LIVE COALS FROM MISS CLENDENNING'S WOOD-FIRE
His good-byes said, one absorbing thought now filled Oliver's mind--to
reach Kennedy Square on the wings of the wind and there to pour into
the ears of his mother and Miss Lavinia, and of anyone else who would
listen, the whys and wherefores of his love for Margaret, with such
additional description of her personal charms, qualities, and talents
as would bring about, in the shortest possible time, the most amicable
of relations between Kennedy Square and Brookfield Farm. He was
determined that his mother should know her at once. He knew how strong
her prejudices were and what her traditions would cause her to think of
a woman who led the life that Margaret did, but these things did not
deter him. A new love now filled his heart--another and a different
kind of love from the one he bore his mother. One that belonged to him;
one that was his own and affected his life and soul and career. He was
prepared to fight even harder for this desire of his soul than for his
art.
There being no air-ships available for immediate charter, nor big
balloons waiting for passengers, with sand-bags ready for instant
unloading, nor any underground pneumatic tubes into which he could be
pumped and with a puff landed on his own doorstep in Kennedy Square,
the impatient lover was obliged to content himself with the back seat
of the country stage and a night ride in the train down the valley.
Then came a delay of a week in New York waiting for the return of Mr.
Slade to the city--"whom you must by all means see before coming home,"
so his mother's letter ran. This delay was made bearable by Waller,
Bowdoin, and old Professor Cummings who went into spasms of delight
over the boys' sketches. Waller especially predicted a sure future for
him if he would have the grit to throw overboard every other thing he
was doing and "stick it out and starve it out" until he pulled through
and became famous.
Mr. Slade, while welcoming him with both hands, was not so cheering.
The financial and political situations were no better, he said. They
had really become more alarming every day. The repudiation of Northern
accounts by Southern merchants had ceased--at least some of Morton,
Slade & Co.'s customers had redeemed their obligations and had
forwarded them their overdue remittances, tiding them over for a
time--but no one could say what was in store for any firm whose
business lay largely in the Southern States. He would, however, make
his word good. Oliver's situation was still open, and he could again
occupy his desk as soon as he returned from Kennedy Square. The length
of his service depended entirely on whether the country would go to war
or whether its difficulties could be satisfactorily settled in the next
Congress.
But none of these things--none of the more depressing ones--dulled for
an instant the purpose or chilled the enthusiasm of our young lover.
Wars, pestilence, financial panics and even social tidal-waves might
overwhelm the land and yet not one drop of the topmost edge of the
flood could wet the tips of his high-stepping toes: Margaret was his;
he trod an enchanted realm.
An enthusiasm of equal intensity, but of quite a different kind, had
taken possession of the Horn mansion as the hour of Oliver's arrival
approached, as anyone would have noticed who happened to be inside its
hospitable walls. Something out of the common was about to happen.
There was an unusual restlessness in Malachi totally at variance with
his grave and dignified demeanor. His perturbation was so great that he
even forgot the time-honored custom of wheeling his master's chair into
position and the equally time-honored salutation of "yo' chair's all
ready, Marse Richard." It was noticed, too, that he could not keep out
of the hall. Richard had to speak to him twice and Mrs. Horn had lifted
her head in astonishment when that hitherto attentive darky handed her
Richard's spectacles instead of her own. Or he would start to enter the
dining-room, his hands laden with plates, or the library, his arms
filled with logs to replenish the fire, and then stop suddenly and
listen with one foot raised, standing like an old dog locating a
partridge. So nervous did he become as the twilight deepened, and he
began to set the table for supper, that he dropped a cup, smashing it
into atoms, a thing that had not happened to him before in twenty
years--one of the blue and gilt--priceless heirlooms in the family, and
only used when a distinguished guest was expected. At another time he
would have dropped the whole tray with everything upon it, had not Aunt
Hannah saved it in time. How she came to be in the pantry with her two
eyes on the front door, when her place was in the kitchen with both of
them on the pots and kettles, no one could tell. Everything seemed to
be at sixes and sevens in the old house that night.
And the other members of the household inside the drawing-room seemed
just as restless. Richard, who had raked the coals of his forge, closed
the green door of his workshop, and had dressed himself an hour earlier
than usual, much to Malachi's delight, became so restless that he got
up from his easy-chair half a dozen times and roamed aimlessly about
the room, stopping to pick up a book, reading a line and laying it down
again. Mrs. horn dropped so many stitches that she gave up in despair,
and said she believed she would not knit.
Malachi heard him first.
"Dat's him--dat's Marse Ollie," he cried. "I know dat knock. Here he
is, Mistis. Here he is!" He sprang forward, threw wide the door and had
him by the hand before the others could reach him.
"Fo' Gawd, Marse Ollie, ain't ol' Malachi glad ter git his han's on yer
once mo'!"
It was unseemly and absurd how the old man behaved!
And the others were not far behind.
"My boy," exclaimed Mrs. Horn, as she held him close to her breast.
There are few words spoken in times like this.
Richard waited behind her until that imperceptible moment of silence
had passed--the moment a mother gets her arms around the son she loves.
Then when the sigh of restful relief that always follows had spent
itself, and she had kissed him with his cheek held fast to hers, Oliver
loosened his hold and threw his arms about his father's neck, patting
him between his shoulder-blades as he kissed him.
"Dear old dad! Oh, but it's good to get home! And Aunt Hannah, you
there?" and he extended his hand while his other arm was still around
his father's neck.
"Yas, Marse Oilie, dat's me; dat's ol' Hannah," and she stepped closer
and grasped his outstretched hand, smoothing it as she spoke. "Lord,
Marse Ollie, but ain't you filled out? You is de probable son, sho',
honey, come home to yo' people."
But Oliver was not through with Malachi. He must take both of his hands
this time and look into his eyes. It was all he could do to keep from
hugging him. It would not have been the first time.
"Been well, Mallie?"
Of course he had been; he saw it in his face. It was only to say
something to which the old darky could reply to--to keep in touch with
him--to know that he was speaking to this same old Malachi whom he had
so dearly loved.
"Middlin' po'ly, yas--middlin' po'ly, suh."
Malachi had not the slightest idea what he was talking about. He had
not been sick a minute since Oliver left. His heart was too near
bursting with pride at his appearance and joy over his return for his
mind to work intelligently.
"Dem Yankees ain't sp'iled ye; no, dey ain't. Gor-a-mighty, ain't
Malachi glad." Tears were standing in his eyes now. There was no one
but Richard he loved better than Oliver.
No fatted calf was spitted and roasted this night on Aunt Hannah's
swinging crane for this "probable son," but there was corn-pone in
plenty and a chafing dish of terrapin--Malachi would not let Aunt
Hannah touch it; he knew just how much Madeira to put in; Hannah always
"drowned" it, he would say. And there was sally-lunn and Maryland
biscuit; here, at last, Aunt Hannah was supreme--her elbows told the
story. And last of all there was a great dish of escalloped oysters
cooked in fossil scallop shells thousands of years old, that Malachi
had himself dug out of the marl-banks at Yorktown when he was a boy,
and which had been used in the Horn family almost as many times as they
were years old. Oh, for a revival of this extinct conchological
comfort! But no! It is just as well not to recall even the memories of
this toothsome dish. There are no more fossils, neither at Yorktown nor
anywhere else, and no substitute in china, tin, or copper will be of
the slightest use in giving their flavor.
Supper served and over, with Oliver jumping up half a dozen times to
kiss his mother and plumping himself down again to begin on another
relay of pone or terrapin or oysters, much to Malachi's delight ("He do
eat," he reported to Aunt Hannah. "I tell ye. He's bearin' very heavy
on dem scallops. Dat's de third shell.")--the doors were opened with a
flourish, and the three, preceded by Malachi, entered the drawing-room
in time to welcome the neighbors.
Nathan, who was already inside sitting by the fire, his long, thin legs
stretched out, his bunchy white hair, parted in the middle, falling to
his collar's edge, sprang up and shook Oliver's hand heartily. He had
charged Malachi, when he admitted him, to keep his presence secret. He
wanted them to have Oliver all to themselves.
Miss Clendenning entered a moment later with both hands held out. She
would not stop in the hall to unwind her nubia or take off her little
fur boots, but motioned Oliver to her knees after she had kissed him
joyously on both cheeks, and held out those two absurd little feet for
his ministrations, while Mrs. Horn removed her nubia and cloak.
The rat-a-tat at the door was now constant. Judge Bowman and old Dr.
Wallace and four or five of the young men, with the young girls,
entered, all with expressions of delight at Oliver's return home, and
later, with the air of a Lord High Mayor, Colonel John Clayton, of
Pongateague, with Sue on his arm. Clayton was always a picture when he
entered a room. He stood six feet and an inch, his gray hair brushed
straight back, his goatee curling like a fish-hook at its end.
"Handsome Jack Clayton" was still handsome at sixty.
After the Colonel had grasped Oliver's hand in his warmest manner, Sue
laid all of her ten fingers in his. It was as good as a play to watch
the little witch's face as she stood for a moment and looked Oliver
over. She had not written to him for months. She had had half a dozen
beaus since his departure, but she claimed him all the same as part of
her spoils. His slight mustache seemed to amuse her immensely.
"Are you glad to see me, Ollie?" she asked, looking archly at him from
under her lashes.
"Why, Sue!"
Of course he was glad--for a minute--not much longer. How young she is,
he thought, how provincial. As she rattled on he noticed the mass of
ringlets about her face and the way her head was set on her shoulders.
Her neck, he saw, was much shorter than Margaret's, and a little out of
drawing. Nor was there anything of that fearless look or toss of the
head like a surprised deer, which made Margaret so distinguished.
Oliver had arrived at that stage in his affection when he compared all
women to one.
All this time Sue was reading his mind. Trust a young girl for that
when she is searching a former lover's eyes for what lies behind them.
She was evidently nettled at what she found and had begun by saying
"she supposed the Yankee girls had quite captured his heart," when the
Colonel interrupted her by asking Oliver whether the Northern men
really thought they could coerce the South into giving up their most
treasured possessions.
He had been nursing his wrath all day over a fresh attack made on the
South by some Northern paper, and Oliver was just the person to vent it
upon--not that he did not love the lad, but because he was fresh from
the despised district.
"I don't think they want to, sir. They are opposed to slavery and so
are a good many of us. You have a wrong idea of the life at the North,
Colonel. You have never been North, I believe?"
"No, my dear Oliver, and I never intend to. If ever I go it will be
with a musket. They have had it all their own way lately with their
Harriet Stowes, William Lloyd Garrisons, and John Browns; it is our
turn now."
"Who do you want to run through the body, Clayton?" asked Richard,
joining the group and laying his hands affectionately on the Colonel's
shoulders.
"Anybody and everybody, Richard, who says we are not free people to do
as we please."
"And is anybody really saying so?"
"Yes; you see it every day in every Northern editorial--another
to-day--a most villainous attack which you must read. These Puritans
have been at it for years. This psalm-singing crew have always hated
us. Now, while they are preaching meekness and lowliness and the rights
of our fellow-men--black ones they mean--they are getting ready to wad
their guns with their hymn-books. It's all a piece of their infernal
hypocrisy!"
"But why should they hate us, Clayton?" asked Richard in a
half-humorous tone. He had no spirit of contention in him to-night, not
with Oliver beside him.
"Because we Cavaliers are made of different stuff; that's why! All this
talk about slavery is nonsense. These Nutmeg fellows approved of
slavery as long as they could make a dollar out of the traffic, and
then, as soon as they found out that they had given us a commercial
club with which to beat out their brains, and that we were really
dominating the nation, they raised this hue and cry about the
downtrodden negro and American freedom and the Stars and Stripes and a
lot of such tomfoolery. Do you know any gentleman who beats his
negroes? Do you beat Malachi? Do I beat my Sam, whom I have brought up
from a boy and who would lay down his life any day for me? I tell you,
Richard, it is nothing but a fight for financial and political mastery.
They're afraid of us; they've been so for years. They cried 'Wolf' when
the fugitive slave law was passed and they've kept it up ever since."
"No, I don't believe it," exclaimed Richard, with a positive tone in
his voice "and neither do you, Clayton. It's largely a question of
sentiment. They don't believe one man should hold another in bondage."
"That's where you are wrong. They don't care a fippenny bit about the
negro. If they ever succeed in their infernal purpose and abolish
slavery, and set the negro adrift, mark my words, they won't live with
him, and they won't let him come North and work alongside of their own
people. They'll throw him back on us after they have made a beggar and
a criminal of him. Only a Southerner understands the negro, and only a
Southerner can care for him. See what we have done for them! Every
slave that landed on our shores we have changed from a savage into a
man. They forget this."
Judge Bowman joined in the discussion--so did Dr. Wallace. The Judge,
in his usual ponderous way, laid down the law, both State and
National--the Doctor, who always took the opposite side in any
argument, asking him rather pointed questions as to the rights of the
Government to control the several States as a unit.
Richard held his peace. He felt that this was not the night of all
others to discuss politics, and he was at a loss to understand the
Colonel's want of selfrestraint. He could not agree with men like
Clayton. He felt that the utterance of such inflammatory speeches only
added fuel to the smouldering flame. If the ugly jets of threatening
smoke that were creeping out everywhere because of the friction between
the two sections were in danger of bursting into flame, the first duty
of a patriot, according to his creed, was to stand by with pails of
water, not with kegs of gunpowder. So, while Clayton's outspoken tirade
still filled the room, he with his usual tact did all he could to
soften the effect of his words. Then again, he did not want Oliver's
feelings hurt.
Malachi's entrance with his tray, just as the subject was getting
beyond control, put a stop to the discussion. The learned group of
disputants with the other guests quickly separated into little
coteries, the older men taking their seats about an opened card-table,
on which Malachi had previously deposited several thin glasses and a
pair of decanters, the ladies sitting together, and the younger people
laughing away in a corner, where Oliver joined them.
Richard and Nathan, now that the danger was averted (they were both
natural born peace-makers), stepped across the room to assist in
entertaining Miss Clendenning. The little lady had not moved from the
chair in which she sat when Oliver relieved her of her fur boots. She
rarely did move when once she had chosen a place for herself in a
drawing-room. She was the kind of woman who could sit in one place and
still be surrounded--by half-moons of adorers if she sat against the
wall, by full moons if she sat in the open. She had learned the art
when a girl.
"If Clayton would go among these people, my dear Lavinia," said
Richard, in a deprecating tone, drawing up a chair and seating himself,
beside her, "he would find them very different from what he thinks.
Some of the most delightful men I have ever met have come from the
States north of us. You know that to be so."
"That depends, Richard, on how far North you go," Miss Clendenning
answered, spreading her fan as she spoke, looking in between the sticks
as if searching for specimens. "In Philadelphia I find some very
delightful houses, quite like our own. In New York--well, I rarely go
to New York. The journey is a tiresome one and the hotels abominable.
They are too busy there to be comfortable, and I do not like noisy,
restless people. They give me a headache."
"Oliver has met some charming people, he tells me," said Richard. "Mr.
Slade took him into his own home and treated him quite like a son."
"Of course he did; why not?" Miss Clendenning was erect now, her eyes
snapping with roguish indignation. "Anybody would be glad to take
Oliver into their home, especially when they have two marriageable
daughters. Oliver's bow as he enters a room is a passport to any
society in the world, my dear Richard. My Lord Chesterfield Clayton has
no better manners nor any sweeter smile than our own Lorenzo. Watch
Oliver now as he talks to those girls."
Richard had been watching him; he had hardly taken his eyes from him.
Every time he looked at him his heart swelled the more with pride.
"And you think, Lavinia, Mr. Slade invited him because of his manners?"
He was sure of it. He only wanted her to confirm it.
"Of course. What else?" and she cut her eye at him knowingly. "How many
of the other clerks did he invite? Not one. I wanted to find out and I
made Ollie write me. They are queer people, these Northerners. They
affect to despise good blood and good breeding and good manners. That's
all fol-de-rol--they love it. They are eternally talking of
equality--equality; one man as GOOD as another. When they say that one
man is as GOOD as another, Richard, they mean that THEY are as good,
never the other poor fellow."
"Now, my dear Lavinia, stop a moment," laughed the inventor in protest.
"You do not mean to say there are really no gentlemen north of us?"
"Plenty of gentlemen, Richard, but few thoroughbreds. There is a
distinction, you know."
"Which do you value most?"
"Oh, the thoroughbred. A gentleman might some time offend you by
telling you the truth about yourself or your friends. The thoroughbred,
never," and she lifted her hands in mock horror.
"And he could be a rogue and yet his manners would save him?"
"Quite true, dear Richard, quite true. The most charming man I ever met
except your dear self"--and she smiled graciously and lowered her voice
as if what she was about to tell was in the strictest confidence--"was
a shrivelled-up old prince who once called on my father and myself in
Vienna. He was as ugly as a crab, and walked with a limp. There had
been some words over a card-table, he told me, and the other man fired
first. I was a young girl then, but I have never forgotten him to this
day. Indeed, my dear Nathan," and she turned to the old musician and
laid her wee hand confidingly on his knee, "but for the fact that the
princess was a most estimable woman and still alive, I might have
been--well, I really forget what I might have been, for I do not
remember his name, but it was something most fascinating in five or six
syllables. Now all that man ever did to make that unaccountable
impression upon me was just to pick up my handkerchief. Oh, Nathan, it
really gives me a little quiver to this day! I never watch Oliver bow
but I think of my prince. Now I have never found that kind of quality,
grace, bearing, presence--whatever you may choose to call it--in the
Puritan. He has not time to learn it. He despises such subtle
courtesies. They smack of the cavalier and the court to him. He is
content with a nod of the head and a hurried handshake. So are his
neighbors. They would grow suspicious of each other's honesty if they
did more. Tut, tut, my dear Richard! My prince's grooms greeted each
other in that way."
Richard and Nathan laughed heartily. "And you only find the manners of
the ante-chamber and the throne-room South?" asked the inventor.
"Um--not always. It used to be so in my day and yours, but we are
retrograding. It is unpardonable in our case because we have known
better. But up there" (and she pointed in the direction of the North
Star) "they never did know better; that's some excuse for them."
"Ah, you incorrigible woman, you must not talk so. You have not seen
them all. Many of the men who do me the honor to come to my workroom
are most delightful persons. Only last week there came one of the most
interesting scientists that I have met for--"
"Of course, of course, I have not a doubt of it, my dear Richard, but I
am talking of men, my friend, not dried mummies."
Again Richard laughed. One of his greatest pleasures was to draw Miss
Clendenning out on topics of this class. He knew she did not believe
one-half that she said. It was the way she parried his thrusts that
delighted him.
"Well, then, take Mr. Winthrop Pierce Lawrence. No more charming
gentleman ever entered my house. You were in London at the time or you
would certainly have dined with him here. Mr. Lawrence is not only
distinguished as a statesman and a brilliant scholar, but his manners
are perfect."
Miss Clendenning turned her head and looked at Richard under her
eyelashes. "Where did you say he was from?"
"Boston."
"Boston?" A rippling, gurgling laugh floated through the room.
"Yes, Boston. Why do you laugh?"
"Bostonians, my dear Richard, have habits and customs, never manners.
It is impossible that they should. They are seldom underbred, mind you,
they are always overbred, and, strange to say, without the slightest
sense of humor, for they are all brought up on serious isms and solemn
fads. The excitement we have gone through over this outrageous book of
this Mrs. Stowe's and all this woman movement is but a part of their
training. How is it possible for people who believe in such dreadful
persons as this Miss Susan Anthony and that Miss--something-or-other--I
forget her name--to know what the word 'home' really means and what
graces should adorn it? They could never understand my ugly prince, and
he?--well, he would be too polite to tell them what he thought of them.
No, my dear Richard, they don't know; they never will know, and they
never will be any better."
Oliver had crossed the room and had reached her chair.
"Who will never be any better, you dear Midget?" he cried.
"You, you dear boy, because you could not. Come and sit by me where I
can get my hand on you. If I had my way you would never be out of reach
of my five fingers."
Oliver brought up a stool and sat at her feet.
"Your Aunt Lavinia, Ollie," said Richard, rising to his feet (this
relationship was of the same character as that of Uncle Nathan Gill),
"seems to think our manners are retrograding."
"Not yours?" protested Oliver, with a laugh, as he turned quickly
toward Miss Clendenning.
"No, you sweetheart, nor yours," answered Miss Clendenning, with a
sudden burst of affection. "Come, now, you have lived nearly two years
among these dreadful Yankees--what do you think of them?"
"What could I think of people who have been so kind to me? Fred Stone
has been like a brother, and so has everybody else."
Mrs. Horn had joined the group and sat listening.
"But their manners, my son," she asked. "Do you see no difference
between them and--and--and your father's, for instance?" and she
motioned toward Richard who was now moving across the room to speak to
other guests.
"Dad is himself and you are yourself and I am myself," replied Oliver
with some positiveness. "When people are kind I never stop to think how
they do it."
"Lovely," Miss Clendenning whispered to Nathan. "Spoken like a
thoroughbred. Yes, he is BETTER than my ugly prince. He would always
have remembered how they did it."
"And you see no difference either in the ladies?" continued Mrs. Horn,
with increasing interest in her tones. "Are the young girls as sweet
and engaging?" She had seen Margaret's name rather often in his letters
and wondered what impression she had made upon him. Oliver's eyes
flashed and the color mounted to his cheeks. Miss Clendenning saw it
and bent forward a little closer to get his answer.
"Well, you see, mother, I do not know a great many, I am so shut up.
Miss Grant, whom I wrote you about, is--well, you must see her. She is
not the kind of girl that you can describe very well--she really is not
the kind of girl that you can describe at all. We have been together
all summer, and I stopped at her father's house for a few days when I
came down from the mountains. They live in the most beautiful valley
you ever saw."
Miss Clendenning was watching him closely. She caught a look that his
mother had missed.
"Is she pretty, Ollie?" asked Miss Lavinia.
"She is better than pretty. You would not say the Milo was pretty,
would you? There is too much in her for prettiness."
"And are the others like her?" The little lady was only feeling about,
trying to put her finger on the pulse of his heart.
"No; there is nobody like her. Nobody I have ever met."
Miss Clendenning was sure now.
Malachi's second entrance--this time with the great china bowl held
above his head--again interrupted the general talk.
Since the memory of man no such apple-toddy had ever been brewed!
Even Colonel Clayton, when he tasted it, looked over his glass and
nodded approvingly at its creator--a recognition of genius which that
happy darky acknowledged by a slight bend of his back, anything else
being out of the question by reason of the size of the bowl he was
carrying and the presence of his master and of his master's guests.
This deposited on a side table, another bowl filled with Olio--a most
surprising and never-to-be-forgotten salad of chicken and celery and
any number of other toothsome things--was placed beside it, together
with a plate of moonshines and one of Maryland biscuits.
Then came some music, in which Oliver sang and Miss Clendenning played
his accompaniments--the old plantation melodies, not the new songs--and
next the "wrappings up" in the hall, the host and hostess and the whole
party moving out of the drawing-room in a body. Here Nathan, with great
gallantry, insisted on getting down on his stiff marrow-bones to put on
Miss Clendenning's boots, while the young men and Oliver tied on the
girls' hoods, amid "good-byes" and "so glads" that he could come home
if only for a day, and that he had not forgotten them, Oliver's last
words being whispered in Miss Clendenning's ear informing her that he
would come over in the morning and see her about a matter of the
greatest importance. And so the door was shut on the last guest.
When the hall was empty Oliver kissed his father good-night, and,
slipping his arm around his mother's waist, as he had always done when
a boy, the two went slowly upstairs to his little room. He could not
wait a minute longer. He must unburden his heart about Margaret. This
was what he had come for. If his mother had only seen her it would be
so much easier, he said to himself as he pushed open his bedroom door.
"You are greatly improved, my son," she said, with a tone of pride in
her voice. "I see the change already." She had lighted the candle and
the two were seated on the bed, his arm still around her.
"How, mother?"
"Oh, in everything. The boy is gone out of you. You are more reposeful;
more self-reliant. I like your modesty too." She could tell him of his
faults, she could also tell him of his virtues.
"And the summer has done you good," she continued. "I felt sure it
would. Mr. Slade has been a steadfast friend of yours from the
beginning. Tell me now about your new friends. This Miss Grant--is she
not the same girl you wrote me about, some mouths ago--the one who drew
with you at the art school? Do you like her people?" This thought was
uppermost in her mind--had been in fact ever since she first saw
Margaret's name in his letters.
"Her mother is lovely and she has got a brother--a Dartmouth man--who
is a fine fellow. I liked him from the first moment I saw him;" Oliver
answered simply, wondering how he would begin.
"Is her father living?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a man is he?"
"Well--of course, he is not like our people. He is a--well--he always
says just what he thinks, you know. But he is a man of character and
position." He was speaking for Margaret now. "They have more family
portraits than we have." This was said in a tone that was meant to
carry weight.
"And people of education?"
"Oh, I should certainly say so. It is nothing but books all over the
house. Really, he has more books than Dad." This statement was to
strengthen the one regarding the family ancestors--both telling
arguments about Kennedy Square.
"And this girl--is she a lady?"
The question somehow put to flight all his mental manoeuvres. "She is
more than a lady, mother. She is the dearest--" He stopped, hesitated
for an instant, and slipping his arm around his mother's neck drew her
close to him. Then, in a torrent of words--his cheeks against hers--the
whole story came out. He was a boy again now; that quality in him that
would last all his life. She listened with her eyes on the floor, her
heart torn with varying emotions. She was disturbed, but not alarmed.
One phase of the situation stood out clearly in her practical mind--his
poverty and the impossibility of any immediate marriage. Before that
obstacle could be removed she felt sure his natural vacillation
regarding women would save him. He would forget her as he had Sue.
"And you say her brother works in the fields and that her father and
mother permitted this girl to leave home and sit night after night with
you young men with no other protection than that of a common
Irishwoman?" There was a tone of censure now in her voice that roused a
slight antagonism in Oliver.
"Why not? What could harm her? There was no other place for her to go
where she could learn anything."
Mrs. Horn kept still for a moment, looking on the floor. Oliver sat
watching her face.
"And your family, my son," she protested with a certain patient
disapproval in her tones. "Do they count for nothing? I, of course,
would love anybody you would make your wife, but you have others about
you. No man has a right to marry beneath him. Do not be in a hurry over
this matter. Come home for your wife when you are ready to marry. Give
yourself time to compare this girl, who seems to have fascinated you,
with--Sue, for instance, or any of the others you have been brought up
with."
Oliver shrugged his shoulders at the mention of Sue's name. He had
compared her.
"You would not talk this way, dearie; if you could see her," he replied
in a hopeless way as if the futility of making his mother understand
was now becoming apparent to him. "She is different from anyone you
ever met--she is so strong, so fine--such a woman in all that the word
means. Not something you fondle and make love to, remember, but a woman
more like a Madonna that you worship, or a Greek goddess that you might
fear. As to the family part of it, I am getting tired of it all,
mother. What good is Grandfather Horn or anybody else to me? I have got
to dig my way out just as they did. Just as dear old Dad is doing. If
he succeeds in his work who will help him but himself? There have been
times when I used to love to remember him sitting by his reading-lamp
or with his violin tucked under his chin, and I was proud to think he
was my father. Do you know what sets my blood on fire now? It is when I
think of him standing over his forge and blowing his bellows, his hands
black with coal. I understand many things, dearie, that I knew nothing
about when I left home. You used to tell me yourself that everybody had
to work, and you sent me away to do it. I looked upon it then as a
degradation. I see it differently now. I have worked with all my might
all summer, and I have brought back a whole lot of sketches that the
boys like. Now I am going to work again with Mr. Slade. I do not like
his work, and I do love mine, but I am going to stick to his all the
same. I have got something to work for now," and his face brightened.
"I am going to win!"
She did not interrupt him. It was better he should unburden his heart.
She was satisfied with his record; if he went wrong she only was to
blame. But he was not going wrong; nor was there anything to worry
about--not even his art--not so long as he kept his place with Mr.
Slade and only took it up as a relaxation from more weighty cares. It
was only the girl that caused her a moment's thought.
She saw too, through all his outburst, a certain independence and a
fearlessness and a certain fixedness of purpose that sent an exultant
thrill through her even when her heart was burdened with the thought of
this new danger that threatened him. She had sent him away for the
fault of instability, and he had overcome it. Should she not now hold
fast, as she had before, and save him the second time from this girl
who was beneath him in station and who would drag him down to her
level, and so perhaps ruin him?
"We will not talk any more about it to-night, my son," she said, in
tender tones, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek--it was
through his affections that she controlled him. "You should be tired
out with your day's journey and ought to rest. Take my advice--do not
ask her to be your wife yet. Think about it a little and see some other
women before you make up your mind."
A delicious tremor passed through Oliver. He HAD asked her, and she HAD
promised! He remembered just the very day, the hour, the minute. That
was the bliss of it all! But this he did not tell his mother. He would
not hurt her any further now. Some other day he would tell her; when
she could see Madge and judge for herself. No, not to-night, and so
with the secret untold he kissed her and led her to her room.
And yet strange to say it was the one only thing in all his life that
he had kept from her.
Ah! these mothers! who make lovers of their only sons, dominating their
lives! How bitter must be the hours when they realize that another's
arms are opening for them!
And these boys--what misgivings come; what doubts. How the old walls,
impregnable from childhood, begin to crumble! How little now the dear
mother knows--she so wise but a few moons since. How this new love
steps in front of the old love and claims every part of the boy as its
very own.
Faithful to her promise, Miss Clendenning waited the next morning for
Oliver in her little boudoir that opened out of the library. A bright
fire blazed and crackled, sending its beams dancing over the room and
lighting up the red curtains that hung behind her writing-desk, its top
covered with opened letters--her morning's mail: many bore foreign
postmarks, and not a few were emblazoned with rampant crests sunk in
little dabs of colored wax. She wore a morning gown of soft white
flannel belted in at the waist. Covering her head and wound loosely
about her throat was a fluff of transparent silk, half-concealing the
two nests of little gray and brown knots impaled on hair-pins. These
were the chrysalides of those gay butterfly side-curls which framed her
sweet face at night and to which she never gave wing until after
luncheon, no matter who called. The silk scarf that covered them this
morning was in recognition of Oliver's sex.
She had finished her breakfast and was leaning forward in her
rocking-chair, her elbows on her knees, her tiny feet resting on the
fender. She was watching the fire-fairies at work building up their
wonderful palaces of molten gold studded with opals and rubies. The
little lady must have been in deep thought, for she did not know Oliver
had entered until she felt his arm on her shoulder.
"Ah, you dear fellow. No, not there; sit right here on this cricket by
my side. Stop, do not say a word. I have been studying it all out in
these coals. I know all about it--it is about the mountain girl,
this--what do you call her?"
"Miss Grant."
"Nonsense! What do YOU call her?"
"Madge."
"Ah, that's something like it. And you love her?"
"Yes." (Pianissimo.)
"And she loves you?"
"YES." (Forte.)
"And you have told her so?"
"YES!" (Fortissimo.)
"Whew!" Miss Clendenning caught her breath and gave a little gasp.
"Well, upon my word! You don't seem to have lost any time, my young
Romeo. What does her father say?"
"He doesn't know anything about it."
"Does anybody except you two babes in the wood?"
"Yes, her mother."
"And yours? You told her last night. I knew you would."
"Not everything; but she is all upset."
"Of course she is. So am I. Now tell me--is she a LADY?"
"She is the dearest, sweetest girl you--"
"Come now, come now, answer me. They are all the dearest and sweetest
things in the world. What I want to know is, is she a lady?"
"Yes."
"True now, Ollie--honest?"
"Yes, in every sense of the word. A woman you would love and be proud
of the moment you saw her."
Miss Clendenning took his face in her hands and looked down into his
eyes. "I believe you. Now what do you want me to do?"
"I want her to come down here so everybody can see her. If I had a
sister she could invite her, and it would be all right, and maybe then
her mother would let her come."
"And you want me to play the sister and have her come here?"
Oliver's fingers closed tight over Miss Clendenning's hand. "Oh,
Midget, if you only would, that would fix everything. Mother would
understand then why I love her, and Madge could go back and tell her
people about us. Her father is very bitter against everybody at the
South. They would feel differently if Madge could stay a week with us."
"Why won't her father bring her?"
"He never leaves home. He would not even take her to the mountains,
fifteen miles away. She could never paint as she does if she had relied
upon him. Mother and Mr. Grant are both alike in their hatred of art as
a fitting profession for anybody, and I tell you that they are both
wrong."
Miss Clendenning looked up in surprise. She had never seen the boy take
a stand of this kind against one of his mother's opinions. Oliver saw
the expression on the little lady's face and kept on, his cheeks
flushed and a set look about his eyes.
"Yes, wrong. I have never believed mother could be wrong in anything
before, and when she wanted me to give up painting I did so because I
thought she knew best. But I know she's not right about Madge, and if
she is wrong about her, how do I know she was not wrong about my
working with Mr. Crocker?"
Margaret's words that day in the bark slant were now ringing in his
ears. He had never forgotten them--"Your mother cannot coddle you up
forever."
Miss Clendenning held her peace. She was not astonished at the revolt
in the boy's mind. She had seen for months past in his letters that
Oliver's individuality was asserting itself. It was the new girl whom
he was defending--the woman he loved. This had given him strength. She
knew something of what he felt, and she knew what blind obedience had
done for her. With a half-smothered sigh, she reached over Oliver's
head, dipped a quill pen in her inkstand, and at Oliver's dictation,
wrote Margaret's address.
"I will invite her at once," she said.
Long after Oliver had gone Miss Clendenning sat looking into the fire.
The palaces of rose and amber that the busy fingers of the fire fairies
had built up in the white heat of their enthusiasm were in ruins. The
light had gone out. Only gray ashes remained, with here and there a
dead cinder.
Miss Clendenning rose from her chair, stood a moment in deep thought,
and said, aloud:
"If she loves him, she shall have him. There shall be no more desolate
firesides if I can help it."
Early the next morning, she mailed by the first post a letter so dainty
in form and so delicate in color that only a turtle-dove should have
carried it to Brookfleld Farm, and have dropped it into Margaret's
hand. This billet-doux began by inviting Miss Margaret Grant of
Brookfield Farm to pass a week with Miss Lavinia Clendenning, of
Kennedy Square, she, Miss Lavinia, desiring to know the better one who
had so charmed and delighted "our dear Oliver," and ended with "Please
say to your good mother, that I am twice your age, and will take as
much care of you as if you were my own daughter. I feel assured she
will waive all ceremony when she thinks of how warm a greeting awaits
you."
Margaret looked at the post-mark, and then at the little oval of violet
wax bearing the crest of the Clendennings--granted in the time of Queen
Elizabeth for distinguished services to the Throne--and after she had
read it to her mother, and had shown the seal to her father, who had
put on his glasses, scanned it closely, and tossed it back to her with
a dry laugh, and after she had talked it all over with John, who said
it was certainly very kind of the woman, and that Oliver's people were
evidently "nobs," but, of course, Madge couldn't go, not knowing any of
them, Margaret took a sheet of plain white paper from her desk, thanked
Miss Clendenning for her kind thought of her, and declined the honor in
a firm, round hand. This she closed with a red wafer, and then, with a
little bridling of her head and a determined look in her face, she laid
the letter on the gate-post, ready for the early stage in the morning.
This missive was duly received by Miss Clendenning, and read at once to
Mrs. Horn, who raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips in deep thought.
After some moments she looked over her glasses at Miss Lavinia and said:
"I must say, Lavinia, I am very greatly astonished. Won't come? She has
done perfectly right. I think all the better of her for it. Really,
there may be something in the girl after all. Let me look at her
handwriting again--writes like a woman of some force. Won't come? What
do you think, Lavinia?"
"Merely a question of grandmothers, my dear; she seems to have had one,
too," answered the little old maid, with a quizzical smile in her eye,
as she folded the letter and slipped it in her pocket.