sometimes had an idea that you thought too much about her for your own
good."
"That is true," he replied. He was a merciless critic of himself in
matters both great and small, and he had no concealments to make. He was
open as the day, except where openness might render others unhappy or
uncomfortable. "Yes, you are right," he insisted; "I have thought too
much about her happiness for my own good, and now I see myself on the
verge of great trouble."
"If Margaret understood the situation," said Miss Fanny, "I think she
would feel differently."
"On the contrary, I think she understands the situation perfectly well;
that is the only explanation of her troubles which she has not sought to
conceal."
At that moment Margaret came to the door. Her face was very pale, almost
ghastly, indeed, but whatever trouble may have looked from her eyes
before, they were clear now. She came into the room with a little smile
hovering around her mouth. She had no eyes for any one but Pulaski
Tomlin, and to him she spoke.
"My father has come," she said. "He is not such a father as I would have
selected; still, he is my father. I knew him the moment I opened the
door. He wants me to go with him; he says he is able to provide for me.
He has claims on me."
"Have we none?" Miss Fanny asked.
"More than anybody in the world," replied Margaret, turning to her;
"more than all the rest of the world put together. But I have always
said to myself," she addressed Neighbour Tomlin again, "that if it
should ever happen that I found myself unable to carry out your wishes,
sir, it would be best for me to leave your roof, where all my happiness
has come to me." She was very humble, both in speech and demeanour.
Neighbour Tomlin looked at her with a puzzled and a grieved expression.
"Why, I don't understand you, Margaret," said Neighbour Tomlin. "What
wish of mine have you found yourself unable to carry out?"
"Only one, sir; but that was a very important one; you desired me to
marry Mr. Bethune."
"I? Why, you were never more mistaken in your life," replied Neighbour
Tomlin, with what Miss Fanny thought was unnecessary energy. "I may have
suggested it; I saw you gloomy and unhappy, and I had observed the
devotion of the young man. What more natural than for me to suggest
that--Margaret! you are giving me a terrible wound!" He turned and went
into the library, and Margaret ran after him.
It is probable that Nan knows better than any outsider what occurred
then. It seems that Margaret, in her excitement, forgot to close the
door after her, and Nan was sitting where she could see pretty much
everything that happened; and she had a delicious little tale to tell
her dear Johnny when she went home, a tale so impossible and romantic
that she forgot her own troubles, and fairly glowed with happiness. But
it is best not to depend too much on what Nan saw, though her sight was
fairly good where her interests were enlisted.
Margaret ran after Neighbour Tomlin and seized him by the arm. "Oh, I
never meant to wound you," she cried--"you who have been so kind, and so
good! Oh, if you could only read my heart, you would forgive me,
instantly and forever."
"I can read my own heart," said Neighbour Tomlin, "and it has but one
feeling for you."
"Then kiss me good-bye," she said. "I am going with my father."
"If I kiss you," he replied, "you'll not go."
She looked at him, and he at her, and she found herself in the focus of
a light that enabled her to see everything more clearly. She caught his
secret and he hers, and there was no longer any room for
misunderstanding. Her father, weak as he was, had been strong enough to
provide his daughter with a remedy for the only serious trouble, short
of bereavement, that his daughter was ever to know. She refused to
return to the parlour, where he awaited her.
"Shall I go?" said Neighbour Tomlin.
"If you please, sir," said Margaret, with a faint smile. She could
hardly realise the change that had so suddenly taken place in her hopes
and her plans, so swift and unexpected had it been.
Neighbour Tomlin went into the parlour, and made Bridalbin acquainted
with the facts.
"Margaret has changed her mind," said Neighbour Tomlin. "She thinks it
is best to remain under the care and protection of those whom she knows
better than she knows her father."
"Why, she seemed eager to go a moment ago," said Bridalbin; "and you
must remember that she is my daughter."
"Her friends couldn't forget that under all the circumstances,"
Neighbour Tomlin remarked drily.
"I believe her mind has been poisoned against me," Bridalbin declared.
"That is quite possible," replied Neighbour Tomlin; "and I think you
could easily guess the name of the poisoner."
"May I see my daughter?"
"That rests entirely with her," said Neighbor Tomlin.
But Margaret refused to see him again. Since her own troubles had been
so completely swept away, her memory reverted to all the troubles her
mother had to endure, as the result of Bridalbin's lack of fixed
principles, and she sent him word that she would prefer not to see him
then or ever afterward; and so the man went away, more bent on doing
mischief than ever, though he was compelled to change his field of
operations.
And then, after he was gone, a silence fell on the company. Nan appeared
to be in a dazed condition, while Miss Fanny sat looking out of the
window. Margaret, very much subdued, was clinging to Nan, and Neighbour
Tomlin was pacing up and down in the library in a glow of happiness. All
his early dreams had come back to him, and they were true. The romance
of his youth had been changed into a reality.
Margaret was the first to break the silence. She left Nan, and went
slowly to Miss Fanny, and stood by her chair. "What do you think of me?"
she said, in a low voice.
For answer, Miss Fanny rose and placed her arms around the girl, and
held her tightly for a moment, and then kissed her.
"But I do think, my dear," she said with an effort to laugh, "that the
matter might have been arranged without frightening us to death."
"I had no thought of frightening you. Oh, I am afraid I had no thought
for anything but my own troubles. Did you know? Did you guess?"
"I knew about Pulaski, but I had to go away from home to learn the news
about you. Madame Awtry called my attention to it, and then with my
eyes upon, I could see a great many things that were not visible
before."
"Why, how could she know?" cried Margaret. "I have talked with her not
more than a half dozen times."
"She is a very wise woman," Miss Fanny remarked, by way of explanation.
"Well, when I get in love, I'll not visit Madame Awtry," said Nan.
"My dear, you have been there once too often," Miss Fanny declared.
"Why, what has she been telling you?" inquired Nan, blushing very red.
"I'll not disclose your secrets, Nan," answered Miss Fanny.
"I would thank you kindly, if I had any," said Nan.
And then, suddenly, while Margaret was standing with her arms around
Miss Fanny, she began to blush and show signs of embarrassment.
"Nan," she said, "will you take a boarder for--for--for I don't know how
long?"
"Not for long, Nan. Say a couple of weeks." It was Neighbour Tomlin who
spoke, as he came out of the library.
"Oh, for longer than that," protested Margaret.
"You must remember that I am getting old, child," he said very solemnly.
"So am I, sir," she said archly. "I am quite as old as you are, I
think."
"This is the first quarrel," Nan declared, "and who knows how it will
all end? You are to come and stay as long as you please, and then after
that, you are to stay as long as I please."
"I declare, Nan, you talk like an old woman!" exclaimed Miss Fanny;
whereupon Nan laughed and said she had to be serious sometimes.
And so it was arranged that Margaret was to stay with Nan for an
indefinite period. "I hope you will come to see me occasionally, Mr.
Tomlin, and you too, Aunt Fanny," she said with mock formality. "We
shall have days for receiving company, just as the fine ladies do in the
cities; and you'll have to send in your cards."
The two young women refused to go in the carriage.
"It is so small and stuffy," said Margaret to Neighbour Tomlin, "and
to-day I want to be in the fresh air. If you please, sir, don't look at
me like that, or I can never go." She went close to him. "Oh, is it all
true? Is it really and truly true, or is it a dream?"
"It is true," he said, kissing her. "It is a dream, but it is my dream
come true."
"I didn't think," she said, as she went along with Nan, "that the world
was as beautiful as it seems to be to-day."
"Mr. Sanders says," replied Nan, "that it is the most comfortable world
he has ever found; but somehow--well, you know we can't all be happy the
same way at the same time."
"Your day is still to come," said Margaret, "and when it does, I want to
be there."
"You say that," remarked Nan, "but you know you would have felt better
if you hadn't had so much company. For a wonder Tasma Tid wouldn't go in
the house with me. She said something was happening in there. Now, how
did she know?" Tasma Tid had joined them as they came through the gate,
and now Nan turned to her with the question.
"Huh! we know dem trouble w'en we see um. Dee ain't no trouble now. She
done gone--dem trouble. But yan' come mo'." She pointed to Miss Polly
Gaither, who came toddling along with her work-bag and her turkey-tail
fan.
"Howdy, girls? I'm truly glad to see you. You are looking well both of
you, and health is a great blessing. I have just been to Lucy Lumsden's,
Nan, and she thinks a great deal of you. I could tell you things that
would turn your head. But I'm really sorry for Lucy; she's almost as
lonely as I am. They say Gabriel is sure to be dealt with; I'm told
there is no other way out of it. Have you two heard anything?" Margaret
and Nan shook their heads, but gestures of that kind were not at all
satisfactory to Miss Polly. "They say that little Cephas was sent down
to prepare Gabriel for the worst. But I didn't say a word about that to
Lucy, and if you two girls go there, you must be very careful not to
drop a word about it. Lucy is getting old, and she can't bear up under
trouble as she used to could. She has aged wonderfully in the past few
weeks. Don't you think so, Nan?"
She held up her ear-trumpet as she spoke, and Nan made a great pretence
of yelling into it, though not a sound issued from her lips. Miss Polly
frowned. "Don't talk so loud, my dear; you will make people think I'm a
great deal deafer than I am. But you always would yell at me, though I
have asked you a dozen times to speak only in ordinary tones. Well, I
don't agree with you about Lucy. She has broken terribly since Gabriel
was carried off; she is not the same woman, she takes no interest in
affairs at all. I told her a piece of astonishing news, and she paid no
more attention to it than if she hadn't heard it; and she didn't use to
be that way. Well, we all have our troubles, and you two will have yours
when you grow a little older. That is one thing of which there is always
enough left to go around. The supply is never exhausted."
After delivering this truism, Miss Polly waved her turkey-tail fan as
majestically as she knew how, and went toddling along home. Miss Polly
was a kind-hearted woman, but she couldn't resist the inclination to
gossip and tattle. Her tattle did no harm, for her weakness was well
advertised in that community; but, unfortunately, her deafness had made
her both suspicious and irritable. When in company, for instance, she
insisted on feeling that people were talking about her when the
conversation was not carried on loud enough for her to hear the sound of
the voices, if not the substance of what was said, and she had a way of
turning to the one closest at hand, with the remark, "They should have
better manners than to talk of the afflictions of an old woman, for it
is not at all certain that they will escape." Naturally this would call
out a protest on the part of all present, whereupon Miss Polly would
shake her head, and remark that she was not as deaf as many people
supposed; that, in fact, there were days when she could hear almost as
well as she heard before the affliction overtook her.
"I wonder," said Nan, whose curiosity was always ready to be aroused,
"what piece of astonishing news Miss Polly has been telling Grandmother
Lumsden. Perhaps she has told her of the events of the morning at Mr.
Tomlin's."
"That is absurd, Nan," Margaret declared. "Still, it would make no
difference to me. He was the only person that I ever wanted to hide my
feelings from. I never so much as dreamed that he could care for
me--and, oh, Nan! suppose that he should be pretending simply to please
me!"
"You goose!" cried Nan. "Whoever heard of that man pretending, or trying
to deceive any one? If he was a young man, now, it would be different."
"Not with all young men," Margaret asserted. "There is Gabriel
Tolliver--I don't believe he would deceive any one."
"Oh, Gabriel--but why do you mention Gabriel?"
"Because his eyes are so beautiful and honest," answered Margaret.
But Nan tossed her head; she would never believe anything good about
Gabriel unless she said it herself--or thought it, for she could think
hundreds, yes, thousands, of things about Gabriel that she wouldn't dare
to breathe aloud, even though there was no living soul within a hundred
miles. And that fact needn't make Gabriel feel so awfully proud, for
there were other persons and things she could think about.
Ah, well! love is such a restless, suspicious thing, such an irritating,
foolish, freakish, solemn affair, that it is not surprising the two
young women were somewhat afraid of it when they found themselves in its
clutches.
CHAPTER THIRTY
_Miss Polly Has Some News_
The news which Miss Polly had laid as a social offering at Mrs. Lucy
Lumsden's feet, and which she boasted was very astonishing, had the
appearance of absurdity on the face of it. Miss Polly, with her work-bag
and her turkey-tail fan, had paid a very early visit to the Lumsden
Place. She went in very quietly, greeted her old friend in a subdued
manner, and then sat staring at her with an expression that Mrs. Lumsden
failed to understand. It might have been the result of special and
unmitigated woe, or of physical pain, or of severe fatigue. Whatever the
cause, it was unnatural, and so Gabriel's grandmother made haste to
inquire about it.
"Why, what in the world is the matter, Polly? Are you ill?"
At this Miss Polly acted as if she had been aroused from a dream or a
revery. Her work-bag slid from her lap, and her turkey-tail fan would
have fallen had it not been attached to her wrist by a piece of faded
ribbon. "I declare, Lucy, I don't know that I ought to tell you; and I
wouldn't if I thought you would repeat it to a living soul. It is more
than marvellous; it is, indeed, Lucy"--leaning a little nearer, and
lowering her voice, which was never very loud--"I honestly believe that
Ritta Claiborne is in love with old Silas Tomlin! I certainly do."
"You must have some reason for believing that," said Mrs. Lumsden, with
a benevolent smile, the cause of which the ear-trumpet could not
interpret.
"Reasons! I have any number, Lucy. I'm certain you won't believe me, but
it has come to that pass that old Silas calls on her every night, and
they sit in the parlour there and talk by the hour, sometimes with
Eugenia, and sometimes without her. It would be no exaggeration at all
if I were to tell you that they are talking together in that parlour
five nights out of the seven. Now, what do they mean by that?"
"Why, there's nothing in that, Polly. I have heard that they are old
acquaintances. Surely old acquaintances can talk together, and be
interested in one another, without being in love. Why, very frequently
of late Meriwether Clopton comes here. I hope you don't think I'm in
love with him."
"Certainly not, Lucy, most certainly not. But do you have Meriwether's
portrait hanging in your parlour? And do you go and sit before it, and
study it, and sometimes shake your finger at it playfully? I tell you,
Lucy, there are some queer people in this world, and Ritta Claiborne is
one of them."
"She is excellent company," said Mrs. Lumsden.
"She is, she is," Miss Polly assented. "She is full of life and fun; she
sees the ridiculous side of everything; and that is why I can't
understand her fondness for old Silas. It is away beyond me. Why, Lucy,
she treats that portrait as if it were alive. What she says to it, I
can't tell you, for my hearing is not as good now as it was before my
ears were affected. But she says something, for I can see her lips move,
and I can see her smile. My eyesight is as good now as ever it was. I'm
telling you what I saw, not what I heard. The way she went on over that
portrait was what first attracted my attention; but for that I would
never have had a suspicion. Now, what do you think of it, Lucy?"
"Nothing in particular. If it is true, it would be a good thing for
Silas. He is not as mean as a great many people think he is."
"He may not be, Lucy," responded Miss Polly, "but he brings a bad taste
in my mouth every time I see him."
"Well, directly after Sherman passed through," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and
when few of us had anything left, Silas came to me, and asked if I
needed anything, and he was ready to supply me with sufficient funds for
my needs."
"Well, he didn't come to me," Miss Polly declared with emphasis, "and if
anybody in this world had needs, I did. You remember Robert Gaither?
Well, Silas loaned him some money during the war, and although Robert
was in a bad way, old Silas collected every cent down to the very last,
and Robert had to go to Texas. Oh, I could tell you of numberless
instances where he took advantage of those who had borrowed from him."
"I suppose that Mr. Lumsden had been kind to Silas when he was sowing
his wild oats; indeed, I think my husband advanced him money when he had
exhausted the supply allowed him by the executors of the Tomlin estate."
"And just think of it, Lucy--Ritta Claiborne sits there and plays the
piano for old Silas, and sometimes Eugenia goes in and sings, and she
has a beautiful voice; I'm not too deaf to know that."
It was then that Mrs. Lumsden leaned over and gave the ear-trumpet some
very good advice. "If I were in your place, Polly, I wouldn't tell this
to any one else. Mrs. Claiborne is an excellent woman; she comes of a
good family, and she is cultured and refined. No doubt she is sensitive,
and if she heard that you were spreading your suspicions abroad, she
would hardly feel like staying in a house where----" Mrs. Lumsden
paused. She had it on her tongue's-end to say, "in a house where she is
spied upon," but she had no desire in the world to offend that
simple-minded old soul, who, behind all her peculiarities and
afflictions, had a very tender heart.
"I know what you mean, Lucy," said Miss Polly, "and your advice is good;
but I can't help seeing what goes on under my eyes, and I thought there
could be no harm in telling you about it. I am very fond of Ritta
Claiborne, and as for Eugenia, why she is simply angelic. I love that
child as well as if she were my own. If there's a flaw in her character,
I have never found it. I'll say that much."
The explanation of Miss Polly's suspicions is not as simple as her
recital of them. No one can account for some of the impulses of the
human heart, or the vagaries of the human mind. It is easy to say that
after Silas Tomlin had his last interview with Mrs. Claiborne, he
permitted his mind to dwell on her personality and surroundings, and so
fell gradually under a spell. Such an explanation is not only easy to
imagine, but it is plausible; nevertheless, it would not be true. There
is a sort of tradition among the brethren who deal with character in
fiction that it must be consistent with itself. This may be necessary in
books, for it sweeps away at one stroke ten thousand mysteries and
problems that play around the actions of every individual, no matter how
high, no matter how humble. How often do we hear it remarked in real
life that the actions of such and such an individual are a source of
surprise and regret to his friends; and how often in our own experience
have we been shocked by the unexpected as it crops out in the actions of
our friends and acquaintances!
For this and other reasons this chronicler does not propose to explain
Silas's motives and movements and try to show that they are all
consistent with his character, and that, therefore, they were all to be
predicated from the beginning. What is certainly true is that Silas was
one day stopped in the street by Eugenia, who inquired about Paul. He
looked at the girl very gloomily at first, but when he began to talk
about the troubles of his son, he thawed out considerably. In this case
Eugenia's sympathies abounded, in fact were unlimited, and she listened
with dewy eyes to everything Silas would tell her about Paul.
"You mustn't think too much about Paul," remarked Silas grimly, as they
were about to part.
"Thank you, sir," replied Eugenia, with a smile, "I'll think just enough
and no more. But it was my mother that told me to ask about him if I saw
you. She is very fond of him. You never come to see us now," the sly
creature suggested.
Silas stared at her before replying, and tried to find the gleam of
mockery in her eyes, or in her smile. He failed, and his glances became
shifty again. "Why, I reckon she'd kick me down the steps if I called
without having some business with her. If you were to ask her who her
worst enemy is, she'd tell you that I am the man."
"Well, sir," replied Eugenia archly, "I have been knowing mother a good
many years, but I've never seen her put any one out of the house yet. We
were talking about you to-day, and she said you must be very lonely, now
that Paul is away, and I know she sympathises with those who are lonely;
I've heard her say so many a time."
"Yes; that may be true," remarked Silas, "but she has special reasons
for not sympathising with me. She knows me a great deal better than you
do."
"I'm afraid you misjudge us both," said Eugenia demurely. "If you knew
us better, you'd like us better. I'm sure of that."
"Humph!" grunted Silas. Then looking hard at the girl, he bluntly asked,
"Is there anything between you and Paul?"
"A good many miles, sir, just now," she answered, making one of those
retorts that Paul thought so fine.
"H-m-m; yes, you are right, a good many miles. Well, there can't be too
many."
"I think you are cruel, sir. Is Paul not to come home any more? Paul is
a very good friend of mine, and I could wish him well wherever he might
be; but how would you feel, sir, if he were never to return?"
"Well, I must go," said Silas somewhat bluntly. When Beauty has a glib
tongue, abler men than Silas find themselves without weapons to cope
with it.
"Shall I tell mother that you have given your promise to call soon?"
Eugenia asked.
"Now, I hope you are not making fun of me," cried Silas with some
irritation.
"How could that be, sir? Don't you think it would be extremely pert in a
young girl to make fun of a gentleman old enough to be her father?"
Silas winced at the comparison. "Well, I have seen some very pert ones,"
he insisted, and with that he bade her good-day with a very ill grace,
and went on about his business, of which he had a good deal of one kind
and another.
"Mother," said Eugenia, after she had given an account of her encounter
with Silas, "I believe the man has a good heart and is ashamed of it."
"Why, I think the same may be said of most of the grand rascals that we
read about in history; and the pity of it is that they would have all
been good men if they had had the right kind of women to deal with them
and direct their careers."
"Do you really think so, mother?" the daughter inquired.
"I'm sure of it," said the lady.