Constance Fenimore Woolson
Page 30
Gardis looked up quickly; her dismayed face said plainly, “Oh no, no.” Thereupon the young officer immediately accepted Cousin Copeland’s invitation, and took his seat again with quiet deliberation. Gardis sank down upon the sofa. “Very well,” she thought desperately, “this time it is hopeless. Nothing can be done.”
And hopeless it was. Pompey brought in a candle, and placed it upon the table, where its dim light made the large apartment more dismal than before; the rain poured down outside, and the rising wind rattled the loose shutters. Dinner was announced—one small fish, potatoes, and corn-bread. Pale Gardis sat like a statue at the head of the table, and made no effort to entertain the guest; but Cousin Copeland threw himself bravely into the breach, and, by way of diversion, related the whole story of the unchronicled “wife of one of our grandfather’s second cousins,” who had turned out to be a most remarkable personage of Welsh descent, her golden harp having once stood in the very room in which they were now seated.
“Do you not think, my child, that a—a little fire in your aunt Margaretta’s boudoir would—would be conducive to our comfort?” suggested the little bachelor, as they rose from the table.
“As you please,” said Gardis.
So the three repaired thither, and when the old red curtains were drawn, and the fire lighted, the little room had at least a semblance of comfort, whatever may have been in the hearts of its occupants. Gardis embroidered, Cousin Copeland chatted on in a steady little stream, and the guest listened. “I will step up stairs to my study, and bring down that file of documents,” said the bachelor, rising. He was gone, and left only silence behind him. Gardis did not raise her head, but went steadily on with the embroidered robe of the Queen of Sheba.
“I am thinking,” began David Newell, breaking the long pause at last, “how comfortable you would be, Miss Duke, as the wife of Roger Saxton. He would take you North, away from this old house, and he would be so proud and so fond of you.”
No answer.
“The place could be put in order if you did not care to sell it, and your cousin Copeland could live on here as usual; indeed, I could scarcely imagine him in any other home.”
“Nor myself.”
“Oh yes, Miss Duke; I can easily imagine you in New York, Paris, or Vienna. I can easily imagine you at the opera, in the picture-galleries, or carrying out to the full your exquisite taste in dress.”
Down went the embroidery. “Sir, do you mean to insult me?” said the pale, cotton-robed little hostess.
“By no means.”
“Why do you come here? Why do you sneer at my poor clothes? Why—” Her voice trembled, and she stopped abruptly.
“I was not aware that they were poor or old, Miss Duke. I have never seen a more exquisite costume than yours on the evening when we dined here by invitation; it has been like a picture in my memory ever since.”
“An old robe that belonged to my grandmother, and I burned it, every shred, as soon as you had gone,” said Gardis hotly.
Far from being impressed as she had intended he should be, David Newell merely bowed; the girl saw that he set the act down as “temper.”
“I suppose your Northern ladies never do such things?” she said bitterly.
“You are right; they do not,” he answered.
“Why do you come here?” pursued Gardis. “Why do you speak to me of Mr. Saxton? Though he had the fortune of a prince, he is nothing to me.”
“Roger’s fortune is comfortable, but not princely, Miss Duke—by no means princely. We are not princely at the North,” added Newell, with a slight smile, “and neither are we ‘knightly.’ We must, I fear, yield all claim to those prized words of yours.”
“I am not aware that I have used the words,” said Miss Duke, with lofty indifference.
“Oh, I did not mean you alone—you personally—but all Southern women. However, to return to our subject: Saxton loves you, and has gone away with a saddened heart.”
This was said gravely. “As though,” Miss Duke remarked to herself—“really as though a heart was of consequence!”
“I presume he will soon forget,” she said carelessly, as she took up her embroidery again.
“Yes, no doubt,” replied Captain Newell. “I remember once on Staten Island, and again out in Mississippi, when he was even more— Yes, as you say, he will soon forget.”
“Then why do you so continually speak of him?” said Miss Duke sharply. Such prompt corroboration was not, after all, as agreeable as it should have been to a well-regulated mind.
“I speak of him, Miss Duke, because I wish to know whether it is only your Southern girlish pride that speaks, or whether you really, as would be most natural, love him as he loves you; for, in the latter case, you would be able, I think, to fix and retain his somewhat fickle fancy. He is a fine fellow, and, as I said before, it would be but natural, Miss Duke, that you should love him.”
“I do not love him,” said Gardis, quickly and angrily, putting in her stitches all wrong. Who was this person, daring to assume what would or would not be natural for her to do?
“Very well; I believe you. And now that I know the truth, I will tell you why I come here: you have asked me several times. I too love you, Miss Duke.”
Gardis had risen. “You?” she said—“you?”
“Yes, I; I too.”
He was standing also, and they gazed at each other a moment in silence.
“I will never marry you,” said the girl at last—“never! never! You do not, can not, understand the hearts of Southern women, sir.”
“I have not asked you to marry me, Miss Duke,” said the young soldier composedly; “and the hearts of Southern women are much like those of other women, I presume.” Then, as the girl opened the door to escape, “You may go away if you like, Gardis,” he said, “but I shall love you all the same, dear.”
She disappeared, and in a few moments Cousin Copeland reëntered, with apologies for his lengthened absence. “I found several other documents I thought you might like to see,” he said eagerly. “They will occupy the remainder of our evening delightfully.”
They did. But Gardis did not return; neither did she appear at the breakfast-table the next morning. Captain Newell rode back to the city without seeing her.
Not long afterward Cousin Copeland received a formal letter from a city lawyer. The warehouse had found a tenant, and he, the lawyer, acting for the agent, Captain Newell, had the honor to inclose the first installment of rent-money, and remained an obedient servant, and so forth. Cousin Copeland was exultant. Gardis said to herself, “He is taking advantage of our poverty,” and, going to her room, she sat down to plan some way of release. “I might be a governess,” she thought. But no one at the South wanted a governess now, and how could she go North? She was not aware how old-fashioned were her little accomplishments—her music, her embroidery, her ideas of literature, her prim drawings, and even her deportment. No one made courtesies at the North any more, save perhaps in the Lancers. As to chemistry, trigonometry, physiology, and geology, the ordinary studies of a Northern girl, she knew hardly more than their names. “We might sell the place,” she thought at last, “and go away somewhere and live in the woods.”
This, indeed, seemed the only way open to her. The house was an actual fact; it was there; it was also her own. A few days later an advertisement appeared in the city newspaper: “For sale, the residence known as Gardiston House, situated six miles from the city, on Green River. Apply by letter, or on the premises, to Miss Gardiston Duke.” Three days passed, and no one came. The fourth day an applicant appeared, and was ushered into the dining-room. He sent up no name; but Miss Duke descended hopefully to confer with him, and found—Captain Newell.
“You!” she said, paling and flushing. Her voice faltered; she was sorely disappointed.
“It will always be myself, Gardis,” said the yo
ung man gravely. “So you wish to sell the old house? I should not have supposed it.”
“I wish to sell it in order to be freed from obligations forced upon us, sir.”
“Very well. But if I buy it, then what?”
“You will not buy it, for the simple reason that I will not sell it to you. You do not wish the place; you would only buy it to assist us.”
“That is true.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said, I believe,” said Miss Duke, rising.
“Is there nothing more, Gardis?”
“Nothing, Captain Newell.”
And then, without another word, the soldier bowed, and rode back to town.
The dreary little advertisement remained in a corner of the newspaper a month longer, but no purchaser appeared. The winter was rainy, with raw east winds from the ocean, and the old house leaked in many places. If they had lived in one or two of the smaller rooms, which were in better condition and warmer than the large apartments, they might have escaped; but no habit was changed, and three times a day the table was spread in the damp dining-room, where the atmosphere was like that of a tomb, and where no fire was ever made. The long evenings were spent in the somber drawing-room by the light of the one candle, and the rain beat against the old shutters so loudly that Cousin Copeland was obliged to elevate his gentle little voice as he read aloud to his silent companion. But one evening he found himself forced to pause; his voice had failed. Four days afterward he died, gentle and placid to the last. He was an old man, although no one had ever thought so.
The funeral notice appeared in the city paper, and a few old family friends came out to Gardiston House to follow the last Gardiston to his resting-place in St. Mark’s forest churchyard. They were all sad-faced people, clad in mourning much the worse for wear. Accustomed to sorrow, they followed to the grave quietly, not a heart there that had not its own dead. They all returned to Gardiston House, sat a while in the drawing-room, spoke a few words each in turn to the desolate little mistress, and then took leave. Gardis was left alone.
Captain Newell did not come to the funeral; he could not come into such a company in his uniform, and he would not come without it. He had his own ideas of duty, and his own pride. But he sent a wreath of beautiful flowers, which must have come from some city where there was a hot-house. Miss Duke would not place the wreath upon the coffin, neither would she leave it in the drawing-room; she stood a while with it in her hand, and then she stole up stairs and laid it on Cousin Copeland’s open desk, where daily he had worked so patiently and steadily through so many long years. Uselessly? Who among us shall dare to say that?
A week later, at twilight, old Dinah brought up the young officer’s card.
“Say that I see no one,” replied Miss Duke.
A little note came back, written on a slip of paper: “I beg you to see me, if only for a moment; it is a business matter that has brought me here to-day.” And certainly it was a very forlorn day for a pleasure ride: the wind howled through the trees, and the roads were almost impassable with deep mire. Miss Duke went down to the dining-room. She wore no mourning garments; she had none. She had not worn mourning for her aunt, and for the same reason. Pale and silent, she stood before the young officer waiting to hear his errand. It was this: some one wished to purchase Gardiston House—a real purchaser this time, a stranger. Captain Newell did not say that it was the wife of an army contractor, a Northern woman, who had taken a fancy for an old family residence, and intended to be herself an old family in future; he merely stated the price offered for the house and its furniture, and in a few words placed the business clearly before the listener.
Her face lighted with pleasure.
“At last!” she said.
“Yes, at last, Miss Duke.” There was a shade of sadness in his tone, but he spoke no word of entreaty. “You accept?”
“I do,” said Gardis.
“I must ride back to the city,” said David Newell, taking up his cap, “before it is entirely dark, for the roads are very heavy. I came out as soon as I heard of the offer, Miss Duke, for I knew you would be glad, very glad.”
“Yes,” said Gardis, “I am glad; very glad.” Her cheeks were flushed now, and she smiled as she returned the young officer’s bow. “Some time, Captain Newell—some time I trust I shall feel like thanking you for what was undoubtedly intended, on your part, as kindness,” she said.
“It was never intended for kindness at all,” said Newell bluntly. “It was never but one thing, Gardis, and you know it; and that one thing is, and always will be, love. Not ‘always will be,’ though; I should not say that. A man can conquer an unworthy love if he chooses.”
“Unworthy?” said Gardis involuntarily.
“Yes, unworthy; like this of mine for you. A woman should be gentle, should be loving; a woman should have a womanly nature. But you—you—you do not seem to have anything in you but a foolish pride. I verily believe, Gardis Duke, that, if you loved me enough to die for me, you would still let me go out of that door without a word, so deep, so deadly is that pride of yours. What do I want with such a wife? No. My wife must love me—love me ardently, as I shall love her. Farewell, Miss Duke; I shall not see you again, probably. I will send a lawyer out to complete the sale.”
He was gone, and Gardis stood alone in the darkening room. Gardiston House, where she had spent her life—Gardiston House, full of the memories and associations of two centuries—Gardiston House, the living reminder and the constant support of that family pride in which she had been nurtured, her one possession in the land which she had so loved, the beautiful, desolate South—would soon be hers no longer. She began to sob, and then when the sound came back to her, echoing through the still room, she stopped suddenly, as though ashamed. “I will go abroad,” she said; “there will be a great deal to amuse me over there.” But the comfort was dreary; and, as if she must do something, she took a candle, and slowly visited every room in the old mansion, many of them long unused. From garret to cellar she went, touching every piece of the antique furniture, folding back the old curtains, standing by the dismantled beds, and softly pausing by the empty chairs; she was saying farewell. On Cousin Copeland’s desk the wreath still lay; in that room she cried from sheer desolation. Then, going down to the dining-room, she found her solitary repast awaiting her, and, not to distress old Dinah, sat down in her accustomed place. Presently she perceived smoke, then a sound, then a hiss and a roar. She flew up stairs; the house was on fire. Somewhere her candle must have started the flame; she remembered the loose papers in Cousin Copeland’s study, and the wind blowing through the broken window-pane; it was there that she had cried so bitterly, forgetting everything save her own loneliness.
Nothing could be done; there was no house within several miles—no one to help. The old servants were infirm, and the fire had obtained strong headway; then the high wind rushed in, and sent the flames up through the roof and over the tops of the trees. When the whole upper story was one sheet of red and yellow, some one rode furiously up the road and into the garden, where Gardis stood alone, her little figure illumined by the glare; nearer the house the two old servants were at work, trying to save some of the furniture from the lower rooms.
“I saw the light and hurried back, Miss Duke,” began Captain Newell. Then, as he saw the wan desolation of the girl’s face: “O Gardis! why will you resist me longer?” he cried passionately. “You shall be anything you like, think anything you like—only love me, dear, as I love you.”
And Gardis burst into tears. “I can not help it,” she sobbed; “everything is against me. The very house is burning before my eyes. O David, David! it is all wrong; everything is wrong. But what can I do when—when you hold me so, and when—Oh, do not ask me any more.”
“But I shall,” said Newell, his face flushing with deep happiness. “When what, dear?”
“When I—”
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p; “Love me?” said Newell. He would have it spoken.
“Yes,” whispered Gardis, hanging her head.
“And I have adored the very shoe-tie of my proud little love ever since I first saw her sweet face at the drawing-room window,” said Newell, holding her close and closer, and gazing down into her eyes with the deep gaze of the quiet heart that loves but once.
And the old house burned on, burned as though it knew a contractor’s wife was waiting for it. “I see our Gardis is provided for,” said the old house. “She never was a real Gardiston—only a Duke; so it is just as well. As for that contractor’s wife, she shall have nothing; not a Chinese image, not a spindle-legged chair, not one crocodile cup—no, not even one stone upon another.”
It kept its word: in the morning there was nothing left. Old Gardiston was gone!
The South Devil
The trees that lean’d in their love unto trees,
That lock’d in their loves, and were made so strong,
Stronger than armies; ay, stronger than seas
That rush from their caves in a storm of song.
The cockatoo swung in the vines below,
And muttering hung on a golden thread,
Or moved on the moss’d bough to and fro,
In plumes of gold and array’d in red.
The serpent that hung from the sycamore bough,
And sway’d his head in a crescent above,
Had folded his head to the white limb now,
And fondled it close like a great black love.
JOAQUIN MILLER
ON the afternoon of the 23d of December, the thermometer marked eighty-six degrees in the shade on the outside wall of Mark Deal’s house. Mark Deal’s brother, lying on the white sand, his head within the line of shadow cast by a live-oak, but all the remainder of his body full in the hot sunshine, basked liked a chameleon, and enjoyed the heat. Mark Deal’s brother spent much of his time basking. He always took the live-oak for a head-protector; but gave himself variety by trying new radiations around the tree, his crossed legs and feet stretching from it in a slightly different direction each day, as the spokes of a wheel radiate from the hub. The live-oak was a symmetrical old tree, standing by itself; having always had sufficient space, its great arms were straight, stretching out evenly all around, densely covered with the small, dark, leathery leaves, unnotched and uncut, which are as unlike the Northern oak-leaf as the leaf of the willow is unlike that of the sycamore. Behind the live-oak, two tall, ruined chimneys and a heap of white stones marked where the mansion-house had been. The old tree had watched its foundations laid; had shaded its blank, white front and little hanging balcony above; had witnessed its destruction, fifty years before, by the Indians; and had mounted guard over its remains ever since, alone as far as man was concerned, until this year, when a tenant had arrived, Mark Deal, and, somewhat later, Mark Deal’s brother.