she had paid half a hundred francs in Paris, and which she had carried
at the Tuileries.
“It is just in celebration of my home-coming,” she said to Arthur in
explanation, “and because we are going to have one of our old ‘soon in
the morning’ rides together.”
As she mounted, Dorothy turned to Dick and commanded:
“Turn the hounds loose, Dick, and put them on our track.” Then to
Arthur:
“It is a glorious morning, and I want the dogs to enjoy it.”
The horses were full of the enthusiasm of the morning. They broke at
once into a gallop, which neither of the riders was disposed to
restrain. Five minutes later the hounds, bellowing as they followed the
trail, overtook the riders. Dorothy brought her mare upon her haunches,
and greeted the dogs as they leaped to caress her hands. Then she
cracked her whip and blew her whistle, and sent the excited animals to
heel, with moans and complainings on their part that they were thus
banished from the immediate presence of their beloved mistress.
“Your dogs still love and obey you, Dorothy,” said Arthur as they
resumed their ride more soberly than before.
“Yes,” she answered. “They are better in that respect than women are.”
Arthur thought he understood. At any rate he accepted the remark as one
implying an apology, and he saw no occasion for apology.
“Never mind that,” he said. “A woman is entitled to her perfect freedom.
Every human being born into this world has an absolute right to do
precisely as he pleases, so long as in doing as he pleases he does not
trespass upon or abridge the equal right of any other human being to do
as he pleases. It is this equality of right that furnishes the
foundation of all moral codes which are worthy of respect. And this
equality of right belongs to women as fully as to men.”
“In a way, yes,” answered Dorothy. “Yet in another way, no. I control my
hounds, chiefly for their own good. My right to control them rests upon
my superior knowledge of what their conduct ought to be. It is the same
way with women. They do not know as much as men do, concerning what
their conduct ought to be. Take my dear mother’s case for example. If
she had frankly told my father that she could not be happy in the life
into which he had brought her, that in fact it tortured her, he would
have taken her away out of it. Her mistake was in taking the matter into
her own hands. She needed a master. She ought to have made my father
her master. She ought to have told him what she suffered, and why she
suffered. She ought to have trusted him to find the remedy. Instead of
that--well, you know the story. My father loved my mother with all his
soul. She loved him in return. He could have been her master, if he had
so willed. For when any woman loves any man that man has only to assume
that he is her master in order to be so, and in order to make her
supremely happy in his being so. If my father had understood that, there
would have been no stain upon me now.”
“What on earth do you mean, Dorothy?” asked Arthur, intensely, as the
girl broke into tears. “There is no stain upon you. I will horsewhip
anybody that shall so much as suggest such a thing.”
“Yes, I know. You are good and true always. But think of it, Cousin
Arthur. My mother is in hiding in Richmond, because of her shame. And my
father has posthumously insulted her--pure, clean woman that she is--and
insulted me, too, in my helplessness. Let me tell you all about it,
please. Oh, Cousin Arthur, you do not know how I have longed for an
opportunity to tell you! You alone of all people in this world are
broad enough to sympathize with me in my wretchedness. You alone are
true to Truth and Justice and Right. Let me tell you!”
“Tell me, Dorothy,” he answered tenderly. “I beg of you tell me
absolutely all that is in your mind. Tell me as freely as you told me
once why you marked a watermelon with my initials. But please, Dorothy,
do not tell me anything at all, unless you can put aside the strange
reserve that you have lately set up as a barrier between us, and talk to
me in the old, free, unconstrained way. It was in hope of that that I
asked you to take this ride.”
She replied, “I beg your pardon for that. I could not help the
constraint, and it pained me as greatly as it distressed you. We are
free now, on our horses. We can talk without restraint, and when we have
talked the matter out, perhaps you will understand. Listen, then!”
She waited a full minute, the horses walking meanwhile, before she
resumed. Finally Arthur said: “I am listening, Dorothy.”
Then she answered.
“My mother was never a bad woman, Arthur Brent. I want you to understand
that clearly before we go on. She abandoned my father because she could
not endure the life he provided for her. But she was always a pure
woman, in spite of all her surroundings and conditions. She offered
freedom to my father, but she asked no freedom for herself. She made no
complaint of him, and his memory is still to her the dearest thing on
earth. It is convention alone that censures her; convention alone that
forbids her to come to Pocahontas; convention alone that refuses to me
permission to love her openly as my mother and to honor her as such. If
I had my way, I should bring her to Pocahontas, and set up housekeeping
there; and I should send out a proclamation to everybody, saying in
effect: ‘My mother, Mrs. South, is with me. You who shall come promptly
to pay your respects to her, I will count my friends. All the rest shall
be my enemies.’ But that may not be. My mother forbids, and I bow to my
mother’s command. Then comes my father’s command, and to that I will
never bow.”
“What is it, Dorothy?”
“Aunt Polly has shown me his letter. He tells me that because of my
mother’s misbehavior, he has great fear on my account. He explains that
he forbids me to learn music because he thought it was music that led
my mother into wrong ways. He tells me that in order to preserve my
‘respectability’ he has arranged that I shall marry into a Virginia
family as good as my own, and as if to make the matter of my
inconsequence as detestably humiliating as possible he tells me as I
learned before and wrote to you from Paris, that he has betrothed me to
Jeff Peyton. If there had been any chance that I would submit to be thus
disposed of like a hogshead of tobacco or a carload of wheat, Jeff
Peyton’s conduct would have destroyed it. The last time I met him in
Europe you remember, he threatened me with this command of my father,
and I instantly ordered him out of my presence. He had the impudence to
come to Wyanoke last night--knowing that I was there, and that I was
acting as hostess. It was nearly as bad as if I had been entertaining at
Pocahontas. He made it worse by asking me if I had read my father’s
letter, and if I did not now realize the necessity of marrying him in
order that I might ally myself with a good Virginia family. He had just
finished that insolence when you made your little speech, not only
calling him a fool by plain implication, but proving him to be one.
That’s why I thanked you, as I did.”
“Yes, I quite understood that,” answered Arthur. “Let us run our horses
for a bit. I have a fancy to do that.”
Dorothy understood. She joined him in a quarter mile stretch, and then
he suddenly reined in his horse and faced her.
“It was right here, Dorothy, after a run like that,” he said, “that you
told me I might call you Dorothy. Now I ask you to let me call you
Wife.”
The girl hesitated. Presently she said:
“I have made up my mind to be perfectly true with you. I don’t know
whether I had thought of this or not, at any rate I have tried not to
think of it.”
“But now that I have forced the thought upon you, Dorothy? Is it yes, or
no?”
Again the girl paused in thought before answering. Her dogs, seeing that
she was paying no attention to them, broke away in pursuit of a hare.
She suddenly recovered her self-possession. She whistled through her
fingers to recall the hounds, and when they returned, crouching to
receive the punishment they knew they deserved, she bade them go to
heel, adding: “You’re naughty fellows, but you haven’t been kept under
control, and so I forgive you.” Then, turning to Arthur she said,
“Yes, Master.”
* * * * *
On their return to the house Arthur was mindful of his duty to Aunt
Polly, guardian of the person of Dorothy South, and, as such endowed
with authority to approve or forbid any marriage to which that eighteen
year old young person might be inclined, before attaining her twenty
first year.
“Aunt Polly!” he said abruptly, “I want your permission to marry
Dorothy.”
“Why of course, Arthur,” she replied. “That is what I have intended all
the time.”
* * * * *
It was four years later, in June, 1865. Arthur and Dorothy--with an
abiding consciousness of duty faithfully done--stood together in the
porch at Wyanoke. The war was over. Virginia was ruined beyond recovery.
All of evil that Arthur had foreseen, had been accomplished. “But the
good has also come,” said Dorothy as they talked. “Slavery is at an end.
You, Arthur, are free. You may again address yourself to your work in
the world without the embarrassment of other duty. Shall we go back to
New York?”
[Illustration: _“AUNT POLLY!” HE SAID ABRUPTLY, “I WANT YOUR PERMISSION
TO MARRY DOROTHY.”_]
“No, Dorothy. My work in life lies in the cradle in the chamber there,
where our two children sleep.”
“Thank you!” said Dorothy, and silence fell for a time.
Presently Dorothy added:
“And my mother’s work is done. It consoles me for all, when I remember
that she lies where she fell, a martyr. The stone under which she sleeps
is a rude one, but soldier hands have lovingly carved upon it the words:
‘MADAME LE SUD
THE ANGEL OF THE BATTLEFIELD.’”
Then Dorothy whistled, and Dick came in response.
“Bring the horses at six o’clock tomorrow, Dick, your master and I are
going to ride soon in the morning.”
THE END
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FOOTNOTES:
[A] The negroes always properly called this word “Voodoo.” Among
theatrical folk it has been strangely and senselessly corrupted into
“Hoodoo.” The negroes believed in the Voodoo as firmly as the player
people do.--AUTHOR.
[B] The court incident here related is a fact. The author of this book
was present in court when it occurred.--AUTHOR.
[C] This story of Robert Copeland is historical fact, except
for such disguises of name, etc. as are necessary under the
circumstances.--AUTHOR.
End of Project Gutenberg's Dorothy South, by George Cary Eggleston