RITA ANDERSON
The belief of children that babies are brought from heaven seems often
verified by the experiences that follow their advent. And truly the
baby at the St. John cottage was a heavenly gift, even to the crotchety
old major, whom it kept awake at night by its unseasonable complaints
of the evils which it encountered in spite of Grandma Mayburn, faithful
old Aunt Sheba, who pleaded to be its nurse, and the gentle mother, who
bent over it with a tenderness new and strange even to her heart.
She could laugh now, and laugh she would, when Graham, with a
trepidation never felt in battle, took the tiny morsel of humanity, and
paraded up and down the library. Lying back on the sofa in one of her
dainty wrappers, she would cry, "Look at him, papa; look at that grim
cavalryman, and think of his leading a charge!"
"Well, Gracie, dear," the old major would reply, chuckling at his
well-worn joke, "the colonel was _only_ a cavalryman, you know. He's
not up in infantry tactics."
One morning Grandma Mayburn opened a high conclave in regard to the
baby's name, and sought to settle the question in advance by saying,
"Of course it should be Grace."
"Indeed, madam," differed the major, gallantly, "I think it should be
named after its grandmother."
Grace lifted her eyes inquiringly to her husband, who stood regarding
what to him was the Madonna and child.
"I have already named her," he said, quietly.
"You, you!" cried his aunt, brusquely. "I'd have you know that this is
an affair for grave and general deliberation."
"Alford shall have his way," said the mother, with quiet emphasis,
looking down at the child, while pride and tenderness blended sweetly
in her face.
"Her name is Hilda, in memory of the noblest man and dearest friend I
have ever known."
Instantly she raised her eyes, brimming with tears, to his, and
faltered, "Thank you, Alford"; and she clasped the child almost
convulsively to her breast, proving that there was one love which no
other could obliterate.
"That's right, dear Grace. Link her name with the memory of Warren. She
will thus make you happier, and it's my wish."
The conclave ended at once. The old major took off his spectacles to
wipe his eyes, and Mrs. Mayburn stole away.
From that hour little Hilda pushed sorrow from Grace's heart with her
baby hands, as nothing had ever done before, and the memory of the lost
husband ceased to be a shadow in the background. The innocent young
life was associated with his, and loved the more intensely.
Graham had spoken from the impulse of a generous nature, too large to
feel the miserable jealousies that infest some minds; but he had spoken
more wisely than he knew. Thereafter there was a tenderness in Grace's
manner toward him which he had never recognized before. He tasted a
happiness of which he had never dreamed, alloyed only by the thought
that his treasures were mortal and frail. But as the little one
thrived, and his wife bloomed into the most exquisite beauty seen in
this world, that of young and happy motherhood, he gave himself up to
his deep content, believing that fate at last was appeased. The major
grew even hilarious, and had his morning and evening parades, as he
called them, when the baby, in its laces and soft draperies, was
brought for his inspection. Mrs. Mayburn, with all the accumulated
maternal yearnings of her heart satisfied, would preside at the
ceremony. Grace, happy and proud, would nod and smile over her shoulder
at her husband, who made a poor pretence of reading his paper, while
the old veteran deliberately adjusted his spectacles and made comments
that in their solemn drollery and military jargon were irresistible to
the household that could now laugh so easily. The young life that had
come had brought a new life to them all, and the dark shadows of the
past shrank further and further into the background.
But they were there--all the sad mysteries of evil that had crushed the
mother's heart. Once they seemed to rush forward and close around her.
Little Hilda was ill and Grace in terror. But Dr. Markham speedily
satisfied her that it was a trivial matter, and proved it to be so by
his remedies. The impression of danger remained, however, and she clung
to her little idol more closely than ever; and this was true of all.
Time sped tranquilly on. Hilda grew in endearing ways, and began to
have knowing looks and smiles for each. Her preference for her
grandfather with his great frosty eyebrows pleased the old gentleman
immensely. It was both droll and touching to observe how one often so
irascible would patiently let her take off his spectacles, toy with and
often pull his gray locks, and rumple his old-fashioned ruffles, which
he persisted in wearing on state occasions. It was also silently noted
that the veteran never even verged toward profanity in the presence of
the child.
Each new token of intelligence was hailed with a delight of which
natures coarse or blunted never know. The Wise Men of old worshipped
the Babe in the manger, and sadly defective or perverted in their
organizations are those who do not see something divine in a little
innocent child.
Henry and Rita Anderson, at the urgent solicitation of Graham and his
wife, came on in the autumn to make a visit, and, by a very strange
coincidence, Graham's favorite captain, a manly, prosperous fellow,
happened to be visiting him at the time. By a still more remarkable
conjunction of events, he at once shared in his former colonel's
admiration of the dark-eyed Southern girl. She was very shy, distant,
and observant at first, for this fortuitous captain was a Northerner.
But the atmosphere of the two cottages was not in the least conducive
to coolness and reserve. The wood fires that crackled on the hearth, or
something else, thawed perceptibly the spirited girl. Moreover, there
were walks, drives, horseback excursions, daily; and Iss shone forth in
a glory of which he had never dreamed as a plantation hand. There were
light steps passing to and fro, light laughter, cheery, hearty
voices--in which the baby's crowing and cooing were heard as a low,
sweet chord--music and whist to the major's infinite consent. The
shadows shrank further into the background than ever before. No one
thought of or heeded them now; but they were there, cowering and
waiting.
Only Aunt Sheba was ill at ease. Crooning her quaint lullabies to the
baby, she would often lift her eyes to heaven and sigh, "De good Lord
hab marcy on dem! Dey's all a drinkin' at de little shaller pools dat
may dry up any minit. It's all ob de earth; it's all ob tings, nothin'
but tings which de eyes can see and de han's can touch. De good Lord
lift dar eyes from de earth widout takin' dat mos' dear!"
But no one thought of old Aunt Sheba except as a faithful creature born
to serve them in her humble way.
The Northern captain soon proved that he had not a little Southern dash
and ardor, and he had already discovered that his accidental visit to
Graham was quite providential, as he had been taught to regard events
that promised favorably. He very significantly asked Colonel Anderson
to take a gallop with him one morning, but they had not galloped far
before he halted and plumply asked the brother's permission, as the
present representative of her father, to pay his addresses to Rita. Now
Captain Windom had made a good impression on the colonel, which Graham,
in a very casual way, had been at pains to strengthen; and he came back
radiant over one point gained. But he was more afraid of that little
Virginian girl than he had ever been of all her Southern compatriots.
He felt that he must forego his cavalry tactics and open a regular
siege; but she, with one flash of her mirthful eyes, saw through it
all, laughed over it with Grace, whom from worshipping as a saint she
now loved as a sister. Amid the pauses in their mutual worship of the
baby, they talked the captain over in a way that would have made his
ears tingle could he have heard them; but Grace, underneath all her
good-natured criticism, seconded her husband's efforts with a mature
woman's tact. Rita should be made happy in spite of all her little
perversities and Southern prejudices, and yet the hands that guided and
helped her should not be seen.
The captain soon abandoned his siege tactics, in which he was ill at
ease, and resumed his old habit of impetuous advances in which Graham
had trained him. Time was growing short. His visit and hers would soon
be over. He became so downright and desperately in earnest that the
little girl began to be frightened. It was no laughing matter now, and
Grace looked grave over the affair. Then Rita began to be very sorry
for him, and at last, through Graham's unwonted awkwardness and
inattention to his guests, the captain and Rita were permitted to take
a different road from the others on an equestrian party. When they
appeared the captain looked as if he were returning from a successful
charge, and Rita was as shy and blushing as one of the wild roses of
her native hills. She fled to Grace's room, as if it were the only
refuge left in the world, and her first breathless words were: "I
haven't promised anything--that is, nothing definite. I said he might
come and see me in Virginia and talk to papa about it, and I'd think it
over, and--and--Well, he was so impetuous and earnest! Good heavens! I
thought the Northern people were cold, but that captain fairly took
away my breath. You never heard a man talk so."
Grace had put down the baby, and now stood with her arm around her
friend, smiling the sweetest encouragement.
"I'll explain it all to you, Miss Rita," began Graham's deep voice, as
he advanced from a recess.
"Oh, the powers! are you here?" and she started back and looked at him
with dismay.
"Yes," said he, "and I merely wished to explain that my friend Windom
was in the cavalry, and from much fighting with your brave, impetuous
hard-riders we gradually fell into their habits."
"I half believe that you are laughing at me--that you are in league
with him, and have been all along."
"Yes, Rita, noble little woman, truest friend at the time of my bitter
need, I am in league with any man worthy of you--that is, as far as a
man can be who seeks to make you happy;" and he took her hand and held
it warmly.
"Here come my silly tears again," and she dashed them to right and
left. Then, looking up at him shyly, she faltered, "I must admit that
I'm a little bit happy."
"I vowed you should be, all through that dark ride on which you led me
away from cruel enemies; and every flower you have placed on the grave
of that noble man that Grace and I both loved has added strength to my
vow."
"Oh, Rita, Rita, darling!" cried Grace, clasping her in close embrace;
"do you think we ever forget it?"
"Can you think, Rita, that in memory of that never-to-be-forgotten day
I would give Captain Windom the opportunities he has enjoyed if I did
not think he would make you happy? One cannot live and fight side by
side with a man for years and not know his mettle. He was lion-like in
battle, but he will ever be gentleness itself toward you. Best of all,
he will appreciate you, and I should feel like choking any fellow who
didn't."
"But indeed, indeed, I haven't promised anything; I only said--"
"No matter what you said, my dear, so long as the captain knows. We are
well assured that your every word and thought and act were true and
maidenly. Let Windom visit you and become acquainted with your father.
The more you all see of him the more you will respect him."
"You are wonderfully reassuring," said the young girl, "and I learned
to trust you long ago. Indeed, after your course toward Henry, I
believe I'd marry any one you told me to. But to tell the truth, I have
felt, for the last few hours, as if caught up by a whirlwind and landed
I don't know where. No one ever need talk to me any more about
cold-blooded Northerners. Well, I must land at the dinner-table before
long, and so must go and dress. It's proper to eat under the
circumstances, isn't it?"
"I expect to," said Graham, laughing, "and I'm more in love than you
are."
"Little wonder!" with a glance of ardent admiration toward Grace, and
she whisked out. In a moment she returned and said, "Now, Colonel, I
must be honest, especially as I think of your vow in the dark woods. I
am very, _very_ happy;" and then in a meteoric brilliancy of smiles,
tears, and excitement, she vanished.
On the day following Captain Windom marched triumphantly away, and his
absence proved to Rita that the question was settled, no matter what
she had said when having little breath left to say anything.
She and her brother followed speedily, and Graham accompanied them, to
superintend in person the setting up of a beautiful marble column which
he and Grace had designed for Hilland's grave.
It was a time of sad, yet chastened, memories to both. In their
consciousness Hilland had ceased to exist. He was but a memory,
cherished indeed with an indescribable honor and love--still only a
memory. There was an immense difference, however, in the thoughts of
each as they reverted to his distant grave. Graham felt that he had
there _closed_ a chapter of his life--a chapter that he would ever
recall with the deep melancholy that often broods in the hearts of the
happiest of men whose natures are large enough to be truly impressed by
life's vicissitudes. Grace knew that her girlhood, her former self, was
buried in that grave, and with her early lover had vanished forever.
Graham had, in a sense, raised her from the dead. His boundless love
and self-sacrifice, his indomitable will, had created for her new life,
different from the old, yet full of tranquil joys, new hopes and
interests. He had not rent the new from the old, but had bridged with
generous acts the existing chasm. He was doing all within his power,
not jealously to withdraw her thoughts from that terrible past, but to
veil its more cruel and repulsive features with flowers, laurel
wreaths, and sculptured marble; and in her heart, which had been dead,
but into which his love had breathed a new life, she daily blessed him
with a deeper affection.
He soon returned to her from Virginia, and by his vivid descriptions
made real to her the scenes he had visited. He told her how Rita and
her brother had changed the plot in which slept the National and the
Confederate officer into a little garden of blossoming greenery; how he
had arranged with Colonel Anderson to place a fitting monument over the
young Confederate officer, whose friends had been impoverished by the
war; and he kissed away the tears, no longer bitter and despairing,
evoked by the memories his words recalled. Then, in lighter vein, he
described the sudden advent of the impetuous captain; the consternation
of the little housekeeper, who was not expecting him so soon; her
efforts to improvise a feast for the man who would blissfully swallow
half-baked "pones" if served by her; her shy presentation of her lover
to the venerable clergyman, which he and Henry had witnessed on the
veranda through the half-closed blinds, and the fond old man's immense
surprise that his little Rita should have a lover at all.
"My dear sir," he said, "this is all very premature. You must wait for
the child to grow up before imbuing her mind with thoughts beyond her
years."
"'My dear Dr. Anderson,' had pleaded the adroit Windom, 'I will wait
indefinitely, and submit to any conditions that you and Miss Rita
impose. If already she has impressed me so deeply, time can only
increase my respect, admiration, and affection, if that were possible.
Before making a single effort to win your daughter's regard, I asked
permission of her brother, since you were so far away. I have not
sought to bind her, but have only revealed the deep feeling which she
has inspired, and I now come to ask your sanction also to my addresses.'
"'Your conduct,' replied the old gentleman, unbending urbanely toward
the young man, 'is both honorable and considerate. Of course you know
that my child's happiness is my chief solicitude. If, after several
years, when Rita's mind has grown more mature, her judgment confirms--'
"Here Rita made a little _moue_ which only her red lips could form, and
Henry and I took refuge in a silent and precipitate retreat, lest our
irreverent mirth should offend the blind old father, to whom Rita is
his little Rita still. You know well how many years, months rather,
Windom will wait.
"Well, I left the little girl happier than the day was long, for I
believe her eyes sparkle all through the night under their long lashes.
As for Windom, he is in the seventh heaven. 'My latest campaign in
Virginia,' he whispered to me as I was about to ride away; 'good
prospects of the best capture yet won from the Confederacy.'"
And so he made the place familiar to her, with its high lights and deep
shadows, and its characters real, even down to old Jehu and his son
Huey.