When Margaret came Mammy Cely took her with great pride to the room. In view of her disapproval before there was every reason to expect approval now. And then the room itself commanded it.
On the walls morning-glories climbed over a neutral ground, clustering thick over a trellis at the top where an occasional butterfly and humming bird poised as if just ready to fly. The dark stained woodwork had given place to an ivory white. A pretty matting was on the floor and over this a cheery rug in such colors as a child might like, while the four great windows were hung with simple muslin curtains draped high to let in the autumn light.
Margaret stood just inside the room and surveyed it all—the little white bed, the diminutive dresser and chiffonier of bird's eye maple where last week had been the heavy mahogany—even a set of shelves which held Philip's rapidly accumulating treasures.
"And see, mama, my little wocking chair that Unker Wichard bwinged me," said Philip.
She turned away with mouth so stern that Mammy Cely asked anxiously, "Didn't they fix it right, Miss Margaret?" Somehow the room had not been the success she had hoped.
The human heart is full of strange contradictions. As she looked at all these things—just what she herself would have chosen for a child's room—there came to Margaret a fierce anger that he, her enemy, should have done it. He was trying to worm himself into the child's affections,—trying to buy his love. She had gone home the week before telling of that gloomy room and hugging to her soul this grievance. Robbed of it, she felt defrauded.
A sudden thought struck her. "Did you tell Mr. De Jarnette what I said?"
"No, ma'am," declared Mammy Cely, not doubting that what she said was Gospel truth. "I ain't tole him nothin' 'tall 'bout what you said. I jes' mentioned to him that the room was sorter mournful, an' that was enough. Miss Margaret, honey, it look to me lak Marse Richard's tryin' to do what's right by this chile—"
"Bring me his clothes," said Margaret, coldly. "I'll put them in the drawers myself." She did not mean to be unkind, but she was consumed with jealousy.
But before she had disposed of the things in the various drawers she felt ashamed of this unworthy feeling.