Sharing in some degree that infallible instinct whereby lower animals
interpret the character of their owners, young children are often as
wise and wary as dogs and cats, and before Eglah could walk without
clinging to Eliza's finger, she knew intuitively that her silent,
watchful grandmother eyed her suspiciously, and that warm caresses could
be expected only from her father and her young foster-mother. Profound
and regretful compassion rather than tenderness filled Mrs. Maurice's
heart, and she faithfully ministered to the infant's needs, as she would
have pityingly warmed and fed some bleating lamb bereft of its dam by
March snows. Since the little girl showed, except in form, no faintest
trace of Maurice blood, her grandmother regarded her most
sorrowfully--not as Marcia's baby, but as the living monument of a cruel
and unpardonable injury inflicted by Judge Kent. Even in the cradle
Eglah defied an authority supreme in the household.
"You must not say Lila, but Mama-Eliza."
"I won't! It hurths my tongue to say Elitha. I will say Ma-Lila."
The child's inherent antagonism made her a vexing embodiment of protest,
an obstinate interrogation point punctuating the commands of this
old-fashioned lady whose domestic canons belonged to an era when boys
and girls were not considered "servile" because trained to answer their
elders "No, sir," or "Yes, ma'am," and when after a meal in the sunset
glow young human broods followed feathered folk to an early rest before
stars spangled the sky. If among General Maurice's choice collection of
thoroughbred game fowls, with yellow legs and bronze breasts, had
appeared an uncouth mongrel pullet, dust-colored and blue of skin, his
exacting widow would not have rejected it more summarily than did her
proud soul repudiate the Kent scion whom she housed luxuriously because
of Marcia's last prayer, but felt no more desire to caress than to
fondle the bullet that slew her husband.
Judge Kent's official duties called him often from the city, and during
his visits to his child Mrs. Maurice, if compelled to see him,
maintained the reticent, frigid courtesy with which she had received him
when he first crossed her threshold bearing his unconscious wife. He had
never touched the slender white fingers that pointed to the staircase
that day, and while she allowed herself no verbal expression of
animosity, he was humiliated by the consciousness of her intense
detestation. As Southern hostess in a typical Southern home, she fully
realized _noblesse oblige_, and her punctilious observance of the
etiquette of hospitality accentuated the position she assigned him--that
of stranger within her gates. He had hoped the baby might bridge the
chasm, but when he ventured to dwell upon his unwillingness to deprive
Mrs. Maurice of this "sweet source of solace," she promptly dispelled
his illusion.
"Make no mistake, Judge Kent. You leave the poor child here, and I
retain her simply because her mother so requested."
Desiring to minimize sources of future contention, she had directed Mr.
Whitfield to acquaint him with her will, whereby the entire estate would
pass at her death into the hands of certain trustees, who, after
providing a liberal annuity for Eglah and Eliza, should control
absolutely all interests until Eglah was twenty-one years old, when a
legacy of five thousand dollars would be paid to Eliza. Should the
little girl be removed from the care of her foster-mother, the annuity
of the former ceased, and half of the value of the estate should be
deducted from her inheritance; and if Eglah died before marriage, the
homestead was bequeathed to childless Confederate widows of that State,
as an Egbert Maurice memorial. Since General Maurice's last testament
had left his fortune unconditionally to his wife, there was no appeal
from her decision, and Judge Kent bore the keen disappointment with such
semblance of acquiescence as he could summon, striving to veil his
hatred of the woman whose contempt lay beneath her studied courtesy like
an iron wall under a sheet of ice. An adroit and tireless schemer, he
usually steered safely in the troubled political sea, and only once, in
an unguarded moment, dared the current of Mrs. Maurice's convictions.
"If the people of the South could only reason from the analogy of
history----"
He was silenced by the hand thrown up, palm outward.
"We have only the privilege of suffering and remembering. The grim
analogy of Sicily under Verres suggests a rather painful parallel. For
us there remains solely the grace of silence; and it were well if you,
sir, could set me an example, when numbered among guests under my roof."
The voice was low, clear, steady, but the narrow lip arched, and the
light in her blue eyes reminded him of the violet flame one sees flash
up over a bed of hot anthracite.
Eglah was five years old when her father was called to Washington, and
thence sent to Europe on a government mission, which he so successfully
accomplished that on his return the governor of his native State
appointed him senator to fill an unexpired term. Having proved a useful
servant of the Administration, official influence secured his election
and return to the United States' Senate two years later, and Mrs.
Maurice welcomed any change that removed him from her neighborhood. His
rare visits were festivals to his little daughter, and she revelled in
the wealth of caresses, the endearing words, the prodigality of gifts
that always characterized his brief sojourns. Thus were laid the
foundations of an intense and absorbing devotion to her father that
gradually became the dominant factor in her life.
"Nutwood"--the three-storied red brick house crowning an eminence shaded
by walnut and chestnut trees--had been built in 1825 by General
Maurice's father, and its pillared piazza running along three sides
overlooked the city of Y----, two miles distant, where spires and
factory chimneys lifted their lines against mellow western skies. On the
first and second floors of the old mansion wide halls crossed at right
angles, admitting breezes from every point of the compass, and so
unusually thick were the walls that the nearly square windows framed in
cedar furnished comfortable lounging seats. For many years this place
had been famous throughout the State for its race-horses, game chickens,
pointers, fox-hounds, and fine library, and the hospitality dispensed
was peculiar to an era characterized by conditions that the Civil War
annihilated. No invading army had reached the city of Y----, but raiding
cavalry squads once completely sacked the Maurice plantations many miles
distant in the river valley, and burned not only the empty gin house,
but the commodious family residence often occupied in autumn. Prior to
her departure for Europe Mrs. Maurice had rebuilt gin and warehouses,
and erected a pretty four-room cottage comfortably furnished, which,
with fifty acres of adjoining land, she gave as dower to Eliza when she
married the faithful overseer and manager of the "Bend Plantations."
One sultry spring morning in Eglah's ninth year, she sat with Eliza in
the "out-door schoolroom" where lessons were studied in warm weather. It
was a cool retreat--a circular, latticed summer-house--overrun by yellow
woodbine, honeysuckle, and a pink multiflora rose, all in full bloom,
busy distilling perfume their satin lips offered in libation to the
lazily wandering wind that caressed them. The pointed roof was rain
proof, the floor tiled, and between the arched openings seats were
fastened to the lattice wall. From the round table in the centre lovely
views of shrubbery, lily-starred lawn, far-off grain fields, green
pasture lands where cattle browsed, seemed set in frames of leafage and
tendril that ran riot around the archways. A walk bordered with lilacs
and azaleas led to the door of the conservatory, which flanked the long
drawing-room; stretching beyond, one could see the wide front of the
house, where no balustrade broke the line of white columns rising to the
crenellated flat roof. Eglah sat with a geography lying open before her
on the table, and her head supported by arms resting on the map, but
once she turned a leaf, and the wind fluttered a letter many weeks old
from her father.
"Are you ready to answer the map questions?"
"No, Ma-Lila. Why must I always answer other people's questions, when
nobody answers mine? I will say my lesson when you tell me what
'scallawag' and 'carpet-bagger' mean."
"They are ugly slang words, and if I were you I should try to forget I
ever heard them. Little girls have nothing to do with politics, and you
have not told me of whom the Graham children were speaking at the
party."
"Never mind about names. I looked in the dictionary, but could not find
'scallawag.' I know it means something horrid and vulgar and hateful,
and I never will go to another party."
Eliza's reply was drowned by the scream of "King Herod"--a lordly
peacock that had earned the title from his slaughter of young turkeys
and chickens in the poultry yard. Now he trailed his feathers across the
walk, came up to the summer-house, and uttered his piercing cry in quick
succession.
"Something is going to happen. Uncle Aaron says it is a bad sign when
Herod squalls at a door."
"Something happened a while ago, when a man rode up the avenue and tied
his horse. Now he is leaving the steps, and Herod knows he is a
stranger. You must not listen to superstitious foolishness from
negroes," said Eliza, with a fine scorn of all but her own peculiar pet
superstition, kept closely guarded in her heart.
Eglah shut the geography, propped her chin on her palms as her elbows
rested on the table, and watched the beautiful bird preen his feathers.
"Ma-Lila, how old must I be before you will be ready to tell me why
grandmother hates my father so?"
"Dearie, she does not 'hate' him, and you ought to try not to----"
"Don't tell stories, Ma-Lila, because I want always to believe
everything you say--and--there! Listen to grandma's bell. Three rings;
that is for you."
Eliza laid in her work basket the embroidered cambric ruffle she was
hemming and, throwing her white apron over her head, went swiftly to the
house.
Mrs. Maurice sat in the drawing-room, with two newspapers unfolded on
her lap, but whether their contents annoyed or gratified her, the cold,
quiet face gave no indication.
"Is Eglah ready to come and recite her lessons?"
"Not yet, madam."
"Put away her books; she will be excused from lessons to-day. Judge Kent
has married again in Washington, and these papers furnish detailed
accounts of the brilliant wedding reception. He has swallowed the gold
bait of a widow he met in Europe. She is reputed rich, of course--a Mrs.
Nina Herriott--and the bridal pair will go to England for the summer."
"Our poor baby! This news will break her heart," replied the
foster-mother, whose eyes had filled with tears at thought of the
child's suffering.
"Yes, she will grieve sorely, but better now than later in life. I have
been pondering the best way to break the news to her."
"Let me tell her. I think I understand her disposition more thoroughly
than anyone else."
"You fancy I do not comprehend my own granddaughter?"
"I beg your pardon, dear Mrs. Maurice. I mean only that I have watched
all her little ways, and she feels less restraint with me than with you;
but of course you must choose your own way in this matter."
"For us, this marriage is fortunate, and I rejoice at every circumstance
that heightens the barrier between Judge Kent and me. He will never dare
to disturb the child while I live, and brides are not importunate for
the custody of step-children. Eliza, I never felt until to-day that
Eglah is really Marcia's baby. She is a thousand times dearer to me now
than ever before."
"Dear madam, I thank God for anything that will make you open your heart
and take the precious child in. In many ways she needs tenderness from
you, and especially since the children's parties she has attended
recently, where rude things were said about her father. She has not told
me all, but you know the damaging rumors about some of his decisions
while Federal Judge in our State, and the Graham children, whose
interests suffered through him, speak very bitterly of his career. Eglah
has asked me many questions lately, which I always evaded, but she
broods over this matter and is resentful."
"Poor little thing! Her father has lived on sour grapes so long, her
teeth must inevitably be on edge. Henceforth she belongs to me."
"She is absolutely devoted to him, and it is distressing to know how her
very heartstrings are tied around him. It amounts to idolatry."
"Yes, I realize that, and it will be a sad day for her when the glamour
fades and she sees the ugly, deformed clay feet of her idol."
"It would break her heart."
"No. We both know sorrow does not destroy, and death is deaf to calls
from crushed hearts. She will simply find herself chained to a galling
sense of shame. These papers were brought this morning by a young man
who impressed me as a thoroughbred gentleman--Mr. Noel Herriott, son of
Mrs. Kent's first husband. He spoke kindly of his stepmother, and
explained that, as he was passing through Y---- on his way west, Judge
Kent had given him a card of introduction to me, and requested him to
see Eglah, for whom he brought the package yonder on the window sill. I
knew the poor child would be distressed at the news, and thought it best
she should have time to recover from the shock before seeing him. He
continues his journey by the midnight train, and I have invited him to
return and take tea here, when Eglah can be introduced to him. Eliza,
perhaps you are right; certainly you are more nearly her mother than any
living being, and you will tenderly break the news to her. Carry the
papers and the parcel and make her understand. After a while I wish to
come out and join you."
In shaking and furling his rainbow train King Herod had shed a long
feather. Eglah picked it up, and finding a knife in the work basket
proceeded to sharpen the end into a pen, with which she purposed writing
to her father. As Eliza entered and placed the papers on the table, the
little girl looked up.
"Oh, Ma-Lila, you are crying! What is it? Not bad news from father?"
"My baby, your father is well and has sent you a present. Come to me,
darling; I want to talk to you." She drew her to her lap and held her
close.
"We know, of course, your father dearly loves his daughter, but he is
often very lonely, and as he cannot have you with him, what would you
think if you heard he had married a lady who would be kind and good to
him? Don't you----"
"I know that would be a lie--a wicked lie! Why do you say such horrible
things and hurt me so?" She threw off the clasping arm and sprang to the
floor, stamping the tiles with her right foot.
"My precious baby, I would not hurt you for a million of dollars! You
know your Lila loves you better than everything else in the world. I
would rather hold my hand in the fire than tell you a painful thing if
it could be helped. But somebody must speak the truth to you."
She knelt down by the indignant child and kissed her hot cheek twice.
"My darling, it is true--positively true--that your father was married
some days ago. Now, you must not struggle to get away from me. Listen,
and let me explain it all."
"Don't! I won't listen. I can't--wait--wait--" She went to the seat
along the wall and threw herself face downward, crossing her arms over
her head. She lay so still that a quarter of an hour later Eliza sat
down beside her, and while her hand softly stroked the brown curls, she
read slowly the description of church wedding and subsequent reception.
"My darling, you love your father so well you want him to be happy,
and----"
"No, not with another wife, and away from me. I would rather he was
dead--for then nobody else could claim him. Two wives! It is like having
two Gods."
Taking the papers, she read the marked paragraphs, and though neither
sob nor tear betrayed the intensity of her sorrow, one little hand
caught at her throat, where a stricture seemed to stifle her.
"You must try to bear this trouble patiently."
"I can't. I would not bear it at all, if I could help myself. Now I am
an orphan! An orphan!"
"Not while I live to love you. Look at this parcel, your father's
present."
Eliza unwrapped the paper and took out an oblong gilded box, to which
was fastened a card: "For our dear little daughter Eglah, with love of
her father and mother." The child glanced at the handwriting and her
eyes seemed almost to take fire. She snatched the box and threw it to
the floor.
"It is not mine; I have no father and no mother. I have only Ma-Lila
left!"
She buried her face in Eliza's lap, and hoping a burst of tears would
relieve the strain, the nurse silently caressed her, waiting for the
storm to break; but save the trembling of the figure no sign was given.
After a while, Eliza whispered,
"Grandmother is coming down the walk."
Eglah started up as if electrified, and lifted the box from the floor,
holding it against her breast. Leaning on her cane, Mrs. Maurice came to
the table, sat down, and opened her arms.
"My dear child, come here."
Not an inch stirred Eglah, and Eliza gently forced her forward within
reach of the extended arms. Mrs. Maurice leaned down to kiss her, but
she turned her head away.
"My poor little girl, don't you know I love you?"
"Oh, no, grandma; you never did love me, and you never will."
"But I do, dear child. Kiss me."
"I don't want to kiss you any more than you want to kiss me. I
understand exactly how you feel. You are sorry for me because you think
father has treated me badly in getting married. But, grandmother, you
need not pity me now, for I must make you understand that _my father
always is right_. No matter what he may do, he has good reasons, and if
I am satisfied nobody else can complain. I shall always know father is
right."
The dry, white face was lifted proudly, and the challenging eyes met her
grandmother's steadily, but the childish lips trembled and the hand
clutched spasmodically at her throat.
A gush of genuine tenderness warmed the old lady's heart as she took the
quivering fingers, spread them on her own palm, and touched the girl's
forehead with her lips.
"'Loyal and true'--that is the Maurice motto. 'Though He slay me, yet
will I trust Him!' To-day we will have no lessons, and this evening
Eliza shall dress you especially to meet the gentleman, Mr. Herriott,
whom your father wishes you to know. Eliza, see that she has a warm
bath, and put some orange flower water in her glass of lemonade."
In after years Noel Herriott often recalled that afternoon spent at
Nutwood. The inimitable courtesy of the handsome stately hostess, the
sweet countenance of the widowed foster-mother--whose anxious, tender
gaze rarely left the white-clad child--the grave negro butler, wearing
linen apron that matched his grey head, and the spacious old
cedar-wainscotted dining-room where, on bare, polished mahogany table,
the light of wax candles was reflected in silver dishes and candelabra,
and glittered from heavy, antique-shaped, cut-glass bowls, while golden
honeycomb and ripe strawberries mixed their fragrance with the breath of
crimson carnations heaped in a Sevres china centrepiece that once graced
banquets at Trianon. Most vivid of all impressions, he retained the
imperishable image of a beautiful girl, with singularly white cheeks and
lustrous, shy eyes, glowing unnaturally from her fierce struggle for
composure--a proud, sensitive face whose exquisite lines suggested rare
old cameos behind cabinet glass.
Though the guest was a very young man, his quiet manner and perfect ease
indicated thorough acquaintance with the most refined society, and
despite her sectional prejudice Mrs. Maurice yielded to the charm of an
unusually handsome personality and a conversation marred by no trace of
egotism. The crocus light of after-glow still tinged the west, where the
sickle of a new moon swung, when the visitor rose to depart.
"Miss Eglah, when I come back from New Mexico and Arizona, shall I bring
you a Zuni pickaninny or a Moqui pony?"
She shook her head.
"Since your father has stolen my stepmother, do you not think you might
persuade yourself to accept me as a sort of half cousin or
hemi-demi-semi-stepbrother, or any kind of a relative you may choose? I
am quite alone in the world, and you are just the sister I should like
to claim as my hermanita. May I?"
"Thank you, sir, I would rather not. I want only my father."
He bowed, and lifting her dainty little hand brushed it with his
mustache.
"Mrs. Maurice, in saying good-bye, I must thank you cordially for the
privilege of spending several hours in your lovely home, which
illustrates all I have read of charming Southern life, and realizes
completely my ideal picture of what your sunny land must have been in
former years."
"Good-bye, Mr. Herriott. I wish you a pleasant journey. Nutwood is a
mere shadow of old and happier days. Ichabod is printed all over the
ruined South, and we live only to guard our graves."