American Authors' Series, No. 17.
PRINCESS
by
M. G. McCLELLAND
Author of "Oblivion," "Jean Monteith," "Eleanor Gwynn," Etc.
New York:
United States Book Company
Successors to
John W. Lovell Company
150 Worth St., Cor Mission Place
Copyright, 1886,
by
Henry Holt & Co.
With love and admiration,
I dedicate this book to the memory of my friend,
THOMAS ALEXANDER SEDDON.
PRINCESS.
CHAPTER I.
When the idea of a removal to Virginia was first mooted in the family
of General Percival Smith, ex-Brigadier in the United States service,
it was received with consternation and a perfect storm of disapproval.
The young ladies, Norma and Blanche, rose as one woman - loud in
denunciation, vehement in protest - fell upon the scheme, and verbally
sought to annihilate it. The country! A farm!! The South!!! The
idea was untenable, monstrous. Before their outraged vision floated
pictures whereof the foreground was hideous with cows, and snakes, and
beetles; the middle distance lurid with discomfort, corn-bread, and
tri-weekly mails; the background lowering with solitude, ennui, and
colored servants.
Rusticity, nature, sylvan solitudes, and all that, were exquisite bound
in Russia, with gold lettering and tinted leaves; wonderfully alluring
viewed at leisure with the gallery to one's self, and the light at the
proper angle, charmingly attractive behind the footlights, but in
reality! - to the feeling of these young ladies it could be best
appreciated by those who had been born to it. In their opinion, they,
themselves, had been born to something vastly superior, so they
rebelled and made themselves disagreeable; hoping to mitigate the gloom
of the future by intensifying that of the present.
Their mother, whose heart yearned over her offspring, essayed to
comfort them, casting daily and hourly the bread of suggestion and
anticipation on the unthankful waters, whence it invariably returned to
her sodden with repinings. The young ladies set their grievances up on
high and bowed the knee; they were not going to be comforted, nor
pleased, nor hopeful, not they. The scheme was abominable, and no
aspect in which it could be presented rendered its abomination less;
they were hopeless, and helpless, and oppressed, and there was the end
of it.
Poor Mrs. Smith wished it might be the end, or anywhere near the end;
for the soul within her was "vexed with strife and broken in pieces
with words." The general could - and did - escape the rhetorical
consequences of his unpopular measure, but his wife could not: no club
afforded her its welcome refuge, no "down town" offered her sanctuary.
She was obliged to stay at home and endure it all. Norma's sulks,
Blanche's tears, the rapture of the boys - hungering for novelty as boys
only can hunger - the useless and trivial suggestions of friends, the
minor arrangements for the move, the decision on domestic questions
present and to come, the questions, answers, futile conjectures, all
formed a murk through which she labored, striving to please her husband
and her children, to uphold authority, quell mutiny, soothe murmurs,
and sympathize with enthusiasm; with a tact which shamed diplomacy, and
a patience worthy of an evangelist.
After the indulgent American custom, she earnestly desired to please
_all_ of her children. In her own thoughts she existed only for them,
to minister to their happiness; even her husband was, unconsciously to
her, quite of secondary importance, his strongest present claim to
consideration lying in his paternity. Had it been possible, she would
have raised her tent, and planted her fig tree in the spot preferred by
each one of her children, but as that was out of the question, in the
mother's mind of course her sons came first. And this preference must
be indulged the more particularly that Warner - the elder of her two
boys, her idol and her grief - was slowly, well-nigh imperceptibly, but
none the less surely, drifting away from her. A boyish imprudence, a
cold, over-exertion, the old story which is so familiar, so hopeless,
so endless in its repetition and its pathos. When interests were
diverse, the healthy, blooming daughters could hope to make little
headway against the invalid son. _They_ had all the sunny hours of
many long years before them; he perhaps only the hurrying moments of
one.
For Warner a change was imperative - so imperative that even the
rebellious girls were fain to admit its necessity. His condition
required a gentler, kindlier atmosphere than that of New York. The
poor diseased lungs craved the elixir of pure air; panted for the
invigoration of breezes freshly oxygenized by field and forest, and
labored exhaustedly in the languid devitalized breath of a city. The
medical fraternity copiously consulted, recognized their impotence, but
refrained from stating it; and availed themselves of their power of
reference to the loftier physician - the boy must be healed, if he was
to be healed, by nature. The country, pure air, pure milk, tender
care; these were his only hope.
General Smith was a man trained by military discipline to be instant in
decision and prompt in action. As soon as the doctors informed him
that his son's case required - not wanderings - but a steady residence in
a climate bracing, as well as mild, where the comforts of home could
supplement the healing of nature, he set himself at once to discover a
place which would fill all the requirements. To the old soldier, New
England born and Michigan bred, Virginia appeared a land of sun and
flowers, a country well-nigh tropical in the softness of its climate,
and the fervor of its heat. The doctors recommended Florida, or South
Carolina, as in duty bound, and to the suggestion of Virginia yielded
only a dubious consent; it was very far _north_, they said, but still
it might do. To the general, it seemed very far _south_, and he was
certain it would do.
In the old time, he remembered, when he was in lower Virginia with
McClellan, he had reveled in the softness, the delight of that, to him,
marvelous climate. He had found the nights so sweet; the air,
vitalized with the breath of old ocean, so invigorating, the heat at
noonday so dry, and the coolness at evening so refreshing. There were
pines, too; old fields of low scrub, and some forests of the nobler
sort; that would be the thing for Warner. He remembered how, as he sat
in the tent door, the breeze scented with resinous odors used to come
to him, and how, strong man though he was, he had felt as he drew it
into his lungs that it did him good.
In those old campaigning days, the fancy had been born in him that some
time in the future he would like to return and make his home here,
where "amorous ocean wooed a gracious land" - that when his fighting
days were over, and the retired list lengthened by his name, it would
be a pleasant thing to have his final bivouac among the gallant foes
who had won his admiration by their dauntless manner of giving and
taking blows.
The exigencies and absorptions of military life, in time, dimmed the
fancy, but it never altogether vanished. Out on the plains with
Custer, away in the mountains and the Indian country, vegetating in the
dullness of frontier posts, amid the bustle, the luxury and excitement
of city life, the fancy would return; the memory of those soft starlit
Virginia evenings would infold him with a subtle spell. In thought he
would again sit smoking in the tent door, the gray shadows stealing out
from their covert in the woods, reconnoitering all the country ere they
swept down and took possession, in the name of their queen - the night.
The air would grow cool with the fragrant breath of the ocean and the
pines; whip-poor-wills would chant in the tree tops, and partridges
sound their blithe note away in the fields. It was not wonderful that
when the necessity of securing a country home arose, the fancy should
resume its sway, and that a meditated flitting southward should suggest
Virginia as its goal.
The idea that any portion of his family would be displeased by the
realization of his fancy, or feel themselves aggrieved by his
arrangements, never entered into the veteran's calculations; he
returned from the South with his purchase made, and his mind filled
with anticipations of the joy the unlading of this precious honey would
occasion in the domestic hive, and when he was met by the angry buzz of
discontent instead of the gentle hum of applause, his surprise was
great, and his indignation unbounded.
"What the devil are they grumbling about?" he demanded of his wife.
"Shirley's a fine plantation. The water is good, the air superb; there
are excellent gardens and first-rate oyster beds. The house is
old-fashioned, but it's comfortable, and a little money will make it
more so. What's the matter with them?"
"The girls are young, Percival," explained the mother, putting in a
plea for her rebels. "They are used to society and admiration. They
don't take interest in gardens and oyster beds yet; they like variety
and excitement. The country is very dull."
"Not at all dull," contradicted the general. "You talk as if I were
requiring you all to Selkirk on a ten acre island, instead of going to
one of the pleasantest and most populous counties in the oldest state
in the Union. Mr. Byrd, the former owner of Shirley, told me that the
neighborhood was very thickly settled and sociable. I counted five
gentlemen's houses in sight myself. Southerners, as a rule, are great
visitors, and if the girls are lonely it will be their own fault.
They'll have as much boating and dancing and tom-foolery as is good for
them."
"Are there any young men?" demanded Mrs. Smith, who recognized the
necessity of an infusion of the stronger element to impart to social
joys body and flavor.
"Yes, I guess so," replied her husband indifferently, masculinity from
over-association having palled on him; "there's always men about
everywhere, except back in the home villages in Maine - they're scarce
enough _there_, the Lord knows! I saw a good many about in the little
village near Shirley - Wintergreen, they call it. One young fellow
attracted my attention particularly; he was sitting on a tobacco
hogshead, down on the wharf, superintending some negroes load a wagon,
and I couldn't get it out of my head that I'd seen his face before. He
was tall, and fair, and had lost an arm. I must have met him during
the war, I think, although I'll be hanged if I can place him."
Mrs. Smith looked interested. "Perhaps you formerly knew him," she
remarked, cheerfully; "it's a pity your memory is so bad. Why didn't
you inquire his name of some one, that might have helped you to place
him?"
"My memory is excellent," retorted the general, shortly; for a man must
resent such an insinuation even from the wife of his bosom. "I've
always been remarkable for an unusually strong and retentive memory, as
you know very well - but it isn't superhuman. At the lowest
computation, I guess I've seen about a million men's faces in the
course of my life, and it's ridiculous to expect me to have 'em all
sorted out, and ticketed in my mind like a picture catalogue. My
memory is very fine."
Mrs. Smith recanted pleasantly. Her husband's memory _was_ good, for
his age, she was willing to admit, but it was not flawless. About this
young man, now, it seemed to her that if she could remember him at all,
she could remember all about him. These hitches in recollection were
provoking. It would have been nice for the girls to find a young man
ready to their hands, bound to courtesy by previous acquaintance with
their father.
She regretted that her husband should fail to recall, and had neglected
to inquire, the name of this interesting person; but the knowledge that
he was _there_, and others besides him, ameliorated the rigor of the
situation.
Mrs. Smith did not care for the south or southern people; their
thoughts were not her thoughts, nor their ways, her ways. In her
ignorance, she classed them low in the scale of civilization, deeming
them an unprofitable race, whose days were given over to sloth, and
their nights to armed and malignant prowling. For the colored people
of the censured states, she had a profound and far-off sympathy,
viewing them from an unreal and romantic standpoint. This tender
attitude was mental; physically she shrank from them with disgust, and
it was not the least of the crosses entailed by a residence in the
south that she would be obliged to endure colored servants.
But all this was trifling and unimportant in comparison with the main
issue, Warner's health. To secure the shadow of hope for her boy, Mrs.
Smith decided that any thing short of cannibalism in her future
surroundings would be endurable.
The information gleaned from her husband was faithfully repeated by
Mrs. Smith to her daughters, with some innocent exaggeration and
unconscious embellishment. She always wanted to make things pleasant
for the children.
Blanche looked up from her crewel sun-flowers with reviving interest,
but Norma walked over to the window, and stood drumming on the panes,
and regarding the passers with a lowering brow.
"I wonder what Nesbit Thorne will think of it all?" she remarked, after
an interval of silence, giving voice to the inwardness of her
discontent.
"He'll _hate_ it!" spoke Blanche, with conviction; "he'll abhor it,
just as we do. I know he will." Blanche always followed her sister's
lead, and when Norma was cross considered it her duty to be tearful.
She was only disagreeable now because Norma was.
Percival, the youngest of the family, a spoiled and lively lad of
twelve, to whom the prospect of change was rapture, took up the last
remark indignantly.
"Nesbit won't do anything of the kind," quoth he. "Nesbit isn't a
spoiled, airified idiot of a girl. He's got sense enough to appreciate
hunting and fishing and the things that are of importance to _men_. I
guess he'll want to come to Shirley this autumn for his shooting,
instead of going down to North Carolina." Norma stopped her tattoo and
turned her head slightly; the boy, observing that he had scored a
point, proceeded: "Just the minute he gets back from Montana, I'm going
to tell him all about Shirley and beg him to come. And if he does, I'm
going gunning with him every day, and make him teach me how to
shoot - see if I don't," regarding his mother from under his tawny brows
threateningly. Percival's nature was adventurous and unruly: he had
red hair.
"Nesbit got back last night," announced Warner from his sofa beside the
other window. "I saw him pass the house this morning. There he is
now, coming up the street. If his opinion is a matter of such
importance, you can call him over and get it. I don't see that it
makes any difference what he thinks, myself." The latter part of the
sentence was muttered in an unheeded undertone.
Norma tapped sharply on the glass, and beckoned to a gentleman on the
opposite pavement, her brow clearing. He nodded gayly in response, and
crossing, in obedience to her summons, entered the house familiarly
without ringing the bell.
CHAPTER II.
All turned expectantly toward the door, pausing in their several
occupations; even Warner's eyes were raised from his book, although his
attention was involuntary and grudging. The attitude of the little
circle attested the influence which the coming man wielded over every
member of it; an influence which extended insensibly to every one with
whom Nesbit Thorne's association was intimate. He was Mrs. Smith's
nephew, and much in the habit, whenever he was in New York, of making
her house his home - having none now of his own.
He was a slender, dark man, with magnificent dark eyes, which had a
power of expression so enthralling as to disarm, or defy, criticism of
the rest of his face. Not one man in fifty could tell whether Nesbit
Thorne was handsome, or the reverse - and for women - ah, well! they knew
best what they thought.
In his air, his carriage, his expression, was that which never fails to
attract and hold attention - force, vitality, individuality. He was
small, but tall men never dwarfed him; plain, but the world - his
world - turned from handsomer men with indifference, to heap
consideration upon him. To borrow the forceful vernacular of the
street, there was "something in him." There was no possibility of
viewing either him or his actions with indifference; of merging him in,
and numbering him with, the crowd.
There are men whose lives are intaglios, cut by the chisel of destiny
deep into the sard of their generations; every line and curve and
faintest tracing pregnant with interest, suggestion, and emotion. Men
who are loved and hated, feared, adored and loathed with an intensity
that their commonplace fellows are incapable of evoking. They are
loadstones which attract events; whirlpools which draw to themselves
excitement, emotion, and vast store of sympathy.
Some years previous to the opening of this story, Nesbit Thorne, then a
brilliant recent graduate of Harvard, a leader in society, and a man of
whom great things were predicted, whose name was in many mouths as that
of a man likely to achieve distinction in any path of life he should
select, made a hasty, ill-advised marriage with a Miss Ethel Ross, a
New York belle of surpassing beauty and acumen. A woman whose sole
thought was pleasure, whose highest conception of the good of life was
a constantly varied menu of social excitement, and whose noblest
reading of the word duty was compassed in having a well ordered house,
sumptuous entertainments, and irreproachable toilets. A wife to
satisfy any man who was unemotional, unexacting, and prepared to give
way to her in all things.
Nesbit Thorne, unfortunately, was none of these things, and so his
married life had come to grief. The first few months were smoothed and
gilded by his passionate enjoyment of her mere physical perfection, his
pleasure in the admiration she excited, and in the envy of other men.
Life's river glided smoothly, gayly in the sunshine; then ugly snags
began to appear, and reefs, fretting the surface of the water, and
hinting of sterner difficulties below; then a long stretch of tossing,
troubled water, growing more and more turbulent as it proceeded,
boiling and bubbling into angry whirlpools and sullen eddies. The boat
of married happiness was hard among the breakers, tossed from side to
side, the sport of every wind of passion; contesting hands were on the
tiller ropes. The craft yawed and jerked in its course, a spectacle
for men to weep over, and devils to rejoice in; ran aground on
quicksands, tore and tangled its cordage, rent the planking, and at the
end of a cruise of as many months as it should have lasted years, it
lay a hopeless wreck on the grim bar of separation.
The affair was managed gracefully, and with due deference to the
amenities. There was gossip, of course - there always is gossip - and
public opinion was many sided. Rumors circled around which played the
whole gamut from infidelity to bankruptcy; these lived their brief
span, and then gave place to other rumors, equally unfounded, and
therefore equally enjoyable. The only fact authenticated, was the fact
of separation, and the most lasting conclusion arrived at in regard to
the matter was that it had been managed very gracefully.
The divorce which seemed the natural outcome of this state of affairs,
and to which every one looked, as a matter of course, was delayed in
this instance. People wondered a little, and then remembered that the
Thornes were a Roman Catholic family, and concluded that the young man
had religious scruples. With Mrs. Thorne the matter was plain enough;
she had no reason, as yet, sufficiently strong to make her desire
absolute release, and far greater command over Thorne's income by
retaining her position as his wife.
When his domestic affairs had reached a crisis, Thorne had quietly
disappeared for a year, during which time people only knew that he was
enjoying his recovered freedom in distant and little frequented places.
There were rumors of him in Tartary, on the Niger, in Siberia. At the
expiration of the year he returned to New York, and resumed his old
place in society as though nothing untoward had occurred. He lived at
his club, and no man or woman ever saw him set foot within the
precincts of his own house. Occasionally he was seen to stop the nurse
in the park, and caress and speak to his little son. His life was that
of a single man. In the society they both frequented, he often
encountered his wife, and always behaved to her with scrupulous
politeness, even with marked courtesy. If he ever missed his home, or
experienced regret for his matrimonial failure, he kept the feeling
hidden, and presented to the world an unmoved front.
In default of nearer ties, he made himself at home in his aunt's house,
frequenting it as familiarly as he had done in the days before his
marriage. In his strong, almost passionate nature, there was one great
weakness; the love and admiration of women was a necessity to him. He
could no more help trying to make women love him, than the kingfisher
can help thrusting down his beak when the bright speckled sides of his
prey flash through the water. It was from neither cruelty nor vanity,
for Thorne had less of both traits than usually falls to the lot of
men; it was rather from the restlessness, the yearning of a strong
nature for that which it needed, but had not yet attained; the
experimental searching of a soul for its mate. That sorrow might come
to others in the search he scarcely heeded; was he to blame that fair
promises would bud and lead him on, and fail of fruition? To himself
he seemed rather to be pitied; their loss was balanced by his own.
Thorne had never loved as he was capable of loving; as yet the _ego_
was predominant.
As he entered the room, after an absence of weeks, with a smile and a
pleasant word of greeting, the younger members of the circle fell upon
him clamorously; full of themselves and their individual concerns.
Even Warner, in whose mind lurked a jealousy of his cousin's influence,
forgot it for the nonce, and was as eager to talk as the rest. Nesbit
found himself listening to a demand for advice, an appeal for sympathy,
and a paean of gratulation, before he had made his salutations, or
gotten himself into a chair.
"Hold on!" he cried, putting up his hand in protest. "Don't all talk
at once. I can't follow. What's the matter, Norma?"
His eye turned to his favorite involuntarily, and an almost
imperceptible brightening, a lifting of the clouds on that young lady's
horizon, began to take place. She answered his look, and (assisted by
the irrepressible Percival) unfolded to him the family plans. Thorne,
with good-humored enthusiasm, threw himself into the scheme, pronounced
it delightful, and proceeded to indulge in all manner of cheerful
prognostications. Percival was enchanted, and, establishing himself
close beside the arm of his cousin's chair, commenced a series of
vehement whispers, which lasted as long as the visit. Norma's brow
cleared more and more, and when Thorne declared his intention of paying
them a long visit during the hunting season, she allowed a smile to
wreathe her full crimson lips, and snubbed poor little Blanche
unmercifully for still daring to be lachrymose.
The talk grew momentarily merrier, and the mother listened, smiling;
her eyes, with a tender glow in them, fixed on Warner's face. The sick
boy was in raptures over the old house mossed over with history and
tradition, which would be his future home. Noting the eagerness of his
interest, her heart gave a sudden bound, hope took her by the hand, and
she dreamed dreams. There might come a reaction and improvement. At
times the intuition of an invalid was the voice of nature, crying out
for that which she needed. Warner's longing for this change might be
the precursor of his cure. Who could read the future?
CHAPTER III.
Backward and forward, from pantry to sideboard, from sideboard to china
closet, flitted Pocahontas Mason setting the table for breakfast.
Deftly she laid out the pretty mats on the shining mahogany, arranged
the old-fashioned blue cups and saucers, and placed the plates and
napkins. She sang at her work in a low, clear voice, more sweet than
powerful, and all that her hands found to do was done rapidly and
skillfully, with firm, accustomed touches, and an absence of jar and
clatter. In the center of the table stood a corpulent Wedgwood
pitcher, filled with geraniums and roses, to which the girl's fingers
wandered lovingly from time to time, in the effort to coax each blossom
into the position in which it would make the bravest show. On one
corner, near the waiter, stood a housewifely little basket of keys,
through the handle of which was thrust a fresh handkerchief newly
shaken out.
When all the arrangements about the table had been completed,
Pocahontas turned her attention to the room, giving it those manifold
touches which, from a lady's fingers, can make even a plain apartment
look gracious and homelike. Times had changed with the Masons, and
many duties formerly delegated to servants now fell naturally to the
daughter of the house. Perhaps the change was an improvement: Berkeley
Mason, the young lady's brother, maintained that it was.
Having finished her work, Pocahontas crossed the room to one of the
tall, old-fashioned windows, and pushed open the half-shut blinds,
letting a flood of sunshine and morning freshness into the room. Under
the window stood an ottoman covered with drab cloth, on which the
fingers of some dead and gone Mason had embroidered a dingy wreath of
roses and pansies. Pocahontas knelt on it, resting her arms on the
lofty window-sill, and gazed out over the lawn, and enjoyed the dewy
buoyance of the air. The September sunshine touched with golden glory
the bronze abundance of her hair, which a joyous, rollicking breeze,
intoxicated with dew and the breath of roses, tangled and tumbled into
a myriad witcheries of curl and crinkle. The face, glorified by this
bright aureole, was pure and handsome, patrician in every line and
curve, from the noble forehead, with its delicate brown brows, to the
well-cut chin, which spoke eloquently of breadth of character and
strength of will. The eyes were gray, and in them lay the chief charm
of the face, for their outlook was as honest and fearless as that of a
child - true eyes they were, fit windows for a brave, true soul.
The house, neutral-tinted with years and respectability, stood well
back from the river, to whose brink the smooth, green lawn swept in
scarcely perceptible undulation. The river here was broad, almost
resembling an arm of the sea it was moving languidly to join. There
was no haste about it, and no fret of ever active current; as all large
bodies should, it moved slowly, and the eye rested gratefully on the
tranquil flow. Across the water, apparently against the far horizon, a
dense line of trees, fringing the further shore, rose tall and dark,
outlined with picturesque distinctness against the soft, warm blue.
The surrounding country was flat, but relieved from monotony by a
certain pastoral peacefulness, and a look of careless plenty which,
with thrift, might have become abundance. In the meadows the grass
grew rich and riotous between the tall stacks of cured hay, and the
fields of corn and tobacco gave vigorous promise of a noble harvest.
The water also teemed with life and a shiftless out-at-elbow energy.
Shabby looking fishing smacks, with dirty white wings, like birds too
indolent to plume themselves, passed constantly, and flat-bottomed
canoes, manned by good-humored negro oystermen, plied a lazy, thievish
trade, with passing steamers.
Presently a gate slammed somewhere in the regions back of the house,
and there was a sound of neighing and trampling. Pocahontas leaned far
out, shading her eyes with her hands, to watch the colts career wildly
across the lawn, with manes and tails and capering legs tossed high in
air, in the exuberance of equine spirits. Following them sedately came
a beautiful black mare, stepping high and daintily, as became a lady of
distinction. She was Kentucky born and bred, and had for sire none
other than Goldenrod himself. In answer to a coaxing whistle of
invitation, she condescended to approach the window and accept sugar
and caresses. Pocahontas patted the glossy head and neck of the
beauty, chattering soft nonsense while the little heap of sugar she had
placed on the window-sill vanished. Presently she laid an empty palm
against the nose pushed in to her, and dealt it a gentle blow.
"That's all, Phyllis; positively all this morning. You would empty the
sugar bowl if I'd let you. No, take your nose away; it's all gone;
eleven great lumps have you had, and the feast of the gods is over."
But Phyllis would not be convinced; she pushed her nose up over the
window ledge, and whinnied softly. As plainly as a horse can beg, she
begged for more, but her mistress was obdurate. Placing both hands
behind her, she drew back into the room, laughing.
"Not another lump," she called, "eleven are enough. Greedy Phyllis, to
beg for more when you know I'm in earnest. Go away and play with the
colts; you'll get no more to-day."
"You'll never make Phyllis believe that, my dear," remarked a tall,
gray-haired lady, in a pretty muslin cap, who had entered unperceived.
"Oh, yes, mother. She understands quite well. See, she's moving off
already. Phyllis knows I never break my word, and that persuasion is
quite useless," replied Pocahontas, turning to give her mother the
customary morning kiss, to place her chair before the waiter for her,
and to tell her how becoming her new cap was. The Masons never
neglected small courtesies to each other.
The branch of the Mason family still resident at the old homestead of
Lanarth had dwindled to four living representatives - Mrs. Mason, who
had not changed her name in espousing her cousin Temple Mason, of
Lanarth, and her son Berkeley, and daughters Grace and Pocahontas.
There had been another son, Temple, the younger, whose story formed one
of those sad memories which are the grim after-taste of war. All three
of the Masons had worn gray uniforms; the father had been killed in a
charge at Malvern Hill, the elder son had lost his good right arm, and
the younger had died in prison.
Of the two daughters, Grace had early fulfilled her destiny in true
Virginian fashion, by marrying a distant connection of her family, a
Mr. Royall Garnett, who had been a playmate of her brothers, and whose
plantation lay in an adjoining county. With praiseworthy conservatism,
Mrs. Garnett was duplicating the uneventful placidity of her parents'
early years, content to rule her household wisely, to love and minister
to her husband, and to devote her energies to the rearing of her
children according to time-honored precedent. Pocahontas, the youngest
of the family, was still unmarried, nay, more - still unengaged.
They had called her "Pocahontas" in obedience to the unwritten law of
southern families, which decrees that an ancestor's sin of distinction
shall be visited on generations of descendants, in the perpetuation of
a name no matter what its hideousness. It seems a peculiarity of
distinguished persons to possess names singularly devoid of beauty;
therefore, among the burdens entailed by pride upon posterity, this is
a grievous one. Some families, with the forest taint in their blood,
at an early date took refuge in the softer, prettier "Matoaca;" but not
so the Masons. It was their pride that they never shirked an
obligation, or evaded a responsibility: they did not evade this one.
Having accepted "Pocahontas" as the name by which their ancestress was
best known, they never swerved from it; holding to it undaunted by its
length and harshness, and unmoved by the discovery of historians that
Pocahontas is no name at all, but simply a pet sobriquet applicable to
all Indian girls alike, and whose signification is scarcely one of
dignity. Historians might discover, disagree, wrangle and explain, but
Pocahontas followed Pocahontas in the Mason family with the undeviating
certainty of a fixed law.
To the present Pocahontas (the eighth in the line) it really seemed as
though the thing should stop. She yielded to the family fiat her own
case, because not having been consulted she had no option in the
matter, but when Grace's little daughter was born she put in a plea for
the child.
"Break the spell," she entreated, "and unborn generations will bless
you. We Virginians will keep on in one groove until the crack of doom
unless we are jerked out of it by the nape of the neck. Your heart
ought to yearn over the child - mine does. It's a wicked sin to call a
pretty baby by such a monstrous name."
Grace trampled on the protest: "Not name her Pocahontas? Why, of
_course_ I shall! If the name were twice as long and three times as
ugly my baby should bear it. I wonder you should object when you know
that every Pocahontas in the family has invariably turned out an
exceptionally fine woman. All have been noble, truthful, honorable;
quick to see the right and unswerving in pursuit of it. I shall call
my baby by that name, and no other."
Pocahontas opened her eyes. "Why, Grace," she said, "you talk as if
the name were a talisman; as if virtues were transmitted with it.
Isn't that silly?"
"Not at all," responded Grace promptly; "unless we cease to be
ourselves after death, we _must_ still take interest in the things of
this world, in our families and descendants. We may not be able
actually to transmit our virtues to them, but surely by guardian
influence we can help them imitate ancestral good qualities. Guardian
angels of our own blood are a great deal nearer than outside angels,
and I believe the dear Lord appoints them whenever he can; and if so,
why shouldn't the good women who are in heaven take interest in my baby
who will bear their name? It _is_ their name still, and it must hurt
them to see it soiled; of course they must take interest. Were I an
angel, the child on earth who bore my name should be my special charge."
"Then, according to your showing, Grace, six good women, now holy
angels, have baby and me in constant keeping for love of our ugly name.
The idea is fanciful, and I don't consider it orthodox: but it's
pretty, and I like it. Miss Pocahontas the ninth, you and I must walk
with circumspection, if not to grieve the good ladies up above who are
kind enough to take such interest in us."
Pocahontas mocked at Grace's idea, but it pleased her all the same, and
unconsciously it influenced her more than she knew. She loved the
legends of her house, delighted in the fact of descent from brave men
and true women. The past held her more than is common with the young
people of the present day, and she sought out and treasured all the
records of the six women who had borne her name, from the swarthy
Indian princess down to the gentle gray-haired lady who held the place
of honor at the Lanarth breakfast table.
"Princess," said Mrs. Mason, as she distributed the sugar and cream, "I
wish you'd ring the bell. Rachel must have breakfast ready by this
time, and I hear Berkeley's step outside."
Princess rang the bell quite meekly. The pet sobriquet was in as
familiar use among them as her real name, but her touch on the bell did
not suggest the imperiousness of royalty. Aunt Rachel was an old
family servant, faithful, fat, and important, and Aunt Rachel _hated_
to be hurried. She said "it pestered her, an' made her spile the
vittles." She answered promptly this time, however, entering with the
great waiter of hot and tasty dishes before the bell had ceased its
faint tintinnabulation. Berkeley, a tall fair man, whose right sleeve
was fastened against his breast, entered also.
"I saw Jim Byrd this morning," he remarked as he seated himself, after
the customary greeting to his mother and sister. "He called here on
his way over to Roy Garnett's, where he was going to bid good-by. I
asked him in to breakfast, but he couldn't stop; said he had promised
Grace to take breakfast with them. He has to make a farewell tour, or
old friends' feelings will be hurt. It's rather awful, and hard on
Jim, but he couldn't bear the thought of the neighbors feeling
slighted. I suggested a barbecue and a stump speech and bow, but the
idea didn't seem to appeal to Jim. Poor old fellow!"
"Couldn't he contrive to hold Shirley, Berke?" questioned Mrs. Mason,
as she passed his cup. "He had retained possession so long, there must
have been some way to hold it altogether."
"No; the thing was impossible," replied Berkeley; "the plantation was
mortgaged to the hub before Jim was born. The Byrds have been
extravagant for generations, and a crash was inevitable. Old Mr. Byrd
could barely meet the interest, even before the loss of Cousin Mary's
money. During the last years of his life some of it was added to the
principal, which made it harder work for Jim. But for Jim's
management, and the fact that the creditors all stood like a row of
blocks in which the fall of one would inevitably touch off the whole
line, things would have gone to smash long ago. Each man was afraid to
move in the matter, lest by so doing he should invite his own creditors
to come down on him. Until lately they haven't bothered Jim much
outside of wringing all the interest out of him they could get. While
his sisters were single, he was obliged to keep a home together for
them, you know. Nina's marriage last spring removed that
responsibility, and I reckon it's a relief to Jim to relinquish the
struggle."
"What a pity old Mr. Byrd persuaded Mary to sell out her bonds, and
invest the money in tobacco during the war!" observed Mrs. Mason,
regretfully. "It would have been something for the children if she had
kept the bonds. It was too bad that those great warehouses, full of
tobacco, belonging to the Byrds and Masons were burned in Richmond at
the evacuation. Charlie Mason persuaded Mr. Byrd into that
speculation, and although Charlie is my own cousin and Mary's brother,
I must admit that he did wrong. Your father always disapproved of the
sale of those bonds."
"The speculation was a good one, and would have paid splendidly had
events arranged themselves differently; even at the worst no one could
foresee the burning of Richmond. Cousin Mary's money couldn't have
freed Shirley, but if things had gone well with the venture, that
tobacco would have done so, and left a handsome surplus. Charlie Mason
is a man of fine judgment, and that he failed that time was through no
fault of his. It was the fortunes of war."
Mrs. Mason sighed and dropped the subject. She was unconvinced, and
continued to feel regret that Mr. Byrd had been allowed to work his
speculative will with his wife's little patrimony. It would have been
a serviceable nest-egg for the children, and a help to Jim in his long
struggle. All of her life, she had been accustomed to seeing husbands