Mary Greenway McClelland - Princess

M >> Mary Greenway McClelland >> Princess

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Thorne leaned on the fence of the field where he had first seen
Pocahontas, and went over his former experience of love. What a
miserable thing it had been, at best! How feverish, vapory and
unsatisfying! What a wretched fiasco his marriage had proved! And yet
he had loved his wife! Her beauty was of a type that insures its
possessor love of a certain sort--not the best, but strong enough to
stand the wear and tear of well-to-do existence, if only it is
returned. If Ethel had loved him, Thorne would have held to his lot,
and munched his husks, if not with relish, certainly with decency and
endurance. But Ethel did not love him.

Their marriage, from Ethel's standpoint, had been mercantile; for his
wealth and position, she had willingly bartered her youth and beauty,
and if he would have been content with face value, she would have been
content. Why should people trouble the depths of life when the surface
was so pleasant and satisfying? She liked Thorne well enough, but his
ceaseless craving for congeniality, deep affection, community of
interest, and the like, wearied, bored and baffled her. Why should
they care for the same things, cultivate similar tastes, have
corresponding aspirations? If they differed in thought and life and
expression, let them differ--it was of no consequence. She found her
husband's exactions tiresome. He had her birthright, she had his
pottage; let the matter end there, and each be satisfied.

But Thorne was _not_ satisfied. He had married a transcendently
beautiful woman, but he had no wife. Half the men of his acquaintance
envied him, but he did not rejoice, nor plume himself. He wanted his
wife to lean on him, to clothe the strength of his manhood with the
grace of her womanhood--and his wife showed herself not only capable of
standing alone, but of pushing him away with both hands. His mood
underwent many changes, and finally he let her go, with some disgust,
and a deep inward curse at his past folly. It was not a pleasant
retrospect.

Night had fallen; the air was still and brooding; across the sky
scudded ragged masses of clouds, advanced guard of the storm that was
mustering along the horizon; everywhere there was a feeling that
foreboded snow. In the sky, few stars were visible, and those
glimmered with a cold, wan light; at the zenith a solitary planet
burned steadfastly. The road stretched away into the night; it was
dark under the trees beside the fence; away in the distance the echo of
footsteps sounded.

Thorne thought of Pocahontas. His face softened, and his eyes shone
tenderly. How true she was, how thorough and noble. Her pure face and
fearless gray eyes rose before him; with the love of such a woman to
bless him, her hand in his, her influence surrounding him, to what
might not a man aspire! There were no insincerities, no half-truths,
no wheels within wheels, such as Ethel delighted in, about this other
woman. Even her occasional fits of impatience and temper were indulged
in frankly--a sudden flurry of tempest and then the bright, warm
sunshine; no long-continued murkiness, and heavy sodden depression for
hours and days.

Did she love him? As he asked himself the question, Thorne's heart
bounded, and the blood coursed hotly through his veins. He had tried
to make her love him--had he succeeded? Thorne was no fatuous fool,
blinded by his own vanity, but his power over women had been often
tried, fully proven, and he had confidence in himself. Once only had
he failed of securing the love he sought, and it was the memory of that
failure which made him pause and question now. He was not sure. She
liked him, was pleasant and gracious, but he had seen her so to other
men. Never until this evening had she changed color at his touch. She
liked him--and Thorne felt within him a fierce desire to change her
passivity of regard into wild activity of passion. He could do it.
That tide of crimson, a vague terror and awakening in the gray eyes, as
they met his gaze on re-opening to consciousness, had shown him a tiny
cleft which his hand might broaden, until it should flood their two
lives with the light of love.

The echo of the footsteps deepened, merged into actual sound, drew
nearer. Thorne, in the deep obscurity of the trees, listened, moving
near to the dusky, trunk of an old magnolia; he was in no mood for
passing civilities, and in this friendly country all wayfarers
exchanged greetings. In the sound of the advancing steps, he could
distinguish an unmistakable shuffle which proclaimed race--two negroes
returning from the little village, beyond Shirley, whither they had
gone to make Christmas purchases. They walked by the light of a
flaring pine knot, which was encouraged to burn by being swung around
violently from time to time; it lighted the men's dark faces, and
reflected itself in intermittent flashes on the sides of a bright tin
bucket which the younger man carried, but it intensified the gloom
around them. Both had on their backs bags filled with lumpy things,
like bundles. They were talking cheerfully, and the sound of their
rough voices and guttural laughter reached Thorne before the men
themselves came abreast of his position. The negro with the bucket was
relating an anecdote. Thorne caught part of it.

"Yes, sar," he was saying, "dat was de fust ov it. Mars Jim, he clumb
right spang up to de tip-top de tree, an' de ice was cracklin', an'
slippin', an' rattlin' down like broke up lamp chimblys. De little
gals was 'pon de groun' watchin' him, an' hollerin' an' wringin' deir
han's. I was loadin' de ox-cart wid pine kindlin's back in de woods,
an' when I hearn de chil'en hollerin', I came runnin' to see what was
de matter wid 'em."

"What he clumb arter?" questioned the other negro; "hit's mighty
dangersome gittin' up trees when dey got sleet 'pon 'em."

"Mighty dangersome," acquiesced the narrator, "dat's what I 'lowed ter
myse'f when I seed him. He was arter a lump o' dat green truck wid
white berries 'pon it--mizzletoe, dey calls its name. When I got dar,
he was comin' down de tree holdin' it by de stem wid he teef. He
wouldn't fling it down, kase he's feard he'd spile de berries. Time he
totch de groun' good, Miss Grace, she hauled off, she did, an' smacked
his jaws ez hard ez she could stave, an' axed him how _dar'ed_ he skeer
'em like dat? An' Mars Jim, he larfed out loud, and said: 'Princess
wanted it,' an' den he put de truck he'd resked his nake ter git in
Miss Pocahontas's arms, an' she hugged it up tight, an' went long to de
house cryin'."

Thorne moved involuntarily, and the gun in his hand struck against the
trunk of the tree behind which he stood. The negroes paused and
glanced around alertly, the man with the torch swinging it backward and
forward, with a muttered "What's dat?" Nothing of any consequence; a
bird, or a rabbit, perhaps--nothing worth investigation. The man with
the bucket set his burden on the ground, and opened and shut his hand
rapidly several times. The wire of the handle had cramped his fingers.
Both men transferred their bags from the right shoulder to the left,
and leaned against the tree stems to rest themselves a moment.

The elder man resumed the subject.

"Love her! Lord-er-mussy 'pon me! Jim Byrd was fa'rly _foolish_ wid
love. De groun' warn't fitten fur Miss Pocahontas ter set her foots
'pon in his notion; he'd er liked ter spread _hissef_ down to save her
slippers. T'want no question 'bout lovin' wid Mars Jim!"

"But he gone away," objected the torch-bearer. "I reckon Miss
Pocahontas done kick him; dat how come he lef. What he doin' in
Nexican ef he kin get what he want here? He _gone_!"

"_Dat_ ain't nothin'. He was bleeged ter go out yander ter git money
ter buy back de old place. Money mighty plentiful out dar, Aunt Vi'let
say. Gwine way ain't nothin' ter a _man_; he kin come back 'gin. I
went 'way ter Richmond onct myse'f ter rake up money 'nouf ter buy one
mule, an' rent er scrop o' lan', so ez I could marry Sarah. Mars Jim's
comin' back; las' word he sed ter Aunt Vi'let, was _dat_. Miss
Pocahontas ain't kick him n'other. What she gwine kick him fur? Mars
Jim's er likely man, an' all de ginnerashuns o' de Byrds an' Masons bin
marryin' one n'other ever sence Virginny war er settle_mint_. My ole
gran'daddy, whar war ole Mr. Dabney Byrd's kyar'ege driver, allus
sed--Lord, a-mussy! what DAT!!"

The speaker paused with his mouth open and a chilly sensation about the
back, as though a lump of ice were traveling down his spine. A sound,
as of scriptural denunciation, low, but intense, had caught his ear. A
bat, circling low, had grazed Thorne's face and caused him to throw up
his hand with an impatient oath. The wisdom of the defunct "kyar'ege
driver" was overwhelmed in the flood of perturbation which seized his
descendant. The man swung his torch around nervously and peered into
the darkness, conscious of a distrust of his surroundings that amounted
to positive pain. The other negro said nothing; but addressed himself
to the adjustment of his burden in the manner least likely to impede
retreat.

Among the colored folks this portion of the road enjoyed an evil
reputation, particularly after nightfall, for in a field near by there
was an ancient graveyard, and the rumor went, that the denizens thereof
were of a specially unruly, not to say malicious spirit, and found pure
delight in ambuscades along the road side, and in sallies upon
unsuspecting travelers with results too painful for description.

"Haunts was mighty rank 'bout dar," the negroes said, and after sundown
that part of the road was destitute of attractions. The graveyard had
not been used for many years; but that only made the danger greater,
for ghosts, grown bold with long immunity of office, were held capable
of deeper malignity, than would be within the range of ghosts oppressed
with the modesty of debutants. The fact that the occupants of the
place had, in life, been of their own race, inspired the negroes with
no feeling of kinship or confidence. They were earnestly afraid of all
spirits, be they white, black, or red; but most of all of black ones,
because they seemed most in league with the devil.

When, therefore, the light of the flickering pine torch fell obliquely
on Thorne's dark figure and caught a gleam from the polished mountings
of his gun, and another from the brass of the cartridge belt, which to
the terrified darkeys looked like a cincture of fire, they became
possessed with the idea that the most malevolent of all the spirits,
perhaps the devil himself, was upon them. Calling on their Maker with
more urgence than they ever did at "pray'r meetin'," they grabbed up
their belongings and addressed themselves to flight. The bags,
flopping up and down on their backs, held them to their speed, by
corporeal reminder of what they had to lose if the devil should
overtake them, and the molasses in the bucket slopped over the sides
and sweetened the dust at every jump. The bucket top had bounced off
in the first burst and sped down the road before them, and the owner,
feeling that he had no time to lose, never dreamed of stopping to look
for it. Every now and then the bucket banged against his leg causing
him to feel that the evil one might be gaining, and to yell "Oh, Lawdy!
Oh, Lawdy!!" at the top of his lungs. The torch-bearer had flung away
his light, thinking to elude the devil in the darkness, and all his
soul was in his heels.

Thorne laughed a little, in a mirthless fashion; but he was too
miserable to be amused. While the men talked, black jealousy had crept
around the old magnolia and linked arms with him. Twice in the same
evening this name had crossed him. Who the devil _was_ this Jim Byrd?
These men had spoken of him as the avowed lover of Pocahontas, the man
she would eventually marry. The girl herself had admitted him to be a
dear and valued friend--a friend so dear that his going had left a
blank in her life. The power he had but now felt to be his own,
suddenly appeared to be slipping into other hands. Another sickle was
sharpening for the harvest; other eyes had recognized the promise of
the golden grain; other hands were ready to garner the rich sheaves.

Thorne's heart grew hot; angry blood surged from it and inflamed his
system; every nerve tingled; his eyes glowed, and his fingers tightened
on the barrel of the gun beside him. His consciousness of antagonism
grew so intense that it seemed to annihilate space and materialize his
distant rival into an actual presence; his feeling was that which
animates brutes when they lock horns, or fly at each other's throats;
and, could the emotional force which swayed his soul have been
converted into physical force and projected through space, Jim would
never have seen the light of another day.

Poor Thorne! If suffering may be pleaded in extenuation of moods whose
cause is mingled love and pain, he certainly was not without excuse.
Imagination, wounded by jealousy, leaped forward into the future and
ranged amid possibilities that made him quiver--noble, beautiful
possibilities, filled with joy and light and sweetness--and filled for
his rival--not for him. As in a mirror he beheld his love in his
rival's arms, resting on his bosom, as an hour ago she had rested on
his own; only in this man's embrace, he pictured her glowing, sentient,
responsive to look and caress; not cold, lifeless and inanimate.
Should this thing be? No! a thousand times no! Must he always have a
stone for bread? Must his garners always stand empty while other men's
overflowed with corn?

Deeply the man cursed his past folly; bitterly he anathematized the
weakness which had allowed shadowy scruples and a too fastidious taste
to rule his judgment in the matter of a divorce. He would wait no
longer; he would break at once and forever the frail fetter that still
bound him to a union from which all reality, all sanctity had fled. He
would be free in fact, as he was in heart and thought, to pit his
strength against that of his rival. This prize should not slip from
his grasp uncontested. No man should approach the shrine unchallenged.

The wind rose, sighing fitfully; the clouds gathered and formed an army
which stormed the zenith and threatened to overwhelm the pure light of
the planet. The lesser stars vanished, two or three falling in their
haste and losing themselves forever in infinity. The night thickened;
snow began to fall.

CHAPTER X.

The Christmas festivities were to close on
New Year's Eve with a grand ball at Shirley.
It was to be a sumptuous affair with unlimited
Chinese lanterns, handsome decorations, a
magnificent supper, and a band from Washington.
The Smiths were going to requite the neighborhood's
hospitality with the beating of drums, the
clashing of cymbals, and the flowing of
champagne. This cordial friendly people had
welcomed them kindly, and must have their courtesy
returned in fitting style. Mrs. Smith suggested a
simpler entertainment, fearing contrast, and any
appearance of ostentation, but the general gauged
his neighbors better. They were at once too well
bred, and too self-satisfied for any idea of
comparison to occur to them. They would eat his
fruit-cake, or make him welcome to their
corn-bread with the same hearty unconcern. His
wealth, and their own poverty troubled them
equally little; they were abstract facts with
which hospitality had nothing to do. But in their
way they were proud; having given their best
without grudge or stint, they would expect his
best in return, and the general was determined
that they should have it. The risk of offense lay
in simplicity, not grandeur.

Mrs. Royall Garnett came over to Lanarth a day
or so before the grand event, bearing her family
in her train, to assist in the weighty matter of a
suitable toilet for Pocahontas. She was a tall,
handsome woman, with a noble bearing, and great
decision of character; and on most matters--notably
those pertaining to the sacred mysteries
of the wardrobe, her word with her family was
law. Grace's taste was admitted to be perfect.

After an exhaustive discussion of the subject, at
which both Berke and Royall ignorantly and
gratuitously assisted, and were flouted for their
pains, it was irrevocably decided that Pocahontas
should appear in pure white unrelieved by a
single dash of color.

"She looks cheap and common in any thing but
dead black, or pure white, at a party," pronounced
Grace with sisterly frankness, and of course that
settled the matter, although Mrs. Mason did
venture on the modest protest that it would look
"bride-like and unusual."

"I want her to look unusual," declared Grace;
"to make her so, is at present the object of my
being. I shall hesitate at nothing short of cutting
off her nose to secure that desirable result. To
be admired, a woman must stand out distinctly
from the throng; and I've set my heart on
Princess's being the belle of the ball. Have you
plenty of flowers, dear? As flowers are to be
your sole garniture, you must have a profusion.
I can't tolerate skimpy, rubbishing bouquets."

"None at all, Grace," confessed Pocahontas,
ruefully, "except a single calla. I cut my last
white rosebuds and camellias to send to Nina
Byrd Marion the very day before I heard about
the Shirley ball. Isn't it provoking?"

"Then somebody must get you some," Grace
responded promptly, pausing in her preparations,
and regarding her sister with the air of an autocrat;
"if the men are not lost to all sense of honor and
decency, you'll have plenty. Of course you _must_
have plenty. If only they will have sufficient
intellect to select white ones! But they won't.
I'd better instruct Roy and Berkeley at once."

On the morning of the ball, Berkeley entered
his mother's room, where the three ladies sat in
solemn conclave regarding with discontent a
waiter full of colored flowers which a thoughtful
neighbor had just sent over to Pocahontas. He
held in his hand a good-sized box which he
deposited in his sister's lap with the remark:

"Look, Princess! Here's a New Year's gift
just come for you. I don't know the writing. I
wonder what it is!"

"A subtle aroma suggests--fruit," hazarded
Grace, sniffing curiously.

"Perhaps flowers," suggests Mrs. Mason, who
that morning was a woman with one idea.

Pocahontas wrestled with the cords, unfolded
the wrappers, and lifted the cover. Then she
uttered a long drawn "oh" of satisfaction.

"What is it?" demanded the others with lively impatience.

Pocahontas lifted a card and turned it in her
hand, and a smile broke over her face as she
answered: "Flowers; from Jim Byrd."

Then she removed the damp moss and cotton,
and lifted spray after spray of beautiful snowy
jasmin--Cape Jasmin, pure and powerful, and
starry wreaths of the more delicate Catalonian.
Only white flowers--all jasmin, Jim's favorite
flower; and with them were tropical ferns and
grasses. As she held the exquisite blossoms in
her hands and inhaled their rich perfume, the girl
was conscious that when her old friend penned
the order for the fragrant gift, his heart had been
full of home, and of the evening beside the river
when she had worn his flowers in hair and dress,
and had bidden him farewell.

"How beautiful they are!" exclaimed Grace,
excitedly, "and just in time for to-night. To
think of the way I've made that wretched
husband of mine charge through the country since
day-break, this morning, in pursuit of white
flowers, and here they come like a fairy story. It was
very nice of Jim. I'd no idea there was so poetical
an impulse in the old fellow; as the selection
of these flowers appears to indicate."

"You don't appreciate Jim, Grace. You do
him injustice. If thought and care and love for
others, combined with tenderness, and delight
in giving pleasure, constitutes poetical impulses,
then Jim Byrd is the noblest poet we are
likely ever to meet." Pocahontas spoke warmly,
the color flushing to her cheeks, the light
coming to her eyes. Poor Jim!--so far away.
Was it disloyal to her old friend to go that
night to dance among strangers in the rooms
that had been his,--that were full of associations
connected with him? At all events, no flowers
would she wear save his; no other ornaments of
any kind. It would seem, then, as though he
participated in her pleasure; rejoiced in her joy.
Jim loved always to see her happy. For reasons
of their own, the two elder ladies had decided on
remaining at home, so that Pocahontas repaired
to the ball in male custody alone. Blanche, who
was on the watch for the Lanarth party, came
forward the instant of their arrival, accompanied
by her father, to welcome them, and to bear
Pocahontas away to the upper regions to warm
herself and remove her wrappings. The rooms
were a little chill, she explained, with a shiver,
in spite of the splendid fires the general had
kept roaring in them all day. Pocahontas must
remain where she was and warm herself
thoroughly, and she would send one of the boys for
her presently. And after a little girlish gossip
and mutual admiration of each others' appearance,
the small maiden tripped away to her duties below.

Soon there was a knock at the door, and
Pocahontas, catching up fan, bouquet and handkerchief,
opened it and stepped into the hall. Nesbit
Thorne, slender and distinguished looking, was
awaiting her, Blanche having encountered and
dispatched him immediately on her return to the
parlors. As the girl stood an instant framed by
the open door, thrown into relief by the soft
glowing background of the warmly lighted room,
Thorne's heart swelled with mingled gladness and
impatience. Joy in the pure perfection of her
beauty; impatience at the restraint circumstances
forced him still to put upon his love.

At the foot of the stairs they were pounced
upon by Percival, who had selected that coigne of
vantage as least likely to attract his mother's
attention, there to lay in wait for the cards of the
unwary. He had been strictly forbidden to
importune grown young ladies for dances unless
they happened to be wall-flowers, and the injunction
lay heavy on his soul. "I _will_ ask girls other
men ask," he muttered, darkly, "I hate putting
up with refuse and leavings. I'm going to ask
the ones I want to ask," and he intrenched
himself beside the stairway with intent to black-mail
such girls as he should fancy.

Pocahontas, who had a natural affinity for boys,
and a great fondness for Percival, yielded to his
demand readily enough, surrendering her card to
him in gay defiance of Thorne's outspoken
reprobation, and laughing mischievously as the boy
scrawled his name triumphantly opposite a waltz.

"B.M.! Who's B.M., Miss Princess?" he
questioned, as he dextrously avoided Thorne's
extended hand, and placed the card in Pocahontas's.

"You've got him down just above me, and you
wrote it yourself. Who is he? Benevolent
Missionary? Brother Mason?"

"Exactly!" she answered, smiling, and watching
Thorne scribble his name in several places on
her card. "It is Berkeley. The Byrd girls and I
always saved a waltz for him to prevent his feeling
left out. He don't like to ask girls generally;
his one arm makes it look awkward, and he knows
they wouldn't like to refuse, because they all feel
sorry for him. _We_ put a hand on each shoulder,
and don't care how it looks. Berke is adroit, and
manages quite nicely. Often, too, it's an
advantage to have a dance you can dispose of later
on, so I continue to put the initials, although
Berke seldom dances now. He liked waltzing
with the Byrd girls best."

"You were very intimate with the Byrds, I
think you said," Thorne remarked idly, bowing
to an acquaintance as he spoke.

"Very intimate. See what came to me this
morning; all these exquisite flowers, just when I
needed them for to-night. Roy searched the
neighborhood through for white flowers without
success, and then these came. Aren't they
beautiful?" And she lifted her bouquet toward his face.

"Extremely beautiful!" he assented, bending
his head to inhale their fragrance. "It was very
kind and thoughtful of your friends to send them.
I suppose, from the connection, that they are a
Byrd offering."

Pocahontas laughed softly. "Yes," she said,
"but they did not come from Belle, or Nina, and
Susie is in California. Jim ordered them for me.
I am so pleased."

Thorne instantly raised his head and stiffened
his back as though the delicate perfume were
some noxious poison, and moved on with her
toward the parlors in silence.

"I wish you knew Jim, Mr. Thorne," pursued
the happy voice at his side; "he's such a good
fellow, so noble, generous, and unselfish; we're all
so fond of Jim. I wish he were here to-night to
tread a measure with me in the old rooms. You
would be sure to fraternize with Jim. You could
not help liking him."

Thorne drew in his lips ominously. He could
help liking Jim Byrd well enough, and felt not
the faintest desire for either his presence or his
friendship. The intervention of a woman with
whom two men are in love has never yet established
amity between them; the very suggestion
of such a thing on her lips is sufficient to cause
an irruption of hatred, malice and all unkindness.

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