HOW THE DAYS WENT ON AT HARROWBY
After a few days life at Harrowby settled down to a regular routine
under its new conditions. A Virginian’s house is not his castle, but
the castle of the stranger within his gates.
Madame Isabey and Adrienne had breakfast in their rooms, and Adrienne
did not appear until the day was well advanced, while Madame Isabey
sometimes was not seen until late in the afternoon. Celeste, Madame
Isabey’s maid, who was an African replica of her mistress, could not
speak a word of English, and thought if she screamed loudly enough at
Hector, in French, that she could make herself understood. Hector,
falling into the same delusion, bellowed back at her in English, and
the noise was only stopped by Angela being on hand every morning to
explain Celeste’s wants to her colleagues.
Adrienne’s maid was like her mistress, quiet, soft-spoken, and
intelligent.
It was, however, just as well that these handmaidens did not understand
everything which went on at Harrowby. The tea, coffee, and sugar were
getting low, and Mrs. Tremaine proposed to Colonel Tremaine that the
family should entirely give up the use of these luxuries and should
drink coffee made of parched potatoes and sweetened with honey while
reserving the real article for their guests. To this Colonel Tremaine
instantly acquiesced.
Lyddon could not bring himself to drink the potato coffee and
compromised on milk for his breakfast, while he watched with admiration
Colonel Tremaine gulping down a coffee-colored liquid, and protesting:
“My dearest Sophie, your potato coffee is as good as the best Old
Government Java I ever drank in my life.”
Mrs. Tremaine, at the other end of the table, drank sassafras tea
and, being unwilling to say that it was as good as the best oolong,
declared: “Sassafras tea is very good for the complexion. When I was a
girl, mother always made me drink a cup of sassafras tea every day for
a month in spring to improve my color.”
Colonel Tremaine was proud of Mrs. Tremaine’s heroism, but it rose
to heights which he found difficult to reach when she said to him
some days afterwards: “My dear, it seems to me that we should set
the example of giving up luxuries of dress. We have on hand a large
quantity of homespun, both blue and brown, for the servants’ clothes,
and I think it would be a good idea if we should wear homespun. You
will recall that in grandpapa’s diary of the Revolution, he mentions
that for four years he and Grandmamma Neville wore homespun entirely.”
Colonel Tremaine winced.
“Do you really think it necessary, Sophia?”
“I do think it quite necessary, as an example,” responded Mrs. Tremaine
promptly, who had the spirit of sacrifice in her as strong as had
Jephthah’s daughter. “Tulip, you know, is an excellent tailoress, and
between us we will make you a suit of clothes which you will be proud
to wear, and it will be an example of patriotism and devotion to the
cause.”
Colonel Tremaine could never resist any appeal made to him upon ethical
grounds and consented to this painful proposition. He condescended,
however, to plead that he still be allowed to wear his ruffled shirts
as long as they lasted, promising not to renew them while civil war
continued.
To this Mrs. Tremaine reluctantly agreed. The suit of clothes was
immediately begun and when it was finished and put on, and Colonel
Tremaine, accustomed to the best tailors in Baltimore, surveyed himself
arrayed in Mammy Tulip’s handiwork, the iron entered into his soul. For
a whole week thereafter, he called Mrs. Tremaine “Sophia.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Tremaine had made for herself a homespun gown, severely
plain, but well fitting. She hinted at Angela’s wearing homespun, but
to this Angela made no reply. Six months before Mrs. Tremaine would
have had the gown made and would have directed Angela to wear it. But
now she scrupulously refrained from anything beyond suggestions.
Whatever Angela might have done in the matter of the homespun gown was
checked by the presence of Adrienne Le Noir, who had an apparently
endless succession of Paris gowns, which neither she nor Madame Isabey
showed the slightest desire to sacrifice upon the altar of their
country.
Richard Tremaine, who had been at the instruction camp when the New
Orleans guests arrived, did not return to Harrowby for a fortnight.
He had worked night and day organizing his battery of artillery, which
was attached to the great camp of instruction where seven thousand men
had been rapidly assembled and other troops were pouring in daily.
At last, however, Richard Tremaine found time to ride the ten miles to
Harrowby late one afternoon, arriving after dark and leaving the next
morning by daylight. He had an entire evening at home. Angela herself,
completely dazzled by Adrienne Le Noir, was curious to see the effect
she would produce on Richard, who had never met her, as she chanced to
be abroad when he visited Philip Isabey in New Orleans.
Angela also expected Adrienne to be conscious of Richard Tremaine’s
charms and force. But although exquisite politeness prevailed on both
sides as between a host and guest, and that guest a woman, it was plain
that there was not much sympathy between them.
Lyddon spoke of this the next evening to Angela when, after family
prayers, she followed her old habit of stealing into the study for an
hour.
“I thought,” said Angela, with much simplicity, “that Madame Le Noir
and Richard would fall in love with each other as soon as they met.”
“My dear child,” laughed Lyddon, lighting his pipe, “everybody in the
world does not go about falling in love with everybody else. I will
say, however, that I thought Madame Le Noir very little impressed with
Richard. You know he is a man born to succeed with women. My own belief
is that Madame Le Noir has another man in her mind, which makes her
perfectly cool and indifferent to all the rest of the world.”
“What man is that?” asked Angela, knowing perfectly well what Lyddon’s
answer would be.
“Captain Isabey, of course.”
Angela felt a strange sinking of the heart. “Do you think they’re
engaged?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know anything about that, but I should think not! If
they’re engaged, there is no reason why they should not be married.
Both of them are quite old enough to know their own minds. Isabey,
you know, is some years older than Richard. I should say there was no
engagement, but it looks to me as if eventually Madame Le Noir and
Isabey would be married.”
Angela, whose round elbows were on the table, leaned her chin upon her
hands in a favorite attitude of hers, and Lyddon, who could almost see
the workings of her mind, knew that from the hour she had first seen
Isabey he had possessed extraordinary interest for her. He could have
told the very instant that the recollection of Neville Tremaine now
occurred to Angela. She had been looking down with meditative eyes upon
the table, when suddenly she drew back, and glancing up, as if she were
frightened and puzzled, said quickly:
“I haven’t had a letter from Neville for nearly three weeks, but I have
one ready to send him. I will give it to you to-morrow.”
“Poor Neville,” said Lyddon, “his fate is hard. I never knew a man in
whose honor I had greater confidence, and yet he is reckoned dishonored
by those nearest to him; nor a man of stronger natural common sense,
yet he has gone against the almost unanimous opinion of his own section
in the United States Army. Destiny, my dear, is a queer thing.”
“Very,” answered Angela. She was thinking of another strange act
of the hand of fate. No man would be less likely to coerce a woman
into marrying him than Neville Tremaine; his pride, as well as his
principles, would seem to make it impossible; yet deep in her own
heart, Angela knew that she had been coerced. It was like one of those
promises which are extorted from children never to tell an untruth,
never to repeat a certain fault, a promise under compulsion and so
little voluntary that it can scarcely be reckoned binding.
Angela, however, meant to be bound by her promise. But always since
she had first seen Philip Isabey his image had haunted her--haunted
her more even than before she had seen him. She had dreamed of him
for years and it so happened that the dream came true. He was exactly
as she had pictured him and this of itself was enough to give him a
peculiar interest.
She turned these things over in her mind sitting in the same attitude,
at the table, the mellow light of two candles falling upon her white
skin and dark eyes. The window toward the river was open, and the odors
of the May night stole softly into the room. Lyddon roused her from her
reverie.
“I have found a new field of usefulness,” he said. “I looked up
the subject of making tallow candles. I used to be pretty good at
chemistry when I was at Balliol. The old lead candle molds used by
Colonel Tremaine’s grandfather during the Revolution have been found in
the attic.”
“I found them,” answered Angela, reproachfully.
“And a good find it was. We’re to use tallow candles, but the beehives
furnish enough wax for Madame Isabey and Madame Le Noir and for the
Bible reading at night. Mrs. Tremaine told me gently that they always
used wax candles for the Bible reading and that it didn’t seem to her
right to use tallow candles for that.”
“Poor Uncle Tremaine, did you ever see anybody in your life as wretched
as he is in those homespun clothes made by Aunt Sophia and Mammy Tulip?
And he loves his clothes so much!”
“Yes, I thought him a sad sight when he appeared in homespun and drank
his potato coffee. I have, however, made another important chemical
discovery.” Here Lyddon looked hard at Angela and winked his left eye.
“Have you observed how the colonel’s hair has been turning red?”
“And green,” responded Angela, with animation. “It is the most
melancholy sight I ever saw in my life.”
“So I thought, and I looked up a formula, of which black walnuts was
the chief ingredient, and recommended it to Colonel Tremaine as a hair
tonic--warranted to make the hair grow and prevent falling out and
baldness. He shook my hand with tears in his eyes. I have got it all
ready in this bottle.” Lyddon pointed to a big bottle on the wooden
mantelpiece. “And you will see that the colonel’s spirits will rise in
the next day or two.”
Lyddon was quite correct in his prognostication. At supper the next
evening Colonel Tremaine appeared resplendent, his pigeon wings, on
each side of his forehead, a lustrous black instead of a rich brown,
but the colonel, serenely unconscious, looked with eyes of profound
gratitude at Lyddon.
The next day the candle-making began in earnest, and Colonel Tremaine,
who had always used wax candles on his dressing table, came down to
tallow ones. He sighed and tried to reconcile himself by the reflection
that his ancestors, during the Revolution, thought themselves well off
when they were able to get tallow candles.
Mrs. Tremaine, on the contrary, made every sacrifice with eagerness
after having been forced to make the greatest sacrifice of all, in
having her best beloved torn from her, torn from honor and good repute,
and fallen from his high estate. It seemed to her as if all else were
easy. She was glad of an excuse to wear homespun, to give up her
linen sheets, to spend her days in labors heretofore unknown to her.
If she had been in the Middle Ages, she would have used the scourge
and worn sackcloth. God’s hand lay heavy upon her, so she thought,
and not doubting its wisdom, believed that she deserved the terrible
chastisement which had fallen upon her.
In that latitude May is summer time, and the heat descended upon
Harrowby. It was, however, well adapted to withstand the torrid days.
No Italian villa is better suited to these fierce summer heats than the
old Virginia country houses with their unstained floors, polished like
a looking-glass by dry rubbing with sand and wax, the scanty mahogany
furniture, the large doors and windows, free from dust-carrying
draperies, and through which the summer breezes wander fitfully.
Harrowby was as pleasant in summer as in winter, and Madame Isabey, who
had the coolest room in the house, was never tired of congratulating
herself upon having fallen upon her feet as it were.
In spite of the horror and amazement which her dancing created, and
the grim suspicion that in the privacy of her own apartment she smoked
cigarettes--a devil’s invention hitherto unknown at Harrowby--there was
soon no doubt that she became a favorite with everyone about the place,
excepting only Hector, who regarded her with severe disapproval and
refused to be placated. He compared her to the daughter of Herodias,
to Jezebel, and to every other unsavory character in the Bible. With
all else at Harrowby, however, her genuine good humor, her airy spirit,
her real goodness of heart, commended her strongly. Archie became
her devoted slave, and Lyddon called Madame Isabey Archie’s elective
affinity. George Charteris paid his _devoirs_ at the feet of Adrienne,
who could never remember whether his name was George or Charles.
Between her and Angela came about that deep, fierce, and wordless
antagonism which exists when the shadow of a man stands between two
women. No carping word passed between them; on the contrary, all was
courtesy. There was no assumption on Adrienne’s part concerning her
accomplishments, her toilets, her thorough knowledge of the world
contrasted with Angela’s innocence and ignorance. Nor did she make the
mistake of underrating her rival. She secretly envied Angela her power
of listening to, and even joining intelligently in, the conversation of
men, and recognized that Angela was fitted for companionship as well as
love.
Adrienne herself knew that, although she might have many lovers, she
could never have a friend among men. The man she married, if he should
cease to be her lover--what then? He would still admire her; there
would still be the charm of her voice, of her manner, her appearance,
her music, but she reasoned with a woman’s painful introspection that
her charms were of the sort which one day vanish away. She had long
known that the only lasting spell which a woman can cast upon a man is
the spell of mental charm, for the spell that lasts must be one which
knows no change and which is always at command. Angela had that charm
in a remarkable degree.
Adrienne felt a secret jealousy when she observed Angela’s
companionship with Lyddon and felt a deep inward mortification when
Lyddon, talking about books with Angela, would courteously change
the subject to something concerning which he supposed Adrienne to be
interested.
She had never before seen a girl well trained in books, and her idea of
a bookish woman was an untidy person with an ink smudge on her middle
finger. She had seen in Paris women at the head of brilliant _salons_,
but these women were no longer young and were usually arbitrary and
of commanding social position. But here was a girl all softness, who
dressed her hair beautifully, and whose muslin gowns were radiantly
fresh, and to whom a scholar like Lyddon could talk freely.
Angela was, however, eating her soul out with envy of Adrienne. Like
most girls of nineteen, she knew neither past nor future, and it seemed
to her as if Adrienne would ever remain the beautiful, seductive
creature she was now. Angela felt herself distinctly inferior, and as
she had enjoyed that subtlest form of flattery, being made much of,
this feeling of inferiority was painful to her. But in this, as in all
things else, the world was changed. The soul of things was altered and
nothing was as it had once been.
One morning in early June, when the family was assembled at breakfast,
Colonel Tremaine pointed out of the open window and across the
wide-pillared portico to the broad, bright river running honey-colored
in the morning sun.
A small sloop, painted a dull gray, was passing up the river, the fresh
breeze swelling her brown sails and carrying her fast through the
bright water.
“That’s Captain Ross’s vessel,” said Colonel Tremaine. “He has
evidently run the blockade and has probably brought a valuable cargo
with him.”
“Wouldn’t it be well, my dear,” asked Mrs. Tremaine, pouring out the
colonel’s second cup of potato coffee, “if I should order the carriage
this morning and go to Captain Ross’s house? We’re running short of
supplies of many things.”
“It would be most judicious, my dearest Sophie,” answered the colonel,
his white teeth showing in a smile, “if Captain Ross were a patriotic
person, but unluckily he declines to receive either the State money of
Virginia or Confederate money, and we have no other sort.”
Mrs. Tremaine sighed and answered after a moment: “I’m not surprised
at Captain Ross. I always thought him a very ordinary person, and he
proves himself to be entirely without patriotism.”
Mrs. Tremaine, ever willing to give all she had to the Confederacy,
thought it strange that Captain Ross should not undertake the risks and
dangers of blockade-running and then sell his goods for a promise to
pay.
“It isn’t that I mind our privations,” Mrs. Tremaine continued. “And
I’m sure you, my dear, wouldn’t hesitate at any sacrifice for our
country, but it distresses me to think that our guests shouldn’t have
their accustomed comforts.”
It distressed Colonel Tremaine very much that with two wardrobes full
of clothes, he was compelled to wear homespun, but it distressed him
far more to think that the guests under his roof should want for
anything, and so he expressed himself.
“I really relish the substitute for coffee which your ingenuity,
my dearest Sophie, has supplied, but I’m afraid that Madame Isabey
wouldn’t care for it.”
“Naw, suh,” said Hector, hurling himself into the conversation. “Me an’
de ole lady had a collusion ’bout dat coffee. I teck some ob your ’tato
coffee up to dat ole lady----”
“Madame Isabey, you mean, Hector,” said Mrs. Tremaine in mild reproof.
“An’ she th’o it outen de window. She ain’t got no fear ob de Lawd,
her Gawd, an’ when I tole her that Paul de Porstle say you ain’t gwine
th’o de chillen’s bread to de dogs, she tole me to shet my mouf--to
shet my mouf.”
No one had ever yet been able to shut Hector’s mouth; and no one had
ever seriously tried except Madame Isabey.
Angela, who sat by, took no part in the discussion. Suddenly she
remembered the packet of gold eagles which she had received from
Neville more than a month before. As soon as breakfast was over, she
ran upstairs and got her rouleau of gold and, coming down, found
Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine walking up and down the long portico toward
the river. She went up to Mrs. Tremaine, and, holding out the little
parcel, said to her in a trembling voice:
“I have some gold which Neville sent me; you’re welcome to all you want
of it, Aunt Sophia.”
A deathlike silence followed. There was something astounding to
Mrs. Tremaine that this child should have the strange species of
independence which the possession of money gives, and then the thought
flashed instantly through the mother’s mind that Angela by some secret
means had lately heard from Neville and had not seen fit to mention it.
Mrs. Tremaine turned pale, and her eyes, fixed upon Angela, had in them
an imploring expression.
Angela remained silent. The subtle changes made by her new status
confused and embarrassed her. And then, still holding out the money,
she said: “Here is the gold. I should like to keep half of it. I mean I
shall keep half of it to go to Neville when he sends for me. The rest
is yours.”
Mrs. Tremaine drew back icily. It was difficult for her to accept the
money, and more difficult to refuse it. But something in her air and
manner caused Angela suddenly to burst into a passion of tears. As she
stood sobbing, Colonel Tremaine put his arm around her, and said kindly:
“My dear little--” but he did not say _daughter_, as he would have
said a few months ago or even then except for Mrs. Tremaine. He felt
instinctively that Mrs. Tremaine did not wish that word to be used.
Angela was the daughter-in-law and not the daughter to her, and Mrs.
Tremaine, the tenderest-hearted of women, looked with somber eyes upon
Angela’s tear-stained face.
What could this girl know of the passion of mother love which consumed
the older woman’s heart? What could she know of the yearning for
that secretly favored child, that son who in her heart she preferred
to everything on earth, even to Colonel Tremaine, while she said to
herself, to Colonel Tremaine, and to all the world, and even to her
God upon her knees, that Colonel Tremaine was the first object of her
existence, knowing all the while that this was a pious lie, and that
Neville Tremaine was the idol of her heart, and had ever been and would
always be first. It seemed to her a hidden insult that Angela should be
willing to divide her money, but jealously withheld the letter which
Mrs. Tremaine fancied she had received.
The same thought entered Angela’s mind, and, less ungenerous, she said
quickly: “I have had this money some time, and I have had no letter
from Neville of which I haven’t told you, Aunt Sophia.”
And then Mrs. Tremaine, understanding Angela as women understand these
subtle conflicts between each other, felt that Angela had, indeed, been
generous, and it was time for her to show some generosity.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “Since you are kind enough to offer us
a part of your money, I shall be much obliged. I will accept it with
pleasure.”