The vulgar eye, which would have touched Adelaide with indifference, would have brightened avidly, however, at the sight of her two older sisters. For Lavinia, the eldest, was a tall luscious beauty, black and brilliant and restless of eye, with a thick mass of black and lustrous curls falling heavily down her firm and pretty back. She had a round face like her mother’s, but her colouring was clear and dark like her father’s, and her pouting mouth, full and small, had a vivid and burning tint. She had John’s firm short nose, belligerent and well-shaped, and his firm dimpled chin. Restless and in constant movement, she revealed an immense vitality and impatience. Her young figure was somewhat full for her years, but beautifully formed, and gave promise of splendid womanhood. Her expression, however, petulant and willful, unresting and quick, did not predispose the more discerning in her favour, however fascinating he might have found her true loveliness.
To those who admired blondes, Louisa was irresistible. Dainty, almost as small as Adelaide, exquisitely formed and as fragile as Dresden, Louisa delighted all who looked upon her. Her masses of soft golden curls lay on her pretty shoulders and about her neck, and curled over her brow and cheeks most bewitchingly. She had large soft blue eyes, demure and sweet, with golden lashes and brows. Her face was oval, and most entrancingly tinted in the softest shades, the tender mouth just faintly flushed with rose, the smooth cheeks pulsating with a lighter hue. Her neck was as white as her mother’s, her little hands seemingly formed of porcelain with tiny rosy nails. She walked so gracefully that she seemed to float, and was a model of decorum. Her expression was so beguiling, so innocent, so charming and fair, that few guessed how selfish and cunning she was, how avaricious and full of treachery. Where her sister, Lavinia, while ruthless and bold, might at times display a rare kindness and generosity, Louisa was all greed, all cruelty and slyness. She rarely spoke a word that was not gentle or sweet, tactful or lovable.
“My darlings!” cried Lilybelle, holding out her large warm arms to them. They came to her, Lavinia with impatient speed, Louisa with a ladylike and mincing step, very proper and demure, and Adelaide more slowly, but with a bright urgency in her steadfast brown eyes. Lilybelle kissed them all heartily, but it was Adelaide’s little thin hand that she took and pressed, and it was Adelaide who received her long and loving look.
The girls curtseyed properly to their mother’s guests, and then Lavinia went to Miss Beardsley, whose favourite she was, Louisa seated herself daintily, as was becoming, at her mother’s side, and Adelaide approached Mr. Wilkins, who had extended his hand to her. She shook hands with him gravely, looking at him with thoughtful eyes from under her long dark lashes.
And Mr. Wilkins returned her look, and he felt within himself that strange lurching in the region of his heart.
“And how is the little lass today?” he asked, his chuckling voice lowered to a fond intimacy for the child’s own ear.
The brown eyes lighted with a smile, though her face remained serious. Those eyes were wise and pensive, full of restraint and shyness, and contained.
“Well, thank you, Uncle Bob,” she answered.
“‘And you, Uncle Bob?’” prompted Lilybelle, dotingly, with an eye to Miss Beardsley, who was listening with her pouncing expression of severity.
But Adelaide only smiled again with her eyes. Mr. Wilkins put his arm about her and drew her to his knee.
“The child,” remarked Miss Beardsley, “has bad manners, Lilybelle. I hope the new governess will improve them.”
She lifted her bony hand and touched Lavinia’s curls with awkward affection. Try as she could, she could not conceal her deep attachment to the beautiful dark young girl. Lavinia’s insolent face, so petulant and selfish in repose, smiled, and when it did so it was as charming as Louisa’s. With the license of a favourite, she sat down on the grass beside Miss Beardsley and rubbed her cheek against that lady’s arm, looking up at her with her great black eyes. No one, not even Lilybelle, had ever dared show Miss Beardsley that familiarity, but Miss Beardsley, far from being offended, smiled down upon the girl.
“I hope, my dear,” she said, “that our French has much improved?”
“Not much,” admitted Lavinia, saucily, with another smile, and a toss of her mass of black curls. “But then, these governesses are so stupid. I wish I could go away to school.”
Because’ she was so volatile, her smile disappeared, and she frowned sulkily, glancing at her mother with a look of dislike and accusation.
“Why isn’t the child allowed to go to school, Lilybelle?” asked Miss Beardsley, in an ominous voice.
Lilybelle flushed. She glanced at Lavinia pleadingly. “Linny knows,” she stammered. “Her Papa wants her home. I am quite willing.”
Miss Beardsley pursed her lips and tossed her head stiffly, giving Lilybelle the impression that her old friend was not convinced, and that she, Lilybelle, had been caught in a stupid lie. “It is absurd that great girls like these are under a governess,” she remarked. “It is not my affair, of course, but Lavinia is my godchild, and I feel some responsibility towards her.” She turned to Louisa, sitting beside her mother so correctly and decorously. “And you, Louisa, wouldn’t you prefer to go away to school?”
Louisa hesitated. Then with the sweetest of smiles, she replied: “I prefer anything my parents wish, Aunt Amanda. What I wish is of no consequence.”
Miss Beardsley tried to remain severe, but in spite of herself she softened. “A very proper sentiment, my dear Louisa,” she said. “Young people these days are deplorably lacking in respect for their parents, and it pleases me to hear one girl, at least, who has this respect. Nevertheless, I think you and Lavinia should go away to school, where there are adequate teachers.”
“Mr. T. is bringing a tutor here in September,” pleaded Lilybelle, humbly, feeling herself in the wrong.
Miss Beardsley lifted her mitted hands in horror, opened her mouth to a dry O, and looked about her aghast. “Surely, my dear Lilybelle, you are not serious?” she exclaimed. “Mr. Wilkins, sir, have you heard this? Can I believe my ears? A tutor, a male creature, for these girls? How reprehensible, how indiscreet, how entirely improper!”
Lilybelle turned crimson in her misery. But Mr. Wilkins smiled most affably. “Well, now, I can’t see that it’d be improper, ma’am,” he said, soothingly. “I call it to mind that in the old country the lasses of the gentry had their tutors. And very well behaved they were, too.”
Lilybelle gave him a grateful look. She was almost in tears. As for Adelaide, she pressed closer against her friend, and over her shoulder looked at her mother with strong and reassuring love.
“I’d like a tutor, Mama,” she said. “I wouldn’t like to go away to school.” Her voice was light and fluting, but full of deep undertones.
“Mind your manners, miss,” said Miss Beardsley, sternly. “I think you, more than your sisters, would do well away at school, where there is discipline, and children are taught not to interfere in the conversation of their elders.”
Adelaide did not reply to this. She was not intimidated. She looked steadfastly at Miss Beardsley with her grave brown eyes, and that lady felt a surge of such active dislike for the girl that she could hardly restrain an impulse to reach out and slap that pale and pointed little face. Lavinia giggled maliciously.
“Oh, Addy’s a prig, and a sly piece,” she said. “They’d whip her soundly at school. I wish she’d go! She is so tiresome, anyway.”
“Lavinia!” said Louisa, in a soft shocked tone. “How naughty of you to say that about dear little Adelaide. Your own little sister.”
Lilybelle murmured in distress, but no one bothered to listen to her. “Oh, don’t be a hypocrite, Louisa!” cried Lavinia, pettishly. “You know Addy’s an odious little toad, and you’d be glad to be rid of her. But you never say what you think.”
Miss Beardsley wound one of Lavinia’s opulent black curls about her fingers, and said with a weak attempt at severity: “There are some people, miss, who’d do
well to conceal their thoughts occasionally. You are very rude, Lavinia, and I am ashamed of you.”
Lavinia flung back her head and laughed boisterously. Then she sprang to her feet, flung her arms about Miss Beardsley, and hugged that protesting lady with such vigour that she was almost strangled. “Oh, you are such a darling, Aunt Amanda!” cried the girl, “and such a prim old thing! I love you!”
Lilybelle, seeing that Miss Beardsley was quite placated, and that a deep flush had softened her gaunt countenance, and that she struggled with Lavinia fondly in an effort to straighten her bonnet, became quite cheerful, and said, in a loud voice: “Isn’t this war terrible, Mr. Wilkins? I don’t know what’s to become of all of us, really I don’t.”
Mr. Wilkins assumed an expression properly serious and shook his head. “Ma’am,” he said, in sepulchral tones, “the good Lord alone knows wot’s to be the end. The Southerners, ma’am, are set on keepin’ their miserable slaves, and we’re set on ’em not keepin’ ’em. Right will out, though. Justice allus triumphs.”
“Not always,” said Miss Beardsley, fatally. “I beg to disagree with you, Mr. Wilkins. I’ve seen wickedness triumph more often than good. It’s the way of the world.”
This remark so distressed poor Lilybelle, that she sank into confused gloom, and was speechless. Miss Beardsley shook her head over and over, grimly, and looked about her as if to defy any one to dispute her sentiments.
Louisa, in her soft ingratiating voice, spoke and glanced about for forgiveness in advance: “I know it seems impudent of me to say it, but I’m sure that we shall win. All those poor black people. Their condition is so horrible. We can’t live half slave and half free.”
“Pooh,” broke in Lavinia, contemptuously. “Your noble remarks make me sick, Louisa. You’re always quoting somebody. You never have an original thought. Just now you quote Mr. Lincoln all the time. Why don’t you use your canary brain once in a while, yourself?”
“It would be better for you, miss, if you had a few noble sentiments of your own,” reproved Miss Beardsley. “If your dear little sister has Christian charity, you might emulate her.”
“Louisa hasn’t any more Christianity in her than a pig,” sneered Lavinia. “She’s hard as nails, and all those yellow curls and blue eyes just hide what she really is. Isn’t that so, Louisa?”
Louisa did not appear offended. She smiled gently, and looked upon her sister with smiling eyes.
Now Miss Beardsley, who was no fool, understood quite well that the two older girls were as good friends as it was possible for them to be, that though they might reprove each other in public, and indulge in recriminations and sneers, they understood each other, and, in moments of crisis, would present a crusty front to the world. Therefore, she was actively jealous. She wanted Lavinia to care for no one but herself, and would constantly endeavour to stir up dissension between the two girls.
Mr. Wilkins, that astute analyser of character, knew that Lavinia had a small sharp brain, abnormally active and clever, that Louisa had a far subtler mind, and was therefore more dangerous than her elder sister, and that Adelaide, of the three, had the only real intellect. He knew what enemies Lavinia and Louisa were to Adelaide, and he had long ago set himself up as her defender. He loved the child, as he had never loved another living creature. For she was one of those rare souls which he instinctively revered: noble, truthful, simple and honest, and of the highest integrity. He had dedicated himself to her service.
Now he lifted her little brown hand, examined it minutely, then smiling at her fondly, he kissed the back of that hand. She regarded him seriously. He had not the slightest doubt that she understood all about him, that she was not deceived by any of his tricks. Yet, in spite of all that, she loved him in return.
He liked to sit here under the willows, drinking tea and eating thin bread and butter and jam, and tiny frosted cakes. He liked to look about the opulent gardens. He thought the sight of the three young girls on the grass, so blooming and fresh, the prettiest scene in the world. He thought their full-blown buxom mother the handsomest lady he had ever known, and because she had much of Adelaide’s character, he forgave her her stupidity and obtuseness. Moreover, she was one of those helpless ones whom he was always defending.
As he looked at her without seeming to do so, he wondered if she knew about John and his cousin, Mrs. Eugenia Bollister. He believed she did. Females had an uncanny knack of knowing, when their husbands were unfaithful. Yes, he was sure that she knew. Now that every one was engaged in conversation with each other, and she thought herself unobserved, the big pink mouth drooped forlornly, the round blue eyes were sad, and her whole expression was mournful and patiently enduring. But, if she was sorrowful, Mr. Wilkins was sure that she never reproached her husband, that she suffered his infidelities, indifferences and slights as her lot, believing that her own inferiority provoked these things.
The long yellow shadows of the sun crept over the hot green grass. The willows extended their drooping shade so that the party relaxed in deep violet shadow. Between the fronds of the trees the sky burned ardently blue, and the flowers took on a more violent confusion and oriental lushness. Somewhere there was the long whirr of a mower. The red brick wall surrounding the gardens blazed with climbing and flowering vines. Mr. Wilkins looked at the house, tall and pleasant, the windows blazing with sunlight, the curtains blowing in the warm breeze. Yes, John Turnbull had done himself well, reflected Mr. Wilkins, aided, of course, by the inheritance from his father. But most of all was due to Mr. Wilkins, so that gentleman felt much personal satisfaction. However, as he contemplated the peace and beauty of the house and the garden, his opaque eyes narrowed evilly.
Adelaide was seated on his knee, munching bread-and-butter-and-jam sandwiches. She rarely spoke. But her slow serious smile appeared whenever Mr. Wilkins glanced at her.
Miss Beardsley had launched into a vigorous diatribe upon the subject of women’s rights, about which she was very militant. Mr. Wilkins had long observed that females who were ardent upon the subject (their faces quite swelling with their bile and indignation) were generally women upon whom no man had looked with favour. This, then, was their revenge upon the indifference of males.
“If we women could vote, we should most assuredly bring the millennium!” she exclaimed to the bewildered Lilybelle, who, not understanding much about the subject, was quite abject. In fact, as Miss Beardsley’s ireful eye, accusing and fiery, touched her, she would shrink as if personally responsible for the dreadful condition of womanhood in 1863. “Gentlemen are venal!” continued Miss Beardsley. “They are prone to temptation and all manner of odious chicanery. Politics are a stenoh in the nostrils of the righteous and the God-fearing. Drink, theft, dishonesty and treachery are rife, because men have all their own way, without the stern and gentle restraint which females could exercise upon them. One has only to observe the saloons, the unspeakable districts where females of questionable character congregate, the corruption in politics, to see how utterly incompetent gentlemen are to conduct the affairs of the nation. Moreover, once women obtain their rights and their vote, war will forever pass away, and disputes will be settled amicably about international tables of Law. Too, we shall see more churches, more cleanliness, more decorum and integrity in public affairs when women vote.”
Lilybelle, terrified at this barrage, nodded her head in dumb agreement, though she had not the slightest inkling about Miss Beardsley’s vigorous remarks. The girls listened with deep attention. When Miss Beardsley had concluded, out of sheer breathlessness and fury, Lavinia said: “Why shouldn’t we vote? You are quite right, Aunt Amanda. I’d like to show these gentlemen a thing or two!”
Louisa smiled gently, and inclined her head with modesty. “I prefer to leave such matters of politics in gentlemen’s hands. I don’t think it is genteel for females to interfere.”
“You are a little fool!” exclaimed Miss Beardsley, irately. “What does a child of your years understand about such things?”
Mr. Wilkins became aware that Adelaide was quite tense. She was only a little lass, not quite nine years old, but her brown eyes were alight and eager. He smoothed a length of her long brown hair.
“And wot does the little gel think of this, eh?” he asked, fondly.
She turned to him and gazed at him earnestly. “I don’t think ladies are any different from gentlemen,” she said, in her light but penetrating voice. “I don’t think ladies could make things better, just because they are ladies. I—I don’t think if just a lot more people vote than they do now, that things could be made better. It’s not the amount of people who vote, but the kind of people they are. And, I don’t think ladies are nicer than gentlemen, or kinder, or gooder.”
Miss Beardsley was outraged. She turned to Lilybelle with a momentous and baleful air. “Lilybelle, I am horrified. Why do you permit your children to interfere so insolently in adult conversations, especially when they are not very intelligent? Adelaide not only uses most abominable English, but she is a very stupid child indeed. You will oblige me if you will send her back to the nursery at once where she belongs.”
Adelaide was not in the least crushed. She gazed at Miss Beardsley fixedly, and her wide pale mouth tightened. The other girls giggled and looked at their sister with smiling malice.
Lilybelle was quite broken. She looked from her old friend to her beloved youngest daughter. She faltered: “Addy, I am afraid you are very naughty. Please apologize to Miss Beardsley.”
“What for?” asked Adelaide, clearly. “I’ll be glad to apologize, Mama, if I know how I’ve offended Miss Beardsley.”
“‘Aunt Amanda,’ dear,” murmured the agonized Lilybelle.
Miss Beardsley tossed her head. “Do not bother, Lilybelle. I do not care if your daughter calls me ‘Aunt Amanda,’ or not. In truth, I prefer that she does not. I cannot be aunt, even by proxy, to such an odious little creature.”
“Nah, nah,” said Mr. Wilkins, soothingly, tightening his arm about his favourite. “I asked the little lass. It’s my fault. The lass is entitled to her own opinion, that she is. That’s Ameriky: full of own opinions, and thank God for it.”