beginning
to find out what a really fine lawyer Laurence is, so cases are coming
to him steadily."
The trunks had arrived, and Mary Virginia changed into white, in which
she glowed and sparkled like a fire opal. We three dined together, and
as she became more and more animated, a pink flush stole into her
rather pale cheeks and her eyes deepened and darkened. She was vividly
alive. One could see why Mary Virginia was classed as a great beauty,
although, strictly speaking, she was no such thing. But she had that
compelling charm which one simply cannot express in words. It was
there, and you felt it. She did not take your heart by storm,
willynilly. You watched her, and presently you gave her your heart
willingly, delighted that a creature so lovely and so unaffected and
worth loving had crossed your path.
She chatted with my mother about that world which the older woman had
once graced, and my mother listened without a shade to darken her
smooth forehead. But I do not think I ever so keenly appreciated the
many sacrifices she had made for me, until that night.
The autumn evening had grown chilly, and we had a fire in the
clean-swept fireplace. The old brass dogs sparkled in the blaze, and
the shadows flickered and danced on the walls, and across the faces of
De Rancé portraits; the pleasant room was full of a ruddy, friendly
glow. My mother sat in her low rocker, making something or other out
of pink and white wools for the baby upstairs. Mary Virginia, at the
old square piano, sang for us. She had a charming voice, carefully
cultivated and sweet, and she played with great feeling.
Kerry barked at the gate, as he always does when home is reached. My
mother, dropping her work, ran to the window which gives upon the
garden, and called. A moment later the Butterfly Man, with Laurence
just back of him, and Kerry squeezing in between them, stood in the
door. Mary Virginia, lips parted, eyes alight, hands outstretched,
arose. The light of the whole room seemed not so much to gather upon
her, as to radiate from her.
The dog reached her first. Outdoor exercise, careful diet, perfect
grooming, had kept Kerry in fine shape. His age told only in an added
dignity, a slower movement.
The girl went down on her knees, and hugged him. Pitache, aroused by
Kerry's unwonted demonstrations, circled about them, rushing in every
now and then to bestow an indiscriminate lick.
"Why, it's Mary Virginia!" exclaimed Laurence, and helped her to her
feet. The two regarded each other, mutually appraising. He towered
above her, head and shoulders, and I thought with great satisfaction
that, go where she would, she could nowhere find a likelier man than
this same Laurence of ours. Like David in his youth, he was ruddy and
of a beautiful countenance.
"Why, Laurence! What a Jack-the-Giant-killer! Mercy, how big the boy's
grown!"
"Why, Mary Virginia! What a heart-smasher! Mercy, how pretty the
girl's grown!" he came back, holding her hand and looking down at her
with equally frank delight. "When I remember the pigtailed, leggy,
tonguey minx that used to fetch me clumps over the head--and then
regard this beatific vision--I'm afraid I'll wake up and you'll be
gone!"
"If you'll kindly give me back my hand, I might be induced to fetch
you another clump or two, just to prove my reality," she suggested,
with a delightful hint of the old truculence.
"'T is she! This is indeed none other than our long-lost child!"
burbled Laurence. "Lordy, I wish I could tell her how more than good
it is to see her again--and to see her as she is!"
Now all this time John Flint had stood in the doorway; and when my
mother beckoned him forward, he came, I fancied, a bit unwillingly.
His limp was for once painfully apparent, and whether from the
day-long tramp, or from some slight indisposition, he was very pale;
it showed under his deep tan.
But I was proud of him. His manner had a pleasant shyness, which was a
tribute to the young girl's beauty. It had as well a simple dignity.
And one was impressed by the fine and powerful physique of him, so
lean and springy, so boyishly slim about the hips and waist, so deeply
stamped with clean living of days in the open, of nights under the
stars. The features had thinned and sharpened, and his red beard
became him; the hair thinning on the temples increased the breadth of
the forehead, and behind his glasses the piercing blue eyes--something
like an eagle's eyes--were clear, direct, and kind. He wore his
clothes well, with a sort of careless carefulness, more like an
Englishman than an American, who is always welldressed, but rather
gives the impression of being conscious of it.
Mary Virginia's lips parted, her eyes widened, for a fraction of a
second. But if, remembering him as she had first seen and known him,
she was astonished to find him as he was now, she gave no further
outward sign. Instead, she gave him her hand as to an equal, and in a
few gracious words let him know that she knew and was proud of what he
had done and what he was yet to do. She repeated, too, with a pretty
air of personal triumph, the old nobleman's praise. Indeed, it had
been he who had told her of the book, which he had lately purchased
and studied, she said. And oh, hadn't she just _swelled_ with pride!
She had been that conceited!
"You don't know how much obliged to you I should be, for if he hadn't
accidentally learned I was from Appleboro, the town in which dwelt his
most greatly prized correspondent--that's what he said, Mr.
Flint!--why, I'm sure he wouldn't have noticed me any more than he
noticed any other girl--which is, not at all; he being a toplofty and
serious Personage addicted to people who do things and write things,
particularly things about things that crawl and fly. And if he hadn't
noticed me so pointedly--he actually came to see us!--why, I shouldn't
have had such a perfectly gorgeous time. It was a great feather in my
cap," she crowed. "Everybody envied me desperately!" She managed to
make us understand that this was really a compliment to the Butterfly
Man, not to herself.
"If the little book served you for one minute it was well worth the
four years it took me to gather the materials together and write it,"
said he, pleasantly. And even the courtly Hunter couldn't have said it
with a manlier grace.
"Mary Virginia," said Laurence slyly, "when you've had your fill of
bugs, make him show you the Book of Obituaries. He thereby stands
revealed in his true colors. Why, he made me buy the old _Clarion_ and
hire Jim Dabney to run it, so his supply of mortuary gems shouldn't be
cut off untimely. To-day he culled this one:
Phileola dear, we cry because thou hast gone and left us,
But well we know it is a merciful heaven which has bereft us.
We tried five doctors and everything else we knew of you to save,
But alas, nothing did you any good, and to-day you are in your grave!
He's got it in his pocket now. Dabney calls him Mister Bones," grinned
Laurence.
My mother looked profoundly uncomfortable. The Butterfly Man reddened
guiltily under her reproachful glance, but Mary Virginia giggled
irrepressibly.
"I choose the Book of Obituaries first!" said she promptly, with
dancing eyes. Flint drew a breath of relief.
He sat by silently enough, while Laurence and Madame and Mary Virginia
talked of everything under heaven. His whole manner was that of an
amused, tolerant, sympathetic listener--a manner which spurs
conversation to its happiest and best. Not for nothing had Major
Cartwright called him the most discriminatin' listener in Carolina.
"Oh, by the way, Flint! Hunter came by this morning to see Dabney. He
is going to give a series of Plain Talks to Workingmen this winter,
and of course he wants the _Clarion_ to cover them. What do you think,
Padre?"
"I think they will be eminently sensible talks and well worth
listening to," said I promptly.
The Butterfly Man smiled crookedly, and shot me a freighted glance.
"Of course," said Laurence, easily. "Where's your father these days,
Mary Virginia?"
"He was at the plantation this morning, but he'll be here to-morrow,
because I wired him to come. I've just got to have him for awhile,
business or no business."
"You did me a favor, then. I want to see him, too."
"Anything very particular?"
"Politics."
"How silly! You know very well he never meddles with politics, thank
goodness! He thinks he has something better to do."
"That's just what I want to see him about," said Laurence.
"You mentioned a--a Mr. Hunter." Mary Virginia spoke after a short
pause. "This is the first time I've heard of any Mr. Hunter in
Appleboro. Who is Mr. Hunter?"
"Inglesby's right-bower, and the king-card of the pack," said Laurence
promptly.
"One of them which set up golden images in high places and make all
Israel for to sin," said my mother. "_That's_ what Howard Hunter is!"
"Oh, ... Howard Hunter!" said she. "What sort of a person may he be?
And what is he doing here in Appleboro?"
We told her according to our lights. Only the Butterfly Man sat silent
and imperturbable.
"And you'll meet him everywhere," finished my mother. "He's
everything a man should be to the naked eye, and I sincerely hope,"
she added piously, "that you won't like him at all."
Mary Virginia leaned back in her chair, and glanced thoughtfully down
at the slim ringless hands clasped in her white lap.
"No," said she, as if to herself. "There couldn't by any chance be two
such men in this one world. That is he, himself." And she lifted her
head, and glanced at my mother, with a level and proud look. "I think
I have met this Mr. Hunter," said she, smiling curiously. "And if that
is true, your hope is realized, p'tite Madame. I shan't."