Chapter II: Maria Gloria De La Vera

A willful elf, an uncle’s child,
And half a pet and half a pest,
By turns angelic, wicked, wild,
Made chaos of the household nest.
ANON.

Gloria was seven years old when she came to live with her uncle and aunt. She was too young and too bright to realize the loss she had sustained in the death of her parents, or to grieve long after them. And besides—was it a new affection, or was it a reminiscence of the old one? She soon became devotedly attached to her uncle.

It was a grim home to which the radiant child had been brought; but nothing could dim the brightness of her spirit or depress the gladness of her heart—not old Promontory Hall with its gray, massive, prison-like structure, its high stone walls, and its dreary sea view, drearier than usual in the dull December days in which Gloria looked upon it—not even the deadening coldness that was creeping like a blighting frost between the husband and the wife—a coldness that the warm-hearted child felt rather than understood.

This condition, it must be confessed, was the fault of Eusebie rather than Marcel. It grew out of the jealousy and suspicion that had their root in her inordinate and exacting affection for him.

Her self-tormenting spirit whispered that he had never really loved her, but had married her out of compassion, or, worse still, that he had never even cared for her in any manner, but had taken her for her little fortune alone. She saw that, as the years passed away, and hope of a family died out, he was disappointed in the continued absence of children, and she persuaded herself that he secretly hated and despised her for not giving them to him.

All this wore out her health and spirits.

And so she grew more and more irritable and petulant, often repelling his best-meant efforts to comfort and cheer her—telling him she wanted none of his capricious sympathy, his hypocritical tenderness; she could live without either.

All this he bore with the greater patience because he knew it could not last long—because he saw the fiery soul was burning out the fragile body, and because he felt that there was a grain of truth in the stack of falsehood. It was this—that he had married her for pity, or for such love as pity inspires.

The coming of Gloria into this house of discord had been as the advent of an angel in purgatory. Her very presence had a mediating, reconciling power.

Yet it must not be supposed that Gloria was a real angel, or that her coming brought perfect peace to the household. Far from this. Gloria had a fiery little spirit of her own that sometimes flamed out at very inconvenient times and seasons, and the most she did towards restoring harmony was to restrain by her bright presence the expression of harsh feelings, and to prevent the estrangement breaking out into open warfare.

While they would be sitting silent and sullen, at the same fireside, in the long back parlor that looked out upon the leaden sky and sea of these dull December days, he would be apparently absorbed in the perusal of some favorite old classic author, she would be engaged in knitting, the glittering, fine, long needles glancing in and out between her delicate white fingers, in round after round of stitches—for she was a great knitter of lamb’s-wool hose—the child would be sitting on the carpet somewhere near, earnestly employed in dressing her doll, drawing on her slate, or cutting figures out of paper—but always singing some little song to herself, filling the room with harmony.

How could the sullen couple break into open warfare in her presence?

Yet sometimes they did so. A dispute would arise out of that dull silence, as a breeze would spring over the gray sea, and blow into storm in one case as in the other.

The gust always arose from Eusebie’s quarter. And Marcel always got the worst of it.

Often little Gloria would see him grieved, humiliated, yet silent and patient, under his wife’s false accusations and bitter reproaches.

Then her soul would be filled with sympathy, her song would cease, her playthings drop, and she would get up and take her little stool and go and sit down by his side and slip her small hand into his and lay her bright head on his knee.

This always quelled the rising storm. It prevented Marcel from retorting, however much exasperated he might be, and it eventually silenced Eusebie, for no one can keep up a quarrel alone.

Gloria’s interference did not always stop at sympathy for Marcel. It sometimes, indeed, broke out into righteous indignation against Eusebie.

On one occasion, she had heard her unhappy aunt taunt him with his want of fortune and charge him with mercenary motives in marrying her. She had seen her uncle’s dark cheek flame, and had noticed how hard it was for him to keep his temper; and she had left her play and gone and sat down by his side, and put her little arms around his knee and laid her shining head upon it.

That had soothed and silenced him. He could not give way to his evil spirit in the presence of the child.

But, mind, when at length he arose and left the parlor, and Gloria found herself alone with her aunt, she rebuked that passionate woman fearlessly.

“You treat my uncle worse than you would dare to treat any negro slave on the promontory,” she exclaimed, in angry tears.

“He is not your uncle,” was all the lady said in reply.

“He is your husband, then! And you treat him worse than you would dare to treat any one else in the world, just because he is a gentleman and cannot retort upon you. You just dare to talk to old ’Phia as you talk to him, and she would give you such a tongue-lashing as you would not get over in a month.”

“If you do not cease your impertinence at once, Miss, I will give you such a whip-lashing as you won’t get over in six!” exclaimed the angry woman.

“No you will not, auntie! If you were to lay a whip upon me, only once, you would repent it all your life, and you would never have a chance to do it again. You are my auntie; but my uncle is my guardian, and he would lead me out of this house and we would never return to it. You know that!”

“Oh, Heaven! It is too true, for he loves me not at all!” breathed the poor woman, losing all self-command, and utterly breaking down in humiliation.

In a moment the child was at her side—at her feet.

“Oh, auntie, poor auntie, don’t cry! I have been naughty, very naughty! And I am sorry, very sorry! Indeed you may strike me now, if you want to, for I do deserve it now!” she said, trying with all her heart to soothe the weeping woman.

But Eusebie clasped the child to her bosom and burst into a passion of sobs and tears.

“I love you, auntie, dear. I do love you, and I am so sorry I was so naughty,” said the child, clasping the unhappy creature around the neck and lavishing caresses on her.

But Eusebie only sobbed the harder for all this.

“And uncle loves you, auntie, dear, indeed he does, although you do always tell him that he doesn’t care for you. I know he does, for when you are”—the child was about to say “cross,” but checked herself in time, and continued—“when you are unhappy he looks at you so pitifully.”

“Oh, Gloria, you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want his pity. I am not a dog or a beggar,” exclaimed Eusebie, bitterly, as she put her niece from her lap and hurried from the parlor to her own room, to give unrestrained way to her grief.

This heart-sick and brain-sick poor woman was the plague and curse of the household, and such scenes as these were of frequent occurrence.

Little Gloria acted always as a peacemaker, and always successfully; only once in a long time did her sense of justice rouse her indignation to the height of upbraiding her “auntie,” and then her quick bursts of temper were followed by as quick repentance and reparation. She was very impulsive—

“A being of sudden smiles and tears.”

This swift impulsiveness, with its sudden action and reaction, was the keynote to her whole character, the “kismet” of her life.

As yet she was the peacemaker of the house, and all within it felt that this had been her mission to the household. Even the old family servants put their heads together confidentially, or shook them wisely, while they whispered:

“Whatever de trouble is atween de two, marster and mist’ess done been parted long a merry ago if it hadn’t been for little Glo’.”

Indeed, this Promontory Hall, with its high, enclosing walls, and the gray sea rolling around it, and the estranged, unhappy pair within it, must have been a very dull, dreary and depressing home for any child who had not, like Gloria, an ever springing fountain of gladness in her own soul.

As soon as the long winter was over, and the sun shone warm and bright, and the earth grew green and the sea blue, Gloria was out and abroad, with the earliest birds and flowers, as bright as the brightest, and as glad as the gladdest.

With the revival of all nature there was a great revival of business also in the fisheries appertaining to the Promontory and its neighboring isles. The place that was so solitary all the winter was now all alive with fishermen, whose huts and tents and sheds dotted all the little islands within sight from the promontory. No fishermen except those in the service of the family were allowed to haul the seines, or even cast a net from the home beach.

Among the fishermen attached to the service of the family was a young lad of about twelve years old. His parents had passed away, leaving him in the care of his grandmother, who lived in a tiny, sandy islet that stood alone, half a mile east of the promontory.

Who had been the original owner of the little sandhill no one ever knew; for the property was not of sufficient value to stimulate inquiries; and, besides, it had been for ages past occupied by a family of squatters, the present representatives of whom were David Lindsay and his grandmother.

It was on a brilliant May morning that the little Gloria, in her wanderings about the promontory, came to a broken part of the old sea-wall, and, instigated by curiosity, clambered over the stones and looked out upon a long stretch of sands upon which sheds, huts, and stranded boats were scattered among nets, seines, sea-weed and driftwood.

The child, standing in the breach of the wall, paused to gaze with interest on the rude scene that was so entirely new to her.

Then she saw a boy seated amid a drift of nets and seines, with a reel of coarse twine and a large wooden needle in his hand, busy with some work that quite absorbed his attention; for he neither saw nor heard the approach of the little girl.

She, on her part, stood still and watched him with surprise and delight.

The solitary child had not seen another child of any sort, white or black, girl or boy, for more than a year. She had lived only with grown-up people, and very “scroobious” and depressing grown-up people at that. Now her heart leaped for joy at the sight of an angel from her own heaven—another child!

What if he was a poor little lad, with a torn straw hat set on his tangled black curls, a sunburned face, a patched coat, trowsers rolled up to his knees, and below them naked legs and feet? He was another child—an angel from her own heaven! He had come with the sun and the spring, with the birds and the flowers. Here was the crowning joy of the season indeed.

He would be her playmate. He would not rail and weep like Eusebie, nor sigh and groan like Marcel. He would be glad like herself.

Without an instant’s hesitation she ran down to him.

Children, when left to their own intuition, are the most simple and natural democrats and republicans. They care nothing and know nothing of caste. When misled by others, they may become the most repulsive little aristocrats alive.

She stood before him breathless, smiling.

As for the boy, he looked up at her in pleased surprise at the brightest vision that had ever gladdened his eyes.

“Little boy!” she exclaimed, in a tone of kindly greeting.

“Yes, little girl,” he answered, as he arose, dropping his nets and taking off his torn hat.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, smiling.

“So am I, you. Will you sit down on the boat? It is quite dry,” he said, as he pointed to the upturned skiff upon which he himself had been seated.

“Oh, yes, I thank you. I would like to sit down because I have been walking all over the promontory and I am so tired,” she said, as she seated herself.

“Put your feet on this stone, the sands are damp,” said the lad, as he placed a flat piece of rock near her.

“Yes; I thank you. And you sit down, too. Don’t you stand,” she continued. He obeyed the little lady, and seated himself beside her.

“Oh, I am so glad I found you!” she exclaimed, with dancing eyes.

“So am I you; very glad,” he answered, quietly.

“Have you got anybody to play with?” was her next question.

“No,” he replied.

“No more have I. What is your name, little boy?”

“Dave.”

“Dave? That means David, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, David; but everybody calls me Dave.”

“Well, what else is your name besides David?”

“Lindsay—David Lindsay.”

“Oh! Uncle reads to us about one—

“‘Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount,
Lord Lion, King at Arms.’

Was he any kin to you?”

“No, there ain’t no kings nor lions about here,” replied the lad, laughing.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think there was any children or playmates about here; but after finding you I should not wonder if I found kings and lions and—and dwarfs and fairies.”

“I never saw any about here,” said the lad, decidedly.

“David Lindsay, don’t you want to know what my name is?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, then, why don’t you ask me?”

“Because—I don’t know—I didn’t like to.”

“Well, my name is Maria da Gloria de la Vera!”

“Oh! what a long name!”

“Yes, but it is a beautiful name, with a beautiful meaning.”

“What does it mean?”

“I believe, but I don’t quite know, that it means the Glory of the Truth, or something like that.”

“It is too long.”

“Yes, it is long as it is spelt and written; but not as it is pronounced, for it is pronounced Davero—Gloria Davero—and the colored folks have got it down to little Glo’.”

“Oh, I like that! Little Glo’!” said the lad, with animation.

“Do you? I am so glad! What does your name mean, David Lindsay?”

“I’m blest if I know what it means, if it means anything at all.”

“But it must mean something, David Lindsay. All names do.”

“Well, then, I will ask my grandmother.”

“Yes, do. Do you like me, David Lindsay?”

“Oh! yes, indeed I do.”

“So do I you, ever so much. What is that you are doing with that long wooden needle and big ball of cord, David Lindsay?”

“I am mending nets.”

“Oh, how curious it is. Will you show me how to do it, David Lindsay? Is it hard to do?”

“No, it is easy. I will be glad to show you,” said the boy, who then instructed her in the simple stitch by which the nets were made.

“What fun!” exclaimed the child, as her slender little fingers plied the wooden needle in and out among the meshes. “Who taught you to do this, David Lindsay?”

“I——” The boy hesitated and looked puzzled, and then said: “I don’t know. I netted nets ever since I could remember, and before, too, I reckon, but not so large nets as these. I netted minnow nets first, I remember that. I s’pose father must ha’ taught me.”

“Have you got a father and mother, David Lindsay?”

“Yes, in Heaven,” replied the lad, lifting his broken hat and bending his head.

“So have I—in Heaven. Have you got any brothers and sisters, David Lindsay?”

“No, not one.”

“No more have I. Have you got any playmates?”

“No; never had any.”

“No more have I. But now I have you, and you have me, and we will be playmates, won’t we?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“How old are you, David Lindsay?”

“I am almost twelve; I shall be twelve next Fourth of July.”

“Oh, what a splendid birthday! I shall be eight the first of June!”

“June is a nice month, too. The roses are all out,” said the boy.

The little girl fell into thought for a few minutes, and then she said:

“What made you lift your hat and bend your head when you said ‘Heaven,’ David Lindsay?”

“Grandmother taught me.”

“‘Grandmother!’ Yes, you said grandmother before.”

“She is father’s mother. Father was drowned in a squall while out fishing when I was seven years old. That was in the spring; mother died of pleurisy the next winter; a bitter, bitter winter, when the snow lay two or three feet deep on the ground and drifted around our little house, and there was no one to bring us wood from the main but grandmother and me, and we had to go for it in the boat and couldn’t bring but a little at a time; and we had no doctor and that was the way poor mother died.”

Gloria’s bright eyes were full of tears. She slipped her hand in that of the boy and said:

“But maybe she would have died all the same. My mother had everything in the world, and she died. But you know neither of them really died; they went to heaven.”

“Yes,” said the boy, in a low tone.

“Now, ain’t grown people queer, David Lindsay?”

“How?”

“The way they talk. They will say one minute a man has died and gone to heaven, and the next minute they will say he is buried in such a church-yard. Now, how can he be in heaven and in the ground at the same time?”

“I don’t know. It is a great mystery,” said the boy, gravely.

“I don’t like mysteries. I don’t. They always make me feel as if I was in a cellar, or some dark place and in danger. And what is more, I don’t believe in them. I don’t believe my father and mother are buried in the ground. I believe they both went out to heaven before that which they used to live in was put in the ground. And, somehow, inside of myself I know it is so. Do you like to read, David Lindsay?” she asked, abruptly.

“Yes; I learned to read and write at St. Inigoes parish school; but I have no books except Webster’s Spelling Book, and I know every word of that by heart, even the fables.”

“Oh, then I can bring you ever so many books. I have a bookcase full, all of my own, in my room, and uncle has a great room full, from the floor up to the ceiling, all around the walls, you know.”

“That is very good of you. I do thank you. You are the little girl that lives up in the house, then—Colonel de Crespigney’s niece?”

“Yes—no. I mean I am Madame de Crespigney’s niece; though, do you know, it seems so strange, I always feel as if he was more kin to me than she is!”

“I suppose you love him best; that must be the reason. Well, everybody loves Colonel de Crespigney. I know I do. He took me on to work here out of kindness, I am sure, for he couldn’t really want me, you see, so many colored people as he has!”

“He is very, very good, and very unhappy. Where do you live, David Lindsay?” she inquired, with the sudden transition of a child’s thoughts.

“Do you see that little, tiny bit of an island out there by itself?” he said, rising and pointing eastward.

“What!—that little sandbank?” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes, there is a house on it.”

“A mere shed.”

“We live in it, grandmother and I. And we have chickens and ducks, and a little bit of a garden, with a made soil, where we raise radishes and lettuce and cabbage and potatoes.”

“No flowers?”

“Oh, yes; a red rose-bush, and a white rose-bush, and pinks, and pansies and larkspurs.”

“Oh, that is pretty! Is your grandmother nice?”

“Oh! I tell you!” heartily answered the boy.

“Would she let me come to see her?”

“Why, of course she would, and glad!”

“Well, then, will you take me over there to see your grandmother, David Lindsay?”

“Yes, indeed, that I will, if your uncle will let you go.”

“Oh, he’ll let me. But how do you get over there, David Lindsay?” inquired the child, gazing over the expanse of water to the little dot that seemed to be about half-way between the promontory and the eastern horizon.

“Why, in my little row-boat, to be sure. There, there it is, tied to that post,” answered the boy, pointing to a little skiff that was rocking on the water.

“Oh-h-h! And you’ll take me in that? Oh-h-h! Won’t that be splendid! When will you take me, David Lindsay?” she exclaimed, with all a child’s eager delight in an anticipated holiday.

“To-morrow, if they will let you go. To-night when I go home, I will tell my grandmother, and she will have something to please you when you come, you know.”

“Will she? Oh, how nice. I am so glad I found you. Ain’t you glad you found me, David Lindsay?”

“Oh, I tell you! Yes, indeed! I was so lonesome here.”

“So was I! But we have found one another; we won’t be lonesome any more, will we? We will have such good times, won’t we now, David Lindsay?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the boy.

“But, oh, I say! See here! I can’t net any more. This hard twine hurts my fingers dreadfully,” said little Glo’, looking at her bruised digits.

“I thought it would. Put it up. It is dinnertime, too.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, and I must go home,” said the child, rising reluctantly.

“Oh, no, please don’t,” eagerly exclaimed the boy. “Stay here and have some of my dinner.”

“Dinner!” exclaimed little Glo’, looking all around them in vain search of a kitchen.

“I have brought it with me in a basket,” David explained, as he lifted a little ragged flag-basket from its hiding-place beside the boat. “Sit down and have some.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, so I will! I like that!” she answered, promptly reseating herself.

He then opened his basket, and took from it, first, a coarse crash towel, which he handed to her, saying:

“Now please to set the table.”

“Set the table?” she echoed, in perplexity.

“Yes, you know, spread that towel on the flat stone by you, and I will hand you out the things to put on it.”

“Oh! yes, I know—and play we are housekeeping!” she exclaimed, delightedly, as she laid the cloth.

Then he handed her, in succession, a little cracked, blue-edged white plate, a broken knife and fork, a little paper of salt, another of bread, six hard boiled eggs, and a dozen young radishes, all of which she arranged upon the “table” with funny little housewifely care.

“Now, this will have to be broiled,” he continued, as he took from the bottom of the basket a smoked red herring on a cabbage leaf and laid it on the boat.

“Broiled!” echoed the little housekeeper, as she looked all about in search of a fire.

“Yes,” he answered, laughing, as he went and gathered up some dry, decayed driftwood, and broke it into small chips, and piled it up on some stones. Then he took a tinder box, flint and steel, from his pocket, struck a light, and kindled a fire.

“Oh! that is grand!” exclaimed the delighted child, as she watched him, for all this was play to her.

When the fire had burned down to coals he laid the herring on it.

A fine appetizing flavor soon arose.

Little Glo’ watched the boy as he turned the herring until it was done, and then put it on the blue-edged white plate and set it on the table.

“Oh! isn’t this just perfectly splendid!” again exclaimed the child, as the two sat down to the primitive meal.

They chatted faster than they ate—at least little Glo’ did.

When it was over and the plates and knife and fork had been put back in the basket, the girl arose, very unwillingly, to depart.

“I must go now,” she said; “they will all be looking for me. But, oh! I have had just such a grand time, and I am so glad we found each other! Ain’t you, David Lindsay?”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed the boy.

She laughed, kissed her hand to him, and ran off home, singing as she went.

This was the first meeting between Gloria de la Vera and David Lindsay, the poor fisher lad, whom, a few years later, in her utter desperation, she asked to marry her; but many strange events were to happen before she could be driven to such despair as to cast her beautiful and blameless self, with her rank and fortune, at the feet of this humble lad, “unlearned and poor,” and lose herself in the deep dishonor of a low and loveless marriage.