FIRESIDE DRAMAS
Ella was so overjoyed at her prospects when all had been explained to her,
that she insisted on Mara's spending the evening at the Bodines' so that
her father might understand the whole arrangement.
When she returned early in the afternoon, she found him, as Mara had
before, reading quietly at one of the parlor windows. He looked up with
not only glad welcome in his eyes, but also with much genuine interest,
for he was anxious to learn what further impression Mara had made upon his
daughter. The man who had accepted patient endurance as his lot, could
scarcely comprehend the profound impression made upon him by the child of
his old friend. He had made no effort to analyze his feelings, not
dreaming that there was any reason why he should do this. To his mind
circumstances and the girl herself were sufficient to account for the
deepest sympathy. Then that look with which she had regarded him on the
previous evening--he could never forget that while he lived. He therefore
regarded Ella's flushed, happy face, and said, "You seem to hesitate in
letting your experiences be known, but I reckon, from the sparkle of your
eyes, that you have had a good time."
"Oh, papa, I have had a good time, so much more than a good time. I
hesitate because I don't know just how or where to begin--how to tell you
all the good news. Dear papa, you have had so many more troubles than I
have, and some perhaps which you think I do not share in very deeply. It
was best for us both that I did not--too deeply. But you have a trouble
now in which I do share more than you know, more than I wanted you to
know. We were here dependent on our dear old cousin who is so unselfish
that she would almost open her poor old veins for us. This was too hard
for either of us to endure very long, and I had made up my mind that I
would do something to relieve you--that if Mara could earn money I could."
"My dear child, I appreciate your feelings, and you have understood mine,
but let me hasten to assure you that I have found a way by which I can
support you and myself also."
"You have? So soon? Oh, that is glorious. Tell me all about it."
"No, indeed. Not till I have your wonderful news, and learn how you
enjoyed your visit."
"No more visiting for me, or rather perpetual visiting. Oh, papa, think
what bliss! I'm to help Mara, work with Mara every day, and have a share
in the profits."
The captain's face grew sad and almost stern. Ella understood him
instantly, and put her hand over his mouth as he was about to speak. "Now,
papa, don't you perform the same little tragedy that I did. I know just
how you feel and what you are going to say. Mara had it in her mind the
moment she heard I was in town and--"
"Ella," interrupted her father, firmly, "I do not often cross you, but you
must let me decide this question. Mara is capable of any degree of
self-sacrifice, of even something like a noble deception in this case. No,
this cannot be. I would protect that girl even as I would you, and you
both need protection against your own generous impulses more than all
else."
In vain she tried to explain, and recounted minutely all that had
happened. The captain was so deeply touched that his eyes grew dim with
moisture. Again he exclaimed, "Would to God Sidney Wallingford had lived,
even though poor and crippled as I am, that he might have worshipped this
noble-hearted, generous girl. She has indeed a rare nature. She carried
out her self-sacrificing purpose well, but I understand her better than
you do, my dear. With all a woman's wit, tact, and heart she deceived you
and would deceive us all. She would smile in triumph as she denied herself
for our sakes what she most needed. But, Ella, you know we cannot let her
do this."
The girl was staggered and in sore perplexity. Her father's view was not
pleasing to her ingenuous nature; there had been a sincerity in Mara's
words and manner which had been confirmed not only by circumstances, but
also by Aun' Sheba's hearty approval. "I shall be sorry if what you think
is true," she said, sadly. "I don't wish to be deceived, not even from
such motives as you attribute to Mara, and, of course, she could have no
others if you are right. But how can you be right? There was such a verity
about it all. Why, papa, when at first I imagined that Mara might have
thought I had been hinting in my very foolish talk that I wished what
afterward took place, I was so overwhelmed with shame that I could hardly
speak. If you had seen how she reassured me, and heard her earnest words,
declaring she needed me--oh, if that was all deception, even from the
kindest and noblest motive, I should be wounded to the heart, I could
never be sure of Mara again and scarcely of any one else. I can't think as
you do. Let us ask Cousin and see what she thinks."
The captain was now in perplexity himself, yet he held to his first
impression. "I admit," he said, hesitatingly, "that it was not the wisest
course on Mara's part, yet often the best people, especially when young,
ardent, and a little morbid, are led by the noblest motives to do what is
unwise and scarcely right. Mara is not an ordinary girl, and cannot be
judged by common standards. Be assured, she would die rather than deceive
you to your harm, but a purpose to do you good might confuse both her
judgment and conscience, especially if it involved self-sacrifice on her
part. You must not blame me if I wish to be more thoroughly convinced.
Yes, you can ask Cousin Sophy's opinion if you wish."
"Then come with me, papa, and state your case as strongly as you can. I'd
rather go hungry than go forward another step if you are right."
The wise old lady, who could talk by the hour on most occasions, listened
to both sides of the question and then remarked with sphinx-like
ambiguity. "Your father, Ella, has obtained a remarkably correct idea of
Mara's character. You know I told her in your hearing that she had a
passion for self-sacrifice, and was prone to take a morbid sense of duty.
At the same time, I do not by any means say he is right in this particular
instance. Mara is coming this evening--let her satisfy you both in her own
way. I have my opinion, but would rather she would make the matter plain
to you."
The shrewd old lady, to whom the wheels of time often seemed to move
slowly, was bent on a bit of drama at her own fireside, at the same time
believing that a word, a tone, or even a glance from the young girl
herself would have more power to banish the captain's doubts than anything
she could say. "And yet," thought Mrs. Bodine, "Mara is capable of just
this very kind of dissimulation."
Evening in the South differs slightly from our late afternoon, and the sun
was scarcely below the horizon when Mara arrived under the escort of Mrs.
Hunter, who had also been invited. Therefore Ella in her feverish
impatience had not long to wait.
Mrs. Bodine's simple meal was over, and after having had a fire lighted on
the parlor hearth, she had ensconced herself in a low rocking-chair in
readiness to receive her guests. There was a sort of stately cordiality in
the meeting between her and Mrs. Hunter, quiet courtesy on the part of
Captain Bodine toward all, while honest Ella could not banish a slight
constraint from her manner. Mara gradually became conscious of this and
wondered at it. She also soon observed that no reference was made to the
compact of the morning, and this perplexed her still more.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bodine, having all the dramatis personae about her, was
complacency embodied, and not averse to taking a part in the little play
herself. She managed at first that the conversation should be general. She
serenely indulged in reminiscences which waked others from Mrs. Hunter,
and even the captain was beguiled into half-humorous old-time anecdotes
about some one they all knew.
"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, sighing, "that--oh, good gracious! what
was I going to say? Cousin Hugh, you can remember that my most excellent
husband accustomed me to rather strong adjectives. Well, that hardhearted
old wretch, Mr. Houghton, eventually got all the property of the poor man
we were talking about."
"Did he?" said the captain, quietly. "Well, I reckon I'll get some of it
back again."
"You? I'd like to know how. He'd take your head off at one bite if he
could."
"I reckon he would; he looked so inclined this morning. I spent half an
hour alone with him this morning, and am going to work for him to-morrow."
The general exclamations amounted to a chorus, and Mrs. Hunter, bridling,
began formally and almost severely, "Pardon me, Captain Bodine, I do not
wish to be presuming or officious, but I fear you have been absent from
the city so long that you are not aware of the general estimation in which
this Northern carpet-bagger is held."
"I certainly have had a chance to form my own opinion of him, Mrs. Hunter,
and I reckon that he and I will not be any better friends than he and you
would be."
"Friends," ejaculated the old lady, "I could annihilate him. Oh, Captain
Bodine, believe me, you have made a mistake. What will be left of our past
if the best and bravest of our number strike hands with these vampires of
the North?"
"I have not struck hands with him, nor do I ever expect to."
"Hugh, Cousin Hugh," protested Mrs. Bodine, "I don't understand this move
at all."
"Papa," cried Ella, with her arms about his neck, "you have done this for
my sake, so do please give it up for my sake. Some other way will be
provided for us."
"Mara, are you, too, down on me?"
"No, sir, never; but I'll share my last crust with you if you will have
nothing to do with that man."
"I thought so, you brave, generous girl. That was like your father, and
reminds me of a bit of experience. We were on a forced march, and the
provision train had not kept up. It was night, and we were too weary to
hunt around for a morsel. Wallingford (he was major then) came to me and
said, 'Bodine, I've a hard tack and one cup of coffee. We'll go halves,'
and so we did. He was so impolite as to take his half first. Do you know
why?"
"I can guess," she replied with downcast brimming eyes.
"I reckon you can--you of all others; but he didn't succeed. I turned on
him in mock severity and remarked, 'Major Wallingford, I never thought you
would try to overreach an old friend. See, you have scarcely taken over a
third of the coffee and hard tack.' He slapped me on the back and declared
he would have me arrested for insubordinate and disrespectful language.
Considering what sleepy, jaded men we were, we had a lot of fun over that
meagre banquet, but he had to yield even if he were my superior. I fear
you are inclined to go halves just like your father."
"Well, Hugh," cried Mrs. Bodine impatiently, "even that is better than
your taking whatever this--this--I want an adjective that is not too
wicked."
"No matter, Cousin Sophy, we'll each supply one according to our own
degree of wickedness. A Yankee would say 'darned' though, confound the
fellows, they seem to learn to fight and swear in equal degrees."
"I won't say 'darned,'" said the old lady, almost trembling in her
irritation and excitement, for she was being treated to more of a drama
than she had bargained for. "It is a word I never heard my husband use.
Bah! all words are inadequate. I say anything is better than that you
should go to this old Houghton for what little he may choose to give you."
"Now, I appeal to you, Mara--is this fair, four against one?"
"But, dear Captain Bodine, you don't know how deeply we feel about this."
"Ah, that is the charge our enemies bring against us. We _feel_, but don't
reason, they say. We have much reason to retort, 'You reason, but have no
feeling and little comprehension for those that have.' Come, I will be
serious now," and his expression became grave and firm. "Cousin Sophy, Mr.
Houghton will never give me a penny, nor would I take a gift from him even
if starving, yet I have a genuine respect for the man. Let me, as a
soldier, illustrate my course, and then I will explain more fully. Suppose
I was on a march and was hungry. On one hand were ample provisions in the
camp of the enemy; on the other a small farmhouse occupied by friends who
had already been robbed of nearly all they had. If I went to these friends
they would, as Mara has said, share their last crust. Do you not think it
would be more in accordance with the feelings of a man to make a dash at
the enemy's overflowing larder, and not only get what I needed but also
bring away something for my impoverished friends? I reckon it would. I
much prefer spoiling the Egyptians, cost me what it may. My dear child,"
turning to Mara, "do you think I would take half your crust when I know
you need the whole of it? No, indeed. Then you must remember that we got
in the habit of living off the enemy during the war. To drop all this
figurative talk, let me put the matter in plain English, as I did to Mr.
Houghton this morning. We had a pretty hot action, I can tell you. There
was no compromise in word or manner on either side, but he listened to
reason, and so will you. Pick out your most blue-blooded, stanchest South
Carolinians, in the city, and they deal with Mr. Houghton. They sell to
him; they buy of him, and there it all ends. I have no cotton to sell, but
I told him to regard my labor as a bale of cotton and to buy it, if he so
wished, at what it was worth. I also told him that apart from our business
relations we would be strangers, so you see I am neither better nor worse,
practically, no different from other Charlestonians."
Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair, and laughed till the tears came into
her eyes. "I do declare," she gasped: "God made men different from women,
and I reckon He knew what He was about. I surrender, Cousin Hugh. Your
argument has blown me out of the water. Spoil this old Egyptian to your
heart's content, only remember when there are no Egyptians to spoil, if
you don't come to your friends you will have one savage old woman to deal
with."
Mrs. Hunter shook her head dubiously. "I don't know what to think of all
this," she said. "It appears to me that it tends to break down the
partition wall between us and those from whom we have received wrongs
which should never be forgiven."
"My dear Mrs. Hunter," replied the captain, urbanely, "the more the
partition wall is broken down in one sense, the better. Isn't it wiser for
me to get money out of Mr. Houghton than to sulk and starve? I _had_ to
break through the wall to get bread. Of course," he added quietly, "we all
understand one another. My military figures of speech must not be pressed
too far. I do not propose to knock Mr. Houghton on the head, or even take
the smallest possible advantage of him. On the contrary, because we are
hostile, I shall be over-scrupulous, if possible, to do his work well.
From him, as I told him, I expect not the slightest allowance,
consideration, or kindness."
"Oh," thought Mara, "how clearly he has put my own thought and wish. Why
could not Owen Clancy have earned his own bread and mine by taking the
course of this brave Southern man? I have been shown to-night how noble,
how dignified and how easy it was. Why should he talk of love when he will
not see what is so reasonable in the action of another?"
"Cousin Hugh, you said one thing which needs explanation. You said you had
a respect for this man floughton, who we all know has not a particle of
good-will toward us."
"Chiefly because he is such an honest enemy," Bodine replied. "He makes
hard bargains with our people when he can, but have you ever heard of his
cheating or doing anything underhand? I learned a good deal about his
business character while in Georgia, and his course to-day corresponded
with what I had been told. Moreover, his feelings got the better of him,
and he revealed in one passionate sentence that his eldest son was killed,
and, as he says, lies at the bottom of our harbor here. This fact enabled
me to stand better what I had to take from him," and in answer to his
cousin's questions he revealed the substance of the interview. "I do
this," he concluded, "that you and other friends may better understand my
course. To-morrow Mr. Houghton becomes my employer, and I shall owe a
certain kind of loyalty. The more seldom we mention his name thereafter,
the better; and I shall never speak of him except in terms of cold
respect."
"Since you have told me about his son," said Mrs. Bodine, "I won't avail
myself of the privilege of freeing my mind to-night, even if it will be my
last chance, that is when you are present. After all, why should I berate
him? In one aspect he is to me a sort of ogre representing all that is
harsh, intolerant and cruel, rejoicing in his power to drain the
life-blood of a conquered and impoverished people; yet he rose before me
as you spoke as a heartbroken father, warped and made unnatural by pain,
haunted by the ghost of his son whom his arms cannot embrace. Sometimes
when thinking alone, the people of the world seem like a lot of squabbling
children, with only degrees of badness and goodness between them. Children
make no allowances for each other. It is like or dislike, quick and
manifested. It is well there is a Heavenly Father over all who may lead
one and all of us 'to make up' some day. I tell you what it is, Hugh, we
may all have to shake hands in Heaven."
"Like enough, Cousin Sophy. In matters pertaining to Heaven you are a
better authority than I am."
"For very good reason. Heaven is nearest those who feel its need most. You
may think I am a queer Christian, and I sometimes think so myself--hating
some people as near as I dare, and calling old Houghton a wretch. Don't I
know about his heartache? Who better than I? God knows I would give his
son back to him if I could. God knows I can almost swear at him; He knows
also that if he were brought into this house wounded I'd nurse him with my
feeble hand as I would you, Cousin Hugh, but I would be apt to say when he
got well (and here came in her little chirping laugh), 'Good sir, I have
not the slightest objection to your going back to Massachusetts, bag and
baggage.' By the way, he has another son who has not been much in
Charleston--being educated at the North, they say. He must be a grown man
now. I was told that when here last he resented the fact bitterly that
there was some society in town which he could not enter."
"I reckon not," remarked Mrs. Hunter, grimly, and then followed some
desultory conversation between the two elder ladies.
As was frequently his custom--in common with men whose past is more than
their future promises to be--the captain had lapsed into a train of
thought which took him far away from present surroundings. He was roused
by Mrs. Hunter's preparations for departure, and looking suddenly at Mara,
saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He was at her side instantly,
and, taking her hand, asked gently, "What troubles you, my child?"
With bowed head she replied: "I understand you, Captain Bodine; your words
have made everything clear to me."
He still held her hand and thought a moment. "About Ella's coming to you?"
he asked.
"Yes, I'm not one of the Egyptians, but I'd so set my heart on it."
"Because of _your_ need, not Ella's?" again the captain queried, while his
grasp on her hand tightened.
"Oh, Captain Bodine, do you think I could deceive you or a girl like Ella
under any circumstances? If she did not come after to-day I feel that I
should give up in despair very soon. I do need help, and just such help to
body and mind as she can give me."
"Forgive me, Mara. The little story I told about your father explains why
I feared. But we will say no more about it. I would rather have Ella with
you than with any one else in the world."
"There," cried that buoyant young woman, "I knew I was right. Out of the
mouths of babes and sucklings you old people are destined to learn
wisdom."
"Well," said Mrs. Bodine, "I've had more drama tonight than I reckoned on,
and I haven't been leading lady either. Will the chief baker escort me to
the dining-room?"
After cake and cream, the captain escorted Mrs. Hunter and Mara home. He
detained the latter at the door a moment, and said gently, "Mara, shun the
chief danger of your life. Never be unfair to yourself."