Mrs. Darrell had heretofore been the only will that had dared stand before it, but Mrs. Darrell, being a wise little woman, not always made direct assaults upon the strong citadel—oftener she made flank movements and laid sieges. This time, however, all tactics had thus far failed, and Mrs. Darrell withdrew all her forces, and waited, in “masterly inactivity,” reinforcements when Clarence returned.
What exasperated Darrell the most, and had ended by putting him in a bad humor, was a lurking self-reproach he could not silence, a consciousness that having promised Don Mariano to pay for his land whenever the title was considered settled, that it was fair to suppose he ought to pay now. But on the other hand, he had also promised the settlers to stand by them, and was determined to do so. Thus he stood in his own mind self-accused, unhappy and unrepentant, but resolutely upholding a lost cause. He avoided the society of his family with absurd persistency. After meals he would fill his pipe, and march himself off to the farther end of his grain fields; resting his elbows on the fence boards, and turning his back upon the house which contained his dissenting family, would puff his smoke in high dudgeon, like an overturned locomotive which had run off its track, and became hopelessly ditched. In that frame of mind, he thought himself ready to do battle against all his family, but he knew he dreaded Clarence's return.
However, that event had at last arrived, and there was Clarence now on the porch—just come from Arizona—kissing all the ladies of the family and hugging all the males, not omitting the old man, who was literally as well as figuratively taken off his feet by the strong arms of the dreaded Clarence.
“Clary is so much in love, father, that he comes courting you, too,” Everett said, laughing, as they all went into the parlor.
“I suppose so,” Darrell answered, not looking at any one's face, excepting that of the clock on the chimney mantel.
Mrs. Darrel's eyes, however, were not in the least evasive—they met those of Clarence, and he read in them a volume of what was troubling his father's mind. He longed to have a talk with that true-hearted and clear-headed, well-beloved mother, but he must wait—for now came Tisha to announce that luncheon was on the table. She was grinning with delight to see her favorite Massa Clary again, and Clarence jumped up and ran to throw his arms around her, making that faithful heart throb with unalloyed happiness, for she loved him from his babyhood, just if he had been her own child.
“I love them all, missis—all your dear children,” she would say to Mrs. Darrell; “and they are all good children; but Massa Clary I love the best of all. Next comes Miss Alice. But Massa Clary took my heart when he was six months old, and had the measles. He was the best, sweetest baby I ever saw, and so beautiful.” Thus Tisha would run on, if you let her follow the bent of her inclination, for Clarence was a theme she never tired of.
All sorts of questions now showered upon Clarence about New York, about Washington, about San Francisco, and about Arizona—all of which he answered most amiably.
“And are the Mechlins very grand? As rich as one might suppose? hearing the Holman and Alamar girls talk of the parties and excursions that Mr. Lawrence Mechlin gave in honor of Elvira?” Jane asked.
“The excursion to West Point was to celebrate Mercedes' birthday,” Alice observed.