Andrew the Glad | Page 5

"But where's the girl? Why didn't you bring her right back
with you? She is ours, Matilda, that purple-eyed girl. When is she
coming? Call Tempie and tell her to have Jane get those two
south-wing rooms ready right away. I want Jeff to fill up the decanters
with the fifty-six claret, too, and to put--"
"But wait, Major, I couldn't get her to come home with me! We went
out into the sunshine and for a long drive into the country. We talked
and talked. It is the saddest thing in the world, but she is convinced that
her mother's people are not going to like her. She has been taught that
we are so prejudiced. I think she has found out about the carpetbagging.
She is so sensitive! She came because she couldn't help it; she wanted
just to see her mother's country. She's only been here two days. She
intends to steal away back now, over to Europe, I think. I tried to make
her see--"
"Matilda," said the major sternly, "go right back and tell that child to
pack her dimity and come straight here to me. Carpetbagging,
indeed!--Mary Caroline's girl with purple eyes! Did old Brown have
any purple eyes, I'd like to know?"
"I made her promise not to go until tomorrow. I think she would feel
differently if we could get her to stay a little while. I want her to stay.
She is so lonely. My little boy loved Mary Caroline and grieved for her
when she went away. I feel I must have this child to comfort for a time
at least."
"Of course she must stay. Did she promise she wouldn't slip away from
you?"

"Yes, but I'm uneasy. I think I will go down to her hotel right now. Do
you mind about being alone for lunch? Does Tempie get your coffee
right?"
"She does pretty well considering that she hasn't been tasting it for
thirty years. But you go get that child, Matilda. Bring her right back
with you. Don't stop to argue with her, I'll attend to all that later; just
bring her home!"
And as Mrs. Buchanan departed the major rose and stood at the
window until he saw her get into her carriage and be driven out of sight.
Looking down the vista of the long street, his eyes had a faraway tender
light, and as he turned and took up his pipe from the table his thoughts
slipped back into the province of memory. He settled himself in his
chair before his fire to muse a bit between the whiffs of his heart-leaf.
And Mary Caroline Darrah's girl had come home--home to her own, he
mused. There was mystery in it, the mystery that sometimes brands the
unborn. Brown had never let Mary Caroline come back and the few
letters she had written had told them little of the life she led. The
constraint had wrung his wife's yearning heart. Only a letter had come
when somehow the news had reached her of the death of Matilda's boy,
and it had been wild and sweet and athrob with her love of them. And
in its pages her own hopes for the spring were confessed in a passion of
desire to give and claim sympathy. Her baby had been born and she
was dead and buried before they had heard of it; twenty-three years ago!
And Matilda's grief for her own child had been always mingled with
love and longing for the motherless, unattainable young thing across
the distance. Brown had kept the girl to himself and had never brought
her back--because he dared not.
The major's powerful old hands writhed around the arms of his chair
and his eyes glowed into the embers like live sparks. It was years,
nearly thirty years ago--but, God, how the tragedy of it came back! The
hot blood beat into his veins and he could feel it and see it all. Would
the picture always burn in his brain? Nearly thirty years ago--
The logs crashed apart in the hearth and with a start the major rose to

his feet, a tear dashed aside under his shaggy old eyebrows. He would
go back to his Immortals--and forget. Perhaps Phoebe would come in
for lunch. That would make forgetting easier.
Where had the girl been for the last few days? He smiled as he found
himself in something of David's dismay at not having seen the busy
young woman for quite a time.
And it was perhaps an hour later that, as he sat in the breakfast room
partaking of his lunch in solitary comfort, lost to the world, his wish for
her brought its materialization. He had the morning's paper propped up
before him and an outspread book rested by