Chapter 5

    "I loved you alway, I will not deny it; not for three months, and
  not for a year; but I loved you from the first, when I was a child,
  and my love shall not wither, till death shall end me."--GAeLIC SONG.
    "Our own acts are our attending angels, in whose light or shadow
  we walk continually."
The Fontaine place was a long, low, white building facing a tumbling
sea, and a stretch of burnt sea-sands. It had no architectural beauty,
and yet it was a wonderfully picturesque place. Broad piazzas draped
in vines ran all around the lower story, and the upper revealed itself
only in white glimpses among dense masses of foliage. And what did
it matter that outside the place there were brown sand-hills and
pale-sailed ships? A high hedge of myrtles hid it in a large garden
full of the scents of the sun-burnt South--a garden of fragrant beauty,
where one might dream idly all day long.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon of an August day, and every thing
was still; only the _cicadas_ ran from hedge to hedge telling
each other, in clear resonant voices, how hot it was. The house door
stood open, but all the green jalousies were closed, and not a breath
of air stirred the lace curtains hanging motionless before the windows.
The rooms, large and lofty, were in a dusky light, their atmosphere
still and warm and heavy with the scent of flowers. On the back piazza
half a dozen negro children were sleeping in all sorts of picturesque
attitudes, a bright mulatto women was dozing in a rocking-chair, and
the cook, having "fixed" his dinner ready for the stove, had rolled
himself in his blanket on the kitchen floor. Silence and dusk were
every-where, the dwelling might have been an enchanted one, and life
in it held in a trance.
In one of the upper rooms there was an occupant well calculated to
carry out this idea. It was Phyllis, fast asleep upon a white couch,
with both hands dropped toward the floor. But the sewing which had
fallen from them, and the thimble still upon her finger, was guarantee
for her mortality. And in a few minutes she opened her soft, dark eyes,
and smiled at her vacant hands. Then she glanced at the windows; the
curtains were beginning to stir, the gulf breeze had sprung up, the
birds were twittering, and the house awakening.
But it was pleasant to be quiet and think in such an indolent mood;
and Phyllis had some reasons for finding the "thinking" engrossing.
First, she had had a letter from Elizabeth, and it was in a very
hopeful tone. Antony and George Eltham were doing very well, and, as
Lord Eltham had become quietly interested in the firm, the squire felt
more easy as to its final success. Second, Mr. North was leaving
Hallam, his term there had expired, and the Conference, which would
determine his next movement, was then sitting. Her thoughts were
drifting on these two topics when a woman softly entered the room. She
looked at Phyllis's closed eyes, and with a smile went here and there
laying out clean white muslins, and knots of pink ribbons, and all the
pretty accessories of a young maiden's evening toilet.
"Thar now, Miss Phill! I'se ready--and I 'spects thar's some good news
for you, honey!"
Phyllis opened her eyes. "I heard you, Harriet. I was not asleep. As
for good news, I think you are always expecting it--besides, I had
some to-day."
"Dat's de reason,--Miss Phill--'whar you going good news? Jest whar
I'se been afore.' Dat's de way. I reckon I knows 'bout it."
"What makes you know this time, Harriet? Has the postman been, or a
bird whispered it to you, or have some of Waul's servants been making
a call here?"
"I don't 'ceive any of de Waul's servants, Miss Phill. I'se not
wanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. No, I draws
my s'picions in de properest way. Mass'r Richard git a letter dis
morning. Did he tell you, Miss Phill?"
"I have not seen him since breakfast."
"I thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. I knows dat letter
from Mass'r John. I'se sure ob it."
"Did you look--at the outside of it, I mean--Harriet?"
"No, Miss Phill, I didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside;
I's not dat kind; I look at Mass'r Richard's face. Bless you, Miss
Phill! Mass'r Richard kaint hide nothing. If he was in love Harriet
would know it, quick as a flash--"
"I think not, Harriet."
"Den I tell you something, Miss Phill. Mass'r Richard been in love
eber since he come back from ober de Atterlantic Ocean. P'raps you
don't know, but I done found him out."
Phyllis laughed.
"I tell you how I knows it. Mass'r Richard allays on de lookout for
de postman; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish letters wid a lady's face
in de corner."
"That is Queen Victoria's face. You don't suppose Master Richard is
in love with Queen Victoria?"
"Miss Phill, de Fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and think
dey pay her a compliment--dey mighty proud fambly, de Fontaines; but
I'se no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many cents
to carry de letter. But, Miss Phill, who sends de letters? Dat am de
question."
"Of course, that would decide it."
"Den when Mass'r Richard gits one of dem letters, he sits so
quiet-like, thinking and smiling to himself, and ef you speak to him, he
answers you kind ob far-away, and gentle. I done tried him often. But
he didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning.
Mass'r Richard got powerful high temper, Miss Phill."
"Then take care and not anger him, Harriet."
"You see, when I bring in de letter, I bring in wid me some fresh
myrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as I put dem in, and
fixed up de chimley-piece, I noticed Mass'r Richard through de
looking-glass--and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together,
and he crush'd de letter up in his hand."
"Harriet, you have no right to watch your master. It is a very mean
thing to do."
"Me watch Mass'r Richard! Now, Miss Phill, I'se none ob dat kind! But
I kaint shut my eyes, 'specially when I'se 'tending to de flower
vases."
"You could have left the vases just at that time."
"No, Miss Phill, I'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. Dey has to be
'tended to. You done told me ober and ober to hab a time for ebery
thing, and de time for de vases was jist den."
"Then, the next time you see Master Richard through the glass, tell
him so, Harriet; that is only fair, you know."
"Go 'way, Miss Phill! I'se got more sense dan tell Mass'r Richard any
sich thing."
Phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a decision she might be
compelled to make, and the question was one which touched her very
nearly on very opposite sides. She loved her brother with all her
heart. Their lives had been spent together, for Phyllis had been left
to his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him an
affection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of the
child, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. But John Millard
she loved, as women love but once. He was related by marriage to the
Fontaines, and had, when Phyllis and Richard were children, spent much
of his time at the Fontaine place.
But even as boys Richard and John had not agreed. To ask "why" is to
ask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. It is easy
to say that Richard was jealous of his sister, and jealous of John's
superiority in athletic games, and that John spoke sneeringly of
Richard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman ways; but there was
something deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for which
there seemed to be no reason, and for which there was no cure but the
compelling power of a divine love.
John Millard had been for two years on the frontier, and there had
been very meager and irregular news from him. If any one had asked
Richard, "Are you really hoping that he has been killed in some Indian
fight?" Richard would have indignantly denied it; and yet he knew that
if such a fate had come to his cousin Millard, he would not have been
sorry. And now the man with the easy confidence of a soldier who is
accustomed to make his own welcome, wrote to say "that he was coming
to New Orleans, and hoped to spend a good deal of his time with them."
The information was most unwelcome to Richard. He was not anxious for
his sister to marry; least of all, to marry a frontier settler. He
could not endure the thought of Phyllis roughing life in some log-cabin
on the San Marino. That was at least the aspect in which he put the
question to himself. He meant that he could not endure that John
Millard should at the last get the better of him about his own sister.
And when he put his foot down passionately, and said, between his
closed teeth, "He shall not do it!" it was the latter thought he
answered.
He felt half angry at Phyllis for being so lovely when she sat down
opposite him at dinner time. And there was an unusual light in her
eyes and an indescribable elation in her manner which betrayed her
knowledge of the coming event to him.
"Phyllis," he asked, suddenly, "who told you John Millard was coming?"
"Harriet told me you had a letter from him this morning."
"Confound--"
"Richard!"
"I beg your pardon, Phyllis. Be so good as to keep Harriet out of my
way. Yes; I had a letter--a most impertinent one, I think. Civilized
human beings usually wait for an invitation."
"Unless they imagine themselves going to a home."
"Home?"
"Yes. I think this is, in some sense, John's home. Mother always made
him welcome to it. Dear Richard, if it is foolish to meet troubles,
it is far more foolish to meet quarrels."
"I do not wish to quarrel, Phyllis; if John does not talk to you as
he ought not to talk. He ought to have more modesty than to ask you
to share such a home as he can offer you."
"Richard, dear, you are in a bad way. There is a trustees' meeting
to-night, and they are in trouble about dollars and cents; I would
go, if I were you."
"And have to help the deficiency?"
"Yes; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, the
best of all atonements is to do a good deed."
"O, Phyllis! Phyllis!"
"Yes, Richard; and you will see the Bishop there, very likely; and
you can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and I know what
he will say. 'It is but fair and square, son Richard, to treat a man
kindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkindness.' He will
say, 'Son Richard, if you have not the proofs upon which to blame a
man, don't blame him upon likelihoods.'"
"My good little sister, what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to meet John, as we were met at Hallam, with trusting
courtesy."
"If you will promise me to--"
"I will promise you to do nothing secretly; to do nothing my mother
would blame me for. To ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt I do not
deserve. Now put on your hat and go to church. They will be
disappointed if you are absent."
"It will cost me $100."
"A man ought to pay his debts; and it is nicer to go and pay them than
to compel some one to call here and ask you to do it."
"A debt?"
"Call it a gift, if you like. When I look over the cotton-fields,
Richard, and see what a grand crop you are going to have this year,
somehow I feel as if you ought to have said $200."
"Give me my hat, Phyllis. You have won, as you always do." And he
stooped and kissed her, and then went slowly through the garden to
the road.
She did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was very
bright and cheerful "I am going to ride to Greyson's Timbers, Phyllis,"
he said; "I have some business with Greyson, and John will be almost
sure to 'noon' there. So we shall likely come back together."
She smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquire
into his motives or comment upon them. It was sufficient that Richard
had conquered his lower self, and whether the victory had been a
single-handed one, or whether the Bishop had been an ally, was not
of vital importance. One may enjoy the perfume of a good action without
investigating the processes of its production.
In the middle of the afternoon she heard their arrival. It was a
pleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, and
all that cheerful confusion, which as surely follows their advent as
thunder follows lightning. And Phyllis found it very pleasant to lie
still and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two,
whatever of joy or sorrow was coming to meet her; for she had not seen
John for two years. He might have ceased to love her. He might be so
changed that she would not dare to love him. But in the main she
thought hopefully. True love, like true faith, when there seems to,
be nothing at all to rest upon,
  "Treads on the void and finds
     The rock beneath."
Few women will blame Phyllis for being unusually careful about her
toilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart.
Even when she could hear Richard and John talking, she still delayed
the moment she had been longing for. She walked into the dining-room,
looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement of
the flowers. She looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and opened
the piano, and then, half ashamed of her self-consciousness, went to
the front piazza, where the young men were sitting.
There was a subtle likeness between Richard and his English ancestors
that neither intermarriage, climate, nor educational surroundings had
been able to overcome; but between him and John Millard there were
radical dissimilarities. Richard was sitting on the topmost of the
broad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. With the
exception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was altogether
dressed in white; and this dress was a singularly becoming contrast
to his black hair and glowing dark eyes. And in every attitude which
he took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestive
of an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic--or
cottonocratic--self-sufficiency. In his best moods he was well aware
of the dangerous points in his character, and kept a guard over them;
otherwise they came prominently forward; and, sitting in John Millard's
presence, Richard Fontaine was very much indeed the Richard Fontaine
of a nature distinctly overbearing and uncontrolled.
John Millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him.
He had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. His eyes
were very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snaps
like lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. He was very
tall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command.
His dress was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no arms
of any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assurance
of a sudden presentiment, "The man is a soldier."
Richard and he were talking of frontier defense, and Richard, out of
pure contradiction, was opposing it. In belittling the cause he had
some idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it.
John was just going to reply when Phyllis's approach broke the sentence
in two, and he did not finish it. He stood still watching her, his
whole soul in his face; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily,
"O, Phyllis, I am so happy to see you again! I was afraid I never
would!"
"What nonsense!" said Richard, coldly; "a journey to Europe is a
trifle--no need to make a fuss about it; is there, Phyllis? Come, let
us go to dinner. I hear the bell."
Before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. The
mocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet,
languid atmosphere, a dance full of mystery. The garden was like a
land of enchantment. It was easy to sit still and let the beauty of
heaven and earth sink into the heart. And for some time John was
contented with it. It was enough to sit and watch the white-robed
figure of Phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by the
green vines behind it. And Richard was silent because he was trying to
conquer his resentment at John finding satisfaction in the exquisite
picture.
Perhaps few people understand how jealous a true brotherly love can
be, How tenderly careful of a sister's welfare, how watchful of all
that pertains to her future happiness, how proud of her beauty and
her goodness, how exacting of all pretenders to her favor. His ideal
husband for Phyllis was not John Millard. He wondered what she could
see to admire in the bronzed frontier soldier. He wondered how John
could dare to think of transplanting a gentlewoman like Phyllis from
the repose and luxury of her present home to the change and dangers
and hardships of pioneer life.
It would have been an uncomfortable evening if the Bishop had not
called. He looked at John and loved him. Their souls touched each other
when they clasped hands. Perhaps it was because the nature of both
men was militant--perhaps because both men loved frontier fighting.
"I like," said the old soldier of Christ, "I dearly like to follow
the devil to his outposts. He has often fine fellows in them, souls
well worth saving. I was the first Methodist--I may say the first
Protestant preacher--that entered Washington County, in Texas. Texas
was one of our mission stations in 1837. I never was as happy as when
lifting the cross of Christ in some camp of outlaws."
"Did they listen to you?"
"Gladly. Many of them clung to it. The worst of them respected and
protected me. One night I came to a lonely log-house in the Brazos
woods--that was 'far, far West' then. I think the eight men in it were
thieves; I believe that they intended to rob, and perhaps to murder,
me. But they gave me supper, and took my saddle-bags, and put up my
horse. 'Reckon you're from the States,' one said. 'Twelve months ago.'
'Any news?' 'The grandest. If you'll get your boys together I'll tell
you it.'"
"They gathered very quickly, lit their pipes, and sat down; and,
sitting there among them, I preached the very best sermon I ever
preached in my life. I was weeping before I'd done, and they were just
as wretched as I like to see sinners. I laid down among them and slept
soundly and safely. Ten years afterward I gave the sacrament to four
of these very men in Bastrop Methodist Church. If I was a young man
I would be in the Rio Grande District. I would carry 'the glad tidings'
to the ranger camps on the Chicon and the Secor, and the United States
forts on the Mexican border. It is 'the few sheep in the wilderness'
that I love to seek; yea, it is the scape-goats that, loaded with the
sins of civilized communities, have been driven from among them!"
Richard started to his feet. "My dear father, almost you persuade me
to be a missionary!"
"Ah, son Richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one!
You would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heart
stir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor.
A respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. I have
more hope for a flagrant sinner."
"I am sure," said John, "our camp on the San Saba would welcome you.
One night a stranger came along who had with him a child--a little
chap about five years old. He had been left an orphan, and the man
was taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. As we were sitting
about the fire he said, 'I'm going into the wagon now. I'm going to
sleep. Who'll hear my prayers?' And half a dozen of the boys said,
'I will,' and he knelt down at the knee of Bill Burleson, and clasped
his hands and said 'Our Father;' and I tell you, sir, there wasn't
a dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'Amen.' And I don't believe
there was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt as
if there was an angel among us."
"Thank you, John Millard. I like to hear such incidents. It's hard
to kill the divinity in any man. And you are on the San Saba? Tell
me about it."
It was impossible for Richard to resist the enthusiasm of the
conversation which followed. He forgot all his jealousy and pride,
and listened, with flashing eyes and eager face, and felt no angry
impulse, although Phyllis sat between the Bishop and John, and John
held her hand in his. But when the two young men were left alone the
reaction came to Richard. He was shy and cold. John did not perceive
it; he was too happy in his own thoughts.
"What a tender heart your sister has, Richard. Did you see how
interested she was when I was telling about the sufferings of the women
and children on the frontier?"
"No; I fancied she was rather bored."
John was at once dashed, and looked into Richard's face, and felt as
if he had been making a bragging fool of himself. And Richard was
angry, and ashamed, for a gentleman never tells a lie, though it be
only to his own consciousness, without feeling unspeakably mean. And by
a reflex motion of accountability he was angry with John for provoking
him into so contemptible a position.
The "good-night" was a cooler one than the evening had promised; but
Richard had recollected himself before he met John in the morning;
and John, for Phyllis's sake, was anxious to preserve a kindly feeling.
Love made him wise and forbearing; and he was happy, and happiness
makes good men tolerant; so that Richard soon saw that John would give
him no excuse for a quarrel. He hardly knew whether he was glad or
sorry, and the actions and speech of one hour frequently contradicted
those of the next.
Still there followed many days of sunshine and happy leisure, of
boating and fishing, of riding upon the long stretch of hard sands,
of sweet, silent games of chess in shady corners, of happy communion
in song and story, and of conscious conversations wherein so few words
meant so much. And perhaps the lovers in their personal joy grew a
little selfish, for; one night the Bishop said to Phyllis, "Come and
see me in the morning, daughter, I have something to say to you."
He was sitting waiting for her under an enormous fig-tree, a tree so
large that the space it shadowed made a pretty parlor, with roof and
walls of foliage so dense that not even a tropical shower could
penetrate them. He sat in a large wicker-chair, and on the rustic table
beside him was a cup of coffee, a couple of flaky biscuits, and a plate
of great purple figs, just gathered from the branches above him. When
Phyllis came, he pulled a rocking-chair to his side, and touched a
little hand-bell. "You shall have some coffee with me, and some bread
and fruit; eating lubricates talking, dear, and I want to talk to you--
very seriously."
"About John, father?"
"Yes, about John. You know your own mind, Phyllis Fontaine? You are
not playing with a good man's heart?"
"I told you two years ago, father, that I loved John. I love him still.
I have applied the test my leader gave me, and which I told you of.
I am more than willing to take John for eternity; I should be miserable
if I thought death could part us."
"Very good--so far; that is, for John and yourself. But you must think
of Richard. He has claims upon you, also. Last night I saw how he
suffered, how he struggled to subdue his temper. Phyllis, any moment
that temper may subdue him, and then there will be sorrow. You must
come to some understanding with him. John and you may enjoy the romance
of your present position, and put off, with the unreasonable
selfishness of lovers, matter-of-fact details, but Richard has a right
to them."
"Am I selfish, father?"
"I think you are."
"What must I do?"
"Send John to speak plainly to Richard. That will give your brother
an opportunity to say what he wishes. If the young men are not likely
to agree, tell John to propose my advice in the matter. You can trust
me to do right, daughter?"
"Yes, I can."
In the evening Phyllis called on the Bishop again. He was walking in
his garden enjoying the cool breeze, and when he saw her carriage he
went to meet her. A glance into her face was sufficient. He led her
into the little parlor under the fig-tree. "So you are in trouble,
Phyllis?"
"Yes, father. The conversation you advised had unfortunately taken
place before I got an opportunity to speak to John. There has been
a quarrel."
"What was said?"
"I scarcely know how the conversation began; but Richard told John,
that people were talking about his intimacy with me; and that, as
marriage was impossible between us, the intimacy must cease."
"What else?"
"I do not know; many hard things were said on both sides, and John
went away in a passion."
"Go home and see your brother, and make some concessions to his claim
upon your love. Tell him that you will not marry John for two years;
that will give John time to prepare in some measure for your comfort.
Promise in addition any thing that is reasonable. I fear Richard's
temper, but I fear John's more; for the anger of a patient man is a
deep anger, and John has been patient, very. Don't you be impatient,
Phyllis. Wait for time to carry you over the stream, and don't fling
yourself into the flood, and perish."
"Two years!"
"But reflect--a quarrel becomes a duel here very readily--dare you
provoke such a possibility?"
"Dear father, pray for me."
"I will. Trust God, and every rod shall blossom for you. Be patient
and prudent. Birds build their nests before they mate, and love needs
the consecration of a home. Tell John to make one for you, and then
to come and speak to Richard again. I don't say, wait for riches; but
I do say, wait for comforts. Comforts keep men innocent, bind them
to virtue by the strong cords of friends, families, homes, and the
kindnesses of kindred."
But when Phyllis arrived at home Richard was not there. He had gone
to the plantation, and left word for his sister that he might not
return until late the following day. Phyllis was very wretched. She
could hardly trust the message. It was possible that Richard had
considered flight from temptation the wisest course, and that he
expected John would leave during his absence. On the other hand, it was
just as likely that John would not leave, and that the quarrel would be
renewed at the hotel, or upon the street, under circumstances where
every influence would be against the young men.
She was sure that if she had John's promise to keep peace with Richard,
that he would not break it; but she did not know whether he was still
in the village or had gone away altogether. If the latter, she would
certainly receive some message from him; and, if no message came, she
must conclude that he was waiting for an opportunity to see her.
Harriet was sure that he was at the village 'hotel.' "Dime done seen
him thar," she said, positively, "and Mass'r John no sich fool as go
'way widout talkin' up for himself. I was 'stonished dis afternoon,
Miss Phill, he took Mass'r Richard's worryin' dat quiet-like; but I
could see de bearin's ob things mighty plain."
"You heard the quarrel, then, Harriet?"
"Couldn't help hearin' ob it, Miss Phill, no way; 'case I right thar.
I was in de dinin'-room fixin' up de clean window curtains, and de
young gen'lemen were on de p'azza. Cassie never do fix de curtains
right; she's not got de hang ob dem, Miss Phill; so I jist made up
my mind to do 'em myself; and while I was busy as a honey-bee 'bout
dem, Mass'r Richard, he walk proud-like up to Mass'r John, and say,
'he want to speak a few words wid him.' Den I kind ob open my ears,
case, Miss Phill, when gen'lemen want to 'say a few words,' dey're
most ob de time onpleasant ones."
"Did Master John answer?"
"He looked kind ob 'up-head,' and says he, 'Dat all right. I'se nothin'
'gainst you sayin' dem.' So Mass'r Richard he tell him dat he hear
some talk down town, and dat he won't have you talked 'bout, and dat
as thar was to be no marryin' 'tween you two, Mass'r John better go
'way." "Did Master Richard say 'go away,' Harriet?"
"Dat's jist what he say--'go 'way,' and Mass'r John he flash up like,
and say, he sorry to be turn'd out ob de ole home, and dat he'll go
as soon as he see you. Den Mass'r Richard, he git up in one ob his
white-hot still tempers, and he say, 'No gen'lemen need more 'an one
word;' and Mass'r John say, 'No gen'leman eber say dat one word;'
and Mass'r Richard say, 'Sir, you in my house, and you 'sume on dat
position;' and Mass'r John say he 'mighty soon be in some oder house,
and den Mass'r Richard not hab sich 'cuse;' and, wid dat, he stamp
his foot, and walk off like both sides ob de argument 'long to him."
"Then what, Harriet?"
"Mass'r Richard tear roun' to de stables, and he tole Moke to saddle
up Prince, and whilst de poor boy doin' his best, he storm roun' at
dis thing and dat thing, till Prince work himself up in a fury, too,
and I 'spects dey's both tired out by dis time. Prince he jist reared
and kicked and foamed at de mouth, and did all de debil's own horse
could do to fling Mass'r Richard, and Mass'r Richard, he de whitest
white man any body eber seen. Ki! but de whip come down steady, Miss
Phill."
"O, Harriet, how wretched you do make me."
"Dar isn't a bit need to worry, Miss Phill. Prince done tried himself
wid Mass'r Richard 'fore dis, and he allus come in de stable meek as
a lamb. When Mass'r Richard's got dat dumb debil in him, he'd ride
a ragin' lion, and bring him home like a lamb."
"It's not that, Harriet; it's not that. But if he meet Master John
there will be trouble--and O, the sin of it."
"Dat am true as preachin', Miss Phill."
"If I could only see John Millard."
"I'll mighty soon go for him, ef you say so."
"No; that will not do."
For Phyllis was aware that such a messenger would only make more
trouble. Harriet was known to be her maid, and John was known to be
her lover. To do anything which would give cause for ill-natured
remarks was to find Richard the excuse which would permit him active
interference. "I must avoid the appearance of evil," she said,
anxiously. "What must I do?"
"Clar' I don't know, Miss Phill. 'Pears like you'se on a bery dangerous
road. I reckon you'd best pray for de grace to choose de cleanest,
safest steppin'-stones."
"Yes; that is best, Harriet."
But Phyllis was not one of those rash beings who rush into the presence
of God without thought or solemnity. Slowly bending, body and soul,
she communed with her own heart and was still, until it burned within
her, and the supplication came. When she rose from her knees, she was
resigned in all things to God's will, no matter what self-denial it
involved; and she was not unhappy. For, O believe this truth, the
saddest thing under the sky is a soul incapable of sadness! Most
blessed are those souls who are capable of lodging so great a guest
as Sorrow, who know how to regret, and how to desire, and who have
learned that with renunciation life begins.
And Phyllis foresaw that renunciation would be the price of peace.
At the commencement of the inquiry with her own soul she had refused
to entertain the idea. She had tried to find reasons for seeking some
other human adviser than Bishop Elliott, because she feared that he
would counsel hard things to her. Ere she slept, however, she had
determined to go to him very early in the morning.
But while she was drinking her coffee John Millard entered the room.
He took her hands, and, looking sorrowfully into her face, said,
"Phyllis, my dearest, it was not my fault."
"I believe you, John."
"And you love me, Phyllis?"
"I shall always love you, for I believe you will always try to deserve
my love. But we must part at present. I was just going to ask the
Bishop to tell you this. I can trust you, John, and you can trust me.
He will tell you what you ought to do. And don't think hard of me if
I say 'good-bye' now; for though Richard went to the plantation last
night, he may be back any hour, and for my sake you must avoid him."
"Phyllis; you are asking a very hard thing. Richard has said words
which I can scarcely ignore. Two or three men have inquired if I was
going to put up with them?"
"What kind of men?"
"Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade and--"
"Nay, you need say no more. Will you sacrifice my happiness to the
opinion of Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade? Are you their slave? Richard
is not himself now; if you permit him to force a fight upon you, you
will both sorrow for it all your lives."
"I will go and see the Bishop, and do whatever he tells me. If I need
a defender from ill words--"
"You may safely leave your good name in his care, John. And who would
dare to dispute a word he said? Dear John, I knew I could trust you.
Goodbye, my love!"
He drew her to his breast and kissed her, and with a look of fervent,
sorrowful love, was leaving the room, when Richard entered by another
door. He intercepted the glance, and returned it to John with one of
contemptuous defiant anger. It did not help to soothe Richard that
John looked unusually handsome. There was a fire and persuasion in
his face, a tenderness and grace in his manner, that was very
irritating, and Richard could neither control his hands nor his tongue.
He began at once to feel for his pistol. "Why is John Millard here?" he
asked of Phyllis. "Answer me that."
"He is here to promise me that he will not put the name of Phyllis
Fontaine in the month of every drunken gambler and scornful man and
woman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride."
"He is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fighting
half-armed savages; but I propose to honor his behavior with more
attention than it deserves unless he runs away."
"John, dear John, do not mind what Richard says now. He will be sorry
for it. If you care for me, ever so little, you will not fight about
me. The shame would kill me. I don't deserve it. I will never marry
a man who drags my name into a quarrel. Richard, for our mother's sake,
be yourself. Brother, you ought to protect me! I appeal to you! For
God's sake, dear Richard, give me that pistol!"
"Phyllis," said John, "I will go. I will not fight. Your desire is
sufficient."
"Coward! You shall fight me! I will call you coward wherever I meet
you."
"No one, who knows us both, will believe you."
It was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which John
gave Phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control.
In a moment he had struck John, and John had cocked his pistol. In
the same moment Phyllis was between them, looking into John's eyes,
and just touching the dangerous weapon. John trembled all over and
dropped it. "Go your ways safely, Richard Fontaine. I could kill you
as easy as a baby, but for Phyllis's sake you are safe."
"But I will make you fight, sir;" and as he uttered the threat, he
attempted to push Phyllis aside. Ere one could have spoken, she had
faced Richard and fallen. Her movement in some way had fired the cocked
pistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. John lifted
her. Already the blood was staining the snowy muslin that covered her
breast. But she was conscious.
"Kiss me, John, and go. It was an accident, an accident, dear. Remember
that."
"Stay with her, Richard. I will go for a doctor, my horse is saddled
at the door;" and John rode away, as men ride between life and death.
Richard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that tried
to smile upon him, until the eyes closed in a death-like
unconsciousness.