Mary Greenway McClelland - Princess

M >> Mary Greenway McClelland >> Princess

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With the largest black gobbler Sawney was on terms of deadly enmity;
for on more than one occasion had his precious biscuit been plucked
from his unsuspicious hand, and borne away in triumph by the wily bird.
Half of feeding time was usually consumed by Sawney in throwing small
stones at his enemy, who, as he was never by any chance smitten, would
raise his head from time to time and gobble his assailant to scorn.

On this particular morning there had been a lull in the feud. Sawney
had devoured his biscuit unmolested, and had offered no gratuitous
insults to his foe. Pocahontas, having emptied her basket, was
watching her flock with interest and admiration, when Berkeley made his
appearance on the porch with a letter in his hand. He seemed in a
hurry, and called to his sister impatiently.

"Look here, Princess," he said, as she joined him, "here's a letter
from Jim to old Aunt Violet, his 'mammy.' He told me he had promised
the old woman to write to her. It came with my mail this morning, and
I haven't time to go over to Shirley and read it to her; I wish you
would. She's too poorly to come after it herself, so put on your
bonnet and step over there now, like a good girl."

"Step over there, indeed!" laughed Pocahontas. "How insinuatingly you
put it. Aunt Vi'let's cabin is way over at Shirley; half a mile beyond
Jim Byrd's line fence."

"General Smith's line fence, you mean. I wish you'd go, Princess.
There's money in the letter, and I don't want to send it by the
negroes. I promised Jim we'd look after the old woman for them. The
girls want her to come to Richmond, but she won't consent to quit the
old place. She hasn't any children of her own, you know."

Pocahontas extended her hand for the letter. "She ought to go to
Richmond and live with Belle or Nina," she said, slipping it into her
pocket. "She'd die of homesickness way out in California with Susie.
I wonder whether the new people will let her stay at Shirley?"

"Oh, yes; Jim made every arrangement when he found she wouldn't consent
to move. He had an understanding with General Smith about the corner
of land her cabin stands on; reserved it, or leased it, or something.
It's all right."

Always kind, always considerate, thought the girl, wistfully, even amid
the pain and hurry of departure--the sundering of old ties, finding
time to care for the comfort of his old nurse. Good, faithful Jim.

"Have the new people come?" she called after her brother, as he
disappeared within the house.

"I don't know. I rather think they have," he answered. "I noticed
smoke rising from the kitchen chimney this morning. Ask Aunt
Rachel--the negroes are sure to know."

Pausing a moment at the kitchen door to request the servants to inform
her mother that she had walked over to Shirley to read a letter to old
Aunt Vi'let, and would be home in an hour or so, Pocahontas set out on
her expedition, never noticing that little Sawney, with a muttered "Me
d'wine too," was resolutely following her. The way led along a
pleasant country road, as level as a table, which ran, with scarcely a
bend, or turning, straight from the Masons' back gate over to the
ancient home of the Byrd family at Shirley. Overhead the interlacing
branches of oak and magnolia trees made a gorgeous canopy of glossy
green and russet, and the sunshine filtering through the leaves
embroidered the old road with an intricate pattern of light and shadow.
Now and then a holly tree, or bush, bright with berries, made a lovely
dash of color, and glowed all over with suggestions of Christmas and
rejoicing.

Pocahontas sauntered slowly, enjoying the beauty of the morning, and
thinking happy thoughts of the past, in which were mingled memories of
the three Byrd girls, who had been her playmates, and of Jim. It was
just beside that holly that Nina Byrd, an enterprising child, had
fallen over the fence into a mud puddle, while in pursuit of a little
striped ground squirrel, and soiled her hands and dress, and afterward
shook her and Susie because they laughed at her. Nina was always
passionate. And over in that meadow, she had once been forced to take
refuge in a tree from the hostile demonstrations of an unruly heifer
whose calf she had annoyed with overtures of friendship. She had sat
among the branches, forlorn and frightened, for more than an hour,
feeling that each moment was a month, and that such a thing as
forgetfulness was impossible to the bovine mind, when Jim, cantering
home from school over in the village, had spied her out and rescued her.

Passing from retrospect to anticipation, the girl's mind wandered to
the new arrivals, and idle speculations about them filled it.
Naturally, her thoughts were colored by her wishes, and she pleased
herself with fancying them agreeable people, refined and cultured, with
whom association would be pleasant. Her fancy was untrammeled, for her
facts were few, and the name afforded no clew whatever. People named
"Smith" might be any thing--or nothing, regarded socially. The name
was non-committal, but it suggested possibilities, and its range was
infinite. Wits, felons, clergymen, adventurers, millionaires and
spendthrifts, all had answered to the unobtrusive cognomen. It was
plain and commonplace, but as baffling as a disguise. With Talbot,
Meredith, or Percival, the case is different, such nomenclature
presupposes gentility. As the name "Percival" crossed the girl's mind
in her whimsical musings, her thoughts seized upon it and fitted it
instantly to the name which had preceded it, Percival--and Smith!
Percival Smith! That was the name signed to the letter they had
re-discovered after its sleep of years--the letter telling them of
Temple. This newcomer was, or had been, an army officer--a general.
Suppose it should be the same person? Nay; it must be--it _was_! Her
mind leaped to the delightful conclusion impetuously, and before she
had proceeded ten yards further, Pocahontas was fully convinced of the
correctness of her conclusion, and busy with plans for returning the
kindness they had received.

Filled with pleasure in her thought, her steps quickened, as though her
feet were trying to keep pace with her bright imaginings. And so
engrossed was she with castle-building, that it was only when she
stopped to climb a fence separating the road from a field through which
lay a short cut to Aunt Violet's cabin, that she became aware of her
small attendant.

"Why, Sawney, who told you to come?" she questioned, as she sprang to
the ground on the other side. The little fellow slowly and carefully
mounted the fence, balancing his fat body on the top rail as he turned
circumspectly in order to scramble down. When the landing had been
safely effected, he peered up at her with twinkling eyes, and
announced, with the air of one imparting gratifying intelligence:
"Nobody. I tum myse'f. I dwine long-er you."

"There are sheep in this field; you'd better run home. They'll scare
you to death."

"Ain't 'feard," was the valiant response.

Pocahontas wrinkled up her brows; it was almost too far to send him
back alone, and there was no one passing along the road who could
escort him to the home gate--even if he would go, which was unlikely.
It would not do to start him home with the certainty that he would
return, the instant her eye was off him, and stand by the fence,
peeping through the cracks until she should get back to him. Since he
had followed her so far, it would be better to let him go all the way.

"Come, then," she said, doubtfully, "I suppose I must take you,
although you had no business to follow me. If the sheep come after us,
Sawney, remember that you're not afraid. You must not cry, or hold on
to my dress with your dirty little hands. Do you hear?"

"Ya-m," acquiesced Sawney, with suspicious readiness, resuming his line
of march behind her.

They pursued their way uneventfully until they had reached the middle
of the field when the catastrophe, which Pocahontas had anticipated,
occurred. A flock of sheep peacefully grazing at a little distance,
suddenly raised their heads, and advanced with joyful bleating,
evidently regarding the pair as ministering spirits come to gratify
their saline yearning. Sawney--perjured Sawney! all unmindful of his
promise, no sooner beheld their advance, than he halted instantly, the
muscles of his face working ominously.

"Come on, Sawney," urged the young lady, encouragingly, "the sheep
won't hurt you: they think we have salt for them; come on."

But Sawney had no confidence in the explanation, and plainly
discredited the statement of the animals' lack of hostile intention.
He refused to stir: nay, more, he dropped himself solidly to the earth
with an ear-splitting howl, and grabbed tight hold of Pocahontas's
dress with both grimy paws; the sheep, meanwhile, came hurrying up at a
sharp trot, pushing against each other in their haste, and bleating in
glad anticipation of a treat. Some of the boldest ventured near enough
to sniff the girl's dress, gazing up at her expectantly, with their
soft, pretty eyes; a proceeding which evoked redoubled yells from
Sawney. They were perfectly harmless; even the rams were peaceful,
which made the child's conduct the more provoking. In vain Pocahontas
coaxed, threatened and commanded, in vain she assured him solemnly that
the sheep would not hurt him, and acrimoniously that if he did not hush
instantly and get up, she would leave him alone for the sheep to eat
up. Sawney would not stir. The more she talked the louder he howled
and the more obstinately he clung to her dress. Then she took off her
hat and waved it at the animals who sprang aside, startled at first,
but returned in closer ranks with more insistent bleating. Losing
patience at last, Pocahontas stooped and caught the boy by his
shoulders and shook him soundly. She was about to proceed to more
violent measures when a voice at her elbow said quietly:

"Perhaps I can be of service to you."

She started, and glanced round quickly. A slender, dark, young man, a
stranger, was standing beside her, glancing, with unconcealed
amusement, from her flushed, irate countenance to the sulky, streaming
visage at her feet.

"Oh, thank you; you can indeed," accepting his proffered aid with
grateful readiness. "If you will kindly drive these sheep away, I'll
be much indebted to you. This provoking little boy is afraid of them,
or pretends to be, and I can't induce him to stir. Now, Sawney, hush
that abominable noise this instant! The gentleman is going to drive
all the sheep away."

With perfect gravity, but his eyes full of laughter, Nesbit Thorne
flourished his cane and advanced on the flock menacingly. The animals
backed slowly. "Will that do?" he called, when he had driven them
about a hundred yards.

"A little further, please," she answered. "No, a great deal further;
quite to the end of the field. He won't move yet!" Her voice quivered
with suppressed mirth.

Feeling like "Little Boy Blue" recalled to a sense of duty, Thorne
pursued the sheep remorselessly; the poor beasts, convinced at last
that disappointment was to be their portion, trotted before him meekly,
giving vent to their feelings in occasional bleats of reproach.

Meanwhile, Pocahontas lifted Sawney forcibly to his feet, and led him
across to the opposite fence, over which she helped him to climb, being
determined that no more scenes should be inflicted on her that morning.
When she had put a barrier between him and danger, she ordered him to
sit down and calm his shattered nerves and recover his behavior. She
remained within the field, herself, leaning against the fence and
awaiting the gentleman's return, that she might thank him.

By the time he rejoined her, Nesbit Thorne had decided that his new
acquaintance was a very handsome, and unusually attractive woman. The
adventure amused him, and he had a mind to pursue it further. As he
approached, he removed his hat courteously, with a pleasant,
half-jocular remark about the demoralized condition of her escort, and
a word indicative of his surprise at finding a country child, of any
color, afraid of animals.

"Yes; it is unusual," she assented, smiling on him with her handsome
gray eyes, "I can't account for his terror, for I'm sure no animal has
ever harmed him. If he were older I'd accuse him of trying to earn a
cheap notoriety, but he's almost too little to pretend. He's a
troublesome monkey, and if I'd noticed he was following me, I'd have
forbidden him. I'm much indebted for your kindly service; without your
assistance, Sawney would have sat there screaming until they organized
an expedition at home to cruise in search of us, or the sheep had
retired of their own accord."

"Not as bad as that, I guess," he returned, extending his hand to aid
her in mounting the fence, noticing that the one she gave him was
delicate and shapely, and that the foot, of which he caught a glimpse,
was pretty, and well-arched. He would gladly have detained her talking
in the pleasant sunshine, or even--as time was no object, and all ways
alike--have liked to saunter on beside her, but there was no mistaking
the quiet decision of her manner as she repeated her thanks and bade
him good morning.

"Who the dickens was she?" he wondered idly as he leaned on the fence
in his turn, and watched the graceful figure disappearing in the
distance. She walked well, he noticed, without any of the ugly tricks
of gait so many women have; firm and upright, with head finely poised,
and every movement a curve. Her look and voice harmonized with her
carriage; she pleased his artistic sense, and he lowered his lids a
little as he watched her, as one focuses a fine picture, or statue.

The aesthetic side of Thorne's nature was cultured to the extreme of
fastidiousness; ugly, repulsive, even disagreeable things repelled him
more than they do most men. He disliked intensely any thing that
grated, any thing that was discordant. If "taste is morality," Thorne
had claims to be considered as having attained an unusual development.
His taste ruled him in most things, unless, indeed, his passions were
aroused, or his will thwarted, in which case he could present
angularities of character in marked contrast to the smoothness of his
ordinary demeanor.

Women amused him, as a rule, more than they interested him. He
constantly sought among them that which, as yet, he had never
found--that which he was beginning to think he never should find,
originality combined with unselfishness.

Even in that brief interview, Pocahontas had touched a chord in his
nature no woman had ever touched before; it vibrated--very faintly, but
enough to arrest Thorne's attention, for an instant, and to cause him
to bend his ear and listen. In some subtle way, a difference was
established between her and all other women. Her ready acceptance of
his aid, her absolute lack of self-consciousness, even her calmly
courteous dismissal of him, piqued Thorne's curiosity and interest. He
reflected that in all probability he would meet her soon again, and the
idea pleased him.

As he selected a cigar, the grotesque side of the adventure touched
him; he smiled, and the smile broadened into a laugh as he recalled his
own part in the performance. What would Norma have said, could she
have beheld him heading off sheep from a squalling little African at
the command of an utterly strange young woman?

Pocahontas related her adventure gleefully when they were all assembled
at dinner; and the amusement it excited was great. Berkeley insisted
teasingly that her deliverer would develop into one of the workmen from
Washington, employed by General Smith in the renovation of Shirley.
One of the carpenters, or--as he looked gentlemanly and wore a coat, a
fresco man, abroad in search of an original idea for the dining-room
ceiling. This idea she had obligingly furnished him, and he would be
able to make a very effective ceiling of her, and Sawney, and the
sheep, if he should handle them rightly. These suggestions Pocahontas
scouted, maintaining gayly that the dark stranger was none other than
her "Smith," the very identical John of her destiny.

Later she confided to her brother her conjecture relative to the
identity of their new neighbor, and was more delighted than surprised
to learn from him that her surmise had been correct. Berkeley had
obtained the information from the solicitor in Wintergreen, who had
been employed in the transfer of the estate.

CHAPTER VII.

The Smith family speedily settled down into their new home, and after
the first feeling of strangeness had worn off, were forced to
acknowledge that the reality of country living was not so disagreeable
as they had anticipated. The neighborhood was pleasantly and thickly
settled, the people kind-hearted and hospitable. True, Mrs. Smith
still secretly yearned for modern conveniences and the comforts of a
daily market, and felt that time alone could reconcile her to the
unreliability and inefficiency of colored servants, but even she had
compensation. Her husband--whose time, since his retirement, had hung
like lead upon his hands, was busy, active and interested, full of
plans, and reveling in the pure delight of buying expensive machinery
for the negroes to break, and tons of fertilizers for them to waste.
The girls were pleased, and Norma happier and less difficult than she
had been for years. And, best and most welcome of all, Warner appeared
to strengthen. As for Percival, his satisfaction knew no bounds; his
father had given him a gun and Nesbit Thorne was teaching him how to
use it.

At the eleventh hour Nesbit Thorne had decided to accompany his
relatives in their flitting, instead of waiting to visit them later in
the season. He was incited thereto by idleness and ennui, leavened by
curiosity as to the manner in which their future life would be ordered,
and also by a genuine desire to be of service to them in the
troublesome move. Perhaps there was, besides, an unacknowledged
feeling in his breast, that with the departure of his kindred, New York
would become lonelier, more wearisome than ever. They had given him a
semblance of a home, and there was in the man's nature an undercurrent
of yearning after love and the rounding out of true domestic life, that
fretted and chafed in its obstructed channel, and tried here and there
blindly for another outlet.

Thorne's coming with them seemed to the Smiths a very natural
proceeding. His aunt proposed it one day, when he had been more than
usually helpful, vowing that she scarcely knew how to get along without
him, and Thorne fell in with the proposal at once; it made little
difference, since he was coming for the shooting anyway. If Norma had
another theory in regard to his unwillingness to be separated from
them, she was careful to keep it hidden.

The country gentry, led and influenced by the Masons, extended the
right hand of fellowship to the new-comers, and wrapped the folds of
the social blanket cordially around them. The worldly affairs of the
Virginians, like their surroundings, were in a more or less perceptible
state of dilapidation, and their means frequently failed to match their
hospitality. But their intentions were the best, and the Smiths
(well-bred people, neither arrogant, nor purse-proud) speedily became
reconciled to informality and lack of system, and learned to overlook
deficiencies, or to piece them out with kindness.

From the first they were thrown much into the society of the Lanarth
family, for the Masons at once assumed right of property in them, being
bent with simple loyalty on defraying some portion of their debt of
gratitude. When their loved one was "sick and in prison" these
strangers had extended to him kindness, and now that opportunity
offered, that kindness should be returned, full measure, pressed down
and running over. For the general, Pocahontas conceived a positive
enthusiasm, a feeling which the jolly old soldier was not slow in
discovering, nor backward in reciprocating; the pair were the best of
friends.

Ever since the finding of the letter, the girl's mind had been filled
with the story of the brother whom she scarcely remembered. With
tender imagination, she exaggerated his youth, his courage, his
hardships, and glorified him into a hero. Every thing connected with
him appeared pitiful and sacred; his saber hung above the mantle,
crossed with his father's, and she took it down one morning and
half-drew the dulled blade from the scabbard. The brass of the hilt,
and the trimmings of the belt and scabbard were tarnished, and even
corroded in places. She got a cloth and burnished them until they
shone like gold. When she replaced it, the contrast with the other
sword hurt her, and a rush of remorseful tenderness made her take that
down also, and burnish it carefully. Poor father! almost as unknown as
the young brother, she was grieved that he should have been the second
thought.

She was restoring her father's sword to its place, and re-arranging the
crimson sash, faded and streaked in its folds, from wear and time, when
Norma and Blanche arrived, escorted by Nesbit Thorne. Little Sawney
had been sitting on the hearth-rug watching her polish the arms, and
offering suggestions, and Pocahontas dispatched him to invite her
guests into the parlor, while she ran up-stairs to remove the traces of
her work. The young people from Shirley often walked over in the
afternoons; the way was short and pleasant, and the brother and sister
usually accompanied them part of the way home.

Thorne was fond of these informal visits; his interest in Pocahontas
had increased; the chord, instead of merely vibrating, was beginning to
give out faint, sweet notes, like a far-off dream of music, just
stirring toward embodiment. He took a keen artistic pleasure in her,
she satisfied him, and at first he was almost shy of pressing the
acquaintance lest she should fail somewhere. He had been disappointed
so many times, had had so many exquisite bubbles float before him, to
break at a touch and leave only dirty soap-suds. He let himself be
interested slowly, drawing out the pleasure, and getting its full
flavor. Then, when he found that it was true metal and might be worked
at will without fear of baseness, or alloy, he gave himself up to the
pleasure of it. Then, his instinct being always to draw to himself
what he desired, he strove to awaken an interest in her. He was a man
of unusually brilliant attainments, and he spared no pains. He began
to seek her society, and, when in it, to exert himself and appear
always at his best, trying to fascinate her as she was, unconsciously,
beginning to fascinate him. He would entrap her into ventilating her
old-fashioned ideas and prejudices; her primitive notions of life and
conduct. Her straightforwardness, simplicity, absolute truthfulness,
struck him as quaint and delicious; even her romance and almost German
sentiment were attractive to him. He felt like a scientist, who
discovers old truths in an absolutely new development. Early in their
acquaintance he discovered her fondness for old legends, and her
perfect acceptance of, and faith in them; and it was his delight to
beguile her into relating tales of her kindred, and of the olden times
so dear to the hearts of Virginians. Her remarks and comments often
touched, always interested him, although sometimes they well-nigh
convulsed him with amusement. To the mind of the man of the world they
appeared so--almost obsolete.

Pocahontas was generally willing enough to tell her stories, unless
indeed Norma happened to be present, and then the improvisatrice was
dumb. Pocahontas was not in sympathy with Norma. Norma thought old
stories great rubbish, and did not scruple to show that such was her
opinion, and Pocahontas resented it. One evening, in the beginning of
their acquaintance, the three girls had walked down to the old willows
at the foot of the lawn, and Pocahontas, for the amusement of her
guests, had related the little story connected with them.

"I think it was all great foolishness," Norma declared. "If she loved
the man, why not marry him at once like a sensible woman? The idea of
making him wait three years, and watch a rubbishing little tree, just
because his brother would have made a scene. What if he did make a
scene? He would soon have submitted to the inevitable, and made
friends. The lady couldn't have cared much for her lover, to be
willing to put up with that driveling probation."

"She did love him," retorted Pocahontas, with annoyance, "and she
proved it by being willing to sacrifice a little of her happiness to
spare him the bitterness of a quarrel with his own brother. The men
were twins, and they loved one another, until unnatural rivalry pushed
family affection into the background. If the matter had been settled
when both were at white heat, an estrangement would have ensued which
it would have taken years to heal--if it ever _was_ healed. There's no
passion so unyielding as family hate. They were her kinsmen, too, men
of her own blood; she must think of _them_, outside of herself. The
welfare of the man she didn't love must be considered as well as that
of the man she did love--more, if any thing, because she gave him so
much less. How could she come between twin brothers, and turn their
affection to hatred? She knew them both--knew that her own true lover
would hold firm for all the years of his life, so that she could safely
trust him for three. And she knew that the lighter nature would, in
all probability, prove inconstant; and if he left her of his own
freewill, there could be no ill-feeling, and no remorse."

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