Part 18 (2/2)
And as she faced the domineering woman in her trappings of fas.h.i.+on all the humble blood in the negro's veins, which had come down to her from the forewomen who had cradled on their black b.r.e.a.s.t.s the mothers of such as Caroline Darrah, was turned into the jungle pa.s.sion for defense of this slight white thing that was the child of her heart if not of her body. The danger of it made Mrs. Lawrence fairly quail, and, white with fright, she gathered her rich furs about her and fled just as Caroline Darrah's returning footsteps were heard in the hall.
”Why, where did Mrs. Lawrence go, Tempie?” she demanded in astonishment.
Tempie had just the moment in which to rally herself but she had accomplished the feat, though her eyes still rolled ominously.
”She 'membered something what she forgot and had ter hurry. She lef'
scuses fer you,” and Tempie busied herself with the cups and tray.
”She was beginning to say something queer to me, Tempie, when you came in. It was about Mr. Sevier and I didn't understand. I almost felt that she was being disagreeable to me and it frightened me--about him. I--”
”Law, I spects you is mistook, chile, an' if it war anything she jest wants him herself and was a-laying out ter tell you some enflirtment she had been a-trying ter have with him. Don't pay no 'tention to it.” By this time she had regained her composure and was able to rea.s.sure Caroline with her usual positiveness to which she added an amount of worldly tact in subst.i.tuting a highly disturbing thought in place of the dangerous one.
”Do you really think she can be in love with--with him, Tempie?” demanded Caroline Darrah, wide-eyed with astonishment. She was entirely diverted from any desire to follow out or weigh Mrs. Lawrence's remark to her by the wiliness of the experienced Tempie.
”They ain't no telling what widder women out fer number twos _will_ do,”
answered Tempie sagely. ”Now, you run and let Miss Annette put that blue frock on you 'fore dinner. In times of disturbance like these here women oughter fix theyselves up so as ter 'tice the men ter eat a little at meal times. Ain't I done put on this white ap.r.o.n ter try and git that no 'count Jefferson jest ter take notice a little uv his vittals. Now go on, honey--it's late.”
And thus the love of the old negro had taken away the only chance given Caroline Darrah to learn the facts of the grim story, from the knowledge of which she might have worked out salvation for her lover and herself.
An hour later as they were being served the soup by the absorbed and inattentive Jeff, Mrs. Matilda laid down her spoon and said to Caroline anxiously:
”I wish Phoebe had come out to-night. I asked her but she said she was too busy. She looked tired. Do you suppose she could be ill?”
”Yes,” answered the major dryly, ”I feel sure that Phoebe is ill. She is at present, I should judge, suffering with a malady which she has had for some time but which is about to reach the acute stage. It needs judicious ignoring so let's not mention it to her for the present.”
”I understand what you mean, Major,” answered his wife with delighted eyes, ”and I won't say a word about it. It will be such a help to David to have a wife when he is the judge. How long will it be before he can be the governor, dear?”
”That depends on the wife, Mrs. Buchanan, to a large extent,” answered the major with a delighted smile.
”Oh, Phoebe will want him to do things,” said Mrs. Matilda positively.
”No doubt of that,” the major replied. ”I see David Kildare slated for the full life from now on--eh, Caroline?”
And the major had judged Phoebe's situation perhaps more rightly than he realized, for while David led the vote-directors' rally at the theater and later was closeted with Andrew for hours over the last editorial appeal in the morning _Journal_, Phoebe sat before her desk in her own little down-town home. Mammy Kitty was snoring away like a peaceful watch-dog on her cot in the dressing-room and the whole apartment was dark save for the shaded desk-light.
The time and place were fitting and Phoebe was summoning her visions--and facing her realities. Down the years came sauntering the nonchalant figure of David Kildare. He had asked her to marry him that awful, lonely, sixteenth birthday and he had asked her the same thing every year of all the succeeding ten--and a number of times in between. Phoebe squared herself to her reviewing self and admitted that she had cared for him then and ever since--_cared_ for him, but had starved his tenderness and in the lover had left unsought the man. But she was clear-sighted enough to know that the handsome easy-going boy, who had wooed with a smile and taken rebuff with a laugh, was not the steady-eyed forceful man who now faced her. He stood at the door of a life that stretched away into long vistas, and now he would demand. Phoebe bowed her head on her hands--suppose he should not demand!
And so in the watches of the night the siege was raised and Phoebe, the dauntless, brilliant, arrogant Phoebe had capitulated. No love-lorn woman of the ages ever palpitated more thoroughly at the thought of her lover than did she as she kept vigil with David across the city.
But there were articles of capitulation yet to be signed and the ceremony of surrender to come.
CHAPTER XI
ACROSS THE MANY WATERS
And the day of the election arrived next morning and brought cold clouds shot through with occasional gleams of pale suns.h.i.+ne, only to be followed by light but threatening flurries of snow.
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