MOULTRIE
It was the last of March. Spring, which comes so early in the South,
was already in the fulfilment of her promise, and no lovelier spot could
be found than that portion of South Carolina which contains the estates
of Guildford, Sunnymede, and Whitehall.
Carolina, although working hard all of every day and often far into some
nights, was happier than she had ever been in her life. She was free
from the persecutions of Colonel Yancey at last. Little Gladys was now
perfectly healed and as active as other children. Moultrie was proving
a most eager and progressive student of Christian Science, and, while
most of his narrowness and astonishing ignorance was still painfully in
evidence at times when discussions of import took place, yet Carolina
held faithfully to the thought that perfect harmony must result in time,
and that such a fine mind as he naturally possessed must yield to the
enlightenment which most men inherit. Instead of this, however,
Moultrie La Grange inherited prejudices which had dwarfed and hampered
his mental and spiritual advancement, and which mere friends overlooked.
But to Carolina, who loved him, they were heart-breaking. It was as
impossible to discuss history with most of her relatives as to expect
them to speak Chinese. In the country schools they used a history which
described the Civil War as a series of rebel victories, and the outcome
of the war was not accounted for in any way. Carolina, in reading the
book at Moultrie's request, wondered if the pupils, after a study of its
facts, did not question the sanity of Gen. Robert E. Lee for
surrendering a victorious and a gloriously successful army to a
conquered and outnumbered foe, simply because General Grant asked him
to. When she handed the history back to Moultrie, Carolina said, sadly:
"I wonder what you will say when I tell you that my dear father, who was
as loyal a Southerner as ever lived, and who entered the Confederate
army when he was only sixteen years old, was engaged at the time of his
death in an elaborate life of Abraham Lincoln, whom he regarded as the
best friend the South ever had, and the noblest patriot America ever
produced!"
The young man's face flushed with feeling, but he was too wise to
express his bitter disagreement with Carolina's views.
But she knew how he felt and that, unless he deliberately determined to
open his mind to the truth in every way, that she never could bring
herself to marry him, and thus court discord in her daily life.
He did the best he could, but among his own people he passed muster as
an unusually fine fellow, well-educated and progressive. It was only
when brought into contact with a broad-minded, cultured young woman like
Carolina that Moultrie's intellect showed its limitations. However, the
fact that he was proud of his prejudices was the only alarming thing
about the whole situation. Carolina saw his possibilities. She
recognized his courage; she trusted in his capacity to rouse himself
from his ignorance; she knew that he would some day awaken to the
impression he made upon cultivated minds. And the more she yielded to
his charm, to his chivalrous care of her, to the attraction his almost
ideal beauty had for her, the more she was determined to save him in
spite of himself. She knew that she could expect no help from his
family, who idealized him just as he was, and who would have regarded an
intimation that even a Benjamin Franklin would have found him crude, as
sacrilege. Nor could relatives or friends avail, for did not all in his
little community think as he did, and were not prejudices respected?
No, she realized that she must save him unaided and alone. Therefore,
when, in a burst of passion which nearly swept her off her feet and left
her shaken and trembling, he asked her to marry him, she took her
courage in both hands and refused.
He stared at her in a dismay so honest and unfeigned that she almost
smiled. Then his face flushed, and he said, in a low, hurt tone:
"I understand. You have urged me to believe that Flower's ancestry was
not the disgraceful thing I suspect, when you could not bring yourself
to believe it. That can--that must be your only reason, for you love
me, Carolina. You have shown me in a hundred ways that you liked my
care of you; you have permitted my attentions, you have not discouraged
my honest, ardent love, which every one has been a witness to. You do
care for me! You cannot deny it."
"Moultrie," said the girl, slowly, "I do not wish to deny it. I never
said I did not love you, for I love you more dearly than you know or
than you ever will know. I said I would not marry you, but not, oh, not
on Flower's account. I believe implicitly in all I have said of her.
If that were all, I would marry you to-morrow. But that is not the
reason."
"Then what is? Oh, Carolina, love, _love_!"
"You don't know me at all, Moultrie, or you would know what I am going
to say."
"I reckon I don't, dear, for I haven't an idea of the reason."
"Well, it is because we never could be happy together, holding such
different ideals and such different codes of honour. Colonel Yancey
told my father in London that he would find the South heart-breaking,
and it is."
The young man stared into her lovely face in a very genuine
astonishment.
"Our codes of honour different, Carolina?" he said. "Oh, I hope not. I
should be sorry to think that your code of honour differed from mine."
"And, dear friend--"
"Don't call me friend! I am not your friend! I am your lover!"
"No, let me call you friend, for that is all that I can call you at
present. I should be sorry to hold a code of honour no higher than
yours."
The slow, dark flush of pride and race rose in the man's fine face.
Carolina was daring to say such words to a La Grange. But Carolina
herself was a Lee.
"I should be sorry," said Carolina, deliberately, not waiting for his
reply, "to be so narrow that I could refuse an offer to improve my land,
denuded and mortgaged as it is,--an offer for the only rights I had left
to sell, and which would give me plenty of money to enable me to restore
the home of my ancestors,--simply because the syndicate furnishing the
money was composed of Northern men, thus, for a senseless prejudice,
compelling my mother and sister to eke out their income by sewing for
_negroes_!"
Had Carolina struck him in the face, he could not have turned a whiter
countenance upon her than he did. Twice he opened his lips to speak and
twice closed them again with the futile words still unspoken. His hands
were clenched at his side, his whole figure rigid with outraged pride.
Yet he continued to look his accuser in the face, and Carolina honoured
him for his courage even while she could see self-knowledge dawn and
humiliation take the place of his dethroned pride. The first blow had
been struck which was to unmask his pitiable attitude,--the attitude of
the typical young Southerner of to-day, proud of his worn-out
prejudices, and unaware that his very pride in them is in rags.
Carolina clasped her hands to hide their trembling. She could have
cried out in pity for the suffering in the face of the man she loved,
but she dared not speak one word of the sympathy her heart ached to
show, for fear of undoing her work. Blindly she steeled herself for the
words she feared would pour forth. Dully she wondered if, when they
came, they would end everything between them, and preclude any possible
overtures on her part when the leaven should have worked. But the
words, bitter or otherwise, did not come. Still he simply stood and
looked at her.
Then, with a gesture both graceful and dignified, he bent and took her
hand and kissed it.
"I understand," he said, simply, and Carolina, turning away, albeit sick
at heart, felt a dawning thrill of pride--her first--that she had come
to love this man.