Part 18 (1/2)

She had raised her gla.s.s, and I mechanically did the same.

”Mr. Blake, let us drink standing!--we women earned the right to stand with you.”

A little puzzled, I stood up to face her, as Clem pulled back her chair.

One hand on the table, the other reaching her slender stemmed gla.s.s aloft, she leaned toward me with a look of singular vehemence.

”To our murdered brothers and husbands and sons, Mr. Blake! To our lost leaders and our deathless lost cause! To Jefferson Davis and Robert Edmund Lee! To the Confederate States of America!”

A black wind seemed to blow across the face of her servitor's fluttering eyelids. But I drank loyally to Mrs. Caroline Lansdale and whatsoever that woman would. I could see that Clem exhaled a deep breath. How long he had held it I know not.

We resumed our seats, and the dinner went forward with my hostess again herself. It was a dinner not heavy but choice, a repast upon which Clem had magically worked all his spells. There was a ba.s.s that had nosed the river's current that morning, two pullets cut off in the very dawn of adolescence, and a mysteriously perfect pastry whose secret I had never been able to wring from him beyond the uninforming and obvious enough data that it contained ”some sugah an' a little spicin's.”

Having for my luncheon that day suffered an up-to-date dinner at Budds's, I felt a genuine craving for food; yet the spell of my hostess was such that I left her table ahungered.

Again there was an inexplicable reference from her to the timber and sawed-lumber interests of the Little Country, and the circ.u.mstance that another black wind seemed to s.h.i.+ver the eyelids of Clem lent no light to the mystery of it. But then, as if some recondite duty to me had been safely performed, she talked to me of herself, of days when the youth of the Old Dominion had been covetous of her smiles, of nightly triumphs in ball and rout, of gay seasons at the nation's capital, amid the fas.h.i.+on and beauty and wit of Pierce's administration and of Buchanan's, of rounds of calls made in her calash, of bewitching gowns she had worn, of theatres and musicales and teas and emba.s.sy receptions, in a day when Harriet Lane was mistress of the White House.

For my pleasing she laughed her sprightly way through memories of that romantic past, when she danced and chattered in the fulness of her bellehood, bringing out a mult.i.tude of treasured mementoes, compliments she had compelled, witticisms she had prompted, pranks she had played, delectable repasts she had eaten at Lady Napier's or another's, the splendor of pageants she had witnessed. And though she was back in an elder day, she glowed young as she talked, whether recalling official solemnities or a once-cherished gown of embroidered tulle, caught up with bunches of grapes. The girl's mouth was her's--fresh and full, unlined by care.

It was not until she talked of later, younger days that her face took on an old look.

”When our federated states rose up in their might,” was a phrase that brought the change. Thereafter she spoke in subdued tones of a time more eventful than romantic, but still absorbing.

She remembered the words in which she felicitated General Pope Walker for having issued the order to fire on Sumter. She gave details of the privation that Richmond on her seven hills had suffered in the latter days, and she made plain why their women should rise with their men to drink certain toasts; how they, too, had sacrificed and toiled and suffered with the same loyal tenacity. She mentioned ”the present government” casually, as the affair of a day; and spoke of ”Mr. Lincoln, their Northern President,” in a tone implying confidence that I shared her feeling for him.

As we went back to the drawing-room for coffee, she summed up herself to me, though she thought to sum up more than herself.

”They swept us with the besom of war, Mr. Blake, and they overwhelmed--but they could not subjugate us.”

As she spoke, my eyes caught for the first time a portrait that hung on the wall back of her. It was the portrait of one dark but fair, with shoulders of a girlish slenderness all but thin, with eyes of glowing dusk and a half-smile upon her lips. It was like my hostess in a fas.h.i.+on of line and color, and yet enough unlike her so that I knew it must be the daughter. The face was a shade narrower of chin, a bit longer, and in some obscure differing of the features there was an effect of more poise, almost of a maturer dignity, so that while I divined it was the face of her daughter, it would seem to have been better planned for the face of her mother.

She followed my eyes to the picture, and her face was still almost stern from her last speech, though it is true that the sternness was a dimpled sternness, for the chin of my hostess was rounded.

”They overwhelmed us, Mr. Blake,--my daughter there, and me, and G.o.d alone has counted how many other wretched women. Her they struck a double blow--they killed the two men she loved. One was her father, but she flew to the other. She found her picture in his dead hands. Our young men were apt to die in that fas.h.i.+on; and when she put it back to be buried with him, her eyes were dry. Even under her double blow, she was stronger than I. She has been stronger ever since, but she suffered more than I was made to. Oh, it was a fine thing for them to do!”

Her voice rose at the last into a little trembling gust of pa.s.sion, and I saw again the spirit that gave those women the right to stand with the men. She recovered herself quickly, and the girl in her smiled upon me again.

”You must overlook my forgetfulness. I shall not forget often, especially now that I am among these murderous fanatics. But I was tired to-night, and I was so glad when I knew I could talk to you freely.”

Her eyes were upon me in friendly unreserve, in confident appeal.

In the face of what I should have felt, I was ashamed at that moment, and in the nervousness of hidden guilt I handled the minute coffee cup awkwardly. Clem, who must have been equally nervous, stepped to right the thing in its saucer, with ”Yes, seh, Mahstah Majah!”

From across the table I knew, without raising my eyes, that his mistress glanced up at Clem in quick astonishment, then that her eyes were fastened upon my face. I still regarded the coffee interestedly, but I knew that I myself blushed now and I suspected that my hostess was pale.

”Major?” she began questioningly, then more decidedly, ”_Major_ Blake?”

I raised my eyes to hers and nodded idiotically.

She laughed a little laugh that was icy in its politeness.

”How stupid of me, and now I must ask your pardon for all my tirade, for my blasphemies, and for that monstrous toast I--really--”