← catalogue

The Earth Trembled

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #6719 · 775,030 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Earth Trembled
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Earth Trembled

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: October 1, 2004 [eBook #6719]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6719

Credits: Produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EARTH TREMBLED ***




Produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.











[Illustration: "Well Chile, Wot You Wants Ter Say?"]

The Works of E. P. Roe


_VOLUME FIFTEEN_


THE EARTH TREMBLED


ILLUSTRATED




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I
  MARY WALLINGFORD
CHAPTER II
  LOVE'S AGONY
CHAPTER III
  UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE
CHAPTER IV
  MARA
CHAPTER V
  PAST AND FUTURE
CHAPTER VI
  "PAHNASHIP"
CHAPTER VII
  MARA'S PURPOSE
CHAPTER VIII
  NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE
CHAPTER IX
  A NEW SOLACE
CHAPTER X
  MISS AINSLEY
CHAPTER XI
  TWO QUESTIONS
CHAPTER XII
  A "FABULATION"
CHAPTER XIII
  CAPTAIN BODINE
CHAPTER XIV
  "ALL GIRLS TOGETHER"
CHAPTER XV
  TWO LITTLE BAKERS
CHAPTER XVI
  HONEST FOES
CHAPTER XVII
  FIRESIDE DRAMAS
CHAPTER XVIII
  A FAIR DUELLIST
CHAPTER XIX
  A CHIVALROUS SURPRISE
CHAPTER XX
  THE STRANGER EXPLAINS
CHAPTER XXI
  UNCLE SHEBA SAT UPON
CHAPTER XXII
  YOUNG HOUGHTON IS DISCUSSED
CHAPTER XXIII
  THE WARNING
CHAPTER XXIV
  "THE IDEA!"
CHAPTER XXV
  FEMININE FRIENDS
CHAPTER XXVI
  ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT
CHAPTER XXVII
  RECOGNIZED AS LOVER
CHAPTER XXVIII
  "HEAVEN SPEED YOU THEN"
CHAPTER XXIX
  CONSTERNATION
CHAPTER XXX
  TEMPESTS
CHAPTER XXXI
  "I ABSOLVE YOU"
CHAPTER XXXII
  FALSE SELF-SACRIFICE
CHAPTER XXXIII
  A SURE TEST
CHAPTER XXXIV
  "BITTERNESS MUST BE CHERISHED"
CHAPTER XXXV
  NOBLE REVENGE
CHAPTER XXXVI
  A FATHER'S FRENZY
CHAPTER XXXVII
  CLOUDS LIFTING
CHAPTER XXXVIII
  "YES, VILET"
CHAPTER XXXIX
  THE EARTHQUAKE
CHAPTER XL
  "GOD"
CHAPTER XLI
  SCENES NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN
CHAPTER XLII
  A HOMELESS CITY
CHAPTER XLIII
  "THE TERROR BY NIGHT"
CHAPTER XLIV
  HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD
CHAPTER XLV
  A CITY ENCAMPING
CHAPTER XLVI
  "ON JORDAN'S BANKS WE STAN'"
CHAPTER XLVII
  LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF A NIGHT
CHAPTER XLVIII
  GOOD BROUGHT OUT OF EVIL




THE EARTH TREMBLED




THE EARTH TREMBLED


CHAPTER I

MARY WALLINGFORD


At the beginning of the Civil War there was a fine old residence on
Meeting Street in Charleston, South Carolina, inhabited by a family almost
as old as the State. Its inheritor and owner, Orville Burgoyne, was a
widower. He had been much saddened in temperament since the death of the
wife, and had withdrawn as far as possible from public affairs. His
library and the past had secured a stronger hold upon his interest and his
thoughts than anything in the present, with one exception, his idolized
and only child, Mary, named for her deceased mother. Any book would be
laid aside when she entered; all gloom banished from his eyes when she
coaxed and caressed him.

She was in truth one to be loved because so capable of love herself. She
conquered and ruled every one not through wilfulness or imperiousness, but
by a gentle charm, all her own, which disarmed opposition.

At first Mr. Burgoyne had paid little heed to the mutterings which
preceded the Civil War, believing them to be but Chinese thunder, produced
by ambitious politicians, North and South. He was preoccupied by the study
of an old system of philosophy which he fancied possessed more truth than
many a more plausible and modern one. Mary, with some fancy work in her
hands, often watched his deep abstraction in wondering awe, and
occasionally questioned him in regard to his thoughts and studies; but as
his explanations were almost unintelligible, she settled down to the
complacent belief that her father was one of the most learned men in the
world.

At last swiftly culminating events aroused Mr. Burgoyne from his
abstraction and drove him from his retirement. He accepted what he
believed to be duty in profound sorrow and regret. His own early
associations and those of his ancestors had been with the old flag and its
fortunes; his relations to the political leaders of the South were too
slight to produce any share in the alienation and misunderstandings which
had been growing between the two great sections of his country, and he
certainly had not the slightest sympathy with those who had fomented the
ill-will for personal ends. Finally, however, he had found himself face to
face with the momentous certainty of a separation of his State from the
Union. For a time he was bewildered and disturbed beyond measure; for he
was not a prompt man of affairs, living keenly in the present, but one who
had been suddenly and rudely summoned from the academic groves of the old
philosophers to meet the burning imperative questions of the
day--questions put with the passionate earnestness of a people excited
beyond measure.

It was this very element of popular feeling which finally turned the scale
in his decision. Apparently the entire Southern people were unanimous in
their determination "to be free" and to separate themselves from their old
political relations. His pastor with all other friends of his own rank
confirmed this impression, and, as it was known that he wavered, the best
and strongest men of his acquaintance argued the question with him. His
daughter was early carried away by the enthusiasm of her young companions,
nevertheless she watched the conflict in her father's mind with the
deepest interest. She often saw him walk the floor with unwonted tears in
his eyes and almost agony on his brow; and when at last, he decided in
accordance with the prevailing sentiment of his State, the Act of
Secession and all that it involved became sacred in her thoughts.

She trembled and shrank when the phase of negotiation passed away, and war
was seen to be the one alternative to submission. She never doubted or
hesitated, however; neither did her father after his mind was once made
up. Every day the torrent of bitter feeling deepened and broadened between
them and the North, of which, practically, they knew very little. Even
such knowledge as they possessed had come through distorted mediums, and
now everything was colored by the blackest prejudice. They were led to
believe and made to feel that not only their possessions but their life
and honor were at stake. In early years Mr. Burgoyne had served with
distinction in the war with Mexico, and he therefore promptly received a
commission.

The effect of her father's decision and action had been deepened a
hundred-fold by an event which occurred soon afterward. Among the
thousands who thronged to Charleston when Fort Sumter was attacked, was
the son of a wealthy planter residing in the interior of the State. This
young soldier's enthusiasm and devotion were much bruited in the city,
because, waiving wealth and rank, he had served as a private. His
fearlessness at Fort Moultrie enhanced his reputation, and when the small
garrison of heroes, commanded by Major Anderson, succumbed, Sidney
Wallingford found that he had been voted a hero himself, especially by his
fair compatriots with whom he had formerly danced when visiting the town.

The young fellow's head was not easily turned, however, for when, at an
evening gathering, a group was lauding the great achievement he said
disdainfully, "What! thousands against seventy? Despise the Yankees as we
may, the odds were too great. The only thing we can plume ourselves upon
is that we would have fought just the same had the seventy been seven
thousand. I think the fellows did splendidly, if they were Yankees, yet
what else could we expect since their commander was a Southern man? Oh no!
we must wait till the conditions are more even before we can exult over
our victories. I reckon we'll have them all the same though."

Murmurs of approbation followed these remarks, but he saw only the
eloquent eyes of Mary Burgoyne, and, offering her his arm, led her away.

The spring night was as warm as a June evening at the North, and they
joined the groups that were strolling under the moonlight in the garden.

Sidney felt the young girl's hand tremble on his arm, and he drew it
closer to his side. She soon asked falteringly, "Mr. Wallingford, do you
think--will the conditions become more even, as you suggested? Can it be
that the North will be so carried away by this abolition fanaticism as to
send armies and ships in the vain effort to subjugate us?"

"Thank you, Miss Mary, for saying that it will be a 'vain effort.'"

"Of course it will be, with such men as my father and"--she suddenly
hesitated.

"And who else?" he gently asked, trying to look into her averted face.

"Oh--well," she stammered with a forced little laugh, "thousands of brave
fellows like you. You do not answer my question. Are we to have anything
like a general war? Surely, there ought to be enough good, wise men on
both sides to settle the matter."

"The matter might be settled easily enough," he replied lightly. "We know
our rights, and shall firmly assert them. If the Yankees yield, all well;
if not, we'll make 'em."

"But making them may mean a great war?"

"Oh, yes, some serious scrimmages I reckon. We're prepared however, and
will soon bring the North to its senses."

"If anything should happen to my father!" she sighed.

He had led her beneath the shadow of a palmetto, and now breathed into her
ear, "Mary, dear Mary, how much I'd give to hear you say in the same tone,
'If anything should happen to Sidney'!" She did not withdraw her hand from
his arm, and he again felt it tremble more than before. "Mary," he
continued earnestly, "I have asked your father if I might speak to you,
and he did not deny me the privilege. Oh, Mary, you must have seen my love
in my eyes and heard it in my tones long since. Mary," he concluded
impetuously, "let me but feel that I am defending you as well as my State,
and I can and will be a soldier in very truth."

She suddenly turned and sobbed on his shoulder, "That's what I fear,--I
can hide my secret from you no longer--that's what I fear. Those I love
will be exposed to sudden and terrible death. I am not brave at all."

"Shall I go home and plant cotton?" he asked, half jestingly.

"No, no, a thousand times no," she cried passionately. "Have I not seen
the deep solemnity with which my father accepted duty so foreign to his
tastes and habits? Can you think I would wish you to shrink or fail--you
who are so strong and brave? No, no, in very truth. Self must mean only
self-sacrifice until our sacred cause is won. Yet think twice, Sidney,
before you bind yourself to me. I fear I am not so brave as other women
appear to be in these times. My heart shrinks unspeakably from war and
bloodshed. Although I shall not falter, I shall suffer agonies of dread. I
cannot let you go to danger with stern words and dry eyes. I fear you'll
find me too weak to be a soldier's wife."

He led her into deeper and shadier seclusion as he asked, "Do you think
I'll hesitate because you have a heart in your bosom instead of a stone?
No, my darling. We must keep a brave aspect to the world, but my heart is
as tender toward you as yours toward me. What else in God's universe could
I dread more than harm to you? But there is little cause to fear. The
whole South will soon be with us, foreign nations will recognize us as an
independent people, and then we will dictate our own terms of peace; then
you shall be my bride in this, our proud city by the sea."

He kissed away her tears, and they strolled through the shadowy walks
until each had regained the composure essential in the bright
drawing-rooms.

A commission with the rank of captain was speedily offered young
Wallingford. He accepted it, but said he would return home and raise his
own company. This action was also applauded by his friends and the
authorities. Mary saw her father smile approvingly and proudly upon her
choice, and he became her ideal hero as well as lover.

He fulfilled his promises, and before many weeks passed, re-entered
Charleston with a hundred brave fellows, devoted to him. The company was
incorporated into one of the many regiments forming, and Mr. Burgoyne
assured his daughter that the young captain was sure of promotion, and
would certainly make a thorough soldier.

Even in those early and lurid days a few things were growing clear, and
among them was the fact that the North would not recognize the doctrine of
State Rights, nor peaceably accept the Act of Secession. Soldiers would be
needed,--how long no one knew, for the supreme question of the day had
passed from the hands of statesmen to those of the soldier. The lack of
mutual knowledge, the misapprehension and the gross prejudices existing
between the two sections, would have been ludicrous had they not been
fraught with such long-continued woes. Southern papers published such
stuff as this: "The Northern soldiers are men who prefer enlisting to
starvation; scurvy fellows from the back slums of cities, with whom
Falstaff would not have marched through Coventry. Let them come South, and
we will put our negroes at the dirty work of killing them. But they will
not come South. Not a wretch of them will live on this side of the border
longer than it will take us to reach the ground and drive them off." The
Northern press responded in kind: "No man of sense," it was declared,
"could for a moment doubt that this much-ado-about-nothing would end in a
month. The Northern people are simply invincible. The rebels, a mere band
of ragamuffins, will fly like chaff before the wind on our approach." Thus
the wretched farces of bluster continued on either side until in blood,
agony, and heartbreak, Americans learned to know Americans.

President Lincoln, however, had called out seventy-five thousand troops,
and these men were not long in learning that they could not walk over the
South in three months. The South also discovered that these same men could
not be terrified into abandoning the attempt. There were thoughtful men on
both sides who early began to recognize the magnitude of the struggle upon
which they had entered. Among these was Major Burgoyne, and the
presentiment grew upon him that he would not see the end of the conflict.
When, therefore, impetuous young Wallingford urged that he might call Mary
his wife before he marched to distant battlefields, the father yielded,
feeling that it might be well for her to have another protector besides
himself. The union was solemnized in old St. Michael's Church, where
Mary's mother and grandmother had been married before her; a day or two of
quiet and happiness was vouchsafed, and then came the tidings of the first
great battle of the war. Charleston responded with acclamations of
triumph; bells sent out their merriest peals; cannon thundered from every
fort on the harbor, but Mary wept on her husband's breast. Among the
telegrams of victory had come an order for his regiment to go North
immediately. Not even a brief honeymoon was permitted to her.




CHAPTER II

LOVE'S AGONY


As the exaggerated reports of a magnificent Confederate victory at Bull
Run continued to pour in, Major Burgoyne shared for a time in the general
elation, believing that independence, recognition abroad, and peace had
been virtually secured. All the rant about Northern cowardice appeared to
be confirmed, and he eagerly waited for the announcement that Washington
had been captured by Johnston's victorious army.

Instead, came the dismal tidings from his only sister that her husband,
Captain Hunter, had been killed in the battle over which he had been
rejoicing. Then for some mysterious reason the Southern army did not
follow the Federals, who had left the field in such utter rout and panic.
It soon appeared that the contending forces were occupying much the same
positions as before. News of the second great uprising of the North
followed closely, and presaged anything but a speedy termination of the
conflict. Major Burgoyne was not a Hotspur, and he grew thoughtful and
depressed in spirit, although he sedulously concealed the fact from his
associates. The shadow of coming events began to fall upon him, and his
daughter gradually divined his lack of hopefulness. The days were already
sad and full of anxiety, for her husband was absent. He had scouted the
idea of the Yankees standing up before the impetuous onset of the Southern
soldiers, and his words had apparently proved true, yet even those
Northern cowards had killed one closely allied to her before they fled.
Remembering, therefore, her husband's headlong courage, what assurance of
his safety could she have although victory followed victory?

Major Burgoyne urged his widowed sister to leave her plantation in the
charge of an overseer and make her home with him. "You are too near the
probable theatre of military operations to be safe," he wrote, "and my
mind cannot rest till you are with us in this city which we are rapidly
making impregnable." The result was that she eventually became a member of
his family. Her stern, sad face added to the young wife's depression, for
the stricken woman had been rendered intensely bitter by her loss. Mary
was too gentle in nature to hate readily, yet wrathful gleams would be
emitted at times even from her blue eyes, as her aunt inveighed in her
hard monotone against the "monstrous wrong of the North." They saw their
side with such downright sincerity and vividness that the offenders
appeared to be beyond the pale of humanity. Few men, even though the
frosts of many winters had cooled their blood and ripened their judgment,
could reason dispassionately in those days, much less women, whose hearts
were kept on the rack of torture by the loss of dear ones or the dread of
such loss.

It is my purpose to dwell upon the war, its harrowing scenes and intense
animosities, only so far as may be essential to account for my characters
and to explain subsequent events. The roots of personality strike deep,
and the taproot, heredity, runs back into the being of those who lived and
suffered before we were born.

Gentle Mary Burgoyne should have been part of a happier day and
generation. The bright hopes of a speedily conquered peace were dying
away; the foolish bluster on both sides at the beginning of the war had
ceased, and the truth so absurdly ignored at first, that Americans, North
and South, would fight with equal courage, was made clearer by every
battle. The heavy blows received by the South, however, did not change her
views as to the wisdom and righteousness of her cause, and she continued
to return blows at which the armies of the North reeled, stunned and
bleeding. Mary was not permitted to exult very long, however, for the
terrible pressure was quickly renewed with an unwavering pertinacity which
created misgivings in the stoutest hearts. The Federals had made a strong
lodgment on the coast of her own State, and were creeping nearer and
nearer, often repulsed yet still advancing as if impelled by the
remorseless principle of fate.

At last, in the afternoon of a day early in April, events occurred never
to be forgotten by those who witnessed them. Admiral Dupont with his
armored ships attempted to reduce Fort Sumter and capture the city.
Thousands of spectators watched the awful conflict; Mary Wallingford and
her aunt, Mrs. Hunter, among them. The combined roar of the guns exceeded
all the thunder they had ever heard. About three hundred Confederate
cannon were concentrated on the turreted monitors, and some of the
commanders said that "shot struck the vessels as fast as the ticking of a
watch." It would seem that the ships which appeared so diminutive in the
distance must be annihilated, yet Mary with her powerful glass saw them
creep nearer and nearer. It was their shots, not those of her friends,
that she watched with agonized absorption, for every tremendous bolt was
directed against the fort in which was her father.

The conflict was too unequal; the bottom of the harbor was known to be
paved with torpedoes, and in less than an hour Dupont withdrew his
squadron in order to save it from destruction.

In strong reaction from intense excitement, Mary's knees gave way, and she
sank upon them in thankfulness to God. Her aunt supported her to her room,
gave restoratives, and the daughter in deep anxiety waited for tidings
from her father. He did not come to her; he was brought, and there settled
down upon her young life a night of grief and horror which no words can
describe. While he was sighting a gun, it had been struck by a shell from
the fleet, and when the smoke of the explosion cleared away he was seen
among the debris, a mangled and unconscious form. He was tenderly taken
up, and after the conflict ended, conveyed to his home. On the way thither
he partially revived, but reason was gone. His eyes were scorched and
blinded, his hearing destroyed by the concussion, and but one lingering
thought survived in the wreck of his mind. In a plaintive and almost
childlike tone he continually uttered the words, "I was only trying to
defend my city and my home."

Hour after hour he repeated this sentence, deaf to his child's entreaties
for recognition and a farewell word. His voice grew more and more feeble
until he could only whisper the sad refrain; at last his lips moved but
there was no sound; then he was still.

For a time it seemed as if Mary would soon follow him, but her aunt, her
white face tearless and stern, bade her live for her husband and her
unborn child. These sacred motives eventually enabled her to rally, but
her heart now centred its love on her husband with an intensity which made
her friends tremble for her future. His visits had been few and brief, and
she lived upon his letters. When they were delayed, her eyes had a hunted,
agonized look which even her stoical aunt could not endure.

One day about midsummer she found the stricken wife, unconscious upon the
floor with the daily paper in her clenched hand. When at last the
physician had brought back feeble consciousness and again banished it by
the essential opiate, Mrs. Hunter read the paragraph which, like a bolt,
had struck down her niece. It was from an account of a battle in which the
Confederates had been worsted and were being driven from a certain vantage
point. "At this critical moment," ran the report, "Colonel Wallingford,
with his thinned regiment, burst through the crowd of fugitives rushing
down the road, and struck the pursuing enemy such a stinging blow as to
check its advance. If the heroic colonel and his little band could only
have been supported at this instant the position might have been regained.
As it was, they were simply overwhelmed as a slight obstacle is swept away
by a torrent. But few escaped; some were captured, while the colonel and
the majority were struck down, trampled upon and fairly obliterated as the
Northern horde of infantry and artillery swept forward all the more
impetuously. The check was of very great advantage, however, for it gave
our vastly outnumbered troops more time to rally in a stronger position."

This brief paragraph contained the substance of all that was ever learned
of the young husband, and his mangled remains filled an unknown grave. His
wife had received the blow direct, and she never rallied. Week after week
she moaned and wept upon her bed when the physician permitted
consciousness. Even in the deep sleep produced by opiates, she would
shudder at the sound of Gilmore's guns as they thundered against Forts
Sumter and Wagner. A faithful colored woman who had been a slave in the
family from infancy watched unweariedly beside her, giving place only to
the stern-visaged aunt, whose touch and words were gentle, but who had
lost the power to disguise the bitterness of her heart. She tried to
awaken maternal instincts in the wife, but in vain, for there are wounds
of the spirit, like those of the body, which are fatal. All efforts to
induce the widow to leave the city, already within reach of the Federal
guns, were unavailing, and she was the more readily permitted to have her
own way, because, in the physician's opinion, the attempt would prove
fatal.

Meanwhile her time was drawing near. One August night she was dozing, and
moaning in her sleep, when suddenly there was a strange, demoniac shriek
through the air followed by an explosion which in the still night was
terrifically loud. The invalid started up and looked wildly at her sable
nurse, who was trembling like a leaf.

"O Lawd hab mercy, Missus," she exclaimed. "Dem Yankees shellin' de town."

Mrs. Hunter was instantly at the bedside. The faithful doctor came
hurriedly of his own accord, and employed all his skill.

A few hours later Mrs. Hunter tried to say cheerily, "Come, Mary, here is
a fine little girl for you to love and live for."

"Aunty," said the mother calmly, "I am dying. Let me see my child and kiss
her. Then put her next my heart till it is cold."

Mrs. Hunter lifted her startled eyes to the physician, who sadly nodded
his head in acquiescence. In a few moments more the broken heart found
healing far beyond all human passion and strife.

With hot, yet tearless eyes, and a face that appeared to be chiselled from
marble in its whiteness and rigidity, the aunt took up the child. Her tone
revealed the indescribable intensity of her feelings as she said, "Thy
name is Mara--bitterness."




CHAPTER III

UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE


Many years have elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter
occurred, and the thread of story is taken up again in the winter of 1886.
In a small dwelling, scarcely more than a cabin, and facing on an obscure
alley in Charleston, a rotund colored woman of uncertain age is sitting by
the fire with her husband. She is a well-known character in the city, for
she earns her bread by selling cakes, fruits, and other light articles
which may be vended in the street with chances of profit. Although "Aun'
Sheba," as she was familiarly called, had received no training for
mercantile pursuits, yet her native shrewdness had enabled her to hit upon
the principles of success, as may be discovered by the reader as the story
progresses. She had always been so emphatically the master of the house
and the head of the family, that her husband went by the name of "Uncle
Sheba." It must be admitted that the wife shared in the popular opinion of
her husband.

When in an amiable mood, which, happily, was her usual condition of mind,
she addressed him as "Unc.;" when some of his many short-comings exhausted
her good-nature--for Aun' Sheba had more good-nature than patience--he was
severely characterized as "Mr. Buggone." Since they had been brought up in
Major Burgoyne's family, they felt entitled to his surname, and by
evolution it had become "Buggone." Uncle Sheba's heart failed him when his
wife addressed him by this title, for he knew he was beyond the dead line
of safety. They dwelt alone in the cabin, their several children, with one
exception, having been scattered they knew not where. Adjacent was another
cabin, owned by a son-in-law, named Kern Watson, who had married their
youngest daughter years before, and he was the pride of Aun' Sheba's
heart. Uncle Sheba felt that he was not appreciated, or perhaps
appreciated too well, by his son-in-law, and their intercourse was rather
formal.

On the evening in question, supper was over, but the table had not yet
been cleared. Uncle Sheba was a good deal of an epicure, and, having left
not a scrap of what his wife had vouchsafed to him, was now enjoying his
corn-cob pipe. Aun' Sheba also liked a good square meal as much as any
one, and she had the additional satisfaction that she had earned it. At
this hour of the day she was usually very tired, and was accustomed to
take an hour's rest before putting her living-room in order for the night.
Although the twilight often fell before she returned from her mercantile
pursuits, she never intrusted Uncle Sheba with the task of getting supper,
and no housekeeper in the city kept her provisions under lock and key more
rigorously than did Aun' Sheba. After repeated trials, she had come to a
decision. "Mr. Buggone," she had said in her sternest tones, "you's wuss
dan poah white trash when you gets a chance at de cubbard. Sence I can't
trus' you nohow, I'se gwine to gib you a 'lowance. You a high ole
Crischun, askin' for you'se daily bread, an' den eatin' up 'nuff fer a
week."

Uncle Sheba often complained that he was "skimped," but his appearance did
not indicate any meagreness in his "'lowance," and he had accepted his lot
in this instance, as in others, rather than lose the complacent
consciousness that he was provided for without much effort on his part.

Supper was Aun' Sheba's principal meal, and she practically dined at the
fashionable hour of six. What she termed her dinner was a very uncertain
affair. Sometimes she swallowed it hastily at "Ole Tobe's rasteran," as
she termed the eating-room kept by a white-woolled negro; again she would
"happen in" on a church sister, when, in passing, the odor of some cookery
was appetizing. She always left, however, some compensation from her
basket, and so was not unwelcome. Not seldom, also, a lady or a citizen
who knew her well and the family to which she had once belonged, would
tell her to go to the kitchen. On such days Aun' Sheba's appetite flagged
at supper, a fact over which her husband secretly rejoiced, since his
allowance was almost double.

She was now resting after the fatigues of the day, and the effort to get
and dispose of a very substantial supper, and was puffing at her pipe in a
meditative aspect. Evidently something unusual was on her mind, and she at
last ejaculated, "I know dey'se poah."

"Who's?" languidly queried Uncle Sheba.

"Oh, you'd neber fin' out. Dey'd starve long o' you."

"I dunno who dey is. What 'casion I got to pervide for dey?"

"Ha, ha, ha, Unc.! You'se a great pervider. Somehow or oder I'se got de
notion dat you'se a 'sumer."

"I bress de Lawd my appetite am' failin' in spite ob de rheumatiz."

"If you rheumatiz was only in you jints, dere'd be a comfort in keerin'
fer you, Unc., but it's in you min'."

"You'll cotch it some day, an' den you know what 'tis. But who's dey dat
you got on you min'?"

"Why, de young Missy and de ole Missus to be sho'."

"I don't see how dey can be poah. Dey mus' hab kep' someting out all dey
had."

"So dey did, but it wan't much, an' I jus' b'lebe it's clar dun gone!"

"What! de plantation in Virginny all gone?"

"How often I tole you, Unc., dat I heard ole Missus say herself dat
plantation was all trompl'd in de groun' an' what was lef' was took fer
taxes."

"I forgits," remarked Uncle Sheba, his eyes growing heavy in his lack of
interest; "but ole Marse Wallingford mus' hab lef' de widder ob his son
someting."

"Now look heah, Unc., you'se haf asleep. You'se 'lowance too hebby dis
ebenin'. How you forgit when I tell you ober an' ober? You doan keer.
Dat's de foot de shoe's on. You know ole Marse Wallingford's plantation
was trompl'd in de groun' too--not a stick or stone lef' by Sherman's
sogers."

"Well, dey sole dere fine house on Meetin' Street, an' dat mus' a brought
a heap," protested Uncle Sheba, rousing himself a little.

"Mighty little arter de mor'giges an' taxes was paid. Didn't I help dem
pack up what dey tink dey could sabe, and see poah Missy Mara wrung her
han's as she gib up dis ting an' dat ting till at las' she cry right out,
'Mought as well gib up eberyting. Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did
all our folks?' You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he
was like de Moses in de Bible--dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled
people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an'
whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he
secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town. Dey wouldn't
lebe a brick heah ef dey could take dem off. He'n his tribe got away wid
'bout all ole Missus' and young Missus' prop'ty in my 'pinion. Anyhow I
feels it in my bones dey's poah, an' I mus' try an' fin' out. Dey's so
proud dey'd starbe fore dey'd let on."

"'Spose you does fin' out, what kin you do? You gwine ter buy back de big
house fer dem?"

"I'se not de one ter talk big 'bout what I'se gwine ter do," replied Aun'
Sheba, nodding her head portentously as she knocked the ashes from her
pipe, and prepared for the remaining tasks of the evening.

Her husband's self-interest took alarm at once, and he began to hitch
uneasily on his chair. At last he broke out: "Now look heah, Aun' Sheba,
you'se got suffin on you' min' 'bout dem white folks--"

"Dem white folks! Who you talkin' 'bout?"

"Well, dey ain't none o' our flesh an' blood, and de Bible say shuah dat
dey dat don' pervide fer dere own flesh an' blood am wuss dan a inferdel."

"Den I reckon you'se an inferdel, Mister Buggone," retorted Aun' Sheba,
severely.

"I'se not," retorted her husband, assuming much solemnity, "I'se a 'umble
an' 'flicted sarbent ob de Lawd, an' it's my duty to 'monstrate wid you. I
know what's on you' min'. You'se gwine ter do fer dem white folks when you
got all you kin do now."

"Mister Buggone, don' you call Miss Mara white folks no mo'."

"Well, ain't she white folks? Didn't I slabe fer her granpar yeahs an'
yeahs, an' wat I got ter show fer 't?"

"You got no stripes on you back, an' you'd had plenty ter show ef you'd
wuked fer any oder man. I 'member all about you slabin' an' how de good
major use' to let you off. You know, too, dat he war so took up wid his
book dat you could do foolishness right under his nose. An' dar was my
poah young Missy Mary, who hadn't de heart to hurt a skeeter. You s'pose I
watch ober dat broken-hearted lam' an' her little chile an' den heah 'em
called white folks, as if dey'se no 'count ter me? How ofen dat poah dyin'
lam' turn to me in de middle ob de night an' say ter me, Sheba, you will
took keer on my chile ef it libe, an' I say to her 'fore de Lawd dat I
would. An' I did too. Dat po' little moderless and faderless chile lay on
my bosom till I lubed it fer hersef, and Missy Mara neber gwine to hab
trubble when I ain't dar."

Aun' Sheba's voice had been reaching a higher and higher key under the
influence of reminiscence and indignation. Although her husband was in
dire trepidation he felt that this point was too serious to be yielded
without a desperate effort. He had been put on short allowance once before
when his wife had gone to help take care of Mara in a severe illness, and
now he had a presentiment that Aun' Sheba would try to help support the
girl and her great-aunt as well as himself. Such an attempt threatened
privations which were harrowing even to contemplate, and in a sort of
desperation he resolved once more to assert his marital position. "Aun'
Sheba," he began with much dignity, "I'se been bery easy an' bendin' like
ter you. I'se gib you you'se own head dead agin de principles ob Scripter
which say dat de husban' am de head ob de wife--"

"Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting
all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you
am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you
can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an'
bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you
make de fiah. Arter breakfas' you start right off ter work, and I'se sit
on de do' step and talk to de neighbos. You shall hab all de headin ob de
house you wants, but you can't hab de 'sition widout de 'sponsibilities.
I'se gwine now to take a res' an' be 'sported," and the irate wife filled
her pipe, sat down and smoked furiously.

Uncle Sheba was appalled at the result of his Scriptural argument. He
would like to be king by divine right without any responsibilities. His
one thought now was to escape until the storm blew over and his wife's
tolerant good-nature resumed its wonted sway. Shuffling cautiously around
to the door he remarked meekly as he held it ajar, "I reckon I'll drap in
at de prar-meetin', fer I tole brudder Simpkins I'd gib dem a lif' dis
ebenin'."

His heart misgave him as he heard his wife bound up and bolt the door
after him, but he was a philosopher who knew the value of time in
remedying many of the ills of life. It must be admitted that he could not
get into the spirit of the meeting, and Brother Simpkins remarked rather
severely at its close, "Mister Buggone, I'se feared you'se zeal am
languishin'."

Uncle Sheba's forebodings increased as he saw that his house was dark, and
he fell into something like panic when he found that the door was still
bolted. He knocked gently at first, then louder and louder, adding to the
uproar by calls and expostulations. A light appeared in the adjacent
cottage, and Kern Watson, his son-in-law, came out. "Wat de matter now,
Uncle Sheba?" he asked. "Does yer wan' ter bring de perlice? You'se been
takin' a drap too much again, I reckon."

"No, I'se only been to prar-meetin', and Aun' Sheba jes' dun gone and bolt
me out."

"Well, you'se been cuttin' up some shine, an' dat's a fac'. Come in an'
stop you noise. You can sleep on de lounge. We don' want to pay ten
dollahs in de mawnin to get you out ob de caboose."

Uncle Sheba was glad to avail himself of this rather equivocal
hospitality, and eagerly sought to win Kern's sympathy by relating his
grievance. His son-in-law leaned against the chimney-side that he might,
in his half-dressed condition, enjoy the warmth of the coals covered with
ashes on the hearth, and listened. He was a tall, straight negro of
powerful build, and although his features were African, they were not
gross in character. The candle on the mantel near him brought out his
profile in fine silhouette, while his quiet steady eyes indicated a nature
not stirred by trifles.

"You'se a 'publican, Kern, an' you knows dat we culled people got ter take
keer ob ourselves."

"Yes, I'se a Republican," said Kern, "but wat dat got ter do wid dis
matter? Is Aun' Sheba gwine ter take any ob your money? Ef she set her
heart on helpin' her ole Missus an' young Missy an' arn de money herself,
whose business is it but hers? I'se a Republican because I belebe in
people bein' free, wedder dey is white or black, but I ain't one ob dem
kin' ob Republicans dat look on white folks as inemies. Wot we do widout
dem, an' wat dey do widout us? All talk ob one side agin de toder is fool
talk. Ef dere's any prosperity in dis lan' we got ter pull tergedder.
You'se free, Uncle Sheba, an' dere ain't a man in Charleston dat kin
hender you from goin' to work termorrow."

"I reckon I'se try ter git a wink ob slepe, Kern," responded Uncle Sheba
plaintively. "My narbes been so shook up dat my rheumatiz will be po'ful
bad for a spell."

Kern knew the futility of further words, and also betook himself to rest.

With Aun' Sheba, policy had taken the place of passion. Through a
knot-hole in her cabin she had seen her husband admitted to her
son-in-law's dwelling, and so her mind was at rest. "Unc," she muttered,
"forgits his 'sper'ence at de prar-meetin's bery easy, but he mus' have a
'sper'ence to-night dat he won't forgit. I neber so riled in my bawn days.
Ef he tinks I can sit heah and see him go'mandizin' when my honey lam'
Mara hungry, he'll fin' out."

Before the dawn on the following day, Uncle Sheba had had time for many
second thoughts, and when his wife opened the door he brought in plenty of
kindlings and wood. Aun' Sheba accepted these marks of submission in grim
silence, resolving that peace and serenity should come about gradually.
She relented so far, however, as to give him an extra slice of bacon for
breakfast, at which token of returning toleration Uncle Sheba took heart
again. Having curtly told him to clear the table, Aun' Sheba proceeded to
make from the finest of flour the delicate cakes which she always sold
fresh and almost warm from her stove, and before starting out on her
vending tour of the streets, the store-room was locked against the one
burglar she feared.




CHAPTER IV

MARA


On the same evening which witnessed Uncle Sheba's false step and its
temporarily disastrous results, Owen Clancy sat brooding over his fire in
his bachelor apartment. If his sitting-room did not suggest wealth, it
certainly indicated refined and intellectual tastes and a fair degree of
prosperity. A few fine pictures were on the walls, an unusually
well-selected library, although a small one, was in a bookcase, while upon
the table lay several of the best magazines and reviews of the period.
Above the mantel was suspended a cavalry sabre, its scabbard so dented as
to suggest that it had seen much and severe service. Young Clancy's eyes
were fixed upon it, and his revery was so deep that a book fell from his
hand to the floor without his notice. His thoughts, however, were dwelling
upon a young girl. Strange that a deadly weapon should be allied to her in
association. Yet so it was. He never could look upon that sabre which his
father had used effectively throughout the Civil War, without thinking of
Mara Wallingford. Neither this object nor any other was required to
produce thoughts of her, for he passed few waking hours in which she was
not present to his fancy. He loved her sincerely, and felt that she knew
it, and he also hoped that she concealed a deeper regard for him than she
would admit even to herself. Indeed he almost believed that if he could
share fully with her all the ideas and antipathies symbolized by the
battered scabbard before him, his course of love would run smoothly. It
was just at this point that the trouble between them arose. She was
looking back; he, forward. He could not enter into her sad and bitter
retrospection, feeling that this was morbid and worse than useless.
Remembering how cruelly she and her kindred had suffered, he made great
allowances for her, and had often tried to soften the bitterness in her
heart by reminding her that he, too, had lost kindred and property. By
delicate efforts he had sought to show the futility of clinging to a dead
past, and a cause lost beyond hope, but Mara would only become grave and
silent when such matters were touched upon.

Clancy had been North repeatedly on business, and had never discovered a
particle of hostility toward him or his section in the men with whom he
dealt and associated. They invited him to their homes; he met the women of
their families, from whom he often received rather more than courtesy, for
his fine appearance and a certain courtliness of manner, inherited from
his aristocratic father, had won a thinly veiled admiration of which he
had been agreeably conscious. Since these people had no controversy with
him, how could he continue to cherish enmity and prejudice against them?
His warm Southern nature revolted at receiving hearty good-will and not
returning it in kind. There was nothing of a "we-forgive-you" in the
bearing of his Northern acquaintances, nor was there any effusiveness in
cordiality with an evident design of reassuring him. He was made to feel
that he was guilty of an anachronism in brooding over the war, that it had
been forgotten except as history, and that the present with its
opportunities, and the future with its promise, were the themes of
thought. The elements of life, energy, hopefulness with which he came in
contact had appealed to him powerfully, for they were in harmony with his
youth, ambition, yes, and his patriotism. "The South can never grow rich
and strong by sulking," he had often assured himself, "and since the old
dream is impossible, and we are to be one people, why shouldn't we accept
the fact and unite in mutual helpfulness?"

Reason, ambition, and policy prompted him to the divergence of view and
action which was alienating Mara. "Imitation of her example and spirit
would be political and financial suicide on our part," he broke out. "I
love her; and if she loved in the same degree, I would be more to her than
bitter memories. She would help me achieve a happy future for us both. As
it is, I am so pulled in different ways that I'm half insane," and with
contracted brow he sprang up and paced the floor.

But he could not hold to this mood long, and soon his face softened into
an expression of anxiety and commiseration. Resuming his chair his
thoughts ran on, "She isn't happy either. For some cause I reckon she
suffers more than I do. She looked pale to-day when I met her, and her
face was full of anxiety until she saw me, and then it masked all feeling.
She has worn that same cloak now for three winters. Great Heaven! if she
should be in want, and I not know it! Yet what could I do if she were? Why
will she be so proud and obdurate? I believe that gaunt, white-haired aunt
has more to do with her course than her own heart. Well, I can't sit here
and think about it any longer. If I see her something may become clearer,
and I must see her before I go North again."

Mara Wallingford's troubles and anxieties had indeed been culminating of
late. Almost her sole inheritance had been sadness, trouble and enmity.
Not only had her unhappy mother's history been kept fresh in her memory by
her great-aunt, Mrs. Hunter, but the very blood that coursed in her veins
and the soul that looked out from her dark, melancholy eyes had received
from that mother characteristics which it is of the province of this story
to reveal. To poor Mary Wallingford, the death of her father and of her
husband had been the unspeakable tragedy and wrong which had destroyed her
life; and the long agony of the mother had deprived her offspring of the
natural and joyous impulses of childhood and youth. If Mara had been left
to the care of a judicious guardian--one who had sought by all wholesome
means to counteract inherited tendencies, a most cheerful and hopeful life
would have been developed, but in this respect the girl had been most
unfortunate. The mind grows by what it feeds upon, and Mrs. Hunter's
spirit had become so imbittered by dwelling upon her woes and losses that
she was incapable of thinking or speaking of much else. She had never been
a woman of warm, quick sympathies. She had seen little of the world, and,
in a measure, was incapable of seeing it, whatever advantages she might
have had. This would have been true of her, no matter where her lot had
been cast, for she was a born conservative. What she had been brought up
to believe would always be true; what she had been made familiar with by
early custom would always be right, and anything different would be viewed
with disapproval or intoleration. Too little allowance is often made for
characters of this kind. We may regret rigidity and narrowness all we
please, but there should be some respect for downright sincerity and the
inability to see both sides of a question.

It often happens that if natures are narrow they are correspondingly
intense; and this was true of Mrs. Hunter. She idolized her husband dead,
more perhaps than if he had been living. Her brother and nephew were
household martyrs, and little Mara had been taught to revere their
memories as a devout Catholic pays homage to a patron saint. Between the
widow and all that savored of the North, the author of her woes, there was
a great gulf, and the changes wrought by the passing years had made no
impression, for she would not change. She simply shut her eyes and closed
her ears to whatever was not in accord with her own implacable spirit. She
grew cold toward those who yielded to the kindly influences of peace and
the healing balm of time; she had bitter scorn for such as were led by
their interests to fraternize with the North and Northern people. In her
indiscrimination and prejudice they were all typified by the unscrupulous
adventurers who had made a farce of government and legally robbed the
South when prostrate and bleeding after the War. She and her niece had
been taxed out of their home to sustain a rule they loathed. Not a few
women in Boston, in like circumstances, would be equally bitter and
equally incapable of taking the broad views of an historian.

The influence of such a concentrated mind warped almost to the point of
monomania, upon a child like Mara, predisposed from birth to share in a
similar spirit, can be readily estimated. Peace and time, moreover, had
not brought the ameliorating tendencies of prosperity, but rather a
continuous and hopeless pressure of poverty.

Mrs. Hunter had been incapable of doing more than save what she could out
of the wreck of their fortunes. There were no near relations, and those
remaining, with most of their friends and acquaintances who had not been
alienated, were struggling like themselves in straitened circumstances.
Yet out of this poverty, many open, generous hands would have been
stretched to the widow and her ward had they permitted their want to be
known. But they felt that they would rather starve than do this, for they
belonged to that class which suffers in proud silence. Although they had
practiced an economy that was so severe as to be detrimental to both
health and character, their principal had melted away, and their jewelry
and plate, with the exception of heirlooms that could not be sold without
a sense of sacrilege, had been quietly disposed of. The end of their
resources was near, and they knew not what to do. Mara had tried to eke
out their means by fancy-work, but she had no great aptitude for such
tasks, and her education was too defective and old-fashioned for the
equipment of a modern teacher. She was well read, especially in the
classics, yet during the troubled years of her brief life she had not been
given the opportunity to acquire the solid, practical knowledge which
would enable her to instruct others. The exclusiveness and seclusion, so
congenial to her aunt, had been against her, and now reticence and a
disposition to shrink from the world had become a characteristic of her
own.

She felt, however, that her heart, if not her will, was weak toward Owen
Clancy. In him had once centred the hope of her life, and from him she now
feared a wound that could never heal.

She underrated his affection as he did hers. He felt that she should throw
off the incubus of the past for his sake; she believed that any depth of
love on his part should render impossible all intercourse with the North
beyond what was strictly necessary for the transaction of business. In
order to soften her prejudices, he had told her of his social experiences
in New York, and, as a result, had seen her face hardened against him....
She had no words of bitter scorn such as her aunt had indulged in when
learning of the fact. She had only thought in sorrow that since he was
"capable of accepting hospitality from the people who had murdered her
kindred and blighted the South, there was an impassable gulf between
them."

Now, however, the imperative questions of bread and shelter were
uppermost. She believed that Clancy could and would solve these questions
at once if permitted, and it was characteristic of her pride and what she
regarded as her loyalty, that she never once allowed herself to think of
this alternative. Yet what could she and her aunt do? They were in the
pathetic position of gentlewomen compelled to face the world with
unskilled hands. This is bad enough at best, but far worse when hands are
half paralyzed by pride and timidity as well as ignorance. The desperate
truth, however, stared them in the face. Do something they must, and that
speedily.

They were contemplating the future in a hopeless sort of dread and
perplexity on the evening when Aunt Sheba and young Clancy's thoughts were
drawn toward them in such deep solicitude. This fact involves no mystery.
The warm-hearted colored woman had seen and heard little things which
suggested the truth, and the sympathetic lover had seen the face of the
young girl when she was off her guard. Its expression had haunted him, and
impelled him to see her at once, although she had chilled his hopes of
late.

When compelled to leave the old home, Mrs. Hunter had taken the second
floor of a small brick house located on a side street. In spite of herself
Mara's heart fluttered wildly for a moment when the woman who occupied the
first story brought up Clancy's card.

"You can't see him to-night," said her aunt, frowning.

Mara hesitated a moment, and then said firmly, "Yes, I will see him.
Please ask him to come up." When they were alone, she added in a low
voice, "I shall see him once more, probably for the last time socially. We
cannot know what changes are in store for us."

"Well, I won't see him," said Mrs. Hunter, frigidly; and she left the
room.




CHAPTER V

PAST AND FUTURE


Under the impulses of his solicitude and affection Clancy entered quickly,
and took Mara's hand in such a strong, warm grasp that the color would
come into her pale face. In spite of her peculiarities and seeming
coldness, she was a girl who could easily awaken a passionate love in a
warm, generous-hearted man like the one who looked into her eyes with
something like entreaty in his own. She had a beauty peculiar to herself,
and now a strange loveliness which touched his very soul. The quick flush
upon her cheeks inspired hope, and a deep emotion, which she could not
wholly suppress, found momentary expression. Even in that brief instant
she was transfigured, for the woman within her was revealed. As if
conscious of a weakness which seemed to her almost criminal, her face
became rigid, and she said formally, "Please be seated, Mr. Clancy."

"You must not speak to me in that way and in that tone," he began
impetuously, and then paused, for he was chilled by her cold, questioning
gaze. Her will was so strong, and found such powerful expression in her
dark, sad eyes, that for a moment he was dumb and embarrassed. Then his
own high spirit rallied, and a purpose grew strong that she should hear
him, and hear the truth also. His gray eyes, that had wavered for a
moment, grew steady in their encounter with hers.

Seating himself on the opposite side of the table, he said quietly, "You
think I have no right to speak to you in such a way."

"I fear we think differently on many subjects, Mr. Clancy."

"Admitting that, would you like a man to be a weak echo of yourself?"

"A man should not be weak in any respect. I do not think it necessary,
however, to raise the question of my likes or dislikes."

"I must differ with you, Mara," he replied gravely.

"I agree with you now, fully, Mr. Clancy. We differ. Had we not better
change the subject?"

"No, not unless you would be unfair. I am at a disadvantage. I am in your
home. You are a lady, and therefore can compel me to leave unsaid what I
am bent on saying. We have been friends, have we not?"

She bowed her acquiescence.

"Well," he continued a little bitterly, "I have one Southern trait
left--frankness. You know I would speak in a different character if
permitted, if I received one particle of encouragement." Then, with a
sudden flush, he said firmly, "I will speak as I feel. I only pay homage
in telling you what you must already know. I love you, and would make you
my wife."

Her face became very pale as she averted it, and replied briefly, "You are
mistaken, Mr. Clancy."

"Mara, I am not mistaken. Will you be fair enough to listen to me? We
agree that we differ. Can we not also agree that we differ
conscientiously? You cannot think me false, even though you say I am
mistaken. Hitherto you have opposed to me a dead wall of silence. Though
you will not listen to me as a lover, you might both listen and speak to
me as a friend. That word would be hollow indeed if estrangment could
result from honest differences of opinion."

"It is far more than a difference of opinion."

"Let the difference be what it may, Mara," he answered gently, resolving
not to be baffled, "if you are so sure you are right, you should at least
be willing to accord to one whom you once regarded as a friend the
privilege of pleading his cause. Truth and right do not intrench
themselves in repelling silence. That is the refuge of prejudice. If you
will hear my side of the question, I will listen with the deepest interest
to yours, and believe me you have a powerful ally in my heart."

"Your head has gained such ascendency over your heart, Mr. Clancy, that
you cannot understand me. In some women the strongest reasons for or
against a thing proceed from the latter organ."

"Is yours, then, so cold toward me?" he asked sadly.

"It is not cold toward the memory of my murdered parents," she replied
with an ominous flash in her eyes.

Clancy looked at her in momentary surprise, then said firmly, "My father
eventually died from injuries received in the war, but he was not
murdered. He was wounded in fair battle in which he struck as well as
received blows."

Again there was a quick flush upon her pale face, but now it was one of
indignation as she said bitterly, "Fair battle! So you call it fair battle
when men are overpowered in defending their homes. If armed robbers broke
into your house, and you gave blows as well as received them, would you
not be murdered if it so happened that you were killed? Why should we
speak of these subjects further?" And there was a trace of scorn in her
tone.

His pride was touched, and he was all the more determined that he would be
heard. "I can give you good reason why we should speak further," he
answered resolutely yet quietly. "However strong your feeling may be, I
have too much respect for your intelligence and too much confidence in
your courage to believe that you will weakly shrink from hearing one who
is as conscientious as yourself. I cannot accept your illustration, and do
not think the instance you give is parallel. In the differences between
the North and the South, an appeal was made to the sword. If I had been
old enough I would have fought at my father's side. But the question is
now settled. No matter how we feel about it, the North and the South must
live together, and it is not my nature to live in hate. Suppose I
could--suppose it were possible for all Southern men to feel as you do and
act in accordance with such bitter enmity, what would be the result? It
would be suicide. Our land would become a desert. Capital and commerce
would leave our cities because there would be no security among a people
implacably hostile. Such a course would be more destructive than invading
armies. My business, the business of the city, is largely with the North.
If native Southern men tried to transact it in a cold, relentless spirit,
we should lose the chance to live, much less to do anything for our land.
We have suffered too much from this course already, and have allowed
strangers, who care nothing for us, to take much that might have been
ours. I love the South too well to advocate a course which would prove so
fatal. What is more, I cannot think it would be right. The North of your
imagination does not exist. I cannot hate people who have no hate for me,
but on the contrary abound in honest, kindly feeling."

She had listened quietly with her face turned from him, and now met his
eyes with an inscrutable expression in hers. "Have I not listened?" she
asked.

"But you have not answered," he urged, "you have not even tried to show me
wherein I am wrong."

The eyes whose sombre blackness had been like a veil now flamed with the
anger she had long repressed. "How little you understand me," she said
passionately, "when you think I can argue questions like these. You are
virtually asking what to me is sacrilege. I have listened to you
patiently, at what cost to my feelings you are incapable of knowing. Do
you think that I can forget that my grandfather was mangled to death, and
that his last words were, 'I was only trying to defend my home'? Do you
think I can forget that my father was trampled into the very earth by your
Northern friends with whom you must fraternize as well as trade? I will
not speak of my martyred mother. Her name and agony are too sacred to be
named in a political argument," and she uttered these last words with
intense bitterness. Then rising to end the interview, she continued coldly
in biting sarcasm, "Mr. Clancy, I have no relations with the North. I do
not deal in cotton, and none of its fibre has found its way into my
nature."

At these words he flushed hotly, sprang up, but by an evident and powerful
effort controlled himself, and sat down again.

"How could you even imagine," she added, "that words, arguments, political
and financial considerations would tempt me to be disloyal to the memory
of my dead kindred?"

"You _are_ disloyal to them," he said firmly.

"What!"

"Mara, I am indeed proving myself a friend because I am such and more, and
because you so greatly need a friend. Your kindred had hearts in their
breasts. Would they doom you to the life upon which you are entering? Can
you not see that you are passing deeper and deeper into the shadow of the
past? What good can it do them? Could they speak would they say, 'We wish
our sorrows to blight your life'? You are not happy, you cannot be happy.
It is contrary to the law of God, it is impossible to human nature, that
happiness and bitter, unrelenting enmity should exist in the same heart.
You are not only unhappy, but you are in deep trouble of some kind. I saw
that from your face to-day before you saw me and could mask from a friend
its expression of deep anxiety. You shall hear the truth from me which I
fear you hear from no other, and your harsh words shall not deter me from
my resolute purpose to be kind, to rescue you virtually from a condition
of mind that is so morbid, so unhealthful, that it will blight your life.
I cannot so wrong your father and mother as even to imagine that it could
be their wish to see your beautiful young life grow more and more
shadowed, to see you struggling under burdens which strong, loving hands
would lift from you. Can you believe that they, happy in heaven, can wish
you no happiness on earth?"

There was a grave, convincing earnestness in his tone, and a truth in his
words hard to resist. What she considered loyalty to her kindred had been
like her religion, and he had charged her with disloyalty, yes, and while
he spoke the thought would assert itself that her course might be a
wretched mistake. Although intrenched in prejudice, and fortified against
his words by the thought and feeling of her life, she had been made to
doubt her position and feel that she might be a self-elected martyr. The
assertion that she was doing what would be contrary to the wishes of her
dead kindred pierced the very citadel of her opposition, and tended to
remove the one belief which had been the sustaining rock beneath her feet.
She knew she had been severe with him, and she was touched by his
forbearance, his resolute purpose to befriend her. She remembered her
poverty, the almost desperate extremity in which she was, and her heart
upbraided her for refusing the hand held out so loyally and persistently
to her help. She became confused, torn, and overwhelmed by conflicting
emotions; her lip quivered, and, bowing her head in her hands, she sobbed,
"You are breaking my heart."

In an instant he was on one knee at her side. "Mara," he began gently, "if
I wound it is only that I may heal. Truly no girl in this city needs a
friend as you do. For some reason I feel this to be true in my very soul.
Who in God's universe would forbid you a loyal friend?" and he tried to
take her hand.

"I forbid you to be her friend," said a stern voice.

Springing up, Clancy encountered the gaze of a gaunt, white-haired woman,
with implacable enmity stamped upon her thin visage. The young man's eyes
darkened as they steadily met those of Mrs. Hunter, and it was evident
that the forbearance he had manifested toward the girl he loved would not
be extended to her guardian. Still he controlled himself, and waited till
she should speak again.

"Mr. Clancy," she resumed after a moment, "Miss Wallingford is my ward; I
received her from her dying mother, and so have rights which you must
respect. I forbid you seeing her or speaking to her again."

"Mrs. Hunter," he replied, "permit me to tell you with the utmost courtesy
that I shall not obey you. Only Mara herself can forbid me from seeing her
or speaking to her."

"What right have you, sir--"

"The best of rights, Mrs. Hunter, I love the girl; you do not. As
remorselessly as a graven image you would sacrifice her on the altar of
your hate."

"Mr. Clancy, you must not speak to my aunt in that way. She has been
devoted to me from my infancy."

"On the contrary, she has devoted you from infancy to sadness, gloom, and
bitter memories. She is developing within you the very qualities most
foreign to a woman's heart. Instead of teaching you to enshrine the memory
of your kindred in tender, loving remembrance, she is forging that memory
into a chain to restrain you from all that is natural to your years. She
is teaching you to wreck your life in fruitless opposition to the healing
influences that have followed peace. Madam, answer me--the question is
plain and fair--what can you hope to accomplish by your enmity to me and
to the principles of hope and progress which, in this instance, I
represent, but the blighting of this girl whom I love?"

"You are insolent, sir," cried Mrs. Hunter, trembling with rage.

"No, madam, I am honest, and be the result to me what it may, you shall
both hear the truth to-night."

"This is our home," was the harsh response, "and you are not a gentleman
if you do not leave it instantly."

"I shall certainly do so. Mara, am I to see you and speak to you no more?"

She had sunk into a chair, and again buried her face in her hands.

He waited a moment, but she gave no sign. Then with his eyes fixed on her
he sadly and slowly left the apartment.

At last she sprang up with the faint cry, "Owen," but her aunt stood
between her and the door, and he was gone.




CHAPTER VI

"PAHNASHIP"


When Mara realized that her lover had indeed gone, that in fact he had
been driven forth, and that she had said not one word to pave the way for
a future meeting, a sense of desolation she had never known before
overwhelmed her. Hitherto she had been sustained by an unfaltering belief
that no other course than the one which her aunt had inculcated was
possible; that, cost what it might, and end as it might, it was her
heritage. All now was confused and in doubt. She had heard her lofty,
self-sacrificing purpose virtually characterized as vain and wrong. She
had idolized the memory of her father and mother, and yet had been told
that her course was the very one of which they would not approve. The
worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe
that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her
unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of
Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not
sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now
cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts
rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she
leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud.

"Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak."

Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to
Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as
much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need
worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a
spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a
quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought.

"I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me."

Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been
shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of
Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern
arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great
provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty
to her.

At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more
tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it."

"That's just where the trouble is," Mrs. Hunter tried to say reassuringly.
"In the morning you will be your own true, brave self again."

"What's the use of being brave; what can I be brave for?" thought Mara in
the solitude of her room.

Although her sleep was brief and troubled, she had time to grow calm and
collect her thoughts. While she would not admit it to herself, Clancy's
repeated assertions of his love had a subtle and sustaining power. She
could see no light in the future, but her woman's heart would revert to
this truth as to a secret treasure.

In the morning after sitting for a time almost in silence over their
meagre breakfast, her aunt began: "Mara, I wish you to realize the truth
in regard to Mr. Clancy. It is one of those things which must be nipped in
the bud. There is only one ending to his path, and that is full acceptance
of Northern rule and Northern people. What is more, after his words to me,
I will never abide under the same roof with him again."

"Aunty," said Mara sadly, "we have much else to think about besides Mr.
Clancy. How are we going to keep a roof over our own heads?"

Compelled to face their dire need, Mrs. Hunter broke out into bitter
invective against those whom she regarded as the cause of their poverty.

"Aunty," protested Mara, almost irritably, for her nerves were sadly worn,
"what good can such words do? We must live, I suppose, and you must advise
me."

"Mara, I am almost tempted to believe that you regret--"

"Aunty, you must fix your mind on the only question to be considered. What
are we to do? You know our money is almost gone."

Mrs. Hunter's only response was to stare blankly at her niece. She could
economize and be content with very little as long as her habitual trains
of thought were not interrupted and she could maintain her proud
seclusion. Accustomed to remote plantation life, she knew little of the
ways of the modern world, and much less of the methods by which a woman
could obtain a livelihood from it. To the very degree that she had lived
in the memories and traditions of the past, she had unfitted herself to
understand the conditions of present life or to cope with its
requirements. Now she was practically helpless. "We can't go and reveal
our situation to our friends," she began hesitatingly.

"Certainly not," said Mara, "for most of them have all they can do to
sustain themselves, and I would rather starve than live on the charity of
those on whom we have no claim."

"We might take less expensive rooms."

"What good would that do, Aunty? If we can't earn anything, five dollars
will be as hard to raise as ten."

"Oh, to think that people of the very best blood in the State, who once
had scores of slaves to work for them, should be so wronged, robbed and
reduced!"

Mara heaved a long, weary sigh, and Clancy's words would repeat themselves
again and again. She saw how utterly incapable her aunt was to render any
assistance in their desperate straits. Even the stress of their present
emergency could not prevent her mind from vainly reverting to a past that
was gone forever. Again her confidence was more severely shaken as she was
compelled to doubt the wisdom of their habits of seclusion and reticence,
of living on from year to year engrossed by memories, instead of adapting
themselves to a new order of things which they were powerless to prevent.
"Truly," she thought, "my father and mother never could have wished me to
be in this situation out of love for them. It is true I could never go to
the length that he does without great hypocrisy, and I do not see the need
of it. I can never forget the immense wrong done to me and mine, but Aunty
should have taught me something more than indignation and hostility,
however just the causes for them may be."

While such was the tenor of her thoughts, she only said a little bitterly:
"Oh, that I knew how to do something! My old nurse, Aun' Sheba, is better
off than we are."

"She belongs to us yet," said Mrs. Hunter, almost fiercely.

"You could never make her or any one else think so," was the weary reply.
"Well, now that I have thought of her, I believe I could advise with her
better than any one else."

"Advise with a slave? Oh, Mara!--"

"Whom shall I advise with then?" And there was a sharp ring in the girl's
tone.

"Oh, any one, so that it be not Mr. Clancy," replied her aunt irritably.
"Were it not that you so needed a protector, I could wish that I were
dead."

"Aunt," said Mara, gently yet firmly, "we must give up this hopeless,
bitter kind of talk. I, at least, must do something to earn honest bread,
and I am too depressed and sad at heart to carry any useless burdens. Mr.
Clancy said much that was wrong last night, and there are matters about
which he and I can never agree, but surely he was right in saying that my
father and mother would not wish to see me crushed body and soul. If I am
to live, I must find a way to live and yet keep my self-respect. I suppose
the natural way would be to go to those who knew my father and
grandfather; but they would ask me what I could do. What could I tell
them? It would seem almost like asking charity."

"Of course it would," assented her aunt.

Then silence fell between them.

Before Mara could finish her morning duties and prepare for the street, a
heavy step was heard on the stairs, then a knock at the door. Opening it,
the young girl saw the very object of her thoughts, for Aun' Sheba's ample
form and her great basket filled all the space.

"Oh, Aun' Sheba," cried the girl, a gleam of hope lighting up her eyes,
"I'm so glad to see you. I was just starting for your cabin."

"Bress your heart, honey, Aun' Sheba'll allus be proud to hab you come. My
spec's, Missus," and she dropped her basket and a courtesy before Mrs.
Hunter.

"Aun' Sheba," said Mara, giving the kindly vender a chair, "you are so
much better off than we are. I was saying just that to aunty this
morning."

"Why, honey, I'se only a po' culled body, and you'se a beauty like you
moder, bress her po' deah heart."

"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you were a blessing to her," said Mara with moist eyes.
"How you watched over her and helped to take care of me! Perhaps you can
help take care of me again. For some reason, I can speak to you and tell
you our troubles easier than to any one else in the world."

"Dat's right, honey lam', dat's right. Who else you tell your troubles to
but Aun' Sheba? Didn't I comfort you on dis bery bres time an' time agin
when you was a little mite? Now you'se bigger and hab bigger troubles,
I'se bigger too," and Aunt Sheba shook with laughter like a great form of
jelly as she wiped her eyes with sympathy.

"Aun' Sheba," said Mara in a voice full of unconscious pathos, "I don't
know what to do, yet I must do something. It seems to me that I could be
almost happy if I were as sure of earning my bread as you are."

"Now, doggone dat ar lazy husban' o' mine. But he got his 'serts an'll git
mo' ob dem eff he ain't keerful. I jes' felt it in my bones las' night how
'twas wid you, an I 'lowed how I'd see you dis mawnin', an' den he began
to go on as ef you was nothin' but white folks stid ob my deah honey lam'
dat I nussed till you was like my own chile. But he won' do so no mo'."

"Oh, Aun' Sheba, believe me, I don't wish to interfere with any of your
duties to him," began Mara earnestly.

"Duty to him," exclaimed the colored woman with a snort of indignation.
"He mout tink a little 'bout his duty to me. Doan you trubble 'bout him,
for he's boun' to git mo' dan his shar anyhow. Now I know de good Lawd put
it in my min' to come heah dis mawnin' case you was on my min' las' night.
You needn't tink you kin go hungry while Aun' Sheba hab a crus'."

"I know what a big heart you've got, but that won't do, Aun' Sheba. Can
you think I would live idly on your hard-earned money?"

"Well, 'tis my money, an' I make mo dan you tink, an' a heap mo' dan I let
Unc. know about. He'd be fer settin' up his kerrige ef he knew," and she
again laughed in hearty self-complacency. "Why, honey, I can 'sport you
an' Missus widout pinchin', an' who gwine to know 'bout it?"

"I'd know about it," said Mara, rising and putting her hand caressingly on
the woman's shoulder, "yet I feel your kindness in the very depths of my
heart. Come, I have a thought. Let me see what's in your basket."

"Ony cakes dis mawnin', honey. Help you's sef."

"Oh, how delicious they are," said Mara eating one, and thoughtfully
regarding her sable friend. "You beat me making cakes, Aun' Sheba, and I
thought I was good at it."

"So you am, Missy, so you am, fer I taught you mysef."

"Aun' Sheba, suppose we go into partnership."

"Pahnaship!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in bewilderment.

"Oh, Mara!" Mrs. Hunter expostulated indignantly.

"Well, I suppose it would be a very one-sided affair," admitted the girl,
blushing in a sort of honest shame. "You are doing well without any help
from me, and don't need any. I'm very much like a man who wants to share
in a good business which has already been built up, but I don't know how
to do anything else, and could at least learn better every day,
and--and--I thought--I must do something--I thought, perhaps, if I made
the cakes and some other things, and you sold them, Aun' Sheba, you
wouldn't have to work so hard, and--well, there might be enough profit for
us both."

"Now de Lawd bress you heart, honey, dar ain't no need ob you blisterin'
you'se pretty face ober a fiah, bakin' cakes an' sich. I kin--"

"No, no, Aun' Sheba, you can't, for I won't let you."

"Mara," protested Mrs. Hunter, severely, "do you realize what you are
saying? Suppose it became known that you were in--in--" but the lady could
not bring herself to complete the humiliating sentence.

"Yis, honey, Missus am right. De idee! Sech quality as you in pahnaship
wid ole Aun' Sheba!" and she laughed at the preposterous relationship.

"Perhaps it needn't be known," said Mara, daunted for a moment. Then the
necessities in the case drove her forward, and, remembering that her aunt
was unable to suggest or even contemplate anything practicable, she said
resolutely, "Let it be known. Others of our social rank are supporting
themselves, and I'm too proud to be ashamed to do it myself even in this
humble way. What troubles me most is that I'm making such a one-sided
offer to Aun' Sheba. She don't need my help at all, and I need hers so
much."

"Now see heah, honey, is your heart set on dis ting?"

"Yes, it is," replied Mara, earnestly. "My heart was like lead till you
came, and it would be almost as light as one of these cakes if I knew I
could surely earn my living. Oh, Aun' Sheba, you've had troubles, and you
know what sore troubles my poor mother had, but neither you nor she ever
knew the fear, the sickening dread which comes over one when you don't
know where your bread is to come from or how you are to keep a roof over
your head. Aunty, do listen to reason. Making cake and other things for
Aun' Sheba to sell would not be half so humiliating as going to people of
my own station and revealing my ignorance, or trying to do what I don't
know how to do, knowing all the time that I was only tolerated. My plan
leaves me in seclusion, and if any one thinks less of me they can leave me
alone. I don't want to make my way among strangers; I don't feel that I
can. This plan enables us to stay together, Aunty, and you must know now
that we can't drift any longer."

While Mara was speaking Aun' Sheba's thrifty thoughts had been busy. Her
native shrewdness gave her a keen insight into Mrs. Hunter's character,
and she knew that the widow's mind was so warped that she was practically
as helpless as a child. While, in her generous love for Mara and from a
certain loyalty to her old master's family, she was willing temporarily to
assume what would be a very heavy burden, she was inwardly glad, as she
grew accustomed to the idea, that Mara was willing to do her share. Indeed
it would be a great relief if her basket could be filled for her, and she
said, heartily, "Takes some time, honey, you know, fer an idee to git into
my tick head, but when it gits dar it stick. Now you'se sensible, an'
Missus'll see it soon. You'se on de right track. Ob cose, I'd be proud ob
pahnaship, an' it'll be a great eas'n up to me. Makes a mighty long day,
Missy, to git up in de mawnin' an' do my bakin' an' den tromp, tromp,
tromp. I could put in an hour or two extra sleep, an' dat counts in a
woman ob my age an' heft. But, law sakes! look at dat clock dar. I mus' be
gitten along. Set you deah little heart at res', honey. I'se comin' back
dis ebenin', an' we'se start in kin' ob easy like so you hab a chance to
larn and not get 'scouraged."

"I can't approve of this plan at all," said Mrs. Hunter, loftily, "I wash
my hands of it."

"Now, now, Missus, you do jes' dat--wash you hans ob it, but don' you
'fere wid Missy, kase it'll set her heart at res' and keep a home fer you
bof. We's gwine to make a pile, honey, an' den de roses come back in you
cheeks," and nodding encouragingly, she departed, leaving more hope and
cheer behind her than Mara had known for many a month.

To escape the complaining of her aunt, Mara shut herself in her room and
thought long and deeply. The conclusion was, "The gulf between us has
grown wider and deeper. When Mr. Clancy learns how I have sought
independence without his aid--" but she only finished the sentence by a
sad, bitter smile.




CHAPTER VII

MARA'S PURPOSE


"Neber had sech luck in all my bawn days," soliloquized Aun' Sheba as she
saw the bottom of her basket early in the day. "All my cus'mers kin' o'
smilin' like de sunshine. Only Marse Clancy grumpy. He go by me like a
brack cloud. I'se got a big grudge against dat ar young man. He use to be
bery sweet on Missy. He mus' be taken wid some Norvern gal, and dat's
'nuff fer me. Ef he lebe my honey lam' now she so po', dar's a bad streak
in his blood and he don' 'long to us any mo'. I wouldn't be s'prised ef
dey hadn't had a squar meal fer a fortnight. I can make blebe dat I wants
to take my dinner 'long o' dem to sabe time, an' den dey'll hab a dinner
wat'll make Missy real peart 'fore she gin to work," and full of her
kindly intentions she bought a juicy steak, some vegetables, a quantity of
the finest flour, sugar, coffee, and some spices.

Mara had slipped out and invested the greater part of her diminished hoard
in the materials essential to her new undertaking. Not the least among
them, as she regarded it, was an account book. When, therefore, Aun' Sheba
bustled in between one and two o'clock, she found some bulky bundles on
the kitchen table over which Mrs. Hunter had already groaned aloud.

"Law sakes, honey, what all dese?" the colored aunty asked.

"They are my start in trade," replied Mara, smiling.

"Den you's gwine to hab a mighty big start, fer I got lots o' tings in dis
basket."

"Why, Aun' Sheba! Did you think I was going to let you furnish the
materials?"

"Ef you furnish de makin' up ob de 'terials what mo' you oughter do, I'd
like ter know?"

"Aun' Sheba, I could cheat you out af your two black eyes."

"Dey see mo' dan you tink, Missy," she replied, nodding sagaciously.

"Yes, I reckon they do, but my eyes must look after your interests as well
as my own. I am going to be an honest partner. Do you see this book?"

"What dat ar got to do wid de pahnaship?"

"You will see. It will prevent you from ever losing a penny that belongs
to you."

"Penny, indeed! As if I'se gwine to stand on a penny!"

"Well, I am. Little as I know about business, I am sure it will be more
satisfactory if careful accounts are kept, and you must promise to tell me
the whole truth about things. That's the way partners do, you know, and
everything is put down in black and white."

"Oh, go 'long wid you, honey, an' hab you own way. All in my pahnaship go
down in black, I s'pose, an' you'se in white. How funny it all am!" and
the old woman sat back in her chair and laughed in her joyous content.

"It is all a very humiliating farce to me," said Mrs. Hunter, looking
severely at the former property.

"Yas'm," said Aun' Sheba, suddenly becoming stolid as a graven image.

"Aunty," said Mara firmly but gently, "the time has come when I must act,
for your sake as well as my own. Nothing will prevent me from carrying out
this plan, except its failure to provide for Aun' Sheba as well as for
ourselves."

"Well, I wash my hands of it, and, if your course becomes generally known,
I shall have it understood that you acted without my approval." And she
rose and left the kitchen with great dignity.

When the door closed upon her, Aun' Sheba again shook in vast and silent
mirth.

"Doan you trubble long o' Missus, honey," she said, nodding encouragingly
at Mara. "She jes' like one dat lib in de dark an' can't see notin'
right." Then in sudden revulsion of feeling she added, "You po' honey
lam', doan you see you'se got to take keer ob her jes' as ef she was a
chile?"

"Yes," said Mara, sadly, "I've been compelled to see it at last."

"Now doan you be 'scouraged. 'Tween us we take keer ob her, an' she be a
heap betteh off eben ef she doan know it. You hab no dinner yit?"

"We were just going to get it as you came."

"Well now, honey, I habn't had a bite nudder, an' I'se gwine to take
dinneh heah ef you'se willin'."

"Why, surely, Aun' Sheba. It's little we have, you but know I'd share my
last crust with you."

Again the guest was bubbling over with good-natured merriment. "We ain't
got to de las' crus' yit, an' I couldn't make my dinneh on a crus' nohow.
Dar's one ting I'se jes' got to 'sist on in de pahnaship. I don't keer
notin' 'bout 'count books and sich, but ef we'se gwine to make a fort'n
you got to hab a heap o' po'er in you'se arms. You got to hab a strong
back and feel peart all ober. Dis de ony ting I 'sist on. Now how you
gwine to be plump and strong?"

"Oh, I'm pretty strong, and I'll get stronger now that I have hope, and
see my way a little."

"Hope am bery good fer 'sert, honey, but we want somep'n solider to start
in on. You jes' set de table in de oder room, an' I'll be de brack raben
dat'll pervide. Now you must min' kase I'se doing 'cording to Scripter,
an' we neber hab no luck 'tall if we go agin Scripter."

"Very well," said Mara, laughing, "you shall have your own way. I see
through all your talk, but I know you'll feel bad if you can't carry out
your purpose. You'll have a better dinner, too."

"Yeh, yeh, she knows a heap moah'n me," thought Aun' Sheba when alone,
"but I know some tings too, bress her heart. I kin see dat her cheeks am
pale and thin an' dat her eyes am gettin' so big and brack dat her purty
face am like a little house wid big winders. She got quality blood in her
vein, shuah, but habn't got neah 'nuff. Heah's de 'terial wat gibs hope
sometimes better'n preachin," and she whipped out the steak and prepared
it for the broiler. Then she clapped some potatoes into the oven, threw
together the constituents of light biscuit, and put the coffee over the
fire. A natural born cook, she was deft and quick, and had a substantial
repast ready in an amazingly short time. Soon it was smoking on the table,
and then she said with a significant little nod at Mara, "Now I'se gwine
to wait on Missus like ole times."

Mara understood her and did not protest, for she felt the necessity of
humoring her aunt, who quite thawed out at the semblance of her former
state. While the poor lady enlarged on the thought that such should be the
normal condition of affairs, and would be if the world were not wholly out
of joint, she nevertheless dined so heartily as to prove that she could
still enjoy the good things of life if they were provided without personal
compromise on her part. Mara made a silent note of this, and felt more
strongly than ever that her aunt's needs and not her words must control
her actions. After dinner she said, "Come, aunty, you have had much to try
your nerves of late, and there must be much more not in harmony with your
feelings. It can't be helped, but I absolve you of all responsibility, and
I know very well if you had what was once your own, I would not have to
raise my hand. You see I am not seeking relief in the way that is so
utterly distasteful to you, and, when you come to think this plan all
over, you will admit that it is the one that would attract the least
attention, and involve the least change. Now lie down and take a good rest
this afternoon."

"Well," said Mrs. Hunter, with the air of one yielding a great deal, "I
will submit, even though I can not approve, on the one condition that you
have nothing more to say to Mr. Clancy."

A painful flush overspread Mara's features, and she replied in a
constrained voice, "You will have no occasion to worry about Mr. Clancy.
After--" then remembering that Aunt Sheba was within ear-shot, she
concluded, "Mr. Clancy will have nothing to say to me when he knows what
is taking place. When you have thought it over you will see that my plan
makes me independent of every one."

"That is, if you succeed," remarked Mrs. Hunter, "and it will be about the
only thing to be said in its favor."

This degree of toleration obtained, Mara prepared to join Aunt Sheba in
the kitchen, with the purpose of giving her whole thought and energy to
the securing of an independence, now coveted more than ever. In spite of
the influences and misapprehensions of her life which had tended to
separate her from Clancy, when she fully learned that he was affiliating
with those who dwelt as aliens in her thoughts, she had been overborne by
his words and the promptings of her own heart. She was glad, indeed, that
she had not revealed what she now regarded as her weakness, feeling that
it would have complicated matters most seriously. While she had been
compelled to see the folly of seclusion and inaction, the natural result
of a morbid pride which blinds as well as paralyzes, she was by no means
ready to accept his views or go to his lengths. She would have shared
poverty with him gladly if he would continue to be "a true Southerner," in
other words, one who submitted in cold and unrelenting protest to the new
order of things. In accepting this new order, and in availing himself of
it to advance his fortunes and those of his State as he also claimed, he
alienated her in spite of all his arguments, and his avowed love. She felt
that he should take the ground with her that they had suffered too deeply,
and had been wronged too greatly, to ignore the past. They were a
conquered people, but so were the Poles and Alsatians. Were those subject
races ready to take the hands that had struck them and still held them in
thraldom? Their indignant enmity was patriotism, not hate. Now that the
habitual thoughts of her life had been given time to resume their control,
she felt all the more bitterly what seemed a hopeless separation. The
North had not only robbed her of kindred and property, but was now taking
her lover. She knew she loved him, yet not for the sake of her love would
she be false to her deep-rooted feelings and convictions. If he had seen
how nearly she yielded to _him_, not to his views, the previous evening,
it would have been doubly hard to show him in the end that she could never
share in his life, unless he adopted her attitude of passive submission to
what could not be helped.

Others might do as they pleased, but their dignity and personal memories
required this position, and, as she had said to him, she could take no
other course without hypocrisy, revolting alike to her feelings and sense
of honor. His strong words, however, combining with the circumstances of
her lot, had broken the spell of her aunt's influence, and had planted in
her mind the thought that any useless suffering on her part was not
loyalty to the memory of her father and mother. Her new impulse was to
make the most and best of her life as far as she could conscientiously:
and the hope would assert itself that if she were firm he would eventually
be won over to her position. "If he loves as I do," she thought, "he will
be. He, no doubt, is sincere, but he has been beguiled into seeing things
in the light of his immediate interests. Love to me, if it is genuine, and
loyalty to the cause for which his father gave his life, should lead him
to the dignified submission of the conquered and away from all association
with the conquerors that can be avoided. I'll prove to him," was her
mental conclusion, accompanied with a flash of her dark eyes, "that a girl
ignorant of the world and its ways, and with the help only of a former
slave, can earn her bread, and thus show him how needless are his Northern
allies."

Thoughts like these had been swiftly coursing through her mind while
dining, and therefore, when she joined Aun' Sheba in the kitchen, she was
ready to employ every faculty, sharpened to the utmost, in the tasks
before her.

In that humble arena, and by the prosaic method contemplated, she would
assert her unsubdued spirit, and maintain a consistency which should not
be marred, even at the bidding of love, by an insincere acceptance of his
views and associations.




CHAPTER VIII

NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE


While Ann' Sheba finished her dinner Mara began to open and put in their
places the slender materials which she had purchased as her first step
toward self-support. The generous meal, and especially the coffee
combining with the strong incentive of her purpose, gave elasticity to her
step and flushed her face slightly with color. The old aunty watched her
curiously and sympathetically as she thought, "Bress her heart how purty
she am, bendin' heah an' dar like a willow an' lookin' de lady ebery inch
while she doin' kitchen work! Quar pahner fer sech an ole woman as me ter
hab, but I dun declar dat her han's, ef dey am little, seem po'ful smart.
Dey takes hole on tings jes' as if dey'd coax 'em right along whar she
wants dem!" Then she broke out, "Wot a fool dat Owen Clancy am!"

Mara started and was suddenly busy in a distant part of the room. "I
reckon you are the only one that thinks so, Aun' Sheba," she remarked
quietly.

"Ef he could see you now he'd tink so hisself."

"Very likely," and there was a little bitterness in Mara's accent.

"De mo' fool he be den," said Aun' Sheba with an indignant toss of her
head. "Whar ud his eyes be ef he could see you and not go down on his
marrow-bones, I'd like to know? Habn't I seen all de quality ob dis town?
and dat fer de new quality," with a snap of her fingers, "an you take de
shine off'n dem all eben in de kitchen. Law sakes, what kin' ob blood dat
man Clancy hab to lebe you kase you po'? Pears ter me de ole cun'l, his
fader, ud be orful figety in his coffin."

"Mr. Clancy has not left me because I am poor, Aun' Sheba," said Mara
gravely. "You do him great injustice. We are not so good friends as we
were simply because we cannot agree on certain subjects. But I would
rather you would not talk about him to me or to any one else. Come now,
you must give me some lessons in your mystery of making cakes that melt in
one's mouth. Otherwise people will say you are growing old and losing your
high art."

"Dey better not tell me no sech lies. Law, Missy, you is gwine ter beat me
all holler wen onst you gits de hang ob de work. You little white han's
gib fancy teches dat ain't in my big black han'. Arter all, tain't de
han's; it's de min'. Dere's my darter Mis Watson. Neber could larn her
much mo'n plain cookin'. Dere's a knack at dese tings dat's bawn in one.
It's wot you granpa used ter call genus, an' you allus hab it, eben when
you was a chile an' want ter muss in de kitchen."

Thus full of reminiscence and philosophy eminently satisfactory to her own
mind, Aun' Sheba taught her apt and eager pupil the secrets of her craft.
Mara was up with the dawn on the following day, and achieved fair success.
Other lessons followed, and it was not very long before the girl passed
beyond the imitative stage and began to reason upon the principles
involved in her work and then to experiment.

One day an old customer said to Aun' Sheba: "There's a new hand at the
bellows."

"Dunno not'n 'bout bellus. Ain't de cakes right?"

"Well, then, you've got some new receipts."

"Like a'nuff I hab," said the vender warily. "De pint am, howsumeber,
isn't de cakes good?"

"Yes, they seem better every day, but they are not the same every day. I
reckon some one's coaching you."

"Law sakes, Massa, wo't you mean by coachin' me?"

"Do you make the cakes?" was asked pointblank.

"Now, Massa, you's gittin' too cur'us. Wot de Scripter say? Ask no
questions fer conscience' sake."

"Come, come, Aun' Sheba; if you begin to wrest Scripture, I'll take pains
to find you out."

She shuffled away in some trepidation and shook her head over the problem
of keeping her relations with Mara secret. "Missy puttin' her min' in de
cakes an' I didn't hab much min' to put in an' folks know de dif'ence,"
she soliloquized. Later on she was down among the cotton warehouses, and
finding herself weary and warm, stopped to rest in the shade of a
building. Suddenly Owen Clancy turned the corner. His brow was contracted
as if in deep and not agreeable thought.

Aun' Sheba's lowered at him, for he seemed about to pass her without
noticing her. The moment he became aware of her presence, however, he
stopped and fixed upon her his penetrating gray eyes. His gaze was so
persistent and stern that she was disconcerted, but she spoke with her
accustomed assurance: "You ain't gwine ter call de perlice, is you, Mars'
Clancy?" and she placed her arms akimbo on her hips.

This reference was shrewd, for it reminded him that his grievance was
purely personal and one that he could not resent in her case, yet his
heart was so sore with the suspicion that Mara was looking to this negress
for help instead of to himself, that for the time being he detested the
woman. Love is not a judicial quality, and rarely has patience with those
who interfere with its success. He had hoped that eventually the pressure
of poverty would turn Mara's thoughts to him, especially as he had
revealed so emphatically his wish to help her disinterestedly as a friend
even; but if his present fears were well grounded, he would have to admit
that her heart had grown utterly cold toward him.

"Why should you think of the police, Aun' Sheba, unless you have something
on your mind?" he asked, coolly removing the cover of the basket and
helping himself. "You didn't make these cakes. Did you steal them?"

"Marse Clancy, what you take me fer?"

"That depends on how honest your answers are."'

"I ain't 'bliged ter answer 'tall."

"Oh, you're afraid then."

"No, I ain't afeerd. Ef dey is stolen, you'se a 'ceivin ob stolen goods,
fum de way dem cakes dis'pearin'."

"You're pert, Aun'Sheba."

"Oh co'se I'se peart. Hab to be spry to arn a libin' in dese yer times,
but I can do it fum dem dat's fren'ly and not fum dem dat glower at me."

"Will you tell me if Miss Wallingford--"

"Marse Clancy, hab Miss Wallingford sent you word dat she want you to know
'bout her 'fairs?"

"I understand," he said almost savagely, and throwing a quarter into the
basket he passed on.

There had been a tacit understanding at first that Mara's part in Aun'
Sheba's traffic should not be revealed. The girl had not wholly shaken off
the influence of her aunt's opposition, and she shrank with almost morbid
dread from being the subject of remark even among those of her own class.
The chief and controlling motive for secrecy, however, had been distrust,
the fear that the undertaking would not be successful. As the days had
passed this fear had been removed. Aun' Sheba did not come to make her
returns until after she had taken her supper in the evening, and at about
ten in the morning she reached Mara's home by an unfrequented side street.
There were those, however, who had begun to notice the regularity of her
visits and among them was Owen Clancy. We have also seen that the
daintiness of the viands had caused surmises.

Mara had become preoccupied with her success and with plans for increasing
it. At first Aun' Sheba had supplemented her attempts, and her plan had
been entered on so quietly and carried forward so smoothly that even Mrs.
Hunter was becoming reconciled to the scheme although she tried to conceal
the fact. It would be hard to find two women more ignorant of the world,
or more averse to being known by it, yet from it the unsophisticated girl
now hoped to divert a little sustaining rill of currency without a ripple
of general comment until the hour should come when she could reveal the
truth to Clancy as a rebuke to his course and as a suggestion that a man
might do more and yet not compromise himself. Full of these thoughts and
hopes, her life, if not happy, had at least ceased to stagnate and was
growing in zest and interest.

The day on which occurred the events just narrated was destined to prove a
fateful one. When Aun' Sheba came in the evening it was soon evident that
she had something on her mind. She paid little heed to the accounts while
Mara was writing them down and explaining the margin of profit, as the
girl was always careful to do, for it satisfied her conscience that her
over-loyal partner was prospering now as truly as before. After everything
had been attended to and the programme arranged for the morning, Aun'
Sheba still sat and fidgeted in her chair. Mara leaned back in hers and
looking across the kitchen table said: "Be honest now. There's something
you want to say."

"Don't want ter say it, but s'pose I ought."

"I reckon you had, Aun' Sheba."

The woman's native shrewdness had been sharpened by the varied experience
of her calling, and she had become convinced that the policy of secrecy
would be a failure. What would be Mara's course when compelled to face the
truth, was the question that troubled her. The kind soul hoped that it
would make no difference, and proposed to use all her tact to induce the
girl to continue her enterprise openly, believing that this course would
be best for several reasons. She had the wit to know that Mara would yield
far more out of consideration for her than for any thought of self, so she
said as a masterpiece of strategy, "Marse Clancy ax me to-day if I stole
de cakes."

"What," cried Mara, flushing hotly.

"Jes dat--ef I stole de cakes; an' anoder man say I was gittin' new
reseets or dat somebody was coachin' me, whateber dat is. Den he put it
right straight, 'Did you make 'em?'"

"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I've thoughtlessly been causing trouble. I should have
continued to make the cakes just as you did, and it was only to divert my
mind that I tried other ways. I won't do so any more."

"Dunno 'bout dat, honey."

"Indeed I will not when I promise you."

"I doesn't want any sech a promise. De folks like de new-fangle' cakes
betteh, an' gwine back to de ole way wouldn't do no good. It's all
boun'ter come out dat I'se sellin' fer you as well as fer me. Marse Clancy
axed ef you wasn't, leastways he 'gan to ax when I shut him up."

"How did you shut him up?" said Mara, breathing quickly.

"By axin' him anoder question. Yah, yah, I'se Yankee 'nuff fer dat. I say,
'Hab Miss Wallingford sen' you word dat she want you to know 'bout her
'fairs'?"

"Didn't he say anything after that?"

"Yes, he say 'I understand,' an' I'spect he do, fer he drap a quarter in
my basket an' look as if he was po'ful mad as he walk away. He better min'
his own business."

Mara understood Clancy and Aun' Sheba did not. The young girl was troubled
and perplexed, for she could not but see in her lover's mind the effect of
her step. She felt that it was natural he should be hurt and even angered
to learn that, after all he had offered to do for her, she should avail
herself of Aun' Sheba's services instead of his. What she feared most was
that he would take it as final evidence that she was hostile to him
personally and not merely estranged because he would not conform his views
and life to her own. Her secret and dearest purpose, that of teaching him
that he could live without compromise as she could, might be defeated.
What if the very act should lead to the belief that she no longer wished
to have any part in his life? A girl cannot feel that same toward a man
who has told her openly of his love, for such words break down the
barriers of maidenly reserve even in her own self-communings. Since he had
spoken so plainly she could think more plainly. She knew well how mistaken
Aun' Sheba was in her judgment, but could not explain that Clancy felt he
was not only rejected as a lover but had been ignored even as a helpful
friend; and her own love taught her to gauge the bitterness of this
apparent truth.

She soon became conscious that Aun' Sheba was watching her troubled face,
and to hide her deeper thoughts she said, "Yes, I suppose it is all bound
to come out. Well, let it. You shall not be misjudged." "Law sake, Missy,
wot does I keer! De ting dat trouble me is dat you'se gwine to keer too
much. I doan want you to gib up and I doan want you to be flustered ef you
fin' it's known. De pa'hnership, as you call 'im, been doin' you a heap o'
good. You'se min' been gettin' int'usted an' you fo'gits you'se troubles.
Dat's wot pleases me. Now to my po' sense, folks is a heap betteh off,
takin' keer ob dem selves, dan wen dey worry 'bout wat dis one say an' dat
one do. Dere is lots ob folks dat'll talk 'bout you a month dat won't lif'
dere finger for you a minit. An' wat can dey say, honey, dat'll harm you?
You prouder'n all ob dem, but you got dis kin' ob pride. Ef de rent fall
due you fight again eben you'se ole nuss payin' it. Talk's only breff, but
an empty pocket mean an orful lot ob trouble to folks who ain't willin' to
take out ob dere pocket wat dey didn't put dere."

"Yes, Aun' Sheba, I think it would be the worst kind of trouble."

"I know it ud be fer you, but dar's Unc. He'd like his pocket filled ebery
day an' he wouldn't keer who filled it ef he could spend. He'd say de Lawd
pervided. Unc.'d rather trust de Lawd dan work any day."

"I am afraid you are not very religious," said Mara, smiling.

"Well, I of'n wonder wedder I'se 'ligious or no," resumed Aun' Sheba,
introspectively. "Some sarmons and prars seem like bread made out ob bran,
de bigger de loaf de wuss it is. Unc. says I'se very cole an backsliden,
but I'd be a heap colder ef I didn't keep up de wood-pile.

"And you help others keep up their wood-piles."

"Well, I reckon I does, but dere ain't much 'ligion in dat. Dat's kin' ob
human natur which de preacher say am bad, bery bad stuff. De Lawd knows I
say my prars sho't so as to be up an' doin'. Anyhow I doan belebe he likes
ter be hollered at so, as dey do in our meetin' an' Unc. says dat sech
talk am 'phemous. But dat ain't heah nor dar. We'se gwine right along,
honey, ain't we? We'se gwine ter min' our own business jes' as if we'se
the bigges' pahners in de town?"

"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you can say what you please hereafter, and I want you to
come and go openly. I should have taken the stand before and saved you
from coming out evenings. It has been far more on Aunty's account than on
my own."

"Well, honey, now my min's at res' an' I belebe we do po'ful lot ob trade.
Dat orful human natur gwine to come in now an' I belebe dat folks who know
you an' all 'bout you'se family will help you, 'stid ob talkin' agin you.
You see. You knows I doan' mean no disrespec' to ole Missus, but she'd jes
sit down an' starbe, tinkin' ob de good dinners she orter hab, an' did hab
in de ole times. All you'se folks in hebin is a smilin' on you, honey. Dey
is, fer I feels it in my bones. You'se got de co'age ob you pa an' granpa
an' dey know, jes' as we knows, dat ole Missus take a heap mo' comfort
grumblin' dan in bein' hungry."

"Oh, Aun' Sheba, do you truly think they know about my present life?" the
girl asked, with wet eyes.

"Dat's a bery deep question, honey, but it kin' a seem reason'ble ter me
dat wen you gettin' on well an' wen you doin' good to some po' soul de
Lawd'll sen' an angel to tell 'em. Wen dey ain't hearin' notin' I spects
dey's got to tink as we does dat no news is good news."

The girl was deeply moved, for the vernacular of her old nurse had been
familiar from childhood and did not detract from the sacred themes
suggested. "Oh, that I could have seen my father," she sighed. "Portraits
are so unsatisfying. Tell me again just how he looked."

"He'd be proud ob you, honey, an' you kin be proud ob him. You hab his
eyes, only you'se is bigger and of'n look as if you'se sorrowin' way down
in you soul. Sometimes, eben wen you was a baby, you'd look so long an'
fixed wid you big sad eyes as if you seed it all an' know'd it all dat I
used to boo-hoo right out. Nuder times I'd be skeered, fer you'd reach out
you'se little arms as ef you seed you'se moder an' wanted to go to her. De
Lawd know bes' why he let such folks die. She was like a passion vine
creepin' up de oak--all tender and clingin' an' lubin', wid tears in her
blue eyes ebin wen he pettin' her, an' he was tall an' straight an' strong
wid eyes dat laffed or flashed jes as de 'casion was. I kin see him now
come marchin' down Meetin' Street at de head ob his men, all raised
hisself. He walk straight as an arrow wid his sword flashin' in de
sunshine an' a hundred men step tromp, tromp, arter him as ef dey proud to
follow. Missy Mary stood on de balc'ny lookin' wid all her vi'let eyes an'
wabin' her hank'chief. Oh, how purty she look! de roses in her cheek, her
bref comin' quick, bosom risin' an' fallin', an' she a-tremblin' an' alibe
all ober wid excitement an' pride an' lub. Wen he right afore de balc'ny
his voice rung out like a trumpet, 'Right 'bout, face. 'Sent arms.' I dun
declar dat 'fore we could wink dey was all in line frontin' us wid dere
guns held out. Den he s'lute her wid his sword an' she take a red rose fum
her bosom an' trow it to him an' he pick it up an' put it to his lips; den
it was 'Right 'bout! March!' an' away dey went tromp, tromp, towa'ds de
Bat'ry. I kin see it all. I kin see it all. O Lawd, Lawd, dey's all dead,"
and she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her apron.

Mara sprang up, her streaming tears dried by the hotness of her
indignation as she cried, "And I too can see him, with his little band,
dashing against almost an army and then trodden in the soil he died to
defend. No, no, Owen Clancy, never!"

"Ah," said a low stern voice, "that's the true spirit. Now, Mara, you are
your father's child. Never forget; never forgive," and they saw that Mrs.
Hunter stood with them in the dim kitchen.

"Dunno 'bout dat, Missus. Reckon de wah am ober, an' what we gwine ter do
wid de Lawd's prar? Dar, dar, honey, 'pose you'se nerves. 'Taint bes' to
tink too much ob de ole times, an' I mustn't talk to you so no mo'."




CHAPTER IX

A NEW SOLACE


On her way home Aun' Sheba shook her head more than once in perplexity and
disapprobation over what she had heard. She had the freedom of speech of
an old family servant who had never been harshly repressed even when a
slave, and now was added the fearlessness of a free woman. Her affection
for Mara was so strong that in her ignorance she shared in some of the
girl's prejudices against the North, but not in her antipathy. The thought
that Clancy had waned in his regard or that he could even think of a
Northern girl after having "kep' company" with Mara, had been
exasperating, but now Aun' Sheba began to suspect that the estrangement
was not wholly his fault. "She set agin him by his gwine Norf an' his
habin' to do wid de folks dat she an' ole Missus hates. Doan see why he is
mad at me 'bout it. Reckon he's mad anyhow an' can't speak peac'ble to
nobody. Well, I likes him a heap betteh in dat view ob de case an' he kin
glower at me all he please 'long as he ain't 'sertin' young Missy case she
is po'. Couldn't stan' dat no how. He's willin' an' she ain't, an' dat wat
she mean by sayin' 'No, Owen Clancy, nebbeh.' She won't lis'n to him kase
he doan hate de Norf like pizen. Now dat is foolishness, an' she's sot up
to it by de ole Missus. De Norf does as well as it know how. To be sure,
it ain't quality like young Missy, but it buy de cotton an' it got de
po'r. Wat's mo', it gib me a chance to wuck fer mysef. I would do as much
fer young Missy as eber. I'd wuck my fingers off fer her, but I likes ter
do it like white folks, kase I lub her. She orten' be so hard on young
Clancy. He got his way ter make and dere'd be no good in his buttin' his
head agin a wall. Tings am as dey is, an' I'm glad dey is as dey am. Dey's
a long sight betteh fer cullud folks and white folks too, ef dey's a min'
ter pull wid de curren' sted ob agin it. Massa Clancy's no fool. He know
dis. He los' his pa an his prop'ty too, but he know betteh dan to go on
hatin' fereber. Dey can't spec' me to uphole dem in dis fer it agin de
Scripter an' my feelin's. Ole Missus bery 'ligious. She dun fergit wat de
words mean she say ebry Sunday, But den, wot de use ob callin' ole Missus
to 'count. She neber could see ony her side ob de question. It don make
any dif'ence to her how many widers dere is in de Norf an' she hab jes
dinged her 'pinions inter young Missy eber sence she was bawn. I'se glad
ter do fer dem long as I lib, but I'se gwine ter speak my min' too."

With such surmises and self-communings she reached her home and found
Uncle Sheba asleep in his chair and the fire out. She nodded at him
ominously and muttered, "I gib him anuder lesson." Slipping quietly into
the bedroom, she bolted the door, and, unrelenting to all remonstrances
left him to get through the night as well as he could in his chair. The
result justified the wisdom of the means employed, for thereafter Uncle
Sheba always had a good fire when she returned.

Aun' Sheba had correctly interpreted the ellipsis suggested by Mara's
passionate utterance. The scenes called up by her old nurse's words and
rendered vivid by a strong imagination again presented themselves as an
impassable barrier between herself and her lover unless he should feel
their significance as she did. As a woman her heart was always pleading
for him, but when strongly excited by the story of the past her anger
flamed that he should even imagine that she would continue her regard for
him. Indeed she wondered and was almost enraged at herself that she could
not at once blot out his image and dismiss him from her thoughts when he
was taking the course of all others most repugnant to her. At such moments
she could easily believe that all was over between them, but with quiet
persistence her heart knew better, and preferred love to enmities and sad
memories.

Moreover, passionate as had been her mood there was a hard, homely
common-sense in her old nurse's words, "Reckon de wah's ober an' wat you
gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar?" that quenched her fire like cold water.
No one can be in a false position, out of harmony with normal laws and
principles, without meeting spiritual jars. Mara was too young and too
intelligent not to recognize the difficulties in maintaining her position,
but she believed sincerely that the circumstances of her lot justified
this position and made it the only honorable one for her. Northerners were
to her what the Philistines were to the ancient Hebrews, the hereditary
foes from which she had suffered the chief ills of her life. To compromise
with them was to compromise with evil, and therefore she was always able
to reason away the significance of all words like those of Aun' Sheba,
although for the moment they troubled her.

Mrs. Hunter, however, had long since been incapable of doubts or
compunctions. She tolerated Aun' Sheba's outspokenness as she would that
of a child or a slave babbling of matters far above her comprehension.

The day marked a change in Mara's policy and action, and these led to some
very important experiences. A false pride had at first prompted, or at
least induced her to acquiesce in secrecy; now an honest pride led her to
openness in all her efforts to obtain a livelihood. She would volunteer no
information, but would simply go on in an unhesitating manner, let the
consequences be what they might.

They soon began to take a surprisingly agreeable form, for the quick warm
sympathies of the Southern people were touched. Here was a young girl, the
representative of one of the oldest and best families, seeking quietly and
unostentatiously to support herself and her aged aunt. There had been
scores of people who would gladly have offered her assistance, but they
had respected her reticence in regard to her affairs as jealously as they
guarded the condition of their own. Frank in the extreme with each other
in most respects, there was an impoverished class in the city who would
suffer much rather than reveal pecuniary need or accept the slightest
approach to charity. Poverty was no reproach among these families that had
once enjoyed wealth in abundance. Indeed it was rather like a badge of
honor, for it indicated sacrifice for the "lost cause" and an unreadiness
for thrifty compacts and dealings with those hostile to that cause. In the
class to which Mara belonged, therefore, she gained rather than lost in
social consideration, and especial pains were taken to assure her of this
fact.

Those in whose veins, even in Mrs. Hunter's estimation, flowed the oldest
and bluest blood, called more frequently and spoke words of cheer and
encouragement. That good lady, in a rich but antiquated gown, received the
guests and was voluble in Mara's praises and in lamentation over the
wrongs of the past. The majority were sympathetic listeners, but all were
glad that the girl could do and was willing to do something more than
complain. To their credit it should be said that they were ready to do
more than sympathize, for even the most straitened found that they could
spare something for Mara's cake, and Aun' Sheba's basket began to be
emptied more than once every day. Orders were given also, and the young
girl had all she could do to keep up with the growing demand.

It was well for her that each day brought its regular work, and its close
found her too weary for the brooding so often the bane of idleness. Yet,
in spite of all that was encouraging, the cheering words spoken to her,
the elation of Aun' Sheba and the excitement resulting from her humble
prosperity, she was ever conscious of a dull ache at heart. Clancy had
gone North for an indefinite absence, and it looked as if their separation
were final. In vain she assured herself that it was best that they should
not meet again until both were satisfied that their paths led apart. She
knew that she had hoped his path would come back to hers--that in secret
she hoped this still, with a pathetic persistence which defied all effort.
She believed, however, that such effort was her best resource, for he was
again under the influences she most feared and detested. At times she
reproached herself for having been too reserved, too proud and passionate
in her resentment at his course. He had asked her to convince him of his
error if she could, and she had not only failed to make such effort, but
also had denied him the hope that would have been more than all argument.
Thus, at variance with her heart, she alternated between the two extremes
of anger at his course and regret and compunction at her own. As a rule,
though, her resolute will enabled her to concentrate her thoughts on daily
occupations and immediate interests, and it became her chief aim to so
occupy herself with these interests that no time should be left for
thoughts which now only tended to distress and discourage.

Mara was a girl who consciously would be controlled by a few simple
motives rather than by impulses, circumstances or the influence of others.
We have seen that loyalty, as she understood it, was her chief motive. Her
love for parents she had never seen was profound, and all relating to them
was sacred. To do what she believed would be pleasing to them, what would
now reflect honor upon their memory, was her supreme duty. All other
motives would be dominated by this pre-eminent one and all action guided
by it. She felt that the effort to provide for her aunt, the one remaining
member of her family, and to enable her to spend her remaining days in the
congenial atmosphere of the past, would certainly be in accord with her
parents' wishes. Then by natural sequence her sympathies went out to those
whose fortunes, like her own, had been wrecked by the changes against
which they could interpose only a helpless protest. In various ways she
learned of those of her own class who had been disabled and impoverished,
whose lives were stripped of the embroidery of pleasant little
gratifications only permitted by a surplus of income. It gradually came to
be a cherished solace after the labors of the morning, to carry to the
sick and afflicted, dwelling in homes of faded gentility like her own,
some delicacy made by her own hands. While these were received in the
spirit in which they were brought, the girl's lovely, sympathetic face was
far more welcome, and the orphan began to embody to those of the old
regime the cause for which they all had suffered so much. Within this
limited circle Mara was kindness and gentleness itself, beyond it cold and
unapproachable. Occasionally some, with whom she had no sympathy, sought
to patronize her. They intimated that they were willing to buy lavishily,
but it was also evident that they wished their good-will appreciated and
reciprocated in ways that excited the girl's scorn. In spite of her
poverty and homely work, it was known that she was a favorite in the most
aristocratic circle in the city, and there are always those ready to seek
social recognition in many and devious ways. These pushing people
represented to Mara the Northern element and leaven in the city, and she
soon made it clear that there was an invisible line beyond which they
could not pass. Their orders were either declined or scrupulously filled,
if her time permitted, but with a quiet tact which was inflexible she
warded off every approach which was not purely commercial.




CHAPTER X

MISS AINSLEY


While in New York, Owen Clancy had been kept informed of the drift of
those events in which he was especially interested. While Mara's effort
had increased his admiration for her, its success had still further
discouraged his hope. In his way he was as proud as she was. He had
committed himself to a totally different line of action, for in his
business relations he had been led into friendly relations with many
Northern people in both cities. He had accepted and returned their
hospitalities in kind as far as it was possible for a young bachelor of
modest means. This courtesy had been expected and accepted as a matter of
course, and to exchange it for cold, freezing politeness limited only to
matters of trade, would not only subject him to ridicule but cut short his
business career. Considerations supreme in Mara's circle were ignored by
the great world, and, having once felt the impulses of the large currents
of life, it would be impossible for Clancy to withdraw into the little
side eddy wherein thought was ever turning back to no purpose. Having
clasped hands and broken bread with the men and women of the North, he
felt that he could not, and would not stultify himself, even for the sake
of his love, by any change toward them. They would despise him not only as
a miracle of narrowness but also as an insincere man, whose courtesy had
been but business policy, easily dropped at the bidding of some more
pressing interest.

His last interview with Mara had depressed him exceedingly, for while it
had increased his love it had also revealed to him the radical divergence
in their views and made it more clear that he could only hope to win her
love by the sacrifice of self-respect. He must cease to be a thinking,
independent man, a part of his own day and generation, and fix his
thoughts upon the dead issues of the past. "The idea," he would mutter,
"of sitting down and listening to Mrs. Hunter's inane and endless lament."
He could not conform to Mara's views without being guilty of hypocrisy
also, and she proved her narrowness by not recognizing this truth.

After all, the point of view was chiefly the cause of the trouble between
them. She had ever dwelt in the shaded valley; he had been on the
mountain-top, and so had secured a broad range of vision. He had come into
contact with the great forces which were making the future and the men of
the future, and he recognized that his own State and his own people must
be vitalized by these forces or else be left far behind. And he
represented a large and increasing class in his native city. In birth and
breeding he was the peer of Mara or any of her aristocratic circle. He had
admission to the best society in the State, and, if looked upon coldly by
some, it was for the same reasons which actuated the girl for whom he
would gladly yield everything except his principles and right of private
judgment.

While he had many warm, sympathetic friends he felt that the old should
give way to the new, he yet ran against the prejudices which Mara embodied
so often that he began to feel ill at ease in Charleston.

He thought of removing permanently to cosmopolitan New York more than once
during his absence North. If he should be fully convinced after his return
that Mara was lost to him, unless he became a part of her implacable and
reactionary coterie, it might be better for his peace of mind that he were
far away.

One evening, before his departure home, he was invited to dine with a
gentleman who had large railroad interests in the South. Mr. Ainsley was a
widower, a man of wealth, and absorbed in the pleasure of its increase. He
had made a business acquaintance with Clancy, and, finding him unusually
intelligent and well informed in regard to Southern matters, naturally
wished to converse more at length with him. The cordial invitation, the
hearty welcome of the Northern capitalist could scarcely fail in
gratifying the young Southerner, who keenly felt the importance of
interesting just such men as his host in the enterprises under
consideration. During the preliminary talk in the library of his palatial
home, Mr. Ainsley soon discovered that his guest was not only well
informed but frank and honest in statements, giving the cons as well as
the pros, in spite of an evident desire to secure for the South all the
advantages possible.

Before going to the dining-room, Miss Caroline, his host's only daughter,
entered the library and was presented. Clancy was fairly dazzled by her
remarkable beauty. She was a blonde of the unusual type characterized by
dark eyes and golden hair. Naturally, therefore, the first impression of
beauty was vivid, nor was it banished by closer observation. As she
presided with ease and grace at her father's table, Clancy found himself
fascinated as he had never been before by a stranger.

Although their table-talk lost its distinctively business and statistical
character, Mr. Ainsley still pursued his inquiries in a broad, general
way, and the daughter also asked questions in regard to life and society
at the South which indicated a personal interest on her part.

At last she said, "Papa thinks it quite possible that we may spend some
time in your region, and in that case we should probably make Charleston
our headquarters. I have a friend, Mrs. Willoughby--do you know her?"

"Yes, indeed; a charming lady. She resides on the Battery."

"I'm glad you know her. I met her abroad, and we became very fond of each
other. She has often asked me to visit her, but as I rarely leave Papa,
the way has never opened."

"My daughter is very good in accompanying me in my various business
expeditions," her father explained, "and you know they do not often lead
to fashionable watering-places, nor can they always be adjusted to such
seasons as I could desire. I wish I could go to Charleston at an early
date, but in view of other interests, I cannot tell when I can get away."

"When I do come, I shall make the most of my name and insist on being
regarded as a Carolinian," said Miss Ainsley, laughing.

Clancy was pleased with the conceit and the delicate compliment implied,
but he was already impressed with the idea that his hostess was the most
cosmopolitan girl that he had ever met. She piqued his curiosity, and he
led her to talk of her experiences abroad. Apparently she had been as much
at home in Europe as in America, and had been received in the highest
social circles everywhere. When after dinner she played for him some
brilliant, difficult classical music, he began to regard her a perfect
flower of metropolitan culture. Yet she perplexed him. She revealed so
much about herself without the slightest hesitation, yet at the same time
seemed to veil herself completely. He and her father could broach no topic
of conversation in which she could not take an intelligent part. Matters
of European policy were touched upon, and she was at home in regard to
them. She smiled broadly when he tried to explain to her father that
patience would still be required with the South, but that in time the two
parts of the country would be more firmly welded together than ever. "Such
antipathies amuse me," she said. "It is one side keeping up a quarrel
which the other has forgotten all about."

"The circumstances are different, Miss Ainsley," Clancy replied. "The war
cost me my father, my property, and impoverished my State."

He could not tell whether her eyes expressed sympathy or not, for they had
beamed on him with a soft alluring fire from the first, but her father
spoke up warmly: "The North has not forgotten, especially the older
generation. We have not suffered materially and have become absorbed in
new interests, but the heart of the North was wounded as truly as that of
the South. I wish to assure you, Mr. Clancy, how deeply I sympathize with
and honor your spirit of conciliation. What is there for us all but to be
Americans? Believe me, sir, such men as yourself are the strength and hope
of your section."

"I believe with you, Mr. Ainsley, that it has been settled that we are to
have but one destiny as a nation, but in justice to my people I must say
that our wounds were so deep and the changes involved so vast that it is
but reasonable we should recover slowly. You may say that we committed
errors during the reconstruction period, yet they were errors natural to a
conquered people. In the censure we have received from many quarters we
have been almost denied the right to our common human nature. Possibly the
North, in our position would not have acted very differently. But the past
_is_ past, and the question is now, what is right and wise? I know that I
represent a strong and growing sentiment which desires the unity and
prosperity of the entire country. I in turn, sir, can say that men like
yourself, in coming among us and investing their money do more than all
politicians in increasing this sentiment. It proves that you trust us; and
trust begets trust and good feeling. The North, however, will always be
mistaken if it expects us to denounce our fathers or cease to honor the
men who fought and prayed for what they believed was right."

"Suppose, Mr. Clancy," Miss Ainsley asked, with mirthful eyes, "that a
party in the South had the power to array your section against the North
again, would you go with your section?"

"Oh, come, Carrie, it is scarcely fair to ask tests on utterly improbable
suppositions," said her father laughing, yet he awaited Clancy's answer
with interest.

"No," he said quietly, "not with the light I now possess. I would have
done so five years ago. Are Northern young men so intrinsically wise and
good that they are not influenced by their traditions and immediate
associations?"

"Mr. Clancy, where are your eyes? Go to the Delmonico cafe at noon
to-morrow, and observe the flower of our patrician youth taking their
breakfast. You will see beings who are intrinsically what they are."

"I fear we are rather even in this respect," said Clancy, laughing. "You
have your metropolitan dudes and manikins, and we our rural ruffians,
slaves of prejudice, who hate progress, schools and immigration, as they
do soap and water. There is some consideration for our fellows, however,
for they scarcely know any better, and many of their characteristics are
bred in the bone. It would almost seem that the class you refer to are
fools and nonentities from choice."

"I fear not," she said, lifting her eyebrows, "if I were a medical student
I should be tempted to kill one of them--it wouldn't be murder--to see if
he had a brain."

"You think brain, then, is absolutely essential?'

"Yes, indeed. I could endure a man without a heart, but not if he were a
fool. If a man is not capable of thinking himself into what is sensible he
is a poor creature."

Clancy shrugged his shoulders in slight protest and soon after took his
leave, having first acquiesced in an appointment with Mr. Ainsley at his
office in the morning.

On the way to his hotel and until late into the night, he thought over his
experiences of the evening. Did Miss Ainsley intend to compliment him by
suggesting that he was thinking himself into what was sensible? It was
difficult to tell what she intended as far as he was concerned. "She could
only have the most transient interest in such a stranger as I am," he
reasoned, "yet her eyes were like magnets. They both fascinate and awaken
misgivings. Perhaps they are the means by which she discovers whether a
man is a fool or not; if he speedily loses his head under their spells,
she mentally concludes, weighs and finds wanting. Probably, however, like
hosts of pretty women, she simply enjoys using her powers and seeing men
succumb; and men not forearmed and steeled as I am, might well hesitate to
see her often, for my impression is right strong that she has more brain
than heart. Yet she is a dazzling creature. Jove, what a contrast to Mara!
Yet there is a nobility and womanly sincerity in Mara's expression than I
cannot discover in Miss Ainsley's face. However wrong Mara may be, you are
sure she is sincere and that she would be true to her conscience even if
she put the whole North to the sword; but this brilliant girl--how much
conscience and heart has she? Back of all her culture and accomplishments
there is a woman; yet what kind of a woman? Well, the prospects are that I
may have a chance to find out when she comes South. One thing is certain,
she will not discover that I am a fool by speedily kindling a vain
sentiment. Yet I would like to find her out, to discover the moral texture
of her being. A girl like Miss Ainsley could more than fulfil a man's
ideal or else make his life a terror."

He called again just before his departure, and saw her alone. As at first,
she appeared to veil the woman in her nature completely, while, at the
same time, the mild lightning of her eyes played about him.

Although consciously on his guard he found himself fascinated in spite of
himself by her marvellous beauty, and his curiosity piqued more than ever.
He discovered that her range of reading was wide, especially in modern
European literature, and he was charmed by her broad, liberal views.
Perhaps it was because he was singularly free from egotism that he was so
conscious of her fine reticence which took the mask of apparent frankness.
Most men would have been flattered by her seeming interest in them and
willingness to listen to all they had to say about themselves. According
to Clancy's opinion, conversation should be an equal interchange. He
looked direct into Miss Ainsley's eyes. They bewildered and perplexed him,
for they appeared to gather the rays of some light he did not understand
and focus them upon himself. He wished he could see her in the society of
other men and could learn more of her antecedents so that he might better
account for her, but he went away feeling that she was more of an enigma
than ever.

The glamour of her perplexing personality was upon him during much of his
journey, but as he approached his native city thoughts of Mara
predominated. Was she utterly estranged, and was the secret of her
coldness due to the truth that he had never had any real hold upon her
heart? If Mrs. Hunter had not so harshly interposed at the critical moment
of their last interview, he believed that he would have discovered why it
was she said he was "breaking her heart." Was it because he charged her
with disloyalty to her kindred? Or had his own course which she felt was
separating them some part in her distress? The fact that she had been
silent to his last appeal, that she had proved his fears in regard to her
poverty to be true, yet had sought aid from such an unexpected source,
rather than permit him to endow her with his love and all that it
involved, forced him to the miserable conclusion that she had at least
decided against him.

But hope dies hard in a lover's breast. He longed to see her again, yet
how could he see her except in the presence of others?

He knew they soon would meet; he was determined that they should; and
possibly something in her involuntary manner or expression might suggest
that she had thought of his words in his absence.

She had thought of his words as we know, but she had also been given other
food for reflection which the following chapter will reveal.




CHAPTER XI

TWO QUESTIONS


In the division of labor between Mara and her aunt, the latter, with the
assistance of their landlady's daughter, tried to leave the young girl few
tasks beyond that of filling Aun' Sheba's basket.

Mrs. Hunter was also expected to be ready to receive callers, and excuse
Mara during the morning hours. Under the new order of things, more people
dropped in than in former times, for, as we have seen, it had become a
kindly fashion to show good-will. The caller on a certain morning in April
was not wholly actuated by sympathy, for she had news which she believed
would be interesting if not altogether agreeable. Clancy's attentions had
not been unknown, and he had at first suffered in the estimation of others
as well as of Aun' Sheba, because of his apparent neglect. The impression,
however, had been growing, that Mara had withdrawn her favor on account of
his friendly relations with Northern people and his readiness to bury the
past. The morning visitor had not only learned of a new proof of his
objectionable tendencies, but also--so do stories grow as they
travel--that he was paying attention to a New York belle and heiress. Mrs.
Hunter was soon possessed of these momentous rumors, and when, at last,
weary from her morning labors, Mara sat down to their simple dinner, she
saw that her aunt was preternaturally solemn and dignified. The girl
expressed no curiosity, for she knew that whatever burdened her aunt's
mind would soon be revealed with endless detail and comment.

"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Hunter at last, "my impressions concerning people
are usually correct, and it is well for you that they are. If it had not
been for me you might have become entangled in association with a man
false and disloyal in all respects. I say entangled in association,
resulting from a moment of weakness, for assuredly the instant you gained
self-possession and had time for thought, you would have repudiated
everything. I saved you from the embarrassment of all this, and now you
can realize how important was the service I rendered. I have heard of the
performances of Mr. Clancy at the North."

The hot flush on Mara's cheeks followed by pallor proved that her
indifference had been thoroughly banished, but she only looked at her aunt
like one ready for a blow.

"Yes," resumed Mrs. Hunter, "the story has come very straight--straight
from that young Mrs. Willoughby, who, with her husband, seems as ready to
forget and condone all that the South has suffered as your devoted admirer
himself. Devoted indeed! He is now paying his devotions at another shrine.
A Northern girl with her Northern gold is the next and natural step in his
career, and he said to her pointblank that if the South again sought to
regain her liberty, he would not help. He wasn't a Samson, but he was not
long in being shorn by a Northern Delilah of what little strength he had."

"How do you know that this is true?" asked Mara rigid, with suppressed
feeling.

"Oh, Mrs. Willoughby must talk if the heavens fell. It seems that she met
this Northern girl abroad, and that they have become great friends. She
has received a letter, and it is quite probable that this girl will come
here. It would be just like her to follow up her new admirer. Mrs.
Willoughby is so hot in her advocacy of what she terms the 'New South,'
that she must speak of everything which seems to favor her pestilential
ideas. By birth she belongs to the Old South and the only true South, and
she tries to keep in with it, but she is getting the cold shoulder from
more than one."

Mara said nothing, but her brow contracted.

"You take it very quietly," remarked her aunt severely.

"Yes," said Mara.

"Well, if I were in your place I would be on fire with indignation."

"Perhaps I would be if I did not care very much," was the girl's
constrained answer.

"I do not see how you can care except as I do."

"You are you, aunty, and I am myself. People are not all made exactly
alike."

"But a girl should have some self-respect."

"Yes, aunty, and she should be respected. I am one to show my self-respect
by deeds, not words. You must not lecture me any more now as if I were a
child," and she rose and left her almost untasted dinner.

A little thought soon satisfied Mrs. Hunter that the iron had entered deep
into the soul of her niece, and that her deeds would be satisfactory. She
therefore finished her dinner complacently.

Mara felt that she had obtained a test which might justly compel the
giving up of her dream of love forever. She was endowed with a simplicity
and sincerity of mind which prompted to definite actions and conclusions,
rather than to the tumultuous emotions of anger, jealousy and doubt. She
would not doubt; she would know. Either Clancy had been misrepresented or
he had not been, and he had seemed so true and frank in his words to her
that she would not condemn him on the story of a gossip. From her point of
view she concluded that if he had gone so far as to say to a Northern girl
that he would not join the South in an effort to achieve independence,
supposing such an attempt to be made, then he had passed beyond the pale
of even her secret sympathy and regard, no matter what the girl might
become to him. She scarcely even hoped that there would ever be a chance
for him to make such a choice of sides as his reputed words indicated, but
he could contemplate the possibility, and if he could even think, in such
an imagined exigency, of remaining aloof from the cause for which his and
her own father had died, then he would be dismissed from her thoughts as
utterly unworthy.

So she believed during the unhappy hours of the afternoon which were
robbed of all power to bring rest. She determined, if it were possible, to
hear the truth from his own lips. She would subdue her heart by giving it
proof positive that he had either drifted or had been lured far away. If
this were true--and she would not be influenced by her aunt's bitter
prejudice--then it was all over between them. If once so completely
convinced that he did not love her sufficiently to give up his Northern
affiliations for her sake, her very pride would cast out her own stubborn
love.

The opportunity to accomplish all she desired soon occurred, for later she
met him at a house where a few guests had been invited to spend the
evening. Social life had ceased to divide sharply upon the opinions held
by different persons, and the question as to what guests should be brought
together had been decided by the hostess chiefly on the ground of birth
and former associations. On this occasion when Clancy's eyes met those of
Mara, he bowed, and was about to cross the room in the hope of receiving
something like a welcome after his absence, but he was repelled at once
and chilled by her cold, slight bow, and her prompt return of attention to
the gentleman with whom she was conversing.

Clancy was so hurt and perturbed that he was capable of but indifferent
success in his efforts to maintain conversation with others. When supper
was served he strayed into the deserted library and made a pretence of
looking at some engravings. A dear and familiar voice brought a sudden
flush to his face, but the words, "Mr. Clancy, I wish to speak with you,"
were spoken so coldly that he only turned and bowed deferentially and then
offered Mara a chair.

She paid no attention to this act, and hesitated a moment in visible
embarrassment before proceeding.

"Miss Wallingford," he began eagerly, "I have longed and hoped--"

She checked him by a gesture as she said, "Perhaps I would better speak
first. I have a question to ask. You need not answer it of course if you
do not wish to. I am not conventional in seeking this brief interview.
Indeed," she added a little bitterly, "my life has ceased to be
conventional in any sense, and I have chosen to conform to a few simple
verities and necessities. As you once said to me, you and I have been
friends, and, if I can trust your words, you have meant kindly by me--"

"Miss Wallingford, can you doubt my words," he began in low, passionate
utterance, "can you doubt what I mean and have meant? You know I--"

Her brow had darkened with anger, and she interrupted him, saying, "You
surely cannot think I have sought this interview in the expectation of
listening to such words and tones. I have come because I wish to be just,
because I will not think ill of you unless I must, because I wish you to
know where I stand immovably. If my friendship is worth anything you will
seek it by deeds, not words. I now only wish to ask if you said in effect,
while North, that if the South should again engage in a struggle for
freedom you would not help?"

Clancy was astounded, and exclaimed, "Miss Wallingford, can you even
contemplate such a thing?"

Her face softened as she said, "I knew that you could never have said
anything of the kind."

How tremendous was the temptation of that moment! He saw the whole truth
instantaneously, that she was lost to him unless he came unreservedly to
her position. In that brief moment her face had become an exquisite
transparency illumined with an assurance of hope. He had an instinctive
conviction that even if he admitted that he had spoken the words, yet
would add, "Mara, I am won at last to accept your view of right and duty,"
all obstacles between them would speedily melt away.

The temptation grappled his heart with all the power of human love, and
there was an instant of hesitation that was human also, and then
conscience and manhood asserted themselves. With the dignity of conscious
victory he said gravely, "Miss Wallingford, I have ever treated your
convictions with respect even when I differed with you most. I have an
equal right to my own convictions. I should be but the shadow of a man if
I had no beliefs of my own. You misunderstand me. My first thought as you
spoke was surprise that you could even contemplate such a thing as a
renewed struggle between the North and the South."

"Certainly I could contemplate it, sir, though I can scarcely hope for
it."

"I trust not; and even at the loss of what I value far more than you can
ever know, I will not be false to myself nor to you. I did speak such
words, and I must confirm them now." She bowed frigidly and was turning
away when he said, "I, too, perhaps have the right to ask a question."

She paused with averted face. "Can you not at least respect a man who is
as sincere as you are?"

Again the vigilant Mrs. Hunter, uneasy that Mara and Clancy were not
within the range of her vision, appeared upon the scene. She glared a
moment at the young man, and Mara left the room without answering him.




CHAPTER XII

A "'FABULATION"


It had been Mara's belief, indeed almost her hope, that if truth compelled
Clancy to admit that he had spoken the obnoxious words he would become to
her as a "heathen man and a publican." No matter how much she might
suffer, she had felt that such proof of utter lack of sympathy with her
and all the motives which should control him, would simplify her course
and render it much easier, for she had thought that her whole nature would
rise in arms against him. It would end all compunction, quench hope and
even deal a fatal blow to love itself. She would not only see it her duty
to banish him from her thoughts, but had scarcely thought it possible that
he could continue to dwell in them.

The result had not justified her expectations, and she was baffled,
exasperated and torn by conflicting feelings. Although he had admitted the
words and confirmed them to her very face, he had not allowed himself to
be put in a position which enabled her to turn coldly and contemptuously
away. Brief as had been the interview, he had made it impossible for her
to doubt two things; first, that the Northern girl was nothing to him and
that he had not spoken the words to win her favor, for he had come back to
herself with the same love in his eyes and the same readiness to give it
expression despite her coldness and even harshness. No matter how bitterly
she condemned herself, this truth thrilled and warmed her very soul. In
the second place, however mistaken he might be, he had compelled her to
believe him to be sincere, so loyal, indeed, to his own sense of right
that not even for her sake would he yield. She could not doubt this as the
eagerness of the lover passed into the grave dignity and firmness of a
self-respecting man. Moreover, another truth had been thrust upon her
consciousness--that she was more woman than partisan. As he had stood
before her, revealing his love and constancy and at the same time
asserting his right to think and act in accordance with his own
convictions, he had appeared noble, handsome, manly; her heart
acknowledged him master, and however vigilantly she might conceal the
fact, she could not deny it to herself.

Nevertheless, his course had simplified her action; it had decided her
that all was over between them. The case was hopeless now; for neither
could yield without becoming untrue to themselves, and there could be no
happy union in such radical diversity. The less often they met the better,
as he only made her course the harder to maintain and the separation more
painful than it had been before.

She might hide her unhappiness, but she could not banish the resulting
despondency and flagging strength. Her aunt had half forced an explanation
of the reason why she was alone with Clancy, and, in hasty self-defence,
she admitted a resolve to know with certainty whether he had spoken the
words charged against him. When Mrs. Hunter learned that he had
acknowledged the truth of the story, she spoke of him with redoubled
bitterness, making it hard indeed for Mara to listen, for her heart took
his side almost passionately. Unintentionally Mrs. Hunter proved herself
the young man's best ally, yet Mara outwardly was compelled to acquiesce,
for she herself had proved the enormity which was to end everything.
Consistency, however, was torn to tatters one day, and she said in sudden
passion, "Aunty, never mention Mr. Clancy's name again. I demand this as
my right."

When Mara spoke in this manner Mrs. Hunter yielded. Indeed she was not a
little perplexed over the girl who had been so passive and subservient.
She was not a profound reasoner upon any subject, nor could she understand
how one step, even though Mara had been driven to it by hard necessity,
led to many others. The girl had begun to assert her individual life, and
her nature, once awakened, was proving a strong one. Deepening and
widening experience perplexed and troubled her unguided mind, and prepared
the way for doubtful experiments.

As before, Aun' Sheba was quick to discover that all was not well with
Mara, but believed that she, like herself, was working beyond her
strength. The old woman had a bad cold and was feeling "rudder po'ly" one
evening when her minister came to pay a pastoral visit.

On so momentous an occasion as this, her son-in-law Kern Watson and his
wife and children were summoned; a few neighbors also dropped in as they
often did, for Aun' Sheba was better in their estimation than any
newspaper in town. Since the necessity for much baking had been removed,
she had hired out her stove in order to make more room and to enjoy the
genial fire of the hearth. So far from being embarrassed because her head
was tied up in red flannel, she had the complacent consciousness that she
was the social centre of the group, an object of sympathy and the
respected patron of all present.

The Reverend Mr. Birdsall, the minister, treated Aun' Sheba with much
consideration; he justly regarded her as one of the "pillars of the
church," knowing well from long experience that she abounded in liberality
if not in long prayers and contentions. He was a plain, sincere, positive
man who preached what he believed to be the truth. If he was sometimes
beyond it, beneath it or away from it altogether, he was as serenely
unconscious of the fact as were his hearers. There was no agnosticism in
his congregation, for he laid down the law and the gospel in a way that
discouraged theological speculation. Nevertheless, among his followers
there were controversial spirits who never doubted that they were right,
however much they might question his ecclesiastical methods and views. To
many, freedom meant the right to have their say, and, as is often true,
those having the least weighty matter on their minds were the most ready
to volunteer opinions and advice. Aun' Sheba was a doer, not a talker, in
her church relations. If she occasionally dozed a little in her pew during
the sermon, she was always wide awake when the plate was passed around;
and if a "brother" or a "sister" were sick she found time for a visit, nor
did she go empty-handed. If it were a case of back-sliding she had a
homely way of talking sense to the delinquent that savored a little of
worldly wisdom. There were not a few who shared in her doubt whether she
was "'ligious" or not, but the Reverend Mr. Birdsall was not of these. He
would only have been too glad to have discovered more religion like hers.

"Mis' Buggone," he said, sympathetically, after Aun' Sheba had given her
symptoms with much detail, "in you is a case whar de spirit is willin' but
de flesh is weak. You'se been a-goin' beyon' you strengt."

"Yes, Elder, dat is de gist ob de whole business," affirmed Kern Watson.
"Moder's tromped de streets wid her big basket till she is dun beat out.
She's undertook mo'n her share an' is s'portin' too many people."

"Kern, you means well," said Aun' Sheba with dignity, "but you mus' not
'fleet on young Missy. She am de las' one in de worl' to let a body s'port
her while she fol' her han's. She's po'ly too, jes' kase she's a workin'
harde'n me."

Uncle Sheba hitched uneasily in his chair, feeling that the conversation
rather reflected on him, and he was conscious that old Tobe, keeper of the
"rasteran," was glaring at him. "I reckin," he said, "dat de min'ster
might offer a word ob prar an' comfort fore he go."

"What pressin' business," asked his wife, severely, "hab you got, Unc.,
dat you in sech a hurry fer de min'ster ter go? We ain't into de shank ob
de ebenin' yet, an' dar's no 'casion to talk 'bout folks goin'."

"I dun said nothin' 'bout folks goin'," complained Uncle Sheba in an
aggrieved tone, "I was ony a suggestin' wot 'ud be 'propriate ter de
'casion _fore_ dey go."

"Mr. Buggone is right, and prar is always 'propriate," said Mr. Birdsall
in order to preserve the serenity of the occasion. "Before this little
company breaks up we will sing a hymn and hab a word ob prar. But we mus'
use de right means in dis worl' an' conform ter de inexorable law ob de
universe. Here's de law and dar's de gospel, and dey both have dar place.
If a brick blow off a chimley it alus falls ter de groun'. Dat's one kin'
ob law. Water runs down hill, dat's much de same kin' ob law. If a man
hangs roun' a saloon an' wastes his time an' money, he's boun' to git
seedy an' ragged an' a bad name, an' his fam'ly gets po' an' mis'ble;
dat's another kin' ob law--no 'scapin' it. He's jest as sure ter run down
hill as de water. Den if we git a cut or a burn or a bruise we hab pain;
dat's anuder kin' ob law, an' we all know it's true. But dar's a heap ob
good people, Mis' Buggone, who think dey can run dis po' machine ob a body
in a way dat would wear out wrought-iron, and den pray de good Lawd ter
keep it strong and iled and right up to the top-notch ob po'r. Now dat's
against both law and gospel, for eben He who took de big contrac' ter save
the worl' said ter his disciples, 'come ye yourselves apart and rest a
while.' I reckon dat's de law and de gospel for you, Mis' Buggone, about
dis time." Nods of approval were general, and Kern Watson gave the sense
of the meeting in his hearty way.

"'Deed it am, Elder," he said. "You'se hit de nail squar on de head. Own
up, now, moder, dat you'se neber been preached at mo' convincin'. Hi! wot
a book dat Bible am! It's got a word in season fer ebry 'casion."

"Well," said Aun' Sheba, meditatively, "I wants ter be open ter de truf,
an' I does own up, Kern, dat de Elder puts it monstis peart an' bery
conwincin'. But," she continued argumentatively, laying the forefinger of
her left hand on the broad palm of her right, "dars gen'ly two sides to a
question. Dat's whar folks git trip up so of'n--dey sees ony one side.
I've 'served dat it's po'ful easy fer folks ter tell oder folks wat ter do
and wat not ter do. No 'fence, Elder. You been doin' you duty, but you'se
been layin' down rudder 'stended princ'ples. I know you'se got ter preach
broad an' ter lay down de truf fer de hull winyard, but I wants ter know
wat ter do wid my own little patch ob ground. Now here's me and dar's my
young Missy 'pendin' on me."

"Dat's whar I jes' doesn't 'gree wid Aun' Sheba," put in her husband as
she paused a moment for breath. He felt that public opinion was veering
over to his side and might be employed to enforce his views. "It is all
bery well fer one ter do all dey can 'sistently fer oders, but--"

"Mr. Buggone," remarked Aun' Sheba sternly.

Uncle Sheba subsided, and she went on, "Dere's my young Missy dat's
pendin' on me, but she ain't pendin' in de sense ob hangin' on me," and
she paused and looked impressively at Unc. "She's usin' her two little
han's jest as hard as she know how, an' a heap too hard. Wat's mo' she's
usin' dem to good puppus. I jes' declar' to you, Elder an' frens, dat
since she took hole, de business am rollm' up an' it gettin' too big fer
both ob us. Dat's whar de shoe pinches. I ain't loss notin'. I'se made a
heap mo' by doin' fer young Missy. In dis 'fabulation, I doesn't want no
'flections on her, kase dey wouldn't be fair. Now, Kern, you'se right
smart. You'se had my 'proval eber sence you took a shine ter Sissy. Ud you
belebe it, Elder and frens, dat son-in-law ob mine offered ter s'port me
an' me do nuffin but jes' help Sissy and look arter de chil'n. But dat
ain't my way. I likes ter put my own money in my own pocket an' I likes
ter take it out agin, an' it jes' warm my heart like a hick'y fiah ter
help dat honey lam' ob mine dat I nussed. So you see, Elder, dat gen'l
preachin' am like meal. Folks has got ter take it an' make out ob it a
little hoe-cake fer dere selves. It's de same ole meal, but we's got ter
hab it in a shape dat 'plies ter our own inards, sperital and bodily."

Again there were nods of assent and sounds of approval which old Tobe put
into words. "Aun' Sheba," he said, "you puts you'se 'pinions monst'us
peart, too. I'se an ole man an' has had my shar ob 'sperence, an' I'se
alus 'served dat de hitch come in at de 'plyin' part. Dere's a sight ob
preachin' dat soun' as true an' straight as dat de sun an' rain make de
cotton grow, but when you git down to de berry indewidooel cotton plant
dere's ofen de debil to pay in one shape or oder. Dere's a wum at de root
or a wum in de leaves, or dey's too much rain or too much sun, or de
sile's like a beef bone dat's been biled fer soup mo' dan's reasonable.
Now Aun' Sheba's de indewidooel cotton-plant we's a-'siderin', an' I doan
see how she's gwine to res' a while any mo'n I kin. Ef I shet up my
rasteran de business gwine ter drap off ter some oder rasteran."

"But, bruder Tobe, isn't it better, even as you put it," protested the
minister, "dat Mis Buggone's business should drop off an' yours too, dan
dat you should drop off youselves? Howsumever, I see de force ob what you
both say, and we mus' try ter hit upon a golden mean. I reckon dar's a way
by which you can both keep your business and yet keep youselves from goin'
beyon' your 'bility. You are both useful citizens and supporters ob de
gospel, and I'm concerned fer your welfare, bodily as well as sperital."

"Aun' Sheba," said her daughter, "you'se my moder an' I ought ter be de
fust one ter help ease you up. I just dun declar dat you'se got ter take
Vilet ter help you up. I kin spar her, an' I will spar her. She's strong
an' gwine on twelve, an' de babies is gitten so dat dey ain't aroun' under
my feet all de time. Vilet's spry an' kin run here an' dar an' fill de
orders. She'd ease you up right smart."

"Now, Sissy," said her husband, who always called her by the old household
name, "dat's bery sens'ble and childlike in you to put yousef out fer
you'se muder. I'd been tinkin' 'bout Vilet, but I didn't like de suggestin
ob her leabin' you to do so much, ob de work. But go ahead, Sissy; go
ahead, Vilet, an' you'll fin' me easy goin' at meal times."

"Come here, Vilet," said the minister.

The girl had been sitting on the floor at Aun' Sheba's feet, listening
quietly and intelligently to all that had been said. She was tall for her
age, and had the quiet steadfastness of gaze that was characteristic of
her father. He was exceedingly fond and proud of her, for, with very
little schooling, she had learned to read and write. Even as a child she
had much of his patience and unselfishness, thus making herself very
useful at home. She looked unshrinkingly at the minister, but trembled
slightly, for she felt all eyes were upon her.

"Vilet," began Mr. Birdsall, "you are said to be a good chile, an' I like
the sens'ble, quiet way in which you stan' up an' look me in de face. I
reckon dar ain't much foolishness in you. Your fader and moder hab shown
de right spirit, de self-denying spirit dat de Lawd will bless. Can you
say the fifth commandment, chile?" Vilet repeated it promptly.

"Dat's right. Now your fader an' moder are honahing dar moder, an' you are
goin' to hab a chance ter honah dem an' your granma, too. You will hab
temptations in de streets ter be pert an' idle, ter stop an' talk to dis
one and ter answer back to dat one in a way you shouldn't. But if you go
along quiet an' steady, an' do what you're tole, an' be car'ful 'bout de
money an' de messages an' de orders an' so forth, you will reflect honah
on us all an' 'specially on all your folks. You understan', Vilet?"

"Yes, sir."

The minister put his hand on her head, and said solemnly, "You have my
blessin', Vilet."

She ducked a little courtesy, and again squatted at the feet of Aun'
Sheba, who, much affected, was wiping her eyes with her apron, while
Sissy's emotion was audible.

"Now, frens," resumed Mr. Birdsall, "this 'mergency of Mis Buggone's
health has been met in de right human and Scriptural spirit. Frens and
fam'ly hab gathered 'roun' de 'flicted one, an' hab paid dar respect ter
her usefulness an' value, an' hab shown her becomin' sympathy. Her own
fam'ly, as is also becomin', hab been first ter ease her up accordin',
first, to the law of primigeneshureship. I know dat dis is a long word,
but long words of'en mean a heap, an' dat's why dey are so long. Dat good
little girl, Vilet, is de oldes' granchile, an' she fulfils a great law in
helpin' her granma. Den it's accordin' to the gospel, for a loving an'
self-denyin' spirit has been shown. Mr. Watson has obeyed de great law of
matrimony. He has married _into_ dis fam'ly, an' he pulls with it an' for
it instead ob against it as we see too of'en. De Lawd's blessin' will rest
on dis fam'ly."

"I feels greatly comforted," said Aun' Sheba. "Dis has been a bressed
season an' a out-pourin'. I mos' feels 'ligious dis ebenin'. De chilen an'
dis deah chile" (patting Vi'let's head) "warm me up betteh'n flannel an'
de fiah. Elder, you'se a good shep'd ob de flock. You'se a lookin' arter
body an' soul. You'se got de eddication to talk big words to us, an', now
we'se free, we hab a right to big words, no mattah how much dey mean. It's
po'ful comfortin' ter know we'se doin' 'cordin' to de law an' de gospel."

"'Pears ter me," said old Tobe, "dat Uncle Sheba might hab a little law
an' gospel 'plied ter him. He am one ob de fam'ly. I'se a heap ol'er dan
he be, an' I'se up wid de sun an' I ony wish I could set when de sun sets.
'Pears like he orter tote some ob de tings ez well ez his slip ob a
grandaughter," and old Tobe's wool seemed fairly to bristle with
indignation and antipathy.

"I've no doubt," began Mr. Birdsall, "but Mr. Buggone'll emulate--"

"Elder," interrupted Aunt Sheba, with portentous solemnity, "dere's
bobscure 'flictions in dis worl' dat can't be 'splained, an' de 'flictions
ofen begin wen we say 'for bettah or wusser.' You'se say youself in de
pulpit dat de gret an' bressed sinner, Paul, had a thorn in de flesh an'
he couldn't git rid ob it nohow, dat he jes' bar wid it an' go 'bout his
business. Ole Tobe _am_ old, but he wasn't bawn tired. Dere's men dat's
po'ful weak in de jints ob de body, yit dat doesn't hender dem from
gittin' 'round, but wen de weak feelin' gits inter de jints ob de min' den
dey's shuah to be kinder limpsy-slimpsy an' dey ain't no help fer it. Ez I
sez afore, de 'fliction am bobscure. You see de feet an' you see de han's,
an' you tink dat dey kin go an' do like oder han's an' feet, but dey
doesn't an' dey can't. Dere ain't no backbone runnin' up troo de min' an'
wen dere ain't no backbone in de min' de pusson jest flop down yere an'
flop down dar whareber dere's a com'fo'ble place to flop. Dere's
'flictions dat we kin pray agin an' pray out'n ob, an' dere's oders we jes
got ter bar, an' we gits so kinder used to'm at las dat we'd be mo'
mis'ble ef dey wuz tooken away. We'se got to take de bittah wid de sweet,
but, tank de Lawd! de sweet 'domernate in dis yere fam'ly. Now let's hab
some praise an' prar. Vilet, honey, sing de hymn you'se moder lern you."

And in a somewhat shrill, yet penetrating, musical voice, the girl sang:

  "I'se a-journeyin', I'se a-journeyin',
     An' de way am bery long;
   De road ain't known, de way ain't shown,
     Yit I journeys wid a song.

CHORUS

  "De journey, de journey, howeber rough de road,
   It's a-leadin', it's a-leadin', to a hebinly abode.

  "I'se a-travelin', I'se a-travelin',
     From de cradle to de grave,
   De road am rough and sho' anuff,
     De heart, hit mus' be brave.

  "I'se a-wondrin', I'se a-wondrin',
     Wen de journey will be true;
   But I goes along wid sigh an' song
     An' a cheery word fer you."

Kern Watson and his wife were gifted with those rich, mellow, African
voices made so familiar in plantation songs and hymns. In the case of
"Sissy" there was a pathetic, contralto, minor quality in her tones, and
the first time young Watson heard her sing a spell was thrown round his
fancy which led to all the rest. The same might be said of her, for when
her husband, then a stranger, poured forth, in one of their evening
meetings, the great rich volume of his voice, she ceased to sing that she
might listen with avidity. It was not long after that before Kern mustered
courage to ask "Miss Buggone, mout I hab de pleasure ob 'companyin' you
home?" Not many months elapsed before he accompanied her home to stay,
with Aun' Sheba's full consent.

Other hymns followed in which Uncle Sheba took part with much unction, for
he wished to impress all present that in spite of the "bobscure
affliction" he "injied 'ligion" as much as any of them. Mr. Birdsall
offered a characteristic prayer, and then Aun' Sheba nodded to Sissy, who
brought out a large supply of cakes and apples. Some gossip among the
women and political discussion among the men occurred while these were
being disposed of, and then the little company broke up, leaving Aun'
Sheba much improved in health and spirits.




CHAPTER XIII

CAPTAIN BODINE


The next day was warm and sunny, and Aun' Sheba, rising much refreshed,
felt herself equal to her duties in spite of her fears to the contrary.
She took Vilet with her to a shop, and there purchased a much smaller
basket, the weight of which when filled would not be burdensome to the
girl. Thus equipped she appeared before Mara at the usual hour with her
grandchild, and began complacently: "Now, honey lam', you'se gwine to hab
two strings to you'se bow. I sometimes feel ole an' stiff in my jints an'
my heft is kinder agin me in trompin'. Here's my granddaughter, an' she's
spry as a cricket. She kin run yere an' dar wid de orders'n less dan no
time, so you won't be kept kin' ob scruged back an' down kase I'se slow
an' hebby. You see?"

"Yes, Aun' Sheba, and I am very glad to see. I have been worrying about
you, for it has seemed to me that you were going beyond your strength, and
yet I did not know of any one to help you or whether you wanted any one."

"Now, honey, you jes' took de words out'n my mouth 'bout you. You'se
lookin' po'ly, an' I'se dreffle 'feared you'se gwine ter get beat ont. You
want help mo'n me, an' I'se had it on my min' ter talk wid you."

"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I'm very well," protested Mara, yet glad to think that
her paleness and languor were ascribed to fatigue.

"Now see yere, honey, I'se got my blin' side, I know, but it ain't toward
you. I watch ober you too many yeahs not to know wen you po'ly. You'se
gwine beyon' you strengt, too. Why can't you get some one ter he'p you an'
den we go along swimmin'?"

"Well, I'll see. I reckon I'll be better soon, and I don't care to do more
than can be done in a quiet way."

The new arrangement on Aun' Sheba's side of the "pana'ship" soon began to
work well. Vilet proved quick and trustworthy, saving her grandmother many
a weary step, and Mara was compelled to see that the mutual income might
be greatly increased if she also had efficient help. She recognized the
truth that she was becoming worn, and she also knew the cause to be that
she worked without the spring of hopefulness or even the quietness of a
heart at rest. She had almost decided to intrust Aun' Sheba with the task
of finding a suitable helper, when she made two acquaintances who were
destined to become intimately associated with her experiences.

One afternoon she felt so lonely, desolate and hopeless that she felt she
must go out of herself. The future was taking on an aspect hard to face.
Disposed to self-sacrifice, she was wretchedly conscious that there was
nothing on which she could bestow a devotion which could sustain or
inspire. There was no future to look forward to, no cause to be furthered,
no goal to be reached by brave, patient effort. If she had lived at the
time of the war she would have loved scarcely less than her mother, but
her heart would have been almost equally divided between the cause and
those who fought and suffered for it. If her lot had been cast in the
North it would have been much the same. The same patriotic motives would
have kindled her imagination and produced the most intense loyalty in
thought and action. She was endowed with a spirit which, had she lived in
the past, might easily have led her into an effort to restore some
overthrown dynasty, and she would have so idealized even a very
questionable conspiracy as to render it worthy, in her belief, of
unstinted self-sacrifice. A girl of her character would have faced the
wild beasts of the Roman amphitheatre for the sake of her faith, or she
would have intrigued against the Spanish Inquisition although hourly
conscious that she was exposing herself to its horrors. It was this very
tendency to give herself up wholly to some object which she felt had a
supreme claim upon her, that had enabled her to live so long upon the
memories of the past. The lost cause, for which her father had died, had
been as sacred to her as the old dream of freedom to a Pole, but Clancy's
question in regard to the old phase of her life, "What good will it do?"
combining with other circumstances, had awakened her to the futility of
her course. Denied the hope of any future achievement, lacking a powerful
motive to sacrifice herself and her love, her strong nature chafed and
tended to despondency at the thought of a simple existence. It was not
enough merely to earn a living and live. She craved an inspiring object,
an antidote for her heartache, a consciousness that in giving up much she
also accomplished much. Yet the future stretched away like an arid plain
and she was depressed by the foreboding that every step carried her
further from all that could give zest to life. She was, therefore, in a
mood to accept anything which would relieve the dreary monotony.

On the afternoon in question she decided to call upon an old lady who had
lost nearly all her kindred and property. "Surely," thought the girl, "she
has nothing to look forward to in this world but a few more straitened
years, then death. I wish I were as old as she."

Taking a little delicacy she started out to pay the visit, hoping to gain
an insight into the philosophy of patient endurance. She veiled herself
heavily, for she was ever haunted by the fear of meeting Clancy on the
street, and that her tell-tale face might lead him to guess the cost of
her effort to avoid him.

An old colored woman showed the way into the parlor while she went up to
prepare her mistress for the call. Reading by the window was a middle-aged
gentleman who bowed gravely and resumed his book.

He riveted Mara's attention instantly, for her first glance revealed that
he had lost his right leg and that crutches leaned against the arm of his
chair. He could not be other than a veteran of the Confederate army, as it
would be strange indeed to find an ex-soldier of the North in that abode.
His strong, finely-cut side face, distinctly outlined against the light,
was toward her. It was marked by deep lines as if the man had suffered and
had passed through memorable experiences. He wore no beard or whiskers,
but an iron-gray mustache gave a distinguished cast to a visage whose
habitual expression was rather cold and haughty.

Mara had time to note these characteristics before she was summoned to
Mrs. Bodine's apartment. Although the day was mild, the old lady, wrapped
in shawls, sat by an open fire, and her wrinkled face lighted up with
pleasure as the girl came toward her. Indeed, there was something like
excitement in her manner as she kissed her guest and said: "Bring your
chair close, my dear, so I can see you and hold your hand. I've something
to tell you which I reckon will interest you almost as much as it does
me."

When Mara was seated in a low chair she resumed: "How much you would look
like your father, child, if your eyes were bright and laughing instead of
being so large and sad! Well, well, there has been enough to make all our
eyes sad, and you, poor child, have had more than enough. Yet you are good
and brave, my dear. So far from sitting down in helpless grieving, you are
taking care of yourself and have time to think of an old woman like me.
Poor Mrs. Hunter! what would she do without you? She, like so many of us,
has been blighted and stranded, and she would have been worse off than I
if it had not been for you, for I have a little left, but oh, it is so
little. Never did I wish it were more so much as I do now. You must be
patient with me, child. I sit here so much alone that it is a godsend to
have some one to talk to, and you are the very one I wanted to see. I was
going to send for you, for I knew you would like to see my guests. My
cousin and his daughter are visiting me, and I wish they could stay with
me always. I knew you would like to meet Captain Bodine--"

"Captain Bodine!" exclaimed Mara, "why, that is the name of an officer who
used to be in my father's regiment."

"He is the very same, my dear."

"Was that he in the parlor?" Mara asked, trembling with excitement.

"Yes, he and his daughter arrived only yesterday."

"Oh!" said Mara, "I've received letters from him, and I've longed to see
him for years. Can I not go down and speak to him at once? I surely do not
need any introduction to the old friend of my father."

"No, my dear, no indeed. You need no formal introduction to any guest or
relative of mine. Besides, he knows you well and all about you, although
he has never seen you since you were a child. It would please him greatly
to have you go down and speak to him at once, for he would know that I
would tell you about his being here, and he might think you cold or formal
if you delayed seeing him. I'm glad you feel so, my dear, but you must
come back and sit with me awhile before you go home. I'll ring for Hannah
and have a nice little feast while you are downstairs."

Mara scrupulously veiled her impatience until her kind, garrulous friend
was through, and then stole with swift, noiseless tread to the parlor
below. Standing in the doorway, she saw that the object of her quest was
absorbed in his book. "He is my ideal of the soldier of that day," she
thought. "How truly he represents us, with his sad, proud face and
mutilated body!" In a sort of awe she hesitated a moment and then said
timidly, "Captain Bodine."

He looked up quickly, and seeing Mara's lustrous eyes and flushed face,
divined instantly who she was.

"Is not this Miss Wallingford?" he asked, his face expressing glad
anticipation as he began to gather up his crutches.

"Do not rise," cried Mara, coming forward instantly with outstretched
hands.

But he was on his crutches, and said feelingly, "Heaven forbid that I
should receive the daughter of my old friend with so little respect." He
took the girl's face into his hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes.
"Yes," he resumed gently, "you are Sidney Wallingford's child. God bless
you, my dear," and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You won't mind
this from an old comrade of your father," he said as he made her take his
chair and sat down near her. "We have been bereft of so much that what
remains has become very precious. I know all about you, Mara."

Tears were in the girl's eyes as she replied falteringly, "And I know of
you, sir, and have longed to meet you. You can scarcely know how much your
words mean to me when you say you were my father's comrade and friend. I
knew this, but it seems more real to me now, and I feel that seeing you is
coming as near as I can to seeing him."

"My poor child! Would to God that he had lived, for you would have been
his pride and solace, as my daughter is to me. When I saw you last you
were a little black-eyed girl and happily did not understand your loss,
although you looked as if you did. I never thought so many years would
pass before I saw you again, but we have had to fight some of our hardest
battles since the war," and he sighed deeply.

"How soon can I meet your daughter?" Mara asked, her eyes full of
sympathy.

"Very soon. I urged her to take a walk on the Battery, for she has not
been very well of late. I said I knew all about you, as I have been told
of your loyalty and brave efforts and your kindness to my aged cousin, but
now that I see you, I feel that I know very little. Your face is full of
stories, my dear child. You are young, and yet you look as if the memories
of the past had made you far older than your years warrant That is the
trouble with us. We have much more to look back upon than to look forward
to. Yet it should not be so with you."

"It can scarcely be otherwise," Mara answered sadly; "you have touched the
very core of our trouble, and I suppose it is the trouble with us all who
are so closely linked with the past--we have so little to look forward to.
But now that you can tell me about my father the past seems so near and
real that I do not wish to think about anything else."

Time sped rapidly as Captain Bodine recalled the scenes and incidents of
his life which were associated with his old commander, and Mara listened
with an absorbed, tearful interest which touched him deeply. The proud,
reserved expression of his face had passed away utterly, and the girl
appreciated the change. His sympathy, the gentleness of his tones and the
profound respect which was blended with his paternal manner made her feel
that her father's friend was already her friend in a very near and sacred
sense. While he was reserved about his own affairs, and she also was
conscious of a secret of which she could never speak, they had so much in
common that she felt that they could talk for hours. But the old lady in
the apartment above grew impatient, and at last Hannah stood courtesying
in the door as she said, "Missus p'sent her compl'ments an' say would be
glad to see you."

"There, I've been selfish and thoughtless," said Captain Bodine, "but I
shall see you again, for it will give Ella and me great pleasure to call
upon you."

"Yes, indeed, we must meet often," Mara added earnestly. "I hope you are
going to make a long stay in Charleston."

"I scarcely know," he replied, and again there was an involuntary sigh;
"but I must keep you no longer."




CHAPTER XIV

"ALL GIRLS TOGETHER"


"I'm not going to lose my visit altogether," said Mrs. Bodine, when Mara
returned with an apology. "If the captain has only one leg, he can get out
and around better than I can. Indeed it is wonderful how he does get
around. He is the spryest man on crutches I ever saw, and you know, my
dear, I've seen a good many. In that dreadful war we were only too glad to
get our men back, what was left of them, and if an arm or a leg were
missing we welcomed them all the more, but we couldn't give much more than
a welcome. It was wreck and ruin on every side. If we had our own the
captain would be well off, as you and I would be, but he is poor; poorer
than most of us. In fact, he hasn't anything. He wasn't one of those
supple jointed men who could conform to the times, and he wasn't brought
up to make his living by thrifty ways. But he did his best, poor boy, he
did his best. Would you like to hear more about him?"

"Yes, indeed," Mara replied, "you can't know how deeply I am interested in
him and his daughter. He was my father's comrade in arms, his friend and
follower. You must pardon me for staying away so long, but when he began
talking of my father I felt as if I could listen forever, you know. I
honor him all the more because he is poor."

"Yes, my dear, I know. Most of us are learning the hard lessons of
poverty. I call him a boy because it seems only the other day he was a boy
and a handsome one, too. He used to visit us here, and was so full of fun
and frolic! But he has had enough to sober him, poor fellow. He was
scarcely more than a boy when the war began, but he was among the first to
enlist, and, like your father, he was a private soldier at first. He soon
received a commission in the same regiment of which your father became
colonel, and no doubt would have reached a much higher rank if he had not
lost his leg. He met with this loss before your brave father was killed,
but I suppose he told you."

"Yes," faltered Mara, "he told me why he was not with my father at the
last."

"Yes, if he could he would have been with him and died with him, and
sometimes I almost think he wishes that such had been his fate, he has
suffered so much. During the remainder of the war he had command of inland
positions which did not require marching, and he always made the record of
a brave, high-minded officer. After the war he married a lovely girl, and
tried to keep the old plantation: but his capital was gone, taxes were
high, the negroes wouldn't work, and I suppose he and his wife didn't know
how to practice close economy, and so the place had to be sold. It didn't
bring enough to pay the mortgages. It cut him to the quick to part with
the old plantation on which the family had lived for generations, but far
worse was soon to follow, for his wife died, and that nearly broke his
heart. Since that time he has lived in Georgia with his only child, Ella,
getting such occupation as he could--office work of various kinds, but I
suppose his reserved, gloomy ways rendered him unpopular; and even our own
people, when it comes to business, prefer an active man who has a ready
word for every one. I conjecture much of this, for he is not inclined to
talk about himself. Poor as I am, I'm glad they accepted my invitation,
and I mean to do all in my power to get him employment here. I have a
little influence yet with some people, and perhaps a place can be found or
made for him. He and his daughter don't require very much, and God knows
I'd share my last crust with them, and," she concluded with a little
apologetic laugh, "it _is_ almost like sharing a crust."

"Oh, he will get employment," cried Mara, enthusiastically; "his disabled
condition in itself will plead eloquently for him. How old is Ella?"

"She must be eighteen or thereabout."

"I wonder if she wouldn't like to help me?"

"Help you? She'd be delighted. But then, my dear, you must not be carried
away by your generous feeling. We're all proud of you because you have
struck out so bravely for yourself; but surely you have burdens enough
already."

"Perhaps Ella can lighten my burden, and I hers; but it is very homely,
humble work."

"You dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, with her little chirruping laugh,
"you are not a very homely, humble doer of the work. I reckon there's no
prouder girl in town. But that's the way it is with the captain and all of
us, in fact. The poorer we are, the prouder we are. Well, well, our pride
is about all we can keep in these times. You need have no fear, however,
that Ella will hesitate in helping you, except as she may very naturally
think herself incompetent, or that you are wronging yourself in trying to
help her."

"We'll see about it," Mara remarked thoughtfully; "I will invite her to
spend a morning with me, and then she can obtain a practical idea of my
work. She might not like it at all, or she might like to do something else
much better, and so would be embarrassed if I asked her to help me,
disliking to refuse, and yet wishing to do so."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Bodine, smiling; "we have some right to think
ourselves 'quality' still, as old Hannah calls us. We are just as
considerate of one another's feelings as if we were all Royal Highnesses.
Have it your own way, my dear, if you truly think Ella can be of service
to you. I reckon you need help, for you don't look as well as when I saw
you last."

"Yes," acquiesced Mara, "I think I do need help. Aun' Sheba's
granddaughter is assisting her, and a good deal more could be sold if it
were properly prepared. It would be a great happiness if my need opened
the way for Ella, for I feel it would please my father as much as it would
please me if I could be of service to his old friend and his daughter."

"I have heard, dear, that you are always trying to do what you thought
your father and mother would like."

"God forbid I should do otherwise," said the girl solemnly.

"Well, perhaps they know all about it," said the old lady, wiping a tear
from her eye. "How close our troubles bring us together. You are lonely
for your parents, and I am lonely for my husband and children."

"And yet you are braver and more cheerful than I," responded Mara; "I was
so sad and discouraged over the future this afternoon, that I came to you,
thinking that you might unconsciously teach me patience and courage. Truly
I was guided, for you face everything like a soldier. Then in meeting
Captain Bodine, I seem to have been brought nearer my father than ever
before. I can't hear about him without tears, yet I would turn from any
pleasure in the world to hear about him. What happiness if he had lived
and I could help him in some way!"

"Well, my dear, we all have our own way of bearing our burdens, and I
often wonder whether I have done more laughing or crying in my life. It
has been one or the other most of the time. I have always thanked the Lord
that when the pain or the trouble was not too severe, I could laugh, and
soon I know all tears will be wiped away. It's harder for you, my dear; it
is harder for you than me. My voyage has been long and stormy; husband,
sons, and the cause for which they died all lost; but I'm coming into the
harbor. You've got your voyage before you. But take courage. Who knows but
that your early days may be your darkest days? They can't always be dark
when you are so ready to brighten the lives of others. There, I hear
Ella's voice."

A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Ella Bodine entered. We
have all seen bright-hued flowers growing in shaded places, and among
cold, grim rocks. Such brightness had the young girl who now appears upon
the scene of our story. One speedily felt that its cause was not in
externals, but that it resulted from inherent qualities. As with Mara,
there had been much in her young life sad and hard to endure. She had not
surmounted her trouble by shallowness of soul or callousness, but rather
by a spiritual buoyancy which kept her above the dark waves, and enabled
her to enjoy all the sunshine vouchsafed. Yet, unlike her father and Mara,
she lived keenly in the present. She sympathized truly and honestly with
her father, and in a large measure intelligently recognized the nature of
the deep shadows projected across his life from the past, but it was her
disposition to keep as near to him as possible and yet remain just beyond
the shadows. She possessed a wholesome common-sense which taught her that
the shadows were not hers and that they were not good for her father; so
she was ever making inroads upon them, beguiling him into a smile,
surprising him into a laugh--in brief, preventing the shadows from
deepening into that gloom which is dangerous to bodily and spiritual
health. She made his small earnings go a great way, and banished from his
life the sordidness of poverty. God outlines an angel in many a woman's
heart, and often privations and sorrow, more surely than luxury, fill out
the divine sketch. In the instance of Ella Bodine the angelic was so
sweetly and inextricably interwoven with all that was human that to mortal
comprehension she was better than a wilderness of conventional angels. She
was depressed now under one of the few forms of adversity that could cast
her down. Her father was out of employment, their slender income had
ceased, and they were dependent. She felt this cruel position all the more
because Mrs. Bodine out of her poverty gave her hospitality so unstintedly
and ungrudgingly.

To the sensitive, fine-natured girl it was like feeding upon the life of
another, and that other a generous friend.

During her walk a score of schemes to earn money had presented themselves
to her inexperienced mind, but her hands had learned only how to eke out a
small salary and to minister to her father. She had come home resolute to
do something, but troubled because she knew not what to do.

She paused a moment on the threshold of Mrs. Bodine's apartment, and
looked questioningly at Mara, at the same time half divining who she was.

"Come along, Ella," cried Mrs. Bodine, with a little joyous laugh of
anticipation, "and kiss one of your best friends, although you never saw
her before."

"Is it Mara?"

Mara's smile and swift approach answered her question. In an instant the
two girls were in each other's arms, their warm Southern hearts touched by
the electric fire of sympathy and mutual understanding. Mrs. Bodine
clapped her little, thin hands and cried, "Oh, that's fine. Southern girls
have not died out yet. Why, even my old withered heart had one of the most
delicious thrills it ever experienced. Now, my dears, come and sit beside
me and get acquainted."

"Oh, I know you already, Mara Wallingford," said Ella with sparkling eyes.

"And I am learning to know you, Ella. I know you already well enough to
love you."

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, raising her hands in a comic gesture, "I
reckon the ice is broken between you."

They all laughed at this sally, and Mara was so cheered, her nerves all
tingling with excitement, that she could scarcely believe herself to be
the half-despairing girl of a few hours before. "Now come," resumed Mrs.
Bodine, "let us all be girls together and have a good talk. At this rate
I'll soon be younger than either of you. I haven't had my share yet. Do
you believe it, Ella? Mara has been downstairs petting your father for an
hour."

"I wonder where he is. He wasn't in the parlor when I came in."

"I reckon he followed your good example and went out for a walk. I heard
the door shut. Well, you girls make a picture that it does my old eyes
good to look at. Here's Mara with her creamy white skin and eyes as
lustrous now as our Southern skies when full of stars, but sometimes, oh
so sad and dark. Dear child, I wish I could take the gloom all out of
them, for then I could think your heart was light. But I know how it is; I
know. Your mother gave you her sad heart when she gave you life, but you
have your father's strength and courage, my dear, and you will never give
up. And here is Ella with complexion of roses and snow and eyes like
violets with the morning dew still on them--forgive an old woman's flowery
speech, for that's the way we used to talk when I was young--yes, here is
Ella, a little peach blossom, yet brimming over with the wish to become a
big, luscious peach. Lor, Lor--oh, fie! Am I saying naughty words? But
then, my dears, you know my husband was a naval officer, and no man ever
swore more piously than he. Bad words never sounded bad to me when he
spoke them--he was such a good Christian! and he always treated me as he
expected to be treated when he was on deck. I reckon that I and the
Commodore are the only ones that ever ordered _him_ around," and the old
lady cried and laughed at the same time, while the faces of her young
companions were like flowers brightened by the sun while still wet with
dew.

"Let me see," continued the old lady, "where was I when I began to swear a
little; just a little, you know. It is a sort of tribute to my husband,
and so can't be very wicked. Oh, I remember, I was thinking what fun it
would have been to chaperon you two girls at one of our grand balls in the
good old times. I would sail around like a great ship of the line,
convoying two of the trimmest little crafts that ever floated, and all the
pirates, I mean gallant young men, my dears, would hover near, dying to
cut you out right under my guns, or nose, as land-lubbers would say. Well,
well, either of you could lead a score of them a chase before you signed
articles of unconditional surrender," and Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her
chair and laughed in her silvery little birdlike twitter. The girls
laughed with her, pleased in spite of themselves with visions that, both
in their nature and by tradition, accorded with the young romantic period
of life. But memory speedily began to restore gravity to Mara's face. Mrs.
Bodine recognized this, and her own face grew gentle and sorrowful. Laying
a hand on each of the girls heads she resumed, "Do not think I am a
frivolous old woman because I run on so. I do not forget the present any
more than Mara, I see, cannot. Dear children, the circumstances of your
lot render you as burdened and, in some ways, almost as old as I am. Ella
can forget easier than you, Mara, but that is because God has put
brightness into her heart. Let us all face the truth together. I am long
past being an elegant matron. I am only a poor old childless widow with
but a few more days of feebleness and suffering before me, yet I do not
sigh in a bitter, murmuring spirit. Old as I am, I am still God's little
child, and sometimes I think this truth makes me as mirthful as a child.
When the pain is hardest to bear, when the past, oh, the past--with all
its immeasurable losses, begins to crush my very soul, I turn my dim eyes
upward and repeat to myself, 'There _is_ a Heaven of eternal rest and
joy,' and so I grow serene in my waiting. I have always loved the bright,
pleasant things of this world--it was my nature to do so--but He who bears
the burdens and heartbreak of the whole world has gently lifted my love up
to Him. Didn't He have compassion on the widow of Nain, and say to her,
'Weep not'? My gallant husband, my brave boys and this poor little widow
are all in His hands, and I try to obey His gentle command not to weep
except sometimes when I can't help it and He knows I can't."

The two girls with their heads in her lap were crying softly from
sympathy. With light, caressing touches to each the old lady continued,
"Ella, my dear, you are like me in some respects. You, too, love the
bright pleasant things of this world, and you are so divinely blessed with
a buoyancy of heart that you will make what is hard and humdrum bright for
yourself and others. You will embroider life with sunshine if there is any
sunshine at all. Like myself, you will be able to smile and laugh whenever
the pain is not too severe, yet I fear it will be very hard sometimes.
Bat, as my husband would say, you are taut, trim and well ballasted, and
good for a long, safe voyage. You have obeyed the Fifth Commandment, and
its promise is yours.

"Mara, dear child my heart, for some reason, aches for you. I knew and
loved your grandfather and your father and mother. You were born into a
heritage of bitterness and sorrow, and I fear Mrs. Hunter, with all her
good qualities, was not so constituted as to be able to counteract
inherited tendencies. I wish I could have brought you up, for then we
could have cried or laughed together over what happened.

"But you have learned to repress and to brood--two dangerous habits. You
want to do some great thing, and alas! there is seldom a great thing which
we poor women can do. You are not impelled by ambition or a desire for
notoriety, but by a sort of passion for self-sacrifice.

"If you had lived twenty odd years ago no soldier of the So

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6719