In addition to a pronounced attractiveness of form and feature, Miss Graciella Treadwell possessed a fine complexion, a clear eye, and an elastic spirit. She was also well endowed with certain other characteristics of youth; among them ingenuousness, which, if it be a fault, experience is sure to correct; and impulsiveness, which even the school of hard knocks is not always able to eradicate, though it may chasten. To the good points of Graciella, could be added an untroubled conscience, at least up to that period when Colonel French dawned upon her horizon, and for some time thereafter. If she had put herself foremost in all her thoughts, it had been the unconscious egotism of youth, with no definite purpose of self-seeking. The things for which she wished most were associated with distant places, and her longing for them had never taken the form of envy of those around her. Indeed envy is scarcely a vice of youth; it is a weed that flourishes best after the flower of hope has begun to wither. Graciella's views of life, even her youthful romanticism were sane and healthful; but since she had not been tried in the furnace of experience, it could only be said of her that she belonged to the class, always large, but shifting like the sands of the sea, who have never been tempted, and therefore do not know whether they would sin or not.
It was inevitable, with such a nature as Graciella's, in such an embodiment, that the time should come, at some important crisis of her life, when she must choose between different courses; nor was it likely that she could avoid what comes sometime to all of us, the necessity of choosing between good and evil. Her liking for Colonel French had grown since their first meeting. He knew so many things that Graciella wished to know, that when he came to the house she spent a great deal of time in conversation with him. Her aunt Laura was often busy with household duties, and Graciella, as the least employed member of the family, was able to devote herself to his entertainment. Colonel French, a comparatively idle man at this period, found her prattle very amusing.
It was not unnatural for Graciella to think that this acquaintance might be of future value; she could scarcely have thought otherwise. If she should ever go to New York, a rich and powerful friend would be well worth having. Should her going there be delayed very long, she would nevertheless have a tie of friendship in the great city, and a source to which she might at any time apply for information. Her fondness for Colonel French's society was, however, up to a certain time, entirely spontaneous, and coloured by no ulterior purpose. Her hope that his friendship might prove valuable was an afterthought.
It was during this happy period that she was standing, one day, by the garden gate, when Colonel French passed by in his fine new trap, driving a spirited horse; and it was with perfect candour that she waved her hand to him familiarly.
"Would you like a drive?" he called.
"Wouldn't I?" she replied. "Wait till I tell the folks."
She was back in a moment, and ran out of the gate and down the steps. The colonel gave her his hand and she sprang up beside him.
They drove through the cemetery, and into the outlying part of the town, where there were some shaded woodland stretches. It was a pleasant afternoon; cloudy enough to hide the sun. Graciella's eyes sparkled and her cheek glowed with pleasure, while her light brown hair blown about her face by the breeze of their rapid motion was like an aureole.
"Colonel French," she said as they were walking the horse up a hill, "are you going to give a house warming?"
"Why," he said, "I hadn't thought of it. Ought I to give a house warming?"
"You surely ought. Everybody will want to see your house while it is new and bright. You certainly ought to have a house warming."
"Very well," said the colonel. "I make it a rule to shirk no plain duty. If I _ought_ to have a house warming, I _will_ have it. And you shall be my social mentor. What sort of a party shall it be?"
"Why not make it," she said brightly, "just such a party as your father would have had. You have the old house, and the old furniture. Give an old-time party."
* * * * * * *
In fitting up his house the colonel had been animated by the same feeling that had moved him to its purchase. He had endeavoured to restore, as far as possible, the interior as he remembered it in his childhood. At his father's death the furniture had been sold and scattered. He had been able, through the kindly interest of his friends, to recover several of the pieces. Others that were lost past hope, had been reproduced from their description. Among those recovered was a fine pair of brass andirons, and his father's mahogany desk, which had been purchased by Major Treadwell at the sale of the elder French's effects.
Miss Laura had been the first to speak of the desk.
"Henry," she had said, "the house would not be complete without your father's desk. It was my father's too, but yours is the prior claim. Take it as a gift from me."
He protested, and would have paid for it liberally, and, when she would take nothing, declared he would not accept it on such terms.
"You are selfish, Henry," she replied, with a smile. "You have brought a new interest into our lives, and into the town, and you will not let us make you any return."
"But I am taking from you something you need," he replied, "and for which you paid. When Major Treadwell bought it, it was merely second-hand furniture, sold under the hammer. Now it has the value of an antique--it is a fine piece and could be sold in New York for a large sum."
"You must take it for nothing, or not at all," she replied firmly.
"It is highway robbery," he said, and could not make up his mind to yield.
Next day, when the colonel went home, after having been down town an hour, he found the desk in his library. The Treadwell ladies had corrupted Peter, who had told them when the colonel would be out of the house and had brought a cart to take the desk away.
When the house was finished, the interior was simple but beautiful. It was furnished in the style that had been prevalent fifty years before. There were some modern additions in the line of comfort and luxury--soft chairs, fine rugs, and a few choice books and pictures--for the colonel had not attempted to conform his own tastes and habits to those of his father. He had some visitors, mostly gentlemen, and there was, as Graciella knew, a lively curiosity among the ladies to see the house and its contents.
The suggestion of a house warming had come originally from Mrs. Treadwell; but Graciella had promptly made it her own and conveyed it to the colonel.
* * * * * * *
"A bright idea," he replied. "By all means let it be an old-time
party--say such a party as my father would have given, or my
grandfather. And shall we invite the old people?""Well," replied Graciella judicially, "don't have them so old that they can't talk or hear, and must be fed with a spoon. If there were too many old, or not enough young people, I shouldn't enjoy myself."
"I suppose I seem awfully old to you," said the colonel, parenthetically.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Graciella, giving him a frankly critical look. "When you first came I thought you _were_ rather old--you see, you are older than Aunt Laura; but you seem to have grown younger--it's curious, but it's true--and now I hardly think of you as old at all."
The colonel was secretly flattered. The wisest man over forty likes to be thought young.
"Very well," he said, "you shall select the guests."
"At an old-time party," continued Graciella, thoughtfully, "the guests should wear old-time clothes. In grandmother's time the ladies wore long flowing sleeves----"
"And hoopskirts," said the colonel.
"And their hair down over their ears."
"Or in ringlets."
"Yes, it is all in grandmother's bound volume of _The Ladies' Book_," said Graciella. "I was reading it only last week."
"My mother took it," returned the colonel.
"Then you must have read 'Letters from a Pastry Cook,' by N.P. Willis when they came out?"
"No," said the colonel with a sigh, "I missed that. I--I wasn't able to read then."
Graciella indulged in a brief mental calculation.
"Why, of course not," she laughed, "you weren't even born when they came out! But they're fine; I'll lend you our copy. You must ask all the girls to dress as their mothers and grandmothers used to dress. Make the requirement elastic, because some of them may not have just the things for one particular period. I'm all right. We have a cedar chest in the attic, full of old things. Won't I look funny in a hoop skirt?"
"You'll look charming in anything," said the colonel.
It was a pleasure to pay Graciella compliments, she so frankly enjoyed them; and the colonel loved to make others happy. In his New York firm Mr. French was always ready to consider a request for an advance of salary; Kirby had often been obliged to play the wicked partner in order to keep expenses down to a normal level. At parties débutantes had always expected Mr. French to say something pleasant to them, and had rarely been disappointed.
The subject of the party was resumed next day at Mrs. Treadwell's, where the colonel went in the afternoon to call.
"An old-time party," declared the colonel, "should have old-time amusements. We must have a fiddler, a black fiddler, to play quadrilles and the Virginia Reel."
"I don't know where you'll find one," said Miss Laura.
"I'll ask Peter," replied the colonel. "He ought to know."
Peter was in the yard with Phil.
"Lawd, Mars Henry!" said Peter, "fiddlers is mighty sca'ce dese days, but I reckon ole 'Poleon Campbell kin make you shake yo' feet yit, ef Ole Man Rheumatiz ain' ketched holt er 'im too tight."
"And I will play a minuet on your new piano," said Miss Laura, "and teach the girls beforehand how to dance it. There should be cards for those who do not dance."
So the party was arranged. Miss Laura, Graciella and the colonel made out the list of guests. The invitations were duly sent out for an old-time party, with old-time costumes--any period between 1830 and 1860 permissible--and old-time entertainment.
The announcement created some excitement in social circles, and, like all of Colonel French's enterprises at that happy period of his home-coming, brought prosperity in its train. Dressmakers were kept busy making and altering costumes for the ladies. Old Archie Christmas, the mulatto tailor, sole survivor of a once flourishing craft--Mr. Cohen's Universal Emporium supplied the general public with ready-made clothing, and, twice a year, the travelling salesman of a New York tailoring firm visited Clarendon with samples of suitings, and took orders and measurements--old Archie Christmas, who had not made a full suit of clothes for years, was able, by making and altering men's garments for the colonel's party, to earn enough to keep himself alive for another twelve months. Old Peter was at Archie's shop one day, and they were talking about old times--good old times--for to old men old times are always good times, though history may tell another tale.
"Yo' boss is a godsen' ter dis town," declared old Archie, "he sho' is. De w'ite folks says de young niggers is triflin' 'cause dey don' larn how to do nothin'. But what is dere fer 'em to do? I kin 'member when dis town was full er black an' yaller carpenters an' 'j'iners, blacksmiths, wagon makers, shoemakers, tinners, saddlers an' cab'net makers. Now all de fu'nicher, de shoes, de wagons, de buggies, de tinware, de hoss shoes, de nails to fasten 'em on wid--yas, an' fo' de Lawd! even de clothes dat folks wears on dere backs, is made at de Norf, an' dere ain' nothin' lef' fer de ole niggers ter do, let 'lone de young ones. Yo' boss is de right kin'; I hopes he'll stay 'roun' here till you an' me dies."
"I hopes wid you," said Peter fervently, "I sho' does! Yas indeed I does."
Peter was entirely sincere. Never in his life had he worn such good clothes, eaten such good food, or led so easy a life as in the colonel's service. Even the old times paled by comparison with this new golden age; and the long years of poverty and hard luck that stretched behind him seemed to the old man like a distant and unpleasant dream.
* * * * * * *
The party came off at the appointed time, and was a distinct success. Graciella had made a raid on the cedar chest, and shone resplendent in crinoline, curls, and a patterned muslin. Together with Miss Laura and Ben Dudley, who had come in from Mink Run for the party, she was among the first to arrive. Miss Laura's costume, which belonged to an earlier date, was in keeping with her quiet dignity. Ben wore a suit of his uncle's, which the care of old Aunt Viney had preserved wonderfully well from moth and dust through the years. The men wore stocks and neckcloths, bell-bottomed trousers with straps under their shoes, and frock coats very full at the top and buttoned tightly at the waist. Old Peter, in a long blue coat with brass buttons, acted as butler, helped by a young Negro who did the heavy work. Miss Laura's servant Catherine had rallied from her usual gloom and begged the privilege of acting as lady's maid. 'Poleon Campbell, an old-time Negro fiddler, whom Peter had resurrected from some obscure cabin, oiled his rheumatic joints, tuned his fiddle and rosined his bow, and under the inspiration of good food and drink and liberal wage, played through his whole repertory, which included such ancient favourites as, "Fishers' Hornpipe," "Soldiers' Joy," "Chicken in the Bread-tray," and the "Campbells are Coming." Miss Laura played a minuet, which the young people danced. Major McLean danced the highland fling, and some of the ladies sang old-time songs, and war lyrics, which stirred the heart and moistened the eyes.
Little Phil, in a child's costume of 1840, copied from _The Ladies' Book_, was petted and made much of for several hours, until he became sleepy and was put to bed.
"Graciella," said the colonel to his young friend, during the evening, "our party is a great success. It was your idea. When it is all over, I want to make you a present in token of my gratitude. You shall select it yourself; it shall be whatever you say."
Graciella was very much elated at this mark of the colonel's friendship. She did not dream of declining the proffered token, and during the next dance her mind was busily occupied with the question of what it should be--a ring, a bracelet, a bicycle, a set of books? She needed a dozen things, and would have liked to possess a dozen others.
She had not yet decided, when Ben came up to claim her for a dance. On his appearance, she was struck by a sudden idea. Colonel French was a man of affairs. In New York he must have a wide circle of influential acquaintances. Old Mr. Dudley was in failing health; he might die at any time, and Ben would then be free to seek employment away from Clarendon. What better place for him than New York? With a position there, he would be able to marry her, and take her there to live.
This, she decided, should be her request of the colonel--that he should help her lover to a place in New York.
Her conclusion was really magnanimous. She might profit by it in the end, but Ben would be the first beneficiary. It was an act of self-denial, for she was giving up a definite and certain good for a future contingency.
She was therefore in a pleasant glow of self-congratulatory mood when she accidentally overheard a conversation not intended for her ears. She had run out to the dining-room to speak to the housekeeper about the refreshments, and was returning through the hall, when she stopped for a moment to look into the library, where those who did not care to dance were playing cards.
Beyond the door, with their backs turned toward her, sat two ladies engaged in conversation. One was a widow, a well-known gossip, and the other a wife known to be unhappily married. They were no longer young, and their views were marked by the cynicism of seasoned experience.
"Oh, there's no doubt about it," said the widow. "He came down here to find a wife. He tried a Yankee wife, and didn't like the breed; and when he was ready for number two, he came back South."
"He showed good taste," said the other.
"That depends," said the widow, "upon whom he chooses. He can probably have his pick."
"No doubt," rejoined the married lady, with a touch of sarcasm, which the widow, who was still under forty, chose to ignore.
"I wonder which is it?" said the widow. "I suppose it's Laura; he spends a great deal of time there, and she's devoted to his little boy, or pretends to be."
"Don't fool yourself," replied the other earnestly, and not without a subdued pleasure in disabusing the widow's mind. "Don't fool yourself, my dear. A man of his age doesn't marry a woman of Laura Treadwell's. Believe me, it's the little one."
"But she has a beau. There's that tall nephew of old Mr. Dudley's. He's been hanging around her for a year or two. He looks very handsome to-night."
"Ah, well, she'll dispose of him fast enough when the time comes. He's only a poor stick, the last of a good stock run to seed. Why, she's been pointedly setting her cap at the colonel all the evening. He's perfectly infatuated; he has danced with her three times to once with Laura."
"It's sad to see a man make a fool of himself," sighed the widow, who was not without some remnants of beauty and a heart still warm and willing. "Children are very forward nowadays."
"There's no fool like an old fool, my dear," replied the other with the cheerful philosophy of the miserable who love company. "These fair women are always selfish and calculating; and she's a bold piece. My husband says Colonel French is worth at least a million. A young wife, who understands her business, could get anything from him that money can buy."
"What a pity, my dear," said the widow, with a spice of malice, seeing her own opportunity, "what a pity that you were older than your husband! Well, it will be fortunate for the child if she marries an old man, for beauty of her type fades early."
Old 'Poleon's fiddle, to which one of the guests was improvising an accompaniment on the colonel's new piano, had struck up "Camptown Races," and the rollicking lilt of the chorus was resounding through the house.
"Gwine ter run all night, Gwine ter run all day, I'll bet my money on de bobtail nag, Oh, who's gwine ter bet on de bay?"
Ben ran out into the hall. Graciella had changed her position and was sitting alone, perturbed in mind.
"Come on, Graciella, let's get into the Virginia reel; it's the last one."
Graciella obeyed mechanically. Ben, on the contrary, was unusually animated. He had enjoyed the party better than any he had ever attended. He had not been at many.
Colonel French, who had entered with zest into the spirit of the occasion, participated in the reel. Every time Graciella touched his hand, it was with the consciousness of a new element in their relations. Until then her friendship for Colonel French had been perfectly ingenuous. She had liked him because he was interesting, and good to her in a friendly way. Now she realised that he was a millionaire, eligible for marriage, from whom a young wife, if she understood her business, might secure the gratification of every wish.
The serpent had entered Eden. Graciella had been tendered the apple. She must choose now whether she would eat.
When the party broke up, the colonel was congratulated on every hand. He had not only given his guests a delightful evening. He had restored an ancient landmark; had recalled, to a people whose life lay mostly in the past, the glory of days gone by, and proved his loyalty to their cherished traditions.
Ben Dudley walked home with Graciella. Miss Laura went ahead of them with Catherine, who was cheerful in the possession of a substantial reward for her services.
"You're not sayin' much to-night," said Ben to his sweetheart, as they walked along under the trees.
Graciella did not respond.
"You're not sayin' much to-night," he repeated.
"Yes," returned Graciella abstractedly, "it was a lovely party!"
Ben said no more. The house warming had also given him food for thought. He had noticed the colonel's attentions to Graciella, and had heard them remarked upon. Colonel French was more than old enough to be Graciella's father; but he was rich. Graciella was poor and ambitious. Ben's only assets were youth and hope, and priority in the field his only claim.
Miss Laura and Catherine had gone in, and when the young people came to the gate, the light still shone through the open door.
"Graciella," he said, taking her hand in his as they stood a moment, "will you marry me?"
"Still harping on the same old string," she said, withdrawing her hand. "I'm tired now, Ben, too tired to talk foolishness."
"Very well, I'll save it for next time. Good night, sweetheart."
She had closed the gate between them. He leaned over it to kiss her, but she evaded his caress and ran lightly up the steps.
"Good night, Ben," she called.
"Good night, sweetheart," he replied, with a pang of foreboding.
In after years, when the colonel looked back upon his residence in Clarendon, this seemed to him the golden moment. There were other times that stirred deeper emotions--the lust of battle, the joy of victory, the chagrin of defeat--moments that tried his soul with tests almost too hard. But, thus far, his new career in Clarendon had been one of pleasant experiences only, and this unclouded hour was its fitting crown.