Part 5 (1/2)
”And why not? Surely no man would grudge a paltry three years out of his whole life's happiness to avoid so dreadful a thing as ill blood between twin brothers. If _she_ could wait for his sake, _he_ could wait for hers. A woman must not cheapen herself; if she is worth winning, she must exact the effort.”
”I think it is a lovely story,” Blanche interposed, decidedly. ”The lady behaved beautifully; just exactly as she should have done. A quarrel between brothers is awful, and between twin brothers would be awfuler still.”
In her eager partisans.h.i.+p, Blanche's language was more concise than elegant, but she wanted Pocahontas to know that she sided with her.
Norma regarded her sister with amus.e.m.e.nt not unmixed with chagrin.
These new friends were stealing away her follower. Blanche was becoming emanc.i.p.ated.
”Any woman who trifles with her happiness, because of a scruple, is a fool,” she repeated, dogmatically.
Pocahontas held back the angry retort that was burning on the tip of her tongue, and let the subject drop. Norma was her guest, and, after all, what did it matter what Norma thought? But after that she refrained from repeating old stories before her; and of the two sisters, Blanche became her favorite.
As she entered the parlor with smiles and words of welcome, Blanche held out her hands filled with late roses and branches of green holly, bright with berries.
”See,” she said, ”two seasons in one bouquet. The roses are for your mother. I found them on a bush in a sheltered corner; and as we came along I made Nesbit cut the holly for me. I never can resist holly.
That tree by your gate is the loveliest thing I have ever seen; just like those in the store windows at home for Christmas. Only we never had such a profusion of berries, and I don't think they were as bright.
Do you think the holly we get at home is as bright, Norma?”
”Oh, yes; it looked always pretty much the same. We got beautiful holly every Christmas,” replied Norma, who did not like Virginia exalted at the expense of her native place.
”But not with such ma.s.ses of berries. Just look at this branch; was there ever any thing more perfect? Princess, please give me something to put it in. It's far too pretty to throw away. Can I have that vase on the piano?”
Pocahontas smiled a.s.sent. She could have holly by the cart-load, but she liked Blanche's enthusiasm. While the others chatted, Blanche decked the vase with her treasure; then two others which she found for herself on a table in the corner. There were still some lovely rich bits, quite small twigs, left when she had finished, and she once more clamored for something to put them in.
Pocahontas, in the midst of an eager discussion with Thorne and Norma, in which both were arrayed against her, glanced around carelessly.
There was a cup and saucer on a small stand near her, and she picked up the cup thoughtlessly and held it out to Thorne. Just as their hands met in the transfer, both of them talking, neither noticing what they were doing, Berkeley entered suddenly and spoke, causing them to start and turn. There was a quick exclamation from Pocahontas, a wild clutch into s.p.a.ce from Thorne, and on the floor between them lay the fragile china in half a dozen pieces.
Pocahontas bent over them regretfully. It was the cup with the dreaming Indian maiden on it--the cup from which Jim Byrd had taken his coffee on that last evening. There were tears in her eyes, but she kept her head bent so that no one should see them. She would rather any cup of the set should have come to grief than that one.
She had brought it into the parlor several days before to show to a visitor, who wished a design for a hand-screen for a fancy fair, and had neglected to replace it in the cabinet. She reproached herself for her carelessness as she laid the fragments on the piano, and then the superst.i.tion flashed across her mind. Could it be an omen? The idea seemed foolish, and she put it aside.
”Don't feel badly about it,” she said to Thorne, who was humbly apologetic for his awkwardness, ”it was as much my fault as yours; we neither of us were noticing. Indeed, it's more my fault, for if I hadn't neglected to put it away, the accident could not have happened.
You must not blame yourself so much.”
”In the actual living present, I'm the culprit,” observed Berkeley, ”since my entrance precipitated the catastrophe. I startled you both, and behold the result! n.o.body dreamed of convicting me, and this is voluntary confession, so I expect you all to respect it; the smallest unkindness will cause me to leave the room in a torrent of tears.”
Every one laughed, and Pocahontas put the fragments out of sight behind a pile of music books. She could not put the subject out of her mind so easily, although she exerted herself to an unusual degree to prevent her guests from feeling uncomfortable; the superst.i.tion rankled.
As they took leave, Thorne held her hand in a warmer clasp than he had ever before ventured on, and his voice was really troubled as he said:
”I can't tell you how worried I am about your beautiful cup. I never had a small accident trouble me to the same extent before. I feel as though a serious calamity had befallen. There was no tradition, no a.s.sociation, I hope, which made the cup of special value, beyond its beauty, and the fact of its being an heirloom.”
Pocahontas was too truthful for evasion.
”There were a.s.sociations of course,” she answered gently, ”with that cup as well as with the rest of the china. It has been in the family so many generations, you know. Don't reproach yourself any more, please--remember 'twas as much my fault as yours. And broken things need not remain so,” with an upward glance and a bright smile, ”they can be mended. I shall have the cup riveted.”
She would not tell him of the superst.i.tion; there was no use in making him feel worse about the accident than he felt already. She did not wish him to be uncomfortable, and had gladly a.s.sumed an equal share of blame. It was extremely silly in her to allow her mind to dwell on a foolish old tradition. How could the breakage of a bit of china, no matter how precious, presage misfortune? It was ill doing that entailed ill fortune, not blind chance, or heathen fate. She would think no more of foolish old portents.
Still!--she wished the cup had not been broken--wished with all her heart that it had not been _that_ cup.