Chapter II: Book III: The Lover (2)

As Everett rose to respond to the introduction of the newcomer, "Judge Houston," as Suggs explained with a flourish, "a Virginian, living in Mississippi, but still breathing the air of Virginia," he felt intuitively that he was standing before a man it would be an honour to know. In that moment the impression the others had made upon him became cheap and vulgar, for in the quiet strong face of this man who was evidently past sixty there was a benignity and gentleness, an intelligence made up not only of cleverness and book learning, but of a long life's experience in which sorrow and thought and difficulties overcome had brought a result near to perfection. He was a tall man, with broad heavy shoulders that were finally admitting the long struggle in a slight stoop; his face was strong, yet mild; his mouth firm with the stability of largeness and generosity. His head, with its high forehead, heavy eyebrows, and prominence in the region that denotes intelligence, would have conveyed an impression of cold intellectuality, had it not been for the mellowing expression that shone from his clear blue eyes--a look that spoke without effort kindness and sympathy and friendliness toward the world. Beneath the force of his personality one felt something more potent than strength--perhaps it was the strength of sweetness. His carriage was dignified, yet natural; aristocratic yet gentle; and his graciousness softened the somewhat formal manner of the Colonial days which still clung to him. He wore the old fashioned fair top boots and shorts of that elder day, a shirt of fine ruffled linen, a waistcoat of the finest embroidered silk, and his hair, iron grey and thick, was reached back from the noble forehead and hung down in a queue behind, tied with a black silk ribbon--a fashion already passing with the memories of the Revolution. He was close shaven and neat to a nicety, with the exception of some grains of snuff which fell occasionally from the massive gold snuff box that hung from a chain about his collar.

When he had taken his seat at the table, and was mixing with an expression of pleasurable anticipation the toddy the waiter had brought him, he looked at Everett with a curiosity that quickly became flattering interest. The young fellow's eyes fell before the searching gaze of the older man for in them he imagined he saw a faint surprise at the company he had chosen upon his arrival. It was then that he regretted for the first time the wounded pride which had made him descend to the use of the Captain's advice.

The conversation changed from the arguing, tempestuous channel in which it had been running, and with the new influence that was felt by everyone, became more conservative and dignified.

"I suppose you have told them everything," the old man said to Everett when the tavern bell had reminded the group that it was their dinner hour. "Did you ever see fellows so hungry for news?" he added, as Jervais, the last to leave, had moved away. "But you must remember we are a long way off from the world down here."

"I was hardly aware myself that so much had happened until I began to tell them all I knew," Everett answered, happy to find himself alone with Judge Houston. "I believe I told them everything I have read and heard for months, and yet," he stopped suddenly and looked up to see if any of them remained, "do you know, I forgot to tell them that King George was dead and that the Duke of Clarence is now William the Fourth!"

"They will see it in the papers," the old man answered smiling, "I am sure you have told them enough for one day. I am the one who missed it all. Will you do me the honour of going home to dinner with me? It would give me much pleasure to hear all about the world from one who is so recently from the scene of action. Perhaps, too, I can show my appreciation by giving you something better than the corn dodgers and goat meat that you would surely get in this tavern."

Everett kept his eyes on the old man's as he rose from his chair in accepting the invitation. The surprise and pity which people always showed on first noting his deformity had made him morbidly sensitive and watchful, and when he saw no change of expression on the face of this old gentleman of Virginia that gave evidence that he had noticed his lameness, a feeling of great joy, almost love, rushed over him for the other; though, in the slow pace at which they walked and his frequent halts to call attention to some important object along the way, Everett knew that in this lay a veiled consideration.

The street was broad and cool in the shade of overarching trees, and as they strolled along, Judge Houston's arm resting on his, and his deep voice steady and full of the charm of provincial accent, Everett began to feel more and more contented with the call which had brought him to this place.

"That old church--yes--it was built by the Spaniards," the old man leaned against a fence for a moment. "And even I can remember when criminals used it as a place of safety--a sanctuary. I saw a murderer run up those steps and put his finger in the key hole of that same old door and keep his pursuers at bay. A queer old custom--but it has been years ago now. And their old priest, Father Brady, they called him--he was my ideal when I was a boy," he talked on as they resumed their walk. "He had great power over the Indians--used to get out among them and cowhide them into his church. And when it came to hunting he was the best shot in the town, and the best judge of horses and liquor--had a wink and a joke and a blessing and an alms for every one. Oh, I can tell you all the stories you want to know about Natchez; some of them are grewsome and some fantastic--but they are being forgotten now with the changes everywhere. We are getting civilized by degrees down here. Wife said the other day she had no intention of dying till she saw a steam car coming right into our town."

He ended with a smile as they stopped before a house set far back in a grove of trees. Walking beside him up the broad brick pavement, bordered on each side by high box, Everett realized that he was standing before the typically Southern home, with its facade of massive white columns, its wide green blinds against the red bricks, and its broad, hospitable verandas.

When he stood in the cool shade of the hall, the glare of the brilliant day shut out, the old gentleman's wife came forward to meet them. Looking down into her gentle sweet face Everett found himself wondering if Judge Houston and the grey haired gentle woman could not be some kin--for the long life together, the practice of the same pursuits, the indulgence, or more the renunciation of similar tastes had wrought a likeness between them which made the wife seem but a more delicate feminine edition of the man.

"You see the resemblance, Maria?" Judge Houston said to his wife, when the introduction was over.

"Oh yes, indeed--I saw it at once," she murmured in a low voice, and Everett thought he saw tears in her eyes as she turned quickly away. "I shall tell Cynthie to have dinner at once. I know you have been starving. Think of it--on a boat for a month!"

Everett turned back to Judge Houston as they were left alone and found the old gentleman smiling upon him with the same sad expression he had found in Mrs. Houston's eyes.

"I seem to remind you of someone," he said slowly, hesitating in the doubt of intruding upon what was evidently their sorrow.

"Yes--your resemblance to my son is very striking. He went out into the Western territories with some pioneers when he was just about your age. He was unlucky--the Indians--it is a long story--I shall tell it to you one of these days." The old gentleman pulled forward a chair and waved Everett towards one beside him. "And you are going to Mistress Brandon's?" he added, evidently wishing to change the subject.

"Yes," Everett answered. "I shall be glad to have you tell me something about her and her family for I practically know nothing. My chum at college, Morgan Talbot, is a kinsman of Mistress Brandon and he carried on the correspondence with her about me. She is taking me entirely on his recommendation, and I'm sure," he laughed, "she can't know Morgan well, or she wouldn't take a recommendation from a person who lets his heart rule his brain as Morgan does. It was entirely his friendship for me that made him do it."

"You must remember that when we get down here we don't have many opportunities to see relatives who live so far away as Boston. Mistress Brandon is a very capable and well educated woman. She has superintended the management of the plantation ever since Brandon died and has done it remarkably well; indeed, she is the wealthiest woman in this part of the state. There are three children. The eldest is not her child--she is a daughter of Brandon's first wife."

Just then Mrs. Houston reappeared to ask them into dinner.

"I see you are already gossiping," she said, when they vere seated in the high ceilinged dining room, made cool and free from flies by a large wooden fan hung from the ceiling above the table and kept in continual motion by a little negro who stood in one corner of the room and dozed as he automatically pulled the cord. "I've always told Judge Houston that it is an erroneous idea that women do the gossiping," she continued in her gentle, drawling voice, "I assure you, Mr. Everett, everything I know, I find out from him," with a charming glance of accusation at her husband, "after his visits to the Mansion House."

"But my news is political, Maria," expostulated Judge Houston. "And that isn't gossiping."

"Indeed--so you call arguing whether Mistress Brandon will accept Mr. Jervais or not, a political discussion!"

"I never told you that, my dear," the old man smiled gently.

"No--of course you didn't, but some one else's husband told his wife and she told me." With which remark Mrs. Houston turned back to Everett. "You will be delighted with your new friends," pouring the coffee from an enormous silver urn. "To begin with, the place itself is beautiful. It was built by one of the Spanish governors and the romances connected with it are thrilling--but you will hear them all. Natalia will tell them to you."

"There she goes," laughed Judge Houston. "There won't be a thing left for you to find out for yourself, Mr. Everett. Maria, my dear, do leave something to the gentleman's imagination."

"Well, I only thought it wise for Mr. Everett to know something about them," she responded on the defensive. "Don't you think so, Mr. Everett?"

"Indeed I do, Mrs. Houston. It might help me to avoid any embarrassing subjects," he laughed happily, the hospitality and friendliness of this old fashioned couple making him feel more at home in the midst of their good natured banter.

"Embarrassing subjects! There you are quite right, Mr. Everett. For instance, Felix," with a conciliatory look toward her husband, "you know it would not do for him to ask much about the Spaniards, would it? You see, Mr. Everett, the mother of Natalia--that is the girl's name--was a Spaniard. Please don't think I'm gossiping now, but you'll understand I'm telling you this for your own benefit. The Spanish rule ended here about the time we came, so we don't pretend to know what the truth of the matter is. Suffice it to say, however, that Natalia's grandmother seems to have been criticized for her rather unconventional way of living. It was during her lifetime that the house was built, and from what I gather there was no lack of entertainment at all times. Her daughter, a beautiful, shy little creature, as delicate and sensitive as a flower, was fortunately sent to New Orleans to be educated and escaped the surroundings and influence of her mother. Brandon married her soon after her mother died, and as she had inherited this property here, they came back to Natchez to live. She was the most fascinating creature I ever knew, although that was not well--indeed, no one knew her well, and I often heard it said that she died insane shortly after Natalia's birth--some more coffee, Cynthie--but you can't believe everything you hear. I believe she just died as naturally as anyone else. Do have some more Sally Lunn--Cynthie, bring some hot rolls. Tell me, Mr. Everett, is it really true that you have pie for breakfast in New England?"

"I was just wondering what my mother would say to such extravagance as four kinds of hot bread at one meal. And as for pie," Everett laughed, "I'm afraid I'll have to admit I have eaten it for breakfast. Hot rolls are a Sunday attraction at home."

"I suppose we do strike a Northerner as extravagant," Mrs. Houston sighed helplessly, "but when one has so many slaves standing around, they must be kept busy. If I had to cook myself I don't suppose you would have had anything for dinner but baker's bread and fig preserves. You don't have slaves in Maine, either, do you?"

Everett met Judge Houston's eye and smiled.

"No," the old gentleman answered for him, "the Yankees imported them and found them unadapted to their climate, so they sent them down here and sold them to us. Now, I understand, they have decided they do not approve of slavery. Are you all that clever, Mr. Everett," he ended with a good humoured laugh.

"I have not read much on the subject," Everett answered, realizing that beneath the laughter there lay a deep seriousness. "But from what I have heard and from the reports of the Maryland Society, I had gotten the impression that many of the Southerners were in favour of emancipation."

"A great many are--in fact, some have gone so far as to give their slaves freedom. A man who died here last year, by his will, emancipated his slaves--there were nearly one hundred of them--and he also provided for their transportation to Africa with a full supply of agricultural implements and medicine and a year's provisions. It was a very good example he set, and one I hope will be imitated."

"Then you believe in emancipation?"

"I am in favour of emancipation with colonization. That is the only way it is possible. You can't allow slaves to be liberated and remain in the States, for in such a case the effect of an intermediate class between owners and slaves would be disastrous. The negroes must be either sent out of the country or remain slaves. There is no half way ground to be considered."

"From what you say, Judge Houston," Everett said, in the slight pause that followed, "I find myself wondering if you are a slave owner."

"Oh yes, I plead guilty, but in a very small way. We have five slaves, and I venture to say they wouldn't leave us if they could. Do you think so, Maria?"

Before answering, Mrs. Houston called the pleasant faced negro woman to her, "Cynthie, go upstairs," she said, an evident ruse to get the woman out of the room, "and bring me a--pocket handkerchief. I wanted to tell you about her," she continued when they were alone. "I asked her once what she would do if I set her free. Will you believe me?--she cried for a week and begged me every hour of the day please not to do it. You see, Mr. Everett, they feel they are a part of the family--and so they are. We take care of them just like they were children. Of course, we hear of cases where they are badly treated, but it is quite unusual."

"Yes," Judge Houston added, "if people would only stop to consider that it is to a man's interest to treat his slaves well, in order that they may do their work, probably they would soon see the fallacy of the exaggerated tales that are causing so much ill feeling in the North."

"Now, here you all have been discussing this everlasting slave question," Mrs. Houston said, as they finally rose from the table, "and all the time I have been wondering to myself over a very different matter. Can either of you guess what it is?"

"The wonderings of a woman's mind are quite beyond us, eh, Mr. Everett?" said Judge Houston.

"I shall have to admit my failure this time." Everett smiled at Mrs. Houston.

"Well," she continued, half seriously, "I was trying to calculate how long it will take you to tame Natalia."

Everett flushed slightly and did not attempt to hide the surprise he felt at the remark.

"Ah, there you go with your woman's eternal speculation on some ridiculous topic." Judge Houston frowned in mock disapproval. "Here you take a young fellow, and before he has ever seen the child you put all sorts of ideas into his head about her."

"Nevertheless, I notice the young man is embarrassed," Mrs. Houston continued in evident enjoyment of Everett's increasing confusion. "It appears to me that perhaps he has seen our little girl already. Have you, Mr. Everett?"

Everett glanced at Judge Houston, smiling, then back at the kind old lady who was bent on teasing him.

"Someone pointed out Mistress Brandon and her children to me as they got out of the coach to-day," he answered finally.

"And there was a little girl, the daughter?" Mrs. Houston insisted.

"Yes, I think there was a little girl."

"Hm'm, I knew it. Was she about twelve years old and very pretty, with black hair and grey eyes?"

"Yes--I believe her eyes were grey--since you mention it."

"Since I mention it!" Mrs. Houston laughed easily. "Seems to me you're mighty indifferent about your pupil." Then seriously, "She's a great pet of ours and I want you to be kind to her. She's a handful, everyone says, but Felix and I love her dearly. And indeed, I can't see how anyone keeps from it. Some people find her rather strange at first, and I must admit she is wilful, but after you know her a while you'll understand her. That is what I want you to do if you are to teach her--understand her and sympathize with her and be very good to her. Remember she has neither father nor mother." She laid her hand almost beseechingly, on Everett's arm.

"You may trust me to do that," Everett smiled into her kind eyes. "You see, she will be my first pupil, and, of course, I shall take pride in making her reflect credit upon me."

"That may be a little difficult. She never would study except what she wanted to, but perhaps you may exert a good influence over her in that direction." She glanced at Everett intently as if reading him and ended, "I'm half a mind to think you will, too."

Everett and Judge Houston strolled through the cool, darkened hall, and back to the front veranda, where large red rocking chairs and palmetto fans were invitingly awaiting them. As they stood for a moment, looking out toward the street, a wagon came into view, piled high with bales of cotton and pulled by six oxen.

"There is some cotton from the Brandon place," Judge Houston said to Everett. "Would you like to see it closer? You can tell it by the marks on the bales."

They walked down to the gate and watched the heavy load pass down the street on its way to the distant country from which Everett had come.

"This will be the greatest country in the world some day," the old gentleman said when they were back on the veranda and had settled themselves in the comfortable chairs. "All we need is more capital, more people and more facilities for transportation. But tell me about yourself now--your plans--and what you hope to do."

"You've probably heard it from many a young fellow before," Everett answered, looking responsively into the face turned with kindly interest toward him. "I have chosen law as my profession. It has always been my desire since the time I found a long illness had left me unfit for any great physical work. My father was a sea captain and could never understand this choice of mine--a queer notion, as he called it. But I'm going on with it and make a success of it, if hard work and hope will do it. I had some little success with oratory at college, but what I need now is the opportunity to read law and prepare to be admitted to the bar. There seemed no good opportunity for me in New England, everything there is so crowded, and the chance to teach in Mrs. Brandon's family seemed the best thing for me to do. It will give me leisure to study, and then, Morgan Talbot tells me her library is very large."

"It is magnificent. Brandon had case after case of books shipped to him from England--those that he could not get from New York. The library got so large that he had to build a special room for it. But to go back to yourself--how much law do you know? I saw this morning in your talk with those fellows that you were able to grapple with the mazes of politics. But the point for you now is to get a solid foundation of details. Do you think you could get in study enough this winter to pass examinations next spring?"

With the minutes slipping by they talked on, sometimes Everett unbosoming himself to the kind old gentleman as he had never done before, sometimes the old man telling him of the needs and greater demands of the bar of the Southwest, pointing out to him lines of study and books that would be more useful to him in the special characteristics of the law in that country.

In his low modulated voice he told the young fellow starting out on the life journey things that were to come back to him many years later. Afterwards Sargent Everett often recalled his words about success when he was feeling its empty sting: "The path of the successful man is not strewn with flowers. Failure and disappointment are the walls that, when once passed, become golden experiences. Success judged by the outside world and felt by the one who has succeeded are two very different things--sometimes, perhaps most often, the success seen by the world is the least of all successes. What one strives for and yearns for and so rarely accomplishes is a thing that others are unaware of--a thing too sacred to be spoken."

Everett sat spell bound under the influence of the Judge's words. In the rise and fall of the voice, an inflection which had in it a delightful bit of provincialism, he found a charm that was persuasive and forceful.

When the town clock, a block away, chimed three, he rose reluctantly with a sigh that spoke frankly his regret at leaving.

"I wish I might spend the remainder of the afternoon with you," he said, his hand clasping the old gentleman's. "But my journey is not quite finished, yet. I shall go out to Mistress Brandon's now and meet her and see if I am acceptable."

"Tell her I approve," Judge Houston laid his hand on Everett's shoulder. "And if I'm not very much mistaken it may have some weight. Tell her we became good friends in one day."

Everett pressed the old gentleman's hand warmly. "Good friends!" he replied, "you are already more than that to me. I feel as if I had known you always--that I had some right to expect all this kindness from you."

The old man's eyes met his affectionately.

"You have--I've told you. It's the resemblance."

*CHAPTER V*

*THE HOUSE OF THE SPANIARDS*

An hour later Everett was riding out of the town on his way to Mrs. Brandon's home. About him on all sides the scene was bathed in the splendour of late afternoon sunlight. A heavy stake-and-rider fence bordered the road, and beyond it stretched the wide, sweeping cotton fields--snow white with their unpicked product. He drew in the reins, resting his horse, while he marvelled at the tall plants, almost as tall as himself, and the strange effect of the spotless cotton against the distant border of forest. Across the fields came to him the sound of voices chanting--sweet with harmony, and looking in the direction from which it came, he saw bright turbaned negro women and stalwart men moving steadily through the rows of plants, picking the cotton and dragging huge baskets after them.

Turning from the high road two miles south of the town, he rode down a narrow roadway on both sides of which giant cottonwood trees towered, and where spreading cypresses, their long branches festooned with grey moss, cast a cooling shade.

At the end of the narrow road a gateway loomed, a large massive piece of iron grill work swung between two columns of brick and cement. Beyond these columns, the fence extended, elaborately designed iron pickets bound together with a tracery of grapes and leaves, before which a hedge of Cherokee roses grew, its thorny branches accentuating the effect of security and aloofness from the world.

Everett stopped before the gate and looked beyond, into the depths of a magnolia grove which seemed a continuance of the wood he had just passed through, so filled was it with the sprawling shadows of the thick foliage and the golden spots of sifting sunlight. He was so lost in his first impressions of the place, its stillness, its old-world charm, its fairylike mystery, that he started abruptly when he saw a little girl sitting at the foot of one of the gate posts, surveying him through gently questioning eyes. Her feet were crossed under her, as she leaned comfortably against the post, and in her lap she held a large, heavy book, one finger still upon the page from which her gaze had wandered.

Everett met her eyes in silence for a moment, looking down at her thin little face, flushed from the rose glow of the setting sun, and feeling in a flash the vividness of her odd beauty. Her brow was very white and delicate and her blue-black glossy hair, parted in the middle and brushed back to where it was braided, made her seem paler than she really was, for her skin was a rich olive. Everett forgot the beautiful colouring, the almost weird thinness of her slight figure, the sweet half questioning mouth--all these were lost sight of when he had seen her eyes. They were so strange in all they represented that he was lost in admiration and wonder--for in them, although childlike still in their innocence--was tenderness, sympathy, wilfulness and humour--all of these, and more striking still, an intentness that kept changing them from grey to black and back again.

She broke the silence that Everett had forgotten about. "Are you the schoolmaster," her voice was high and fresh and liquid, "from Maine?"

Then Everett took off his hat and bowed low, smiling down upon her.

"I'm so--so glad," she sighed, as if the burden of the world had fallen from her shoulders. Then she closed the book with a snap. "I've been waiting here hours to see what you looked like."

Everett laughed outright.

"If I had known you were waiting I should have come sooner. I did not know Mrs. Brandon knew that I had arrived."

"Oh yes--Mr. Jervais told her."

"Then I can see her now?"

She met his look for a second--then glanced down at her book.

"She's riding over the place now, but she told me to tell you to wait for her. You can tie your horse there," indicating a ring imbedded in the gate post, "then we can go to the house."

Sargent followed her through the gate and along the driveway which extended under the magnolia trees. The gloom of the grove was intense, the black green leaves shutting out the sky entirely and making the ground beneath dank, where a pale green moss grew in lieu of a lawn. Through the vista of trees, glowing bright against the eternal twilight of the grove, the house came into their vision, gleaming like some palace in an enchanted wood.

Sargent stopped when they had gone a little further, and looked at the house. The little girl stopped, too, close beside him, and watched his expression intently. From their position only the front of the house was visible, a stretch of plain, cemented columns that rose from a pavement of deep red flags, level with the ground, to the red tiled roof, two stories high. Back of the columns, the lower rooms extended out from the upper floor, in this way forming a balcony to the entire second floor, which was enclosed in an iron balustrade. From this balcony two flights of stone steps, semi-circular in form, and iron-railed, led down to the pavement below, and in the opening formed by these steps was the wide front door. It was an odd conception of architecture and gave the house a strange, foreign aspect, accentuated by the more familiar appearance of the second floor, with its wide windows and dark green shutters.

Sargent had forgotten the little girl beside him, lost in admiration of the strange old house, when he felt a cold hand slipped into his, and looking down, found her glowing eyes gazing timidly up at him.

"You like it?" she questioned quickly.

"It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen!"

She smiled contentedly, her hand still in his.

"It's mine--when I get grown up. If you hadn't liked it--I'd have hated you just like I did Miss Hampton who was our governess last year."

Sargent felt her hand clench in his and saw her eyes grow dark. Giving a tug at the book she carried, to get it more comfortably under her arm, she started on again.

"Did you hate her so," Sargent said, glancing at the book she held in her hand, "because she made you study such a big book as that?"

"This?--Oh no, I love to read this--only I don't understand it all. I just hated her because she said this was a lonesome old place, and I didn't like for her to say that, for the Spaniards built this house and my mother was Spanish--so am I." Then suddenly, "Are you going to teach me the three R's? Uncle Felix calls it that," smiling again. "Isn't it funny, because I know they don't begin with an R," putting her hand in Sargent's once more. "Won't you please leave out the 'Rithmetic?"

Sargent laughed down at her.

"Arithmetic--of course not. We all have to learn that."

"I'm so--so sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I hate it!"

"Perhaps I may be able to help you like it."

"No," positively, "you won't. It's so stupid and dry. I want you to teach me how to spell, that bothers me so; and I want to learn how to say Shakespeare's plays."

"Shakespeare!" Sargent exclaimed. "How old are you?"

"I'm going on twelve."

"And what do you like best of Master Shakepeare's?"

"I like the story about Orlando and Rosalind. Shall I say some of it for you? Let's go over there by the bench and you can hear me say it right now."

She tripped ahead of Sargent along a path that led from the drive, suddenly going slower when she saw that he could not follow her so rapidly. A little way down the path they came to the edge of the grove, where an iron bench was placed beneath one of the great trees, making an ideal place where one could sit in shady protection and gaze out upon a scene so dramatic in its breadth and majesty.

Far down the sloping hill the river swept along, the low country across the mile-wide current mystically dozing in the golden light of the advancing evening. In the restfulness of the twilight, when all Nature had sunk into a gentleness and mistiness, when the light was softening and objects which had been sharply outlined were imperceptibly growing unreal, it became a scene made up of dreams and fancies.

Sargent sank on the bench, under the influence of the scene and its resemblance to the one he had left so far behind him. A doubt of ever seeing the place he called home rushed over him, bringing with it the first deep pang of home-sickness. Why had he come so far from home? Was it really for his good?

All the while the little girl was hastily turning the pages of the book, searching for the lines she wanted. At last, finding what she sought, she ran over them, her lips moving inaudibly with the words. Finally her finger marking the lines, she handed the book to Sargent and stood erect before him.

"Now," she said, "will you hear them?" looking at him shyly, for she had been quick to see the wistful look in his eyes.

He met her look, smiling encouragingly, as she clasped her hands behind her and riveted her gaze on the trees for better concentration. Then she spoke the lines in a quick, excited voice:

"And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

Sargent waited until she had finished, then closed the book slowly, repeating the lines after her. She listened intently, her eyes growing deeper as she came nearer to him.

"Say it again, please," she almost whispered, sitting down on the bench beside him and slipping her hand through his arm. "It is so beautiful when you say it. I know I'm going to like you--your voice is so--so sweet!"

Sargent turned toward her and clasped her little hand in his own.

"Who told you to learn those lines?" he asked, after a moment's silence.

"Uncle Felix. He says they always make him think of this place. Mammy Dicey says Mamma used to call this 'The Garden of Shadows.'"

"The Garden of Shadows," Sargent repeated. "What a beautiful name; but it's rather sad, don't you think?"

"Mammy Dicey says Mamma was always sad."

"And don't you remember her yourself?"

The little head moved from side to side and a wistful expression crept into her eyes. "No--I don't remember her--I was too little, I s'pose. Sometimes, though, when there's nobody in the house, I go and sit in the parlour and look at her picture and play like I'm talking to her. Mammy Dicey says she was beautiful--her picture is."

Sargent looked down at her tenderly. Something in the plaintive notes in her voice appealed to him strangely. Her vivid little face, with the deep expression of her eyes, drew him toward her with the instinctive feeling that in some way they were to be very close together in the years that were to come. The beautiful surroundings, with their old-world charm, and aloofness from the world, seemed a part of the child; unconsciously he felt that she was the expression of all that it had stood for--of all its strange beauty.

"You are like your mother--aren't you?" he said, his look still upon her.

She turned away quickly and looked straight before her. "Father used to say so--that is why he named me 'Natalia'--for her. Now, please don't call me 'Natalia' like so many people do. It's Nataaya--that's the way my mother said it--that's the Spanish pronunciation."

"Very well, then, I shall call you Nataaya," Sargent repeated after her. "You seem to know a great deal about your mother, not to remember her. Does Mrs. Brandon talk to you so much about her?"

Natalia looked up, startled.

"No--she never talks to me about my mother. Aunt Maria--that's Mrs. Houston--she's told me lots about her, but Mammy Dicey tells me most."

"Who is Mammy Dicey?"

"Mammy Dicey's my Mamma's slave. She always lived with Mamma ever since before Mamma was born, and now she belongs to me. She tells me all about the time when Mamma was a little girl just like me," her face lit up wonderfully with her evident love of the subject, "and she tells me all the time about the trips she and Mamma used to take to New Orleans, and the years they spent in the Convent down there, and of the long, long trip they once took to the old country. Mammy says they didn't see anything but water for months and months. I wish so--so much I could take a trip like that with Mammy. Then, sometimes, on cold winter nights when we sit in the kitchen and Mammy can see pictures in the fire, I get her to tell me about the times Mamma used to walk here, in the Garden of Shadows, and cry all the time because Father had gone to fight the Indians. I'll get her to tell you sometime, only you mustn't laugh at me when I cry." She stopped, out of breath with the rush of words.

"Why do you cry, Natalia?" Sargent asked gently, when she had rested a moment in silence.

"Oh, I don't know, except," and the tears were already in her eyes. "I can't help wishing she was living when I get very, very lonesome."

"And is that so often in this lovely place?"

"No--not so much. It's just when I get mad with James and Bushnell, and Mammy's busy, and I'm all by myself--like I was this evening. I s'pose every little girl gets that way when she hasn't got a Mamma. Have you got one?"

Sargent put his arm around her and drew the frail little figure close to him. When she had rested her, chin against his arm, and he could feel the quick beating of her heart, he leaned over and kissed the heavy waves of her hair.

"Yes, I have a mother," he answered, almost in a whisper, "but she is nearly as far away from me as yours is. Indeed, I believe she is farther--for you have everything here that was your mother's, and that is a great deal."

For a little while Natalia was silent, then she murmured without looking up, "Is she beautiful like mine--and do you love her very much?"

"Yes--she is very pretty, I think," he said in answer to her last question, "and I am like her, too, just as you are like your mother."

"It's lucky for a man, Mammy says--but it's terribly unlucky for a girl." She sat up suddenly and faced Everett. "Do you believe I'm going to be unhappy because I look like Mamma?"

"Of course you'll not be unhappy. To be as pretty as your mother must have been should make you very lucky, I think."

Natalia smiled contentedly, and the colour rushed into her face, a deep claret colour that glowed subdued beneath her smooth skin and faded away into the exquisite slenderness of her throat.

"Tell me about your mamma, please."

Through her question Everett was again looking far away to a place where he knew the ones he loved were gathered, perhaps at that very moment. He could see it so distinctly, that almost unconsciously, he began to talk about it to the little girl beside him, as if it were all there before him.

"My home, Natalia, was way up on a hill where we could look down upon the town and out into the bay where there are so many little islands--one for each day in the year, they say--and way beyond those islands was the great Atlantic Ocean. In front of our house was an apple orchard; did you ever see one? It is the most beautiful thing in the world. And in the spring and summer my mother used to always make me sit beside her out there, and study my lessons, and when I would get tired, she would close the books and tell me stories of great heroes--making them more real to me by telling me they inhabited those islands before us.... When I was a little fellow of ten I was very ill. The doctor said I was going to die, but my mother said I should not! And one night when there was a terrible storm, and the ships could not come into port, she went out on to the cliff where there was nothing but snow and ice, and where the surf dashed up and froze on everything--she went out all by herself and prayed to God to spare my life, and promised Him if I lived she would rear me into a fine man, who would do good in the world and be a great help to people who had forgotten who God was.... My father came home on his ship that night, and when they told him my mother had gone out into the storm, he went out and found her lying unconscious in the snow. When he brought her back into the room where I lay dying, a great change came over me at once. I got well; all except my leg; it kept shrinking so I can never use it again.... So when my father found he couldn't make a sailor of me, like himself, he got angry with me and called me the little cripple. He didn't know how that hurt me, and once, when my little sister died, and my mother got a letter from him, he thought she said it was I who had died, and he wrote her it was a fortunate thing, as I could never have been an honour to them.... It was then that my mother denied herself that I should go to school and have all the advantages of an education. It was hard on her and on the others--for we were very poor, but she would hear to nothing else but that I should learn all that was in my power.... And the day I left her, Natalia, to come down here, I told her good-bye in the orchard, and as I went down to the ship I could still see her standing there, waving to me. Even when the ship was out to sea, I imagined I could still see her there, and I swore to myself that day that the next time she stood there and looked for me, I should be coming back to her a great man!"

The sun was half gone before the far horizon, the grove of magnolias had grown black in the dusk, and a multitude of birds were fluttering in the protecting foliage, whispering good-nights to each other. A delicious breeze swept up from the bosom of the river, cooling the parched earth, and bringing with it the promise of a refreshing evening.

Finally Everett rose from the bench. "So we should be very good friends, Natalia," he said as she walked beside him, still silent from her sympathetic listening, "for we are both without the one we love best in the world. Will you see now if Mistress Brandon has returned? It is growing late, and I must get back to town to-night."

In the distance the sound of the gate opening and the crunch of hoofs on the driveway made Sargent look toward the house. A woman on horseback was riding up to the door, followed by two men, who rode a little behind her.

"That's Mamma Brandon now," Natalia cried, "and her overseers. She's been going over the plantation with them, getting ready for the cotton picking." She walked a little ahead of Sargent, so that she reached Mrs. Brandon's side just as she dismounted on the block before the door.

"He's come," she cried breathlessly. "The schoolmaster! And I like him so much!"

Mrs. Brandon threw her reins to a negro, and looked quickly at Sargent as he came toward her.

"You are Mr. Everett," she said, extending her gloved hand. "Morgan wrote me that you would probably reach here this month. Will you come inside?"

She turned away and walked into the house, leaving Sargent, who followed closely, with an impression of a tall, fair woman, with steady, cold blue eyes and a determined mouth. In the first moment of greeting he had seen her utter lack of sympathy with the old house. In a flash the thought that had come to him in the garden, returned--the child was the rightful owner.

"If you will excuse me for a few minutes," she continued, when they were within the hall. "I have been overlooking the places this afternoon. After a month's absence it was quite necessary. Natalia, take Mr. Everett into the parlour. I shall be there in a few moments."

In the gloom of the interior of the house Sargent could distinguish very little until his eyes had grown accustomed to the subdued light.

The hall was spacious, with a brick floor over which were thrown squares of carpet, and on the walls, which were of the same cement as the exterior, hung a remarkable collection of portraits. Tier after tier they rose to the ceiling, all of them in massive gilt frames that glistened against the white walls and increased the effect of a ghostly multitude looking down upon the intruder.

Following Natalia into a large salon which opened into this hall, Sargent found himself in a vast room of mirrors, with furniture shrouded in linen covers and a polished mahogany floor that repeated all the furnishings.

When they were alone again, Natalia stood directly before Sargent, her face peering up at him through the misty light.

"I'm going to call James and Bushnell to meet you," she said, "and they're going to be so glad when I tell them you're not one bit like Mr. Jervais said you were." She smiled happily. "He said you were a regular old Yankee schoolmaster--and a crippled one at that! Oh!" she cried, seeing the quick flash of pain in Sargent's face--it was the thrust that always made him flinch--"I didn't mean to hurt you!" Her eyes darkened suddenly and the tears rushed down her checks. "Now you won't like me at all--I'm so--so sorry!" Then she ran weeping out of the room.

So it was that Sargent Everett's long journey from Maine to Mississippi in those old days came to an end. Sitting in his room that night at the tavern, writing home by the light of a single candle, he held his quill poised above the paper, while the faces of the day rushed in procession before him. The wrinkled, weather-beaten face of the steamboat captain; the kind, noble features of the Virginia gentleman; the calm, placid face of the chatelaine of the old Spanish home; and last of all, the haunting grey eyes of the little girl. In each of them he found something that made him realize they would help in the moulding of his future. His first step had been made. What would the unknown bring to him? His head sank on his arms and the words of the far away one rang in his ears, urging him on and on to success.

A light tap sounded on the door.

"Come in," he called out, and the shining face of Jonas appeared in the doorway.

"Boss, I jes' cum ter fin' out ef yer didn' want hit open'd now?"

"No, Jonas," Sargent smiled, glancing at the bottle of champagne placed conspicuously on the table. "I've decided to keep it as a souvenir of my first day in a new country--and of some one whose advice, I verily believe, saved the day!"

*BOOK II*

*THE LAWYER*

*CHAPTER I*

*PICTURES IN THE FIRE*

Spring had come, the joyous, impatient spring of the South, bringing in one day a new world, full of warmth and splendour. The old house of the Spaniards gleamed once more in the sunshine, long shafts of gold penetrated the shadows of the magnolias and rested with a dazzling brilliance upon the surrounding line of columns. And the garden along the terrace burst into a sudden glory that showed it knew well that the cold winds of the North had died away for many months.

Far down the hillside the great river crept stealthily out of its banks, crawling up and up until the lowlands of the opposite shore became a wide, yellow, seemingly boundless sea.

Then the seared forest began to tremble into a faint green, and everywhere were the chatter of birds and the sounds of awakening life. Weather prophets shook their heads, saying the spring had come too early, that it would mean a bad season for the crops; the plantation overseers were caught napping, and rushed hundreds of slaves into the field to make the ground ready for planting; and along the road toward the town three caravans of Voyageurs had passed already, on their way from New Orleans to St. Louis--all this in the early part of March.

The days, lengthening and full of a lazy warmth, were perfect for a short cessation from the routine of the schoolroom, so that when the young schoolmaster had asked for a week's leave in which he might ride to a day's distant village, for the purpose of passing his examinations before the Judges of the Supreme Court, his request was readily granted. The boys had received the announcement with childish delight. Natalia had said nothing.

The day after the schoolroom was closed, the little girl wandered far down the hillside, and watched the great river, turbulent and angry in its swollen channel. She sat there a long time, not thoroughly contented in the freedom of the holiday, for the last few weeks had been unhappy ones for her. The schoolmaster had been severe and impatient for many days, and he had not taken her with him on his long walks through the woods. Until lately it had been almost the daily custom to go directly after dinner along the crest of the hill quite away from the road, toward the town. Natalia would dance along beside him, flitting away now and then to inspect a hitherto undiscovered grapevine swing or a new birdnest, and then again walking slowly beside him, listening intently while he told her some wonderful story of bygone days. Sometimes when the story was very complicated and the words too big for her to grasp the meaning, she would walk close beside him, one hand in his, her eyes shut tight while she listened only to the music of his voice. Many days they would go quite into the town and stop at Judge Houston's for a half hour, and while Mrs. Houston gave them huge slices of jelly cake, and raisins, and tall goblets of milk, the Judge and the schoolmaster would discuss the new laws of the State. Then it was such fun to come back, in the late afternoon, when the wind was whistling through the trees and the grove about the house was filling with queer shadows, and find everybody gathered about the blazing logs for a while before the study hour.

But all this had ended a month before. The schoolmaster walked no more in the afternoons; he went directly from the dinner table to the library, and shut himself in, not coming out even when the supper bell rang, and many nights when Mammy Dicey carried the little girl up to her room she could see a line of light beneath the library door. It would be there still when she came down hours later, and twice it had been there when she went back to waken the children in the morning. It was this way to the day he left, not one minute wasted, as he drove himself on and on toward his examinations.

Natalia had at first been impatient and complaining of the neglect, then she had become wounded, and at last silent, and what might have been a joyous holiday grew more and more monotonous.

When the seventh day had come she had gone down to the big gate, taking the great cumbersome Shakespeare with her, and, settling herself comfortably against the post, had waited for the schoolmaster's return. In the happiness of seeing him again she had become quite forgiving.

The morning passed and he did not come. The afternoon dragged along until the birds had all fluttered into the grove, and gone to sleep--still, he did not come. Night came on, a question or two was asked, and at last bedtime arrived, with no news.