THE THORNS THAT BESET LOVE.
The spring was late this year, but when it came everything burst into
bloom and beauty as if by magic. Even the marshy ends of the streets
in Washington were covered with verdure and the curious delicate bloom
of the different sedge growths. Congress kept on. There were many
perplexing questions, and war loomed in the distance.
The festivities at the Pineries were quite interrupted. When Mr.
Greaves recovered consciousness it was found that his right side had
been partially paralyzed. His speech was affected, and the doctor spoke
doubtfully of his mind.
Consequently all thoughts of Marian's marriage must be given up for the
present. But Dolly's went on, and the last week in April the impatient
lover presented himself, and the family relatives and friends were
gathered to celebrate the occasion. It was considered most proper
for Louis Mason to attend Marian, who was to be the first bridesmaid.
Jaqueline was next in order, and there were three others. Weddings were
quite sumptuous affairs in those days. There was a great supper and
dancing; one of the bride-cakes held a ring, put in by the hand of the
bride-elect, and great was the interest to see who would get it. This
fell to Jaqueline. And when the bride was escorted upstairs by her bevy
of maidens she paused on the landing and scattered her half-dozen roses
which had been sent from Washington, and cost extravagantly. The first
one did not go far, and caught in Jaqueline's shoulder-knot. There was
a general laughing exclamation.
"And I haven't even a lover!" cried the girl with dainty mock regret.
There was a grand breakfast the next morning--a real breakfast, not a
noon luncheon. Many of the guests had remained all night. Mirth and
jollity reigned, good-wishes were given, healths were drunk, and at
noon the young couple started on their long stage-coach journey. Tours
were hardly considered then, though the bride often journeyed to the
house of her husband's nearest relatives. But to take in Baltimore and
Philadelphia was enough to set one up for life, and Dolly was very much
elated. The return trip would be made by water, so she would be quite
a traveled bride.
Marian had been the sedate elder sister. She was not old, but she had
grown much older and lost the aspect of girlhood that she had kept her
three-and-twenty years. There was much kindly sympathy expressed for
her. Mr. Greaves grew more helpless instead of improving, and his mind
had never been quite clear.
But no one suggested an interrupted engagement except among the slaves,
who recalled that she had put out her candle on Christmas Eve, and the
ring in the cake had not come to her, nor a single rose.
"Looks laik she cut out fer 'n ole maid," declared a gray-haired mammy.
"En she mought 'a' bin a gret lady, goin' ober to de ole country. But
young missy goin' to be happy as de day is long. De house'll never seem
de same."
"Grandfather Floyd has begun to break," said Mr. Mason when they had
started on their homeward journey. "One can hardly decide whether to be
glad or sorry about Marian. Anyway, it is hard on the poor girl."
"And you can't decide whether she is sorry or not. I never saw anyone
change so. She has grown curiously close about herself," declared
Jaqueline.
The interrupted intimacy between the two families was taken up again.
Even Jane and her three children were invited to the Pineries for a hot
month in the summer. Grandfather was quite deaf, which made him more
irritable, and Marian played piquet with him for hours together. Mrs.
Floyd managed the plantation, though she had always taken her share of
that.
Patricia came home a slim, pretty, and piquant young woman, refined
and finished, and Louis was an attractive young collegian. The house
was filled with guests, and there was much merriment, until one day the
word came that surprised them all. Grandfather had been found dead in
his chair on the porch where he took his usual afternoon nap.
Family funerals were almost as grand occasions as marriages at this
period. The great house was filled with guests, and there was no
unseemly haste to bury the dead out of their sight. The funeral
procession might have been that of a famous man. When they returned
the relatives were gathered in the darkened parlor where the candles
stood lighted on a table, and Archibald Floyd's will was read in a dry,
decorous tone by the little old lawyer who had made wills for half a
century.
As was expected, the Pineries and slaves and appurtenances of all kinds
went to Brandon, who was the only son. The girls had an equal money
portion. The widow was provided with a home; certain rooms were set
apart for her, certain slaves were bequeathed to her with the bed and
table linen and some of the furnishings that she had brought with her;
and Brandon was to pay her a regular income out of the estate, which
was to cease at her death. A very fair and just will, it was agreed on
every side.
Meanwhile there had been no perceptible change in Mr. Greaves. He did
not suffer much; he was fed and cared for like a child. Some days he
brightened and talked with encouraging coherence, but it was mostly
about his early life, and he now and then mistook his sister for his
dead wife. And though Marian had gone over several times, he had not
seemed to recall her specially.
Miss Greaves was in her element. She had not taken kindly to the
prospect of being deposed, though the training of women in her day
led them to accept the inevitable without complaining. She was rather
proud, too, that her brother had won a young woman; and Marian's sudden
gravity after her engagement had given her considerable satisfaction.
"The doctor holds out very little hope of perfect recovery," she said
to the younger woman at one call. "He thinks brother's mind will never
be quite right again. He has a good appetite now and sleeps well, but
it is very sad to be stricken down in the very prime of life. On our
mother's side we are a long-lived race. I had an aunt who lay paralyzed
for seven years, and was eighty when she died."
Marian shuddered. Her father's failing health had demanded most of
her attention. Was she in any way relieved? She tried not to think of
it. No one referred to the marriage, except now and then some of the
slaves, who counted up all the bad signs in an awesome fashion.
Dolly had enjoyed everything to the uttermost, and was delighted
with her new home and her new relatives. Communication between even
the most important cities was tardy at that time, and often sent by
private messenger. Yet the political interest of the States was kept
up keenly, almost to rivalry. New England, whose commerce had been
injured the most, complained loudly. The States were between two fires.
England was bringing all her power to bear upon the Emperor Napoleon.
Neither country paid any attention to the rights of neutrals. There
was the old romantic remembrance of France coming to our assistance
in our mighty struggle with the mother country; but there were a
hundred relationships with England where there was one with France,
and Napoleon's ruthlessness had alienated the noblest sense of the
community.
Yet living went on in the lavish, cordial Virginian fashion at the
old plantation, if it was not quite so full of gayety. There were two
attractive young women now, and the young men were haunting the house,
planning riding parties and a day's outing to some grove or wood, a
sail down or up the Potomac, and a three-days' visit to some neighbor
who rather regretfully gave up dancing on account of the recent death.
Louis had been putting in law with his other studies, and was not to
graduate for another year.
Roger Carrington was now a steady visitor, and all the household knew
he was young missy's lover. Her father's assent had been cordially
given. Her own was still in abeyance. Jaqueline had a willful streak
in her nature. If someone had opposed, she would have sided at once
with her lover. But everybody agreed. Mrs. Carrington treated her as
a daughter already, and longed to have the engagement announced. Roger
pleaded.
"I want to be quite sure that I love you better than anybody," she
would say with a kind of dainty sweetness. "If one _should_ make a
mistake!"
"But we are such friends already. We have been for a long time. Surely
if you disliked me you would have found it out before this."
"But I don't dislike you. I like you very much. Only it seems that
things which come so easy----"
She let her lovely eyes droop, and the color came and went in her face.
How exquisite her rose-leaf cheeks were! He wished he had the right
to kiss them fifty times an hour. A husband would have. But there was
a fine courtesy between lovers of that day. And there was always some
curling tendril of shadowy hair clustering about her fair temples. Her
ear, too, was like a bit of sculpture, and the lines that went down her
neck and lost themselves in the roundness of her shoulders changed with
every motion, each one prettier than the last, and were distractingly
tempting.
"I'm sure it doesn't come easy to me," he said in a rather curt tone.
"Oh, doesn't it? I thought there really was no mistaking the grand
passion on a man's part--that he was convinced in the flash of an eye."
"It is when he wishes to convince that his doubt arises. If I could
persuade you----" longingly.
"I am always afraid I shall be too easily persuaded," she returned
plaintively. "I sometimes wonder if I really have a good strong mind of
my own. Do you know, I should like to be one of the heroic women; then
in case war should come--there are such talks about it, you know--and
I _had_ to send you away----"
She looked so utterly bewitching that he had much ado not to clasp her
to his heart.
"You are heroic enough. And you are tormenting to the last degree. I
wonder sometimes if you even like me!"
"Oh, you know I like you," carelessly.
"If you would once say 'I love you.' You like so many people--young
men, I mean."
"Why, when you have been brought up with them, so to speak----" and she
looked up out of large, innocent eyes. "There are the Bakers, you know.
Georgie, Rob, Teddy, and I have played together always. Would you have
me turn haughty now?"
"I don't mind the Bakers, and Teddy is as good as engaged to Hester
Fairfax, who really does adore him."
"Yes, I think she does," gravely. "He is always describing her
perfections and her sweetnesses, as if we hadn't quarreled and declared
we wouldn't speak to each other and done little spiteful tricks that
girls always do, and--and gotten over it, and know all about each
other."
"I don't believe you were ever very spiteful. That takes a small
nature."
She looked furtively from under her long lashes, as if considering.
"Well--Patty and I quarrel. You must know that I haven't the most
amiable temper in the world when I am roused."
"Yes." She could be very tormenting.
"And I like to have my own way. Papa generally gives in. And sometimes
I feel self-condemned that mamma is so good to me."
"Then you have a conscience?"
"I don't believe my own mother would have been so easy. And there's
grandmamma----"
"Who would have led you to find out your mind in short order," he
commented quickly.
"_Her_ mind, you mean. And if she had resolved that I shouldn't marry
you, you would have been sent to the right-about at once. And that
reminds me--Lieutenant Ralston is coming down next week. But I suppose
you are not afraid of him, since his heart is--oh, can you tell where
it is? Sometimes I think he still cares for Marian, and then he is so
bitter and sharp. She won't ever marry Mr. Greaves now."
She looked so eager and earnest, as if this was the main question of
her life. He turned away with a pang at his heart. Was she anything but
a volatile, teasing girl, with no deep feelings?
"You shan't! I say you shan't! Annis belongs to me. You shan't take her
away. We're going to row round the pond----"
Louis laughed with a soft sound of triumph.
"But you promised to ride with me, didn't you, Annis? And I don't see
how Annis belongs to you especially. You're too old for that boyish
foolishness. Why, you couldn't marry her in years and years, and then
she'd be an old woman, queer and cross. Hillo!" in a surprised tone.
They faced Mr. Carrington and Jaqueline.
"Oh, Louis, why do you tease the children so?" exclaimed Jaqueline in
disapprobation.
"I'm not teasing you, Annis, am I? We were to go for a ride, and her
pony is all ready, when Charles flew into a passion."
"I told you Scipio was getting the boat ready----"
"But I didn't think you meant to-day. You said it leaked and had to be
repaired, and this morning----"
She glanced up at Louis entreatingly.
"This morning I told her we would go down to the creek and see the
great flock of ducks Julius has been raising. Annis belongs as much to
me as to you. She belongs to us all. And how do you know but that I'll
marry her myself? I'm very fond of Annis. And I'm grown up. In a few
years I may be a judge, or be sent abroad to smooth out some quarrel or
make a treaty, while you will be in school studying your Cicero. Annis
will be a big girl, old enough to marry. And you like me, don't you,
Annis?"
He had his arm around the child. He had been very sweet to her of
late, partly to tease Varina, and partly because she interested him
curiously. She said such quaint things; she could seem to understand
almost everything. And when he declaimed a fine Latin poem with vigor
and loftiness, her eyes would follow him, her face would glow and
change with emotion and appreciation. Then he had been teaching her
some pretty songs.
"I like you both," she returned in a tender, entreating voice, as if
begging each one to be content with the regard. Yet she made no motion
to leave him, and both slim hands were clasped around the young man's
arm.
"But you must like me the best," and now he put his arm about
her, drawing her closer to his side. "It's this way. First your
mother--always; then father, who is very fond of you, little Annis;
then me, then Jaqueline, and you see Charles stands way down at the
bottom of the line. Of course you can't love him quite so much; it
wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."
Annis looked perplexed with the reasoning. She glanced at Charles, then
hid her face in the elder brother's coat. He made a rush at her, but
Louis caught him and held him off at arm's length.
"You're a mean--mean skunk, that's what you are!" The boy's face was
scarlet with passion, and his voice choked. "She won't love you best,
will you, Annis? For he likes all the girls, the big ladies, and I
don't care for anyone but just you."
"Louis, do stop! You ought to be ashamed. Charles----"
But Louis let go of his little brother's arm, who ran a few steps with
the impetus and then tumbled over. Louis caught the little girl in both
arms,--she was slim and light,--and ran swiftly with her. Jaqueline
picked up Charles, who was crying now in a passion of anger, exclaiming
between the sobs:
"I just hate him, I do! He shan't take away Annis. She belongs to me."
"Charles, don't be so foolish. You can't have Annis every hour in the
day, and if you go on this way she'll just hate you. Why, I am ashamed
of you! And here is Mr. Carrington."
"I don't care. I made Scip mend the boat, 'n' he said Dixon would be
awful mad and maybe have him flogged. Where's father? I'll go and tell
him how it was, and Scip may tear the old boat to pieces, but he shan't
be flogged. Louis thinks he's great shakes because he's older and
bigger----"
"But he will be married before you and Annis are grown up, so don't
worry. He loves to tease you. Now go and find father."
"He is taking love early and hard," said Mr. Carrington.
"It's such ridiculous nonsense! Mamma doesn't like it a bit, but father
thinks it a good joke. It makes Charles appear silly. But he will go
away to school and have new interests. And in a few years Annis won't
want to be claimed in that masterful fashion."
They walked along silently. Mr. Mason sat out under a great tree,
smoking his pipe and listening to Charles.
"Let them finish their confidence. I'll take the hammock, and you may
read to me." She did not want to discuss love any more just now.
Annis was borne triumphantly to her pony. Louis placed her in the
saddle.
"You do love me, little Annis, do you not?" and he kissed her tenderly.
He had a very sweet way that you could not gainsay when it was turned
upon you, and a child certainly could not resist. "Now we will have a
nice gallop, and then a rest down by the creek where it is shady, ever
so much nicer than the sunny pond and the old boat. You know I asked
you first."
"I didn't think Charles meant this very afternoon," she said
regretfully. "And I'm so sorry he----"
"Never mind about a boy's temper. Look at that fire bird--isn't he
gorgeous? There's where the lightning struck that great pine tree the
other night and split it in two."
"Oh, poor tree! Do you suppose it hurt very much! And the half stands
up as if nothing could ever make it afraid. There are the branches all
withering on the ground. Were you very much frightened? It kills people
sometimes, doesn't it?"
"Very seldom. And a great many things kill them. Accidents and falls,
and sickness, so the few struck by lightning are hardly to be taken
into account."
"Oh, look at the great field of corn! It is like a sea."
The tassels had turned yellow, and the wind stirred them, making golden
waves.
"What do you know about the sea?"
"Why, when we went down the Potomac. You were not home."
"I've been down there though, and out on the ocean."
"Would you be afraid to go to England?"
"Not of the ocean, but I might be of the privateers. And I should not
want to be caught and impressed, and made to fight. But I mustn't fill
my little lady-love with frightful subjects."
The child's cheek warmed with a dainty color. Could anyone be a
lady-love to two persons? That was what Charles called her.
Squirrels were scurrying here and there. The goldenrod was nodding on
tall stalks, and some asters starred the wayside. Afar was a broad
stretch of tobacco fields in their peculiar deep-green luxuriance.
Birds were calling to each other, insects were droning, the monotony
broken by a shrill chirr as a grasshopper leaped up from the path or a
locust predicted a hot to-morrow from his leafy covert. They crossed
broad sunny patches that looked like a dried-up sea, they lingered
under fragrant pines and great oaks and maples that shaded the road,
and Annis laughed at her companion's comments and the merry stories
he told. She had been used to standing somewhat in awe of him, but
this summer he had quite overcome her shyness. Sometimes she did get
a little tired of the knowledge Charles poured into her ears. Latin
orations had not much charm for her, in their unknown tongue, and only
the inflections of the boy's musical voice rendered them tolerable. She
liked the deeds of heroes rather than what they said, and their loves
rather than their fighting or their harangues.
At home Charles had thrown himself on the half-dried turf and given way
to another burst of passion such as seldom moved him. That Louis should
take Annis away from him, his chosen friend and companion, and that she
should go without a protest! Was she really liking Louis, who was grown
up and who could have his pick of the pretty young women always coming
to the house. Why should he want Annis?
It was the boy's first experience with a rival, and as he had never
dreamed of such an untoward event, he could not understand the pain. It
was like a storm that had been threatening in the southeast while the
west was still clear, and now had suddenly blown up and enveloped the
whole sky. Though he was not much given to tears, or anger, for that
matter, the tempest surged over him now, and as it was furious it was
the shorter lived.
Presently a laugh stung him, and he raised his head, but he knew the
sound of the voice.
"Do go away, Varina!" he exclaimed sharply.
"Can't I walk where I like? When you get a house and a plantation of
your own, you may order me off. Or you may even set the dogs on me."
"Don't be so silly, so hateful." He was shocked at her last remark, and
sprang up, brushing off the twigs and bits of dried grass.
"It is you who are silly, making a dunce of yourself over Annis. Of
course she cares for you when there is no one else by. That's just
the way with girls. Look at Jaqueline. When Mr. Tayloe or Mr. Bedford
are here she's sweet to them, then comes the lieutenant and she sends
the others to the right-about-face, then he goes and it's all Mr.
Carrington. When he is gone she will take up with Mr. Bedford. I like
him. He's so funny and sings such splendid songs."
Charles was standing up very straight. Indeed, he seemed to stretch out
his slim figure, and the gravity of his face had scarcely a boyish line
in it.
"Do you mean that Jaqueline doesn't care for any of them? Patty said
she was as good as engaged to Mr. Carrington, and that we could have a
nicer wedding than Dolly Floyd's."
Varina shrugged her shoulders. There was always an eerie flavor about
the child's strictures. "She cares for them all when they are here. Oh,
gracious! Suppose they should all come together!" and she laughed. "But
she'd rather take them one by one, and have a good time. That's the way
I mean to do. You have more good times."
"Annis isn't a bit like you!" the boy flung out hotly. He could not
understand; it had not come time for analysis or fine gradations; he
only suffered, without the power of reasoning.
"Annis is a girl; and girls are all alike. And there's Mr. Carrington
alone. I wonder if Jacky's been cross to him. I shall go and walk with
him."
She ran down the little side path. Mr. Carrington had started with the
intention of finding Charles and comforting him, for it had been with
him as Varina surmised, but the talk between them had arrested him. Was
it true that a girl found pleasure in variety rather than constancy?
He was amused at Varina's wisdom, and yet it had in it a savor of sad
truth. Annis' little winsome face as Louis caught her came back to him.
"The Sabine women learned to love their husbands," he mused, when
Varina called to him. He had to exercise some ingenuity to parry
the child's curiosity, since he was by far too gentlemanly to take
advantage of it.
Charles was a little sullen that evening, and took no notice of the
timid little olive branch Annis held out. Presently, warm as the night
was, he went off to his books.
"Louis, you tease him too much," said his father.
"It's high time someone took him in hand. He is getting to be a regular
little prig! You ought to send him away to school."
"He doesn't seem quite the boy for that. We'll see as he gets older.
But I won't have any quarreling about Annis. Annis belongs to me, don't
you, little girl? And we'll marry off all the rest of them, and you and
I and mother will live together the remainder of our lives," kissing
her with tenderness.
When they all went away--and she loved them all--how lonesome it would
be!