not been able to honor the occasion by a change of costume; but he wore
a ruffled shirt and a flower in his buttonhole, and his countenance was
sedately illumined by the thought of the festal board below. He was not
at work, but merely dabbling a little on the outer edges--making
flourishes at the ends of the chapters, numbering pages, and so forth.
Gardis had gone to the drawing-room; she longed to see herself from head
to foot, but, with the exception of the glasses in two old pier-tables,
there was no large mirror save the gauze-veiled one in the drawing-room.
Should she do it? Eve listened to the tempter, and fell. Likewise
Gardis. A scissors, a chair, a snip, and lo! it was done. There she was,
a little figure in a quaint blue gown, the thick muslin cape hiding the
neck, but the dimpled arms bare almost to the shoulder, since the sleeve
was but a narrow puff; the brown hair of this little image was braided
around the head like a coronet; the wistful face was colorless and sad;
in truth, there seemed to be tears in the brown eyes. "I will not cry,"
said Gardis, jumping down from her chair, "but I _do_ look odd; there is
no doubt of that." Then she remembered that she should not have jumped,
on account of the slippers, and looked anxiously down; but the kid still
held its place over the little feet, and, going to the piano, the young
mistress of the manor began playing a gay little love-song, as if to
defy her own sadness. Before it was finished, old Pompey, his every-day
attire made majestic by a large, stiffly starched collar, announced the
guests, and the solemnities began.
Everything moved smoothly, however. Cousin Copeland's conversation was
in its most flowing vein, the simple little dinner was well cooked and
served, Pompey was statuesque, and the two guests agreeable. They
remained at the table some time, according to the old Gardiston custom,
and then, the ends of wax-candles having been lighted in the
drawing-room, coffee was served there in the crocodile cups, and Miss
Duke sang one or two songs. Soon after the officers took leave. Captain
Newell bowed as he said farewell, but Roger Saxton, younger and more
impulsive, extended his hand. Miss Duke made a stately courtesy, with
downcast eyes, as though she had not observed it; but by her heightened
color the elder guest suspected the truth, and smiled inwardly at the
proud little reservation. "The _hand_ of Douglas is his own," he said to
himself.
The dreaded dinner was over, and the girl had judged correctly: the two
visitors had no suspicion of the antiquity of the blue gown.
"Did you ever see such a sweet little picture, from the pink rose in the
hair down to the blue slipper!" said Saxton enthusiastically.
"She looked well," replied Newell; "but as for cordiality--"
"I'll win that yet. I like her all the better for her little ways," said
the lieutenant. "I suppose it is only natural that Southern girls should
cherish bitterness against us; although, of course, _she_ is far too
young to have lost a lover in the war--far too young."
"Which is a comfort," said Newell dryly.
"A great comfort, old man. Don't be bearish, now, but just wait a while
and see."
"Precisely what I intend to do," said Newell.
In the mean time Gardis, in the privacy of her own room, was making a
solemn funeral pyre on the hearth, composed of the blue gown, the
slippers, and the pink rose, and watching the flame as it did its work.
"So perish also the enemies of my country!" she said to herself. (She
did not mean exactly that they should be burned on funeral pyres, but
merely consigned them on this, as on all occasions, to a general
perdition.) The old dress was but a rag, and the slippers were
worthless; but, had they been new and costly, she would have done the
same. Had they not been desecrated? Let them die!
It was, of course, proper that the guests should call at Gardiston House
within a day or two; and Roger Saxton, ignoring the coldness of his
reception, came again and again. He even sought out Cousin Copeland in
his study, and won the heart of the old bachelor by listening a whole
morning to extracts from the documents. Gardis found that her reserve
was of no avail against this bold young soldier, who followed her into
all her little retreats, and paid no attention to her stinging little
speeches. Emboldened and also angered by what she deemed his
callousness, she every day grew more and more open in her tone, until
you might have said that she, as a unit, poured out upon his head the
whole bitterness of the South. Saxton made no answer until the time came
for the camp to break up, the soldiers being ordered back to the city.
Then he came to see her one afternoon, and sat for some time in
silence; the conversation of the little mistress was the same as usual.
"I forgive this, and all the bitter things you have said to me, Gardis,"
he remarked abruptly.
"Forgive! And by what right, sir--"
"Only this: I love you, dear." And then he poured out all the tide of
his young ardor, and laid his heart and his life at her feet.
But the young girl, drawing her slight figure up to its full height,
dismissed him with haughty composure. She no longer spoke angrily, but
simply said, "That you, a Northerner and a soldier, should presume to
ask for the hand of a Southern lady, shows, sir, that you have not the
least comprehension of us or of our country." Then she made him a
courtesy and left the room. The transformation was complete; it was no
longer the hot-tempered girl flashing out in biting little speeches, but
the woman uttering the belief of her life. Saxton rode off into town
that same night, dejected and forlorn.
Captain Newell took his leave a day later in a different fashion; he
told Miss Duke that he would leave a guard on the premises if she wished
it.
"I do not think it will be necessary," answered the lady.
"Nor do I; indeed, I feel sure that there will be no further trouble,
for we have placed the whole district under military rule since the last
disturbance. But I thought possibly you might feel timid."
"I am not timid, Captain Newell."
The grave captain stroked his mustache to conceal a smile, and then, as
he rose to go, he said: "Miss Duke, I wish to say to you one thing. You
know nothing of us, of course, but I trust you will accept my word when
I say that Mr. Saxton is of good family, that he is well educated, and
that he is heir to a fair fortune. What he is personally you have seen
for yourself--a frank, kind-hearted, manly young fellow."
"Did you come here to plead his cause?" said the girl scornfully.
"No; I came here to offer you a guard, Miss Duke, for the protection of
your property. But at the same time I thought it only my duty to make
you aware of the real value of the gift laid at your feet."
"How did you know--" began Gardis.
"Roger tells me everything," replied the officer. "If it were not so,
I--" Here he paused; and then, as though he had concluded to say no
more, he bowed and took leave.
That night Gardiston House was left to itself in the forest stillness.
"I am glad that bugle is silenced for ever," said Gardis.
"And yet it was a silvern sound," said Cousin Copeland.
The rains began, and there was no more walking abroad; the excitement of
the summer and the camp gone, in its place came the old cares which had
been half forgotten. (Care always waits for a cold or a rainy day.)
Could the little household manage to live--live with their meager
comforts--until the next payment of rent came in? That was the question.
Bitterly, bitterly poor was the whole Southern country in those dreary
days after the war. The second year was worse than the first; for the
hopes that had buoyed up the broken fortunes soon disappeared, and
nothing was left. There was no one to help Gardis Duke, or the hundreds
of other women in like desolate positions. Some of the furniture and
ornaments of the old house might have been sold, could they have been
properly brought forward in New York City, where there were people with
purses to buy such things; but in the South no one wanted Chinese
images, and there was nothing of intrinsic value. So the little
household lived along, in a spare, pinched way, until, suddenly, final
disaster overtook them: the tenant of the warehouse gave up his lease,
declaring that the old building was too ruinous for use; and, as no one
succeeded him, Gardiston House beheld itself face to face with
starvation.
"If we wasn't so old, Pomp and me, Miss Gardis, we could work for yer,"
said Dinah, with great tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks; "but we's
just good for not'ing now."
Cousin Copeland left his manuscripts and wandered aimlessly around the
garden for a day or two; then the little man rose early one morning and
walked into the city, with the hopeful idea of obtaining employment as a
clerk. "My handwriting is more than ordinarily ornate, I think," he said
to himself, with proud confidence.
Reaching the town at last, he walked past the stores several times and
looked timidly within; he thought perhaps some one would see him, and
come out. But no one came; and at last he ventured into a
clothing-store, through a grove of ticketed coats and suspended
trousers. The proprietor of the establishment, a Northern Hebrew whose
venture had not paid very well, heard his modest request, and asked what
he could do.
"I can write," said Cousin Copeland, with quiet pride; and in answer to
a sign he climbed up on a tall stool and proceeded to cover half a sheet
of paper in his best style. As he could not for the moment think of
anything else, he wrote out several paragraphs from the last family
document.
"Richard, the fourth of the name, a descendant on the maternal side from
the most respected and valorous family--"
"Oh, we don't care for that kind of writing; it's old-fashioned," said
Mr. Ottenheimer, throwing down the paper, and waving the applicant
toward the door with his fat hand. "I don't want my books frescoed."
Cousin Copeland retired to the streets again with a new sensation in his
heart. Old-fashioned? Was it old-fashioned? And even if so, was it any
the less a rarely attained and delicately ornate style of writing? He
could not understand it. Weary with the unaccustomed exercise, he sat
down at last on the steps of a church--an old structure whose spire bore
the marks of bomb-shells sent in from the blockading fleet outside the
bar during those months of dreary siege--and thought he would refresh
himself with some furtive mouthfuls of the corn-bread hidden in his
pocket for lunch.
"Good morning, sir," said a voice, just as he had drawn forth his little
parcel and was opening it behind the skirt of his coat. "When did you
come in from Gardiston?"
It was Captain Newell. With the rare courtesy which comes from a kind
heart, he asked no questions regarding the fatigue and the dust-powdered
clothes of the little bachelor, and took a seat beside him as though a
church-step on a city street was a customary place of meeting.
"I was about to--to eat a portion of this corn-bread," said Cousin
Copeland, hesitatingly; "will you taste it also?"
The young officer accepted a share of the repast gravely, and then
Cousin Copeland told his story. He was a simple soul. Miss Margaretta
would have made the soldier believe she had come to town merely for her
own lofty amusement or to buy jewels. It ended, however, in the
comfortable eating of a good dinner at the hotel, and a cigar in Captain
Newell's own room, which was adorned with various personal appliances
for comfort that astonished the eyes of the careful little bachelor, and
left him in a maze of vague wonderings. Young men lived in that way,
then, nowadays? They could do so, and yet not be persons of--of
irregular habits?
David Newell persuaded his guest to abandon, for the present, all idea
of obtaining employment in the city. "These shopkeepers are not capable
of appreciating qualifications such as yours, sir," he said. "Would it
not be better to set about obtaining a new tenant for the warehouse?"
Cousin Copeland thought it would; but repairs were needed, and--
"Will you give me the charge of it? I am in the city all the time, and I
have acquaintances among the Northerners who are beginning to come down
here with a view of engaging in business."
Cousin Copeland gladly relinquished the warehouse, and then, after an
hour's rest, he rode gallantly back to Gardiston House on one of the
captain's horses; he explained at some length that he had been quite a
man of mettle in his youth as regards horse-flesh--"often riding, sir,
ten and fifteen miles a day."
"I will go in for a moment, I think," said the young officer, as they
arrived at the old gate.
"Most certainly," said Cousin Copeland cordially; "Gardis will be
delighted to see you."
"Will she?" said the captain.
Clouds had gathered, a raw wind from the ocean swept over the land, and
fine rain was beginning to fall. The house seemed dark and damp as the
two entered it. Gardis listened to Cousin Copeland's detailed little
narrative in silence, and made no comments while he was present; but
when he left the room for a moment she said abruptly:
"Sir, you will make no repairs, and you will take no steps toward
procuring a tenant for our property in the city. I will not allow it."
"And why may I not do it as well as any other person?" said Captain
Newell.
"You are not 'any other person,' and you know it," said Gardis, with
flushed cheeks. "I do not choose to receive a favor from your hands."
"It is a mere business transaction, Miss Duke."
"It is not. You know you intend to make the repairs yourself," cried the
girl passionately.
"And if I do so intend? It will only be advancing the money, and you can
pay me interest if you like. The city will certainly regain her old
position in time; my venture is a sure one. But I _wish_ to assist you,
Miss Duke; I do not deny it."
"And I--will not allow it!"
"What will you do, then?"
"God knows," said Gardis. "But I would rather starve than accept
assistance from you." Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke, but she
held her head proudly erect.
"And from Saxton? He has gone North, but he would be so proud to help
you."
"From him least of all."
"Because of his love for you?"
Gardis was silent.
"Miss Duke, let me ask you one question. If you had loved Roger Saxton,
would you have married him?"
"Never!"
"You would have sacrificed your whole life, then, for the sake of--"
"My country, sir."
"We have a common country, Gardis," answered the young man gravely.
Then, as he rose, "Child," he said, "I shall not relinquish the charge
of your property, given into my hands by Mr. Copeland Gardiston, and,
for your own sake, I beg you to be more patient, more gentle, as becomes
a woman. A few weeks will no doubt see you released from even your
slight obligation to me: you will have but a short time to wait."
Poor Gardis! Her proud scorn went for nothing, then? She was overridden
as though she had been a child, and even rebuked for want of gentleness.
The drawing-room was cheerless and damp in the rainy twilight; the girl
wore a faded lawn dress, and her cheeks were pale; the old house was
chilly through and through, and even the soldier, strong as he was, felt
himself shivering. At this instant enter Cousin Copeland. "Of course you
will spend the night here," he said heartily. "It is raining, and I must
insist upon your staying over until to-morrow--must really insist."
Gardis looked up quickly; her dismayed face said plainly, "Oh no, no."
Thereupon the young officer immediately accepted Cousin Copeland's
invitation, and took his seat again with quiet deliberation. Gardis sank
down upon the sofa. "Very well," she thought desperately, "this time it
is hopeless. Nothing can be done."
And hopeless it was. Pompey brought in a candle, and placed it upon the
table, where its dim light made the large apartment more dismal than
before; the rain poured down outside, and the rising wind rattled the
loose shutters. Dinner was announced--one small fish, potatoes, and
corn-bread. Pale Gardis sat like a statue at the head of the table, and
made no effort to entertain the guest; but Cousin Copeland threw himself
bravely into the breach, and, by way of diversion, related the whole
story of the unchronicled "wife of one of our grandfather's second
cousins," who had turned out to be a most remarkable personage of Welsh
descent, her golden harp having once stood in the very room in which
they were now seated.
"Do you not think, my child, that a--a little fire in your aunt
Margaretta's boudoir would--would be conducive to our comfort?"
suggested the little bachelor, as they rose from the table.
"As you please," said Gardis.
So the three repaired thither, and when the old red curtains were drawn,
and the fire lighted, the little room had at least a semblance of
comfort, whatever may have been in the hearts of its occupants. Gardis
embroidered. Cousin Copeland chatted on in a steady little stream, and
the guest listened. "I will step up stairs to my study, and bring down
that file of documents," said the bachelor, rising. He was gone, and
left only silence behind him. Gardis did not raise her head, but went
steadily on with the embroidered robe of the Queen of Sheba.
"I am thinking," began David Newell, breaking the long pause at last,
"how comfortable you would be, Miss Duke, as the wife of Roger Saxton.
He would take you North, away from this old house, and he would be so
proud and so fond of you."
No answer.
"The place could be put in order if you did not care to sell it, and
your cousin Copeland could live on here as usual; indeed, I could
scarcely imagine him in any other home."
"Nor myself."
"Oh yes, Miss Duke; I can easily imagine you in New York, Paris, or
Vienna. I can easily imagine you at the opera, in the picture-galleries,
or carrying out to the full your exquisite taste in dress."
Down went the embroidery. "Sir, do you mean to insult me?" said the
pale, cotton-robed little hostess.
"By no means."
"Why do you come here? Why do you sneer at my poor clothes? Why--" Her
voice trembled, and she stopped abruptly.
"I was not aware that they were poor or old, Miss Duke. I have never
seen a more exquisite costume than yours on the evening when we dined
here by invitation; it has been like a picture in my memory ever since."
"An old robe that belonged to my grandmother, and I burned it, every
shred, as soon as you had gone," said Gardis hotly.
Far from being impressed as she had intended he should be, David Newell
merely bowed; the girl saw that he set the act down as "temper."
"I suppose your Northern ladies never do such things?" she said
bitterly.
"You are right; they do not," he answered.
"Why do you come here?" pursued Gardis. "Why do you speak to me of Mr.
Saxton? Though he had the fortune of a prince, he is nothing to me."
"Roger's fortune is comfortable, but not princely, Miss Duke--by no
means princely. We are not princely at the North," added Newell, with a
slight smile, "and neither are we 'knightly.' We must, I fear, yield all
claim to those prized words of yours."
"I am not aware that I have used the words," said Miss Duke, with lofty
indifference.
"Oh, I did not mean you alone--you personally--but all Southern women.
However, to return to our subject: Saxton loves you, and has gone away
with a saddened heart."
This was said gravely. "As though," Miss Duke remarked to
herself--"really as though a heart was of consequence!"
"I presume he will soon forget," she said carelessly, as she took up her
embroidery again.
"Yes, no doubt," replied Captain Newell. "I remember once on Staten
Island, and again out in Mississippi, when he was even more--Yes, as you
say, he will soon forget."
"Then why do you so continually speak of him?" said Miss Duke sharply.
Such prompt corroboration was not, after all, as agreeable as it should
have been to a well-regulated mind.
"I speak of him, Miss Duke, because I wish to know whether it is only
your Southern girlish pride that speaks, or whether you really, as would
be most natural, love him as he loves you; for, in the latter case, you
would be able, I think, to fix and retain his somewhat fickle fancy. He
is a fine fellow, and, as I said before, it would be but natural, Miss
Duke, that you should love him."
"I do not love him," said Gardis, quickly and angrily, putting in her
stitches all wrong. Who was this person, daring to assume what would or
would not be natural for her to do?
"Very well; I believe you. And now that I know the truth, I will tell
you why I come here: you have asked me several times. I too love you,
Miss Duke."
Gardis had risen. "You?" she said--"you?"
"Yes, I; I too."
He was standing also, and they gazed at each other a moment in silence.
"I will never marry you," said the girl at last--"never! never! You do
not, can not, understand the hearts of Southern women, sir."
"I have not asked you to marry me, Miss Duke," said the young soldier
composedly; "and the hearts of Southern women are much like those of
other women, I presume." Then, as the girl opened the door to escape,
"You may go away if you like, Gardis," he said, "but I shall love you
all the same, dear."
She disappeared, and in a few moments Cousin Copeland reëntered, with
apologies for his lengthened absence. "I found several other documents I
thought you might like to see," he said eagerly. "They will occupy the
remainder of our evening delightfully."
They did. But Gardis did not return; neither did she appear at the
breakfast-table the next morning. Captain Newell rode back to the city
without seeing her.
Not long afterward Cousin Copeland received a formal letter from a city
lawyer. The warehouse had found a tenant, and he, the lawyer, acting for
the agent, Captain Newell, had the honor to inclose the first
installment of rent-money, and remained an obedient servant, and so
forth. Cousin Copeland was exultant. Gardis said to herself, "He is
taking advantage of our poverty," and, going to her room, she sat down
to plan some way of release. "I might be a governess," she thought. But
no one at the South wanted a governess now, and how could she go North?
She was not aware how old-fashioned were her little accomplishments--her
music, her embroidery, her ideas of literature, her prim drawings, and
even her deportment. No one made courtesies at the North any more, save
perhaps in the Lancers. As to chemistry, trigonometry, physiology, and
geology, the ordinary studies of a Northern girl, she knew hardly more
than their names. "We might sell the place," she thought at last, "and
go away somewhere and live in the woods."
This, indeed, seemed the only way open to her. The house was an actual
fact; it was there; it was also her own. A few days later an
advertisement appeared in the city newspaper: "For sale, the residence
known as Gardiston House, situated six miles from the city, on Green
River. Apply by letter, or on the premises, to Miss Gardiston Duke."
Three days passed, and no one came. The fourth day an applicant
appeared, and was ushered into the dining-room. He sent up no name; but
Miss Duke descended hopefully to confer with him, and found--Captain
Newell.
"You!" she said, paling and flushing. Her voice faltered; she was sorely
disappointed.
"It will always be myself, Gardis," said the young man gravely. "So you
wish to sell the old house? I should not have supposed it."
"I wish to sell it in order to be freed from obligations forced upon us,
sir."
"Very well. But if _I_ buy it, then what?"
"You will not buy it, for the simple reason that I will not sell it to
you. You do not wish the place; you would only buy it to assist us."
"That is true."
"Then there is nothing more to be said, I believe," said Miss Duke,
rising.
"_Is_ there nothing more, Gardis?"
"Nothing, Captain Newell."
And then, without another word, the soldier bowed, and rode back to
town.
The dreary little advertisement remained in a corner of the newspaper a
month longer, but no purchaser appeared. The winter was rainy, with raw
east winds from the ocean, and the old house leaked in many places. If
they had lived in one or two of the smaller rooms, which were in better
condition and warmer than the large apartments, they might have escaped;
but no habit was changed, and three times a day the table was spread in
the damp dining-room, where the atmosphere was like that of a tomb, and
where no fire was ever made. The long evenings were spent in the somber
drawing-room by the light of the one candle, and the rain beat against
the old shutters so loudly that Cousin Copeland was obliged to elevate
his gentle little voice as he read aloud to his silent companion. But
one evening he found himself forced to pause; his voice had failed.
Four days afterward he died, gentle and placid to the last. He was an
old man, although no one had ever thought so.
The funeral notice appeared in the city paper, and a few old family
friends came out to Gardiston House to follow the last Gardiston to his
resting-place in St. Mark's forest churchyard. They were all sad-faced
people, clad in mourning much the worse for wear. Accustomed to sorrow,
they followed to the grave quietly, not a heart there that had not its
own dead. They all returned to Gardiston House, sat a while in the
drawing-room, spoke a few words each in turn to the desolate little
mistress, and then took leave. Gardis was left alone.