She crossed the hall to Miss Margaretta’s closed room: she would search every corner; possibly there was something she did not at the moment recall. But, alas! only too well did she know the contents of the closet and the chest of drawers, the chest of drawers and the closet; had she not been familiar with every fold and hue from her earliest childhood? Was there nothing else? There was the cedar chamber, a little cedar cupboard in the wall, where Miss Margaretta kept several stately old satin bonnets, elaborate structures of a past age. Mechanically Gardis mounted the steps, and opened the little door half-way up the wall. The bonnets were there, and with them several packages; these she took down and opened. Among various useless relics of finery appeared, at last, one whole dress; narrow-skirted, short, with a scantily fashioned waist, it was still a complete robe of its kind, in color a delicate blue, the material clinging and soft like Canton crape. Folded with the dress were blue kid slippers and a silk belt with a broad buckle. The package bore a label with this inscription, “The gown within belonged to my respected mother, Pamela Gardiston,” in the handwriting of Miss Margaretta; and Gardis remembered that she had seen the blue skirt once, long ago, in her childhood. But Miss Margaretta allowed no prying, and her niece had been trained to ask permission always before entering her apartment, and to refrain from touching anything, unless asked to do so while there. Now the poverty-stricken little hostess carried the relics carefully across to her own room, and, locking the door, attired herself, and anxiously surveyed the effect. The old-fashioned gown left her shoulders and arms bare, the broad belt could not lengthen the short waist, and the skirt hardly covered her ankles. “I can wear my old muslin cape, but my arms will have to show, and my feet too,” she thought, with nervous distress. The creased blue kid slippers were full of little holes and somewhat mildewed, but the girl mended them bravely; she said to herself that she need only walk down to the dining-room and back; and, besides, the rooms would not be brightly lighted. If she had had anything to work with, even so much as one yard of material, she would have made over the old gown; but she had absolutely nothing, and so she determined to overcome her necessities by sheer force of will.
“How do I look, cousin?” she said, appearing at the study-door on the afternoon of the fatal day. She spoke nervously, and yet proudly, as though defying criticism. But Cousin Copeland had no thought of criticism.
“My child,” he said, with pleased surprise, “you look charming. I am very glad you have a new gown, dear, very glad.”
“Men are all alike,” thought Gardis exultingly. “The others will think it is new also.”
Cousin Copeland possessed but one suit of clothes; consequently he had not been able to honor the occasion by a change of costume; but he wore a ruffled shirt and a flower in his buttonhole, and his countenance was sedately illumined by the thought of the festal board below. He was not at work, but merely dabbling a little on the outer edges—making flourishes at the ends of the chapters, numbering pages, and so forth. Gardis had gone to the drawing-room; she longed to see herself from head to foot, but, with the exception of the glasses in two old pier-tables, there was no large mirror save the gauze-veiled one in the drawing-room. Should she do it? Eve listened to the tempter, and fell. Likewise Gardis. A scissors, a chair, a snip, and lo! it was done. There she was, a little figure in a quaint blue gown, the thick muslin cape hiding the neck, but the dimpled arms bare almost to the shoulder, since the sleeve was but a narrow puff; the brown hair of this little image was braided around the head like a coronet; the wistful face was colorless and sad; in truth, there seemed to be tears in the brown eyes. “I will not cry,” said Gardis, jumping down from her chair, “but I do look odd; there is no doubt of that.” Then she remembered that she should not have jumped, on account of the slippers, and looked anxiously down; but the kid still held its place over the little feet, and, going to the piano, the young mistress of the manor began playing a gay little love-song, as if to defy her own sadness. Before it was finished, old Pompey, his every-day attire made majestic by a large, stiffly starched collar, announced the guests, and the solemnities began.
Everything moved smoothly, however. Cousin Copeland’s conversation was in its most flowing vein, the simple little dinner was well cooked and served, Pompey was statuesque, and the two guests agreeable. They remained at the table some time, according to the old Gardiston custom, and then, the ends of wax-candles having been lighted in the drawing-room, coffee was served there in the crocodile cups, and Miss Duke sang one or two songs. Soon after the officers took leave. Captain Newell bowed as he said farewell, but Roger Saxton, younger and more impulsive, extended his hand. Miss Duke made a stately courtesy, with downcast eyes, as though she had not observed it; but by her heightened color the elder guest suspected the truth, and smiled inwardly at the proud little reservation. “The hand of Douglas is his own,” he said to himself.
The dreaded dinner was over, and the girl had judged correctly: the two visitors had no suspicion of the antiquity of the blue gown.
“Did you ever see such a sweet little picture, from the pink rose in the hair down to the blue slipper!” said Saxton enthusiastically.
“She looked well,” replied Newell; “but as for cordiality—”
“I’ll win that yet. I like her all the better for her little ways,” said the lieutenant. “I suppose it is only natural that Southern girls should cherish bitterness against us; although, of course, she is far too young to have lost a lover in the war—far too young.”
“Which is a comfort,” said Newell dryly.
“A great comfort, old man. Don’t be bearish, now, but just wait a while and see.”
“Precisely what I intend to do,” said Newell.
In the mean time Gardis, in the privacy of her own room, was making a solemn funeral pyre on the hearth, composed of the blue gown, the slippers, and the pink rose, and watching the flame as it did its work. “So perish also the enemies of my country!” she said to herself. (She did not mean exactly that they should be burned on funeral pyres, but merely consigned them on this, as on all occasions, to a general perdition.) The old dress was but a rag, and the slippers were worthless; but, had they been new and costly, she would have done the same. Had they not been desecrated? Let them die!
It was, of course, proper that the guests should call at Gardiston House within a day or two; and Roger Saxton, ignoring the coldness of his reception, came again and again. He even sought out Cousin Copeland in his study, and won the heart of the old bachelor by listening a whole morning to extracts from the documents. Gardis found that her reserve was of no avail against this bold young soldier, who followed her into all her little retreats, and paid no attention to her stinging little speeches. Emboldened and also angered by what she deemed his callousness, she every day grew more and more open in her tone, until you might have said that she, as a unit, poured out upon his head the whole bitterness of the South. Saxton made no answer until the time came for the camp to break up, the soldiers being ordered back to the city. Then he came to see her one afternoon, and sat for some time in silence; the conversation of the little mistress was the same as usual.
“I forgive this, and all the bitter things you have said to me, Gardis,” he remarked abruptly.
“Forgive! And by what right, sir—”
“Only this: I love you, dear.” And then he poured out all the tide of his young ardor, and laid his heart and his life at her feet.
But the young girl, drawing her slight figure up to its full height, dismissed him with haughty composure. She no longer spoke angrily, but simply said, “That you, a Northerner and a soldier, should presume to ask for the hand of a Southern lady, shows, sir, that you have not the least comprehension of us or of our country.” Then she made him a courtesy and left the room. The transformation was complete; it was no longer the hot-tempered girl flashing out in biting little speeches, but the woman uttering the belief of her life. S
axton rode off into town that same night, dejected and forlorn.
Captain Newell took his leave a day later in a different fashion; he told Miss Duke that he would leave a guard on the premises if she wished it.
“I do not think it will be necessary,” answered the lady.
“Nor do I; indeed, I feel sure that there will be no further trouble, for we have placed the whole district under military rule since the last disturbance. But I thought possibly you might feel timid.”
“I am not timid, Captain Newell.”
The grave captain stroked his mustache to conceal a smile, and then, as he rose to go, he said: “Miss Duke, I wish to say to you one thing. You know nothing of us, of course, but I trust you will accept my word when I say that Mr. Saxton is of good family, that he is well educated, and that he is heir to a fair fortune. What he is personally you have seen for yourself—a frank, kind-hearted, manly young fellow.”
“Did you come here to plead his cause?” said the girl scornfully.
“No; I came here to offer you a guard, Miss Duke, for the protection of your property. But at the same time I thought it only my duty to make you aware of the real value of the gift laid at your feet.”
“How did you know—” began Gardis.
“Roger tells me everything,” replied the officer. “If it were not so, I—” Here he paused; and then, as though he had concluded to say no more, he bowed and took leave.
That night Gardiston House was left to itself in the forest stillness. “I am glad that bugle is silenced for ever,” said Gardis.
“And yet it was a silvern sound,” said Cousin Copeland.
The rains began, and there was no more walking abroad; the excitement of the summer and the camp gone, in its place came the old cares which had been half forgotten. (Care always waits for a cold or a rainy day.) Could the little household manage to live—live with their meager comforts—until the next payment of rent came in? That was the question.
Bitterly, bitterly poor was the whole Southern country in those dreary days after the war. The second year was worse than the first; for the hopes that had buoyed up the broken fortunes soon disappeared, and nothing was left. There was no one to help Gardis Duke, or the hundreds of other women in like desolate positions. Some of the furniture and ornaments of the old house might have been sold, could they have been properly brought forward in New York City, where there were people with purses to buy such things; but in the South no one wanted Chinese images, and there was nothing of intrinsic value. So the little household lived along, in a spare, pinched way, until, suddenly, final disaster overtook them: the tenant of the warehouse gave up his lease, declaring that the old building was too ruinous for use; and, as no one succeeded him, Gardiston House beheld itself face to face with starvation.
“If we wasn’t so old, Pomp and me, Miss Gardis, we could work for yer,” said Dinah, with great tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks; “but we’s just good for not’ing now.”
Cousin Copeland left his manuscripts and wandered aimlessly around the garden for a day or two; then the little man rose early one morning and walked into the city, with the hopeful idea of obtaining employment as a clerk. “My handwriting is more than ordinarily ornate, I think,” he said to himself, with proud confidence.
Reaching the town at last, he walked past the stores several times and looked timidly within; he thought perhaps some one would see him, and come out. But no one came; and at last he ventured into a clothing-store, through a grove of ticketed coats and suspended trousers. The proprietor of the establishment, a Northern Hebrew whose venture had not paid very well, heard his modest request, and asked what he could do.
“I can write,” said Cousin Copeland, with quiet pride; and in answer to a sign he climbed up on a tall stool and proceeded to cover half a sheet of paper in his best style. As he could not for the moment think of anything else, he wrote out several paragraphs from the last family document.
“Richard, the fourth of the name, a descendant on the maternal side from the most respected and valorous family—”
“Oh, we don’t care for that kind of writing; it’s old-fashioned,” said Mr. Ottenheimer, throwing down the paper, and waving the applicant toward the door with his fat hand. “I don’t want my books frescoed.”
Cousin Copeland retired to the streets again with a new sensation in his heart. Old-fashioned? Was it old-fashioned? And even if so, was it any the less a rarely attained and delicately ornate style of writing? He could not understand it. Weary with the unaccustomed exercise, he sat down at last on the steps of a church—an old structure whose spire bore the marks of bomb-shells sent in from the blockading fleet outside the bar during those months of dreary siege—and thought he would refresh himself with some furtive mouthfuls of the corn-bread hidden in his pocket for lunch.
“Good morning, sir,” said a voice, just as he had drawn forth his little parcel and was opening it behind the skirt of his coat. “When did you come in from Gardiston?”
It was Captain Newell. With the rare courtesy which comes from a kind heart, he asked no questions regarding the fatigue and the dust-powdered clothes of the little bachelor, and took a seat beside him as though a church-step on a city street was a customary place of meeting.
“I was about to—to eat a portion of this corn-bread,” said Cousin Copeland, hesitatingly; “will you taste it also?”
The young officer accepted a share of the repast gravely, and then Cousin Copeland told his story. He was a simple soul. Miss Margaretta would have made the soldier believe she had come to town merely for her own lofty amusement or to buy jewels. It ended, however, in the comfortable eating of a good dinner at the hotel, and a cigar in Captain Newell’s own room, which was adorned with various personal appliances for comfort that astonished the eyes of the careful little bachelor, and left him in a maze of vague wonderings. Young men lived in that way, then, nowadays? They could do so, and yet not be persons of—of irregular habits?
David Newell persuaded his guest to abandon, for the present, all idea of obtaining employment in the city. “These shopkeepers are not capable of appreciating qualifications such as yours, sir,” he said. “Would it not be better to set about obtaining a new tenant for the warehouse?”
Cousin Copeland thought it would; but repairs were needed, and—
“Will you give me the charge of it? I am in the city all the time, and I have acquaintances among the Northerners who are beginning to come down here with a view of engaging in business.”
Cousin Copeland gladly relinquished the warehouse, and then, after an hour’s rest, he rode gallantly back to Gardiston House on one of the captain’s horses; he explained at some length that he had been quite a man of mettle in his youth as regards horse-flesh—“often riding, sir, ten and fifteen miles a day.”
“I will go in for a moment, I think,” said the young officer, as they arrived at the old gate.
“Most certainly,” said Cousin Copeland cordially; “Gardis will be delighted to see you.”
“Will she?” said the captain.
Clouds had gathered, a raw wind from the ocean swept over the land, and fine rain was beginning to fall. The house seemed dark and damp as the two entered it. Gardis listened to Cousin Copeland’s detailed little narrative in silence, and made no comments while he was present; but when he left the room for a moment she said abruptly:
“Sir, you will make no repairs, and you will take no steps toward procuring a tenant for our property in the city. I will not allow it.”
“And why may I not do it as well as any other person?” said Captain Newell.
“You are not ‘any other person,’ and you know it,” said Gardis, with flushed cheeks. “I do not choose to receive a favor from your hands.”
“It is a mere business transaction, Miss Duke.”
“It is not. You know you intend to make the repairs your
self,” cried the girl passionately.
“And if I do so intend? It will only be advancing the money, and you can pay me interest if you like. The city will certainly regain her old position in time; my venture is a sure one. But I wish to assist you, Miss Duke; I do not deny it.”
“And I—will not allow it!”
“What will you do, then?”
“God knows,” said Gardis. “But I would rather starve than accept assistance from you.” Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke, but she held her head proudly erect.
“And from Saxton? He has gone North, but he would be so proud to help you.”
“From him least of all.”
“Because of his love for you?”
Gardis was silent.
“Miss Duke, let me ask you one question. If you had loved Roger Saxton, would you have married him?”
“Never!”
“You would have sacrificed your whole life, then, for the sake of—”
“My country, sir.”
“We have a common country, Gardis,” answered the young man gravely. Then, as he rose, “Child,” he said, “I shall not relinquish the charge of your property, given into my hands by Mr. Copeland Gardiston, and, for your own sake, I beg you to be more patient, more gentle, as becomes a woman. A few weeks will no doubt see you released from even your slight obligation to me: you will have but a short time to wait.”
Poor Gardis! Her proud scorn went for nothing, then? She was overridden as though she had been a child, and even rebuked for want of gentleness. The drawing-room was cheerless and damp in the rainy twilight; the girl wore a faded lawn dress, and her cheeks were pale; the old house was chilly through and through, and even the soldier, strong as he was, felt himself shivering. At this instant enter Cousin Copeland. “Of course you will spend the night here,” he said heartily. “It is raining, and I must insist upon your staying over until to-morrow—must really insist.”
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