The victory

AFTER a few days life at Harrowby settled down to a regular routine under its new conditions. A Virginian’s house is not his castle, but the castle of the stranger within his gates.

Madame Isabey and Adrienne had breakfast in their rooms, and Adrienne did not appear until the day was well advanced, while Madame Isabey sometimes was not seen until late in the afternoon. Celeste, Madame Isabey’s maid, who was an African replica of her mistress, could not speak a word of English, and thought if she screamed loudly enough at Hector, in French, that she could make herself understood. Hector, falling into the same delusion, bellowed back at her in English, and the noise was only stopped by Angela being on hand every morning to explain Celeste’s wants to her colleagues.

Adrienne’s maid was like her mistress, quiet, soft-spoken, and intelligent.

It was, however, just as well that these handmaidens did not understand everything which went on at Harrowby. The tea, coffee, and sugar were getting low, and Mrs. Tremaine proposed to Colonel Tremaine that the family should entirely give up the use of these luxuries and should drink coffee made of parched potatoes and sweetened with honey while reserving the real article for their guests. To this Colonel Tremaine instantly acquiesced.

Lyddon could not bring himself to drink the potato coffee and compromised on milk for his breakfast, while he watched with admiration Colonel Tremaine gulping down a coffee-colored liquid, and protesting: “My dearest Sophie, your potato coffee is as good as the best Old Government Java I ever drank in my life.”

Mrs. Tremaine, at the other end of the table, drank sassafras tea and, being unwilling to say that it was as good as the best oolong, declared: “Sassafras tea is very good for the complexion. When I was a girl, mother always made me drink a cup of sassafras tea every day for a month in spring to improve my color.”

Colonel Tremaine was proud of Mrs. Tremaine’s heroism, but it rose to heights which he found difficult to reach when she said to him some days afterwards: “My dear, it seems to me that we should set the example of giving up luxuries of dress. We have on hand a large quantity of homespun, both blue and brown, for the servants’ clothes, and I think it would be a good idea if we should wear homespun. You will recall that in grandpapa’s diary of the Revolution, he mentions that for four years he and Grandmamma Neville wore homespun entirely.”

Colonel Tremaine winced.

“Do you really think it necessary, Sophia?”

“I do think it quite necessary, as an example,” responded Mrs. Tremaine promptly, who had the spirit of sacrifice in her as strong as had Jephthah’s daughter. “Tulip, you know, is an excellent tailoress, and between us we will make you a suit of clothes which you will be proud to wear, and it will be an example of patriotism and devotion to the cause.”

Colonel Tremaine could never resist any appeal made to him upon ethical grounds and consented to this painful proposition. He condescended, however, to plead that he still be allowed to wear his ruffled shirts as long as they lasted, promising not to renew them while civil war continued.

To this Mrs. Tremaine reluctantly agreed. The suit of clothes was immediately begun and when it was finished and put on, and Colonel Tremaine, accustomed to the best tailors in Baltimore, surveyed himself arrayed in Mammy Tulip’s handiwork, the iron entered into his soul. For a whole week thereafter, he called Mrs. Tremaine “Sophia.”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Tremaine had made for herself a homespun gown, severely plain, but well fitting. She hinted at Angela’s wearing homespun, but to this Angela made no reply. Six months before Mrs. Tremaine would have had the gown made and would have directed Angela to wear it. But now she scrupulously refrained from anything beyond suggestions.

Whatever Angela might have done in the matter of the homespun gown was checked by the presence of Adrienne Le Noir, who had an apparently endless succession of Paris gowns, which neither she nor Madame Isabey showed the slightest desire to sacrifice upon the altar of their country.

Richard Tremaine, who had been at the instruction camp when the New Orleans guests arrived, did not return to Harrowby for a fortnight.

He had worked night and day organizing his battery of artillery, which was attached to the great camp of instruction where seven thousand men had been rapidly assembled and other troops were pouring in daily.

At last, however, Richard Tremaine found time to ride the ten miles to Harrowby late one afternoon, arriving after dark and leaving the next morning by daylight. He had an entire evening at home. Angela herself, completely dazzled by Adrienne Le Noir, was curious to see the effect she would produce on Richard, who had never met her, as she chanced to be abroad when he visited Philip Isabey in New Orleans.

Angela also expected Adrienne to be conscious of Richard Tremaine’s charms and force. But although exquisite politeness prevailed on both sides as between a host and guest, and that guest a woman, it was plain that there was not much sympathy between them.

Lyddon spoke of this the next evening to Angela when, after family prayers, she followed her old habit of stealing into the study for an hour.

“I thought,” said Angela, with much simplicity, “that Madame Le Noir and Richard would fall in love with each other as soon as they met.”

“My dear child,” laughed Lyddon, lighting his pipe, “everybody in the world does not go about falling in love with everybody else. I will say, however, that I thought Madame Le Noir very little impressed with Richard. You know he is a man born to succeed with women. My own belief is that Madame Le Noir has another man in her mind, which makes her perfectly cool and indifferent to all the rest of the world.”

“What man is that?” asked Angela, knowing perfectly well what Lyddon’s answer would be.

“Captain Isabey, of course.”

Angela felt a strange sinking of the heart. “Do you think they’re engaged?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know anything about that, but I should think not! If they’re engaged, there is no reason why they should not be married. Both of them are quite old enough to know their own minds. Isabey, you know, is some years older than Richard. I should say there was no engagement, but it looks to me as if eventually Madame Le Noir and Isabey would be married.”

Angela, whose round elbows were on the table, leaned her chin upon her hands in a favorite attitude of hers, and Lyddon, who could almost see the workings of her mind, knew that from the hour she had first seen Isabey he had possessed extraordinary interest for her. He could have told the very instant that the recollection of Neville Tremaine now occurred to Angela. She had been looking down with meditative eyes upon the table, when suddenly she drew back, and glancing up, as if she were frightened and puzzled, said quickly:

“I haven’t had a letter from Neville for nearly three weeks, but I have one ready to send him. I will give it to you to-morrow.”

“Poor Neville,” said Lyddon, “his fate is hard. I never knew a man in whose honor I had greater confidence, and yet he is reckoned dishonored by those nearest to him; nor a man of stronger natural common sense, yet he has gone against the almost unanimous opinion of his own section in the United States Army. Destiny, my dear, is a queer thing.”

“Very,” answered Angela. She was thinking of another strange act of the hand of fate. No man would be less likely to coerce a woman into marrying him than Neville Tremaine; his pride, as well as his principles, would seem to make it impossible; yet deep in her own heart, Angela knew that she had been coerced. It was like one of those promises which are extorted from children never to tell an untruth, never to repeat a certain fault, a promise under compulsion and so little voluntary that it can scarcely be reckoned binding.

Angela, however, meant to be bound by her promise. But always since she had first seen Philip Isabey his image had haunted her—haunted her more even than before she had seen him. She had dreamed of him for years and it so happened that the dream came true. He was exactly as she had pictured him and this of itself was enough to give him a peculiar interest.

She turned these things over in her mind sitting in the same attitude, at the table, the mellow light of two candles falling upon her white skin and dark eyes. The window toward the river was open, and the odors of the May night stole softly into the room. Lyddon roused her from her reverie.

“I have found a new field of usefulness,” he said. “I looked up the subject of making tallow candles. I used to be pretty good at chemistry when I was at Balliol. The old lead candle molds used by Colonel Tremaine’s grandfather during the Revolution have been found in the attic.”

“I found them,” answered Angela, reproachfully.

“And a good find it was. We’re to use tallow candles, but the beehives furnish enough wax for Madame Isabey and Madame Le Noir and for the Bible reading at night. Mrs. Tremaine told me gently that they always used wax candles for the Bible reading and that it didn’t seem to her right to use tallow candles for that.”

“Poor Uncle Tremaine, did you ever see anybody in your life as wretched as he is in those homespun clothes made by Aunt Sophia and Mammy Tulip? And he loves his clothes so much!”

“Yes, I thought him a sad sight when he appeared in homespun and drank his potato coffee. I have, however, made another important chemical discovery.” Here Lyddon looked hard at Angela and winked his left eye. “Have you observed how the colonel’s hair has been turning red?”

“And green,” responded Angela, with animation. “It is the most melancholy sight I ever saw in my life.”

“So I thought, and I looked up a formula, of which black walnuts was the chief ingredient, and recommended it to Colonel Tremaine as a hair tonic—warranted to make the hair grow and prevent falling out and baldness. He shook my hand with tears in his eyes. I have got it all ready in this bottle.” Lyddon pointed to a big bottle on the wooden mantelpiece. “And you will see that the colonel’s spirits will rise in the next day or two.”

Lyddon was quite correct in his prognostication. At supper the next evening Colonel Tremaine appeared resplendent, his pigeon wings, on each side of his forehead, a lustrous black instead of a rich brown, but the colonel, serenely unconscious, looked with eyes of profound gratitude at Lyddon.

The next day the candle-making began in earnest, and Colonel Tremaine, who had always used wax candles on his dressing table, came down to tallow ones. He sighed and tried to reconcile himself by the reflection that his ancestors, during the Revolution, thought themselves well off when they were able to get tallow candles.

Mrs. Tremaine, on the contrary, made every sacrifice with eagerness after having been forced to make the greatest sacrifice of all, in having her best beloved torn from her, torn from honor and good repute, and fallen from his high estate. It seemed to her as if all else were easy. She was glad of an excuse to wear homespun, to give up her linen sheets, to spend her days in labors heretofore unknown to her. If she had been in the Middle Ages, she would have used the scourge and worn sackcloth. God’s hand lay heavy upon her, so she thought, and not doubting its wisdom, believed that she deserved the terrible chastisement which had fallen upon her.

In that latitude May is summer time, and the heat descended upon Harrowby. It was, however, well adapted to withstand the torrid days. No Italian villa is better suited to these fierce summer heats than the old Virginia country houses with their unstained floors, polished like a looking-glass by dry rubbing with sand and wax, the scanty mahogany furniture, the large doors and windows, free from dust-carrying draperies, and through which the summer breezes wander fitfully. Harrowby was as pleasant in summer as in winter, and Madame Isabey, who had the coolest room in the house, was never tired of congratulating herself upon having fallen upon her feet as it were.

In spite of the horror and amazement which her dancing created, and the grim suspicion that in the privacy of her own apartment she smoked cigarettes—a devil’s invention hitherto unknown at Harrowby—there was soon no doubt that she became a favorite with everyone about the place, excepting only Hector, who regarded her with severe disapproval and refused to be placated. He compared her to the daughter of Herodias, to Jezebel, and to every other unsavory character in the Bible. With all else at Harrowby, however, her genuine good humor, her airy spirit, her real goodness of heart, commended her strongly. Archie became her devoted slave, and Lyddon called Madame Isabey Archie’s elective affinity. George Charteris paid his devoirs at the feet of Adrienne, who could never remember whether his name was George or Charles.

Between her and Angela came about that deep, fierce, and wordless antagonism which exists when the shadow of a man stands between two women. No carping word passed between them; on the contrary, all was courtesy. There was no assumption on Adrienne’s part concerning her accomplishments, her toilets, her thorough knowledge of the world contrasted with Angela’s innocence and ignorance. Nor did she make the mistake of underrating her rival. She secretly envied Angela her power of listening to, and even joining intelligently in, the conversation of men, and recognized that Angela was fitted for companionship as well as love.

Adrienne herself knew that, although she might have many lovers, she could never have a friend among men. The man she married, if he should cease to be her lover—what then? He would still admire her; there would still be the charm of her voice, of her manner, her appearance, her music, but she reasoned with a woman’s painful introspection that her charms were of the sort which one day vanish away. She had long known that the only lasting spell which a woman can cast upon a man is the spell of mental charm, for the spell that lasts must be one which knows no change and which is always at command. Angela had that charm in a remarkable degree.

Adrienne felt a secret jealousy when she observed Angela’s companionship with Lyddon and felt a deep inward mortification when Lyddon, talking about books with Angela, would courteously change the subject to something concerning which he supposed Adrienne to be interested.

She had never before seen a girl well trained in books, and her idea of a bookish woman was an untidy person with an ink smudge on her middle finger. She had seen in Paris women at the head of brilliant salons, but these women were no longer young and were usually arbitrary and of commanding social position. But here was a girl all softness, who dressed her hair beautifully, and whose muslin gowns were radiantly fresh, and to whom a scholar like Lyddon could talk freely.

Angela was, however, eating her soul out with envy of Adrienne. Like most girls of nineteen, she knew neither past nor future, and it seemed to her as if Adrienne would ever remain the beautiful, seductive creature she was now. Angela felt herself distinctly inferior, and as she had enjoyed that subtlest form of flattery, being made much of, this feeling of inferiority was painful to her. But in this, as in all things else, the world was changed. The soul of things was altered and nothing was as it had once been.

One morning in early June, when the family was assembled at breakfast, Colonel Tremaine pointed out of the open window and across the wide-pillared portico to the broad, bright river running honey-colored in the morning sun.

A small sloop, painted a dull gray, was passing up the river, the fresh breeze swelling her brown sails and carrying her fast through the bright water.

“That’s Captain Ross’s vessel,” said Colonel Tremaine. “He has evidently run the blockade and has probably brought a valuable cargo with him.”

“Wouldn’t it be well, my dear,” asked Mrs. Tremaine, pouring out the colonel’s second cup of potato coffee, “if I should order the carriage this morning and go to Captain Ross’s house? We’re running short of supplies of many things.”

“It would be most judicious, my dearest Sophie,” answered the colonel, his white teeth showing in a smile, “if Captain Ross were a patriotic person, but unluckily he declines to receive either the State money of Virginia or Confederate money, and we have no other sort.”

Mrs. Tremaine sighed and answered after a moment: “I’m not surprised at Captain Ross. I always thought him a very ordinary person, and he proves himself to be entirely without patriotism.”

Mrs. Tremaine, ever willing to give all she had to the Confederacy, thought it strange that Captain Ross should not undertake the risks and dangers of blockade-running and then sell his goods for a promise to pay.

“It isn’t that I mind our privations,” Mrs. Tremaine continued. “And I’m sure you, my dear, wouldn’t hesitate at any sacrifice for our country, but it distresses me to think that our guests shouldn’t have their accustomed comforts.”

It distressed Colonel Tremaine very much that with two wardrobes full of clothes, he was compelled to wear homespun, but it distressed him far more to think that the guests under his roof should want for anything, and so he expressed himself.

“I really relish the substitute for coffee which your ingenuity, my dearest Sophie, has supplied, but I’m afraid that Madame Isabey wouldn’t care for it.”

“Naw, suh,” said Hector, hurling himself into the conversation. “Me an’ de ole lady had a collusion ’bout dat coffee. I teck some ob your ’tato coffee up to dat ole lady——”

“Madame Isabey, you mean, Hector,” said Mrs. Tremaine in mild reproof.

“An’ she th’o it outen de window. She ain’t got no fear ob de Lawd, her Gawd, an’ when I tole her that Paul de Porstle say you ain’t gwine th’o de chillen’s bread to de dogs, she tole me to shet my mouf—to shet my mouf.”

No one had ever yet been able to shut Hector’s mouth; and no one had ever seriously tried except Madame Isabey.

Angela, who sat by, took no part in the discussion. Suddenly she remembered the packet of gold eagles which she had received from Neville more than a month before. As soon as breakfast was over, she ran upstairs and got her rouleau of gold and, coming down, found Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine walking up and down the long portico toward the river. She went up to Mrs. Tremaine, and, holding out the little parcel, said to her in a trembling voice:

“I have some gold which Neville sent me; you’re welcome to all you want of it, Aunt Sophia.”

A deathlike silence followed. There was something astounding to Mrs. Tremaine that this child should have the strange species of independence which the possession of money gives, and then the thought flashed instantly through the mother’s mind that Angela by some secret means had lately heard from Neville and had not seen fit to mention it.

Mrs. Tremaine turned pale, and her eyes, fixed upon Angela, had in them an imploring expression.

Angela remained silent. The subtle changes made by her new status confused and embarrassed her. And then, still holding out the money, she said: “Here is the gold. I should like to keep half of it. I mean I shall keep half of it to go to Neville when he sends for me. The rest is yours.”

Mrs. Tremaine drew back icily. It was difficult for her to accept the money, and more difficult to refuse it. But something in her air and manner caused Angela suddenly to burst into a passion of tears. As she stood sobbing, Colonel Tremaine put his arm around her, and said kindly:

“My dear little—” but he did not say daughter, as he would have said a few months ago or even then except for Mrs. Tremaine. He felt instinctively that Mrs. Tremaine did not wish that word to be used. Angela was the daughter-in-law and not the daughter to her, and Mrs. Tremaine, the tenderest-hearted of women, looked with somber eyes upon Angela’s tear-stained face.

What could this girl know of the passion of mother love which consumed the older woman’s heart? What could she know of the yearning for that secretly favored child, that son who in her heart she preferred to everything on earth, even to Colonel Tremaine, while she said to herself, to Colonel Tremaine, and to all the world, and even to her God upon her knees, that Colonel Tremaine was the first object of her existence, knowing all the while that this was a pious lie, and that Neville Tremaine was the idol of her heart, and had ever been and would always be first. It seemed to her a hidden insult that Angela should be willing to divide her money, but jealously withheld the letter which Mrs. Tremaine fancied she had received.

The same thought entered Angela’s mind, and, less ungenerous, she said quickly: “I have had this money some time, and I have had no letter from Neville of which I haven’t told you, Aunt Sophia.”

And then Mrs. Tremaine, understanding Angela as women understand these subtle conflicts between each other, felt that Angela had, indeed, been generous, and it was time for her to show some generosity.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “Since you are kind enough to offer us a part of your money, I shall be much obliged. I will accept it with pleasure.”