THE DE VINES.
On a little headland at the southern end of Pamlico Sound where it
narrows in to the waters of Core Sound, a small dwelling-house, half hut
and half cottage, looked forth over the liquid expanses with an air of
long habitude and battered self-reliance. It had but two meagre windows,
and its chimney was short and black, suggesting an old tobacco-pipe; but
the little house leaned comfortably against the low sandy ridge at its
back, and did not seem to mind any of the imperfections in its own
facial aspect. Along the ridge live oaks and red cedars flourished
gracefully, and the ancient structure was closely enfolded at either
side by thickets of that kind of holly known in the region as _yaupon_,
the polished leaves and warm red berries of which glistened cheerily in
the sunlight. Indeed, the whole place, dilapidated though it was, had
the reassuring appearance of a home; and when from its narrow doorway a
beautiful young woman stepped forth into the breezy afternoon, nothing
more was needed to complete the effect.
If it was a home before, it now looked the ideal of a home.
The young woman turned to the holly bushes at the left and began
clipping from them some of their lighter branches, which she let fall
into a large basket, held gracefully against her hip with one rounded
arm, while the other plied the shears. She was tall, but not fair. No
daughter of the gods, but firmly and robustly human; yet, at the same
time, there was in her humanity something noble and inspiriting. Am I
not going too fast? Why talk in this way about a young girl in a calico
gown, cutting holly-sprigs beside a tumble-down old cabin on the Nawth
Ca'liny shore? No, she was not fair as to complexion; her skin was
richly browned by out-door life, though a clear rose-tint shone faintly
through the brown. She was beautiful, nevertheless; and yet--and yet
what was it? It seemed as if that outer hue could never under any
circumstances wear off. But a mere glance at her features would convince
any one that she was not of octoroon or metif parentage. Only it was as
if the sun, watching over her loveliness from birth, and searching into
the depths of her nature, had warmed her blood until it had darkened a
little and her pulses had spread a shadow in their flowing.
Suddenly she desisted from her work and, bending her head forward, gazed
off across the light green waves that stretched for miles between her
and the low-lying strip of sand that barred out the sea. Had she heard a
distant hail from the boat that was scudding fast toward the headland?
At any rate, there was the burly little craft, careening to the lively
breeze amid a shower of spray, with a recklessness characteristic of the
young helmsman, whom the girl's bright eyes would have recognized even
farther away. And now, as the craft abruptly veered to windward, to
approach the landing, her master's careless handling received a
startling illustration, for she almost broached to; the sails were laid
aback, and for an instant the boat threatened to capsize.
There was one passenger, an old woman, who sat near the helmsman; and at
this juncture she snatched from her lips a short clay pipe, emitting a
shrill cry of fright, together with an alarmed whiff of smoke--as if she
herself had unexpectedly exploded.
"Lord save our souls, Dennis! What be you thinkin' on?"
"All right, auntie!" cried the young man, heartily. "The critter'll
come straight in half a turn." And, exerting all his force, he caused
the dug-out to round into her course again, with the breeze on her
quarter. Two or three minutes later she touched the shore.
The young woman, having thrown down her basket, stood ready to greet the
new-comers.
"Well, Deely dear!"
"Why, Aunty Losh, it don't seem possible that it's you come back again.
And so you're really here."
"Yes; a'most really--though, as you see just now, I come nearer
drowndin' in front o' my own door, Deely."
Dennis submitted his stout frame to a convulsive laugh, which for an
instant gave him some resemblance to a dog shaking himself on emerging
from the water, "Drownded in half a fathom," he exclaimed, hilariously.
"I'll be dog-goned if that ain't the cutest, aunty! Why, I'm almost
sorry we didn't overset the old boat, to show you. It would have livened
you up fit to kill."
"Dennis!" exclaimed Deely, her eyes flashing indignantly, "you ought to
be ashamed."
"Oh, never mind the boy," Aunty Losh soothingly interposed. "It's his
natur' to be wild, ye know. He ain't never happy unless he's in some
dare-devil scrape. But where's Sylvester?"
Deely, with eyes cast down, appeared needlessly embarrassed. "He went up
to Beaufort to market," she explained.
Something in her tone caused Dennis to glance at her rather fiercely, as
if he were jealous. "Yes, that suits _him_," he muttered, with a trace
of contempt. "Market business is just about what Sylv is good for;
that's what it is."
"It aren't right to speak so of your only brother, Dennis," said Aunty
Losh, mildly.
"Oh, dog gone it!" (Dennis reverted to his favorite expletive.) "What
does it matter whose brother he is? I speak my mind. Deely, don't look
so down on me. What's the trouble?"
"Only you're so rough," said the girl, laying her hand on his arm. "You
know I love you, don't you, Dennie? But it goes against me to hear you
talk so."
He placed his own rough hand on her smooth one and patted it softly for
an instant; then he moved it somewhat brusquely from its resting-place
on his shoulder, and Deely drew away a step or two.
"I _catch_ all the fish," he said, "and Sylv _takes_ 'em for himself."
There seemed to be an undertone of double meaning in his remark. But the
next instant he changed from gloom to sunny cheer. "Come, aunty, you
mustn't stand here on the mud. I reckon you've been away so long you'll
be kind o' glad to see the inside of the old cabin again; hey?"
He was tall and sturdy, this Dennis De Vine; and though he could not
have been described as handsome, his reddish hair and ruddy coloring,
united with the glance of his blue eye and a certain good-humored Irish
daring of expression, made his presence gay and attractive. Aunty Losh
was quick to act on his suggestion, and they all went into the cabin,
which despite its limited frontage spread out sufficiently, within, to
afford rooms for the old woman and her two nephews.
"Now, aunty," said the girl, "the tarrapin is most ready, and I'll brew
you a good cup of yaupon. I was just cutting some to dry when you came."
And thereupon Adela, taking a handful of the seasoned leaves from their
place of storage in a cupboard, swung the kettle from the fire and
proceeded to infuse this local substitute for tea.
"My patience, but it's dear to my buddy and heart," Aunty Losh murmured,
as she sipped from the smoking cup. "An' now tell me what's happened
while I been away."
"Why, Sylv wrote you everything that happened hyar," Adela reminded her,
in some surprise.
"Oh, I know, I know!" was the rejoinder. "But it didn't seem nachul-like
when I had to have folks read it to me. I didn't mo'n half get it in."
"There ain't nothin' very novel," said Dennis, "except old Sukey strayed
off on to the main yistiddy." Sukey was the cow.
"Sho! It'll allays be so, long as I live. Nothin' but stray and find,
stray and find. Ye _mout_ hev dug that ditch across the neck, Dennie,
when ye knowed I wanted it so bad. If you'll do it one o' these
near-comin' days, I'll knit ye a new pair o' socks."
The headland on which Aunty Losh's house had been built was connected
with the main only by a narrow neck, and it was one of the grievances of
her life that her cow and her two or three sheep, when turned loose to
graze, could so easily make their way to the adjoining territory.
"I'm fearsome o' the tides," Dennis explained. "They run so strong that
mebbe they'd cut a wider channel than you want, aunty. But I'll try it;
I'll dig that ditch by-and-by--or arterward."
The talk then turned to other matters, and Miss Jessie Floyd was
mentioned, the daughter of an ex-Confederate colonel who lived a few
miles inland on an "estate" of some dozen acres, magnificently entitled
"Fairleigh Park."
"Miss Jessie's been down hyar two or three times," Adela said, "to buy
bluefish and tarrapin for the manor; and she was very kind to the boys.
Wasn't she, Dennie?"
"That she was. She brought us jelly, one time." Dennis gently smacked
his lips, in a reminiscent way.
"I reckon she hain't brought any money, though," his aunt skeptically
meditated, aloud. "Any company up at the manor?"
"Why, yes," said the girl. "There's a young gen'l'man from the Nawth--a
sort of English chap, I reckon; anyhow, he comes from New York. Mr.
Lance; that's what they call him. I hain't seen him, but Dennis can tell
you."
"Certain shore," said Dennis. "That's his name. He's got idees about
buildin' up. He wants to eddicate folks all round--sort of free snack of
knowledge for everybody."
"I reckon he'll be eddicating Miss Jessie to fall in love with him,"
Adela observed. "That's what."
"Well, I sha'n't find no fault with him if he do," Dennis returned.
"Only he needn't come down hyar away with his idees and all. 'Pears like
him and Sylv 'ud be chancey to take up with one another, though."
"What makes you think that?" Aunty Losh asked, with a trace of
apprehension.
"'Cause Sylv don't think of nothin' now but book-larnin', and he's been
hevin' talks with that ar fellow."
"Sylv'll be goin' off and leavin' us one o' these days," the old woman
mused, as she put a match to the short pipe she had been filling for
herself.
"Oh no, aunty! You ortenter think he'd be so mean!" Deely protested,
with energy.
Dennis turned upon her, angered. "You keep still, d'you har!" he
exclaimed. "What matters if he do go? I reckon I can take car o' you and
aunty, all by myself, when it comes to that."
Deely was evidently impressed by his dictatorial manner, but she assumed
a haughty air. "_I_ reckon it's about time for me to go," she retorted,
"if you can't be more civil. Just when aunty hain't no more'n set her
foot inside o' home, too." And, despite her tone, there was a slight
appearance about the girl's lips and eyelids as if she would like to
cry.
"Oh, well; I didn't mean nothin', you know I didn't," Dennis answered,
becoming penitent. "And when you go," he added, "I'm a-goin' with you as
far as your dad's."
The rising trouble was thus allayed, and all three were soon engaged
again in talking over the news, or the local affairs of the last few
weeks. For Aunty Losh had achieved one of the most remarkable events of
her life, in going to see some of her relatives at Norfolk, Virginia.
She had much to tell about the journey and the ways of the people in
that great city, and dwelt especially upon the hardship she had been
compelled to suffer in drinking "China tea," instead of that far
superior docoction, yaupon. The young people, in their turn, gradually
discovered many little items which they must impart to her.
Aunty Losh, strange as it may seem, was the sole female representative
of a stock which once gave promise of making itself distinguished. Her
lineage was traceable from a certain Major De Vine, a young Irishman
who, stirred by the sympathy that led the natives of two widely separate
but oppressed countries to join the cause of the American colonies, had
enlisted in the cavalry corps raised by Count Pulaski to join the
Continental army, during our Revolution. Pulaski was a Pole, and De Vine
an Irishman, but they had the same inspiration: they fought for freedom
in America with the hope that their own people might also become free.
De Vine performed many a gallant deed, in the course of the war, and
rose to be a major; but the consciousness of his good service was his
only recompense.
At the peace he retired from the struggle poor, and ill fitted to make
his way by other means than the sword. He settled in the South, where
the soil was not favorable for such a man as he. What little property he
possessed was soon lost. Moreover, he and his children having
surrendered to the reigning prejudice against work, there was no way
open to a retrieval of even the meagre comfort they had at first
commanded. The family, failing to make any advantageous alliance by
marriage--which, indeed, would scarcely have been possible in their
circumstances--soon declined into still deeper poverty. The Major died,
followed by all his children excepting one son, who drifted across the
border into North Carolina; and his posterity became a part of that
strange population known as "poor whites."
Listless and inefficient as those people are, germs of energy are known
to have been fostered among them, which have sometimes developed; and
the De Vines always retained enough of their ancestral vigor to
counteract their ancestral pride, as well as their sense of unmerited
misfortune, and to keep them somewhat above the general hopeless
prostration of the class into which they had fallen.
Aunty Losh, widowed by the Rebellion, and left childless, had settled in
the little hut on the headland, with her two nephews, mere boys at the
time, but now grown to efficient manhood. The elder one, Dennis, was
stalwart and courageous, and became a successful fisherman on a small
scale. Sylvester had also assisted in the common support, and together
they had made a little headway. But in Sylvester the ambition for
something higher had awaked: he had not only learned to read, but had
actually become a student, and was now taking steps toward what seemed
to his aunt and brother the attainment of a distant and dangerous
witchcraft--namely, making himself a lawyer. Neither of them believed
that he would ever accomplish this chimerical design, but Sylvester's
scheme was always present to them in the guise of an impending danger,
which was just as dreadful as if it had been realized. In fact, it was
worse, because it seemed to them a spell in which he had been caught,
and to which his life would ultimately be sacrificed. They regarded him
with the mingled envy and commiseration that we are apt to bestow upon
those who have the strength to devote themselves to an idea which we
think is going to prove a failure.
Dennis, on the contrary, had never troubled himself to learn anything
beyond that which his own instinct and contact with the forces around
him could teach. There was a vague tradition stored up in the dust-heaps
of Aunty Losh's mind, to the effect that his ancestor, the Major, had
once at the siege of Savannah cut his way through the British with a
detachment of Pulaski's Legion, and that in so doing he had slain with
his own hand eleven of the enemy. Well, it was with the same sort of
desperate rush that Dennis cut his way through the problems of
existence. He was good for a short, sharp struggle, but he was not
steady, and had no ability to plan long manoeuvres or patient
campaigns.
A streak of fierceness remained in him, also, derived from the man who
had been so deadly to his enemies when placed in a perilous dilemma. As
there were no British opposed to him, it did not manifest itself in just
the same way; and, thus far, being temperate in his habits and having no
foes so far as any one knew, he had not slain anybody. But his
passionate impulses asserted themselves plainly enough at times, to the
discomfort not only of others, but also of himself.
Here they were, then, these three people, the remote offspring of that
old Revolutionary officer, living humbly on the North Carolina shore,
unlike as possible to what Major De Vine might at one time have supposed
his descendants would be, yet bearing his blood in their veins, and
acting out every day his traits or those of some still earlier
progenitor, with as much exactness as if what they did and said had been
a part written for them in a play.
They knew nothing about the romance of Guy Wharton and Gertrude Wylde,
so far back, so musty with age as it seems, yet so alive and fragrant, I
think, when we pluck it out from the crumbled ruins of the past where it
grew. They knew nothing of the deposit of stones in the waters up by
Shallowbag Point, near Roanoke, which--being of foreign character--are
probably the ballast of one of Raleigh's vessels thrown overboard there,
in the stress of weather; nothing, except that Dennis had learned to
steer clear of it at low tide. But when you consider the destiny that
had befallen the family of the gallant young Revolutionary fighter, how
much did it differ from that of the English colonists whose race had
been extinguished in savagery? The change which had taken place was,
essentially, of the same kind.