"Oh, no," he laughed, putting back her hand. "There may be secrets in this epistle that belong alone to the great free-masonry of men."
"And your organization is shameful enough," she said, not without a show of ill-temper (for any allusion to an understanding in which she was not included always appeared to cut her). "But I must acknowledge its rare perfection as an organization," she went on. "Its devotees do not have to be sworn, unless nature swears them at birth."
By this time the single leaf of the letter was shaking under Old Master's gaze. "Read it," he said huskily, handing it to Bob. And he bowed his head over the table. The note was from Miss May. It told us that her husband was dead, and that she, with her little child, was about to start for home.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Everything was put in order, the house cleaned and the cabins newly whitewashed, to brighten the place for the daughter's return. But the day looked dull when she came with the little child crying in the nurse's arms. There were tears and embraces and tremulous words of love.
On the steps my Young Mistress turned to the nurse and said, "Give her to me, Titine." And at this moment I felt that an arrow from a bow in the sky had shot through me. Titine! I did not know that the world had presumed to hold a beauty and a charm so exquisite. Her complexion was as the richest cream, her hair showed the merest suggestion of a waver rather than a negro kink, her eyes were black-blue, and her lips—Was it Solomon who said "her lips are as a thread of scarlet"? I was a man now, grown to full strength and passion—from the moment I saw that French, Spanish, negro, Anglo-Saxon girl. Never before had I seen anyone to thrill me; surely not a negress, and certainly I had not presumed to acknowledge the charms of a white woman. I did not fall at once in love with Titine; I was too excited, too breathless as I gazed upon her. I reminded myself of an animal, beholding for the first time a female of his own species—and I verily believe that I felt a desire to throw my head up and scream like a panther.
"Dan," Old Miss cried, "why don't you bring in the things? What do you want to stand there for like a chicken with the gapes?"
In this comparison there was something so appropriate that I could not suppress a laugh, though I took care to hide it from Old Miss. Miss May turned to the girl and told her to help me bring in the bags, but Old Miss objected. "Let her rest, May," she said. "Dan hasn't been doing a thing. He's pretty much as you left him—scarcely worth his salt."