Part 2

One other thing, too, I must tell in my defense. I was _pushed_ in. A dearer and more devoted mother than mine no girl ever had. But this I will dare to say--and I am old enough to know--I do believe every true mother-heart has, somewhere in its great expanse, a cavity that aches, never to be filled till some one who loves her daughter comes to dwell there evermore, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh by the great adoption of their united love. Two streams, both different--but the confluence is mighty. And then there is another cavity, farther in, its ache more poignant still--and that place is never filled, that pain never banished, till she scans some baby face, her leaping heart descrying the likeness to her own, all the lovelier because the image of the adopted mingles with it.

I am right well aware how horrified my mother would have been if any one had dared to hint that she, or any other gentlewoman, cherished the hope of some day being either mother-in-law or grandmother--or both; and I cannot help a little shudder as I write those terms myself. But the truth as I first set it down, free from those rude bald words, is not to be denied.

It was at the seaside that I first met Charlie Giddens. Mother and I met him the same evening, in the midst of a merry dance on the grand piazza. He was tall and dark, and his hair was gloriously rebellious, every way for Sunday. We both noticed that he looked at us a little long, a little earnestly, I thought--but he asked mother to dance first, and that's where his head was level.

"Don't fill your program all up, Helen," she whispered as she handed me her fan, gliding out with the tall figure, so handsome in his spotless ducks.

"Did you notice how gracefully he handed me to my seat?" mother said after he had left her; "he has the manners of a cavalier." For the old-time Southern lady puts gracefulness next to grace.

"He dances like a Dervish of the Desert," I remarked, a little maliciously perhaps--for he had bowed and left us.

"Like a courtier, you mean," my mother amended, her eyes still following him. "And his father's a ship owner in Savannah, and his mother comes from one of the oldest families in South Carolina," concluded my mother, naming the ancient house.

"That's why you like his dancing," I suggested; "old families all dance exquisitely--the older, the sprightlier, it seems."

"He has such a delicate way of putting things," pursued my mother; "he was describing his mother to me, and he said she had a lovely figure, just about my size," surveying somewhat hopefully her rather substantial form the while. For this was a very live issue with my mother; she lived in daily horror of growing stout, and any such reassuring word was balm of Gilead to her.

But what's the use of going on with this? This story's main concern is not with my dancing days, and what I have written, or yet shall write, regarding them, is only a streamlet leading towards the river of my life. And my story--if it be ever finished, or however far it roam, must follow the winding current of my changeful years.

Yet this I must record, that Mr. Giddens came back that night and stood once again beneath the swinging lanterns that cast their fitful light on mother's face and mine. And he asked for another dance--but it was not from mother. And whenever we swirled before her as we compassed the great piazza, I could see how mother's eyes followed us approvingly, more approving than I had ever known them to be before.

And thus it all began--all that never should have been begun at all. That is what I meant when I said, a little farther back, that I was _pushed_ into love--and by my own dear mother. Oh, it all seems so terrible, so cruel to me now, looking back over all the happy years, beautiful in the uncreated light of love--it is really awful to reflect how often the hands that love her most are the fateful hands to many a girlish life, pushing the poor protesting heart, so gently, yet so relentlessly, pressing it on, on to the dark abyss of a loveless union. Mr. Giddens was of gentle birth, I know; he was handsome, cultured, charming,--and he was very rich. All these shed their light about him, and my mother gloried in their radiance. Their light, I said--but it was artificial. The summer sun of love had never shined on me at all; so that while I could not but feel the effulgence of it all, yet only one room of my life was lighted, and that the hallway--the vast world within was still wrapt in darkness. I knew all the time that I did not really love Mr. Giddens. Yet I could not see why I should not--and there the great peril lay. It was that fatal path that misled me. All the outward sign-posts pointed my way as leading towards his own--but these sign-posts were marked by human hands alone, and my mother never tired of spelling out their message.

"There's not a girl in Virginia," she said one day, "but would give her head for him. He's aristocratic, and handsome, and rich."

"And the greatest of these is rich," quoth I.

"For shame!" cried my patrician mother, "that's the least of it."

"Not at all," I retorted. "For if a girl doesn't love a man as fiercely as----"

"As what!" exclaimed my mother, shocked.

"As devotedly as she should," I revised, "she won't get much comfort out of his blue blood--and she can't do much with his beauty--but his cash is a different matter," I affirmed; "she could get her little hands on that all right."

"Helen, you're a foolish child," said my mother gravely.

"That's what I often think myself," said I, more gravely still.

Well, that was the way it went on. I told him "yes" one night. I do not believe he heard me, but he seemed to know I yielded, for he did what he had never done before--nor ever other man beside. And thus life's greatest, holiest moment was stained to me; and the sacred altar was lighted with far different fire than that for which God meant it. I had never been kissed before--at least not that way--and even then I felt how I was cheated of my birthright, and I marvelled at the sense of shame. But that can never be recalled, so I try not to dwell upon it. Nor can it be amended, and the loss is to eternity. I have known the rapture since then, the primal bliss--but the virgin joy was tempered with the cruel thought that it had all been rehearsed before. And the bitterest feature of it all is this, that it had never been, except for her who loved me with a mother's love. But her ambition mingled with her love--and these two are enemies.

If I had been a little more in love, I reckon mother would not have tried so hard to urge me on. But I was not--I was a little less. And mother kept kneeling beside the poor little flame on the mean altar of my heart, to quote the old hymn, and she kept the bellows going pretty steadily, if haply she might make the fire burn. Or if I had been a little less in love, perhaps she would have given over--for I was dear to her. But I was not; I admitted he was rich, and handsome, and superior--and these seemed quite enough reason to a girl's mother why there should be true affection. So I was neither a little more, nor yet a little less, in love with Charlie--and that is Hades, to use the convenient word again, when it has to do duty for the real thing. But mother kept on encouraging me, saying she knew I'd be very happy, and drawing lovely pictures of the position I would occupy and the leadership in society that would be mine; and mothers can make ashes look like bread--only they don't have to eat them through the hungry years.

III

_THE BRIDGE THAT LAY BETWEEN_

"Do you think we're a star chamber?" I said to my mother, as she stood at the parlour door with a cushion under either arm.

"Think you're what? Think who's what?" she queried in amazement.

"Where are you taking those cushions to?" I pursued, glancing at her burden.

"To the up-stairs sitting-room. You know uncle always takes a nap before he goes to bed." Which was true enough; uncle fancied he didn't sleep well if he neglected this preliminary canter on the sofa. That was where he was wont to try divers notes till he struck the proper key for the night's performance.

"That's where you all are going to stay this evening," I averred. "Uncle will snooze there while you and aunty play cribbage."

"Yes, of course--why?" answered my mother wonderingly. "You and Mr. Giddens will be in the parlour, won't you?"

"That's what I meant about the star chamber," I rejoined. "I think it's right foolish, the way you all take to your heels when Charlie spends an evening here. There's a plenty of room in the parlour for us all."

"There shouldn't be," my mother made reply; "I never saw the room big enough for more than two when your father and I were lovers--which we were the longest day he lived," she added, her voice softening to the romantic note.

"And did you always want to be alone?" I asked seriously; "always alone together--before you were married, I mean?"

My mother smiled, her eyes half closing in reminiscent thought. "Yes, child," she answered slowly, "alone--together; I believe those two words describe nearly all the joy of life--alone--together. Don't you know what I mean, Helen?" and there was a deep tenderness in her voice as she dropped one of the cushions on a chair, coming close and taking me in her arms; "doesn't my dear one know the meaning of it? Oh, Helen, I want you to be so happy. And you will be, won't you--you are, aren't you, my darling? You love him, don't you, Helen?"

My face was hidden in her bosom. After a minute's silence she drew back, that she might look into my eyes. "You love him, don't you, dear?"

"Yes," I said, again seeking the shelter of her breast.

"I'm so glad, my darling," she murmured. Then she picked up the fallen cushion and went on her way up-stairs.

I stood by the piano, listlessly fingering some music sheets that lay on top of it. Suddenly the stillness was broken by my mother's voice.

"Helen," she cried; "oh, Helen."

"Yes, dear," I answered, stepping to the door.

"I forgot to tell you the news; our Presbytery guest isn't coming till to-morrow. They sent us word just this afternoon--and they're almost sure it's going to be an elder."

"Then 'it' will have to go in the attic," I rejoined, shouting the opprobrious pronoun up the stairs.

"Helen, dear," the tender voice remonstrated, "how can you speak like that--calling him 'it.' That isn't respectful, child."

"It's your word," responded I; "you said it's going to be an elder."

"But I didn't actually call him it," my mother defended. Her answer was rather long in coming; I could tell she was struggling with the verbal problem.

"Oh, well, I beg his pardon," I conceded; "anyhow he won't care what we called him, when he strikes the attic," and the argument ended in a duet of laughter.

"And, Helen," resumed my mother, by this time one or two steps down-stairs, "don't you think you'd better dress? Mr. Giddens ought to be here right soon now, shouldn't he? I think you ought to wear your pink organdy--he says he loves you in pink, you know."

"He ought to love me in buckskin," I flung back, "if he loves me at all. He ought to love me for my own sweet self undecorated--you see, mother, how romantic you're making me. If he's really got the frenzy he won't need any pink things to infuriate him," I insisted, laying Spanish bull-fights under tribute.

"Please yourself, child," my mother responded as she disappeared, "but I know, when your father was courting me----"

"You ought to write a book on the subject, mother," I interrupted gaily; "you've evidently had it down to a science. If you'd write a book and call it 'First Principles of Courtship' or 'Love-making for Beginners' you'd help things on a lot." But by this time mother was beyond the range of conversation and my literary counsel met with no response.

I went back to the parlour. The music sheets were fumbled once again. Then I tried to read, but found it impossible to settle down. I turned once more to the piano and presently found myself softly singing a little love-verse, familiar since my childhood. I crooned it once or twice:

Still must you call me tender names Still gently stroke my tresses; Still shall my happy answering heart Keep time to your caresses.

The words made me lonely--like a phantom song. I involuntarily smiled a little as I caught myself sighing while the piano notes died away; perhaps it was the gathering twilight that gave me such a plaintive feeling in the region of my heart.

Suddenly a voice came from above. It was Aunt Agnes this time.

"Hear that, Helen?" she sang out. "There's music in that screech, isn't there?"

"What screech?" I answered back, a little suspicious that she referred to my simple warblings. Yet I knew she could scarcely have heard.

"The locomotive," she promptly replied. "Didn't you hear that engine whistle?--that's his train, you know. I reckon you were listening for it all right."

I rose and moved to the window, grimly wondering if ever lover had so many assistants in the business. I could see the white puffs of smoke as the train steamed slowly into the distant station. The dreamy ringing of the bell floated in through the open window, mingling with the pensive sounds of evening.

And I was lonely, so lonely! I knew that Charlie had just alighted from the train, doubtless hurrying even now to his hotel. He would soon shake its dust from off his feet, I knew, and old "Rastus"--Rastus knew Charlie's orbit and kept a keen lookout for him--would bring him with fitting haste to me. My cheek reddened, then paled, as I seemed to see Charlie's eager face, his impatient arms, his ardent lips. I quivered a little, and tore two or three of the petals from a rose I had chosen from a bowlful on the table; the harmless things floated to the pavement beneath the window.

Suddenly a bird's rich full note fluttered in and fell upon my ear. I listened. And his mate responded--full and sweet and tremulous the answer came. The love-throb pulsed vibrant through it. I thought it beautiful; and I listened, enchanted, as the tender message came again and again. Soon the note grew fainter--and I think I caught a glimpse of the winged lovers as they glided close together into their bridal chamber in the deep shade of the magnolia tree. The rich blossoms hung like curtains, quivering a little where the mated pair had passed within--that fragrant retreat was holy.

Still gazing, my attention was diverted by the sound of feet upon the brick pavement that went past our house. I listened, watching. And a minute or two later, all unconscious of my presence, a youth and maiden passed beneath the window. Neither was speaking, and their steps were slow, as if they cared not where they led. Somehow they compelled my interest at once. I knew them both, though their station was quite different from mine. She collected belated accounts for a local laundry--he drove their horse, delivering from door to door. I watched them wistfully as they passed on, by and by leaning out the window to follow their career. They turned to the left and made their way out on to the bridge. And I saw him once--though the dusk was deepening--I saw him take her hand; she withdrew it quickly, but he gently recovered it a moment later, this time without resistance. And thus they went on together, far out on the lonely bridge, every step taking them farther from everybody else, but nearer to each other. The twilight hid them soon; and they were alone together in the shelter of the gathering dark.

Then was a wild tumult surging in my heart. I wondered what made it, and why the lump rose so persistently in my throat, even while I feared to know. For she was only a working girl, I thought, and he a swain who drove a beast of burden. Yet I knew that that old bridge, rickety and worn, lay between me and the Celestial. And I wondered who it was that wrote that song about the tender names and the tresses so gently to be stroked.

I went back towards the piano; for I heard the distant sound of wheels. Then I rang the bell; a servant appeared in an instant.

"Lyddie," I said, "light the gas, please."

"Yes, Miss Helen. I done seen a transfeh drivin' to the fwont doah, Miss Helen," as she returned with the taper.

"I heard it too," said I.

IV

_THE DANGER ZONE_

The stealthy dawn was just laying its gray hand on the slowly waking world as I crept the next morning into my mother's room. I was shivering a little, for our April mornings are often far from warm. Besides, I was excited--and the night had been passed in sleeplessness.

"Is that you, child?" my mother asked, starting suddenly.

"Yes, are you asleep?"

"What's the matter? Are you sick?"

"No," I answered, creeping in; "but I want to talk to you. I'm frightened."

"What frightened you?" and my mother's tone was louder--"anybody trying to break in?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," as I cuddled closer. "But I want to talk to you--Mr. Giddens frightened me."

My mother was all awake. "Mr. Giddens, child," she exclaimed, rising a little on the bed; "how on earth could he frighten you? Tell me how," the note in her voice more imperative now.

I was silent a moment, not knowing just how to begin. Perhaps I felt a little ridiculous too.

"Tell me, Helen," my mother said presently, and quite firmly; "I'm waiting."

"Well," I began hesitatingly; "well, it's this--he wants me to get married."

My mother made an impatient poke at the bed-clothes. Then she partly rose on her elbow. Then she turned her pillow, finally laying her head back upon it.

"Helen Randall," she broke out, and her voice, like the dawn, had a gray tinge about it, "Helen Randall, you're a silly little goose--coming in here trembling, and waking me up and scaring me half to death, only to tell me that the man you're engaged to wants to marry you."

"But, mother," I began earnestly, "it's different--you don't understand."

"Nonsense, child," she interrupted, "there isn't anything to understand. What do folks get engaged for? What does any lover want, except to get married? And this is the great fright you got; it seems that you got engaged to a man, and then he alarms you by suggesting you get married! Let's go to sleep," and my mother patted the pillow with her cheek, preparing to resume the operation I had interrupted.

"But I won't go to sleep," persisted I. "You don't understand--Mr. Giddens wants to marry me right off--right away soon." My mother turned her head a little on the pillow. She was wakening fast.

"What's that you say?" she said.

I knew she had heard me quite well, but I repeated it willingly enough. "I say he wants to get married--very soon. His family is going to Europe shortly--and it seems his father says we can spend the first part of our honeymoon on the _Sea-Nymph_, and then join them all in Europe later on. And so Charlie has quite made up his mind that----"

"What's the _Sea-Nymph_?" interrupted my mother eagerly.

"It's the name of the yacht--a new yacht they've got."

"A yacht? A private yacht?" breathlessly asked my mother.

"Yes, a private yacht," I answered, not much elated about it either.

"I knew a family in Norfolk once that had a private yacht," my mother reflected, just a little reverently. "And all those rich New York people keep yachts at Newport," she added in a kindred tone.

"That doesn't matter much," I said, a trifle acridly; "half of the people on them seem to be divorced, if you can believe the papers. But Charlie's quite set on this plan of his--of theirs--and I'm distressed to death about it. I don't want to just go right away so soon," and my voice shook in spite of myself as I nestled a little closer to my mother.

"What did you tell him, Helen?" she asked in a whisper.

"I said no--at first."

"And what after?"

"Nothing--that's the worst of it."

"Why? Why the worst of it?" pursued my mother.

"Because he thinks I will--and it frightens me."

"Helen," and mother's voice was quite reproachful, "I can't make you out at all, child. You've promised to marry him--and I can't understand you. Why, when your father wanted me to marry him I couldn't get too early a day--and we didn't have any yacht either."

"No, but you had father," I interposed.

"That's foolish," said my mother. And I thought it was myself, although I felt my rejoinder had a meaning I couldn't just explain.

We talked till the sun was pouring in through the eastern window; yet we determined little else than this--that mother thought I should and I was almost sure I couldn't.

I think we all felt better in the morning. Mother and I certainly did; even Europe and a yacht didn't impress me so formidably as in the ghostly dawn. We had shad for breakfast, fresh from its briny home; and if shad be skillfully cooked it can colour all the succeeding day. Wherefore, when we were all gathered on the porch in the glorious sunshine mother immediately became communicative. She had previously advised me that it would be better to say nothing to Uncle Henry or Aunt Agnes about the subject that engrossed us both; this of itself was almost a guarantee to me that mother would tell it all, for she generally took this means of reserving that luxury to herself. So it wasn't very long till she had told them all about it. Before she was through, the private yacht had grown to dimensions of a man-of-war fitted up in oriental splendour--and I had been all but presented to half the crowned heads in Europe.

"And I've been telling Helen how foolish she is," she concluded earnestly, looking to my aunt and uncle for confirmation of her view. "It isn't every girl gets a chance of a honeymoon on a yacht, is it, Henry?" nodding towards me over her shoulder.

But uncle didn't seem as agitated as he should have been. "Oh, I don't know," he replied drawlingly, "it depends on your position on the yacht. I suppose there'll be women aboard, cooks and such like, that nobody'd envy very much."

"Position!" my mother ejaculated vigorously; "I should think the wife of the owner would have position enough for anybody."

"Yes--if she owns _him_," replied my uncle slowly.

"Owns what?" echoed my mother. "What do you mean, Henry?"

"I mean if she owns _him_," repeated uncle cheerfully; "if she loves him enough, you know--and if he does the same. Sooner be on an old raft--if they really own each other," uncle went on quite seriously, "than the finest ship in the world--if they don't."

"You're great on love," said mother; "and that's all right for a beginning--but there are other things besides. I think love needs a good solid foundation to build on," as she nodded emphatically towards my uncle.

"Yachts aren't very solid things," retorted the latter calmly; "and Europe's a long piece away. And if my views on love aren't what they ought to be, blame Agnes there," as he looked in unevasive tenderness towards his wife.

I caught the look she cast back at him; it made me think of the lonely bridge. I glanced, too, at the bloom-laden magnolia--and the thought flashed through my mind that an old raft, as uncle said, might be made heavenly enough.

"When is Mr. Giddens going to call again?" my mother suddenly enquired. "I heard him say he was going home on Monday."

"He's coming now," Aunt Agnes announced in a low voice; "yonder, look--he's just coming past the Hickey's boat-house," her keen eye studying the distant figure. "And who's that with him?" she exclaimed a moment later; "why, it's Mr. Furvell, sure as the world. I reckon he's coming here too--some news about the elder, likely enough. I didn't know he and Mr. Giddens were acquainted."

"Neither they are," said my mother. "I reckon they just happened in with each other."