"I haven't a doubt of those tears," answered the major in a suspiciously
gruff voice. "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.