"I see you are already gossiping," she said, when they vere seated in the high ceilinged dining room, made cool and free from flies by a large wooden fan hung from the ceiling above the table and kept in continual motion by a little negro who stood in one corner of the room and dozed as he automatically pulled the cord. "I've always told Judge Houston that it is an erroneous idea that women do the gossiping," she continued in her gentle, drawling voice, "I assure you, Mr. Everett, everything I know, I find out from him," with a charming glance of accusation at her husband, "after his visits to the Mansion House."
"But my news is political, Maria," expostulated Judge Houston. "And that isn't gossiping."
"Indeed—so you call arguing whether Mistress Brandon will accept Mr. Jervais or not, a political discussion!"
"I never told you that, my dear," the old man smiled gently.
"No—of course you didn't, but some one else's husband told his wife and she told me." With which remark Mrs. Houston turned back to Everett. "You will be delighted with your new friends," pouring the coffee from an enormous silver urn. "To begin with, the place itself is beautiful. It was built by one of the Spanish governors and the romances connected with it are thrilling—but you will hear them all. Natalia will tell them to you."
"There she goes," laughed Judge Houston. "There won't be a thing left for you to find out for yourself, Mr. Everett. Maria, my dear, do leave something to the gentleman's imagination."
"Well, I only thought it wise for Mr. Everett to know something about them," she responded on the defensive. "Don't you think so, Mr. Everett?"
"Indeed I do, Mrs. Houston. It might help me to avoid any embarrassing subjects," he laughed happily, the hospitality and friendliness of this old fashioned couple making him feel more at home in the midst of their good natured banter.
"Embarrassing subjects! There you are quite right, Mr. Everett. For instance, Felix," with a conciliatory look toward her husband, "you know it would not do for him to ask much about the Spaniards, would it? You see, Mr. Everett, the mother of Natalia—that is the girl's name—was a Spaniard. Please don't think I'm gossiping now, but you'll understand I'm telling you this for your own benefit. The Spanish rule ended here about the time we came, so we don't pretend to know what the truth of the matter is. Suffice it to say, however, that Natalia's grandmother seems to have been criticized for her rather unconventional way of living. It was during her lifetime that the house was built, and from what I gather there was no lack of entertainment at all times. Her daughter, a beautiful, shy little creature, as delicate and sensitive as a flower, was fortunately sent to New Orleans to be educated and escaped the surroundings and influence of her mother. Brandon married her soon after her mother died, and as she had inherited this property here, they came back to Natchez to live. She was the most fascinating creature I ever knew, although that was not well—indeed, no one knew her well, and I often heard it said that she died insane shortly after Natalia's birth—some more coffee, Cynthie—but you can't believe everything you hear. I believe she just died as naturally as anyone else. Do have some more Sally Lunn—Cynthie, bring some hot rolls. Tell me, Mr. Everett, is it really true that you have pie for breakfast in New England?"
"I was just wondering what my mother would say to such extravagance as four kinds of hot bread at one meal. And as for pie," Everett laughed, "I'm afraid I'll have to admit I have eaten it for breakfast. Hot rolls are a Sunday attraction at home."