Front matter (continued 4)

"I shall love it because it is a part of you."

They were directly before the iron gate now. Everything was very still in the glowing warmth of the sunshine. Natalia leaned against the gate, and drank in the view like a thirsty traveller. It spoke eloquently of the coming in and going out of the many who had gone before her, and of her own days, too; and as she gazed at it, little incidents of her childhood—long forgotten but safely stored away, came forward and made their bows and claimed her attention. The scene suddenly became peopled to her. Everything was significant. The depths of the magnolia grove were filled with mysterious ghosts of the past, and the red tiles of the roof, gleaming just above the dark line of the trees, called to her with the cry of familiar voices. The present slipped entirely from her under the rush of the pent-up memories crowding about on all sides.

"Shall we walk on now?"

The voice of her lover startled her. She looked up at him and smiled vaguely.

"Isn't it beautiful, Morgan? I wish you could see it as I do. Everything means so much to me that it can never mean for you. It makes me sad, dear, that you did not know it with me."

Talbot laughed down into her intense eyes. "It is happiness enough for me to know you now—why bother about what has gone before?"

Natalia did not answer for a moment. "Perhaps you do not understand, Morgan, or perhaps the old characteristics of my childhood are coming back to me. Do you know, they used to call me 'peculiar'? I wasn't like other children."

"I know—you were so much more beautiful."

"That reminds me," Natalia laughed, with a sudden change of mood, "of how dreadfully afraid I was that I would not be good-looking when I grew up. There was only one person who really comforted me about it, and he always insisted that my claim to a goodly appearance would not disappear with age."

"That was a man who knew the standards of beauty. I should like to meet him. What was his name?"

"You will laugh when I tell you. It was Sargent Everett."

"Dear old Sargent!" Talbot exclaimed, his face lighting up with pleasure. "I wonder if he got my letter. The Captain on the boat is a great friend of Sargent's. He told me a great deal about him, but he said he was not here now. Wouldn't it be unfortunate if he were not at our wedding? Did you ask any one if he would be here?"

"No—I didn't ask," Natalia answered slowly. "It's very odd—I haven't thought of him for a long time; not since you said you were going to write him about our wedding. Did you receive an answer?"

"No—I did not have time. I didn't expect one until I saw him here."

"I wonder if he has forgotten me," Natalia murmured, sinking on the bench near the gate, and motioning Talbot to the seat beside her. "Let's sit down here for a while. You don't mind my dreaming aloud to you, do you?"

His arm slipped about her until her head rested against his shoulder, and her eyes closed for a moment as if she had suddenly grown weary.

"No, indeed, dear, dream all you want, and tell me about your old school days with Sargent. Aren't you proud that your tutor has become so celebrated?"

"I knew he would be, some day, for even when I knew him he was a wonderful speaker. I never heard him make but one speech—it was beautiful and awful—all in one. I cried for weeks afterwards whenever I thought of it. And now, Morgan, I am going to make you terribly jealous. I'm going to tell you something that will surprise you very much."

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with the quaint habit of childhood.

"You are not my first love."

She straightened up and faced him, finally breaking into her soft, merry laugh. "I was desperately in love with Sargent Everett once."

"Seven years ago," Talbot answered lightly. "I can hear about it calmly—now."

"But it was very serious," Natalia insisted. "I really was in earnest, and after he left our house and fought a duel, he became a real hero to me. It was terrible when we had to part. I just made up my mind to die. But you see—I didn't," sighing happily. "And the night before I went away I made my old Mammy take me to him so I could say good-bye. I made him swear not to forget me, for I was coming back a beautiful woman some day and would expect him to marry me. You can imagine how terribly smitten I was!"

"And at twelve! Did he promise?"

"Indeed he did, and said I could not come back more beautiful than I was at that moment. Then I kissed him, Morgan, and he said I must send for him, even if it were to the ends of the earth, if I ever needed him. So we plighted our troth and parted. It was all just like a fairy book, and it seems hundreds of years ago. We used to walk right along here together. You see his mother was a long way off, up in Maine, and mine was gone for ever, and that drew us very close together. Seriously, Morgan, I loved him very dearly. The day I went away I sent him a miniature of myself, all in a locket with a chain, and told Mammy to tell him to keep it before him always. It was only when I became so occupied in school, and growing up, that I finally forgot all about him. Then, since I've known you, the past seems to have counted for very little with me—until to-day." Her words ended softly, and for a moment silence fell between them.

"I believe I shall get jealous if you go on talking much more about old Sargent." Talbot leaned over and looked into her face, smiling. "Really, did you think that you loved Sargent? I can't get used to the idea," he laughed. "And to think of Sargent Everett being in love with anybody! He was always too deep in books when I knew him. It would be very easy to realize that people would love him—all of us did at school. But somehow, I always felt that people did not mean much to him."

At his words, Natalia drew herself away in mock hauteur. "Am I to infer, sir, that you understand why I should have loved him, but not how he could have loved me?"

Morgan drew her hands into his, laughing all the time. "Yes, Natalia, I'll wager if it came to a point, that you were very much more in love with him than he was with you."

"Perhaps you are right, Morgan," Natalia answered his laugh happily. "But I did love him—I assure you."

"And it makes me wonder all the more that you fell in love with me after loving Sargent. We are not a bit alike. But then I suppose you are variable—indeed I know you are. But it's to be hoped that you will not be any more. It's a wonderful thing—how people do change their loves, isn't it?"

Natalia's eyes narrowed for a moment as she looked beyond the gate.

"Don't try to analyze love," she replied. "I tried once and it did no good. I always came back to the point that I loved you and nothing else mattered. How did I fall in love with you?" She repeated the words after him, taking hold of his hand and counting his fingers as she narrated her reasons. "Well—first, it must have been your frank admiration that touched me—I am always very sensitive to admiration. Then, you look upon life with so bright an eye, so smilingly, that it makes me feel safe and contented to know that my own too sensitive nature will bloom under your brightness. It's the contrast, Morgan, that's it. You give me what I have not. You meet a demand of my nature. It is that which makes the perfect love."

Talbot looked at her a moment, his face grown serious and almost sad. "It is not my own happiness that I ever think of—there is only one thing that could ruin that for me—losing you," he said, Natalia's hand still clasped in his own. "But when I think of the great difference between us, I wonder if it is possible for me to make you happy. I love gaiety and the world, and people, and deep down in your heart, I don't believe you do. And I can't help thinking that you do many things for my sake, isn't it so?"

Natalia shook her head slowly, and smiled. "No, I'm not doing a thing for you, Morgan, that doesn't give me pleasure. Don't try to find flaws in our love, or search for some hidden reason for unhappiness. It's too perfect as it is, and I love you better, Morgan dear, when you are not attempting an analytical state of mind." She laughed at him gayly. "You're the old-fashioned lover who brings nosegays to his lady-love, and writes her billet-doux, and is always telling her how beautiful she is—that is why I love you so, Morgan. That has always been my ideal of a lover since I was a little girl. Be that way always, please. Now shall we walk on towards the house? Oh, look, the magnolias have put on their wedding garments to do us honour. They are in full bloom!"

They passed through the gate and into the shadow of the grove where the trees were filled with gorgeous white velvety blossoms, and where in the dream shadows they lingered awhile.

They came finally upon the others grouped in the shade of the deep veranda, where Lemuel Jervais was playing the part of host by mixing them his famous sangaree, and Mrs. Houston was insisting that every one should have at least three slices of her equally famous jelly cake.

Morgan and Natalia looked at them from the protection of a column until Millicent Talbot spied them. "Well—you'd better hurry or you'll miss the party," she called to them. "We thought you were lost. I was sure Natalia had forgotten the way."

"No, I was only dreaming aloud to Morgan, over the old days. He was very kind and listened, for all the world as if he were not bored. I'll not do it often, though, for fear it might get monotonous. You don't know how beautiful everything looks," Natalia continued, putting her arm about Mrs. Jervais' waist. "How good of you to do it all for me." Suddenly she stopped and looked about the group, then made a step towards the open hall door. "Do you know," she said, with a catch in her voice, that showed her fear, "I have let all this time go by, and haven't seen Mammy Dicey yet. Poor old soul—is she very feeble? Where is she? I know she is anxiously waiting for me."

For a few minutes silence fell upon every one, while Natalia searched each face for an answer. At last when her eyes began to fill with tears over the certainty that she was never to see her old nurse again, Mrs. Houston rose, and casting a swift glance at Mrs. Jervais, led Natalia a little way from the others. When they had reached the front door, quite beyond hearing of the others, Natalia stopped and faced Mrs. Houston.

"Is she dead?" she exclaimed in a low voice. "I shall never forgive myself for not writing to her more. Poor old Mammy!"

"No, she is not dead," Mrs. Houston answered, hesitating a moment over the information, "but she is not here any more."

Natalia's brows wrinkled in bewilderment. "Not here! But she belonged to me! Surely she is not hired to any one?"

"You are mistaken, Natalia. She did not belong to you, as we all thought. She was included in the property your father left his wife. Felix looked up the matter and found it that way. When you were sent away—"

"Yes?" Natalia asked, breathlessly.

"Mrs. Jervais sold her. You know she never liked her, and as soon as the opportunity was propitious I suppose she thought it would be better for them to separate. Of course she never had an idea you would care one way or the other."

Natalia lifted her head suddenly, while the colour mounted to her cheeks; her eyes flashed and her lips trembled in quick anger. "She did belong to me! I know it! My father told me so when he was dying. It was a trick she played to get Mammy away from me."

Mrs. Houston stared into the passionate face before her, startled as the resemblance to the little girl of earlier days became so vivid. If Natalia had only stamped her foot, as of old, the likeness would have been identical.

"My dear child," the old lady expostulated in a lowered voice. "Please don't take it that way. I'm sure you misjudge her. Even if it is true, don't say anything now,—not until after the wedding. She has really done a great deal for you."

Natalia leaned forward and kissed the old lady. "Of course I'll behave, dear Aunt Maria," her voice controlled, but tears still in her eyes. "But I loved Mammy so. To have anything happen to her, or for her to suffer hurts me like it would myself." Then eagerly, "But I can buy her back. Do you know who owns her?"

Mrs. Houston looked away, smiling vaguely. "Some one who has found her too valuable to part with, I'm thinking."

"Who?" Natalia murmured, her eagerness disappearing in her greater disappointment.

The keen old lady watched the vivid face before her, searching it with a sudden earnestness when she answered, "Sargent Everett owns her now."

CHAPTER III

MAMMY DICEY'S STORY

Natalia stood on the front veranda after dinner, leaving the others gathered about the table, the men sipping their Madeira, and discussing the admission of the Lone Star State to the Union, and the wonderful new invention of the magnetic telegraph; while the ladies pulled their rocking chairs close together and went into the minutest details of the wedding.

Morgan had risen with Natalia, following her out of the room, but she had sent him back, pleading as an excuse that she wished to be alone to live over once more in memory the incidents of her childhood. So many things had lain dormant through the years almost forgotten in the rush and interest of the life about her, that she felt dazed into a mood of introspection when she found herself once more in the surroundings of the long ago.

She sighed aloud when Morgan had gone back into the house, and leaning against one of the massive columns of the porch, felt a sensation of relief stealing over her at finding herself alone. In the flood of re-awakened memories there had come to her a feeling that Morgan was not a part of them, could never be, and with this realization she knew that in some way the bond of sympathy between them had, for the moment, widened. He could never feel with her all the place represented; even with years and years in the narration of little incidents, he would still not see it as she did, know what it meant to her, nor find in each surrounding the stories that cried aloud to her. It was the moment in her love when she realized for the first time that two people can never be wholly one—that a vast gulf of early years and childhood and dreams would always separate them, no matter how great became the love of their maturer years.

So sensitive was she to his moods and preferences, that she had understood as they lingered before the gate and looked into the grove of magnolias, that the charm of the spot and the happiness of a honeymoon spent in it would be hers so much more fully than his. For a little while this realization had brought her unhappiness, and a wish to be alone; after her dreams she knew that she would go back to her lover more contented than ever before.

She strolled away from the house, and passing on into the cool shadows of the grove, came at last to the brow of the hill. Here she sat down and leaned against a tree, letting herself drift back across the bridge of years.

In a moment of restlessness she let down her hair and unconsciously began braiding it in the two long plaits of her childhood. Suddenly she found herself laughing with the care-free merriment of a little girl. It was the same old world, after all; seven years had made no difference, everything was exactly as she had left it.

Resting her hands back of her head, her fingers touching the cool bark of the tree with a luxurious sensation, she gazed out through half closed lashes upon the broad, golden river and the misty lowlands beyond, floating in the haze of the languid June day.

Everything now was as yesterday. She was feeling it all over again, going over every little incident. The little log school-house recalled so vividly a dreadful example in fractions, and as she worried over it again, she found herself listening for the low, beautiful voice making it plain to her. On and on she drifted until she felt once more the presence of the schoolmaster and her old adoration of him.

Suddenly in the swirling of her memories she halted. That love of the little girl made her open her eyes wide. It had been ideal, beautiful, innocent. Would there be anything in her life like it again? Was that which had taken its place, equal? Could anything take its place? Again the utter devotion of it came back to her; the beginning of it in her self-anger for wounding him the day she had called him the cripple. Ah! now she could understand how she had hurt him! Their first long talk together where she sat now; his kind, deep, hazel eyes, changing Protean-like, as he listened to her while she recounted stories Dicey had told her of her mother; his patience and kindness through the long school hours; the night she waited for his return, and the fear that Phelps had waylaid him; that first case when his voice had thundered in her ears and made her shudder; and at last,—the pain of parting with him!

She sat up quickly and stared about her. Why had she forgotten all this? Why had it not been in her thoughts for so many years? And he—had he forgotten also? Gradually she rose to her feet with the childish impulse of seeking Dicey, who would answer so satisfactorily all her questions. Then came the clashing of reality against dreams, and unconsciously the tears rushed into her eyes for what had gone from her for ever.

But the old yearning for her nurse remained, and with a sudden determination, she walked quickly through the grove, skirting the house and garden so as not to be interrupted, and made her way to the slaves' quarters.

The door of Dicey's room stood open. On the steps before it sat two negro women shelling beans into large pans. Natalia passed on quickly, a sharp pain in her heart for the empty room which used to be so crowded with happy moments.

When she came to the barn she smiled again, for there was old Zebediah, washing the carriage that had brought them from the boat, as familiar and complacent as if there were no such thing as seven years to pass by.

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?" she exclaimed, without explanation. "Why didn't you tell me at the boat?"

The old negro lifted his head in dismay.

"Wha' yer talkin' 'bout, lil Miss?"

"About Mammy, Zebby. They tell me she belongs to Mr. Everett now."

"Yas'm, she sho' do. I done seen her day befo' yistiddy."

"Did she know I was coming?"

"Not tell I done tole her."

"What did she say, Zebby?"

Zebediah's hand went up to his head, scratching thoughtfully.

"She didn said nuthin', lil Miss. She jest th'od her apron ober her face and went ter moanin'."

Natalia's lips suddenly trembled.

"Take me there, Zebby—now! I want to see her. I can't wait. Saddle the horse and go with me."

But Zebediah did not respond to her enthusiasm. He stood staring at her as if he had not comprehended her words.

"Yer cyant go ter dat house, lil Miss. Dar ain' nobody libs dar 'ceptin' Marse Everett. Dar ain' no lady fo'ks in de house."

"I don't care, Zebby," Natalia laughed. "I'm not going to see him. I'm going to see Mammy Dicey. I'll be back in a minute, so hurry and get the horses ready."

She ran up the steps on the back porch, and to her room, scattering the mass of clothes which had just been unpacked, until she found the riding habit she was looking for. Very quietly, without meeting any one, she went back to the barn where Zebediah stood holding the horses, and showing his row of fine white teeth in a smile of admiration and pleasure.

"Yer ain't er bit lak grown up fo'ks, lil Miss. Yer jest de lil gal dat went 'way frum heah long time ergo."

"I'm just the same little girl, Zebby," Natalia smiled back at him, putting her foot into his broad palm, "until you help me to mount—and then," as she settled herself in the saddle, "you'll find I've gained a pound or two."

The afternoon had advanced until the rays of sun were slanting through the trees, and as they rode along the old road, Natalia gave the horse the reins, while she drank in the beauty of the woods and open fields, and looked for landmarks that brought back with them incidents and stories. Once, she stopped before the place where the Puckett house formerly stood—now only a crumbling chimney remaining, surrounded by a grove of China trees: and again, along the brow of a hill, where there was another view of the river as it swept into a broad bend and disappeared in the fertile delta. Finally the town lay before them in its setting of beautiful trees.

"I don't know where he lives, Zebby," Natalia said, drawing in the reins, and looking back to Zebediah. "You see, I am a stranger, after all."

"Dar's de house," Zebediah answered, pointing towards a dwelling which stood close to the road, in the suburbs of the town.

"That house!" Natalia exclaimed. "I passed it this morning, and Mammy did not even wave to me."

"I seen her, dough. She wuz down on de landin' an' lookin' at yer. I knowed she be fer seein' yer somehow."

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?"

The old negro again went silent.

"I tell yer, lil Miss,—Dicey she so perculiar. I dunno ef she wants me ter tell yer or not; den agin I never knows if yer wuz feelin' like Ole Miss did or no. I jest keep mah mouf shet for dem reasons."

"Shame on you, Zebby! Do you think that I would ever forget any one who was as good to me as you and Mammy were? Now, hold my horse. I want to go in by myself."

Natalia paused before the gate, and stood a moment irresolutely before entering. The thought that she might be doing something a little rash, never came to her until that moment; then in her great desire to see her old nurse, all considerations left her, and she went up the walk and rang the bell. The reverberation echoed down the hall as she waited, and it was not until she had rung several times that she heard some one coming. Then the door opened, and Dicey stood facing her.

Zebediah, watching intently from the road, saw Natalia suddenly enveloped in the old negro woman's arms, and drawn into the house and the door closed after them.

Dicey had not uttered a sound when she found Natalia at the door; only her arms opened and she pressed the girl to her bosom, their tears mingling as the old slave covered her face and hands with kisses.

"Honey-chile, honey-chile, honey-chile!"

Natalia's head rested on the old familiar bosom, with the comforting feeling of dependence and trust which she had not known since she had last nestled there. When she looked up again she found herself sitting on the stair steps, her head leaning against Dicey's knee and the well known voice ringing in her ears.

"Yer hasn't fergotten me, has yer, honey-chile? I knowed yer hadn't."

Natalia's eyes answered for her eloquently.

"Your hair has turned white, Mammy," she said, when she had dried her tears; "and you are so—so fat, Mammy—and Mammy, you don't belong to me any longer," the last with a look of reproach.

"She didn' want me no longer when yer went away," Dicey answered, her dark eyes glistening suddenly with an expression of malignant anger. Natalia saw the wrinkling of the brows that she had dreaded when a child, for it never came except when Dicey's deep anger was kindled; and even now she felt a reflection of her childish dread at the familiar signal.

"She put me up fer sale lak as ef I wuz any udder nigger! She put me up in de slabe-market fer anybody—fer anybody to buy! Dar wuz'n no use fer her doin' me dat way. She could ha' sold me at home. But she wouldn'. She hated me—she wanted ter make me out cheap—dat wuz it. She didn' want me and she didn' ker who it wuz got me!"

Natalia put her hand gently over the old woman's lips.

"Sh-h! Don't say that about her, Mammy. It could not have been that bad."

"But it wuz, I tell yer! Now I kin hate her 'cause I don' berlong ter her no longer. No good'll cum ter her!"

The words rang out in the deserted hall forebodingly. A ray of sunlight penetrated the coloured fan light above the door, dwelling for a moment with a strange significance, illumining the old negro's snow-white hair, her heavily lined features, her reddish brown skin and weird eyes.

"I did not know all this, Mammy," Natalia answered in a low voice. "I did not know. If I had it would have been different."

"Cose yer didn' know—yer done jes' fergit all 'bout Dicey—nebber think 'bout things down heah a bit, did yer, honey? I knowed dat wuz hit—hit wuz nateral enough. Yer wuzn't nuthin' but er lil gal when yer lef me."

"But you never sent me a letter, Mammy. You never got any one to answer mine for you."

Again the old woman's features contracted.

"She nebber gib me no letters frum yer. I nebber knowed whar yer wuz."

"You never got my letters?"

Dicey shook her head violently. Natalia looked at her a long time during the silence that followed, still holding her hand tight in her own.

"And to think that Sargent Everett should have bought you, Mammy," she said finally. "If it had to be—I'm glad he was the one."

"De Lawd'll sho' bless him fer hit," the old slave answered. "Ef hit hadn' been fer him I'd 'a' kilt mase'f. Hit would 'a' been easy enough."

Natalia pressed the long-coarsened fingers as they clung to hers.

"Tell me about it, Mammy; tell me everything. Let's make up for those long years of separation. How long was it after I left you, that it happened?"

"Jes' 'bout six months, honey. I'se mos' fergit now—hit seem so long ago; and I wuz feelin' so down-in-de-mouf and glum when you done gone, I didn't take no notice ob de time. Hit wuz one day in de summer time dat Ole Miss cum out ter mah room, an' say she want ter speak ter me. I knows hit wuz goin' powerful ha'd wid me cause I could tell by de looks in her eyes. She say she wouldn' hab no mo' use fer me sence yer gone away, and de boys would be goin' soon—and dat she done made up her min' ter sell me. 'But yer cayn't, Ole Miss,' says I, 'yer cyant sell me 'cause I doan belong ter yer—I belongs ter lil Miss. Marse Brandon say so fo' he died.' Den she turn red an' white, all in a sudden, and says dat he mont 'a' say dat, but he done made no sich statemen' in his will, and dat she wuz goin' ter sell me neberdeless. 'Yer knows he said dat,' says I to her, 'an' ef lil Miss wuz heah yer wouldn' dar do hit.' Den she get powerful mad and tole me ter git mah things togedder and be reddy ter go ter de Co't house de nex' mawnin'. Den I jes' gib way an' cry, cause I neber b'liebe I'd be put up wid all dem udder niggers an' sole lak dem. But she didn' listen ter me no mo', and went away.... Zebby drive me ter town de nex' mawnin' an' Ole Miss han' me ober ter de trader-man, and didn' say no wo'd ter me when she leabe. Dar wuz a big crowd ob people dar ter see de slabes—two hundred ter be sole dat day and a lot ob plantation fo'ks done cum ter town ter buy."

Suddenly Dicey stopped, and stared before her silently, her hands clasping Natalia's until she winced from the pain.

"Den mah time cum," she resumed, her voice lowered, and long pauses between the sentences. "De trader-man read out a whole lot ob things she done writ bout me, sayin' I wuz er fust class cook an' could sew and a whole lot ob things I could do—I done seen em sell slabes befo' dis, but I nebber 'spected ter be one ob dem dat wuz sole—nebber! Nebber! I wouldn' look up when dey read all 'bout me 'til I heerd somebody say five hundred dollars fer me. Seem lak ter me I knowed de voice—hit wuz Jedge Houston. Den anudder one bid seben hundred dollars an' anudder one say er thousan'.... Sumthin' tell me ter look up when dey call out er thousan', an' I see Marse Everett a-standin' under er tree 'cross de street, an' I look at him so ha'd dat he finerlly see me and start ter runnin' whar I wuz. 'Dicey, what do dis mean?' says he ter me. 'Yer cyant be sole. Yer belongs ter Miss Natalia.' 'I knows I does,' says I, and begin ter cry out loud. I couldn' he'p it when he done look at me so kin' and gentle-lak.... Den I heerd him tell de trader-man dar wuz some mistake, but de man said Missus Brandon owned me and wuz sellin' me. I cried all de mo' when I seen him turn away hopeless lak, 'cause I think he wuz goin' away an' leabe me ter dem people. Den de trader-man begin callin' out louder and louder—'One thousan' dollars—one thousan' dollars' tell I feel like hollerin' myself, fer I wuz nigh crazy, an' den when he wuz 'bout ter turn me ober ter er stranger man Marse Everett come up an' says sumthin' ter him and he yell out 'Twelve hundred.' Den de udder man say 'Thirteen hundred!' Den Marse Everett fourteen hundred, den fourteen hundred fifty an' den dar wuz er long silence.... Den I heerd Marse Everett say in er easy low voice—'Fifteen hundred' jes' easy and quiet, lak he kin, and den, Bless de Lawd! I seen de udder man go away.... De trader-man and Marse Everett talk er long time after dat and den Marse Everett cum ter me and say, 'Cum with me, Dicey, everything's all right now. Hit's done took de las' cent I had ter buy yer, Dicey, but she lubbed yer, and I'm goin' ter keep yer fer her tell she cum back.' Den I jes' went down on mah knees and kiss his hands and say, 'Yer won't hab no regrets, Marse Sargent, I'll serbe yer tell I die, and she'll make it up ter yer—one ob dese days.'"

The hall was filling with shadows. The sunshine through the fan light had died away, yet the two did not move.

"And then, Mammy," Natalia whispered.

"Den he tuk me ter Jedge Houston's house and lef me dar wid dem an' I done stay dar two years tell he begin ter look up in de worl'. Yer know him and de Jedge done win er suit for er heap ob property an' dat's whar he fust got his money. After dat he built dis house and he been libin' heah eber sence. I keeps de house fer him and does de cookin'—an' all de time we's both been bidin' our time an' waitin' fer yer ter cum back."

"Waiting for me!" Natalia exclaimed, drawing away quickly.

Dicey bowed her head in answer.

"He done tole me once dat when yer tole him good-bye dat night, yer tole him he mus'n' lub no oder woman tell yer cum back—all grown up. So yer sees, he's been keepin' his wo'd all de time, an' once, he showed me de picture you sent him. De same lil picture de artis'-man tuk so long ter paint ob yer, fo' yer pa died. An' when I seen hit, I jes' cry and cry and cry, cause hit set me a thinkin' 'bout ole times when yer ma and me wuz lil gals togedder—cause de picture's jes' lak her."

"But, Mammy, he doesn't still think I meant what I said then, does he? I was only a child when I said that. Surely he has forgotten by this time."

"Fergit! Lawd bless yer, honey, he don' fergit nuthin' 'bout yer. He used ter talk ebery day 'bout yer tell lately—"

Natalia waited silently for the old woman to continue, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap.

"Tell lately when we heerd yer wuz a-comm' home ter git married. Sence den he hain't sed nothin' much. I tole him hit wuzn't so, dat yer sho' wouldn' marry nobody but him."

Natalia winced under the last words; then broke abruptly into a laugh.

"But I am going to be married, Mammy. I'm going to be married next week, and then I'm going away again for good, and you are going with me. I'm going to buy you back from Mr. Everett, and take you with me."

Dicey looked at her hard, moving her head from side to side.

"No, honey-chile." she said slowly. "I cyant leabe him now—even fer yer."

"Yes, you can, Mammy, dear," and Natalia leaned her head on the old woman's bosom. "That is one of the principal things I came back for—to get you. I want to be a little girl again and get you to tell me stories about mamma, and go to sleep at night holding your hand—just like I used to do, Mammy. Oh, if we could only stay little always," she sighed wistfully. "If the world would only stop moving and let us stay just the same all the time—we could be so—so happy. But here I am—a woman now, and you, Mammy, you are an old woman, with your white hair and your wrinkles—but I love you, all the same—more than any one in the world except—"

"'Cept who?"

"Except my sweetheart."

Dicey's eyes flashed.

"Dat curly-headed, pretty man in de green coat, dat was settin' in frunt ob yer in de ca'iage?"

"Yes, that was he. But 'pretty' is not the word that describes him, Mammy. 'Handsome' suits him better."

For a second Dicey deigned no answer.

"Wait tell yer sees Marse Sargent—den yer'll see whut er han'some gemman is, sho' 'nough."

"You are entirely too faithful to him, Mammy Dicey," Natalia laughed. "He has stolen your love from me."

"An' wait tell yer hears him speak in public. De people goes wild ober him. Las' week dey fired off cannons when he cum home frum Jackson, and dat night dey built bon-fires all ober de town ter do him honour, an' when he begin ter speak in de Co't-house squar' and eberybody went ter heah him, yer could er heerd er pin drap, eberything wuz so quiet. An' when de words cum dey soun' so beautiful an' sweet dey set me ter stedyin' 'bout mos' ebery thing in jineral."

"I heard him speak once, don't you remember?" Natalia's eyes narrowed as if she were again reviewing that time. "It was wonderful, too. I can remember it now just as if it were yesterday."

"Dat wuzn't nothin'. He done been all ober de State now and he's cellibrated ebery whar he goes. Honey-chile, yer jes' wait tell yer heah him agin."

"It's no use, Mammy." Natalia sighed leniently. "You see I'm interested in only one man now, and as I'm going to be married next week, I don't believe it's proper for me to listen to the praises of another as you are singing them."

Rising, with her arm still about Dicey, she walked slowly to the door.

"You see how dark it is getting. You have almost made me forget that Morgan will be waiting for me and wondering where I am. Tell him, though, Mammy—your Marse Sargent—that he must come out to see me to-morrow, and be sure to make him promise to let me have you. I am not going away without you."

"He's away on er speakin' trip now. He won't be back fer er week."

"So he will not be here for my wedding!" Natalia frowned with evident disappointment. "Then I must write him about you at once."

Dicey stared at Natalia a moment, and then drawing her face down until it rested on her bosom, she kissed her as she used to do, on the top of her head, in the wide part.

"Listen, honey-chile," she whispered, halting at the door, with the old strange look of visions in her eyes. "Does yer 'member de night yer axed Mammy to fin' picters in de fire fer yer?"

"Of course I remember, Mammy," Natalia answered from the steps. "You always were finding them for me. Do you do it still?"

"I'se speakin' 'bout one time in perticula'," Dicey answered gravely.

Natalia halted, drawing her brows together thoughtfully.

"No, I don't remember particularly, Mammy," she cried gaily, blowing a kiss back to the old woman. "Come out to-morrow and tell me about it. Good-bye!"

Dicey turned back into the hall and locked the door after her. It was almost dark now, and as she stood alone among the grey shadows of the twilight the old look of visions burned wildly in her eyes.

Suddenly she went to the back door and out into the yard. Stopping at last before the wood house, she called to a negro man inside.

"Jonas! Jonas! Does yer know whar Marser is?"

"He mighty nigh two days' good ridin' way from heah. Whut yer wants ter know fer?"

"Nebber yer min', nigger. Yer go ter Jedge Houston's ter-night an' fin' out fer certin whar Marse Sargent am ter be found. We'se goin' ter be needin' him in er mighty few days."

CHAPTER IV

SLAVES FOR STAKES

The Mansion House was still the gathering place of all the prominent citizens, as it had been when Sargent Everett had landed there; only now the little tavern had grown into a famous hostelry. Its façade had been dignified with the addition of a third story; its front pavement had been widened into a spacious terrace, where tables and chairs were placed invitingly beneath the trees; and along its front was an extensive row of large rocking chairs, gay and hospitable with bright red paint, and always occupied at the hours the coaches were expected. But the real glory of the tavern was its bar and so-called club room, decorated with trophies brought there by its wealthy patrons—Indian relics, muskets from some pioneer campaign, skins and furs belonging to celebrated hunters, and most prominent of all, a huge pair of antlers, silver tipped and engraved with the name of Captain Mentdrop, which he had won in a boat race from St. Louis to New Orleans.

Almost any hour of the day and late into the night, wealthy planters of the surrounding country and prominent men of the town were to be found there, discussing politics, consummating large land deals, gambling, with bales of cotton, slaves, and some times whole plantations as stakes. "We call it 'flush' times," Jervais said, as he drove into the town with Morgan and Joel Talbot. "With State banks issuing bills by the sheet, and no showing of credit asked except for a fellow to prove that he needs money, there is no better name for it. Why, man, there don't seem to be anybody about here that isn't flush; property has gone beyond reach, and the whole Southwest is wide open. Only last month I was talking to a fellow that used to be my overseer. He had just been to New York, and with a letter avouching his citizenship, and a clean shirt, he had gotten all the money he wanted. No wonder everybody's flocking this way."

"It can't last. It's fictitious. Wait until the Specie Circular begins to take effect," Morgan replied.

"Ah, there you have it. But while all this fun is going on, I say a fellow's a fool not to enjoy it and make all he can out of it. I, for one," and Jervais blew a cloud of cigar smoke luxuriously about him, "I, for one, am not asleep. It's the time in a century for a lawyer!"

"So it seems. See how my old friend is rising on the wave," Talbot commented.

"Your old friend?"

"Yes—Sargent Everett. You know he came down here through me."

Jervais leaned back in his seat with assumed indifference. "Why d'ye know, that surprises me," he said, viewing Talbot with the lazy hauteur of his younger days. "What can you possibly find to interest you in a fellow like Everett?"

Morgan did not answer at once. Sitting beside Jervais, he had been observing him closely during the drive. He had already felt a growing dislike for the man, seeing beneath the suave manners a certain cold insolence; but thinking that this was perhaps a reflection of Natalia's attitude towards him, Morgan had attempted to overcome it. Now, with the sneering words about his old friend, he felt this dislike deepening.

"He is going to Congress, I hear," Joel put in during the moment of silence.

"That's not certain, by a long shot. Wait until you see the ballot, and then, from what I know, Sargent Everett will realize that he never did stand a show. But here's the tavern." Jervais spoke with evident relief. "Now, I'll have a chance to introduce you to some of my friends. This fellow coming toward us," he continued, as they stepped from the carriage, "is a good example of what the flush times are doing. A few years ago he was a poor, down-in-the-mouth land agent; now kindly observe him—he has ambitions towards the Governor's mansion if you please! Come over, Mr. Suggs, and shake hands with Mr. Talbot and his brother—from Boston."

Mr. Suggs advanced with his usual appreciation of an important occasion. A chimney pot hat and a tight frock coat, closely buttoned across his narrow chest, accentuated his gaunt figure, and increased the air of prosperity which his recent admission to the bar demanded.

"Mighty glad to meet you, gentlemen. From Boston—did I understand?"

"Of course, Suggs, the original members of the Tea Party," Jervais put in with a wink towards Morgan. "Mr. Suggs wants to give you the impression that he never heard of you before, Talbot. And I'll bet you the juleps he knows more about you now than you do about yourself. But come, let's sit down. What's your last case, Suggs?"

In a moment Jervais had drawn a crowd about them, every one coming up to extend a cordial welcome to the Northerners. There was Colonel Andrews, a gentleman of flowing beard and manners, who told of his exploits in the Battle of New Orleans, with all the enthusiasm of the original moment; there was another just back from the Florida campaign; another on his way to New Orleans to purchase half a hundred slaves for his plantations—and many men of the town, young and old, each evidently glad of an opportunity to meet and converse with men from the far distant North.

Jervais was at his best as host of the occasion, doing the honours with the elegance of manner which had made him so successful with a certain class. Reports of Talbot's wealth and position had preceded him, and nothing was more to Jervais' pleasure than to introduce such a personage to the town.

"It's certainly a great pleasure to meet you gentlemen," Mr. Suggs was saying to Joel, having placed his chair confidentially near him. "I was only wishing to-day that I could have had some one from a distance to hear me argue a case. Now, you would have appreciated it, I know. A long toddy," to the waiter. "I was defending a boy who had stolen his neighbour's calf. It was a mighty ticklish case, too, I'd let you know—because all the neighbourhood was against the poor devil." Suggs stopped a moment impressively.

"Of course you cleared him," some one called out, who had been listening.

"But tell me how," Joel laughed. "It seems an impossible feat."

"Well, sir, you would think so," Mr. Suggs continued seriously, "though when I looked into the matter, I found the poor fellow was starving, and you know yourself, Mr. Talbot, a man that's starving ain't responsible for his acts—ain't I right?"

"And if he's dying of thirst, Suggs—what then?" some one broke in.

"Of course the jury saw it that way. I made it so plain to them they had to. Now, I've a theory—"

"Joel, I want you to meet Mr. Morancy. He's our national hero in this part of the world. D'you ever hear of him in Boston—the fellow who won fifty thousand dollars in one poker game!"

Joel found himself shaking hands with a florid faced man with iron grey hair. Beneath the shade of a broad brimmed felt hat, the calm features gave no clue to such an extravagant reputation.

"But it occurred on a Mississippi River steamboat, Mr. Talbot." Mr. Morancy laughed, as he shook hands.

"He wants to give you the impression that it was an accident," Colonel Andrews put in, "but it was as premeditated as the fellow who had waited for a Royal Flush."

"Tell us, Colonel! Sh'h! The Colonel's on for a story!" came from the crowd.

The old fellow threw back his shoulders and swelled portentously.

"Gentlemen," he said, in his rolling, grandiloquent style, "I never tell that story except when there is a chance for me to hold what that fellow had waited for."

It was a signal for the crowd to move to the club room just back of the bar. There, three cloth-covered tables were placed in the centre of the room. About one, several men were already hard at it, the sound of the chips, the boisterous laughter and oaths telling that the game was at its height.

Jervais was the first to sit down, his eyes surveying the crowd with the glitter of a devotee of the game. "Sit down, Talbot," he cried to Morgan. "I want you to have a little taste of how we play poker down here. Come on, Colonel Andrews, and you, Morancy, although I don't want you to look forward to fifty thousand on this game. We'll go it easy in consideration for the strangers," he ended, with a glance towards Morgan that brought a rush of blood to his face.

"I beg you gentlemen will not let my presence dampen your game in the least," Morgan said quietly taking his seat next Colonel Andrews. "I shall be delighted to play your game as you play it, and I shall not object even to a table stake, if that is your custom." He looked at Jervais with this last thrust, and smiled broadly.

"We usually start," Colonel Andrews hastened to explain, clearing his throat and glancing about the crowd, "on a modest limit, and sometimes end up on table stakes. But we might begin there to-day, if you gentlemen are agreeable. I think it will be swift enough for any of you if we make it all jacks with a dollar ante. Shall we each buy a thousand for Stakes? ... Very well, then."

The Colonel, acting as banker, dealt out to each player a thousand dollars' worth of chips, and each gave him his I.O.U. for the amount. "Let's see who deals." he continued, dealing a card to each player. "Ah! a king: I deal. Well," the deck of cards falling together between his long fingers, "well, gentlemen, everybody come in and look pleasant!" Another moment and each chipped in his ante, and the cards began flying around.

"Now I can continue my story," Colonel Andrews went on, draining a tall tumbler of champagne, and looking at Morgan with a glance of approbation. He was keen enough to have caught the stranger's refutation of Jervais' remark, and liked his bold stroke.

"Yes—I'm anxious to hear it. You said it was a Royal Flush?"

"That is what it is about. Ever hold one?"

"No, I've never been so lucky as that," Morgan answered, picking up his cards. "It's worth living for, though, I expect."

"Well—I reckon. Yes, sir, he believed it would come to him some day, and..." The Colonel became silent suddenly, as he looked at his cards. All hands passed, and the deal went to Jervais.

"Yes, as I was saying, he knew it would come to him one of these days. He got it at last, too, and as luck would have it, the game was the biggest he had ever got mixed up in." The Colonel paused again when the cards had been dealt, and when Morancy opened with but Jervais staying, he continued: "And, bless your soul, when he actually did see that Royal family staring up at him, he had to tie his handkerchief around his neck to keep from yelling."

Jervais opened the next pot for twenty-five dollars, saying to the Colonel, "Go on, I'm listening. You said the fellow got at last what he was looking for."

But the Colonel was too much occupied then to notice. In the pause Morgan glanced about the room. The third table had been taken now, and the room was gradually filling with a crowd of onlookers. In those days it was not a crime to stand behind a man and watch his game, for such was the common feeling of good-fellowship, that each man trusted the one behind him and accepted him as a gentleman of honour. Besides, the Mansion House was only open to gentlemen.

The sound of clinking chips, the dense clouds of smoke, and the endless hubbub of voices in many keys, were steadily making the room stifling. Waiters were rushing around to supply every want at the same time.

With the rapid succession of pots and the unusually brisk plays, the Colonel had evidently forgot to proceed with his story—or at least had deferred concluding until the present absorbing interest of the game had subsided. Jervais was losing steadily; his hands were just large enough to keep him in nearly every play—and almost invariably small enough to lose the pots. In the meantime he had bought another thousand chips, and that now was nearly gone. Morgan's luck was unprecedented; it seemed he could draw to anything and win.

The last pot—opened by Jervais—had gone to Morgan, and the deal was now his. Jervais had ordered a bowl of punch for the crowd, and was just testing the first glass. Measuring the pile of chips before Morgan, he suddenly asked the Colonel for four thousand more, with the apparent purpose of matching Morgan's money in anticipation of an opportunity for favourable encounter.

"Here's to bridegroom's luck," he called to Morgan. Talbot smiled and drained his glass.

"As I was saying," the Colonel began again, "he was in a big game and they'd gotten the pot up to ten thousand dollars—yes, sir,—there was ten thousand in the pot and that fellow bet ten thousand, naturally. The crowd wouldn't stand for it though: wanted to give him only a show down; they said the fellow didn't have ten thousand dollars to his name. Did he? Well, to tell the truth—no, he didn't."

The cards had been dealt again, and the table went silent. Morancy opened, the Colonel raised, Jervais doubled, and Morgan stayed. Morancy, too raised, and the Colonel, Jervais, and Morgan called.

After the draw the betting became lively once more,—confined, though, to Jervais and Talbot. Morancy and the Colonel having but relatively small amounts before them, came in for a show down. Finally Morgan "tapped" Jervais, the former laying down four Aces, the latter four Queens. Both had drawn the fourth card.

"There's something in bridegroom's luck, after all," commented Morancy, smiling good-humouredly at Jervais, who had not won a hand, and was begin to show it.

"Pretty good for you," commented the Colonel, as the deal flew again from his fingers. "Take my advice, and don't keep your host in this game much longer," he added in an aside to Morgan. "He's always hard up, the darned fool, and never was known to have sense enough to quit. You see, he's getting pretty far gone, already." Then aloud, "but you couldn't bluff that fellow, even if he didn't have the ten thousand. He wrote out a check on the best bank in the town and threw it on the table. What did the others do? Why, they gave him the laugh. They didn't want checks—they wanted hard cash."

"Five cards," called Jervais irritably.

Morancy's caught the Colonel's eye and his own closed eloquently. "Give me two," he said.

Morgan took two. As the hands went down, Morgan got the pile again.

"Well—I suppose your man was bluffing with his ten thousand?

"When they wouldn't take his check, he called for paper and ink, and wrote to the President of the bank. I've got what I've been looking for all my life. Am I good for ten thousand dollars?"

"For God's sake shut up, Colonel," cried Jervais. "We're playing poker."

The next deal was Morgan's. Candles were being brought in as the room gradually darkened, and with the soft light the surroundings took on a new aspect. lire newcomers were growing numerous with the approaching evening, until a double circle of men was around the tables. A general interest was being displayed in the Northerner's luck, accounts of which had reached to the outside of the tavern.

Morgan stopped before dealing and looked at his watch. Then he looked at Jervais. "They expect us back at seven o'clock," he said. "Shall we stop now?"

"No," Jervais cried, his voice shaking slightly, his face flushing from the effects of too much liquor. "Your luck's too good for me to quit."

Morgan looked up quickly, then glanced at the others. "Well, one more hand around then—but the last," he said deliberately. "We are expected at home at seven," he continued in explanation to the others. "Possibly Mr. Jervais does not understand my impatience."

"Nor your luck." suggested the Colonel.

"Go on—go on," Jervais muttered. "If you're in a hurry, let's get through. I'll show you something this time."

"Better walk around your chair," Morancy laughed.

Jervais wheeled towards him. "Is it your money I'm losing?"

Jervais now replaced his depleted pile by a further purchase of chips, and announced that, as it was the last hand around, he would not limit his stake to the money in front of him, but would, so far as he was concerned, allow or make any bet.

The cards were dealt in silence.

"Three for me," cried Jervais, his hand falling heavily upon the table.

The Colonel looked around the table, his face elaborately expressionless.

"I stand pat," said Morgan. After the others had drawn he bet fifty dollars.

"I raise you two hundred," added Jervais, who had filled.

"That let's me out," came from Morancy, with the resignation of an old fighter. He was followed by the three other men.

"One thousand more," said Morgan, facing Jervais squarely.

"Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me," and the Colonel laid down his hand.

"Fifteen hundred more."

"Two thousand better," from Morgan.

"Twenty-five hundred better than you."

Morgan studied his hand intently for a few seconds. "Well, we'll make it three thousand more. Colonel, I'm very anxious to hear the end of that story."

Jervais' face was livid now.

"Four thousand—d'you hear? I say four! You can't bluff me!"

Morgan met his look with a sudden realization that the affair had gone too far, although a glance around the room told him that he could not afford to end the game; that must be done by Jervais.

"I make it five thousand." Morgan's voice trembled a little.

"By God, I'll call you!" Jervais answered. "And pay you in slaves if I lose."

Morgan was on his feet in a moment. "I'm not gambling for slaves," he cried angrily, throwing four deuces on the table. "You know, Mr. Jervais, how I feel on that subject."

Jervais had risen also, steadying himself against the back of his chair.

"Easy, gentlemen, easy," cried the Colonel, leaning across the table between the two men. "Call the game off for this evening. You're both a little excited now."

"Jervais can call the game off or not as he chooses," Morgan said sharply, turning away. "But he can't pay me in slaves."

Jervais steadied himself with an effort. "Well, I won't then, since you're so particular. You and I can settle this affair ourselves. Let's go home now—only—you've got to come back here again and show these gentlemen how long that luck of yours can keep up." As he turned sullenly toward the door Morancy and several others quietly surrounded him, without saying a word.

"Oh, I'll come back," Morgan smiled easily at the prospect of getting away with so little trouble. "I'm here for two weeks, gentlemen," and bowing to the crowd, he left the club-room, followed by Joel.

"It's a great failing of his," the Colonel explained, as he walked with Morgan to the carriage. "Getting worse and worse all the time. Sorry it happened this evening, but you forget all about it—Lem won't remember a thing by morning."

They were nearly at the carriage now, where Jervais had been safely landed on the back seat.

"Oh, I almost forgot to finish that story," said the Colonel, his hand holding Morgan's in a tight clasp. "The fellow had talked so much about that hand he was living for that the banker knew what he meant. So he said it was all right, and on the strength of that the crowd accepted the fellow's ten-thousand-dollar bet, and every one dropped out. But if it had come to a show-down, by jingo, there wasn't a damn thing in his hand but a pair of deuces. Good night, my boy,—see you to-morrow." And he went off laughing.

CHAPTER V

CANDLELIGHT

After supper that evening, when they were leaving the dining-room, Natalia slipped her arm through Judge Houston's, and drew him towards the big salon across the hall.

"Let's you and I run away from the others for a while," she whispered as they entered the room. "I haven't had any talk at all with you, and if we slip in here and sit over on that old davenport in the corner, they'll never find us, and we can talk, and talk, and talk—like we used to. There is so much that I want you to tell me; so much that I want to tell you."

She led him across the highly polished floor, the old gentleman playfully assuming that he might slip.

"Suppose I should fall, Natalia," he complained; "I never did like these slippery floors. I won't let Maria have them at home."

"Lean on me, Uncle Felix," she answered, smiling. "I know it will be difficult for you to do, though—you never leaned on any one in your life, did you? Put your arm through mine and take a step—so. Any one would think we were dancing a minuet or a Virginia reel! But you will dance the quadrille with me at my own wedding, won't you, Uncle Felix? Now!" she ended, landing him safely on the deep sofa.

"The time is coming, Natalia, when I must lean on some one all the time," the old gentleman sighed. "It isn't very far off, either. Do you know, I find myself deferring to Maria for the smallest things, and when not Maria—it is Sargent."

"Sargent Everett," Natalia repeated after him, piling some cushions on the horse-hair upholstery so that the old gentleman would lean back comfortably. Then she pushed a small stool before the sofa, and sat down upon it, resting her chin in her hand while the other one lay across his knee. "Sargent Everett," she said again thoughtfully. "That is one of the things I want you to tell me, Uncle Felix—all about him."

The late twilight of the warm June day still glowed through the windows. The whispering of the birds as they sought shelter for the night in the magnolia grove floated in to them, lending a potent charm to the quiet surroundings. Judge Houston did not answer at once, and in the long silence that widened between them, he felt for a while that almost any words would jar the contentment of the moment. Occasionally his hand moved across Natalia's hair—a touch so gentle and loving that she wondered if her father would have meant more to her than this dear old man.

"There is so much to tell," he began at last, "and I would gain so much pleasure in the telling that you would fall asleep long before I was half through. Indeed, Natalia, Sargent is making these last days of my life very happy, for in his success I seem to get a pleasure so deep that at times I imagine his triumphs are my own."

Natalia moved restlessly, as if to rise, then sank back on the stool again.

"Why is it that every one I meet seems to worship him?" she murmured, half complaining. "You have always loved him more than me—yes, you have, dear Uncle Felix, and now, when I come back home, I find Dicey is his slave—and willingly, too. He has stolen the love of you both from me. I am growing very, very jealous of him. Do you know, Uncle Felix, Dicey says she will not leave him, but I believe she will, don't you?"

"I did not know you had seen her. Was she here to-day?"

"No. I went to her."

"At Sargent's house—to-day?"

"Yes, that is where I was all the afternoon. He was not there. Dicey said he was out of town on some political tour. Tell me about him, Uncle Felix—it has been years and years since I heard from him or about him. Occasionally I have seen articles in the papers about his speeches. Are they so wonderful? Have you some of them that I could read?"

Judge Houston's eyes glowed with the enthusiasm that was always in them when he spoke of Sargent, nor did Natalia miss the sudden quickening of interest and kindling of energies that so obviously manifested his devotion.

"His speeches are remarkable works of beauty and construction, but they are nothing in comparison with his delivery. It always saddens me when I think of his future reputation—when he goes down in history—as he surely will—for people will not realize half his power in reading his speeches; his magnetism, his charm, his force that holds one spellbound in listening—all that will be lost to the next generation, and it is that, more than anything else, that has made him remarkable. I took out my watch one day to see how long he would take for a certain speech, and I found myself at the end of the speech still holding the watch in my hand, entirely forgotten."

"Then the years have brought him success," Natalia reflected. "I remember his great ambition, and a phrase of his—'I want to show the world that because a man is a cripple he can still be a great man.'"

The Judge bowed his head, enthusiastically "My one great hope is that I shall live to hear his voice sounding in the walls of the Capitol at Washington. It will, too, one of these days."

"Tell me about his success," Natalia said leaning back comfortably against his knees.

"It is a long, long story, Natalia, and would weary you in the telling. It began when you were here. Don't you remember the trial of Phelps? That started him on the upward path, and it also had a much deeper significance than the world ever supposed. When he had convicted Phelps it troubled him so that he went to the jail with the object of releasing the fellow. Fortunately for Sargent Phelps never knew his intention, and killed himself and ever since then Sargent has defended any and every criminal that comes to him. He calls it his life-work—saving men so as to give them another chance. After that case, he was sent to the Legislature and now we are going to send him to Congress—the election takes place this week. After that he says he is coming back here and settle down in his home and be content to practise criminal law, which he has made his special work. Some day, when you meet him, get him to tell you about his theory in regard to it; it is beautiful."

"When I meet him," Natalia reflected softly. "It seems that I shall not see him again, Uncle Felix; and yet, do you know, this place is not the same to me as it used to be, and I believe that it is because he is not here. In some way he seems to be very closely woven into all the impressions of my childhood—he and Dicey." Suddenly she turned and looked up into the old man's face. "Uncle Felix, Dicey told me that he always talked of the time when I should come back to him. Is it really so? Did he think that?"

Judge Houston leaned back, so that the protecting shadows would betray no expression on his face. It was too late now for her to know. He would tell her nothing that would in any way tinge her happiness with a shade of sadness or regret. When he answered her, his voice was steady, almost gay, in an attempt at carelessness.

"That was a dream of mine, Natalia. You and he were dearer to me than any others in the world. It was only natural that I should have hoped that you two might have loved each other. But you see," he sighed in mock despair, "I am carrying out the words of the prophet—'your old men shall dream dreams'—and I am a very old man, Natalia. I shall be seventy-six my next birthday."

"Seventy-six years," Natalia repeated, absently, wondering over the reason for his not replying to her question. Could it be that what Dicey said was true? She hurriedly drove the doubt from her thoughts, for a strange fear had suddenly crept into her consciousness—the fear that her great happiness might come to her through the suffering of another. With the intuitive perception she rose from her stool with a start. The room had become totally dark; only the light from the hall threw a faint shaft into the room.

She groped her way to the tall black marble mantel, over which hung the portrait of her mother, and lit the two seven-branched candlesticks. Going back to the stool, she sat down as before, resting her face in her hands and gazing at the portrait.

In the soft glow of candlelight the room looked enormous. The vista made by the two mirrors at each end and directly opposite to each other created a perspective that was without limit in its repeated reflection. The portrait gained a semblance of life from the deep shadows and high lights, and looked down from its gorgeous gilt frame on the crimson damask upholstery and rosewood carvings, with the affection that years of association had created. The gleaming mahogany floor gathered into its embrace the reflection, and in the subdued light and the strange fragrance of passed years breathing life into the speechless objects, Natalia felt that she was growing nearer to what it all represented to her than she had ever been before.

"Seventy-six years," she said again thoughtfully. "How beautiful to grow old as you have done, Uncle Felix. Nay, is it growing old? It seems to me that with you and Aunt Maria it has been a gradual growing nearer to a beautiful future life—a gentle approach towards God. I wonder if I shall grow old that way, or die in the heyday of my youth and happiness—as my mother did. To think that I never knew her," she sighed, when she had looked a long time at the portrait. "And now when I seem to think of her most, when I feel that I need her—she is gone. Can there be a greater loss to a girl than not to know a mother? And I shall never know what it is! Sometimes it makes me very sad when I realize there is no one from whom I can claim anything—no one to whom I can go and demand things because of the ties of blood. Even you and Aunt Maria are really no kin—are not tied except by love."

The old man leaned forward and turned her face towards him.

"Could any ties be stronger than those of love?" he smiled into her eyes.

"I know, dear Uncle Felix," she pressed his hands as she answered, "but the tie of blood is a very wonderful thing. It makes me feel so dreadfully lonely at times, to know that you, that Morgan, that every one is doing for me not because they ought to, but because they love me—perhaps pity me. Probably I express myself badly, and yet—you must know what I mean. It is lack of that right to lean on some one for help and protection, and feel that you are only demanding of him what it is his duty to give. That is what I expect my marriage to bring me."

Judge Houston leaned nearer to her, intently watching the changing expressions that played across her face, and which seemed to gather brilliancy from the portrait towards which she looked. His eye wandered from the painted face to the living reproduction, then back again—and between them there rose before him his old bridge of dreams—dreams which the last month had shattered. Again he felt an almost overwhelming desire to tell her of that dream which was but the reflection of the dream of another; if it were only possible to let her know of the plans and talks and hopes that he and the other one had made their guiding star for years! But he could not—his duty to her kept him silent, and in her love he realized the hopelessness of his own desires.

Then in the more than three-score years of calm restraint and self-denial, his deep affection for the man who had become his son rushed over him and made him speak.

"Natalia," he hurried over the words, "there is something I want to know—from your own lips."

"You can ask me anything, Uncle Felix." She turned her face towards him with the frankness of a child. "I have no secrets that I would not tell you."

His hand rested on her shoulder while he searched her eyes.

"How great is your love for Morgan Talbot?"

Natalia met his eyes seriously for a few moments; and then she laughed softly.

"What a question, Uncle Felix, and particularly when it comes from you! How great is my love for the man I am going to marry? Do you know me so little that you deem such a question necessary?"

"No. But I know you so well that I know that you will tell me the truth—that is, if you answer me seriously."

Gradually the smile faded into a pensive expression, and Natalia turned slowly back to where the gleaming portrait held her attention again.

"How great is my love," she murmured as if in self-questioning. "How great is my love? Why, Uncle Felix, how do I know how great it is? What is there for me to compare it to?"

The old man leaned towards her, and though her face was turned from him when he spoke, she felt that there was something left unsaid behind his words.

"Is this the first time you have loved? Is there nothing that went before, by which you can judge?"

"No, nothing." Natalia turned and searched his eyes for the hidden meaning. "I have never been in love before, unless—" her face flushed slightly as she found his meaning, "unless it were my old admiration for Sargent Everett. But then I was too young to know."

Judge Houston leaned back once more into the protecting shadows of the wall, it had come at last he sighed to himself, and she had been the first to mention it.

"And is this love that you now feel, like the first?"

"No." She shook her head, her face saddening sweetly. "No. I adored Sargent Everett. It was worship. A girl only has that experience once in life; fortunately it came to me early and I outgrew it. But I remember it painfully well. It is the sort of feeling that one must have who bows down and worships a god, and sees that god returning his affection—can there be any sensation more wonderful! And all the incidents of our association naturally added a picturesqueness that impressed my childish imagination, coloured it, and made his image sink very deep upon mv mind. This morning when I went out to the old bench under the magnolias where he and I used to sit, I actually felt a return of my old love for him. I actually forgot Morgan for the moment!" She ended with a happy laugh.

"Tell me then," Judge Houston asked after a pause. "How does this other love differ from the first?"

She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned back against the sofa, her eyes half closed in meditation. Finally, with a graceful movement, she put out her hand and drew the old man's into hers.

"My love for Morgan," she began slowly. "How can I ever describe it! It did not come to me suddenly—it was more the outgrowth of association—a drifting into it without realization. Is it not always that way?" She lifted her face towards the old man intently, and found him looking down at her with a sad expression that she did not understand.

"You say you found it that way?"

"Yes, Uncle Felix," Natalia answered gayly. "Now please don't upbraid me for not falling in love at first sight. You know such things don't happen nowadays. I first met Morgan at the boarding school where Mamma Brandon sent me. Millicent was there with me at the time, and through our friendship I began to hear stories of her beautiful brother whom she described as the acme of all that was handsome and brave and wonderful. You must remember we were only twelve then. It is rather a strange thing, now, as things have eventuated, that I used to answer all her descriptions of Morgan with effusions about Sargent Everett. Then I met him. You can see the impression he would be likely to make upon a lonely little school-girl away from the few people who had ever loved her. Naturally the absent scene faded as the years passed, and I found myself living only in the world about me—a world filled with all the interests of the school and my broadening education, and made a place of enchantment to me by the kindness and affection of Morgan's family. They made me one of them. And when the day of real freedom came, when I left school to enter the world, with the enormous accretions from my plantations which you and Mamma Brandon had so skilfully managed for me—everything was perfect. Ah, it was beautiful! That first year of my real life. I can remember exactly my sensations the night I made my debut. We went to the opera first to hear Jenny Lind sing, and afterwards there was a big ball. I carried a beautiful bouquet of lilies of the valley—oh, Uncle Felix, it was gorgeous! That was two years ago. Since then, you know how I have travelled, how I spent a year in Europe, losing myself in the shadows of all that historic past, all that overpowering procession of events that has left its monuments for us to wonder over.... Those were carefree days, happy and thoughtless, with no suspicion of a to-morrow, and in them, with me—for long periods of travel—was Morgan—always faithful, always attentive, always an ideal lover. I never thought of marrying him then—at least never seriously, until I came back from Europe, and found that the same things that filled my life before amused me no longer. I was tired of playing, Uncle Felix, I had played too much. Something within called me to the great problems of life—I felt that I wanted to be in touch with people whose lives were amounting to something, who were doing good in the world and helping others. I seemed to realize then, for the first time, that I was drifting along in a happiness that would bring me nothing in the future, and I saw myself in my old age, when my youth and freshness and beauty were all gone, as a little child, without any one dependent upon me for their happiness. I think it was that, Uncle Felix," and she drew his hand gently to her cheek, "that opened my eyes to Morgan's love. He was there, waiting to give me a protection and haven from that awful lonely future. And I thought of you and Aunt Maria growing old together so beautifully, and I know now, Uncle Felix, that Morgan and I shall do the same.... When I have a child, Uncle Felix, think how everything that has gone before will be as nothing! When I have one that is mine, a part of me—that is what will make my life divine!" Suddenly she put her hands up to his face and kissed him. "Forgive me! Forgive me! I did not mean to wound you. I did not mean to thrust my happiness at you—so."

There were tears in the old man's eyes as she talked on, lost in her own narration, and when she looked up at him again, they were streaming down his cheeks, she rose from the stool and slipped on to the sofa beside him, pulling his arm around her waist, so that her face lay close against his, with the silence deepening between them.

"Uncle Felix," she began again, after having risen and carefully snuffed the candles on the mantel. "I have never told any one what I have told you to-night; indeed, there was no one to tell—not even Morgan. It was my thought of you and this dear old place that made me wish to solemnize my marriage here. It may be the last time I shall ever be here, at least for many, many years; yet now that I have come back, and all the past has rushed over me with all its old charm and fascination—I feel that I should like to remain here always. There is something so protected and safe here—an aloofness from the world that would save one from almost every suffering. But of course it is impossible." She stirred restlessly. "Already Morgan is growing impatient, and wants to get back to the rush and stir of a city." She rose and with both hands pulled the old gentleman up after her. "Let's go back to the others now. But first—I may never have the chance to speak to you of it again—tell Sargent Everett of my deep affection for him still—tell him that I shall always be grateful for his having made me a very happy little girl, and that the only thing that marred my happiness on my wedding day was his absence. Now, let's go back to Morgan."

CHAPTER VI

HIS WEDDING PRESENT

The wedding day came—a beautiful day, filled with the glory of June sunshine, warm, sweet, brilliant—bringing in its perfection omens of great happiness.

The old home gained in beauty as the grove about it grew heavily laden with the honeyed fragrance of the magnolia blossoms, and the deep green leaves became even more varnished and glistening. The cool shadows and the topaz patches of sunlight mingled upon the tall columns; the red-tiled roof glowed as if with an understanding of its responsibility that day.

Natalia rose in the early morning and passing through the hall, where already there were signs of much stirring and preparation, went out into the garden. It was still very early. The first smoke from the quarters was curling lazily upward, and from the barn came the tinkling sound of bells as the cows were led into the pens for milking; and all through the atmosphere, insistent and penetrating, was that indefinable, vibrating sound of nature awakening in the early morning.

The garden greeted her with a burst of bloom, veiled timidly in its protection of dew. She lifted her face to the soft air, and breathed the delicious fragrance of the honeysuckle. Everything was perfect to her at this moment. She looked through the eyes of one to whom the world has become a consummation of ideals.

She lingered beside the pomegranate bush, smiling as she vainly sought for the jay-bird's nest that she had found there when a child; then she strolled on into the depths of the grove. How fortunate she was, she reflected, as her eyes lingered on all her surroundings, to have this quiet, beautiful spot in which to solemnize the marriage that was to bring her completeness. How perfect that her honeymoon should be spent in the surroundings that her mother and father had known at such a time. In each detail she imagined she could discover some preference of theirs; in the quiet and aloofness of the early morning she felt intuitively that they were with her.

The sound of a step behind her made her turn quickly, a quick frown at the interruption changing instantly into a smile of happiness, for Morgan had seen her from his window and followed her.

"It is our wedding day, sweetheart," he said when he had reached her and put his arm about her. "Our wedding day—think of it! May I be the first to kiss you on such an important day?"

Natalia looked up at him thoughtfully, dwelling with a tender glance upon his bright, manly face and fair hair. In the morning brilliance he shone resplendent, catching, as if by natural attraction, all the beauty and freshness of the day in his brilliant colouring and deep blue eyes.

"Is it such an important day?" Natalia answered softly. "I sometimes wonder if marriage is not an anticlimax. The greatest moment to me was when I realized that I loved you. Nothing will ever equal the joy of that—not even our wedding."

"That is a girl's way of looking at it," Morgan laughed easily. "With a man it is quite different. You see, dear, he fears so that the girl might change her mind, that he is not really happy and satisfied until she actually belongs to him."

"There you go, Morgan." Natalia looked away, answering his smile half-heartedly. "Joking when I am serious. But it is very fortunate, I suppose. I should always see the serious side of life if it were not for you. I am so glad that we are different, dear. You see—we are antidotes. You correct my seriousness—I sober your lightheartedness."

Morgan looked at her curiously.

"Yet you can be as gay as I, Natalia. You were so at school; you were on our long voyage together. It is only since we have been engaged that you have changed. What is it? Are you not entirely happy?"

"Of course I am—the happiest woman in the world! Only I feel my happiness differently from you. It is a more serious thing to me. It's my nature, I suppose. I've been trying all my life to let people know how happy I was, and even when in my most melancholy spells I found a certain quiet peace, I had to appear gay to keep others from thinking I was miserable. It's a trick of mine, to hide my real feelings, I suppose. We're all acting, anyhow, don't you think so?"

"No, I'm not," Talbot smiled down at her gayly. "I honestly believe I am as nearly frank as people get. I never could hide my emotions, and I've never yet learned to control my anger."

"How dreadfully you frighten me, Morgan." Natalia frowned in assumed fear. "Suppose you should get angry with me—would you treat me very badly? Would you whip me?" She laughed outright. "Dicey says there used to be an old farmer here who whipped his wife every Saturday night because he said it was the only way a man could make a woman respect him. And she also says that when the man was sent to jail for stealing his neighbour's cow, that his wife would go with him. Such a case makes one ponder, doesn't it, Morgan, as to which is the right way to hold another's love?"

"I'll never treat you that way, Natalia, because," and he hesitated, half-serious, "I'm almost afraid of you at times—when your eyes grow very black and the colour fades out of your face. I don't know whether it is anger, or what. It makes you wonderfully beautiful, though."

"I know—it is when I'm very intense. It's when my Spanish blood is aroused. Sometimes I have felt that I was acting without my own volition—that some one else, a new nature within me, was compelling me on to something I was helpless to combat. I will tell you about it some day, but not this morning. I've determined to let nothing mar our happiness to-day. But I have a request to make," she ended tentatively.

"Anything in the world—you have only to name it," Morgan replied promptly, swinging her hand in his, to and fro, like a happy schoolboy.

"Do you know, sir," Natalia began, with mincing manner and chiding voice, "that you spent all of yesterday afternoon and the one before, away from me—and worst of all—with Mr. Jervais!"

Morgan's face showed his evident surprise.

"You don't mean to tell me, Natalia, that you objected to that! Certainly you didn't want me to stay here all the time listening to you women folks discuss trousseaux and wedding cakes!"

Natalia smiled at him silently.

"That must be a very attractive place—that Mansion House," she commented archly.

"The tavern! What do you know about it?"

"Uncle Felix told me how popular you were there—how many friends you had made already. It doesn't take a very lively imagination to picture the poker games there, for I've heard of them ever since I could remember. There were great old days, then, and still are, I fancy, if you men would only tell about it. But, seriously, Morgan, don't go this afternoon. Promise me."

Morgan's face had clouded as she ended, and slipping his arm around her he led her towards the bench on the brow of the hill.

"Listen, Natalia," he said, when they had sat down. "Something happened yesterday which I did not want you to know. Now, I see I had best tell you. Lemuel Jervais and I got into a pretty reckless game of poker all the afternoon. Towards the end I think he must have reached the limit of his ready resources, for when every one had withdrawn and he and I were sticking it out, he said he was going to pay me in slaves, if he lost. You know my feelings in regard to slavery. So when it came to that, I threw down my hand and said I was not gambling for human beings!" Morgan dropped his hands between his knees and stared before him in silence. "It was all rather unfortunate, but I suppose couldn't be helped," he continued. "What makes it a little embarrassing to me is that Jervais insisted that I should go back again to-day and finish the game."

"But you didn't agree to it, did you?" Natalia exclaimed.

"What else could I do?" Morgan answered rather gloomily. "He is my host and yours, and would take offence—particularly as I have been the winner all along. Besides, it wouldn't do not to go for a little while. Do you know what I've decided to do?" he added, bright again. "I'm going to let Jervais win rather heavily, and then suggest that we come back here."

Natalia met his brightness only half-way.

"I suppose you will have to do it, but you will come back soon?"

"You have my word for it."

"Well, then, I suppose I'll have to be contented." Natalia smiled again. "But after to-day, when everybody has gone away, and Brother Joel and Millicent are on their way to New Orleans, and we shall be here all alone—you must not let a single thing, no matter how great, take you away from me. Just you and I—all alone! I've planned each day—almost every moment!"

They strolled a little way down the hill, to where the ground rolled precipitately to the river. The opposite shore was still grey and misty with the retreating night, and over the stretch of wilderness hung a blue veil of mystery.

"The Indians call it 'The Land of the Setting Sun,'" Natalia said, looking out before her. "Poor wild creatures! It seems the only land left them now. To me it always seemed the future. One thinks one sees it, yet it is all vague and unknown."

"That is not the way with our future, though," Morgan replied, gathering Natalia in his arms. "Ours is neither vague nor unknown. This day is a symbol of what it is to be. It will be only happiness," he kissed her, "happiness—and happiness again!"

The day deepened in beauty as the hours passed, and all the while elaborate decorations were being arranged throughout the house. Many friends came, bringing wagon loads of trailing vines and ferns and wild hydrangeas. Festoons of Southern smilax were twined about the columns and draped from one to the other, so that the old house looked gay and youthful, as it had many years ago; and along the veranda, tables were placed on which stood tall crystal globes protecting the candles which were to illumine the place at nightfall; and along the balustrade of the upper balcony was a row of candles which encircled the house, and would make it a blaze of glory.

In the grove hundreds of transparences were hung high among the thick foliage, vying with the white blossoms in doing honour to the occasion; two big piles of brush were placed far out on the road beyond the gate, which were to be set ablaze in the evening and light the late arrivals on their way.

Within, the large salon was heavy with the odour of gardenias. The walls were covered with the fragrant blossoms and from the corners of the ceiling to where the bronze chandelier swung with its hundred and fifty candles, garlands of ivy were draped. Across the hall, the dining-room floor was waxed until Zebediah pronounced it too slippery for any one to stand upon, much less attempt dancing. Even the library was thrown open, a thing never done before in entertaining, and all the wedding presents displayed there—presents that brought smiles and tears to Natalia, for in many of these gifts she realized that the friends of her parents were parting with their heirlooms to do her honour. There were priceless pieces of Sevres china; a huge punch bowl of Bohemian glass, the sides cut in broad panels which showed layers of rose and cream; candlesticks in bronze and brass and silver; many pieces of Sheffield plate and silver that had come to America with its early settlers; and, causing more trouble and amusement than all the other presents, a magnificent peacock sent by old Mrs. Buckingham, which thought its special duty was to make the air ring with hideous cries.

In the late afternoon Natalia went down the stairs on the back veranda to inspect the last touches that Mrs. Jervais and Mrs. Houston were giving the supper table. The veranda had been enclosed the whole length in osnaburgs, and a long table extended from one end to the other, literally groaning under the weight of appetizing delicacies.

Already the front of the house was gay with the people who had driven many miles to the wedding, and whose carriages and wagons were encamped without the gates awaiting the return to them in the early morning; for it was the custom of those days to spend the entire night in jollification, the fiddlers never resting their bows until the sunlight clashed with candle-light.

"Oh, Natalia, look at those nougat pyramids! Aren't they dreams!" Millicent cried. "I know they must be six feet high."

"They were made in New Orleans," commented Mrs. Jervais, proudly, following the two girls as they moved down the table inspecting everything.

"Won't it be a pity to break them? But of course every one will want a souvenir to take home. Natalia, I think you ought to keep one whole in memory of the day. And there's the wedding cake! In five terraces! Isn't it beautiful? Where in the world did you get it, Mrs. Houston?"

Mrs. Houston's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"I made every bit of it myself. It took the whites of fifty eggs!"

"What on earth did you do with the yelks?" exclaimed Millicent, dumbfounded.

"Is there nothing I can do?" Natalia said, putting her arms about the old lady, and kissing her cheek. "How good you all are to me! I seem to grow happier every moment—"

The clang of the door-bell broke on her unfinished words, and in the next moment a servant had entered with a note. Natalia took it from the salver, and glanced at the address, drawing her brows together, as if in recollection. The others waited silently impatient.