Part 13 (2/2)
School terms came and went. Mrs. March attributed her son's failure to inherit literary talent to his too long a.s.sociation with his father. He stood neither first, second, nor last in anything. In spiritual conditions he was not always sure that he stood at all. At times he was shaken even in the belief that the love of fun is the root of all virtue, and although he called many a droll doing a prank which the law's dark lexicon terms a misdemeanor, for weeks afterward there would be a sound in his father's gentle speech as of that voice from which Adam once, in the cool of the day, hid himself. In church the sermons he sat under dwelt mainly on the technical difficulties involved in a sinner's salvation, and neither helped nor harmed him; he never heard them. One clear voice in the midst of the singing was all that engaged his ear, and when it carolled, ”He shall come down like rain upon the mown gra.s.s,” the notes themselves were to him the cooling shower.
One Sabbath afternoon, after a specially indigestible sermon which Sister Usher said enthusiastically to Major Garnet ought to be followed by a great awakening--as, in fact, it had been--Barbara, slim, straight, and fifteen, softly asked her mother to linger behind the parting congregation for Fannie. As Miss Halliday joined them John, from the other aisle, bowed so pathetically to his Sunday-school teacher that when she turned again to smile on Barbara and her mother she laughed, quite against her will. The mother and daughter remained grave.
”Fannie,” said Mrs. Garnet, her hand stealing into the girl's, ”I'm troubled about that boy.” Barbara walked ahead pretending not to hear, but listening hard.
”Law! Cousin Rose, so'm I! I wish he'd get religion or something. Don't look so at me, Cousin Rose, you _make_ me smile. I'm really trying to help him, but the more I try the worse I fail. If I should meet him on the straight road to ruin I shouldn't know what to say to him; I'm a pagan myself.”
XVII.
THE ROSEMONT ATMOSPHERE
About this time Barbara came into new surroundings. She had been wondering for a month what matter of disagreement her father and mother were trying to be very secret about, when one morning at breakfast her father said, while her mother looked out the window:
”Barb, we've decided to send you to Montrose to stay.” And while she was still gazing at him speechlessly, a gulping sob came from behind her mother's chair and Johanna ran from the room.
Barbara never forgot that day. Nor did her memory ever lose the picture of her father, as he came alone to see her the next day after her entrance into the academy, standing before the Misses Kinsington--who were as good as they were thin, and as sweet as they were aristocratic--winning their impetuous approval with the confession that the atmosphere of a male college--even though it was Rosemont--was not good for a young girl. While neither of the Misses Kinsington gave a hand to him either for welcome or farewell, when Mademoiselle Eglantine--who taught drawing, history, and French--happened in upon father and daughter a second time, after they had been left to say good-by alone, the hand of Mademoiselle lingered so long in his that Barbara concluded he had forgotten it was there.
”She's quite European in her way, isn't she, Barb?”
The daughter was mute, for she had from time to time noticed several women shake hands with her large-hearted father thus.
Twice a week Barbara spent an afternoon and night at Rosemont. Whether her father really thought its atmosphere desirable for her or not, she desired it, without ceasing and most hungrily. On Sunday nights, when the house had grown still, there would come upon her door the wariest of knocks, and Johanna would enter, choose a humble seat, and stay and stay, to tell every smallest happening of the week.
Not infrequently these recitals contained points in the history of John March.
Rosemont gave one of its unexpected holidays. John March and another senior got horses and galloped joyously away to Pulaski City, where John's companion lived. The seat of government was there. There, too, was the Honorable Mr. Leggett, his party being still uppermost in Blackland. He was still custodian, moreover, of the public school funds for the three counties.
Very late that night, as the two Rosemonters were about to walk past an open oyster saloon hard by the Capitol, John caught his fellow's arm.
They stopped in a shadow. Two men coming from an opposite direction went into the place together.
”Who's that white man?” whispered John. The other named a noted lobbyist, and asked,
”Who's the n.i.g.g.e.r?”
”Cornelius Leggett.” John's hand crept, trembling, to his hip pocket.
His companion grasped it. ”Pshaw, March, are you crazy?”
”No, are you? I'm not going to shoot; I was only thinking how easy I could do it.”
He stepped nearer the entrance. The lone keeper had followed the two men into a curtained stall. His back was just in sight.
”Let's slip in and hear what they say,” murmured John, visibly disturbed. But when his companion a.s.sented he drew back. His fellow scanned him with a smile of light contempt. There were beads of moisture on his brow. Just then the keeper went briskly toward his kitchen, and the two youths glided into the stall next to the one occupied.
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