Part 10 (1/2)
”You took an awful risk then, Major,” said Phoebe with a twinkle in her eyes.
”I know it,” answered the major. ”I've been taking them for nearly forty years. It's added much to this affair between Mrs. Buchanan and me. Small excitements are all that are necessary to fan the true connubial flame. I didn't tell her about all this because I really hadn't the time. Tell her on the way out, for I expect there will be a rattle of musketry as soon as the dimity brigade hears the circ.u.mstances.”
Then for a half-hour Phoebe and the major wrote rapidly until she gathered her sheets together and left them under his paper-weight to be delivered to the devil from the office.
She departed quietly, taking Mrs. Matilda and Caroline with her.
And for still another hour the major continued to push his pen rapidly across the paper, then he settled down to the business of reading and annotating his work.
For years Major Buchanan had been the editor of the _Gray Picket_, which went its way weekly into almost every home in the South. It was a quaint, bright little folio full of articles of interest to the old Johnnie Rebs scattered south of Mason and Dixon. As a general thing it radiated good cheer and a most patriotic spirit, but at times something would occur to stir the gray ashes from which would fly a crash of sparks. Then again the spirit of peace unutterable would reign in its columns. It was published for the most part to keep up the desire for the yearly Confederate reunions--those bivouacs of chosen spirits, the like of which could never have been before and can never be after. The major's pen was a trenchant one but reconstructed--in the main.
But the scene at the Country Club in the early afternoon was, according to the major's prediction, far from peaceful in tone; it was confusion confounded. Mrs. Peyton Kendrick was there and the card-tables were deserted as the players, matrons and maids, gathered around her and discussed excitedly the result of her ”ways and means for the reunion”
mission to the city council, the judge's insult and David Kildare's reply. They were every mother's daughter of them Dames of the Confederacy and their very lovely gowns were none the less their fighting clothes.
”And then,” said Mrs. Payt, her cheeks pink with indignation, and the essence of belligerency in her excited eyes, ”for a moment I sat petrified, _petrified_ with cold rage, until David Kildare's speech began--there had never been a greater one delivered in the United States of America! He said--he said--oh, I don't know what he did say, but it was--”
”I just feel--” gasped Polly Farrell with a sob, ”that I ought to get down on my knees to him. He's a hero--he's a--”
”Of course for a second I was surprised. I had never heard David Kildare speak about a--a serious matter before, but I could have expected it, for his father was a most brilliant lawyer, and his mother's father was our senator for twenty years and his uncle our amba.s.sador to the court of--” and Mrs. Peyton's voice trailed off in the clamor.
”Well, I've always known that Cousin Dave was a great man. He ought to be the president or governor--or _something_. I would vote for him to-morrow--or that is, I would make some man--I don't know just who--do it!” And Polly's treble voice again took up the theme of David's praises.
”And think of the old soldiers,” said Mrs. Buchanan with a catch in her breath. ”It will hurt them so when they read it. They will think people are tired of them and that we don't want them to come here in the spring for the reunion. They are old and feeble and they have had so much to bear. It was cruel, _cruel_.”
”And to think of not wanting the children to see them and know them and love them--and understand!” Milly's soft voice both broke and blazed.
”I'm going to cry--I'm doing it,” sobbed Polly with her head on Phoebe's shoulder. ”I wasn't but twelve when they met here last time and I followed all the parades and cried for three solid days. It was delicious. I'm not mad at any Yankee--I'm in love with a man from Boston and I'm--oh, please, don't anybody tell I said that! I may not be, I just think so because he is so good-looking and--”
”We must all go out to the Soldier's Home to-morrow, a large committee, and take every good thing we can think up and make. We must pay them so much attention that they will let us make a joke of it,” said Mrs.
Matilda thinking immediately of the old fellows who ”sat in the sun”--waiting.
”Yes,” answered Mrs. Peyton, ”and we must go oftener. We want some more committees. It won't be many years--two were buried last week from the Home.” There was a moment's silence and the sun streamed in across the deserted tables.
”Oh,” murmured Caroline Darrah Brown with her eyes in a blaze, ”I can't stand it, Phoebe. I never felt so before--I who have no right.”
”Dear,” said Phoebe with a quiet though intensely sad smile, ”this is just an afterglow of what they must have felt in those awful times. Let's get them started at the game.”
For just a moment longer Phoebe watched them in their heated discussion, then chose her time and her strong quiet voice commanded immediate attention.
”Girls,” she said, and as she spoke she held out her hand to Mrs. Peyton Kendrick with an audacious little smile. Any woman from two to sixty likes to be called girl--audaciously as Phoebe did it. ”Let's leave it all to the men. I think we can trust them to compel the judge to dine off his yesterday's remarks in tomorrow's papers. And then if we don't like the way they have settled with him we can have a gorgeous time telling them how much better they might have done it. Let's all play--everybody for the game!”
”And Phoebe!” called Mrs. Payt as she sat down at the table farthest in the corner. She spoke in a clear high-pitched voice that carried well over the rustle of settling gowns and shuffling cards: ”We all intend after this to _see_ that David Kildare gets what he wants--you understand?” A laugh rippled from every table but Phoebe was equal to the occasion.
”Why not, Mrs. Payt,” she answered with the utmost cordiality. ”And let's be sure and find something he really wants to present to him as a testimony of our esteem.”
”Oh, Phoebe,” trilled Polly, her emotions getting the better of her as she stood with score-card in hand waiting for the game to begin, ”_I_ can't keep from loving him myself and _you_ treat him so mean!”
But a gale of merriment interrupted her outburst and a flutter of cards on the felts marked the first rounds of the hands. In a few minutes they were as absorbed as if nothing had happened to ruffle the depths; but in the pool of every woman's nature the deepest spot shelters the lost causes of life, and from it wells a tidal wave if stirred.
After a little while Caroline Darrah rose from a dummy and spoke in a low pleading tone to Polly, who had been watching her game, standing ready to score. Polly demurred, then consented and sat down while Caroline Darrah took her departure, quietly but fleetly, down the side steps.