CHAPTER XXXVI.
A BRACE OF OFFERS.
At last Colburne gave Mrs. Carter a bouquet. It was a more significantact than the reader who loves flowers will perceive without anexplanation. Fond as he was of pets and of most things which are, orstand as emblems of innocence, he cared very little for flowers exceptas features of a landscape. He was conscious of a gratification inwalking along a field path which ran through dandelions, buttercups,etc.; but he never would have thought of picking one of them for his ownpleasure any more than of picking a maple tree. In short, he wasdeficient in that sense which makes so many people crave their presence,and could probably have lived in a flowerless land without any painfulsentiment of barrenness. Therefore it was only a profound andaffectionate study into Mrs. Carter's ways and tastes which brought himto the point of buying and bringing to her a bouquet.
He was actually surprised at the flush of pleasure with which shereceived it: a pleasure evidently caused in great measure by the natureof the gift itself; and only in small part, he thought, by aconsciousness of the motives of the giver. He watched her with greatinterest while she gaily filled a vase with water, put the bouquet init, placed it on the mantel piece, stepped back to look at it, then setit on her work-table, took in the effect once more, drew a pleased sighand resumed her seat. Her Diana-like, graceful form showed to advantagein the plain black dress, and her wavy blonde hair seemed to himspecially beautiful in its contrast with her plain widow's cap. Youthwith its health and hope had brought back the rounded outlines which atone time had been a little wasted by maternity and sorrow. Her white andsingularly clear skin had resumed its soft roseate tint and could showas distinctly as ever the motions of the quickly-stirred blood. Her blueeyes, if not as gay as they were four years ago were more eloquent ofexperience, thought, and feeling. Mr. Colburne must be pardoned forthinking that she was more beautiful than the bouquet, and for wonderinghow she could prize a loveliness so much inferior in grace andexpression to her own.
"Do you know?" she said, and then checked herself. She was about toremind him that these were the first flowers which he ever gave her, andto laugh at him good-humoredly for having been so slow in divining oneof her passions. But the idea struck her that the gift might be, for thevery reason of its novelty, too significant to be a proper subject forher comments.
"Do you know," she continued, after a scarcely perceptible hesitation,"that I am not so fond of flowers as I was once? They remind me ofLouisiana, and I--don't love Louisiana."
"But this is thanking you very poorly for your present," she added,after another and longer pause. "You know that I am obliged to you.Don't you?"
"I do," said Colburne. He had been many times repaid for his offering byseeing the pains which she took to preserve it and place it to the bestadvantage.
"It is very odd to me, though, that you never seemed to love them," sheobserved, reverting to her first thought.
"It is my misfortune. I have a pleasure the less. It is like not havingan ear for music."
"How can you love poetry without loving flowers?"
"I knew a sculptor once who couldn't find the slightest charm or theslightest exhibition of capacity in an opera. I had a soldier in mycompany who could see perfectly well by daylight, but was stone blind bymoonlight. That is the way some of us are made. We are but partiallydeveloped or, rather, not developed equally in all directions. Myaesthetic self seems to be lacking in button-holes for bouquets. If Icould carry a landscape about in my hand, I think I would; but not abunch of flowers."
"But you love children; and they are flowers."
"Ah! but they are so human! They make a noise; they appreciate youcomprehensibly; they go after a fellow."
So you like people who go after you? thought Mrs. Carter, smiling toherself at the confession. Somehow she was interested in and pleasedwith the minutest peculiarities of Mr. Colburne.
From that day forward her work table rarely lacked a bouquet, althoughher friend's means, after paying his board bill, were not by any meansample. In fact there soon came to be two bouquets, representing rivaladmirers of the lady. Young Whitewood, who loved flowers, and had agreenhouse full of them, but had never hitherto dared present one to thepretty widow, took courage from Colburne's example, and far exceeded himin the sumptuousness of his offerings. By the way, I must not neglectthis shy gentleman's claims to a place in my narrative. He was aprominent figure of evenings in the Ravenel parlor, and did a great dealof talking there on learned subjects with the Doctor, sitting the whileon the edge of his chair, with his thin legs twisted around each otherin such a way as to exhibit with painful distinctness their bonyoutlines. Each of these young men was considerably afraid of the other.Colburne recognized the fact that a fortune of eighty thousand dollarswould be a very suitable adjunct to Mrs. Carter's personal and socialgraces, and that it would be perfectly proper in her to accept it ifoffered, as it seemed likely to be. Whitewood bowed modestly toColburne's superior conversational cleverness, and humbled himself inthe dust before his honorable fame as a soldier. What was he, a man ofpeace, a patriot who had only talked and paid, in comparison with thisother man who had shed his blood and risked his life for their commoncountry and the cause of human progress? So when the Captain talked toMrs. Carter, the tutor contented himself with Doctor Ravenel. He waspainfully conscious of his own stiffness and coldness of style, andmourned over it, and envied the ease and warmth of these southerners. Tothis subject he frequently alluded, driven thereto by a sort of agony ofconviction; for the objective Whitewood imperfectly expressed thesubjective, who thought earnestly and felt ardently.
"I don't understand," he said mournfully, "why people of the same bloodshould be so different--in fact, so opposed--in manner, as are thenortherners and southerners."
"The difference springs from a radical difference of purpose in theirlives," said the Doctor. "The pro-slavery South meant oligarchy, andimitated the manners of the European nobility. The democratic Northmeans equality--every man standing on his own legs, and not bestridingother men's shoulders--every man passing for just what he is, and nomore. It means honesty, sincerity, frankness, in word as well as deed.It means general hard work, too, in consequence of which there is lesschance to cultivate the graces. The polish of the South is superficialand semi-barbarous, like that of the Poles and all other slaveholdingoligarchies. I confess, however, that I should like to see a little moresympathy and expansion in the northern manners. A native, untravelledNew Bostonian is rather too much in the style of an iceberg. He isenough to cause atmospheric condensation and changes of temperature. Itis a story that when a new Yankee arrives in the warm air of Louisiana,there is always a shower. But that, you know, is an exaggeration."
Whitewood laughed in a disconcerted, conscience-stricken manner.
"Nevertheless, they do a vast deal of good," continued the Doctor. "Theypurify as well as disturb the atmosphere. To me, a southerner, it is ahumiliating reflection, that, but for these Yankees and their cold moralpurity, we should have established a society upon the basis of the mosthorrible slavery that the world has known since the days of pagan Rome."
Whitewood glanced at Mrs. Carter. She smiled acquiescence and sympathy;her conversion from secession and slavery was complete.
All this while Colburne boarded at the New Boston House, and saw theDoctor and Mrs. Carter and Ravvie every day. When they went down to thesea-shore for a week during the hot weather, he could not leave hisbusiness to accompany them, as he wished, but must stay in New Boston,feeling miserably lonesome of evenings, although he knew hundreds ofpeople in the little city. It was an aggravation of his troubles tolearn that Mr. Whitewood had followed the Ravenels to thewatering-place. When the family returned, still accompanied by theeighty thousand dollar youth, Colburne looked very searchingly into theeyes of Mrs. Carter to discover if possible what she had been doing withherself. She noticed it, and blushed deeply, which puzzled and troubledhim through hours of subsequent meditation. If they were engaged, theywoul
d certainly tell me, thought he; but nevertheless he was notentirely easy about the matter.
It happened the next evening that he lounged into one of the smallparlors of the hotel, intending to pass out upon a little front balconyand look at the moonlit, elm-arched glories of the Common. A murmur oftwo voices--a male voice and a female--came in from the balcony andchecked his advance. As he hesitated young Whitewood entered the roomthrough the open window, hastily followed a moment afterward by Mrs.Carter.
"Mr. Whitewood, please say nothing about this," she whispered. "Ofcourse you will not. I never shall."
"Certainly, not," replied the young man. The tone in which he spoke wasso low that Colburne could detect no expression in it, whether ofdespondency or triumph. Entering as they did from the moonlight into aroom which had been left unlighted in order to keep out summer insects,neither of them perceived the involuntary listener. Whitewood went outby the door, and Mrs. Carter returned to the balcony. In order that thereader may be spared the trouble of turning over a few pages here, Iwill state frankly that the young man had proposed and been refused, andthat Mrs. Carter had begged him not to let the affair get abroadbecause--well, because a sudden impulse came over her to do just that,whether it concerned her or not to keep the secret.
Colburne remained alone, in such an agony of anxiety as he had notbelieved himself capable of feeling. All the stoicism which he hadlearned by forced marches, starvations, and battles was insufficient, orwas not of the proper kind, to sustain him comfortably under the tortureinflicted by his supposed discovery. The Rachel whom he had waited formore than four years was again lost to him. But was she lost? asked thehope that never dies in us. It was not positively certain; words andsituations may have different meanings; his rival did not seem muchelated. He would ask Mrs. Carter what the scene meant, and learn hisfate at once. She would not keep the secret from him when he should tellher the motives which induced him to question her. Whether she refusedhim or not, whether she was or was not engaged to another, he would ofcourse be entirely frank with her, only regretting that he had not beenso before. He was whole-souled enough, he had learned at least this muchof self-abnegation, not to try to save his vanity in such a matter asloving for life. As the most loveable woman that he had ever known, itwas due to her that she should be informed that his heart was at hercommand, no matter what she might do with it. The feeling of the momentwas a grand one, but not beyond the native power of his character,although three years ago he had not been sufficiently developed to becapable of it.
He stepped to the window, pushed apart the long damask curtains andstood by her side.
"Oh! Is it you!" she exclaimed. "You quite startled me." Then, after amoment's hesitation, "When did you come in?"
"I was in the room three minutes ago," he answered, and paused to draw along breath. "Tell me, Mrs. Carter," he resumed, "what is it that Mr.Whitewood is to keep secret?"
"Mr. Colburne!" she replied, full of astonishment that he should putsuch a question.
"I did not overhear intentionally," he went on. "I did not hear much,and I wish to know more than I heard."
Mr. Colburne was master of the situation, although he was not aware ofit. Surprise was the least of Lillie's emotions; she was quiteoverwhelmed by her lover's presence, and by the question which he put toher; she could not have declared truly at the moment that her soul wasaltogether her own.
"Oh, Mr. Colburne! I cannot tell you," was all she could say, and thatin a whisper.
She would have told him all, if he had insisted, but he did not. He hadmanliness enough, he was sufficiently able to affront danger andsuffering, to say what was in his own heart, without knowing what hadpassed between her and his rival. He stood silent a moment, pondering,not over his purpose, but as to what his words should be. Then flashedacross him a suspicion of the truth, that Whitewood had made his ventureand met with shipwreck. A wave of strong hope seemed to lift him overreefs of doubt, and shook him so, like a ship trembling on a billow,that for an instant longer he could not speak. Just then Rosann'srecognizable Irish voice was heard, calling, "Mrs. Carter! Mrs. Carter!Might I spake t' ye?"
"What is it?" asked Lillie, stepping by Colburne into the parlor. Ravviewas cutting a double tooth, was feverish and fretful, and she had beenanxious about him.
"Ma'am, I'd like t' have ye see the baby. I'm thinkin' he ought t' havesomethin' done for 'm. He's mightily worried."
"Please excuse me, Mr. Colburne," said the mother, and ran up stairs.Thus it happened that Lillie unintentionally evaded the somewhatremarkable and humiliating circumstance of receiving two declarations oflove, two offers of marriage, in a single evening. She did not, however,know precisely what it was that she had escaped; and, moreover, she didnot at first think much about it, except in a very fragmentary andunsatisfactory manner; for Ravvie soon went into convulsions andremained in a precarious condition the whole night, absorbing all hertime and attention. Of course he had his gums lanced, and his chubbyfeet put in hot water, and medicine poured down his patient throat. Inthe morning he was so comfortable that his mother went to bed and slepttill noon. When she awoke and found Ravvie quite recovered, and hadkissed his cheeks, his dimpled neck, and the fat collops in his legs ahundred times or so, and called him her own precious, and her dearestdarling, and her sweet little man at every kiss, she began to dressherself and to think of Mr. Colburne, and of his unexplained anxietiesto say--what? She went tremulously to dinner, blushing scarlet after hersensitive manner as she entered the dining-room, but quiteunnecessarily, inasmuch as he was not at table. She could not saywhether she was most relieved or annoyed by his unexpected absence. Itis worthy of record that before tea-time she had learned through someroundabout medium, (Rosann and the porter, I fear,) that Mr. Colburnehad been summoned to New York by a telegram and was not expected backfor a day or two. Her father was away on a mineralogical hunt,unearthing burrows and warrens of Smithites and Brownites. Thus she hadplenty of opportunity for reflection, and she probably employed it aswell as most young women would under similar circumstances, but, ofcourse, to no purpose at all so far as concerned taking any action. Insuch matters a woman can do little more than sit still while otherstransact her history. She was under the spell: it was not she who wouldcontrol her own fate: it was Mr. Colburne. She was ashamed and almostangry to find that she was so weak; she declared that it was disgracefulto fall in love with a man who had not yet told her plainly that heloved her; but all her shame, and anger, and declarations could notalter the stubborn fact. She would never own it to any one else, but shewas obliged to confess it to herself, although the avowal made her crywith vexation. She had to remember, too, that it was not quite two yearsand a half since she was married, and not quite eighteen months sinceshe had become a widow. She walked through a valley of humiliation, verymeek in spirit, and yet, it must be confessed, not very unhappy. Attimes she defended herself, asking the honest and rational question, Howcould she help loving this man? He had been so faithful and delicate, hewas so brave and noble, that she wondered that every woman who knew himdid not adore him. And then, as she thought of his perfections, shewent tremblingly back to the inquiry, Did he love her? He had not goneso far as to say it, or anything approaching to it; and yet he surelywould not have asked her what had passed between another man and herselfunless he meant to lay bare to her his inmost heart; she knew that hewas too generously delicate to demand such a confidence except with amost serious and tender purpose. She did not indeed suppose that hewould have gone on then to say everything that he felt for her; for itdid not seem to her that any one moment which she could fix upon wouldbe great enough for such a revelation. But it would have come in time,if she had answered him suitably; it might come yet, if she had notoffended him, and if he did not meet some one whom he should see to bemore desirable. _Had_ she offended him by her manner, or by what she hadsaid, or failed to say? Oh, how easy it is to suspect that those whom welove are vexed with us! If it should be so that she had given him causeof anger, how co
uld she make peace with him without demeaning herself?Well, let the worst come to the worst, there was her boy who wouldalways be faithful and loving. She kissed him violently and repeatedly,but could not keep a tear or two from falling on him, although why theywere shed the child could have explained as rationally as she.
Of all these struggles Colburne knew nothing and guessed nothing. He toohad his yearnings and anxieties, although he did not express them bykissing anything or crying upon anything. He was sternly fearful lest hewas losing all-important moments, and he attended to his business in NewYork as energetically as he would have stormed a battery. Had heoffended Mrs. Carter? Had Whitewood succeeded, or failed, or not tried?He could not answer any of these questions, but he was in a fury to getback to New Boston.
Lillie trembled when she heard his knock upon the door at eight o'clockthat evening. She knew it was his by instinct; she had known it two orthree times during the day when it was only a servant's; but at last shewas right in her divination. She was trying at the moment to write aletter to her father, with the door open into her bed-room, where Ravviesat under the benign spectacles of Rosann. In answer to her "Come in,"Colburne entered, looking pale with want of sleep, for he had workednights and travelled days.
"I am so glad you have come back," she said in her frank way.
"And I am so glad to get back," he replied, dropping wearily into aneasy chair. "When does your father return?"
"I don't know. He told me to write to him at Springfield until I gotword to stop."
Colburne was pleased; the Doctor would not be at home for a day or two;that would give him other opportunities in case this one should resultin a failure. The little parlor looked more formidable than the balcony,and the glare of the gas was not so encouraging as the mellow moonlight.He did not feel sure how he should be able to speak here, where shecould see every working of his countenance. He did not know that fromthe moment he began to speak of the subject which filled his heart shewould not be able to look him in the face until after she had promisedto be his altogether and forever.
Women always will talk at such times. They seem to dread to be caught,and to know that silence is a dangerous trap for the feelings; andconsequently they prattle about anything, no matter what, provided theprattle will prolong the time during which the hunter is in chase.
"You look quite worn out with your journey," she said. "I should thinkyou had made a forced march to New York and back on foot."
"I have been under the necessity of working nights," he answered,without telling her that it was the desire to return as quickly aspossible to her which had constituted the forcing power.
"You shouldn't do it. You will wear yourself down again, as you did infield service."
"No. There are no privations here; no hunger, and no food moreunwholesome than hunger; no suffering with cold; no malaria. If I fallsick here, it will only be with living too well, and having too easy atime. Somebody says that death is a disgrace; that man ought to beashamed of himself for dying. I am inclined to admit it, unless the manis in field service. In field service I have suffered keenly now andthen, so as to become babyish about it, and think of you and how gladyou would be to give me something to eat."
She made no reply, except to look at him steadily for a moment, admiringwhat seemed to her the heroism of speaking so lightly of hardships.
"You see I confided strongly in your kindness," he resumed. "I do sostill."
The color flooded her face and neck as she divined from his manner thathe was about to resume the conversation of the balcony. He rose, walkedto the door which led into the bed-room, closed it gently and came back.She could not speak nor raise her eyes to his face as he stood beforeher. If he had kept silence for a few moments she would probably haverecovered herself and said, "Won't you sit down," or some such insanity.But he did not give her time for that; he took one of her hands in bothof his and said, "Lillie!"
There was a question in the tone, but she could not answer it except bysuddenly raising her other hand to her face, as if to hide theconfession which was glowing there.
"You know that I have loved you four years," he went on, bending down toher and whispering.
She never knew how it was that she found herself a moment afterwards onher feet, leaning against his breast, with her head on his shoulder,sobbing, trembling, but full of joy. The man whom she ought always tohave loved, the man whom she now did love with the whole strength of herbeing, whom she could trust perfectly and forever, had claimed her ashis, and she had resigned herself to him, not desiring to reserve a dropof her blood or a thought of her soul. Nothing could separate them butdeath; nothing could make them unhappy but losing each other: for themoment there was nothing in the world but they two and their love. Aftera time--it might have been five minutes, or half an hour--sheremembered--positively recollected with a start--that she had a child.
"Come and see him," she said. "Come and look at our boy."
She caught him by the arm, and dragged him, willing to go, into the roomwhere Ravvie lay asleep. She never thought of her flushed face anddisordered hair, although Rosann's spectacles were fixed upon her withan astonishment which seemed to enlarge their silver-bound orbits.
"Isn't he beautiful!" she whispered. "He is yours--mine--ours."
Rosann gave her head a toss of comprehension and satisfaction in which Iheartily join her, as does also, I hope, the reader.
Colburne and then Lillie kissed the child--all unconscious of the lovewhich was lavished on him, which filled the room, and was copious enoughto fill lives.
It had all come like a great surprise to Lillie. As much as she may havedesired it, as much as she may have hoped it in moments for which shereproached herself at the time as absurd and almost immodest, itnevertheless descended upon her, this revelation, with wings of dazzlingastonishment. In the night she awoke to disbelieve, and then to rememberall with a joyful faith. And while thinking it over, in a deliciousreverie which could not justly be called thought, but rather a thrillingsuccession of recollections and sentiments, there came to her among themultitude of impressions a wonder at her own happiness. She seemed withamazement to see herself in double: the one figure widowed and weeping,seated amid the tombs of perished hopes: the other also widowed in garb,but about to put on garments of bridal white, and with a face which litup the darkness.
"How can it be!" she exclaimed aloud, as she remembered the despair ofeighteen months ago. Then she added, smiling with a deliciousconsciousness of justification, "Oh! I love him better than I ever lovedany other. I am right in loving him."
After that she commended the once-loved one, who was dead, to Heaven'spity--and then prayed long and fervently for the newly loved one who wasliving--but brokenly, too, and stopping now and then to smile at hisbright image painted on the night. Last came a prayer for her child,whom she might have forgotten in these passionate emotions, only thatshe could hear his gentle breathing through the quiet midnight.
"I wonder how you can love me so, when I kept you so long away from me,"she said to Colburne at their next meeting.
"You are all the dearer for it," he answered. "Yes, even because anotherstood for a long time between us, you are all the dearer. Perhaps itought not to be so; but so it is, my darling."
Her gratitude was uttered in a silent, fervent pressure of her lipsagainst his cheek. These were the only words that passed between themconcerning her first marriage.
"Where are we to live?" he asked. "Do you want to go back to NewOrleans?"
"Oh, never!" she replied. "Always at the North! I like it so muchbetter!"
She was willing at all times now to make confession of her conversion.
Miss Ravenel's conversion from secession to loyalty Page 39