Lucy was Mrs. Montfort’s foster sister; both were born on the same day. Their relations had always been those of inseparable friends rather than of mistress and slave.
“No rain today, Lucy. I never used to mind the heat at home” (this with a sigh). “How fair it must be over the blue waters of the bay; I can almost smell the cedars outside the entrance gates.”
“Yas, Miss Grace” (to Lucy her mistress was always “Miss Grace”), “I do feel sort o’ squeamish myself sometimes when I tink of the gals all dancin’ Sundays in the square; but reckon we’ll git used ter these people here arter a‑while; leastwise, I hope so.”
Mrs. Montfort did not reply, and her maid noticed, as she glanced anxiously at her mistress, that a frown was on her face. Lucy sighed. “Miss Grace” had been noted once for her sunny, cheerful temper. Now all was changed.
Beyond the rolling lawn fields of cotton could be seen, the leaves twisting in the heat and the steady glare of the sun. Zigzag fences separated the cotton from fields of corn; away in the distance dim aisles of pine trees stretched their dark arms towards the heavens, their dark foliage suggestive of cool shadows and quiet glades. The road wound in and out among the pines, through a woodland, and terminated in the highway just visible from the piazza. Inside the long, open windows little Jesse played at building houses with the bags of golden eagles that his father kept in a drawer of his escritoire.
“Grace, Grace, Lucy,” called the child, “my houses won’t stay up; come in and help me.”
Just then a group appeared coming around a corner of an outbuilding. Two men walked beside a pony, astride whose back sat Master Charles. As they approached the house the gentlemen swept off their wide-brimmed hats in a gallant salute to Mrs. Montfort, which she returned by rising from her recumbent position and dropping a low courtesy. The gentlemen were Mr. Montfort and Mr. Pollock. Jesse, hearing the pony’s feet, came out the window and ran down the piazza steps to his father, who, as Charles sprang to the ground, lifted the excited child to the pony’s back. Mrs. Montfort watched the approach of the little procession with a pleased smile. She made a fair picture in her elaborately embroidered white morning robe, her beautiful hair arranged in drooping curls at the sides of her head, as was the fashion of the time.
“See me, Mama Grace,” cried Jesse, as he clapped his little hands, and dug the heels of his tiny-slippered feet into the pony’s side, in imitation of his father on horseback. As Montfort watched him, the picture of his last Sunday in Bermuda arose before him: the little Negro child astride his mother’s back, spurring her like a rider his horse; and in his ears rang the pleasant voice of his silver-haired pastor. At the piazza steps he called a servant to take away the pony, and turned to enter the house, followed by Mr. Pollock, with Jesse in his arms and Charles by his side. Jesse kept up an incessant chatter. They passed through the breakfast-room, where Montfort placed the child upon the floor.
“Charles, help me build my houses!” he cried, attracted to his late employment at sight of the golden eagles. “See, papa, all my houses tumble down. Charles’ houses don’t fall down, but mine always do. Come and help me, Charles.”
“You are not patient enough, my son,” replied the father, smiling down upon his petulance. “You must be patient and persevere, and after awhile you will be able to make your houses stand. Isn’t that right, Mr. Pollock?”
Pollock stood a little apart, gazing in amazement at the scene before him. Golden eagles given to a child to play with was a little beyond him. He made no direct reply to Mr. Montfort’s remark, and if the latter had been an observant man, he might have been a bit puzzled at the expression on his face. But Charles Montfort was ingenuousness itself, seeing in no man an enemy. Anson Pollock was his opposite; his ruling passion was covetousness. His eyes were fairly dazzled by the sight of the gold so carelessly strewing the floor. It positively took away his breath.
“Come, Pollock, we will talk over those matters in my study,” said Montfort presently. “My son,” he added, as he paused at the doorway, “be careful not to lose your ducats. They are your portion to pay your college bills when you cross the ocean to finish your education.”
“Going to send him abroad to study?” carelessly inquired Pollock.
“Oh, yes; America’s all right for me, but bonny England for my boys.”
Anson Pollock, whom Charles Montfort had chosen for his friend, was a man of dashing appearance. He carried his years jauntily, and had a good opinion of himself where women were concerned. He was made much of by the ladies in the vicinity because of his wealth. It mattered not that his wife had died mysteriously. Rumor said his ill treatment and infidelity had driven her to suicide; it had even been whispered that he had not hesitated to whip her by proxy through his overseer, Bill Sampson, in the same way he did his slaves; but rumor is a lying jade. Nevertheless, his fair speech, auburn curls and deep-blue eyes, so falsely smiling, won his way, and Mr. Pollock was the popular ladies’ man of two counties.
He had showered Mrs. Montfort with assiduous attention since her arrival three years before, but he soon found that he made no headway. Once he dared to tell her of his passion—that from the first moment he saw her aboard the Island Queen he had been maddened by her beauty.
“Why do you tell me this?” she cried, in angry amazement at his daring. “Am I so careless of my husband’s honor that his friends
