"No matter about Archie."
Varina frowned and twitched her shoulders.
"Papa," said Charles after a pause, "shall you leave the plantation and everything to Louis because he is the oldest?"
"My son, I warn you that I shall live a long, long while. You will all have a chance to make your own fortunes and marry and have homes of your own. So don't trouble about any such foolishness. And you are all too young to consider the point."
"But people do in England."
"We are not in England," commented his father dryly.
"What a mess of nonsense has been talked at the Pineries!" he said to his wife with some vexation afterward. "Mr. Floyd has grown very grasping, and thinks so much of money. And that boy puts on airs enough for three grown-up fellows. Let children be children, say I, and not bother their heads about the affairs of older people. I'm sorry for Marian. Anyone can see that her heart is not in this marriage. She's changed beyond everything. But it is set for the spring. Dolly will be more like to have her own way, as the Fates have sent her an acceptable lover."
Jaqueline was all in a flurry to go to Washington, and started at the first opportunity. The Carringtons had begged for a week, as some cousins were coming, and they were to give the young people a ball.
"You are a sad gadabout," sighed her father. "But you keep the house astir here with your coming and going. It is time you began to learn something useful. I shall look up a nice steady-going man of forty or thereabouts, and marry you out of hand some day."
"Let me see—is there anyone near here that answers the requirements?" and she laughed saucily as she put her soft arms around her father's neck. "He must have an estate, of course,—it will not do for me to fall behind-hand in family dignity,—and a long pedigree. Do you know whether the Masons, like the old Scotch woman's ancestors, had a boat of their own at the time of the flood?"
"I am pretty sure there must have been Masons," he replied gravely.
Mrs. Jettson received her with open arms. "Jaqueline, have you any idea of how fortunate you are? Congress is in session, and I have never known Washington so gay. And the White House is fine in its new array, while Mrs. Madison is as charming as ever. And Mrs. Van Ness is giving the most elegant entertainments. Roger Carrington was in here last evening to see if you really were coming."
"Mrs. Carrington gives a ball next Tuesday evening for some young visitors. And I am invited over to Georgetown for a week. So I just coaxed to come up here a few days, for you would know about suitable gowns. I don't suppose you have heard from Marian?"
"Not a word. But Arthur told Lieutenant Ralston. Really, my dear, he had half a mind to go up there and tear her out of the family bosom by main force. He couldn't believe it at first. He wrote a letter to Marian, but I am certain no one could get it to her, although he sent by a special messenger. I have given up. And Dolly's engagement is announced. Mr. Floyd spoke before he went away. I had such a complacent letter from mother. It made me angry, it really did. Well, her whole duty is done, unless she lives to marry off her granddaughters."
"I suppose Dolly is really in love?" Jaqueline had not considered her very enthusiastic. She had a girl's romantic ideal of love, fostered by the attention and affection her father gave her stepmother. Had he loved her own mother in that fashion?
"Dolly is a little ninny!" declared the elder sister in disdain. "They all thought she was going wild over that young Chase, but she seemed to drop him easy enough. He is going to the bad as fast as possible, though I don't believe in a woman wrecking her whole life to save a man, for, after all, she rarely does it. And I'm sorry to have Dolly go so far away. Oh, I do wonder if I shall ever be glad to have baby Jaqueline marry and go out of my sight! Yet I suppose having old maids on your hands is rather mortifying. There are some new shops on Pennsylvania Avenue, with such pretty things, although there is so much talk about the difficulty of getting goods from abroad. And everybody complains of money being scarce, but there seems a good deal to spend, some way."
Washington was certainly looking up. Handsome houses were being built, and famous men were to be seen in the streets and at the different entertainments. There were weekly dinner parties at the White House, managed with such tact that no one was affronted, those left out knowing their turn would come next.
Jane and Mr. Jettson had an engagement that evening—"a dinner where they are going to talk improvements and the best way of getting a grant from Congress; no dancing and no nice young men to flatter a lady," declared Mr. Jettson. "Jane thinks them tiresome, but she can put in a word now and then, since it is our bread and butter."
"Oh, I'd rather stay at home! There is that 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' to read. Who is this wonderful new poet? Aunt Catharine made me read 'The Course of Time' when I paid her my visit; aloud, too, so I couldn't skip much, but it was dreadfully tiresome. This goes along with a rush."
So Jaqueline settled herself in the easiest chair she could find, and put her feet on the rounds of another. The candles gave a softened light; but in spite of interest she was getting drowsy when there was a hasty knock and a discussion in the hall. Then Sam opened the door and ushered in Lieutenant Ralston.
"I hope you won't think me a nuisance," as Jaqueline was straightening herself up in some confusion, and feeling if the knot of abundant hair was on the top of her head or pushed over one side. "I'm sorry Mrs. Jettson is out, and I recall the fact now that she had an engagement. But I am very glad to see you, selfishly glad. Do I interrupt anything important?"
"Oh, no!" She held out her hand cordially.
"You were up to the Pineries," he began abruptly. "Did Marian seem—"
"We didn't think her real happy." Jaqueline hesitated. How much ought she to admit?
"I wrote her a letter. I wanted to know the truth. You see, I have been perfectly honorable. I told her I would wait seven years or twice seven years, and she promised to do the same. I couldn't believe she accepted this man of her own free will. And then I wrote, taking precautions to have it reach her. It has been opened and returned to me without a word. Here it is. That is not Miss Floyd's handwriting."
"Do you suppose she gave the letter to him?"
"I am afraid she must have. You see, the engagement has been announced everywhere, and they sit together in church. The neighbors give little companies for them, and Mr. Greaves acts as if he had full right to her."
Ralston dashed the letter to the floor. "Then she is weak and false!" he cried in a passion. "I could wait with very little encouragement, so long as it was waiting. We are both young, and I have my fortune to make. But when she engages herself to another, when—Mrs. Jettson said there was talk of a marriage in the spring! Even if she had written to explain—I think I could have stood being given up by her if she had said it was a mistake, and she had found she was over-hasty. It was sudden—done in those two days; but then I had seen her frequently during her visit to Mrs. Jettson, and I was sure she cared for me. She had a kind of shy way—looking back and forth; do you remember it? But perhaps the glances are only meant for a lover's eyes," smiling faintly in spite of the anger. "Either she loved me or she was a coquette."
"She is not a coquette!" exclaimed Jaqueline decisively. "And she never had a real lover until—" Then the girl stopped and flushed.
"What I can't understand is her accepting this man if she loved me, taking his caresses and his plans for a life together—"
"Oh, he isn't the caressing sort!" interrupted Jaqueline. "And yet I don't see how she could, if she loved you. I wouldn't have been forced to accept him. I wouldn't have promised anybody. I would just have waited. But Grandfather Floyd is very arbitrary, and when he makes up his mind, there is no relenting. Oh, I am afraid you can't understand! You don't know him."
"The time is past when a woman is compelled to marry a man she doesn't want," he said with an angry sneer. "I know the old adage says that a continual dropping will wear away a stone. But this has been such a little while. There may be shaly natures that the dropping disintegrates rapidly. And you girls never talked with her about it, which seems strange to me."
"We scarcely saw her alone. And we were strictly forbidden to speak of it."
"Then he must have felt afraid of your influence."
Ralston looked eagerly at the girl, as if he was searching for some ground of hope.
"It can't be changed any way, I think. Marian has accepted it, and the whole neighborhood has congratulated her. The wedding has been put down as a certainty."
"If I pity her I shall keep on loving her and thinking something may happen. And if I believe her weak and false I shall despise her and get over it. One couldn't respect such a weak woman!"
Jaqueline wanted to make a protest. It was very hard to be despised, and she thought Marian hardly deserved that.
"I suppose this wouldn't have happened if I had been the rich man," and there were lines of scorn about his mouth.
Jaqueline knew it wouldn't. Did not money measure most of the things in this life? And Lieutenant Ralston was young, energetic, very good-looking, and delightful; Mr. Greaves was thin, with a large nose, and high, narrow forehead, his hair sprinkled with gray at the temples. He was gentlemanly, but rather pompous; and there was nothing entertaining about him, unless it was to old Mr. Floyd. Marian had always seemed so young.
"If I knew who returned that letter! If I knew she had seen it!" He was walking back and forth, and just touched it with the toe of his boot. It would have a curious sacredness if it had been in her hands; her father's hands and eyes made it a thing to be despised. Had he sneered over it?
"I am quite sure she never saw it," returned Jaqueline decisively.
He picked it up and threw it into the fire.
"You see," he began apologetically, "that I have come to you and Mrs. Jettson because you were near to her and knew her best. I dare say I have made myself quite ridiculous, prating of love—"
"Oh, no, not that!" she interrupted quickly. "And I am so sorry it has come out this way. I was so interested in it all, and even papa liked you so much."
That was comforting. He would be proud of the esteem of such a man as Randolph Mason. Other men had failed to win their first loves. Even Mr. Madison, as the story went, had been positively engaged to a charming young woman who had changed her mind and married another. And where would one find a more devoted couple than the President and his wife, who had had her youthful love and misfortunes and sorrows?
"When a man resolves to put a thing out of his mind he can do it if he has any force of character." Ralston held his head up very erect now, though he still kept pacing the floor.
"That would be best," advised Jaqueline.
"Oh, yes; there is no use going about the world crying for the moon, when the sun shines as much again, and there is a good deal to do. So I shall not be a lovelorn swain, but go on with an earnest effort, for I have some ambitions, and though the times may seem tame by contrast with the stirring events of our fathers', there are still grave questions to study. It is not all froth and amusement. I hope you are going to remain a while. You're like a sister to Mrs. Jettson."
"I am invited to Georgetown for a week. And I think I shall stay quite a while. It's so delightful here, and rather dull at home. I do miss Patricia very much."
"And there is a ball at the Carringtons'. I am glad you are to be there. Roger and I are fast friends. And now have I not bored you enough? I will try to make amends in the future. Will you tell Mrs. Jettson the result of my letter? She warned me. Your father warned me; but I suppose willful youth will have its own way. Good-night. Let me see—there is a levee to-morrow evening, and you have not seen the new plenishings yet. We are very grand in yellow satin and damask. If Mrs. Jettson is not engaged you must go."
"Poor Marian!" Jaqueline sighed, in relating the interview to Jane and contrasting the lovers. "I don't believe grandpapa could compel me, and she is so much older, too. And when she sees Dolly's delight and happiness!"
"I have given her up," confessed Mrs. Jettson. "She may be comfortable, and perhaps happier than at home. Oh, Jaqueline, be thankful that your father doesn't belong to the Floyd branch! For Brandon will be his father right over again. There must be a sort of Puritan strand in them. When you find me so stiff and strenuous you had better banish me at once."
Jaqueline met some people at the levee who remembered her, which was quite flattering to the young girl. She hardly knew which of her cavaliers she admired most, the fine-looking lieutenant or Mr. Carrington. Both were made much of by the ladies, and cordially recognized by the men of the period who were to be the heroes of succeeding generations.
The ball was quite delightful. Though it was given for the young people, there were mothers and aunts, and not a few fathers who dropped in later in the evening. Young people were not left to themselves, and the elders enjoyed seeing the pretty triumphs of their daughters and telling little anecdotes of their own youth and their conquests.
It was true that Lieutenant Ralston did not wear the willow outwardly. Yet as time went on and his love for Marian having nothing to feed upon chilled the warm exultation of hope, he grew a trifle bitter at heart, and indulged in some cynical reflections that had stings of wit. Indeed, wit and repartee were largely cultivated then. There were few books to talk about, except among the learned men, who still affected classic lore. And it was not considered a womanly accomplishment for the fair sex to be versed in politics. It seems strange to us now that there should have been so much talk in letters and journals about finery and fashion, and who was paying his addresses to this or that young damsel, and the furnishing of someone's new house.
Perhaps the women of that time were more discreet. For Mrs. Madison must have been close in her husband's confidence all those trying years, and known how to leave a good deal unsaid. But general society then was for the entertainment of all, and each one was expected to do his or her share. Good-breeding was a virtue.
Jaqueline was gay enough. Virginian girls had a charm and attractiveness besides mere beauty of feature. So week by week her return home was put off, until a visit from Dolly Floyd was announced. Mr. Floyd was quite ailing, and his wife could not leave him. Mrs. Mason was asked to consult with Mrs. Jettson and see what was proper, and have the wedding trousseau prepared, since Dolly was to go away, and there was hardly time to send abroad. Mr. Floyd had insisted upon a wedding just after Easter, as he was to go to New York to attend to some business for his father, and he would be delighted to have Dolly bear him company.
"But Marian?" exclaimed Mrs. Mason, when Dolly had unfolded her budget.
"Marian insists that she won't be married until June. And mother has given her that beautiful pearl-satin gown in which she was married to papa, and after that she grew so stout she could never wear it. But mother prefers that she shall be married in white. Marian has grown to be quite an old woman already; you can't think how queer she is!"
Mrs. Mason's heart went out with sympathy to her young sister-in-law, who was trying in such a rigid fashion to fit herself for her new life. Mrs. Jettson felt rather hurt at first that the matter was not delegated wholly to her, since the shopping and the work must be done in Washington.
"But, you see, I am to get some things in New York afterward, and Mrs. Marshall brought over some patterns that her sister sent from Paris, and she is to send us her mantua-maker. You know she had Sarah trained, when they were over, to make frocks and caps and mantles. She is to sew for Marian."
"And is Marian as happy as you?" asked Mrs. Jettson, studying the young girl.
Dolly shrugged her shoulders. She was a flippant little thing, occupied mostly with herself. Her own pleasure came first.
"I don't see how she can be, with that stick of a lover. I'm sure you can't compare him with Preston. But if he suits her—and she's trying to take an interest in the children. I think they're hideous. Oh, Jane, it is a great shame the lieutenant hadn't been better off! He's such a delightful fellow. There was a dreadful time about him. But, good gracious! I was not to say a word," and Dolly turned pale.
"Do you know whether Marian had a letter from him soon after the holidays?"
"Did he write? Why, that was romantic! No—I do not believe it reached her. And if it had, it couldn't have altered anything. Mr. Greaves is very much in earnest, and Marian will have one of the finest houses in the county. Then he talks of going to England and leaving the two older children for their education. Some cousin or uncle or relative died a while ago; and if someone else should die he would come in for a title and a fine estate. Father is quite elated over that. Father should have been born an English aristocrat," and Dolly laughed. "But if I wasn't so in love with Preston I might be captured by the young soldier or some of the beaus with which Washington abounds. Oh, dear! if we could have come to the inauguration! I'm glad to go away, for it's wretchedly dull all about the Pineries. And Charleston is quite gay, Preston writes."
The shopping was done, and the gowns and coats and pelisses left at Mrs. Sweeny's, who was quite celebrated for her taste.
Then Dolly was suddenly summoned home. Her father had a poorly spell, and Mr. Greaves had met with an accident. As he was going to mount his horse one morning to ride over to the Pineries, an owl that had been nesting in a tree near the house made a flight across the lawn, at which the horse shied and knocked down his master, whose head struck the stepping-stone, and he had lain unconscious ever since, but no bones were broken. They had a hope that it would not prove serious, since Mr. Greaves had an excellent constitution and had never been ill a day in his life.
The spring was late this year, but when it came everything burst into bloom and beauty as if by magic. Even the marshy ends of the streets in Washington were covered with verdure and the curious delicate bloom of the different sedge growths. Congress kept on. There were many perplexing questions, and war loomed in the distance.
The festivities at the Pineries were quite interrupted. When Mr. Greaves recovered consciousness it was found that his right side had been partially paralyzed. His speech was affected, and the doctor spoke doubtfully of his mind.
Consequently all thoughts of Marian's marriage must be given up for the present. But Dolly's went on, and the last week in April the impatient lover presented himself, and the family relatives and friends were gathered to celebrate the occasion. It was considered most proper for Louis Mason to attend Marian, who was to be the first bridesmaid. Jaqueline was next in order, and there were three others. Weddings were quite sumptuous affairs in those days. There was a great supper and dancing; one of the bride-cakes held a ring, put in by the hand of the bride-elect, and great was the interest to see who would get it. This fell to Jaqueline. And when the bride was escorted upstairs by her bevy of maidens she paused on the landing and scattered her half-dozen roses which had been sent from Washington, and cost extravagantly. The first one did not go far, and caught in Jaqueline's shoulder-knot. There was a general laughing exclamation.
"And I haven't even a lover!" cried the girl with dainty mock regret.
There was a grand breakfast the next morning—a real breakfast, not a noon luncheon. Many of the guests had remained all night. Mirth and jollity reigned, good-wishes were given, healths were drunk, and at noon the young couple started on their long stage-coach journey. Tours were hardly considered then, though the bride often journeyed to the house of her husband's nearest relatives. But to take in Baltimore and Philadelphia was enough to set one up for life, and Dolly was very much elated. The return trip would be made by water, so she would be quite a traveled bride.
Marian had been the sedate elder sister. She was not old, but she had grown much older and lost the aspect of girlhood that she had kept her three-and-twenty years. There was much kindly sympathy expressed for her. Mr. Greaves grew more helpless instead of improving, and his mind had never been quite clear.
But no one suggested an interrupted engagement except among the slaves, who recalled that she had put out her candle on Christmas Eve, and the ring in the cake had not come to her, nor a single rose.
"Looks laik she cut out fer 'n ole maid," declared a gray-haired mammy. "En she mought 'a' bin a gret lady, goin' ober to de ole country. But young missy goin' to be happy as de day is long. De house'll never seem de same."
"Grandfather Floyd has begun to break," said Mr. Mason when they had started on their homeward journey. "One can hardly decide whether to be glad or sorry about Marian. Anyway, it is hard on the poor girl."
"And you can't decide whether she is sorry or not. I never saw anyone change so. She has grown curiously close about herself," declared Jaqueline.
The interrupted intimacy between the two families was taken up again. Even Jane and her three children were invited to the Pineries for a hot month in the summer. Grandfather was quite deaf, which made him more irritable, and Marian played piquet with him for hours together. Mrs. Floyd managed the plantation, though she had always taken her share of that.
Patricia came home a slim, pretty, and piquant young woman, refined and finished, and Louis was an attractive young collegian. The house was filled with guests, and there was much merriment, until one day the word came that surprised them all. Grandfather had been found dead in his chair on the porch where he took his usual afternoon nap.
Family funerals were almost as grand occasions as marriages at this period. The great house was filled with guests, and there was no unseemly haste to bury the dead out of their sight. The funeral procession might have been that of a famous man. When they returned the relatives were gathered in the darkened parlor where the candles stood lighted on a table, and Archibald Floyd's will was read in a dry, decorous tone by the little old lawyer who had made wills for half a century.
As was expected, the Pineries and slaves and appurtenances of all kinds went to Brandon, who was the only son. The girls had an equal money portion. The widow was provided with a home; certain rooms were set apart for her, certain slaves were bequeathed to her with the bed and table linen and some of the furnishings that she had brought with her; and Brandon was to pay her a regular income out of the estate, which was to cease at her death. A very fair and just will, it was agreed on every side.
Meanwhile there had been no perceptible change in Mr. Greaves. He did not suffer much; he was fed and cared for like a child. Some days he brightened and talked with encouraging coherence, but it was mostly about his early life, and he now and then mistook his sister for his dead wife. And though Marian had gone over several times, he had not seemed to recall her specially.
Miss Greaves was in her element. She had not taken kindly to the prospect of being deposed, though the training of women in her day led them to accept the inevitable without complaining. She was rather proud, too, that her brother had won a young woman; and Marian's sudden gravity after her engagement had given her considerable satisfaction.
"The doctor holds out very little hope of perfect recovery," she said to the younger woman at one call. "He thinks brother's mind will never be quite right again. He has a good appetite now and sleeps well, but it is very sad to be stricken down in the very prime of life. On our mother's side we are a long-lived race. I had an aunt who lay paralyzed for seven years, and was eighty when she died."
Marian shuddered. Her father's failing health had demanded most of her attention. Was she in any way relieved? She tried not to think of it. No one referred to the marriage, except now and then some of the slaves, who counted up all the bad signs in an awesome fashion.
Dolly had enjoyed everything to the uttermost, and was delighted with her new home and her new relatives. Communication between even the most important cities was tardy at that time, and often sent by private messenger. Yet the political interest of the States was kept up keenly, almost to rivalry. New England, whose commerce had been injured the most, complained loudly. The States were between two fires. England was bringing all her power to bear upon the Emperor Napoleon. Neither country paid any attention to the rights of neutrals. There was the old romantic remembrance of France coming to our assistance in our mighty struggle with the mother country; but there were a hundred relationships with England where there was one with France, and Napoleon's ruthlessness had alienated the noblest sense of the community.
Yet living went on in the lavish, cordial Virginian fashion at the old plantation, if it was not quite so full of gayety. There were two attractive young women now, and the young men were haunting the house, planning riding parties and a day's outing to some grove or wood, a sail down or up the Potomac, and a three-days' visit to some neighbor who rather regretfully gave up dancing on account of the recent death. Louis had been putting in law with his other studies, and was not to graduate for another year.
Roger Carrington was now a steady visitor, and all the household knew he was young missy's lover. Her father's assent had been cordially given. Her own was still in abeyance. Jaqueline had a willful streak in her nature. If someone had opposed, she would have sided at once with her lover. But everybody agreed. Mrs. Carrington treated her as a daughter already, and longed to have the engagement announced. Roger pleaded.
"I want to be quite sure that I love you better than anybody," she would say with a kind of dainty sweetness. "If one should make a mistake!"
"But we are such friends already. We have been for a long time. Surely if you disliked me you would have found it out before this."
"But I don't dislike you. I like you very much. Only it seems that things which come so easy—"
She let her lovely eyes droop, and the color came and went in her face. How exquisite her rose-leaf cheeks were! He wished he had the right to kiss them fifty times an hour. A husband would have. But there was a fine courtesy between lovers of that day. And there was always some curling tendril of shadowy hair clustering about her fair temples. Her ear, too, was like a bit of sculpture, and the lines that went down her neck and lost themselves in the roundness of her shoulders changed with every motion, each one prettier than the last, and were distractingly tempting.
"I'm sure it doesn't come easy to me," he said in a rather curt tone.
"Oh, doesn't it? I thought there really was no mistaking the grand passion on a man's part—that he was convinced in the flash of an eye."
"It is when he wishes to convince that his doubt arises. If I could persuade you—" longingly.
"I am always afraid I shall be too easily persuaded," she returned plaintively. "I sometimes wonder if I really have a good strong mind of my own. Do you know, I should like to be one of the heroic women; then in case war should come—there are such talks about it, you know—and I had to send you away—"
She looked so utterly bewitching that he had much ado not to clasp her to his heart.
"You are heroic enough. And you are tormenting to the last degree. I wonder sometimes if you even like me!"
"Oh, you know I like you," carelessly.
"If you would once say 'I love you.' You like so many people—young men, I mean."
"Why, when you have been brought up with them, so to speak—" and she looked up out of large, innocent eyes. "There are the Bakers, you know. Georgie, Rob, Teddy, and I have played together always. Would you have me turn haughty now?"
"I don't mind the Bakers, and Teddy is as good as engaged to Hester Fairfax, who really does adore him."
"Yes, I think she does," gravely. "He is always describing her perfections and her sweetnesses, as if we hadn't quarreled and declared we wouldn't speak to each other and done little spiteful tricks that girls always do, and—and gotten over it, and know all about each other."
"I don't believe you were ever very spiteful. That takes a small nature."
She looked furtively from under her long lashes, as if considering.
"Well—Patty and I quarrel. You must know that I haven't the most amiable temper in the world when I am roused."
"Yes." She could be very tormenting.
"And I like to have my own way. Papa generally gives in. And sometimes I feel self-condemned that mamma is so good to me."
"Then you have a conscience?"
"I don't believe my own mother would have been so easy. And there's grandmamma—"
"Who would have led you to find out your mind in short order," he commented quickly.
"Her mind, you mean. And if she had resolved that I shouldn't marry you, you would have been sent to the right-about at once. And that reminds me—Lieutenant Ralston is coming down next week. But I suppose you are not afraid of him, since his heart is—oh, can you tell where it is? Sometimes I think he still cares for Marian, and then he is so bitter and sharp. She won't ever marry Mr. Greaves now."
She looked so eager and earnest, as if this was the main question of her life. He turned away with a pang at his heart. Was she anything but a volatile, teasing girl, with no deep feelings?
"You shan't! I say you shan't! Annis belongs to me. You shan't take her away. We're going to row round the pond—"
Louis laughed with a soft sound of triumph.
"But you promised to ride with me, didn't you, Annis? And I don't see how Annis belongs to you especially. You're too old for that boyish foolishness. Why, you couldn't marry her in years and years, and then she'd be an old woman, queer and cross. Hillo!" in a surprised tone.
They faced Mr. Carrington and Jaqueline.
"Oh, Louis, why do you tease the children so?" exclaimed Jaqueline in disapprobation.
"I'm not teasing you, Annis, am I? We were to go for a ride, and her pony is all ready, when Charles flew into a passion."
"I told you Scipio was getting the boat ready—"
"But I didn't think you meant to-day. You said it leaked and had to be repaired, and this morning—"
She glanced up at Louis entreatingly.
"This morning I told her we would go down to the creek and see the great flock of ducks Julius has been raising. Annis belongs as much to me as to you. She belongs to us all. And how do you know but that I'll marry her myself? I'm very fond of Annis. And I'm grown up. In a few years I may be a judge, or be sent abroad to smooth out some quarrel or make a treaty, while you will be in school studying your Cicero. Annis will be a big girl, old enough to marry. And you like me, don't you, Annis?"
He had his arm around the child. He had been very sweet to her of late, partly to tease Varina, and partly because she interested him curiously. She said such quaint things; she could seem to understand almost everything. And when he declaimed a fine Latin poem with vigor and loftiness, her eyes would follow him, her face would glow and change with emotion and appreciation. Then he had been teaching her some pretty songs.
"I like you both," she returned in a tender, entreating voice, as if begging each one to be content with the regard. Yet she made no motion to leave him, and both slim hands were clasped around the young man's arm.
"But you must like me the best," and now he put his arm about her, drawing her closer to his side. "It's this way. First your mother—always; then father, who is very fond of you, little Annis; then me, then Jaqueline, and you see Charles stands way down at the bottom of the line. Of course you can't love him quite so much; it wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."
Annis looked perplexed with the reasoning. She glanced at Charles, then hid her face in the elder brother's coat. He made a rush at her, but Louis caught him and held him off at arm's length.
"You're a mean—mean skunk, that's what you are!" The boy's face was scarlet with passion, and his voice choked. "She won't love you best, will you, Annis? For he likes all the girls, the big ladies, and I don't care for anyone but just you."
"Louis, do stop! You ought to be ashamed. Charles—"
But Louis let go of his little brother's arm, who ran a few steps with the impetus and then tumbled over. Louis caught the little girl in both arms,—she was slim and light,—and ran swiftly with her. Jaqueline picked up Charles, who was crying now in a passion of anger, exclaiming between the sobs:
"I just hate him, I do! He shan't take away Annis. She belongs to me."
"Charles, don't be so foolish. You can't have Annis every hour in the day, and if you go on this way she'll just hate you. Why, I am ashamed of you! And here is Mr. Carrington."
"I don't care. I made Scip mend the boat, 'n' he said Dixon would be awful mad and maybe have him flogged. Where's father? I'll go and tell him how it was, and Scip may tear the old boat to pieces, but he shan't be flogged. Louis thinks he's great shakes because he's older and bigger—"
"But he will be married before you and Annis are grown up, so don't worry. He loves to tease you. Now go and find father."
"He is taking love early and hard," said Mr. Carrington.
"It's such ridiculous nonsense! Mamma doesn't like it a bit, but father thinks it a good joke. It makes Charles appear silly. But he will go away to school and have new interests. And in a few years Annis won't want to be claimed in that masterful fashion."
They walked along silently. Mr. Mason sat out under a great tree, smoking his pipe and listening to Charles.
"Let them finish their confidence. I'll take the hammock, and you may read to me." She did not want to discuss love any more just now.
Annis was borne triumphantly to her pony. Louis placed her in the saddle.
"You do love me, little Annis, do you not?" and he kissed her tenderly. He had a very sweet way that you could not gainsay when it was turned upon you, and a child certainly could not resist. "Now we will have a nice gallop, and then a rest down by the creek where it is shady, ever so much nicer than the sunny pond and the old boat. You know I asked you first."
"I didn't think Charles meant this very afternoon," she said regretfully. "And I'm so sorry he—"
"Never mind about a boy's temper. Look at that fire bird—isn't he gorgeous? There's where the lightning struck that great pine tree the other night and split it in two."
"Oh, poor tree! Do you suppose it hurt very much! And the half stands up as if nothing could ever make it afraid. There are the branches all withering on the ground. Were you very much frightened? It kills people sometimes, doesn't it?"
"Very seldom. And a great many things kill them. Accidents and falls, and sickness, so the few struck by lightning are hardly to be taken into account."
"Oh, look at the great field of corn! It is like a sea."
The tassels had turned yellow, and the wind stirred them, making golden waves.
"What do you know about the sea?"
"Why, when we went down the Potomac. You were not home."
"I've been down there though, and out on the ocean."
"Would you be afraid to go to England?"
"Not of the ocean, but I might be of the privateers. And I should not want to be caught and impressed, and made to fight. But I mustn't fill my little lady-love with frightful subjects."
The child's cheek warmed with a dainty color. Could anyone be a lady-love to two persons? That was what Charles called her.
Squirrels were scurrying here and there. The goldenrod was nodding on tall stalks, and some asters starred the wayside. Afar was a broad stretch of tobacco fields in their peculiar deep-green luxuriance. Birds were calling to each other, insects were droning, the monotony broken by a shrill chirr as a grasshopper leaped up from the path or a locust predicted a hot to-morrow from his leafy covert. They crossed broad sunny patches that looked like a dried-up sea, they lingered under fragrant pines and great oaks and maples that shaded the road, and Annis laughed at her companion's comments and the merry stories he told. She had been used to standing somewhat in awe of him, but this summer he had quite overcome her shyness. Sometimes she did get a little tired of the knowledge Charles poured into her ears. Latin orations had not much charm for her, in their unknown tongue, and only the inflections of the boy's musical voice rendered them tolerable. She liked the deeds of heroes rather than what they said, and their loves rather than their fighting or their harangues.
At home Charles had thrown himself on the half-dried turf and given way to another burst of passion such as seldom moved him. That Louis should take Annis away from him, his chosen friend and companion, and that she should go without a protest! Was she really liking Louis, who was grown up and who could have his pick of the pretty young women always coming to the house. Why should he want Annis?
It was the boy's first experience with a rival, and as he had never dreamed of such an untoward event, he could not understand the pain. It was like a storm that had been threatening in the southeast while the west was still clear, and now had suddenly blown up and enveloped the whole sky. Though he was not much given to tears, or anger, for that matter, the tempest surged over him now, and as it was furious it was the shorter lived.
Presently a laugh stung him, and he raised his head, but he knew the sound of the voice.
"Do go away, Varina!" he exclaimed sharply.
"Can't I walk where I like? When you get a house and a plantation of your own, you may order me off. Or you may even set the dogs on me."
"Don't be so silly, so hateful." He was shocked at her last remark, and sprang up, brushing off the twigs and bits of dried grass.
"It is you who are silly, making a dunce of yourself over Annis. Of course she cares for you when there is no one else by. That's just the way with girls. Look at Jaqueline. When Mr. Tayloe or Mr. Bedford are here she's sweet to them, then comes the lieutenant and she sends the others to the right-about-face, then he goes and it's all Mr. Carrington. When he is gone she will take up with Mr. Bedford. I like him. He's so funny and sings such splendid songs."
Charles was standing up very straight. Indeed, he seemed to stretch out his slim figure, and the gravity of his face had scarcely a boyish line in it.
"Do you mean that Jaqueline doesn't care for any of them? Patty said she was as good as engaged to Mr. Carrington, and that we could have a nicer wedding than Dolly Floyd's."
Varina shrugged her shoulders. There was always an eerie flavor about the child's strictures. "She cares for them all when they are here. Oh, gracious! Suppose they should all come together!" and she laughed. "But she'd rather take them one by one, and have a good time. That's the way I mean to do. You have more good times."
"Annis isn't a bit like you!" the boy flung out hotly. He could not understand; it had not come time for analysis or fine gradations; he only suffered, without the power of reasoning.
"Annis is a girl; and girls are all alike. And there's Mr. Carrington alone. I wonder if Jacky's been cross to him. I shall go and walk with him."
She ran down the little side path. Mr. Carrington had started with the intention of finding Charles and comforting him, for it had been with him as Varina surmised, but the talk between them had arrested him. Was it true that a girl found pleasure in variety rather than constancy? He was amused at Varina's wisdom, and yet it had in it a savor of sad truth. Annis' little winsome face as Louis caught her came back to him.
"The Sabine women learned to love their husbands," he mused, when Varina called to him. He had to exercise some ingenuity to parry the child's curiosity, since he was by far too gentlemanly to take advantage of it.
Charles was a little sullen that evening, and took no notice of the timid little olive branch Annis held out. Presently, warm as the night was, he went off to his books.
"Louis, you tease him too much," said his father.
"It's high time someone took him in hand. He is getting to be a regular little prig! You ought to send him away to school."
"He doesn't seem quite the boy for that. We'll see as he gets older. But I won't have any quarreling about Annis. Annis belongs to me, don't you, little girl? And we'll marry off all the rest of them, and you and I and mother will live together the remainder of our lives," kissing her with tenderness.
When they all went away—and she loved them all—how lonesome it would be!
"You must decide and answer me, Jaqueline. You know I love you. The marriage would be pleasing to both sides of the family. My holiday is over, and I must rejoin my chief. I want the matter settled. If you are not convinced that you can love me, I shall take it as a sign that there is very little hope for me—none at all, in fact—and go my way."
There was something rather stern in the tone, and the pretty girl's humor protested. She liked the tender wooing, the graceful compliments, the sort of uncertainty when she could salve her conscience by saying she was not really engaged and feel compelled to hold herself aloof from certain attentions. For whatever coquetries a Virginia girl might indulge in, an engagement was sacred.
"I do wonder if you really love me?" She longed to temporize. There was always something happening, and now there was to be a week's party at Annapolis and a ball and several sailing excursions. Business would interfere with his going. If she could keep free until after that!
He looked at her steadily. "If you doubt it after my year of devotion, I hardly know how to convince you. Words will not do it. You must believe it."
"For it would be a sad thing for either of us to make a mistake," she returned plaintively.
"You asked for three months to consider. And yet you admitted that you cared for me even then. If your love has not increased any in that time it certainly argues ill for me. And now it must be a plain answer, yes or no. It is foolish to trifle this way. Which is it, Jaqueline?"
He took both her hands in his and impelled her to meet his eyes. Her face was scarlet, her eyes drooped, her expression was so beseeching that it almost conquered him as it had times before. But he was going away with Mr. Monroe, and it would be a month before he saw her again.
"Yes or no!"
"You are cruel." Her eyes filled with tears. She felt his hands tremble, strong as they were.
"Then it must be no, if you cannot say yes. Jaqueline, I am more than sorry. You are the first girl that ever roused in me the sweet desire to have her for my very own. I may never find another to whom I can give the same regard. But I want no unwilling bride."
He dropped the hands reluctantly. He half turned, as if that was final.
"Roger—"
She so often evaded his name. What an entrancing sound it had! And it softened him.
"You are so masterful," and her voice had a little break in it. "I am afraid I could not be a meek, silly wife with no mind of her own, but a mocking-bird echo of her husband's. When I feel quite sure I love you—"
"Is there any such blessed moment?" He took her in his arms. "I have sometimes felt in my inmost soul there was, and this certainly pays for hours of doubt. I do not care to have you meek; and silly women I abhor. I only want this one point settled. After that you will find me devoted to your slightest whims."
"Then I suppose I must—" with a fascinating reluctance.
"There is no compulsion. You either give me your sweet, fresh girl's soul to bloom in the garden of manhood's unalterable love, freely and rejoicingly, or I go my solitary way."
"Do not go. I could not spare you. Are you quite sure you will not prove a tyrant?"
For answer he kissed her, then held her in a gentle yet strong embrace.
"And you love me?"
"Oh, how hard you are to satisfy!"
"Still, you will say it?"
"I love you. Will that satisfy your lordship? Now if I were a princess you could not be so hard to satisfy. A nod would answer."
"You are my princess. Now let us go and find your father. I am afraid he has had a rather low opinion of my powers of persuasion."
They were under the great plane tree. Annis was taking a lesson in hemstitching at her mother's knee.
"We have come for your blessing," began the happy lover.
"Which I give gladly. I could not have chosen better for Jaqueline if I had gone half over the world, or at least a son-in-law more acceptable to myself. If I wish you as much happiness as I have had, your cup will be full."
Mrs. Mason rose and kissed the girl with fervent affection. "We all like him so," she whispered to Jaqueline. "Your father will be as happy as your lover."
"Come and give us joy, little Annis. I hope Charles won't protest at your having a new brother."
"But he likes you so," answered the child simply. "And you never tease him."
"Charles must learn not to be such a ninny," declared his father.
The supper was almost a betrothal feast. For a wonder, there were no guests. But before bedtime every slave on the plantation knew it, and great was the rejoicing. And the next morning numerous little gifts were brought for Jaqueline's acceptance. And now Roger hated to go away. How could he be content with this one brief sup of happiness?
"We must go up to the Pineries," Mr. Mason said. "Your grandmother would feel hurt if she were not informed at once. And—are you going next week?"
"Oh, of course. I even asked Mr. Carrington. Was not that dutiful?"
Her father laughed. "Jaqueline, you need a strong hand. You have had your way too much."
"I don't know why everyone thinks I ought to be ruled like a baby," she pouted.
"Jack, you are going to have one of the best husbands. Remember that."
It was not until afternoon that they started, and were to remain all night. As there was room for one more, Annis went with them. It hardly seemed like the same place, Jaqueline thought, and she decided she liked grandpapa much better than Uncle Brandon. He insisted upon the relationship having the right name, and was quite as great a stickler for attention as his father had been; but where Mr. Floyd's was really a fine old-fashioned dignity, Brandon's seemed more pretentious.
His wife was one of the ordinary women of that day, whose duty under all circumstances was to her husband. Master Archie put on many consequential airs.
"I am glad you are going to do so well," said grandmother. "The Carringtons are a good family, and their father left a nice property, which must be very valuable. I must look among my treasures and see what I can spare for you. Dolly had my rubies—they were her choice; and my pearls were for Marian. That was a sad and sore disappointment to us all. There seems very little hope of amendment in the case."
Jaqueline and Marian walked up and down in the fragrant twilight.
"You don't mean that you still consider yourself engaged?" queried the young girl in surprise.
"But nothing has been said, and I don't know what can be said now. You see, papa made his will quite a long while ago, and when there was the talk about Lieutenant Ralston he said if I encouraged him—if I married against his wishes—he would not leave me anything, and everybody should know it was because I had been a disobedient, ungrateful child. Think of having it read out before all the relatives! And you know he did not alter the will. He gave Jane less because he had given her part of her portion on her wedding day. Jane had it very easy, I think, considering that Mr. Jettson had no fortune to speak of except those Washington marshes. But Jane's had a nice time and plenty of friends. Only, you see, now I feel bound by the will. Papa trusted me. He had a feeling that Mr. Greaves might recover—he was so strong, and had always been well. But we never talked it over, for no one really was thinking of papa's death."
"Do you know, Marian, I consider you a very foolish girl—superstitious, as well? No one can expect you to marry Mr. Greaves," said Jaqueline emphatically.
"Of course not now. But if he should have his mind a little while and give me up, I should feel quite free, you know."
"And you mean to wait for that?" indignantly.
"I am not waiting. Papa has been dead such a little while that it would be indecent to traverse his wishes at once. And Mr. Greaves loved me, he really did; you need not look so incredulous! Not like—a younger man, perhaps," making a little halt. "He planned so many things for my pleasure. We were to go to England. He and papa agreed so well on politics."
"And you are an American girl! Please don't forget that grandmother's father was at the surrender of Cornwallis, and we are all proud of it! He is your ancestor, too. And the Masons were all on the side of liberty and a country for ourselves."
"I think women are not much concerned in politics," she replied evasively. "But it is pleasanter to have all your people of one belief. It does seem as if the Church should have something to do with the government. I don't understand it, but it appears Christian and proper."
"After all, it is the people who make the country, and the Church too. And it ought to be what the people want, the majority of them."
Jaqueline's tone carried a penetrating conviction, yet Marian steeled her heart against it. The people certainly were an aggregate of individuals; and if everyone insisted upon having his own way, anarchy must ensue. But she could not reason on the subject, even in Jaqueline's girlish fashion. Argument was reprehensible in women.
"Then you just mean to wait!" There was an accent of disappointment in Jaqueline's tone.
"There is nothing else to do. I certainly must respect papa's wishes."
"You've changed so, Marian."
"Remember, Jaqueline, I am years older than you," she replied with dignity. "And now I have to be mother's companion. She misses father very much. I'm glad to have you happy, and everyone is pleased with your engagement. It is a very excellent one."
"The excellence wouldn't go very far if it did not please me," returned the younger girl. "My happiness and pleasure are a personal affair, not simply the satisfaction of others."
"I hope you will be very happy," reiterated Marian. "Dolly is. Mother thinks her letters are quite frivolous; they are all about dinners and visits and parties. She doesn't go to the very gay ones, but she writes about them. Charleston must be quite as fashionable as Washington, to judge from the gowns and entertainments. But Dolly is not keeping house, though she has her rooms and her maid."
Then the two girls lapsed into silence as they walked up and down. Jaqueline was thinking that next week Lieutenant Ralston would be her cavalier, and she had ardently wished to reawaken hope in his breast, in the place of the disesteem in which he held Marian—indeed, nearly all women; though he occasionally said: "I can't imagine you or Mrs. Jettson doing such a thing!" That was really flattering. Of course she should tell him of her engagement, and they would still be friends.
Louis was to be of the party, and they started off in high spirits.
"Jaqueline ought to sober down a little," said her father. "And there is no need of a long engagement. The Carringtons will be anxious for the marriage—well," laughingly, "more anxious than we. But I think most men are pleased when their daughters marry well. And we have four."
"We need not think of the younger ones for several years," Mrs. Mason said with a smile.
"Varina ought to go to school somewhere, or to Aunt Catharine. Patty improved wonderfully. And Charles—"
"I think Charles is doing very well. Louis admits that he studies beyond his years. And he seems to me not over-robust. I would certainly wait another year."
Jaqueline begged her brother to say nothing about the engagement. It was so recent, and she would not be married in some time.
"You'll be flirting with everybody."
"Oh, don't grudge me a week's pleasure! After that I will be as staid as any grandmother."
"Carrington isn't the fellow to stand much nonsense when the rights are all on his side. I advise you to be careful."
"Why, I am going to be, even now. Of course Mr. Ralston is different from the others. We have been friends so long."
Ralston was safe enough, Louis thought. And one couldn't quite blame Jaqueline. She did not flirt openly like Betty Fairfax; and now Betty was devotion itself to her lover, and she was to be married in the early autumn. In fact, Louis had not felt satisfied to be so entirely crowded out when he had been one of Betty's favorites.
Girls were queer, he mused. Then he threw himself into the round of pleasures, which in those days were really made for enjoyment. No one thought of being bored. The world was fresh and young, and had not been traversed by theories and sciences and experiences of tired generations. Everyone felt he or she had a right to at least one draught of the nectar of youth.
Lieutenant Ralston had come with the hope that Jaqueline would bring him some message to light the future. Of course if Marian had been married that would have been the end of all things. He had too fine a sense of honor to covet another man's wife. But it seemed as if Providence had intervened. Mr. Floyd was dead and Mr. Greaves out of the lists by a stroke of fate. And since Marian was free, he was at liberty to give his fancy unlimited play once more.
Jaqueline was indignant that Marian had not gladly grasped her liberty, but still hugged the chain of another's selecting. Perhaps her feelings colored her words, although she strove to be fair and make allowance for the superstitious reverence in which the girl seemed to hold her father. Or was it really fear?
"I thought I had not hoped any, but circumstances coming out this way seemed an interposition in my behalf," admitted Mr. Ralston. "And I found it very easy to go back to that delightful experience. Even now that you have a lover, Miss Jaqueline, I think you hardly understand how a man loves and how willing he is to pick up the faintest shred of hope and dream that it may blossom anew, or rather that the bud, having been crushed by another's ruthlessness, has still in it strength enough to unfold in fragrance when nursed carefully by the man who thinks no other bloom could ever be so sweet. Perhaps I was a fool for this second dream. I tried to shut it out, but it stole in unawares. She hasn't been worth it all, nor any of it, I see that plainly now."
"Poor Marian!" The love moved the girl with infinite pity for the woman who had lost it and was trying to feed on husks.
"No, don't pity her; she isn't worth it," and his tone was bitterly resentful. "I could have overlooked the weakness that made her yield to her tyrannical father; but now when she could be free, when she knows there awaits her the sacred welcome of love, it is plain that she does not care. Perhaps she is still counting on a fortune coming to her as if by a miracle, for she has no great deal of her own."
"No, no; it is not that," protestingly.
"It looks mightily like it."
"Marian has a queer conscience. You don't know—" Did she really know Marian herself?
"Well, we will dismiss her now. Perhaps she has a high order of constancy that will keep her faithful to someone who is helpless and cannot appreciate it. She may be a too superior person for me. That is the end of it. I shall never mention her again. You have been very good to find so many excuses for her, and to keep alive my regard. But I cannot afford to lose your friendship. Carrington won't grudge me that, I know."
Jaqueline smiled. She was rather proud that he asked her friendship.
There were belles who were eager to gain his attention. Jaqueline resolved to keep the best of her friend to herself, and smiled a little at the curiously obedient manner in which he returned to her when she had sent him to dance with someone. She liked the pretty ordering about of her admirers, the sense of power at once fascinating and dangerous.
"I shall try to get off for a few days and pay you a visit," Ralston said. "Louis will be going back to college, and next year we shall have him in Washington. And you will be up often this winter? Mrs. Jettson seems deserted by both of her sisters. She is so fond of young people."
"Oh, yes; I shall be up a good deal."
"And the visit?" tentatively.
"We shall be delighted to see you. You will have an admiring audience from father down."
"Thank you. You can never know what a comfort you have been to me. And these few days have quite restored me to myself. Have I been a very foolish, love-stricken swain?"
"Oh, I do not think you have been foolish at all! I was afraid you would grow hard and cynical, and I don't like people who are classing everybody in the same category and looking on the worst side."
She was very young, but she had a charm that touched his heart. Did he half envy Roger Carrington? But, then, he would be madly jealous of anyone who lavished her smiles in that fashion. One or two choice friends might be admissible. He was safe, for he would never be so easily caught again by any woman. Friendship was all he desired, and in the years to come she would resemble Mrs. Jettson, no doubt, who was very proud of her husband, and fond of him too. He liked women who were proud of their husbands. For wifely devotion had not gone out of fashion.
There was a gay and busy autumn for Jaqueline. Betty Fairfax had a great wedding that befitted the old mansion where she had reigned a queen for more years than usually fell to the lot of a handsome Virginian girl. She had seen two younger sisters married and made much merriment over it, and now she was going to be the wife of the newly elected Governor of one of the more southern States. Consequently there was a grand time all through the county, and there were six bridesmaids to wait upon my lady, one of them being Jaqueline.
So there was a week to be spent with Betty, Miss Elizabeth Fairfax, as she was called now.
"And what a shame your cousin's affairs should have come to naught!" Betty declared. "To give up a fine young soldier, and then to have her second lover come to grief. It is a case of the two stools, and one coming to the floor. If I had not heard of your engagement, Jaqueline, I should have asked him to stand with you. If I had known him better I should have invited him, anyhow. There are several guests coming from Washington."
"If I had only known you cared!" cried Jaqueline.
"You see, I want to make as brave a show as possible," and Betty laughed. "I desire to let my liege-lord see that I have been accustomed to the best, and a good deal of it, so he won't consider me an ignoramus when he is inaugurated Governor later on."
"Then let us have Mr. Ralston!" Jaqueline's eyes were alight with eagerness and amusement. "I will write to Mr. Carrington, and you shall inclose an invitation. I'll send a few lines too, so that he can see it is really meant."
"That's quite delightful of you. Maybe he will find some balm to mend his broken heart among the pretty girls."
"He is not heartbroken now, although he took it very hard at first. Grandpapa was bitterly opposed to it, you know. And Marian is in mourning and goes nowhere, because grandmamma thinks she ought not to be left alone."
"But Mr. Greaves will never recover. Doctor Leets said so."
"Oh, no! No one expects it, I think."
"Well, I suppose the devotion to a lost cause looks very pretty and constant. Only she will not be a widow, more's the pity, for widows soon pick up husbands. Now about the invitation."
It was so prettily worded that Lieutenant Ralston accepted it at the first reading; and the two journeyed together to the grand festivity. Old people and young attended, in fashions of various kinds, from the Continental to more modern date. The Governor of Virginia honored Betty's nuptials, and several of the Washington grandees. The Gazette had a brilliant account of it, and it was the boast of the county for many a year afterward.
The next morning the newly wedded pair started in a coach drawn by six white horses, ornamented with wedding favors. And there was, as usual, much merry-making afterwards, as there was still one daughter to lead in the gayety.
"And when are you coming up to Georgetown?" Carrington asked of his sweetheart.
"Oh, there is another wedding on the carpet! And then a birthday ball at the Lees'. Then Patty is to have a birthday celebration. She thinks thus far all the festivities have been for me, and this time the invitations are to go out in her name."
"And then Christmas, I suppose," in a rather disappointed tone. "To get my share of you I shall have to marry you, Jaqueline. Come, think about that. When is it to be?"
"In a year. That will give me time to fulfill my engagements and get ready."
"A year!" in dismay.
"You ought not grudge me that when you think of the years and years we shall have to live together."
"Shall have to!" he re-echoed.
"That I believe is customary when one is married," she said with teasing archness. "Unless one happens to have the Emperor of the French for a brother."
"Wifehood is a woman's highest prerogative—"
"Not to be entered into hastily or unadvisedly," she interrupted with a mischievous smile.
She was a pretty, fascinating torment! His mother had said: "One wedding follows another among the bridesmaids. I hope you will come home with your day set."
"I am going to learn to cook and to keep house this winter," she began gravely. "And it takes a long time to make wedding clothes."
"Nonsense! There are cooks enough in the world. As for housekeeping, that is a woman's birthright. And at first you know we need not keep house. You will be in Washington with me, and then we can go over home—for I shall hardly let you out of my sight. Yes, let it be soon after Christmas."
"I can't be hurried in that fashion," she returned petulantly. "And I should get tired of you if you were such a jailer as never to let me out of your sight."
"You do not love me as I love you!"
"But you know I told you I was not quite sure I loved you enough. Love grows with some people, and with some it comes in a moment of time. Would you not rather have it grow year after year, and get richer and truer—"
Her voice fell to an exquisite softness, and touched him deeply.
"There can be only one truth to love," he said solemnly. Then he took her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her forehead in a reverent manner.
"I must go away and leave you here," he said presently. "I am always leaving you to some scene of gayety."
"But you take the two most tempting young men, the lieutenant and Dr. Collaston. Why, he will add quite a grace and interest to Washington. And the goodly company will be scattered, leaving behind the old people, who are always talking of their young days. I promised Betty I would stay a whole week with her sister. There—I think they are calling you."