The Colonel's Dream

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  _Twenty_

  The summer following Colonel French's return to Clarendon wasunusually cool, so cool that the colonel, pleasantly occupied with hisvarious plans and projects, scarcely found the heat less bearable thanthat of New York at the same season. During a brief torrid spell hetook Phil to a Southern mountain resort for a couple of weeks, andupon another occasion ran up to New York for a day or two on businessin reference to the machinery for the cotton mill, which was to beready for installation some time during the fall. But these were briefinterludes, and did not interrupt the current of his life, which wasflowing very smoothly and pleasantly in its new channel, if not veryswiftly, for even the colonel was not able to make things move swiftlyin Clarendon during the summer time, and he was well enough pleased tosee them move at all.

  Kirby was out of town when the colonel was in New York, and thereforehe did not see him. His mail was being sent from his club to Denver,where he was presumably looking into some mining proposition. Mrs.Jerviss, the colonel supposed, was at the seaside, but he had almostcome face to face with her one day on Broadway. She had run down tothe city on business of some sort. Moved by the instinct of defense,the colonel, by a quick movement, avoided the meeting, and felt saferwhen the lady was well out of sight. He did not wish, at this time, tobe diverted from his Southern interests, and the image of anotherwoman was uppermost in his mind.

  One moonlight evening, a day or two after his return from this briefNorthern trip, the colonel called at Mrs. Treadwells'. Caroline openedthe door. Mrs. Treadwell, she said, was lying down. Miss Graciella hadgone over to a neighbour's, but would soon return. Miss Laura waspaying a call, but would not be long. Would the colonel wait? No, hesaid, he would take a walk, and come back later.

  The streets were shady, and the moonlight bathed with a silvery glowthat part of the town which the shadows did not cover. Strollingaimlessly along the quiet, unpaved streets, the colonel, upon turninga corner, saw a lady walking a short distance ahead of him. He thoughthe recognised the figure, and hurried forward; but ere he caught upwith her, she turned and went into one of a row of small houses whichhe knew belonged to Nichols, the coloured barber, and were occupied bycoloured people. Thinking he had been mistaken in the woman'sidentity, he slackened his pace, and ere he had passed out of hearing,caught the tones of a piano, accompanying the words,

  _"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, With vassals and serfs at my s-i-i-de."_

  It was doubtless the barber's daughter. The barber's was the onlycoloured family in town that owned a piano. In the moonlight, and at adistance of some rods, the song sounded well enough, and the colonellingered until it ceased, and the player began to practise scales,when he continued his walk. He had smoked a couple of cigars, and wasreturning toward Mrs. Treadwells', when he met, face to face, MissLaura Treadwell coming out of the barber's house. He lifted his hatand put out his hand.

  "I called at the house a while ago, and you were all out. I was justgoing back. I'll walk along with you."

  Miss Laura was visibly embarrassed at the meeting. The colonel gave nosign that he noticed her emotion, but went on talking.

  "It is a delightful evening," he said.

  "Yes," she replied, and then went on, "you must wonder what I wasdoing there."

  "I suppose," he said, "that you were looking for a servant, or on somemission of kindness and good will."

  Miss Laura was silent for a moment and he could feel her hand trembleon the arm he offered her.

  "No, Henry," she said, "why should I deceive you? I did not go to finda servant, but to serve. I have told you we were poor, but not howpoor. I can tell you what I could not say to others, for you havelived away from here, and I know how differently from most of us youlook at things. I went to the barber's house to give the barber'sdaughter music lessons--for money."

  The colonel laughed contagiously.

  "You taught her to sing--

  _'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls?'_"

  "Yes, but you must not judge my work too soon," she replied. "It isnot finished yet."

  "You shall let me know when it is done," he said, "and I will walk byand hear the finished product. Your pupil has improved wonderfully. Iheard her singing the song the day I came back--the first time Iwalked by the old house. She sings it much better now. You are a goodteacher, as well as a good woman."

  Miss Laura laughed somewhat excitedly, but was bent upon herexplanation.

  "The girl used to come to the house," she said. "Her mother belongedto us before the war, and we have been such friends as white and blackcan be. And she wanted to learn to play, and offered to pay me wellfor lessons, and I gave them to her. We never speak about the money atthe house; mother knows it, but feigns that I do it out of merekindness, and tells me that I am spoiling the coloured people. Ourfriends are not supposed to know it, and if any of them do, they arekind and never speak of it. Since you have been coming to the house,it has not been convenient to teach her there, and I have been goingto her home in the evening."

  "My dear Laura," said the colonel, remorsefully, "I have driven youaway from your own home, and all unwittingly. I applaud yourenterprise and your public spirit. It is a long way from the banjo tothe piano--it marks the progress of a family and foreshadows theevolution of a race. And what higher work than to elevate humanity?"

  They had reached the house. Mrs. Treadwell had not come down, nor hadGraciella returned. They went into the parlour. Miss Laura turned upthe lamp.

  * * * * *

  Graciella had run over to a neighbour's to meet a young lady who wasvisiting a young lady who was a friend of Graciella's. She hadremained a little longer than she had meant to, for among those whohad called to see her friend's friend was young Mr. Fetters, the sonof the magnate, lately returned home from college. Barclay Fetters washandsome, well-dressed and well-mannered. He had started at onecollege, and had already changed to two others. Stories of hisdissipated habits and reckless extravagance had been bruited about.Graciella knew his family history, and had imbibed the old-fashionednotions of her grandmother's household, so that her acknowledgment ofthe introduction was somewhat cold, not to say distant. But as shefelt the charm of his manner, and saw that the other girls were vieingwith one another for his notice, she felt a certain triumph that heexhibited a marked preference for her conversation. Her reservegradually broke down, and she was talking with animation and listeningwith pleasure, when she suddenly recollected that Colonel French wouldprobably call, and that she ought to be there to entertain him, forwhich purpose she had dressed herself very carefully. He had notspoken yet, but might be expected to speak at any time; such markedattentions as his could have but one meaning; and for several days shehad had a premonition that before the week was out he would seek toknow his fate; and Graciella meant to be kind.

  Anticipating this event, she had politely but pointedly discouragedBen Dudley's attentions, until Ben's pride, of which he had plenty inreserve, had awaked to activity. At their last meeting he had demandeda definite answer to his oft-repeated question.

  "Graciella," he had said, "are you going to marry me? Yes or no. I'llnot be played with any longer. You must marry me for myself, or not atall. Yes or no."

  "Then no, Mr. Dudley," she had replied with spirit, and without amoment's hesitation, "I will not marry you. I will never marry you,not if I should die an old maid."

  She was sorry they had not parted friends, but she was not to blame.After her marriage, she would avoid the embarrassment of meeting him,by making the colonel take her away. Sometime she might, through herhusband, be of service to Ben, and thus make up, in part at least, forhis disappointment.

  As she ran up through the garden and stepped upon the porch--herslippers were thin and made no sound--she heard Colonel French's voicein the darkened parlour. Some unusual intonation struck her, and shemoved lightly and almost mechanically forward, in the shadow, toward apoint where she could see through the window and remain screene
d fromobservation. So intense was her interest in what she heard, that shestood with her hand on her heart, not even conscious that she wasdoing a shameful thing.

  * * * * *

  Her aunt was seated and Colonel French was standing near her. An openBible lay upon the table. The colonel had taken it up and was reading:

  "'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do himgood and not evil all the days of her life. Strength and honour areher clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come.'

  "Laura," he said, "the proverb maker was a prophet as well. In thesewords, written four thousand years ago, he has described you, line forline."

  The glow which warmed her cheek, still smooth, the light which cameinto her clear eyes, the joy that filled her heart at these kindwords, put the years to flight, and for the moment Laura was youngagain.

  "You have been good to Phil," the colonel went on, "and I should likehim to be always near you and have your care. And you have been kindto me, and made me welcome and at home in what might otherwise haveseemed, after so long an absence, a strange land. You bring back to methe best of my youth, and in you I find the inspiration for gooddeeds. Be my wife, dear Laura, and a mother to my boy, and we will tryto make you happy."

  "Oh, Henry," she cried with fluttering heart, "I am not worthy to beyour wife. I know nothing of the world where you have lived, norwhether I would fit into it."

  "You are worthy of any place," he declared, "and if one please youmore than another, I shall make your wishes mine."

  "But, Henry, how could I leave my mother? And Graciella needs mycare."

  "You need not leave your mother--she shall be mine as well as yours.Graciella is a dear, bright child; she has in her the making of anoble woman; she should be sent away to a good school, and I will seeto it. No, dear Laura, there are no difficulties, no giants in thepathway that will not fly or fall when we confront them."

  He had put his arm around her and lifted her face to his. He read hisanswer in her swimming eyes, and when he had reached down and kissedher cheek, she buried her head on his shoulder and shed some tears ofhappiness. For this was her secret: she was sweet and good; she wouldhave made any man happy, who had been worthy of her, but no man hadever before asked her to be his wife. She had lived upon a plane sosimple, yet so high, that men not equally high-minded had neverventured to address her, and there were few such men, and chance hadnot led them her way. As to the others--perhaps there were women morebeautiful, and certainly more enterprising. She had not repined; shehad been busy and contented. Now this great happiness was vouchsafedher, to find in the love of the man whom she admired above all othersa woman's true career.

  "Henry," she said, when they had sat down on the old hair-cloth sofa,side by side, "you have made me very happy; so happy that I wish tokeep my happiness all to myself--for a little while. Will you let mekeep our engagement secret until I--am accustomed to it? It may besilly or childish, but it seems like a happy dream, and I wish toassure myself of its reality before I tell it to anyone else."

  "To me," said the colonel, smiling tenderly into her eyes, "it is therealisation of an ideal. Since we met that day in the cemetery youhave seemed to me the embodiment of all that is best of my memories ofthe old South; and your gentleness, your kindness, your tender grace,your self-sacrifice and devotion to duty, mark you a queen amongwomen, and my heart shall be your throne. As to the announcement, haveit as you will--it is the lady's privilege."

  "You are very good," she said tremulously. "This hour repays me forall I have ever tried to do for others."

  * * * * *

  Graciella felt very young indeed--somewhere in the neighbourhood often, she put it afterward, when she reviewed the situation in a calmerframe of mind--as she crept softly away from the window and around thehouse to the back door, and up the stairs and into her own chamber,where, all oblivious of danger to her clothes or her complexion, shethrew herself down upon her own bed and burst into a passion of tears.She had been cruelly humiliated. Colonel French, whom she had imaginedin love with her, had regarded her merely as a child, who ought to besent to school--to acquire what, she asked herself, good sense ordeportment? Perhaps she might acquire more good sense--she hadcertainly made a fool of herself in this case--but she had pridedherself upon her manners. Colonel French had been merely playing withher, like one would with a pet monkey; and he had been in love, allthe time, with her Aunt Laura, whom the girls had referred tocompassionately, only that same evening, as a hopeless old maid.

  It is fortunate that youth and hope go generally hand in hand.Graciella possessed a buoyant spirit to breast the waves ofdisappointment. She had her cry out, a good, long cry; and when muchweeping had dulled the edge of her discomfiture she began to reflectthat all was not yet lost. The colonel would not marry her, but hewould still marry in the family. When her Aunt Laura became Mrs.French, she would doubtless go often to New York, if she would notlive there always. She would invite Graciella to go with her, perhapsto live with her there. As for going to school, that was a matterwhich her own views should control; at present she had no wish toreturn to school. She might take lessons in music, or art; her auntwould hardly care for her to learn stenography now, or go intomagazine work. Her aunt would surely not go to Europe without invitingher, and Colonel French was very liberal with his money, and woulddeny his wife nothing, though Graciella could hardly imagine that anyman would be infatuated with her Aunt Laura.

  But this was not the end of Graciella's troubles. Graciella had aheart, although she had suppressed its promptings, under the influenceof a selfish ambition. She had thrown Ben Dudley over for the colonel;the colonel did not want her, and now she would have neither. Ben hadbeen very angry, unreasonably angry, she had thought at the time, andobjectionably rude in his manner. He had sworn never to speak to heragain. If he should keep his word, she might be very unhappy. Thesereflections brought on another rush of tears, and a very penitent,contrite, humble-minded young woman cried herself to sleep before MissLaura, with a heart bursting with happiness, bade the colonelgood-night at the gate, and went upstairs to lie awake in her bed in aturmoil of pleasant emotions.

  Miss Laura's happiness lay not alone in the prospect that ColonelFrench would marry her, nor in any sordid thought of what she wouldgain by becoming the wife of a rich man. It rested in the fact thatthis man, whom she admired, and who had come back from the outer worldto bring fresh ideas, new and larger ideals to lift and broaden andrevivify the town, had passed by youth and beauty and vivacity, andhad chosen her to share this task, to form the heart and mind andmanners of his child, and to be the tie which would bind him moststrongly to her dear South. For she was a true child of the soil; thepeople about her, white and black, were her people, and this marriage,with its larger opportunities for usefulness, would help her to dothat for which hitherto she had only been able to pray and to hope.To the boy she would be a mother indeed; to lead him in the paths oftruth and loyalty and manliness and the fear of God--it was apriceless privilege, and already her mother-heart yearned to begin thetask.

  And then after the flow came the ebb. Why had he chosen her? Was it_merely_ as an abstraction--the embodiment of an ideal, a survivalfrom a host of pleasant memories, and as a mother for his child, whoneeded care which no one else could give, and as a helpmate incarrying out his schemes of benevolence? Were these his only motives;and, if so, were they sufficient to ensure her happiness? Was hemarrying her through a mere sentimental impulse, or for calculatedconvenience, or from both? She must be certain; for his views mightchange. He was yet in the full flow of philanthropic enthusiasm. Sheshared his faith in human nature and the triumph of right ideas; butonce or twice she had feared he was underrating the power ofconservative forces; that he had been away from Clarendon so long asto lose the perspective of actual conditions, and that he wascherishing expectations which might be disappointed. Shou
ld this everprove true, his disillusion might be as far-reaching and as sudden ashis enthusiasm. Then, if he had not loved her for herself, she mightbe very unhappy. She would have rejoiced to bring him youth andbeauty, and the things for which other women were preferred; she wouldhave loved to be the perfect mate, one in heart, mind, soul and body,with the man with whom she was to share the journey of life.

  But this was a passing thought, born of weakness and self-distrust,and she brushed it away with the tear that had come with it, andsmiled at its absurdity. Her youth was past; with nothing to expectbut an old age filled with the small expedients of genteel poverty,there had opened up to her, suddenly and unexpectedly, a great avenuefor happiness and usefulness. It was foolish, with so much to begrateful for, to sigh for the unattainable. His love must be all thestronger since it took no thought of things which others would havefound of controlling importance. In choosing her to share hisintellectual life he had paid her a higher compliment than had hepraised the glow of her cheek or the contour of her throat. Inconfiding Phil to her care he had given her a sacred trust andconfidence, for she knew how much he loved the child.