ACROSS THE CHASM

Across the Chasm

BY
JULIA MAGRUDER

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1899

Copyright, 1885,
By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.
MANHATTAN PRESS
474 W. BROADWAY
NEW YORK

Across the Chasm.

CHAPTER I.

MARGARET TREVENNON was young and beautiful. Her faithful biographer can say no less, though aware of the possibility that, on this account, the satiated reader of romances may make her acquaintance with a certain degree of reluctance, reflecting upon the two well-worn types—the maiden in the first flush of youth, who is so immaculately lovely as to be extremely improbable, and the maturer female, who is so strong-minded as to be wholly ineligible to romantic situations. If there be only these two classes Miss Trevennon must needs be ranged with the former. Certainly the particular character of her beauty foreordained her to romantic situations, although it must be said, on the other hand, that the term “strong-minded” was one which had been more than once applied to her by those who should have known her best.

She lived with her parents on the outskirts of a small Southern town, in a dilapidated old house, that had once been a grand mansion. The days of its splendid hospitality had passed away long since, and as far back as Margaret’s memory went the same monotonous tranquillity had pervaded its lofty corridors and spacious rooms. In spite of this, however, it was a pleasant, cheerful home, and the girl’s life, up to her nineteenth year, had been passed very happily in it. She had had occasional changes of scene, such as a visit to New Orleans or a brief season at some small Southern watering-place; but she had never been North, and so by birth and circumstance, as well as by instinct and training, she was a genuine Southern girl. The fact that Mr. Trevennon had managed to save from the wreck of his large fortune a small independence, had afforded his daughter the opportunity of seeing something of men and manners beyond her own hearthstone, and this, together with her varied and miscellaneous reading, gave her a range of vision wider and higher than that enjoyed by the other young people of Bassett, and had imbued her with certain theories and opinions which made them regard her as eccentric.

One bright autumnal day, when the weather was still warm and sunny in this fair Southern climate, Miss Trevennon, clad in an airy white costume, and protected from the sun by a veil and parasol, took her way with the rather quick motions usual with her, down the main street of Bassett. When she reached the corner on which Martin’s drug store was situated, she crossed over and passed down on the opposite side; but, doubly screened as she was, she turned her eyes in that direction and took a hurried survey of the loungers assembled on the pavement. Perhaps it was because her gaze especially sought him out that she saw Charley Somers first. This was a young man who had been her unrequited adorer, hoping against hope, ever since they had gone to the village school together, and Margaret had all her life been trying, in a flashing, impetuous way that she had, to fire him with some of the energy and enthusiasm which she herself possessed so abundantly, and in which this pleasant, easy, indolent young Southerner was so absolutely lacking. Young Somers had come of a long line of affluent and luxurious ancestors, and though cut off from an inheritance in their worldly possessions, he had fallen heir to many of their personal characteristics, which hung about him like fetters of steel.

Although Miss Trevennon hurriedly averted her gaze after that one swift glance, she had received a distinct impression of Mr. Somers’ whole manner and attitude, as he sat with his chair tipped back against the wall, his heels caught on its topmost round, his straw hat pushed back from his delicate, indolent face, and a pipe between his lips. In this way he would sit for hours, ringing the changes on the somewhat restricted theme of county politics with the loungers who frequented “Martin’s.” The mere thought of it, much more the sight, infuriated Miss Trevennon. She could not grow accustomed to it, in spite of long habituation.

As she tripped along, erect and quick, she heard a familiar footstep behind her, and in a moment more was joined by the young man.

“Where are you going?” he said, giving his hat a little careless push and re-settlement, without lifting it from his head. “May I go with you and carry your basket?”

“If you like,” said Margaret, distantly, yielding up to him the little white-covered basket. “I am going to see Uncle Mose.”

“As usual! What has Uncle Mose done to be so petted? I wish you would treat me with half as much consideration.”

“I don’t think you entitled to it,” she answered. “Uncle Mose is at the end of a long life of continuous, patient labor, and has won a right to my consideration, which you never have. You have often heard me say, of course, that ever since I’ve been able to form an opinion at all, I’ve been a thorough-going Abolitionist; but all the same, I think there is virtue in a system which makes a man work, whether he wills it or not. Servitude itself seems to me a nobler life than absolute idleness.”

“Oh, the same old thing!” said the young man, wearily. “I wonder when you will give up expecting me to be a paragon!”

“I’ve given it up long ago. I’ve seen the futility of any such expectation; but I will never give up wishing that you would be a man, and do something worthy of a man.”

“You can’t say I don’t work. I attend to my cases, and am always on hand during court week.”

“Provided it doesn’t clash with fishing week or hunting week, or any pursuit that happens to offer a more attractive prospect than that of discussing county politics and smoking bad tobacco with some other loungers at ‘Martin’s’!”

“I know I am not what you like,” said Somers despondently; “but there is one thing that would make me different. If you would give me some hope for the future——”

“I begged you never to say that again,” interrupted Margaret, quickly. “You know how indignant it makes me, and the worst of it is that you really believe it to be true. If you won’t do right for right’s sake, you would never do it for mine.”

He made no answer to her words. But one form of response suggested itself, and to that he knew she was in no mood to listen; so, for the space of a few moments, they walked along in silence. But Margaret’s thoughts were very active, and presently she broke out:

“Why, Charley, when I heard you complaining the other day, that the tailor who has a shop opposite you kept you from sleeping in the morning by his violin practice begun at daylight, I remembered how you had told me once that you frequently saw him at his work until after midnight; and do you know what I thought? I thought: I wish to goodness Charley would try to be a little more like him.”

“What do you mean?” the young man cried, angrily. “You don’t know what you are talking about. Do you think I could ever so far forget myself as to imitate a beastly little Yankee tailor, or to desire to be like him in any way whatever? I can stand a good deal from you, Margaret, but this is a little too much!”

“Of course! His happening to be a Yankee puts him down at once. But I can tell you what it is, Charley, there is one lesson you might profitably learn from him, and that the most important in the world for you. It is, to make something of the powers you have. That poor little man has no possibilities, I suppose, beyond the attainment of a certain degree of skill in making clothing, on the one hand, and learning to play popular airs indifferently on a cracked little fiddle, on the other. But with you, how different it is! Papa says you would be an able lawyer, but for the trifling obstacle that you don’t know any law. We all know how well you talk, on those rare occasions on which you become really interested. And as to the other point, the music—oh, Charley, what mightn’t your voice become, if you would avail yourself of the means of cultivation within your reach? But no! Your teacher told you that you must practise patiently and continuously to procure its proper development, and this you would not do; it was too troublesome!”

“Trouble apart,” said Somers, “the notion does not please me, and I must say I wonder that you, who make such a point of manliness in a man, should favor any one’s regularly preparing himself to be the sort of drawing-room pet that one of your trained song-singers is certain to become.”

“You can say the most aggravating things!” said Margaret. “Is it possible that you can consider it unmanly to cultivate such a gift as that? But what’s the use of all this? You don’t care.”

“No, I don’t care much,” he answered slowly. “When a man has one supreme, paramount care forever possessing him, and is constantly being told that the object of his desires is beyond his reach, other things don’t matter very much.”

At the sight of the weary discontent on his handsome face, her heart softened, and as they stopped before the little cabin, which was their destination, she said kindly:

“Come in and see Uncle Mose with me, won’t you?”

But the young man excused himself rather hurriedly, and delivering the basket into her hands he said good-morning, and walked rapidly back toward the town.

Margaret pushed open the door of the wretched little cabin, and just within sat Uncle Mose, engaged in his customary avocation of shoemaking, or to speak more accurately, shoe-mending. He was a spare and sinewy old negro, whose age, according to his own account, was “somewhar high up in de nineties.” He was much bowed in figure, and lame in one leg. Bushy tufts of dull gray hair rose on each side of his brown and polished crown, and his wrinkled and sunken cheeks were quite beardless. His expression was one of placid benevolence and contentment—a strange contrast to his surroundings. The room he occupied was hideously squalid and confused. The roof sloped in one direction and the floor in another, and the stove, which was unreasonably large, in a third. Old phials, suspended by their necks and partly filled with muddy liquids, decorated the walls, together with a pair of patched boots, a string of red peppers, several ears of pop-corn, and a leather-covered whipstock. In one corner hung a huge walking cane. Everything was thickly coated with dust.

The old man was seated near the perilously one-sided stove, in which a fire smoked and smouldered, though it was a balmy day, and in front of which a rusty old iron spade did duty for a door. His few old tools and pegs and twines were on a broken chair beside him. When he looked up, over the top of his brass-rimmed spectacles, and saw who his visitor was, he broke into a broad smile of welcome, as he raised his withered old hand to his head in token of salutation.

“Dat you, missis?” he said. “What bin fetch you out dis time o’ day? I is glad to see you, sho’. Come in, en take a seat.”

He swept his tools and twines from the wooden seat to the floor, and rubbed the dusty surface several times with his hard palm. Margaret at once sat down, laying her long white draperies across her lap, to protect them from the dusty floor, showing a pair of neat little boots as she did so. Then she took off the cover of the basket, and revealed its contents to the old man’s delighted gaze.

“Well, missis, to be sho’!” he exclaimed, his features relaxing in a grin of anticipative enjoyment, “Light bread, en chicken, en grapes! en what’s dis, missis? Gemarna![A] Whoo! How come you bin know so good what I done bin hankerin’ arter? I gwine tase a little, right now.”

And using his shoemaking weapon as knife, fork and spoon indifferently, he fell to in earnest. He had probably been honest in his intention of only tasting a little, feeling it perhaps a lack of decorum to eat in the presence of his guest; but once embarked on the alluring enterprise, he was in no humor to relax, and, uttering from time to time expressive ejaculations of enjoyment, he went on and on, until only the fruit remained. As he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, he drew a long sigh of contented repletion.

“Dat wor good, sure ’nuff, missis,” he said. “White folks’ vittles tase mighty chice to me now, I tell you.”

“I’m glad you liked it, Uncle Mose,” said Margaret. “But tell me—I always meant to ask you—where that immense stick came from. Did any one ever use it?”

“What, dat air ole stick, missis? Why, bress you, honey, dat air ole stick wor ole mars’r’s, whar he bin use ter take when he druv out in de kyarrge, arter he bin git so big en fat. Yes, missis; he bin put he han’s on de top en res’ he chin on ’em, en when I bin had ter git out’n de ole place, de bin gin it ter me fur a sort o’ memorandum.”

“You were mighty fond of your old master, weren’t you, Uncle Mose?” asked Margaret.

“Ah, dat’s a fac’, missis—dat’s a fac’. Ole mars’r war mighty good to us. De wor three hund’rd on us, en he wor de mars’r, en we had ter know it. He done bin gin he niggers mighty good chance, ole mars’r is. Ebery man bin had he pig en he chickens, en ole mars’r he buy de young chickens en de eggs, en pay us de market price fur ’em. Yes, missis.”

“And what would you do with the money, Uncle Mose?” Margaret asked.

“Dress my wife, missis. Lor’ yes, dress my wife, en Queen. Queen war my oldes’ daughter; en if you b’lieve me, missis, I dress dem two niggers same as de done bin white. I bin lucky nigger all my life, missis. Ole mars’r wor good enough, en when he bin die en young Rawjer take de place, t’war mos’ same as hebben. I dunno how come young Rawjer wor so mile, for all he par wor so blusterin’. You see ole mars’r he mighty quick en hot-heddy. He let out at you sometimes, en hawler ’twel you think he gwine tar you to pieces; but done you be skeered, missis; he ain’ gwine hit you a lick. When de new overseers’d come, ole mars’r he ’low de mus’ keep us down en work us hard, but Lor’ missis, he ain’ mean it. He gwine watch mighty close nobody don’ ’buse his niggers, en he giv’ ’em plenty good food to eat, and see it done bin cook right, too. De did’n have no plates en knives to eat with. No missis; but what dem niggers want long o’ plates en knives? De ain’ got no right to complain cause de ain’ eat offn chany. De needn’t think ole mars’r gwine let em come sit down at his table long o’ him, ’kus he worn’ gwine do it, en he did’n do it. No, missis.”

The old man’s tone was one of vehement indorsement of his master’s policy, that there could be no mistaking.

“Did you marry one of your own master’s slaves, Uncle Mose?” asked Margaret, presently.

“No, missis,” Uncle Mose responded blandly; “I marry a gal whar ’long to one Mr. Fitzhugh. De war heap o’ likely gals whar ’long to ole mars’r, some bright yaller, and some black ez coals, en some mos’ white, but seem like I could’n make up my mine to marry air one on ’em, I dunno what make I could’n take to ’em, but ’t’war no use! I bin sot my eyes on a tall black gal, over to Mars’r George Fitzhugh’s, en ebery other Sad’dy ole mars’r lemme knock off early en go see her. She done bin younger’n me, some odd yeers, en I tell her I wor’n’ gwine cheat ’er. I tell her she mought look roun’ a while, ’fo’ we bin settle de thing. So, eff you b’lieve me, missis, I bin wait on her three yeers, ’fo’ she compose her mine to marry me.”

“Well, and what became of her?” said Margaret, as he paused ruminatively.

“Alter ’bout fo’ yeers, missis, she wor sole away, Liza wor,” he said in tones as benign and free from resentment as ever. “Lor’ me, missis, how well I mine dat day! I bin’ come up from de fiel’ like t’wor down datterway” (suiting the action to the word), “de paff run long by de cabin do’ pretty much. It wor like it done bin dis pass Chewsdy dat I come up to de do’, en Aun’ Tetsy, she tell me she heer ’Liza done bin sole. I stop short like, en I say ‘what?’ en she tell me agin, en say she bin heer’d de done fotch her down to town ter take her off in de drove. I struck out for de great-’us at dat, en I tell ole mars’r all ’bout it. ‘Knock off work, Mose,’ ole mars’r say, ‘en go to town en see eff she’s thar. ’T’ain’ no use try ter keep her, but mebbe you can see her en de chillun one’t mo’. You kin take White-foot.’ I prick up my yeers at dat, for White-foot war de fleetes’ horse ole mars’r got. Lor’, missis, I wish yer could ’a see dat filly. De ain’ no sich hosses now. Her legs war clean en straight ez a poplar, en her coat——”

“But, Uncle Mose, go on about ’Liza.”

“’T’war no use, missis,” he said, with a patient head-shake. “When I got to town I bin hurry to de jail to see eff de bin lodge de gang in dar, but de tell me ’Liza bin gone off wid de rest on ’em dat very mornin’.”

He ceased speaking, and sat staring in front of him in a preoccupied and ruminative way, from which Margaret saw it would be necessary to recall him.

“Well—what else, Uncle Mose?” she said gently; “what finally became of your wife?”

“Which wife, missis?” he replied, rousing himself by an effort, and looking about him blankly; “I had three on ’em.”

Margaret refrained from asking whether it had been a case of “trigamy,” or whether they had been successive, and said:

“You were telling me about ’Liza’s being sold away. Did you never see her again?”

“No, missis,” the old man answered gently. “I never see ’Liza no mo’. I see a man whar met her on de road, en he say she bin had de baby in her arms, walkin’ ’long wid de gang, en de t’other chile wor in de cart wid de balance o’ de chillun, en he say ’Liza busted out a-cryin’, en ’low he mus’ tell her ole man, eff we did’n meet no mo’ here b’low, she hope to meet in Hebben. En he ax her den whar she gwine ter, en she say she dunno, she think she bin heerd em say t’wor Alabammer; en dat’s de las’ word I ever heer o’ ’Liza. Yes, missis.”

Another meditative pause followed, and Margaret’s sympathetic eyes could see that he was far back in the past.

“I bin had a daughter sole away, too, missis,” he went on presently. “Yes, missis. She ’long to one Mr. Lane. He bin a hard mars’r, en he treated on her mighty bad, ’twel arter while she run off en went en put herself in jail. Yes, missis.”

“How could she put herself in jail?”

“Dat how de do, missis. You see, when she bin run away, eff she done git caught, de have to put her in jail. So she jes’ go en give herself up, en say she won’ go back ter Mr. Lane,—she be sole fust! So arter Mr. Lane fine out she one o’dat sort, he sole her. It so happen dat my brother Sawney wor gwine ’long de road, en she wor passin’ in de cart, en she hawler out: ‘Howdy, Unc’ Sawney!’ en Sawney say: ‘Hi! who dat know me, en I don’ know dem?’ En she say: ‘Lor’ Unc’ Sawney, don’t you know Unc’ Mose’s Queen?’ En Sawney say: ‘Hi, Queen! Dat ain’ you! Whar you gwine to?’ En she say: ‘I dunno, I ruther fer ter go ennywhere den to stay whar I done bin.’ En I ain’ never heerd o’ Queen since.”

At this point the old man was seized with a fit of coughing, which he made great efforts to repress, and fluently apologized for.

“You must excuse me, young missis,” he said. “I bin cotch a bad cole, en it cough me all day en cough me all night, clar ’twel mornin’. I’se gettin’ mighty ole en shacklin’. Yes, missis.

“De all been mighty good to me, missis,” went on Uncle Mose, after a short pause, “from ole mars’r down. I hope to meet ’em all in Hebben. Ole mars’r ain’ bin much fer religion in he life; but he die a mighty peaceful, happy death, en he forgive all he enemies. He bin kind en merciful, en I ’low de Lord’ll take him in. He always give his niggers heap o’ religious encouragement, en when we bin go to de lick to be babtize, he bin gin us de fines’ kind o’ notes to de preacher, en eff you bin tell a lie or steal a chicken he ain’ gwine say de fuss word ’bout it. Ef he come roun’ to de cabin while we bin had meetin’, he ain’ gwine make no ’sturbance. He wait roun’ ’twel we done sing de Doxoligum, en den he say what he come fer.”

“Your religion has been a great comfort to you, Uncle Mose—hasn’t it?” said Margaret, making an effort to keep back an irrepressible smile.

“Ah, dat’s a fac’, missis—dat’s a fac’, it has. Sometime it animate me very strong, en make me tower high ’bove de world; but den agin, sometime de very las’ bit on it takes to flight, en ef you b’lieve me, missis, I ain’ got no more religion den de palm o’ your han’!”

“The greatest saints have complained of that, Uncle Mose,” said Margaret; “it is one of the devil’s strongest temptations.”

“What, ole Sat’n, missis? Talk to me ’bout ole Sat’n! Don’t I know him? You just give him de chance en he gwine fight you, mean enough!”

Margaret, much amused, was about to make a move to go, when Uncle Mose arrested her intention by saying:

“En so Mars’ Rawjer got a little gal gwine git married. Well, well, well! Is I ever bin tell you, missis, ’bout de time I whip young Rawjer? Ha! ha! ha! I tell you, missis, I whale him good. He make me mad one day, ’bout ketchin de white folks’ hosses, en I break me a little sprout, whar sprung up ’side a ole stump, in de very fiel’ I help to clar forty yeers ago, en I warm he jacket fer him, good fashion. I mighty feared he gwine tell he par, but arter I git up by de stable, I does take my han’ en slap it ’gin de stone fence, en one de little white boys say, ‘I tell you, Uncle Mose kin hit hard’; en I say ‘Ah, dat I kin, chile; dat’s a fac;’ en eff you b’lieve me, I skeered dat chile so bad, he ain’ never tell he par yit;” and Uncle Mose went off into a long chuckle of delight. “When he bin git married en bring he wife home, we all went up to de house to see ’em, en drink de healths, en he tell de young missis this war Mose whar bin gin him that air whippin’ he bin tole her ’bout. She war mighty pretty little thing, wid yaller hair en great big sof’ blue eyes, en a little han’ ez sof’ en white ez snow. I was mos’ feared to ketch hold on it, wid my ole black paw, but she would shake han’s wid me, en she ’lowed maybe t’wor dat whippin’ what make her husman sich a good man, en Mars’ Rawjer he look at her fit to eat her up. She bin use ter gin out to de han’s, arter she come, but Aun’ Kitty she tote de smoke-’us key.”

As Margaret rose to take leave, the old man rose also.

“I mighty proud’n dat dinner you bin fotch me, missis,” he said. “Give my ’spects to yo’ par en mar, en call agin, missis.” And he lifted his cap and bowed her out with punctilious politeness.

As Margaret took her way homeward from the old negro’s cabin, she was conscious of a more than usual softness in her heart for Uncle Mose and his reminiscences, and all the customs and traditions of which he was the exponent. Even Charley Somers seemed less reprehensible than he had been an hour ago, for the old man’s talk had brought before her mind a system of things of which the inertia and irresponsibleness that jarred upon her so, in the people around her, seemed the logical outgrowth. She had often been told that her father, when a small boy, had been every day drawn to and from his school in a diminutive coach pulled by ten little negroes; and a number of similar anecdotes which she could recall gave her an insight into the absolute difference between that régime and the present, that made her somewhat ashamed of her intolerance, and mollified considerably her feeling toward young Somers, whom she determined to serve more kindly at their next interview. She was prompted further to this resolve by the fact that she had something to break to the young man, which she feared would go rather hard with him.

An opportunity which she had often longed for, to see the great world beyond her own section of country, and observe the manners and habits of men and women whose circumstances and traditions were directly opposed to her own, had been offered recently by a letter, received from a cousin who had married an army officer and was living in Washington, which conveyed an invitation for her to make her a visit. Her father and mother highly approved the plan and it seemed settled that she was to go, and while she longed for the new experience, she found her thoughts dwelling rather tenderly on the dear old home and friends, of whom, it seemed to her now, she had been ungratefully impatient.

CHAPTER II.

A FEW weeks later, Miss Trevennon found herself domesticated in her cousin’s house in Washington, with surroundings so unfamiliar and circumstances so new to her that she found something to excite her interest and surprise almost every hour in the day. The perfect appointments of the house, which was gotten up with all the appliances of modern art, delighted and diverted her at every turn. “The mud-scraper,” she wrote her mother, in her first letter home, “is a thing of beauty, and the coal-scuttle a joy forever.”

There were no children in the family, which consisted only of General and Mrs. Gaston and a bachelor brother of the former, who made his home with them, although a large portion of his time was spent in New York. Margaret had already been an inmate of the house for ten days, and as yet had not seen him. Mrs. Gaston, however, informed her that he might appear at any moment, his trips to and from New York being too frequent to entail the formality of announcing himself.

Mrs. Gaston was a very clever and agreeable woman and pretended, with some reason, to know the world. Her marriage had been considered quite a brilliant one, as General Gaston’s position, both social and official, was extremely good, and he had quite a large private fortune in addition to his pay. He was not so clever as his wife, but more thoughtful and perhaps more sincere. It was a successful marriage, and the Gaston establishment was tasteful and well ordered. Mrs. Gaston, whose health was indifferent, kept her room a good deal when she could escape the exactions of society, which she never allowed herself to shirk; and her husband was so much absorbed in his official and social duties that Margaret was often alone.

“I am afraid you are frequently dull, my dear,” Mrs. Gaston said to her cousin one morning, as the latter sat beside her couch in the little dressing-room where the invalid was taking her breakfast. “It will be brighter for you when the season fairly opens; but I purposely begged you to come now, so that we might have time to make acquaintance while we are quiet. I wish Louis would come home, but there’s never any counting on him, he’s so frightfully busy all the time. I never saw a man work so hard in my life.”

Margaret looked a little puzzled: “I thought you told me——” she began,

“That he is well off? So he is. He has quite a nice little fortune and there’s no earthly reason why he should work so hard, except that he likes it; and from that point of view I don’t blame him. ‘Pleasure the way you like it,’ is an axiom for which I have a profound respect, and Louis undoubtedly finds his chief pleasure in application to his profession.”

“What is his profession?” Margaret asked; for, although it was evident that Mrs. Gaston was very fond of her brother-in-law, she had, for some reason, said very little about him to her cousin.

“He’s an architect—I thought you knew—Ames & Gaston. Have you never heard of them?”

“No,” said Margaret, shaking her head and smiling, “but that does not go for much. I am finding out that I have never heard of most things.”

“It’s really quite delightful that you never heard of Ames & Gaston,” said Cousin Eugenia, laughing. “I shall inform Louis promptly, though he won’t believe it, or if he does he’ll set it down to the obtuseness of Southern people—a foregone conclusion in his mind! I must tell you that I anticipate some pleasure in seeing you enlighten him on that score.”

“I am afraid I shall not be able to do much,” said Margaret. “I do feel myself extremely ignorant by the side of General Gaston and yourself, especially when you talk of modern literature and art and music.”

“You need not, I assure you. We are neither of us more than ‘cleverly smattered’ on these subjects. Edward knows more than I do, though every one, himself included, believes the contrary. It’s quite another thing with Louis, however; he’s a swell at that sort of thing, and is really thorough, and yet, do you know, I sometimes manage to impose on him immensely and make him think I’ve penetrated to the very root and fibre of a matter, when in reality I have only the most superficial knowledge of it? But all this is a digression. There was something I wanted to say to you. It was about Edward’s people. You know about the Gastons, I suppose?”

Margaret looked slightly puzzled. “What do you mean?” she said.

“Oh! I mean about their name and history and family traditions. It’s an old Puritan family and one of the most illustrious in New England. I read somewhere the other day, that it was one of the few really historical families in America, and I have no desire to speak disrespectfully of them, only I do think they make an unnecessary amount of fuss with themselves. Oh! I must tell you about my first interview with Mr. Alexander M. Gaston. You know who he is!”

“Really, I do not,” said Margaret, lifting her eyebrows with a deprecating smile.

“Well, you are green! but, however, it’s unnecessary to enlighten you now, except to say that he is Edward’s uncle, and the head of the great house of Gaston. He’s been governor and senator and foreign minister and all sorts of things, and is now one of the most eminent men in New England, and a very excellent and accomplished gentleman. Well, soon after I became engaged to Edward he came to call upon me, and I must say his whole manner and attitude toward me were rather amazing. He was good enough to say that he welcomed me into the family, but he took pains to intimate that I was about to be the recipient of a great honor. The Gastons, he explained, had been for centuries leaders of public thought and opinion in their own State, and he was obliging enough to supply me with the dates of the landing in New England of the founders of the house, and to dwell upon their prominence among the early Puritans. I listened respectfully to this tirade, and by the time it came to a conclusion I had my little speech ready, and when he took my hand and formally welcomed me into the great house of Gaston, I replied by saying that I knew it ought to be a source of much satisfaction to Edward and myself that we were, in our small way, doing something toward healing an old breach. ‘My ancestors were Cavaliers,’ I said, ‘and for a Cavalier to marry a Puritan, is, even at this late day, helping at least a little to wipe out the memory of a long-standing feud.’ Now, I flatter myself that was rather neat.”

“Oh, Cousin Eugenia, how perfectly delicious!” exclaimed Margaret, with an outburst of gay laughter. “And what did he say?”

“I don’t exactly remember, my dear, but it was something clever and adroit. I know he retired very gracefully, and bore me no malice. He has been very kind to me always, and I am said to be his favorite of all his nephews’ wives. He is really a dear old boy, and quite worthy of all the adulation he receives, if only they wouldn’t put it on the ground of ancestry. Why, the founder of the family was engaged in some sort of haberdashery business in London! It’s odd, the inconsistencies one meets with! But I’m inured to it all now, and have learned to pose as a Gaston, like the rest of them! But what I wanted particularly to tell you, and what it concerns you to know is, that the Gastons—Edward and Louis as well as the others—are greatly prejudiced against Southerners. That was one reason why I asked you here.”

“It may make matters very difficult for me,” said Margaret, smiling.

“Not in the least, my dear. You have only to be yourself, assuming nothing. I feel a delightful security in letting matters take their course. You will know perfectly what to do, and I think nothing could be more inspiring than forcing people to abandon foolish prejudices. I should not be sorry to have your chance myself.”

“Surely, the same opportunity must once have been yours.”

“Oh no, they won’t accord me that for a moment. They say, with truth, that merely to have been born in the South does not make me a Southerner, and that, having spent as much time in the North—and, for that matter, the East and West—as in the South, I must be set down as a cosmopolitan.”

“I am almost surprised to hear you say they are prejudiced,” said Margaret; “I should suppose they were too intelligent for that.”

“Just what I’ve always said. For my part, I haven’t an atom of prejudice in my composition. It is unworthy of enlightened human beings, and so I tell Edward and Louis.”

“And what do they say?”

“Oh, that they are not prejudiced, of course. Denial is the only answer such people can give. But, for all that, they are. I think Northern people, as a rule, are more prejudiced than Southerners.”

“They must go great lengths, if they are,” said Margaret; “but I am not speaking of the more enlightened ones, and I have always supposed that the existence of such feelings in Bassett was due to the fact that it is such a small place, and so shut off from contact with the world. And then, too, I think much of it is to be attributed to the fact that those poor people suffered so terribly by the war.”

“Exactly. I often tell Edward and Louis that they are so much less justifiable, because they were the victors. I’m sure I feel it a very easy thing to be magnanimous toward a person I’ve got the better of. But I’ve long since ceased to apply arguments to a prejudice. Finding they did not answer, I thought a practical illustration might.”

A moment’s silence ensued, which Margaret presently broke by saying:

“Is Mr. Louis Gaston younger or older than your husband?”

“Younger, of course,—years younger. He’s not quite thirty.”

“Is he a bachelor or a widower?”

“A bachelor, of course. Fancy Louis being a widower! He stands on the high vantage-ground of lofty impregnability. He is not in love, and he would fain have it believed he never has been, or at least only in a careless and off-hand manner. Not that he avoids women. On the contrary, he goes into society, and enjoys it very much when he has time, which is not very often.”

“Do you mean that he works out of office hours?”

“He has no particular office hours, and he works at all times, early and late. His partner lives in New York and he is there a great deal, and there most of the work is done; but he is always drawing plans and making estimates here at home, and has a branch office down the street. Sometimes he works in his room, and sometimes I persuade him to bring his designs down into the library, when there seems a likelihood of our having a quiet evening. I pretend I’m interested in them, to please him,—he does a great deal to please me; but I’m not so, really.”

“They must be interesting to him, at any rate, to absorb him so completely.”

“I should think so! Why, I’ve known Louis, when there was a stress of work, to sit up the entire night, and then take a cold bath and come down to breakfast perfectly fresh, and be ready afterward to go off down town and be at it again until night. It’s enough to make one yawn to think of it.”

Mrs. Gaston, suiting the action to the word, was settling herself more comfortably among the pillows, and so failed to observe the look of eager interest her words had called up in her companion’s face. She had just arranged her position to her satisfaction, and turned to continue the conversation, when a quick step was heard ascending the staircase.

“That’s Louis’ step,” she said suddenly. “Close the door, please; he will probably stop to speak to me.”

Margaret obeyed in silence, and the next moment the footsteps stopped at the door, and a very pleasantly modulated voice said:

“Any admittance to a repentant renegade, who comes to make his peace?”

“No,” said Mrs. Gaston, quietly; “I’m not well—worse than usual, indeed—used up with recent exertions and in no mood to show clemency to offenders.”

“And pray, in what have the recent exertions consisted?” the voice replied.

“Oh, the usual round of wearing domestic affairs, with a new item added.”

“Ahem!” exclaimed the voice; “it would seem the young Southerner has arrived. Is it so?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gaston, dryly, “she has.”

“If I were not too generous, I should say, ‘I told you so,’” went on the voice. “I have observed that Southern importations into Northern climates are usually attended with certain disadvantages.”

“Oh, she’s a very nice little thing,” said Mrs. Gaston, carelessly, “I think something can be made of her.”

“And you are to have the pleasure of conducting the process of development, and Edward and I that of looking on at it—is that it? Where is she, by-the-way? Is there any danger of one’s meeting her on the stairs, and having to account for one’s self? A civilized man, encountered unexpectedly, might unsteady the nerves of the Importation—might he not?”

“Possibly,” said Mrs. Gaston; “but there’s no danger. I’ve given her a room far away from yours; so you will still have the privilege of keeping unearthly hours without disturbing any one.”

“Thank you; that’s very considerate; but I must be off. I want to get some papers from my room, and then I must go to keep an appointment.”

“Of course! I shouldn’t know you if you hadn’t an appointment. It wouldn’t be you. Go on; but be prompt at dinner.”

“You may count upon me. And, by-the-way, you’ll let me know whenever you’d like me to do anything for your young friend’s entertainment. I shall not be likely to know the tastes and predilections of the Importation, but if you think of anything I can do, I am at your service.”

“Thank you; but I let her look after herself pretty much. I fancy there will be no occasion to call on you.”

She threw an amount of careless weariness into her voice as she said this, that contrasted strongly with the smile of unmixed amusement with which she turned her eyes on Margaret a moment afterward, as the footsteps outside were heard ascending the staircase.

“Well,” she said quietly, “that’s Louis. What do you think of him?”

“How can I possibly say?” said Margaret, divided between amusement and indignation.

“Surely you must have some impression of him,” Mrs. Gaston urged.

“He has a very pleasant voice.”

“You couldn’t fail to notice that. I was sure you would. New Englanders are somewhat maligned in the matter of voices, I think. That dreadful nasal twang, where it exists at all among the more cultivated, usually belongs to the women; though I must say Edward has some relations, male and female, who set my teeth on edge whenever they come near me. But a really beautiful voice, such as Louis’, is a rarity anywhere, and he pronounces his words so exquisitely! Only to hear him say ‘Matthew Arnold’ rests every bone in one’s body. I dare say you would have expected to hear the endless succession of double o’s, always attributed to Noo Englanders!”

“Oh, no!” said Margaret. “I always supposed cultivated New Englanders quite superior to that.”

“They suppose themselves to be so, also,” said Cousin Eugenia; “but they are not in all cases, by any means. Edward himself had a decided tendency in that direction when I married him. I have often told him that what first suggested to me to accept him was a curiosity to see whether he would address me as ‘Oogenia,’ when he grew sentimental; and I protest he did!”

Margaret could not help laughing at this, but she soon became grave again, and said seriously:

“I am afraid I must be rather a bête noir to Mr. Gaston.”

“It would seem so,” said Cousin Eugenia.

“I hope you will never call upon him to escort me anywhere, or do anything whatever for my entertainment,” Margaret continued. “I wish you would promise me not to.”

“With all my heart. I promise it as solemnly and bindingly as you like.”

At this point the footsteps were heard returning down the stairs, and again they paused outside.

“Can you come and take this?” the pleasant voice called softly.

“Open the door and hand it through a little crack,” Mrs. Gaston answered.

The knob was turned from without, and the door pushed open just wide enough to admit the entrance of a neatly done-up parcel, held in a large, finely formed hand.

Mrs. Gaston motioned to Margaret, who sat just behind the door, to take the parcel, and, not daring to protest, the girl moved forward and received it.

“Shake hands, in token of pardon for my slurs at the Importation,” the voice said, in a tone of quiet amusement, and Margaret, obeying another peremptory nod and glance from Mrs. Gaston, transferred the parcel to her left hand, and put her right one for a moment into that of Louis Gaston.

“I perceive that the toilet is indeed in its initial stages,” he said, “not a ring in place as yet! I hardly seem to know your hand in its present unfettered condition. I even think it seems slighter and colder than usual. The Importation must have taken a good deal out of you already.”

Not choosing to have her hand imprisoned longer in that firm and friendly clasp, Margaret forcibly withdrew it and stepped back, while Mrs. Gaston said, naturally:

“Cease your invidious remarks and go to your appointment, Louis. Thank you for the candy.”

The door was immediately closed from without, and again the footsteps retreated.

“I am glad you’ve shaken hands with Louis,” Mrs. Gaston said; “it’s an initiation to a friendship between you, and, in the end, you and Louis must be friends, though there will be certain inevitable obstructions at first. He is really the best and dearest creature that ever lived. He had a dreadful illness once from studying too hard for his college examinations, and Edward and I nursed him through it, and you don’t know how we did yearn over that boy! He’s been devoted to me ever since, one proof of which is, that he always brings me this candy from New York. Have some. I’m sure he ought to be good to me,” she said, critically peering into the box from which Margaret had just helped herself, and selecting a plump chocolate drop; “I certainly spoil him sufficiently. Still, there isn’t very much one can do for a man like that. He has such frugal habits, it’s quite baffling. But tell me what you think of him, after a second encounter.”

“Why, nothing more than I thought before, except that he has a beautiful hand.”

“Margaret, you are never disappointing,” said Cousin Eugenia, warmly. “I felt sure you would observe that. Go now and write the letters that you spoke of while I dress, and then we’ll go for a drive before lunch. And, by-the-way, while I think of it, put on your long black dress this evening, and wear the black lace at the throat and hands, as you had it the evening that the Kents were here. Don’t wear any color, not even a bit of gold. You know you gave me leave to make suggestions when you came, and it’s the first time I’ve used my privilege, though I think I am usually rather fond of suggesting. Ring for Lucy, please, and then hurry through your letters, that we may have a nice long drive.”

CHAPTER III.

A FEW minutes before six o’clock that evening, Margaret, clad in a long black gown that swathed her up to her milk-white throat, came slowly down the broad staircase of General Gaston’s house and entered the empty drawing-room.

Finding herself alone, she moved across the warm, bright room to the table which stood under the chandelier, and taking up the evening paper, which had just been brought in, she began rather listlessly to run her eyes along its columns. Presently some particular item caught her attention, and so absorbed her that she was unconscious of approaching footsteps, until she caught sight of a gentleman who was just entering the room from the hall.

Lowering the paper, she waited for him to come forward, which he did with a certain perplexity of expression and a slight confusion of manner. Seeing these indications, the girl looked into his face with frank self-possession, and said gently:

“Miss Trevennon.”

As there was no immediate response, she presently added:

“You are Mr. Gaston?”

The sound of his own name recalled him, and he came up and greeted her with a perfect ease that instantly put to flight the moment’s confusion; not however, before a watchful eye, applied to a crack between the folding-doors of the library, had noted the fact of its existence. These doors were now suddenly thrown apart, and Mrs. Gaston, dressed in a gay and ornate costume, entered the room.

“I beg pardon of you both for not having been on hand to introduce you,” she said, with careless composure, as she took her brother-in-law’s hand and turned her cheek to receive his light kiss. “You have managed to dispense with my offices, I’m glad to see! How are you, Louis?—though it is the merest form to ask. He is one of the hopelessly healthy people, Margaret, who are the most exasperating class on earth to me. Anything in the Star, dear? Let me see.”

She took the paper from Miss Trevennon’s hand, and began carelessly looking it over. Suddenly her eye lighted.

“Here’s something that may interest you, Louis,” she said, handing him the paper, as she pointed with her heavily jewelled finger to a paragraph headed:

“Southern Imports.”

At the same instant General Gaston entered the room, and just afterward a servant announced dinner.

Mrs. Gaston had mentioned that it was characteristic of her to be a magnanimous victor, and it may have been that fact which prompted her great urbanity to her brother-in-law on the present occasion. She ran her hand through his arm affectionately, as she walked toward the dining-room beside him, and thanked him with great effusiveness for the delicious candy. To all which he answered by the not very relevant response, uttered half under his breath:

“Never mind, madam! I’ll settle with you for this.”

Margaret, of course, was vis-à-vis to Louis Gaston at the table, and while both joined in the general conversation which ensued, she perceived, by her quick glances, that he was a man of not more than medium height, with a straight and well-carried figure and a dark-skinned, intelligent face. He had dark eyes, which were at once keen and thoughtful, and very white teeth under his brown mustache. Although in undoubted possession of these good points, she did not set him down as a handsome man, though his natural advantages were enhanced by the fact that he was dressed with the most scrupulous neatness in every detail, the very cut of his short dark hair, parted straight in the middle, and brushed smoothly down on top of his noticeably fine head, and the well-kept appearance of his rather long finger-nails, giving evidence of the fact that his toilet was performed with punctilious care.

It was something very new, and at the same time very pleasant to Margaret, to observe these little points in a person whose first and strongest impression upon her had been that of genuine manliness. In Bassett, the young men allowed their hair to grow rather long and uneven; and when, for some great occasion, they would pay a visit to the barber, the shorn and cropped appearance they presented afterward was so transforming as to make it necessary for their friends to look twice to be sure of their identity. As to their nails, in many instances these were kept in check by means of certain implements provided by nature for purposes of ruthless demolition, and when this was not the case they were left to work their own destruction, or else hurriedly disposed of in the intervals of vehement stick-whittling. Not a man of them but would have set it down as effeminate to manifest the scrupulous care in dress which was observable in Louis Gaston, and it was upon this very point that Margaret was reflecting when Gaston’s voice recalled her.

“I’m uncommonly glad to get home, Eugenia,” he said, tasting his wine, as the servant was removing his soup-plate. “I think Ames is beginning to find out that this Washington office is a mere subterfuge of mine, and that the real obstacle to my settling down in New York is my fondness for the domestic circle. I really wish Edward could manage to get sent to Governor’s Island. I must confess I should prefer New York as a residence, if I could be accompanied by my household gods and my tribe. Shouldn’t you, Miss Trevennon?”

Margaret had been sitting quite silent for some time, and Gaston, observing this, purposely drew her into the conversation, a thing his sister-in-law would never have done, for the reason that she had observed that her young cousin possessed the not very common charm of listening and looking on with a perfect grace.

“I have never been to New York,” said Margaret, in answer to this direct appeal, “and I have only a limited idea of its advantages as a place of residence, though I don’t doubt they are very great.”

“They are, indeed,” said Louis, observing her with a furtive scrutiny across the graceful mass of bloom and leafage in the épergne. “You will like it immensely.”

“If I ever make its acquaintance,” said Margaret, smiling. “Washington seemed to me the border-land of the Antipodes before I came here, and I have never thought of going beyond it.”

“You have lived, then, altogether in the South?” said Gaston, with a tinge of incredulity in his voice, so faint as to escape Margaret, but perfectly evident to Mrs. Gaston, for the reason, perhaps, that she was listening for it.

“Yes, altogether,” Margaret answered.

“My poor little cousin is in a most benighted condition,” Mrs. Gaston said. “She has not only never been to New York, but—only think!—until to-day she never heard of Ames & Gaston!”

“Impossible! Unbelievable!” said Louis. “Was it for this that they designed ‘All Saints,’ and have even been mentioned in connection with the new skating-rink? Eugenia, you are a true friend. It will not be necessary for me to carry a slave about with me to remind me that I am a man, like the great monarch we read of in history; a sister-in-law is a capital substitute and performs her office quite as faithfully.”

“Perhaps it is well for me,” said Margaret, smiling demurely, “that I began my list of ignorances with such an imposing one; it will make those that follow seem trivial by comparison.”

“There is wisdom in what you say, Miss Trevennon,” said Louis; “and if you wish to impress yourself with the magnitude of the present one, get Eugenia to take you to see ‘All Saints.’”

The conversation now turned into other channels, and it was not until Margaret was saying good-night to Mrs. Gaston, in the latter’s dressing-room, that she reverted to this subject.

“I can well believe that Mr. Gaston is a clever architect,” she said, “his eye is so keen and steady. I should like to see some of his work. This ‘All Saints’ Church is very beautiful, I suppose. Shall we really go to see it some day?”

Mrs. Gaston broke into her little light laugh.

“That’s a piece of nonsense of Louis’, my dear,” she said. “It’s a cheap little mission chapel, built by a very poor congregation in a wretched part of the town. The Travers girls got Louis interested in it, and he made them the designs and estimates and superintends its erection. Of course he charged them nothing; in fact, I believe he subscribed a good deal toward it himself. He is amused at the idea of their calling it ‘All Saints,’ and making it such a comprehensive memorial. He and his partner have designed some really beautiful buildings here, however, which I will show you. Louis is very clever, don’t you think so?”

“I hardly feel able to judge, yet,” said Margaret, “but if you say so, I will believe it, for since I’ve been with you, Cousin Eugenia, I begin to think I never knew any one before who was clever.”

“Why are you always forcing one to remind you of your ignorance, child?” retorted Mrs. Gaston, laughing lightly. “This is the most convincing proof we have had of it yet.”

As Margaret went up to say good-night, she felt a strong impulse to express some of the ever-ready affection which her cousin’s kindness had awakened in her heart; but Cousin Eugenia was a woman to whom it was very hard to be affectionate, and she thwarted her young cousin’s intention now by turning her cheek so coolly that the ardent words died on the girl’s lips. Mrs. Gaston was naturally unsympathetic, and it almost seemed as if she cultivated the quality. However that might be, it was certain that, at the end of a month spent in daily companionship with this bright and agreeable cousin, Margaret was obliged to admit to herself that she had not taken one step toward the intimate friendship she would have liked to establish between them. Her cousin was kindness itself, and always companionable and agreeable, but she was scarcely ever really serious, although she had at hand a reserve of decorous gravity which she could always draw upon when occasion required.

CHAPTER IV.

“EUGENIA,” said Louis Gaston, tapping at his sister-in-law’s door one morning, “I stopped to say that I will get tickets for Miss Trevennon and yourself for the opera Monday evening, if you say so.”

“I don’t say so, my dear Louis, I assure you,” returned Mrs. Gaston opening her door and appearing before him in a tasteful morning toilet. “If you take Margaret and me to the opera, it must be for your own pleasure; she is not the kind of guest to hang heavily on her hostess’ hands. I’ve never been at a loss for her entertainment for a moment since she has been here, and what is more, scarcely ever for my own. I find myself quite equal to the task of providing for her amusement, and so it has not been difficult for me to keep my promise of not calling upon you in her behalf.”

“You certainly never made me any such promise as that, and it would have been very absurd if you had.”

“Ah, perhaps then it was to Margaret that I made it! The main point is that I’ve kept it.”

“Of course, Eugenia, it goes without saying, that when you have a young guest in the house my services are at your disposal.”

“Oh, certainly. Only, in this instance, I prefer to let all suggestions come from yourself. I know you only put up with my Southern relatives because of your regard for me, and, strong as is my faith in that sentiment, I don’t want to test it too severely; but I won’t detain you. Mrs. Gaston and Miss Trevennon accept with pleasure Mr. Gaston’s kind invitation for Monday evening. The opera is Favorita—isn’t it? Margaret has never heard it, I know; it will be very nice to initiate her. Will you be at home to dinner to-day?”

“Yes, of course,” replied the young man, looking back over his shoulder as he walked away.

“Oh, of course!” soliloquized his sister-in-law, as she turned back into her apartment. “Quite as if you were never known to do otherwise! Oh, the men! How facile they are! Louis, as well as the rest! I had expected something to come of this case of propinquity, but I did not expect it to come so quickly. He hasn’t dined out more than twice since she’s been here, and then with visible reluctance, and he has only been once to New York, and I suspect the designs are suffering. And Margaret too! It’s quite the same with her—saying to me last night that his manners are so fine that she is constrained to admit that, taking Louis as an exponent of the Northern system, it must be better than the one she had always supposed to be the best! It works rapidly both ways, but there must be a hitch before long, for in reality they are as far asunder as the poles. Every tradition and every prejudice of each is diametrically opposed to the other. How will it end, I wonder?”

It happened that Mrs. Gaston did an unusual amount of shopping and visiting that day, and was so fatigued in consequence that she had dinner served to her in her own apartment, and Margaret dined alone with the two gentlemen. Afterward she went up and spent an hour with the vivacious invalid, whom she found lying on the bed, surrounded by an array of paper novels by miscellaneous authors, the titles of which were of such a flashy and trashy order that Margaret felt sure she would never have cared to turn the first page of any of them, and wondered much that her intelligent and cultivated cousin could find the least interest in their contents. Mrs. Gaston was in the habit of ridiculing these novels herself, but would say, with a laugh, that they were “the greatest rest to her,” and Margaret was continually expecting to find her immersed in some abstruse work, which would sufficiently tax her mental powers to account for the liberal allowance of relaxation which was to counteract it; but, so far, she had been disappointed.

Mrs. Gaston laid her novel by on Margaret’s entrance, and gave her young cousin a cordial welcome. The two sat talking busily until General Gaston came up to his dressing-room to prepare for a lecture to which he was going, and to which he offered to take Margaret. His wife put her veto on that plan, however, pronouncing it a stupid affair, and saying that Margaret would be better entertained at home.

“But you are not to stay up here with me, my dear,” she said. “Go down stairs. Some one will be coming in by-and-by, I dare say, and you must not think of coming back to entertain me. I am bent on seeing how this absurd story ends; it’s the most deliciously preposterous thing I ever read,—so bad, that it’s good! Say good-night now, dear. I know you are never dull; so I dismiss you to your own devices. I don’t know where Louis is, but he may come and join you after a while. There’s never much counting on him, however.”

When Margaret descended to the drawing-room, the library doors were thrown apart, and through them she could see Louis Gaston bending over some large sheets of heavy paper, on which he was drawing lines by careful measurement. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and, as she took a magazine from the table, and seated herself in a large chair before the fire, he came in with his pencil in his hand, and leaning his back against the end of the mantel, said:

“Eugenia tells me you have never seen Favorita, and I so rejoiced to put an end to that state of affairs! You don’t know what an absolute refreshment it has been to me to observe your enjoyment of the music you have heard since you have been here. I don’t think I have ever received from any one such an impression of a true appreciation of music. It seems rather odd, as you neither play nor sing yourself.”

“It pleases me to think that my own incapacity does not interfere in the least with my enjoyment of music,” Margaret said. “When I hear beautiful music my pleasure in it is not impaired by any feeling of regret that I cannot produce such a thing myself. It no more occurs to me to long for that, than to long to create a beautiful sunset when I see one.”

“The fact that one is attainable, while the other is not, would make a difference, I think.” He paused a moment, and then went on with his pleasant smile: “Do you know this discovery of mine—that of your fastidious appreciation of music—has been the thing that deterred me from inflicting any of my own upon you? I was so set against this that I made Eugenia promise not to acquaint you with the fact that I can sing a little.”

“How could you do that?” exclaimed Margaret, reproachfully, with a keen conception of what lovely effects in singing might be produced by this richly modulated voice, whose spoken utterances she so admired. “I might have had such delight in hearing you sing! I am accustomed to having music so constantly at home. We have a friend there, a young man, who is almost like one of our own household, who sings beautifully. He has a lovely voice, so pure and strong, but entirely uncultivated. In some things it shows this almost painfully, but there are others that he renders exquisitely. Sacred music he sings best.”

“Ah, that I have never tried, at least not much. Your friend’s voice is the opposite of mine. I had really very little to begin with, and an immense deal of practice and training has not enabled me to do much more than direct properly the small amount of power I possess, and disguise its insufficiency more or less. It isn’t very much, after all, and yet how I have pegged away at my scales and exercises! I had a most exacting master when I was in Germany, and as I was studying my profession at the same time, I wore myself almost to a skeleton. I studied very hard at the School of Architecture, but I never practised less than three hours a day—often four.”

He was talking on, very lightly, but he stopped short, arrested by an expression on the face of his companion that he was at a loss to account for. There was a look of enthusiastic ardor in her eyes that amounted to positive emotion.

“How can you speak so lightly of a thing that was really so noble?” she said, in a voice full of feeling.

Louis’ face broke into a smile of sheerest astonishment, but at the same time he felt himself strangely stirred by the feeling that he had roused this warm admiration in the breast of this fair young lady.

“My dear Miss Trevennon,” he said earnestly, “you amaze me by applying such a word to my conduct. I went abroad to study architecture and music, and there was every reason why I should make the most of the three years I had allotted to these purposes. That I did my part with some degree of thoroughness was only what I felt bound to do, in the simplest justice to myself and others. When I think of the fellows who accomplished twice what I did, contending against such obstacles as poverty, or ill-health, or the absence of proper facilities, I find the word noble, as applied to myself, almost humiliating. Do you know, your views on some points are extremely puzzling to me?”

“I am at sea,” said Margaret gently, with a hesitating little smile. “Things that I see about me seem strange and unfamiliar, and I often feel that I have lost my bearings. But your resolute application to studies that must often have been wearying and laborious, to the exclusion of the relaxations most young men find necessary, rouses my profound admiration. I have never known a man who was capable of a thing like that.”

“Will you do me the kindness to tell me if I am blushing?” said Louis. “I veritably believe so, and as it is a thing I have never been known to do before, I should like to have the occurrence certified to. I venture to hope, however, that the fact is accounted for by my being physically thick skinned, and not morally so, for I have known myself to be blushing when the fact would not have been suspected by outsiders. Just now, however, I fancy it must have been evident to the most casual observer.”

He saw that the levity of his words and tones were, for some reason, discordant to Miss Trevennon, and so he spoke in a graver voice, as he said:

“I feel musical to-night, and almost as if I could overcome the hesitation I have spoken of sufficiently to sing you some of the music of Favorita in anticipation of Monday night.”

“Oh, why don’t you? It would be so delightful!” exclaimed Margaret, fired at the suggestion.

“I never feel that I can sing well when I have to play my own accompaniments,” he said. “But for that——”

“Oh, if you have the music, do let me play for you!”

“Could you do it? I thought you did not play. Have you also been practising concealment?”

“My music amounts to nothing, but I could easily manage an accompaniment. Have you the notes?”

“Yes, just at hand. What a delightful idea! I never thought of this. You shouldn’t have cheated me out of such a pleasure all this time. Let me open the piano. Come!”

He tossed his pencil down upon the table, and moved across the room as he spoke. Seeing his action, Margaret checked herself as she was following, and said suddenly:

“I forgot your work. I really cannot interfere with that.”

“Never mind the work. The work may go. I’ll make it up somehow. Could you manage this, do you think?”

By way of answer, Margaret seated herself and ran over the prelude with tolerable ease, and at the proper time nodded to him to begin.

There was no interruption until the really impressive voice had died away in the last note, and then Margaret dropped her hands on her lap and said, with a long-drawn breath:

“I can see no lack. It is most beautiful. I think you must have greatly under-estimated your voice. It has a quality that touches me deeply.”

“What there is of it does pretty well,” Louis answered, smiling, well pleased at her earnest commendation. “Ames says I’m the best singer to have no voice that he ever heard, which is the greatest amount of praise I can lay claim to.”

“I feel more than ever, now, the lack of cultivation in Mr. Somers’ voice,” said Margaret. “It is really a grand organ, but he scarcely knows how to sing anything with entire correctness, unless it is something in which he has been carefully drilled by some one who knows a little more than himself. I wish he could hear you sing.”

“I wish I could hear him,” said Louis. “If he has the voice, the cultivation can be acquired readily enough; but with me the utmost has been done. Much of this music is rather beyond me. Let us try a ballad.”

He was bending over the rack, in search of some particular piece, when the door-bell sounded. They both heard it, and their eyes met with a look of disappointment.

“It’s too bad,” said Margaret, regretfully. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“In that case,” said Louis, promptly, arresting the servant on his way to the door by a quick motion of the hand, “suppose you allow me to have the ladies excused.”

Margaret assented readily, and the order was accordingly given.

A moment later the servant came into the room, presenting two cards on a tray. Gaston glanced at them, and Margaret saw his face change slightly.

“I am afraid Eugenia will make me suffer for this,” he said. “One of these visitors was young Leary.”

“Who is he?” asked Margaret, simply.

“You surely know who the Learys are?” Gaston replied, in a tone of reproachful incredulity that was almost severe. “They come of one of the most distinguished families at the North, and are here for the winter. The father of this young man has held various important diplomatic and political offices. They visit very little, and Eugenia will be annoyed that young Leary has not been admitted. I don’t think he has ever called here before, except to acknowledge an invitation. He sat near us at the theatre the other night, and I saw that he observed you; so this visit is probably a tribute to you.”

“I don’t know that you have said anything about him to make me regret him especially,” said Margaret, “only that he’s Mr. Leary; and what’s in a name? Is there any reason why one should particularly desire him as an acquaintance?”

Mr. Gaston looked slightly bewildered. Then he began to speak, and checked himself suddenly. Then, turning back to the piano, and beginning to look over the music, he said, somewhat hurriedly:

“It is only that they are people it’s well to be civil to.”

There was something in the tone Louis took, in regard to this matter, that puzzled Margaret—a tone that had also puzzled her in the other members of the Gaston family. There seemed to be a certain anxiety with all of them to know the right people, and be seen at the proper houses, and have only the best people at their own. Margaret Trevennon, for her part, had never had a qualm of this sort in her life, and supposed, moreover, that only vulgar or uncertainly posed people could possibly be subject to them. And yet here were people who were not only not vulgar but more elegant and charming than any men and women she had ever known, who were entitled to, and actually held, an unimpeachable social position, and who yet seemed to find it necessary to struggle hard to maintain it, and were continually possessed by a positive anxiety to appear to be distinguished! Really, it seemed their first and principal concern. This was the first time she had seen a decided indication of the feeling in Louis Gaston, and somehow it hurt her more in him than in the others. Unconsciously she gave a little sigh.

“Dear me!” she thought to herself, “what an unpleasant idea! Why need people assume anything, when they actually have it all? It never occurred to me that really nice people could give themselves any concern of this sort.”

And then, as she turned and suddenly met Louis’ eyes, her face broke into a smile of sudden amusement.

“What is it?” said the young man, eagerly.

“I was laughing at some lines from the ‘Bab Ballads’ that happened to come into my head just then,” she said.

“What were they? I dote upon the Babs. Do let’s have them.”

“Lord Lardy would smile and observe,

‘How strange are the customs of France!’”

quoted Margaret. “I dare say they don’t seem very relevant. But come, let’s go on with the music,” she added, hurriedly. “We must not prolong the interruption.”

Mr. Gaston had smiled at her quotation and then become suddenly grave. As he selected a sheet of music and put it on the rack before her, he said seriously:

“I sometimes see that there are little points that we look at very differently. Perhaps we may come to understand each other by-and-by. I hope so, sincerely. And now, are you familiar with this, and do you care for it?”

The selection happened to be a favorite of Margaret’s, and she entered delightedly into its rendition, and very soon the lovely strains of the sweet, sympathetic voice had banished all discordant thoughts and memories.

“There, Miss Trevennon,” he said, as the song came to an end, “you’ve heard me do my little best now. Your accompaniments suit me perfectly. I am sure I never sang better. I hope we may have many another pleasant evening, such as this, together.”

Margaret had risen from the piano and was standing before the fire, and she watched him with mingled interest and surprise, as he neatly replaced the music in the rack, lowered the instrument, and carefully arranged the cover, with a habit of orderliness of which she had also seen indications in General Gaston. It was to her almost a new trait, in men.

“Cousin Eugenia insists upon early hours, now that I am not going out,” said Margaret, “so, as it is half-past ten, I will say good-night. I feel rather guilty,” she added, pausing in the door-way, “for interrupting your work to-night. I dare say you wanted to finish it.”

“Oh, as to that, it isn’t a matter of choice,” he murmured; “Ames must have those estimates to-morrow, and they are bound to go on the morning train.”

“And when are they to be done?”

“Now, at once. I can easily finish them off to-night,” he replied carelessly. “Pray don’t look as if you had committed a mortal sin, Miss Trevennon,” he added, smiling. “I assure you I don’t weigh this little nocturnal application as dust in the balance against the pleasure I’ve had in this musical evening with you. I hope it is not on my account you are hurrying off. I assure you there is abundance of time for my purposes. I shall take these papers to my room and finish them.”

But Margaret, bent upon not hindering him further, retired at once.

The next morning Mrs. Gaston asked her brother-in-law at breakfast, whether he had not passed her room about sunrise, and, with some confusion, he was compelled to own that he had.

“What provoking ears you have, Eugenia!” he said; “I flattered myself that a mouse could not have been more noiseless. I am sorry to have disturbed you, especially as you had not been feeling well.”

“Oh, I was awake, at any rate. But what was the occasion of your early expedition?” she asked, without showing any especial surprise.

“I had to post some papers to Ames,” he said; “and though I had told Thomas I would ring for him to take them, the morning was so bright and clear that I fancied I should like the walk. And really it was most refreshing.”

“I can fancy you needed refreshment,” Mrs. Gaston said, “if, as I don’t doubt, you had been at work all night.”

Mr. Gaston made no response. He was helping himself from a dish offered by a servant at the moment, and seemed disposed to let the matter drop; but Margaret, urged by an irresistible impulse, arrested his eye and said quickly:

“Had you?”

“Had I what, Miss Trevennon?”

“Had you been at work all night?”

“Pretty much, I believe; but why do you look so tragic? I am not in delicate health, that the lack of a little sleep should entail serious consequences.”

“‘Pleasure the way you like it’!” said Mrs. Gaston. “Louis really likes that sort of thing; he deserves no credit for it. I used to apprehend that I should find myself brother-in-law-less very shortly in consequence of those habits, but he thrives on them; he’s the healthiest person I know. Don’t waste your sympathy on him, Margaret; keep it all for me. It isn’t those who endure hardships, but those who can’t endure them that should be pitied.”

CHAPTER V.

THE season was now fairly opened, and Mrs. Gaston kept her young guest liberally supplied with amusement. There were all sorts of entertainments for them to go to, some of which Margaret found very inspiring and delightful, and some extremely dull. Cousin Eugenia, however, found nothing unprofitable. Every visit and every entertainment served some purpose, in her abstruse economy, and, if she failed to derive actual diversion from any, it still fulfilled some end, and in some manner was turned to account.

She would take Margaret with her on the endless round of afternoon calls that she made, never doubting that she was conferring an immense favor on her young country cousin, until the latter begged to be excused from some of them, confessing that they wearied her. This was a great surprise to Cousin Eugenia, who cherished the honest conviction that every opportunity of catching a glimpse of the great world of fashion must perforce be esteemed a high privilege and delight by this little Southern cousin, whom she pitied profoundly for her necessary isolation from such sources of happiness. Margaret was perfectly aware of this, and secretly much amused at it. That Cousin Eugenia, or any one, should commiserate her upon her lot in life was something very strange to her, for she had always known herself to be a very happy and fortunate girl.

“The Kellers give such stupid parties!” said Cousin Eugenia one evening, as she and Margaret were returning from a large entertainment. “I haven’t missed one of them for the past five years, and they are asphyxiating affairs. I’m glad this one is well over.”

“Why do you go to them, then?”

“Oh, every one does. At least every one who can. You saw how full the rooms were this evening, and yet every one there was bored.”

“I was, undoubtedly,” said Margaret, “and for that reason I should certainly not go again.”

“You can afford to be independent, my dear, being here only on a visit, but if you lived in Washington you’d soon find that it was desirable for you to be seen at the Kellers’.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because of their position.”