Chapter VI: Book III: The Lover (6)

"Not half as often as I'd like to," the old Captain answered. "I heard him make his first speech, and 'pon my word, it's a wonder--the way he gets under your skin and makes you feel what he's a-sayin'. It ain't so much his words you hear when you're listening to him--it's more the sound of his voice and the look of his face. He jest takes all a feller's idees away from him and makes him think jest like he does. But I reckon you won't get a chance to hear him if you're only here for a week or two." The old fellow gave a gesture of disappointment. "He's running for Congress now. I'm kinder sorry, too, cause I ain't much on politics--I can't look at things but one way myself, and that's straight at 'em, and politicians seem to me to spend all their time a-beatin' 'round the bush. But I reckon Sargent'll show 'em a new way. He knows how--you can bet your bottom dollar on that!"

"I should like for Natalia to hear you talk about him. I believe I'll go find her," the young man said, turning away with the decision. "He used to be her tutor when she lived down here."

"It ain't no use," the Captain raised a detaining hand. "It won't do her a bit of good to hear about him. He don't give a snap of his fingers about the lady folks. I heard some of 'em call him a woman-hater--of course that ain't so," he added, laughing easily to himself, "but jest because he don't spend his time a-flyin' 'round with 'em, they're bound to resent it."

"And he has never married," the other added.

"Married! Well, I reckon not! He lives all by himself in a mighty fine house that he's built up there on the hill, and if you want to be entertained in real style, you must take a meal with him, for he's got the finest cook in the town. But as for women--" Captain Mentdrop lowered his voice confidentially and drew closer to the stranger. "You know it kinder worries me, but I can't make it out. Some say he's jest timid, and absorbed in his work, and then we all know he's mighty touchy about his bad leg, but for the sakes of me, I don't see why he thinks limpin' makes him objectionable to the ladies. I heard one gal say she thought it made him lots more picture-like, and made her think of Lord Byron, and you know he was a lady-killer, right!"

"And he is wealthy, too, I understand."

"Well, I reckon! He made dead oodles of money out of a lawsuit that him and Judge Houston had together. See that ridge south of the town?" He waved his hand in the direction. "There was a whole lot of property there, that was left to a number of heirs, and it seems the whole crowd could never be got together to sign the deeds, so half of 'em signed for the other half and sold the property, and when the other half turned up you can see what the mix-up was. Well, sir, Sargent and old man Houston took the case for the heirs that hadn't signed, with the arrangement that they was to get half. And they did. That put the youngster way up in the pictures. He had money to burn, but I never seen him do any of them blamed tricks you hear tell about down here. He never lit a cigar with a ten dollar bill like I've seen some dern fools do. He's got too much sense. Do you know, I believe he's got more learnin' crammed in his head than any other man I ever seen."

"He was that way at Bowdoin College. The rest of his class did not have a chance."

"And I'm mightily afeard it's goin' to be the death of him yet. He over-does things. And after every big case, you can hear tell about the crazy things he does. Of course I know how 'tis, for he once told me that when he got through a case and making a big speech, he couldn't rest one minute--that everything was flyin' round in his head like fire, and it takes him a day or two to get quieted down again. It went mighty hard with him at first, he took things so serious-like, and I just found out one day that the thing he needed worst in the world, was to take every blamed situation in life with a pinch of humour. Well, sir," the old fellow slapped his sides and let out a gust of laughter, "I soon found out he had it in him and didn't know it. Since then he's been makin' people laugh till the tears roll down their cheeks; and then, by Jingo, before he's through they're cryin' sure enough. I thought I'd split my sides the other night, when a feller was tellin' about his experience with him in a country tavern, away off in the backwoods."

The Captain spread his legs apart and rammed his hands deep into his pockets. When a fresh Havana was between his lips he was completely at his ease. "Seems like Sargent had a big case down there, wherever it was," he continued, "and after it was all over, he had to spend the night in a room with another feller--the tavern was so crowded. Well, sir, in the middle of the night, it seems that his bed-feller was mightily put out by a gallaniper peckin' at him. He raised such a racket about it that Sargent told him to shut up and let him go to sleep--that the thing wouldn't bite him if it wan't for his good. Mighty poor comfort to the other feller, I says. Anyhow the feller got up and caught it, and showed it to Sargent. Then, bless you, both of 'em got up and argued whether it was good or bad for gallanipers to be in the world. Nothin' would suit Sargent but that they settle the question by law. So they went all over the tavern at three o'clock in the mornin', mind you, and waked up everybody until they got twelve men to come to their room, and sit like a jury while they argued the case. It must 'a' been rich!" The old fellow stopped, overcome by laughter, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Can't you see 'em? Twelve sleepy men, all sittin' in a row in their night-shirts, while two lunatic lawyers went into vigorous harangues. It must 'a' been side-splittin'. They say Sargent placed a table before the jury, put the gallaniper under a tumbler on the table, and made everybody take a look at it. Then his companion began the prosecution, while he spoke in defence. They tell me that by that time the whole tavern had adjourned to that room, and they kept up the argument till broad daylight."

"So Sargent has developed a talent for humour?" laughed the newcomer.

"Humour--well, I reckon! He's got a-plenty of it. In fact, and this is strictly between you and me--it's his humour that makes him so popular. That's what brings him close to the people; and if he didn't have it, he'd be too far away and above all the rest of us common, ordinary folks." The old fellow's face softened suddenly. "Sometimes when I've talked to him a while," he continued in a quiet voice, "I go back to my boat and stay out on her all by myself at night, wondering if just knowing him hasn't done me a powerful lot o' good." The Captain's eyes grew almost wistful, even the steely twinkle growing gentle and kindly. "Jest to show you," he went on, "I told him I was goin' to leave him every cent I had, and d'you know, he said not to do that--that he had enough, and there was a world of people that needed it. So, together, we've fixed it to go to an orphan asylum in New 'leans. That's the first man it's been my luck to meet that ever refused to take a red cent. Whoa! there."

In a second the whole aspect of the Captain changed, as he strode forward to the front of the deck and called out directions for the landing of the boat.

In the interest of his discussion the boat had gone many feet beyond the landing, and in the chagrin of his preoccupation, the old fellow made the air about him resound with a splendid outburst of oaths.

"It jest goes to prove," he said to himself, when the ropes had been swung over the piles and the boat was settling easily against the wharf. "It jest goes to prove that I'm gettin' old and played out--standin' up here a-talkin' about a blamed lawyer, and lettin' my boat slide clean past the landin'. Shucks!"

*CHAPTER II*

*THE VOICE OF THE PAST*

Judge Houston was in the crowd that day that lined the wharf, impatient to board the new boat. No one was in more gala attire than he, with a fresh ribbon on his queue, wearing a suit of fine blue linen, so stiffly starched that the tails of his long coat stood far out on each side of him, and in his lapel, to give a finishing touch to his Colonial appearance, Mrs. Houston had placed, with characteristic precision, a pink japonica.

It was a great day to both of them, and often, as the boat drew nearer, the old gentleman would smile sweetly toward his wife, who was waiting by his side. Seven years had passed over them lightly, the touches of age showing more like caresses than cares; leaving snow-white hair instead of flecked grey; touching their features with many fine lines, so full of character and accomplishment, that, as they came, one wondered over all they meant. Only, perhaps, in the stoop of the shoulders, in the sometimes trembling hand, and the heavy stick upon which he always rested, did the old gentleman's friends see the encroachments of age. It was only in that, however, for his eyes were as clear and blue as they had always been, shedding about him even more sympathy and benignity. His wife, the one who had stood beside him from the first days of their pioneer voyage, had grown along with him into the realm of approaching shadows, not lagging behind nor rushing before, but beside him hand in hand as they had always been.

A little distance from the wharf, seated in a high-swung chariot of modish trappings, sat Lemuel Jervais and his wife.

Mrs. Jervais watched the approaching boat with mingled pride and apprehension. Her thoughts were travelling backward over the years that had passed since she had sent the little girl so far away. They had never loved each other; Mrs. Jervais seeing in Natalia too many of the characteristics of her husband's first wife, to be drawn to the child, and Natalia realizing this and shrinking from it. "But she had done her duty," Mrs. Jervais sighed contentedly as she viewed the approaching boat. "She had seen that the plantations brought Natalia an income that left no wish unsatisfied. But now," she mused, "Natalia was no longer a child, she was coming back a woman, and a woman who seemed to have suddenly become imbued with the memories of her childhood and a desire to visit her old home again."

For several years Natalia's letters had dwindled, until recently they had become merely notes of thanks in reference to the management of the estate and a few lines about her plans. Then, quite without warning, a letter had come to Mrs. Jervais from her, in which she had told of her approaching marriage, and of her wish to return to her home for that occasion. "Probably you will think it strange," the letter read, "when I tell you I want to be married in my old home. It does seem a long journey to make for such a short visit, especially as Morgan and I shall make Boston our home; but in thinking about the dear, old place that has come down to me from my Spanish ancestors, the idea has taken possession of me that I would like my marriage to be solemnized amid those surroundings. Uncle Felix would call it quixotic in me, I know, and at the same time, understand; I feel sure that you appreciate my sentiment in regard to the old place, too, and that will explain better than words what I am going to ask of you.

"I want you to help me in arranging the wedding. You wrote that the house had been closed ever since your marriage to Mr. Jervais, so do not go to much trouble in fixing it up. Left to my own wishes, the wedding would be simple, but Morgan insists that it be elaborate, as it will be my only wedding--he hopes. Perhaps it is only right that I should ask all our old friends, indeed, I want them about me at that time. It is a time in a girl's life when such things count most, and I feel that it will start me out on my new life happier for carrying away as many dear memories as possible; so ask every one we used to know.

"Of course I need not mention that I want you and Mr. Jervais to be the hosts for me, and stay at the old home until the wedding--after that I shall not keep you, for it is my idea to spend our honeymoon there, Morgan and I alone in the sweet old place. I am writing Aunt Maria also, and I know she will be glad to help you all she can. Be sure to insist upon her making the wedding cake--one of those wonderful, tall affairs which I remember so well. In reading over what I have written, I can not help wondering if I have asked too much of you; but then, you must remember, there is no one else except the boys, and they are much too interested in college even to go down there with me. I could go on indefinitely with plans--but I shall wait until we meet, to tell you everything."

The letter had caused no end of consternation in the town. Mrs. Jervais had driven, the day it came, to Mrs. Houston, finding the old lady holding a similar letter in her lap and weeping copiously over the news it contained. Together they had driven out to the old house and opened it once more to the golden warmth of the June sun. A corps of slaves was brought from the cotton fields, back to their former quarters, and in so short a time it seemed like magic, the old home of the Spaniards shone resplendent again. The garden was put in trim shape and the broad drive to the gate was cleared of the weeds that had so long grown in neglected luxuriance.

Invitations were sent out broadcast, and for many days garrets were being ransacked, and old brocades and laces that had lain idle for a generation or more were again brought to life to do duty for such a grand occasion. It was an exceptional time for the gossips and when the report spread over the town that all the refreshments were coming from a distance, and that it was actually a fact that the fiddlers were to be brought up from New Orleans, the whole place thrilled with expectancy.

At last the day of the arrival came. As the boat eased itself against the wharf and the great ropes were thrown ashore and made fast, Judge Houston stepped forward and shaded his eyes with his hand. At last his face lighted up with a smile as he saw the face of the little girl peering out of the crowd of passengers. She was just as he had remembered her--yet strangely different, too. There were the same beautiful grey eyes, grown darker with the years, still full of a sympathy that had deepened through the wide outlook of travel and experience; there was still the delicate oval of the face; the rich, creamy complexion, as smooth and flawless as in childhood; the hair, if possible, blacker, and worn parted and brought back over the ears and coiled low on the neck. The sprite-like look of the child still clung to her, for even in the voluminous folds of her fashionable frock, her figure showed fragile and lithe and gracefully poised; and as she walked down the stage plank, her face bent forward intently searching for a familiar face, the old man knew that the little girl had come back dearer to them than ever before.

Natalia rushed into his arms, when she had seen him, her eyes searching his face and lingering on every feature as the memories crowded about her thick and overflowing. Neither of them had said a word.

"Natalia! Natalia!" the old gentleman finally spoke, holding her a little way from him. "I believe you are the same little girl. Changed? Not one bit!"

"Yes, Uncle Felix," Natalia answered, smiling through tear-dimmed eyes, "the same little girl--but changed--a great deal. Oh!" and she broke away to embrace Mrs. Houston. "And Morgan, where are you? This is Uncle Felix and Aunt Maria; and this is Millicent Talbot, Aunt Maria--and Morgan's brother, Joel. Aren't we a large family party? And where are the Jervais? Oh, I see them coming."

Mrs. Jervais came forward with outstretched arms. Evidently the past was bringing her and Natalia closer than they had ever expected. Then came Lemuel Jervais a portly man of forty, handsome and more affably haughty than ever.

"And there's the old carriage! How good of you to bring it out!" Natalia cried, with a grateful glance at Mrs. Jervais. "And bless my heart--if it isn't old Zebby on the box! Zebby! Zebby!" she called aloud, pushing her way through the crowd and running towards the carriage. "Zebby! Zebby! Isn't it wonderful? Hasn't it been a long time?" She clasped both his hands as the old negro almost fell from the box to reach her. "And Mammy Dicey, Zebby where is she? Why didn't she come to meet me? The mean old thing! I wouldn't treat _her_ this way."

Zebediah's face fell at the mention of Dicey's name, and he made a great fuss at opening the carriage door.

There were three carriages to carry them, and Mrs. Jervais insisted that Natalia should ride in her new smart one, but Natalia had already urged Judge Houston and his wife and Morgan into the old one Zebediah commanded, into which she quickly followed.

"Now, Zebby," she cried breathlessly, sinking back into the seat. "Drive very, very slowly, and let me see everything."

So they started up the hill, the other carriages following and a procession of wagons which were to bring the trunks and all the wonderful wedding delicacies that had come on the same boat.

Natalia was exclaiming, laughing, and often tears were standing in her eyes, as they drove along. Pointing out familiar old buildings to Talbot and asking Mrs. Houston and the Judge a thousand questions, they passed through the town where many curious glances were cast towards the bride.

Not until the town was left behind and the river was showing now and then through the rifts in the trees, did Natalia grow calmer. Where the road to the house met the highway, she suddenly called to Zebediah to stop.

"I want to get out and walk to the house, Aunt Maria," she explained. "It will come back to me gradually then; I don't want to hurry or miss anything. Come with me, Morgan?" Talbot helped her out and in a few moments they stood alone in the road, the other carriages having passed on. "I love this place very, very dearly, Morgan," Natalia said, slipping her hand through his arm and walking slowly. "It is where my father and mother were very happy. It is where I was the most unhappy--and the happiest of little girls, and now--it is where my perfect happiness will come to me. I have felt all through my life that this old place would mean everything to me, one day--that all that was worth while would happen to me here. And it will," she ended, smiling up at him, "for we are to spend our honeymoon here."

Morgan Talbot looked before him intently, curious to see what manner of place it was that held his sweetheart's love so deeply. And as he looked through the dense shade of the trees to the wide open gate and beyond to the gleaming columns, he felt the charm of the old world surroundings creep over him. Turning finally towards Natalia and meeting her look, anxious for his approval, he saw with a sudden flash of insight, that the girl before him--intense, passionate, and oddly beautiful--was the culmination of the old house and all that had gone before.

"It is beautiful, Natalia," he said softly, drawing her closer to him. "It is more than you told me."

"And you will love it with me, Morgan?"

"I shall love it because it is a part of you."

They were directly before the iron gate now. Everything was very still in the glowing warmth of the sunshine. Natalia leaned against the gate, and drank in the view like a thirsty traveller. It spoke eloquently of the coming in and going out of the many who had gone before her, and of her own days, too; and as she gazed at it, little incidents of her childhood--long forgotten but safely stored away, came forward and made their bows and claimed her attention. The scene suddenly became peopled to her. Everything was significant. The depths of the magnolia grove were filled with mysterious ghosts of the past, and the red tiles of the roof, gleaming just above the dark line of the trees, called to her with the cry of familiar voices. The present slipped entirely from her under the rush of the pent-up memories crowding about on all sides.

"Shall we walk on now?"

The voice of her lover startled her. She looked up at him and smiled vaguely.

"Isn't it beautiful, Morgan? I wish you could see it as I do. Everything means so much to me that it can never mean for you. It makes me sad, dear, that you did not know it with me."

Talbot laughed down into her intense eyes. "It is happiness enough for me to know you now--why bother about what has gone before?"

Natalia did not answer for a moment. "Perhaps you do not understand, Morgan, or perhaps the old characteristics of my childhood are coming back to me. Do you know, they used to call me 'peculiar'? I wasn't like other children."

"I know--you were so much more beautiful."

"That reminds me," Natalia laughed, with a sudden change of mood, "of how dreadfully afraid I was that I would not be good-looking when I grew up. There was only one person who really comforted me about it, and he always insisted that my claim to a goodly appearance would not disappear with age."

"That was a man who knew the standards of beauty. I should like to meet him. What was his name?"

"You will laugh when I tell you. It was Sargent Everett."

"Dear old Sargent!" Talbot exclaimed, his face lighting up with pleasure. "I wonder if he got my letter. The Captain on the boat is a great friend of Sargent's. He told me a great deal about him, but he said he was not here now. Wouldn't it be unfortunate if he were not at our wedding? Did you ask any one if he would be here?"

"No--I didn't ask," Natalia answered slowly. "It's very odd--I haven't thought of him for a long time; not since you said you were going to write him about our wedding. Did you receive an answer?"

"No--I did not have time. I didn't expect one until I saw him here."

"I wonder if he has forgotten me," Natalia murmured, sinking on the bench near the gate, and motioning Talbot to the seat beside her. "Let's sit down here for a while. You don't mind my dreaming aloud to you, do you?"

His arm slipped about her until her head rested against his shoulder, and her eyes closed for a moment as if she had suddenly grown weary.

"No, indeed, dear, dream all you want, and tell me about your old school days with Sargent. Aren't you proud that your tutor has become so celebrated?"

"I knew he would be, some day, for even when I knew him he was a wonderful speaker. I never heard him make but one speech--it was beautiful and awful--all in one. I cried for weeks afterwards whenever I thought of it. And now, Morgan, I am going to make you terribly jealous. I'm going to tell you something that will surprise you very much."

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with the quaint habit of childhood.

"You are not my first love."

She straightened up and faced him, finally breaking into her soft, merry laugh. "I was desperately in love with Sargent Everett once."

"Seven years ago," Talbot answered lightly. "I can hear about it calmly--_now_."

"But it was very serious," Natalia insisted. "I really was in earnest, and after he left our house and fought a duel, he became a real hero to me. It was terrible when we had to part. I just made up my mind to die. But you see--I didn't," sighing happily. "And the night before I went away I made my old Mammy take me to him so I could say good-bye. I made him swear not to forget me, for I was coming back a beautiful woman some day and would expect him to marry me. You can imagine how terribly smitten I was!"

"And at twelve! Did he promise?"

"Indeed he did, and said I could not come back more beautiful than I was at that moment. Then I kissed him, Morgan, and he said I must send for him, even if it were to the ends of the earth, if I ever needed him. So we plighted our troth and parted. It was all just like a fairy book, and it seems hundreds of years ago. We used to walk right along here together. You see his mother was a long way off, up in Maine, and mine was gone for ever, and that drew us very close together. Seriously, Morgan, I loved him very dearly. The day I went away I sent him a miniature of myself, all in a locket with a chain, and told Mammy to tell him to keep it before him always. It was only when I became so occupied in school, and growing up, that I finally forgot all about him. Then, since I've known you, the past seems to have counted for very little with me--until to-day." Her words ended softly, and for a moment silence fell between them.

"I believe I shall get jealous if you go on talking much more about old Sargent." Talbot leaned over and looked into her face, smiling. "Really, did you think that you loved Sargent? I can't get used to the idea," he laughed. "And to think of Sargent Everett being in love with anybody! He was always too deep in books when I knew him. It would be very easy to realize that people would love him--all of us did at school. But somehow, I always felt that people did not mean much to him."

At his words, Natalia drew herself away in mock hauteur. "Am I to infer, sir, that you understand why I should have loved him, but not how he could have loved me?"

Morgan drew her hands into his, laughing all the time. "Yes, Natalia, I'll wager if it came to a point, that you were very much more in love with him than he was with you."

"Perhaps you are right, Morgan," Natalia answered his laugh happily. "But I did love him--I assure you."

"And it makes me wonder all the more that you fell in love with me after loving Sargent. We are not a bit alike. But then I suppose you are variable--indeed I know you are. But it's to be hoped that you will not be any more. It's a wonderful thing--how people do change their loves, isn't it?"

Natalia's eyes narrowed for a moment as she looked beyond the gate.

"Don't try to analyze love," she replied. "I tried once and it did no good. I always came back to the point that I loved you and nothing else mattered. How did I fall in love with you?" She repeated the words after him, taking hold of his hand and counting his fingers as she narrated her reasons. "Well--first, it must have been your frank admiration that touched me--I am always very sensitive to admiration. Then, you look upon life with so bright an eye, so smilingly, that it makes me feel safe and contented to know that my own too sensitive nature will bloom under your brightness. It's the contrast, Morgan, that's it. You give me what I have not. You meet a demand of my nature. It is that which makes the perfect love."

Talbot looked at her a moment, his face grown serious and almost sad. "It is not my own happiness that I ever think of--there is only one thing that could ruin that for me--losing you," he said, Natalia's hand still clasped in his own. "But when I think of the great difference between us, I wonder if it is possible for me to make you happy. I love gaiety and the world, and people, and deep down in your heart, I don't believe you do. And I can't help thinking that you do many things for my sake, isn't it so?"

Natalia shook her head slowly, and smiled. "No, I'm not doing a thing for you, Morgan, that doesn't give me pleasure. Don't try to find flaws in our love, or search for some hidden reason for unhappiness. It's too perfect as it is, and I love you better, Morgan dear, when you are not attempting an analytical state of mind." She laughed at him gayly. "You're the old-fashioned lover who brings nosegays to his lady-love, and writes her billet-doux, and is always telling her how beautiful she is--that is why I love you so, Morgan. That has always been my ideal of a lover since I was a little girl. Be that way always, please. Now shall we walk on towards the house? Oh, look, the magnolias have put on their wedding garments to do us honour. They are in full bloom!"

They passed through the gate and into the shadow of the grove where the trees were filled with gorgeous white velvety blossoms, and where in the dream shadows they lingered awhile.

They came finally upon the others grouped in the shade of the deep veranda, where Lemuel Jervais was playing the part of host by mixing them his famous sangaree, and Mrs. Houston was insisting that every one should have at least three slices of her equally famous jelly cake.

Morgan and Natalia looked at them from the protection of a column until Millicent Talbot spied them. "Well--you'd better hurry or you'll miss the party," she called to them. "We thought you were lost. I was sure Natalia had forgotten the way."

"No, I was only dreaming aloud to Morgan, over the old days. He was very kind and listened, for all the world as if he were not bored. I'll not do it often, though, for fear it might get monotonous. You don't know how beautiful everything looks," Natalia continued, putting her arm about Mrs. Jervais' waist. "How good of you to do it all for me." Suddenly she stopped and looked about the group, then made a step towards the open hall door. "Do you know," she said, with a catch in her voice, that showed her fear, "I have let all this time go by, and haven't seen Mammy Dicey yet. Poor old soul--is she very feeble? Where _is_ she? I know she is anxiously waiting for me."

For a few minutes silence fell upon every one, while Natalia searched each face for an answer. At last when her eyes began to fill with tears over the certainty that she was never to see her old nurse again, Mrs. Houston rose, and casting a swift glance at Mrs. Jervais, led Natalia a little way from the others. When they had reached the front door, quite beyond hearing of the others, Natalia stopped and faced Mrs. Houston.

"Is she dead?" she exclaimed in a low voice. "I shall never forgive myself for not writing to her more. Poor old Mammy!"

"No, she is not dead," Mrs. Houston answered, hesitating a moment over the information, "but she is not here any more."

Natalia's brows wrinkled in bewilderment. "Not here! But she belonged to me! Surely she is not hired to any one?"

"You are mistaken, Natalia. She did not belong to you, as we all thought. She was included in the property your father left his wife. Felix looked up the matter and found it that way. When you were sent away--"

"Yes?" Natalia asked, breathlessly.

"Mrs. Jervais sold her. You know she never liked her, and as soon as the opportunity was propitious I suppose she thought it would be better for them to separate. Of course she never had an idea you would care one way or the other."

Natalia lifted her head suddenly, while the colour mounted to her cheeks; her eyes flashed and her lips trembled in quick anger. "She did belong to me! I know it! My father told me so when he was dying. It was a trick she played to get Mammy away from me."

Mrs. Houston stared into the passionate face before her, startled as the resemblance to the little girl of earlier days became so vivid. If Natalia had only stamped her foot, as of old, the likeness would have been identical.

"My dear child," the old lady expostulated in a lowered voice. "Please don't take it that way. I'm sure you misjudge her. Even if it is true, don't say anything now,--not until after the wedding. She has really done a great deal for you."

Natalia leaned forward and kissed the old lady. "Of course I'll behave, dear Aunt Maria," her voice controlled, but tears still in her eyes. "But I loved Mammy so. To have anything happen to her, or for her to suffer hurts me like it would myself." Then eagerly, "But I can buy her back. Do you know who owns her?"

Mrs. Houston looked away, smiling vaguely. "Some one who has found her too valuable to part with, I'm thinking."

"Who?" Natalia murmured, her eagerness disappearing in her greater disappointment.

The keen old lady watched the vivid face before her, searching it with a sudden earnestness when she answered, "Sargent Everett owns her now."

*CHAPTER III*

*MAMMY DICEY'S STORY*

Natalia stood on the front veranda after dinner, leaving the others gathered about the table, the men sipping their Madeira, and discussing the admission of the Lone Star State to the Union, and the wonderful new invention of the magnetic telegraph; while the ladies pulled their rocking chairs close together and went into the minutest details of the wedding.

Morgan had risen with Natalia, following her out of the room, but she had sent him back, pleading as an excuse that she wished to be alone to live over once more in memory the incidents of her childhood. So many things had lain dormant through the years almost forgotten in the rush and interest of the life about her, that she felt dazed into a mood of introspection when she found herself once more in the surroundings of the long ago.

She sighed aloud when Morgan had gone back into the house, and leaning against one of the massive columns of the porch, felt a sensation of relief stealing over her at finding herself alone. In the flood of re-awakened memories there had come to her a feeling that Morgan was not a part of them, could never be, and with this realization she knew that in some way the bond of sympathy between them had, for the moment, widened. He could never feel with her all the place represented; even with years and years in the narration of little incidents, he would still not see it as she did, know what it meant to her, nor find in each surrounding the stories that cried aloud to her. It was the moment in her love when she realized for the first time that two people can never be _wholly_ one--that a vast gulf of early years and childhood and dreams would always separate them, no matter how great became the love of their maturer years.

So sensitive was she to his moods and preferences, that she had understood as they lingered before the gate and looked into the grove of magnolias, that the charm of the spot and the happiness of a honeymoon spent in it would be hers so much more fully than his. For a little while this realization had brought her unhappiness, and a wish to be alone; after her dreams she knew that she would go back to her lover more contented than ever before.

She strolled away from the house, and passing on into the cool shadows of the grove, came at last to the brow of the hill. Here she sat down and leaned against a tree, letting herself drift back across the bridge of years.

In a moment of restlessness she let down her hair and unconsciously began braiding it in the two long plaits of her childhood. Suddenly she found herself laughing with the care-free merriment of a little girl. It was the same old world, after all; seven years had made no difference, everything was exactly as she had left it.

Resting her hands back of her head, her fingers touching the cool bark of the tree with a luxurious sensation, she gazed out through half closed lashes upon the broad, golden river and the misty lowlands beyond, floating in the haze of the languid June day.

Everything now was as yesterday. She was feeling it all over again, going over every little incident. The little log school-house recalled so vividly a dreadful example in fractions, and as she worried over it again, she found herself listening for the low, beautiful voice making it plain to her. On and on she drifted until she felt once more the presence of the schoolmaster and her old adoration of him.

Suddenly in the swirling of her memories she halted. That love of the little girl made her open her eyes wide. It had been ideal, beautiful, innocent. Would there be anything in her life like it again? Was that which had taken its place, equal? Could anything take its place? Again the utter devotion of it came back to her; the beginning of it in her self-anger for wounding him the day she had called him the cripple. Ah! now she could understand how she had hurt him! Their first long talk together where she sat now; his kind, deep, hazel eyes, changing Protean-like, as he listened to her while she recounted stories Dicey had told her of her mother; his patience and kindness through the long school hours; the night she waited for his return, and the fear that Phelps had waylaid him; that first case when his voice had thundered in her ears and made her shudder; and at last,--the pain of parting with him!

She sat up quickly and stared about her. Why had she forgotten all this? Why had it not been in her thoughts for so many years? And he--had he forgotten also? Gradually she rose to her feet with the childish impulse of seeking Dicey, who would answer so satisfactorily all her questions. Then came the clashing of reality against dreams, and unconsciously the tears rushed into her eyes for what had gone from her for ever.

But the old yearning for her nurse remained, and with a sudden determination, she walked quickly through the grove, skirting the house and garden so as not to be interrupted, and made her way to the slaves' quarters.

The door of Dicey's room stood open. On the steps before it sat two negro women shelling beans into large pans. Natalia passed on quickly, a sharp pain in her heart for the empty room which used to be so crowded with happy moments.

When she came to the barn she smiled again, for there was old Zebediah, washing the carriage that had brought them from the boat, as familiar and complacent as if there were no such thing as seven years to pass by.

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?" she exclaimed, without explanation. "Why didn't you tell me at the boat?"

The old negro lifted his head in dismay.

"Wha' yer talkin' 'bout, lil Miss?"

"About Mammy, Zebby. They tell me she belongs to Mr. Everett now."

"Yas'm, she sho' do. I done seen her day befo' yistiddy."

"Did she know I was coming?"

"Not tell I done tole her."

"What did she say, Zebby?"

Zebediah's hand went up to his head, scratching thoughtfully.

"She didn said nuthin', lil Miss. She jest th'od her apron ober her face and went ter moanin'."

Natalia's lips suddenly trembled.

"Take me there, Zebby--now! I want to see her. I can't wait. Saddle the horse and go with me."

But Zebediah did not respond to her enthusiasm. He stood staring at her as if he had not comprehended her words.

"Yer cyant go ter dat house, lil Miss. Dar ain' nobody libs dar 'ceptin' Marse Everett. Dar ain' no lady fo'ks in de house."

"I don't care, Zebby," Natalia laughed. "I'm not going to see him. I'm going to see Mammy Dicey. I'll be back in a minute, so hurry and get the horses ready."

She ran up the steps on the back porch, and to her room, scattering the mass of clothes which had just been unpacked, until she found the riding habit she was looking for. Very quietly, without meeting any one, she went back to the barn where Zebediah stood holding the horses, and showing his row of fine white teeth in a smile of admiration and pleasure.

"Yer ain't er bit lak grown up fo'ks, lil Miss. Yer jest de lil gal dat went 'way frum heah long time ergo."

"I'm just the same little girl, Zebby," Natalia smiled back at him, putting her foot into his broad palm, "until you help me to mount--and then," as she settled herself in the saddle, "you'll find I've gained a pound or two."

The afternoon had advanced until the rays of sun were slanting through the trees, and as they rode along the old road, Natalia gave the horse the reins, while she drank in the beauty of the woods and open fields, and looked for landmarks that brought back with them incidents and stories. Once, she stopped before the place where the Puckett house formerly stood--now only a crumbling chimney remaining, surrounded by a grove of China trees: and again, along the brow of a hill, where there was another view of the river as it swept into a broad bend and disappeared in the fertile delta. Finally the town lay before them in its setting of beautiful trees.

"I don't know where he lives, Zebby," Natalia said, drawing in the reins, and looking back to Zebediah. "You see, I am a stranger, after all."

"Dar's de house," Zebediah answered, pointing towards a dwelling which stood close to the road, in the suburbs of the town.

"That house!" Natalia exclaimed. "I passed it this morning, and Mammy did not even wave to me."

"I seen her, dough. She wuz down on de landin' an' lookin' at yer. I knowed she be fer seein' yer somehow."

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?"

The old negro again went silent.

"I tell yer, lil Miss,--Dicey she so perculiar. I dunno ef she wants me ter tell yer or not; den agin I never knows if yer wuz feelin' like Ole Miss did or no. I jest keep mah mouf shet for dem reasons."

"Shame on you, Zebby! Do you think that I would ever forget any one who was as good to me as you and Mammy were? Now, hold my horse. I want to go in by myself."

Natalia paused before the gate, and stood a moment irresolutely before entering. The thought that she might be doing something a little rash, never came to her until that moment; then in her great desire to see her old nurse, all considerations left her, and she went up the walk and rang the bell. The reverberation echoed down the hall as she waited, and it was not until she had rung several times that she heard some one coming. Then the door opened, and Dicey stood facing her.

Zebediah, watching intently from the road, saw Natalia suddenly enveloped in the old negro woman's arms, and drawn into the house and the door closed after them.

Dicey had not uttered a sound when she found Natalia at the door; only her arms opened and she pressed the girl to her bosom, their tears mingling as the old slave covered her face and hands with kisses.

"Honey-chile, honey-chile, honey-chile!"

Natalia's head rested on the old familiar bosom, with the comforting feeling of dependence and trust which she had not known since she had last nestled there. When she looked up again she found herself sitting on the stair steps, her head leaning against Dicey's knee and the well known voice ringing in her ears.

"Yer hasn't fergotten me, has yer, honey-chile? I knowed yer hadn't."

Natalia's eyes answered for her eloquently.

"Your hair has turned white, Mammy," she said, when she had dried her tears; "and you are so--so fat, Mammy--and Mammy, you don't belong to me any longer," the last with a look of reproach.

"She didn' want me no longer when yer went away," Dicey answered, her dark eyes glistening suddenly with an expression of malignant anger. Natalia saw the wrinkling of the brows that she had dreaded when a child, for it never came except when Dicey's deep anger was kindled; and even now she felt a reflection of her childish dread at the familiar signal.

"She put me up fer sale lak as ef I wuz any udder nigger! She put me up in de slabe-market fer anybody--fer anybody to buy! Dar wuz'n no use fer her doin' me dat way. She could ha' sold me at home. But she wouldn'. She hated me--she wanted ter make me out cheap--dat wuz it. She didn' want me and she didn' ker who it wuz got me!"

Natalia put her hand gently over the old woman's lips.

"Sh-h! Don't say that about her, Mammy. It could not have been that bad."

"But it wuz, I tell yer! Now I kin hate her 'cause I don' berlong ter her no longer. No good'll cum ter her!"

The words rang out in the deserted hall forebodingly. A ray of sunlight penetrated the coloured fan light above the door, dwelling for a moment with a strange significance, illumining the old negro's snow-white hair, her heavily lined features, her reddish brown skin and weird eyes.

"I did not know all this, Mammy," Natalia answered in a low voice. "I did not know. If I had it would have been different."

"Cose yer didn' know--yer done jes' fergit all 'bout Dicey--nebber think 'bout things down heah a bit, did yer, honey? I knowed dat wuz hit--hit wuz nateral enough. Yer wuzn't nuthin' but er lil gal when yer lef me."

"But you never sent me a letter, Mammy. You never got any one to answer mine for you."

Again the old woman's features contracted.

"She nebber gib me no letters frum yer. I nebber knowed whar yer wuz."

"You never got my letters?"

Dicey shook her head violently. Natalia looked at her a long time during the silence that followed, still holding her hand tight in her own.

"And to think that Sargent Everett should have bought you, Mammy," she said finally. "If it had to be--I'm glad he was the one."

"De Lawd'll sho' bless him fer hit," the old slave answered. "Ef hit hadn' been fer him I'd 'a' kilt mase'f. Hit would 'a' been easy enough."

Natalia pressed the long-coarsened fingers as they clung to hers.

"Tell me about it, Mammy; tell me everything. Let's make up for those long years of separation. How long was it after I left you, that it happened?"

"Jes' 'bout six months, honey. I'se mos' fergit now--hit seem so long ago; and I wuz feelin' so down-in-de-mouf and glum when you done gone, I didn't take no notice ob de time. Hit wuz one day in de summer time dat Ole Miss cum out ter mah room, an' say she want ter speak ter me. I knows hit wuz goin' powerful ha'd wid me cause I could tell by de looks in her eyes. She say she wouldn' hab no mo' use fer me sence yer gone away, and de boys would be goin' soon--and dat she done made up her min' ter sell me. 'But yer cayn't, Ole Miss,' says I, 'yer cyant sell me 'cause I doan belong ter yer--I belongs ter lil Miss. Marse Brandon say so fo' he died.' Den she turn red an' white, all in a sudden, and says dat he mont 'a' say dat, but he done made no sich statemen' in his will, and dat she wuz goin' ter sell me neberdeless. 'Yer knows he said dat,' says I to her, 'an' ef lil Miss wuz heah yer wouldn' dar do hit.' Den she get powerful mad and tole me ter git mah things togedder and be reddy ter go ter de Co't house de nex' mawnin'. Den I jes' gib way an' cry, cause I neber b'liebe I'd be put up wid all dem udder niggers an' sole lak dem. But she didn' listen ter me no mo', and went away.... Zebby drive me ter town de nex' mawnin' an' Ole Miss han' me ober ter de trader-man, and didn' say no wo'd ter me when she leabe. Dar wuz a big crowd ob people dar ter see de slabes--two hundred ter be sole dat day and a lot ob plantation fo'ks done cum ter town ter buy."

Suddenly Dicey stopped, and stared before her silently, her hands clasping Natalia's until she winced from the pain.