It was a great day to both of them, and often, as the boat drew nearer, the old gentleman would smile sweetly toward his wife, who was waiting by his side. Seven years had passed over them lightly, the touches of age showing more like caresses than cares; leaving snow-white hair instead of flecked grey; touching their features with many fine lines, so full of character and accomplishment, that, as they came, one wondered over all they meant. Only, perhaps, in the stoop of the shoulders, in the sometimes trembling hand, and the heavy stick upon which he always rested, did the old gentleman's friends see the encroachments of age. It was only in that, however, for his eyes were as clear and blue as they had always been, shedding about him even more sympathy and benignity. His wife, the one who had stood beside him from the first days of their pioneer voyage, had grown along with him into the realm of approaching shadows, not lagging behind nor rushing before, but beside him hand in hand as they had always been.
A little distance from the wharf, seated in a high-swung chariot of modish trappings, sat Lemuel Jervais and his wife.
Mrs. Jervais watched the approaching boat with mingled pride and apprehension. Her thoughts were travelling backward over the years that had passed since she had sent the little girl so far away. They had never loved each other; Mrs. Jervais seeing in Natalia too many of the characteristics of her husband's first wife, to be drawn to the child, and Natalia realizing this and shrinking from it. "But she had done her duty," Mrs. Jervais sighed contentedly as she viewed the approaching boat. "She had seen that the plantations brought Natalia an income that left no wish unsatisfied. But now," she mused, "Natalia was no longer a child, she was coming back a woman, and a woman who seemed to have suddenly become imbued with the memories of her childhood and a desire to visit her old home again."
For several years Natalia's letters had dwindled, until recently they had become merely notes of thanks in reference to the management of the estate and a few lines about her plans. Then, quite without warning, a letter had come to Mrs. Jervais from her, in which she had told of her approaching marriage, and of her wish to return to her home for that occasion. "Probably you will think it strange," the letter read, "when I tell you I want to be married in my old home. It does seem a long journey to make for such a short visit, especially as Morgan and I shall make Boston our home; but in thinking about the dear, old place that has come down to me from my Spanish ancestors, the idea has taken possession of me that I would like my marriage to be solemnized amid those surroundings. Uncle Felix would call it quixotic in me, I know, and at the same time, understand; I feel sure that you appreciate my sentiment in regard to the old place, too, and that will explain better than words what I am going to ask of you.
"I want you to help me in arranging the wedding. You wrote that the house had been closed ever since your marriage to Mr. Jervais, so do not go to much trouble in fixing it up. Left to my own wishes, the wedding would be simple, but Morgan insists that it be elaborate, as it will be my only wedding—he hopes. Perhaps it is only right that I should ask all our old friends, indeed, I want them about me at that time. It is a time in a girl's life when such things count most, and I feel that it will start me out on my new life happier for carrying away as many dear memories as possible; so ask every one we used to know.
"Of course I need not mention that I want you and Mr. Jervais to be the hosts for me, and stay at the old home until the wedding—after that I shall not keep you, for it is my idea to spend our honeymoon there, Morgan and I alone in the sweet old place. I am writing Aunt Maria also, and I know she will be glad to help you all she can. Be sure to insist upon her making the wedding cake—one of those wonderful, tall affairs which I remember so well. In reading over what I have written, I can not help wondering if I have asked too much of you; but then, you must remember, there is no one else except the boys, and they are much too interested in college even to go down there with me. I could go on indefinitely with plans—but I shall wait until we meet, to tell you everything."
The letter had caused no end of consternation in the town. Mrs. Jervais had driven, the day it came, to Mrs. Houston, finding the old lady holding a similar letter in her lap and weeping copiously over the news it contained. Together they had driven out to the old house and opened it once more to the golden warmth of the June sun. A corps of slaves was brought from the cotton fields, back to their former quarters, and in so short a time it seemed like magic, the old home of the Spaniards shone resplendent again. The garden was put in trim shape and the broad drive to the gate was cleared of the weeds that had so long grown in neglected luxuriance.
Invitations were sent out broadcast, and for many days garrets were being ransacked, and old brocades and laces that had lain idle for a generation or more were again brought to life to do duty for such a grand occasion. It was an exceptional time for the gossips and when the report spread over the town that all the refreshments were coming from a distance, and that it was actually a fact that the fiddlers were to be brought up from New Orleans, the whole place thrilled with expectancy.
At last the day of the arrival came. As the boat eased itself against the wharf and the great ropes were thrown ashore and made fast, Judge Houston stepped forward and shaded his eyes with his hand. At last his face lighted up with a smile as he saw the face of the little girl peering out of the crowd of passengers. She was just as he had remembered her—yet strangely different, too. There were the same beautiful grey eyes, grown darker with the years, still full of a sympathy that had deepened through the wide outlook of travel and experience; there was still the delicate oval of the face; the rich, creamy complexion, as smooth and flawless as in childhood; the hair, if possible, blacker, and worn parted and brought back over the ears and coiled low on the neck. The sprite-like look of the child still clung to her, for even in the voluminous folds of her fashionable frock, her figure showed fragile and lithe and gracefully poised; and as she walked down the stage plank, her face bent forward intently searching for a familiar face, the old man knew that the little girl had come back dearer to them than ever before.
Natalia rushed into his arms, when she had seen him, her eyes searching his face and lingering on every feature as the memories crowded about her thick and overflowing. Neither of them had said a word.