.V.
 
 MISTRESS JOY
 
 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 A TALE OF NATCHEZ 
 IN 
 
 BY 
 
 GRACE(MAcGOWAN)COOKE 
 
 AND 
 
 ANNIE BOOTH McKINNEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 1901
 
 PS 
 
 S 
 M 5" 
 
 Copyright, 1901, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 THE DEVINNE PRESS.
 
 TO THAT CHURCH IN AMERICA WHOSE FOUNDATION STONES 
 
 WERE LAID IN THE SOUTHERN WILDERNESSES OF 
 
 OUR COUNTRY BY MANY SUCH LITTLE BANDS 
 
 AS THAT OF MISTRESS JOY S 
 
 FATHER TOBIAS
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 MADEMOISELLE JOYCE VALENTINE .... Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 GOING TO CHURCH 42 
 
 "A LITTLE TO THE LEFT, PRAY, MISTRESS JOY" . . 130 
 "MISTRESS JOY LEADING HER TRAIN OF BEAUTIES" . 258 
 
 " SISTER LONGANECKER GALLOPING BUOYANTLY UP, A 
 GOOSE UNDER EACH ARM " 338 
 
 "DOWN THE DIM AISLE OF THE WOOD BEYOND CAME 
 DAVID S TALL FIGURE " 366
 
 THE WILDERNESS
 
 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 "With Fate for oarsman, our lives do cross 
 some devious waves of Time in company." 
 
 TGHT was falling. To those in a 
 canoe which slipped stealthily with the 
 river toward the open, the hour and 
 the scene held something sinister. 
 But the three felt and expressed it 
 differently. 
 
 "Dorothea has fallen from grace 
 again, father." 
 
 The lips which uttered this solemn accusation were 
 those of a little maid, a girl of seven. Her gray eyes 
 were stockaded with a battlement of wondrous lashes, 
 which threw a dusk, unchildish shadow on the childish 
 face. She looked from the rag doll in her lap, whose 
 derelictions she thus gravely announced, off to the wes 
 tering sun, where it lay, a great hot eye, close to the 
 earth. It glared upon them, red and menacing, and 
 painted the way with unnamed, formless terrors. 
 
 The horizon was a black line drawn across low 
 marshes, past which the mighty Mississippi wallowed 
 in sinuous sluggishness, like some huge reptile uncoil 
 ing lazily. 
 
 The man at the prow, slender to thinness, a little 
 stooped, his dark flannel shirt open at the neck, and a
 
 4 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 big-brimmed hat shading the sharp-featured face of an 
 ascetic, stared straight ahead. He appeared to be fifty, 
 and was forty. The hands, resting on either side of 
 the frail boat which moved, a helpless speck upon the 
 broad bosom of the Father of Waters, were horny 
 the hands of one inured to toil ; his eyes, gray like 
 the child s, were speculative, mystical the eyes of a 
 dreamer, an idealist. Hers held the germ of a restless 
 passion, the inquisitorial look of the worker, one who 
 would be an arbiter of destiny. 
 
 Behind, immovable, inscrutable, crouched the In 
 dian, his face down-bent, his form, despite the atti 
 tude of repose, lithe with the power of a reserve force 
 ready to leap forth at demand. Without change of 
 posture or glance, he gave, in response to the child s 
 words, a guttural "Ugh!" 
 
 But the father turned gentle, kindly eyes upon her 
 and the rag degenerate at her side, and, with a consol 
 atory pat upon the shoulder nearest him, said dreamily : 
 "Yes, little Joy, t will all be right. T will come right, 
 little daughter." 
 
 A look of impatience, almost anger, flashed momen 
 tarily in the black-lashed eyes. "How can it be right 
 thout she repents, Father Tobias? An she is very 
 stubborn." But the man had again turned to the dark 
 ening stream and the level waste which stretched, un 
 known, illimitable, to the south. 
 
 The water, sullen, slothful, seemed scarce to move. 
 It was as if all the glue that could be found in all 
 the world had been unbottled and emptied into its 
 channel, so dark, so slow, so difficult was the river 
 which yet bore resistlessly on to the unknown. 
 
 Sedge-grass grew in colorless fringe at the water s 
 edge. Cranes stood, gaunt and gray, among the reeds. 
 Bats, like uneasy spirits, zigzagged against the crimson 
 west, then dipped to the muddy stream with a whir
 
 MISTRESS JOY 5 
 
 of featherless wings that sounded ominous on the even 
 ing peace. The silence was stirred, broken by the 
 harsh, remittent croak of numberless frogs, which gave 
 their concert in honor of the coming spring night. 
 
 And at the boat s end a man still looked toward the 
 nearing south. A child, a glint of sunset radiance im 
 prisoned in her deep eyes, busied herself with motherly 
 cares. An Indian crouched, unseeing, yet vigilant. 
 The river lapped, swayed, writhed, sluggish but sure. 
 And night settled down on the strangers in a far 
 country.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 was a low, sullen sky, which hesitated 
 darkly between a promise of more rain 
 and a threat of snow. The roads were 
 unspeakable. The black, sticky soil, 
 soaked by weeks of rain, clung to 
 foot or wheel with rubber-like te 
 nacity. 
 
 Six miles south, along the river front, a cluster of 
 hills marked the site of Natchez. Perched on a high 
 bluff, overlooking the silent river under the low-hung 
 clouds, was a tiny cottage, with brilliantly firelit win 
 dows, which outward promise of comfort was well ful 
 filled by its interior. The spacious chimney-place 
 held a roaring fire of great hickory logs. By this 
 bright, shaken light an old man was bending his gray 
 head over some books on a table. 
 
 A tall, lithe young girl, with a book propped open 
 before her, was shelling corn, and incidentally feeding 
 a pet or invalid chicken in a basket at her side. Her 
 face was thoughtful, but with great possibilities of 
 mirth in it, and occasionally she paused in the busy 
 work of fingers, eyes, and mind to toss back her bright, 
 rebellious hair, speak a comforting word to the fowl, 
 mend the fire if it lagged a bit, or ask some question 
 of the old man. 
 
 The third figure by the cheery fireplace, so impas 
 sive that it might have been taken for a part of the 
 smoked and time-stained furniture of the little cottage, 
 
 6
 
 MISTRESS JOY 7 
 
 was that of a tall old Indian; his slender, supple fin 
 gers had been busy polishing a deer-horn handle for a 
 hunting-knife, but now they were folded over the work 
 in his lap, and he sat gazing quietly into the fire. 
 
 Here were the three voyagers of twelve years before, 
 in port. How comfortable a port, how safe, secure 
 and desirable it appeared to the wistful eyes of the man 
 who stood outside the window of the little cottage that 
 dull autumn evening and gazed hungrily in ! 
 
 He had come through the town and plodded over the 
 little Methodist settlement near by, pausing now and 
 then at some door, putting forth his hand to knock, 
 then snatching it back with a gasp when he realized 
 that he was entirely in rags and, for the first time in his 
 life, without one penny in his pocket. His sorry shoes, 
 of patrician cut and fine Spanish leather, were broken 
 and almost dropping from his feet. As he looked in 
 he shivered, and his teeth came together with a rattle. 
 
 He got the graceful outline of the girl s shining head 
 against a background of shadow. While he gazed, her 
 lips parted, and she began to sing in a sort of under 
 tone, but very sweetly : 
 
 " Return, O wanderer, return, 
 
 And wipe away the falling tear ; 
 T is God who says no longer mourn ; 
 T is Mercy s voice invites thee near." 
 
 The words were those of a hymn quite unknown to 
 the watcher without, but the mention of the wanderer 
 and home brought tears of self-pity to his eyes. 
 
 The old man at the table lifted his gray head smil 
 ingly and joined a clear, sweet tenor with her fresh, 
 young tones. Something in the man s benevolent 
 countenance emboldened the wayfarer to knock. 
 
 When Joy opened the door upon the dripping figure
 
 8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 her father, calling from within, gave the invitation to 
 enter. 
 
 "Good evening," said the stranger, removing his 
 limp hat and showing a thin, haggard, handsome face. 
 "I believe I have lost my way. Might I beg your hos 
 pitality until I dry my garments somewhat?" 
 
 "Enter freely, friend," returned the old man, sim 
 ply. "There is no inn nearer than Natchez you 
 were seeking an inn, no doubt?" (The other smiled in 
 grim, covert amusement.) "If you are willing to put 
 up with our humble cheer, you are indeed welcome." 
 
 The newcomer thanked him briefly, almost haught 
 ily, a manner in somewhat broad contrast to his attire 
 and condition. 
 
 "We supped some time since," suggested Mistress 
 Joyce. "Shall I not brew you a dish of tea, and set 
 you out some meat and bread ?" 
 
 Who but the spendthrift, come to that first time 
 when he cannot fling largess abroad, but must accept 
 the charity of those beneath him the humble and 
 thrifty poor knows the sullen distaste for this simple 
 kindliness which rose in the man s breast, and bade 
 him answer brusquely: "Anything will do; I dined 
 late." 
 
 Mistress Joyce, behind the stranger s head, made a 
 little grimace, and shaped her pretty mouth into an 
 interrogative "Oh?" 
 
 Her father smiled indulgently. He could never re 
 prove Joy s light-mindedness as he felt he ought. The 
 meal was set forth, and eaten almost in silence. When 
 it was finished, "Draw up to the fire," invited the mas 
 ter of the house. "You will abide with us to-night, 
 I m thinking. Hark !" He lifted his hand, and they 
 heard the first heavy downpour of rain. 
 
 "Rains it this way oft here?" asked the man. "I 
 suppose I should be grateful for any shelter from a
 
 MISTRESS JOY 9 
 
 storm like that." And then, as his gentle breeding got 
 the better of his black humor, he added : "I thank you, 
 sir, and you, mistress, for your kind hospitality to a 
 stranger whose appearance must certainly ill commend 
 him." 
 
 "Nay," protested the elder, gently. "Matters of 
 apparel and such-like be of the world, my child, and 
 we do not judge as the world judges. God knows the 
 heart, and God, not man, knows who is worthy." 
 
 And again that sarcastic smile played over the 
 other s face. "God sees the heart, does he, mine host? 
 Well then, faith, God sees some very sorry things." 
 He looked at the old man s long, black coat, which re 
 sembled the cassock of a priest ; at the clear, gray eyes, 
 dome-like forehead, and silver hair, showing already 
 the tonsure of age. 
 
 "I judge, sir, you are a preacher, belike a Dissen 
 ter, a a " he searched for a word "this new sect 
 of which I heard mention in the village." 
 
 "A Methodist," supplied the host. "I am Tobias 
 Valentine, a humble servant of God, the pastor of a 
 little flock of the faithful here in the wilderness, and 
 glad to be of service to you if I may, sir. This is my 
 daughter, Mistress Joyce Valentine." 
 
 His glance inquired the stranger s name, and, after 
 some halting, the man volunteered, "I am generally 
 called Jessop. I I have a name or two besides 
 one way or another. But I hold that a man who hath 
 not two coats should scarce be so pretentious as to wear 
 two names. Jessop will answer," and he fell to brood 
 ing, his dark eyes fixed on the coals. 
 
 Joy picked up her corn-basket with her fingers ; then 
 she picked up her father s wandering attention with 
 her eyes, and took both into the little lean-to kitchen. 
 When they were out of the newcomer s hearing, "Are 
 you going to keep him?" she whispered, nodding her
 
 io MISTRESS JOY 
 
 head toward the half-seen profile of the stranger in the 
 room back of them. 
 
 "I have asked him to stay, Joyce," said her father. 
 "No man knows when he may entertain an angel un 
 awares." 
 
 Joyce shrugged her shoulders. "An angel !" she 
 echoed, with a little half-smothered laugh. "He looks 
 an angel ! Father Tobias, that is exactly what you 
 said when you would take in the little Frenchman who 
 stole the last one of the silver spoons." 
 
 "Nay," rebuked her father, "judge not, Joy. T is 
 true the spoon was gone, but thou didst not see him 
 take it ; perchance some other needy soul filched it when 
 thou wert from the cabin." 
 
 Joy caught the lapels of her father s coat, and kissed 
 him vehemently. Her sole reply was, "O Father Toby, 
 how I do love you !" 
 
 When Master Valentine went back into the room, he 
 courteously refrained from reading, lest the stranger 
 should feel himself neglected. But he might have 
 spared his anxiety, for Jessop sat one full half-hour 
 glowering into the fire and uttered never a word. Only 
 the patter of the dropping corn Mistress Joy had re 
 sumed her corn-shelling the sleepy note of the chicken 
 in the basket, and the crackle of the fire infringed upon 
 the stillness. 
 
 Finally, "Are there many men of substance in this 
 community?" Jessop inquired abruptly. 
 
 "Mine own people," returned Pastor Valentine, "are 
 all thrifty, and we have absolutely no paupers, for we 
 all work." 
 
 Jessop s uneasy pride flared up at this last clause, 
 and he glanced about him haughtily. 
 
 "Concerning men of the class to which I take it you 
 allude," continued the other, "there are Colonel Minor 
 of Rose Alley, General Shields of Oakland, Daniel Bur-
 
 MISTRESS JOY n 
 
 nett, Jonathan Barnes, and Judge Bruin of Bayou 
 Pierre. Judge Bruin is our nearest neighbor ; his place 
 is a mile to the north of us, on the river front." 
 
 "A mile," growled Jessop, "over these infernal 
 roads ! T is equal to ten anywhere in God s country." 
 
 " Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God 
 in vain. The earth is his, and the fullness thereof/ 
 chimed the preacher s clear voice, reprovingly. 
 
 "Humph!" returned Jessop. "When t is such earth 
 as this" turning up the broken sole of one pitiful shoe 
 "I d far rather t were His than mine." 
 
 "Young sir," said the preacher, after a pause, "all 
 strangers and wayfarers are kindly entreated in this 
 house, but while they are in it they must respect its 
 ways. I am a preacher of God s word, and I do not 
 like to hear any man take the name of God lightly 
 upon his lips. T is now our hour for evening prayer. 
 Will you join us?" 
 
 Jessop said neither yea nor nay. He chose to fancy 
 himself affronted, and strove not to listen when his 
 host began reading the story of the Prodigal. 
 
 Gentle Pastor Valentine ! But for the man s defiant 
 attitude, his heart had almost failed him to read such 
 a story to this poor prodigal. The old man s voice had 
 the heart-searching violin quality; these words of the 
 Book were so familiar to him that he could have read 
 them with closed quite as well as with open eyes, and 
 no actor s training could have given greater power to 
 the passage describing the degradation of the prodigal 
 and his return to the father s love, than did the into 
 nations of this simple preacher of a primitive faith. 
 
 It was as if the scene were actually present to those 
 in the little cabin. They saw the father running for 
 ward to greet his returned son, and felt all the joy and 
 blessedness of the conclusion. 
 
 It was well, perhaps, that Jessop s face was turned
 
 12 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 away from the others. To his own immense surprise, 
 he found himself following the words as though they 
 were uttered to him, and to him alone. As the father 
 of the prodigal ran forward to welcome his son, there 
 arose before the mind of the prodigal sitting there the 
 face of the stern old man whose heart he knew he had 
 broken, and whose name he had disgraced. 
 
 " When he was yet a long way off, " pursued the 
 melodious voice, " a long way off So far away ! 
 The tears stung under Jessop s eyelids, and he resented 
 them. He was angry with himself, his host, the Book, 
 and the story. He arose, pushing back his chair nois 
 ily. "In the name of the Lord, amen!" he cried. 
 "Have you done your reading, my good sir? I am 
 tired, and would to bed. I believe I have been dozing 
 here." 
 
 Pastor Valentine looked at him without resentment. 
 He was too old a fisher of men not to recognize one 
 of those strenuous battling souls which fight against 
 their own salvation. "I beg your pardon, sir," he re 
 sponded gently; "you must indeed be weary, having 
 come so far." (Again Jessop s teeth ground at the 
 "so far.") "Joy, is the room prepared? Will you 
 give the gentleman a light ?" 
 
 When the stranger had gone, with salutations too 
 elaborate to be sincere, into the small side room set 
 apart for guests, and her father and Manteo had 
 climbed the ladder-like stairway to their loft rooms 
 above, Joyce set forth her own couch in the midst of 
 her household cares. It was a snowy little bed, which 
 by day folded itself up and masqueraded as a chest. 
 She was a good housewife, this slender, impetuous, 
 deer-like creature, and she stepped, with a serene face, 
 lightly about the room, attending to the many details 
 of a housewife s nightly duties. As she went to the 
 hearth to rake the fire together and cover it, that it 
 might keep until morning, she caught sight of the
 
 MISTRESS JOY 13 
 
 man s handkerchief lying, a crumpled heap, on the 
 broad hearth-stone. She picked it up, and, sitting 
 down in the chair that he had occupied, smoothed it 
 across her knee. It was old and tattered, but very 
 fine. Joy had never had so fine a piece of linen in 
 her fingers before. There was a wisp of beautiful 
 lace clinging to one side of it, and a cipher embroidered 
 in the corner. 
 
 She eyed it thoughtfully and somewhat wistfully. 
 Everything beautiful and fine appealed to Joy, and set 
 her dreaming of people who wore rich clothing and 
 carried handkerchiefs such as this one had been in its 
 youth. Her mind wandered off to her father. How 
 kind and gentle he had been with the surly owner of 
 this bit of cambric quite too gentle, Joy thought. 
 She shut her curved red lips, straightened them into a 
 severe line, and tossed up her pretty chin aggressively. 
 She would have told him what was what, when he 
 began with his braggart airs. But Father Tobias was 
 always so. His patience was as illimitable as the sea, 
 and he loved all sinners, whether they were repentant 
 or no. 
 
 Joy s zeal was of that fiery order which would fain 
 have pommeled the unrepentant into salvation, and she 
 had all a young enthusiast s objection to waiting 
 while a sick and feeble soul learned to choose the right, 
 rather than have the right thrust upon it. 
 
 "Ah," she thought, sighingly, as she pushed aside 
 the curtain and looked out upon the rain-washed night, 
 "Father Tobias must be right; it always proves so in 
 the end. His ways are not our ways. 
 
 Then she knelt beside the little white bed, and prayed 
 earnestly and long for the soul of the stranger who 
 had called himself Jessop, adding a fervent petition for 
 patience and grace to bear with the failings of others, 
 remembering that she herself was an imperfect and a 
 sinful creature.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 OY had risen in one of her periodic 
 furies of house-cle aning. It was now 
 four days since the stranger s advent. 
 At last the grace for which she prayed 
 had been given her. But the new 
 comer s failings, his lumpish indo 
 lence, his neglect to mention any day 
 for departure or state any reason for his remaining, 
 stretched woefully thin the garment of charity in which 
 she would have clothed him. It frayed at the seams of 
 patience, though often patched with new faith. 
 
 Poor Joy! Since she was a slim, eager, energetic 
 girl of twelve she had been practical head of this 
 strangely assorted little household in the wilderness. 
 Manteo was a warrior, and a warrior does not work. 
 He fished and hunted. Their table was never without 
 meat. The Society gave them a tithe of grain and cot 
 ton. Joy spun and wove, baked and brewed, and she 
 kept her small house in speckless order. Her ambi 
 tion reached forward to the time when she, too, should 
 be a preacher of the Word. Now, her zeal found ex 
 pression in the practical details of her housekeeping, 
 the caring for Father Tobias, whose absent-minded, 
 impractical, unworldly bent called daily for more of 
 her energy to supplement his labors. 
 
 Jessop sat by the fire. It was a raw, bleak morning, 
 with an unfriendly wind abroad, under a dull gray sky. 
 
 14
 
 MISTRESS JOY 15 
 
 As Joy clattered in, with an apronful of chips, "Close 
 the door, I pray you, Mistress Joyce," he called queru 
 lously, over his shoulder. "Do you never have any 
 sunshine in this country of yours?" 
 
 Joyce knelt on the hearth-stone, and placed her chips 
 with great precision. She was fighting for self-mas 
 tery again. "We have sunshine when we are worthy 
 of it, perhaps," she answered finally. 
 
 "And at that rate," suggested her guest, with a jar 
 ring laugh, "I should go the rest of my ways in the 
 dark, eh, Mistress Joyce Valentine?" 
 
 Joy s patience gave way with a little snap. "You 
 know best what your merits are," she returned tartly. 
 "Move your foot, pray; I would set my oven there, 
 and, in any case, you will burn your shoe." 
 
 "I can ill afford that," scoffed Jessop, "seeing there 
 is but little shoe left to burn." 
 
 Joy arose swiftly, and set out her spinning-wheel. 
 Up the steep path came the Indian, carrying a string 
 of fish. He reached forth his hand, and with a single 
 movement plucked down a young sapling. When he 
 had made fast his catch and the sapling sprung back, 
 Joy turned and called sharply, over her shoulder: 
 "Manteo, I must have some green firewood. I bake 
 bread to-day." 
 
 The earliest Methodist preacher was always a cir 
 cuit-rider. Tobias Valentine, brave soul, had physical 
 as well as spiritual battles to fight. Though his bodily 
 feebleness never limited his zeal, it did limit the reach 
 of his ministerial labors. Therefore the circuit which 
 he rode was somewhat narrowed. To-day he was at 
 Ebenezer, preaching. Joyce, ever unwilling that he 
 should be a hewer of wood, chose the time of his ab 
 sence to make her request for fuel. The Indian, with 
 out response, came softly in, lifted down his gun, and 
 signed to Jessop to accompany him.
 
 16 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "How s that?" cried Jessop, turning in his chair. 
 "What s up with old Solemns now ?" 
 
 "He wants you to go and cut the wood," replied 
 Joy, a little grimly. Manteo had solved the problem, 
 and she was not sorry. 
 
 "Cut wood, is it?" asked Jessop, blankly. "Why, 
 I have naught but a penknife to cut it with. My 
 sword, Mistress Joyce, an implement I am more used 
 to wielding than an ax, is not here." 
 
 "Nobody could cut wood with a sword," returned 
 Joy. "I suppose you said that for a jest, Master Jes 
 sop, but t is no jest; the wood we must have. Will 
 you cut it, sir, or shall I ?" 
 
 "Why not my highly respected guide and body 
 guard of one?" suggested Jessop, pointing toward 
 Manteo, where he stood waiting. 
 
 "Brave no work," remarked that worthy, calmly. 
 "Hunt. Fish. Fight. No work. Squaw work. 
 Paleface work." 
 
 "Master Master " ("Manteo," supplied Joyce.) 
 "Aye," agreed the other, "Master Manteo, my esteemed 
 friend, your case and mine are identical. I am a war 
 rior myself a battered one, t is true and I no 
 work. He threw himself back, laughing, in his chair. 
 
 " T is no jest, sir," repeated Joyce, sternly. "Man 
 teo does not work. He came with us from the Caro- 
 linas, where my father cured him of a fever, and he 
 has lived with us many years. He will go with his 
 gun to protect you, for t is an outlying field, and 
 there are always prowling Indians or wild beasts to 
 be feared." 
 
 Jessop arose unwillingly. " T is a new role," he 
 said ; "but, as Master William Shakspere hath it, One 
 man in his time plays many parts/ and I vow that, 
 for thy sake, Mistress Joyce, I will e en play the part 
 of wood-chopper."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 17 
 
 Inexperienced as Joyce was, she resented his atti 
 tude. "No," she objected, "not for my sake, sir. Do 
 you not also eat bread? And my father? Shall we 
 all starve and perish because you are too fine a gentle 
 man to work?" Then, as his shamed glance, at the 
 word "gentleman," traveled downward over his sorry 
 clothing, Joy s heart smote her, and she added, "Thank 
 you kindly; I will come at noon to bring your dinner." 
 
 When Joyce reached the clearing with her dinner- 
 bucket and jug of broth, the Indian was sitting stol 
 idly, his long rifle across his knees, and that introspec 
 tive gaze of his searching the wooded slopes beyond 
 the river. There was no sound of chopping, and she 
 quickened her pace as she rounded the little opening. 
 Jessop was lying with his arm beneath his head and 
 his face turned up to the sky, apparently dozing, his 
 ax beside him. 
 
 The unfrequent color rose in Joy s face at the sight. 
 "Where is the wood for my baking?" she called 
 sharply. " T is five hours by sun, and not a stick 
 yet cut." 
 
 He sat up and, looking indifferently toward her, re 
 plied, "Faith, I believe I have been asleep ; these roads 
 of yours do you call them roads? are enough to 
 lay a man by the heels. I was tired; I stretched me 
 out, and old Solemns over there failed to wake me." 
 
 Joyce turned to the Indian, with an angry question. 
 "Indian no chop wood," he answered. 
 
 "This cursed climate," shuddered Jessop, "hath a 
 morning mist which chills to the bone. I ve been sit 
 ting here, ere I slept, hugging myself to get warm." 
 
 "Warm yourself chopping wood, sirrah," flashed 
 Joy, "for the wood we must have. We are out, and 
 bread to bake." 
 
 Jessop rose, took up the ax, and bowed sardonically, 
 though his knees shook under him. "Who would not
 
 i8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 play Ferdinand to so fair a Miranda?" he cried mock 
 ingly. "And see" pointing to the Indian, who re 
 garded their little byplay not at all "there s our 
 Caliban. T is the scene, figure for figure, and I will 
 e en cut you the firewood." 
 
 He lifted the ax and struck a straggling, glancing 
 blow, while Joy looked at him with disapproval. She 
 did not comprehend his allusions; the plays of Master 
 Shakspere did not come within the discipline of the 
 Methodist Society, but she perceived that she was 
 mocked. "I know not," she said angrily, "of the per 
 sons you mention, but I do know that I must have fire 
 wood, and people who are too lazy to work ought to 
 be too lazy to eat. Give me the ax." 
 
 Jessop faced her with an exaggerated bow, and burst 
 out laughing. " T is as good as a play," he cried. 
 "My faith ! t is better than most plays." 
 
 Her little white teeth came together firmly. "Give 
 me that ax," she commanded again, sternly, "and go 
 your ways, sirrah. Find others who are willing to 
 house you idle; my father cannot I will not. Give 
 me the ax, I say ! I can chop the wood t will not be 
 the first time by many. We must eat, and we cannot 
 eat raw bread." 
 
 "Your lightest wish is a command," responded 
 Jessop, ironically, as he relinquished the ax and 
 dropped, with something like a groan, back into his 
 old posture. 
 
 Presently ringing strokes aroused him. Joyce was 
 trying her ax. As he looked she stepped lightly to a 
 small tree. Jessop followed her motions with the sim 
 ple amusement we give to the performances of an 
 angry child. She had turned the sleeves of blue home 
 spun up to her shoulders, baring round, firm, white 
 arms, and, with a skill born of some experience, she 
 began chopping. The bright hair, loosened by vigor-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 19 
 
 ous motion, blew about her flushed face; her red lips 
 were parted, and her gray, large-pupiled eyes were dark 
 with anger. Jessop looked and wondered. Wood, 
 girl, impassive Indian, seemed to him grotesque figures 
 in a dream. 
 
 "There," called Joyce, over her shoulder, as the tree 
 fell, "can you not do that, now, after a girl has shown 
 you the way?" 
 
 Jessop glared at her in a dazed fashion, and, for no 
 reason, broke into foolish laughter. 
 
 Joy looked at him with scarlet cheeks and flashing 
 eyes. Was it not enough that she should do a man s 
 work, while this idle lout looked on ? Must she bear it 
 to be jeered at her inappropriate task? 
 
 As she gazed, the man s face dropped from mirth to 
 the deepest depth of woe, his shoulders heaved, and in 
 the midst of his discordant laughter he fell to sobbing 
 desperately. 
 
 Joy laid her ax slowly clown, and went hesitatingly 
 toward him. Jessop had hidden his face. Back of 
 and beyond his terror of this laughter which he could 
 not stifle and these sobs which he could not check, was 
 an overwhelming shame. He, a man and a soldier, 
 weeping like an hysterical woman ! 
 
 Yet, as Joy came near, in spite of his abasement, he 
 put out a shaking hand and, grasping her dress, hid 
 his face against it. "What is it?" he gasped. 
 
 His hand against her own was like fire, and where 
 his wrist crossed her fingers she could feel the leaping 
 of his pulse. " T is swamp fever you have, belike," 
 she answered, not unkindly, and her eyes interrogated 
 Manteo, who nodded assent. 
 
 "God be thanked t is no worse," murmured Jessop, 
 from the folds of her cape, which he had pulled about 
 his face. "I did fancy I was going mad." 
 
 "I am sorry I spoke harshly to you," said Joyce,
 
 20 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 simply. "I did not know that you were ill. Can you 
 walk a little, do you think?" 
 
 The half-fainting man opened his eyes and replied : 
 "I beg you will not trouble yourself about me. Make 
 him" pointing to the Indian "cut the wood for you, 
 and I will help drag it home." Then the swoon 
 took him, so that Joyce and the Indian lifted him, limp 
 and unconscious, to the rude sled, and, his head pil 
 lowed on Joy s cape, together they got him to the cabin. 
 
 When they reached it, one of Father Tobias s char 
 acteristic communications was found pinned upon the 
 door with his hunting-knife the hunting-knife for 
 which he would search, was probably even then search 
 ing, in despair. 
 
 "Have gone to bury Bushrod Jackson," the message 
 ran. "He is dead." 
 
 The latter clause made Joyce laugh hysterically, but 
 she soon turned again to her perplexities. "What 
 shall we do?" she cried. 
 
 The Indian raised Jessop, and carried him into the 
 house. "Manteo take care of him all right," he said 
 indifferently. He evidently considered that his minis 
 trations, although perhaps inferior to those of Father 
 Tobias, were quite good enough for this wayfaring 
 man, who had from the first found little favor in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Joyce went to the big fireplace in her kitchen, 
 mended the fire, and set on a kettle of water, to prepare 
 the only medicament at hand. Had Father Tobias 
 been present, he would have opened a vein and bled 
 the man at the height of his fever; and, according to 
 the best beliefs of that time, the patient was likely to 
 suffer much from lack of this treatment. 
 
 Turning over her store of herbs and simples in 
 search of that root from which the tea should be made, 
 Joy was haunted by the recollection that she had been
 
 MISTRESS JOY 21 
 
 unkind to the stranger. She had taunted him with his 
 weakness, and he had wept. At the thought, tears 
 rose in her own eyes. Poor child ! with little know 
 ledge of life, and less of men, she did not reflect that 
 Jessop s hysterical outbreak was simply the first work 
 ings of the fever in his veins. It appeared to her that 
 his extreme sensibility to reproof showed a tender 
 heart; that innocent, credulous zeal which proclaimed 
 her Father Tobias s very daughter was all aflame at 
 thought of a possible convert. She recognized that 
 this man belonged to a fine and polished world a 
 world high above her simple belongings. She felt, too, 
 that he had been and was, as she would have phrased it, 
 a sinful man ; he might even be a Papist. If she could 
 offer him to God as the first-fruits of that ministry 
 to which she believed herself called, how glorious it 
 would be! 
 
 When the tea was brewed, she carried it into the 
 tiny bedroom, scarcely more than a closet. Their pa 
 tient had been undressed, and a fine white ruffled shirt, 
 with a frill of frayed lace put upon him. It was part 
 of the clothing brought in his sorry bundle when he 
 came to them. He lay now in the bed, his long curls 
 tossed over the pillow, his cheeks flaming, his eyes 
 bright with fever, babbling incessantly in a sort of 
 undertone, while the Indian sat beside him. 
 
 As Joyce came in he looked up at her, and his lips 
 curved themselves like the mouth of a child. "O 
 mother !" he murmured, "I m glad that you have come. 
 My head ! Pray put your hand upon it. See, t is 
 burning. Ah!" as Joy s cool palm settled upon his 
 brow, "that s good. I knew that you would put the 
 fire out, mother." 
 
 Joyce administered the tea, and bathed Jessop s fore 
 head, sitting beside him, waiting, full of anxious solici 
 tude. But his fever did not abate ; indeed, it increased.
 
 22 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Finally, his low mutterings changed to hoarse shouts. 
 Joyce did not recognize the phrases, but he ran through 
 the drill of a cavalry squadron, calling out, and then 
 himself repeating, the orders of officers, and swearing 
 with vexation over the awkwardness of his imagined 
 pupils. He called for his horse. He declared he must 
 be going he had an engagement to meet, and he men 
 tioned names unknown to Joy. 
 
 When she found her strength inadequate to restrain 
 him, she called for Manteo. That worthy came, stud 
 ied the situation, and rose to it with a coil of small 
 rope in his hand. "Me tie him," he announced. "He 
 no get away from Manteo." 
 
 "Why, Manteo ! how canst be so cruel ? The poor 
 soul is bereft of reason. See, he raves. Take thy 
 hands off him." 
 
 A gleam of something like amusement came over the 
 stolid face. "Manteo no hurt him," he insisted. 
 "Manteo take him out bed, drop him in nice cool river. 
 He hot" 
 
 With the Indian one could never be sure whether 
 such a proposition as this was deadly earnest, or simply 
 a ferocious jest. Joy, however, took no chonces. She 
 laid a sweeping interdict upon all empiric treatment. 
 "And, Manteo," she said, "see to it that you take good 
 care of the poor man. Be kind and gentle with him. 
 I must go for help." 
 
 She threw on the gray homespun cloak, and tucked 
 her bright hair sternly away in its stiff, quilted hood. 
 Halting in the cabin door, she looked irresolutely over 
 toward the settlement, then turned her gaze the other 
 way, and decided to seek assistance from their nearest 
 neighbors, the family of Judge Bruin. 
 
 She shrank from going alone through mud and rain 
 to Bayou Pierre. The daughter of a nonconforming 
 preacher, belonging strictly to the little community of
 
 MISTRESS JOY 23 
 
 Methodists which formed one of the churches or so 
 cieties of her father s circuit, she was unacquainted 
 with the aristocratic families of the district, even 
 among the English-speaking residents, while the Span 
 ish Catholics who ruled the land were as foreign to her 
 and as little known as though they still dwelt in Spain. 
 But this girl was not one to let inclination the voice 
 of the flesh, as she called it interfere with the prompt 
 ings of duty. With one backward glance toward her 
 patient and the Indian, who was holding him firmly, 
 but not unkindly, she set forth. The afternoon was 
 waning, cold, cloudy. A thick mist closed in about 
 her, soaking her through.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HE immediate surroundings of the 
 Valentine cabin were primitive, with 
 a lingering trace of forest wildness, 
 but the road into which Joy soon 
 turned had been made with care, and 
 thenceforward her way lay straight 
 and smooth. Rain fell now, silently, 
 persistently, and the earth beneath was thick, black 
 mud, but Joy walked with a swinging, agile grace, her 
 head up, and the dark gray eyes looking resolutely 
 before her. 
 
 To the south lay a little brotherhood of cabins simi 
 lar to that of Tobias Valentine, mainly owned and 
 occupied by those belonging to the Society of Metho 
 dists, to which her father ministered. 
 
 Tobias Valentine was a man of birth and breeding ; 
 owing perhaps to the dauntless courage which in him 
 was combined with a most sweet and gentle temper, 
 his small flock had been permitted to worship undis 
 turbed even beneath Spanish Catholic rule. 
 
 The members of the Society held themselves a people 
 apart, and asked no favors from their Spanish neigh 
 bors, nor even from the wealthy planters among the 
 English-speaking citizens. Yet it was not toward the 
 little group of cabins Joy turned in this emergency. 
 The man back there in her humble home was not of 
 their kind, and so she set her face steadily toward the 
 great house. 
 
 24
 
 MISTRESS JOY 25 
 
 She arrived at the mansion, standing well back in a 
 grove of magnolias, and paused for a moment to glance 
 out over the expanse of cultivated land spread before 
 her. Half wistful in her enjoyment of the beauty of 
 this stately demesne, she lifted the heavy knocker, and 
 to its resounding fall a black man, from his seat just 
 within, responded promptly. Her request to see the 
 master evoked a rather scornful look at her shabby 
 figure. She glanced half sadly down over her damp, 
 mud-spattered clothes and forlorn shoes, and felt with 
 out resentment that they were indeed unfitted to this 
 sumptuous hallway. This was the first house of any 
 elegance in which she had ever been, yet something in 
 the girl s many-sided nature responded to the grace 
 and seemliness of it as readily as a fine-toned instru 
 ment answers the accustomed hand. 
 
 From a room in the rear of the house came the sound 
 of talking and laughing, and out of it soon issued also 
 an old gentleman in immaculate small-clothes, cutaway 
 coat, voluminous ruffles, and carefully tied peruke. 
 This was Judge Bruin. He gave her kindly greeting, 
 and when she had explained her errand was about to 
 accede to the appeal in her eyes, if not in her words, 
 that he return with her to the sick man. 
 
 He hesitated, however, and glanced through the side 
 lights of the entrance. " T is a foul evening for you 
 to be abroad, Mistress Valentine," he said. "Cassius," 
 turning to the negro, "tell Mink to bring the gray 
 horses and the carryall around." 
 
 Through the open doorway of the dining-room, Joy 
 now had a glimpse of a handsome, graceful mascu 
 line head, with the rosy light of shaded wax candles be 
 hind it. As the man to whom it belonged turned at the 
 doorway to fling one last laughing jest over his shoul 
 der to some one in the room behind, the charm and 
 grace of his appearance took hold upon her fancy just
 
 26 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 as a masterpiece of painting or sculpture would have 
 done. Again across her consciousness there cut a sharp 
 sense of her kinship with these people and this world. 
 
 Stepping lightly, with a graceful air, toward Judge 
 Bruin and herself, the newcomer bowed pleasantly and 
 asked : "Is there aught I can do to serve you?" Then, 
 catching sight of Joy s face under the rough sheltering 
 hood, he came yet nearer, and added, "Or can I serve 
 the lady?" 
 
 "Nay," deprecated his host; "I do not send my 
 guests on errands which I myself dread." He shrugged 
 his shoulders, and shivered a little. Then, turning 
 with old-time stateliness, "Mistress Valentine, may I 
 present to you Colonel Aaron Burr, late so illustrious 
 in our wars, and promising to become a power in the 
 councils of the nation? I know right well that you 
 have heard of him." 
 
 Now, who taught Joyce Valentine to curtsy? She 
 had seen the thing done but two or three times in 
 her life; her instinct, however, told her that here the 
 curtsy came in, and before she was well aware of her 
 own intention she had, with an inclination of the proud 
 little head, a sweep of the slim, arched foot in its soak 
 ing shoe, and a quick dropping of the lithe, young 
 form, done the thing and done it beautifully. 
 
 " T is a gentleman fallen very ill at good Master 
 Valentine s home," proceeded Judge Bruin. "Master 
 Valentine is pastor of our Methodist Society here the 
 first in the province, as you know, Colonel Burr. We 
 churchmen hold great pride in Master Tobias Valen 
 tine, and, though we differ, we do not disagree." 
 
 "Is it a fever?" inquired Burr. "If so, I might be 
 of use. I can open a vein as well as any leech living." 
 
 "Yes," rejoined the judge, "a fever, and a violent 
 one, so Mistress Valentine saith. Her father is from 
 home. I was going "
 
 MISTRESS JOY 27 
 
 "Nay, nay," interrupted Colonel Burr; "none but 
 myself goes with Mistress Valentine this night. May 
 I delay you a moment," turning to the girl, "while I 
 fetch some remedies and my lancet?" 
 
 As Burr came down the stairway, buttoning his 
 many-caped coat of gray about him, the carryall drew 
 up at the door. Thanking the judge with quiet dig 
 nity, Joy was handed into the vehicle by her cavalier, 
 and the return journey was begun. 
 
 Colonel Aaron Burr, a man well calculated to stir 
 the fancy of an inexperienced girl, was then forty-two 
 years of age, but appeared much younger. With the 
 suavity, the address of a courtier, he was yet not ex 
 actly handsome, nor a man of presence, being below 
 rather than above medium height. His features were 
 aquiline, clear-cut, lighted by deep gray eyes. And 
 there lived a power in these wonderful eyes which had 
 changed more than one human destiny. His manner 
 to women, of whatever age or station, was marked by 
 a gentleness and deference infinitely captivating. His 
 wit and sunny temper, his freedom from pessimism, 
 his unquestioned courage and debonair tranquillity in 
 the face of fate, gained him friends and adherents who 
 clung to him amid bitter disaster and disgrace. 
 
 The horses floundered through deep mud; rain fell 
 softly, but densely. 
 
 Burr, leaning back against the side of the carryall, 
 that his own face might be in shadow, studied the deli 
 cate, pure profile of his companion as he saw it against 
 the dusk. "This gentleman is a friend of yours, Mis 
 tress Valentine?" he began. "Happy, happy man, to 
 be of so much concern to so fair a friend !" 
 
 "Nay," demurred Joy, turning clear, child-like 
 eyes upon him, with frank enjoyment of his pleasant 
 voice and kindly speech. " T is no friend of mine, 
 sir; t is a poor, broken gentleman, who came to our
 
 28 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 house, three days agone, on just such a night as this. 
 We turn no wanderer away, for father says," with a 
 sudden bubble of laughter, "we may some day enter 
 tain an angel unawares. So he remained with us, and 
 now is fallen very ill. As for my solicitude, had you 
 heard how unkindly I spoke to the poor creature, you 
 would not wonder that my conscience bids me do all 
 I can for him." 
 
 A little skilful questioning put Burr in possession 
 of Joy s version of the wood-cutting episode. "And 
 canst indeed chop wood with those pretty, pretty 
 hands ?" he asked. 
 
 Joyce spread a hand artlessly upon her knee. "Are 
 they pretty?" she inquired thoughtfully. "They are 
 small enough, but they are most woefully red and 
 rough, do you not think so?" With a laugh which 
 had a little catch in it almost a sob, "I do so many 
 things like wood-chopping and bread-making and the 
 washing of our clothing, that it would be impossible 
 for me to have white hands," she concluded, as she 
 wrapped them in her cloak and leaned forward to peer 
 ahead. 
 
 "A better man than I, Mistress Valentine," said 
 Burr, "would tell you that those hands, roughened by 
 ministering to others, were more beautiful than all the 
 fair an4 useless hands in the world. For my part," 
 and he laughed whimsically, "I am inclined to say 
 that you are a very odd young damsel that I have 
 never met your like before. Yet, I believe you are 
 but a child masquerading as a woman, and I do not 
 think sugar-plums are good for children." 
 
 It was very little of this speech that Joy compre 
 hended, but she was always ready for a jest, and so 
 she laughed amicably. 
 
 As they drove through darkness and rain, Burr ques 
 tioned and the young girl answered. And when she
 
 MISTRESS JOY 29 
 
 reached her home she was aware, with some wonder 
 ment, that she had told him things which she had 
 never told even Father Tobias; that he appeared to 
 know her whole history as well, indeed, as though he 
 had been one of the three who drifted down the river 
 in that half-remembered canoe, and had helped to clear 
 away the canes and build first the little log hut, and 
 then the meeting-house which promptly followed it. 
 
 Arriving at the cabin, they found the patient still 
 delirious. The Indian was in the outer room, crouched 
 by the fire, and at Jessop s side was a tall, fair young 
 man, whom Joy presented to Burr as Master David 
 Batchelor. It was a face before which disorder fell 
 away; and as he sat holding the sick man s hand, his 
 mere presence plainly quieted the sufferer. 
 
 Colonel Burr, as was natural, assumed command of 
 affairs. "First," he announced, "to ascertain, if we 
 may, who this fellow is, and whether he hath friends 
 with whom we may communicate." He picked up the 
 man s bundle, and turned it out upon the table. The 
 linen it contained was tattered and almost useless, but 
 very fine and richly embroidered. There was a small 
 Greek testament, whose Latin inscription set forth that 
 the owner was a graduate of Oxford University. The 
 name had been erased. A broad, plain ring, the only 
 article of value found, had cut upon it, as a seal, 
 the crest which appeared in the embroideries of the 
 linen. 
 
 "Well, if our man be a thief, he has stolen all these 
 things from one person ; and if they are his own, he is 
 a gentleman of aristocratic birth and superior educa 
 tion," concluded Burr. "Now, for a look at the man 
 himself." 
 
 Master Batchelor resigned his place at the bedside 
 to Burr. "This is no thief," he said, with conviction, 
 as he arose.
 
 30 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "How know you that, sir?" inquired Burr, smil 
 ingly. "Have you second sight?" 
 
 "Nay," returned the young man, "I am that rare 
 thing a Scotchman without second sight ; but, having 
 been sometime a trader and concerned in the cattle busi 
 ness, it hath served me to learn an honest man s eyes 
 and forehead, and I should say this man is not a thief." 
 
 Burr put his hand upon that forehead which Master 
 Batchelor had indorsed as an honest one, remarking 
 thoughtfully : "His fever is well advanced ; t is time, 
 methinks, that there were blood let. Mistress Valen 
 tine, may I so far trouble you as to ask for a basin and 
 cloths?" 
 
 When Joy was gone for the necessary articles, Burr 
 turned to the tall young man and questioned him. 
 
 "I know nothing of the matter," returned Batchelor. 
 "I am not, as you seem to apprehend, a member of this 
 family. I but called on my way home from the settle 
 ment; my place is The Meadows/ just beyond the 
 Half-way House." 
 
 At mention of the Half-way House, Burr turned 
 again and looked the man over keenly. "You are, 
 then, near neighbor to some friends of mine, the Guions 
 of Half-way Cottage," he said. "Now, that I think of 
 it, I know you right well from hearsay. You are that 
 Master Batchelor, so irked within the decent frying- 
 pan of the Established Church that he must e en hop 
 into the Methody fire." The jest was accompanied by 
 Burr s winning smile which deprecated offense. 
 
 Batchelor s quiet face reflected a gleam of the amuse 
 ment in Burr s. "I cry your mercy, sir," he corrected ; 
 "I am in neither frying-pan nor fire, but in a very cool 
 and peaceful place of mine own choosing. Master To 
 bias Valentine is one of the best men I have ever known. 
 Once in seven days I go to hear him talk of spiritual 
 things. If he and his flock need a strong arm of flesh,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 31 
 
 or a stronger of coin, t is my pleasure to supply it; 
 but Methody I am not, and of the Established Church 
 I never was. Perchance I will make all clear to you 
 if I add that I am a Scotchman, and I but take the 
 necessary fifteen years to making up my mind in the 
 matter." 
 
 Joy having returned, the vein was opened. Burr 
 watched carefully while the blood flowed, and finally 
 stanched and bound the tiny puncture. During his 
 work over the patient, he studied the face critically. 
 
 This restless, ambitious man, Aaron Burr, who had 
 attained many honors, was already reaching a stealthy 
 and secret hand toward honors yet higher. They were 
 plans dangerous to handle, and for that reason the 
 dearer to their audacious originator. He needed al 
 ways those of his own reckless temper to act with him. 
 It occurred to him, full of his own affairs, that this 
 man, probably high born, now desperately broken in 
 fortune, if not indeed a fleeing criminal, might be a 
 tool laid ready to his hand. 
 
 " T is not necessary to ask that you take good care 
 of our patient, Mistress Valentine," he said, in depart 
 ing. "I myself would most willingly change places 
 with him, that I might be ministered to by so sweet 
 a guardian ; but, pray you, look well to him about the 
 tenth hour from this. His fever will perchance come 
 up again, and then, if some blood be not let, he may 
 suffer. I will return on the morrow, and I will ask 
 Judge Bruin that he send once during the night to in 
 quire. If you need me at that time, do not hesitate 
 to notify me by his messenger. There is much in the 
 case of this poor soul which commends him to my pity." 
 
 Joy thanked him warmly. As she watched him get 
 into the carryall and drive away, she wondered if all 
 great gentlemen were so full of loving-kindness to 
 people beneath them and to those in misfortune. She
 
 32 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 had been brought up in a bare, strict creed, taught that 
 the world s people were all in deadly error; and now, 
 this first one of them she met appeared to her as good 
 and generous as Father Tobias himself. Talk of 
 Burr s light living, his unseemly attitude toward many 
 things held most sacred by her people, had reached 
 even her seclusion. But her innocence found in his 
 idle gallantry only a brotherly kindness. 
 
 Pastor Valentine would not be home before the mor 
 row. David Batchelor remained to help with the sick 
 man; and during the long night watches, while they 
 shared this task, the girl reverted again and again not 
 to Burr s graces or attractions, but, with eager appre 
 ciation, to his quick generosity, his willing service.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HE seventh Sabbath of Jessop s illness 
 brought with it a dazzle of sunshine. 
 Poor Jessop ! He had anathematized 
 the climate, cursed the muddy roads 
 and dismal rains. Now, as he lay, 
 feeling almost too languid to lift his 
 tired eyelids and look with dull and 
 wearied eyes toward the light, its rays came pouring 
 in through the low window, and tapestried his little 
 room with fairy gold. 
 
 As always, it was upon Joy s head that the bright 
 ness seemed to linger most lovingly. She had made 
 the room as clean as hands could make it. And now, 
 kneeling by his bedside, she was reading morning 
 prayers and a chapter. 
 
 "Do I weary you, Master Jessop?" she inquired tim 
 idly. "Father reads much better than I might I call 
 him?" 
 
 "Nay," whispered the convalescing man, with the 
 ghost of a smile; "that would take away my Joy, 
 indeed." 
 
 Joy laughed appreciatively. "May I read you a 
 hymn, then?" 
 
 "I pray you," answered Jessop, in that painfully 
 tired voice which moved her woman s soul to such 
 compassion that she could feel no resentment, whatever 
 the matter of his speech "I pray you, Mistress Joy, 
 turn my pillow, so that I may see your face more easily 
 3 33
 
 34 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 as I lie, and read me something about love. Such lips 
 as yours were never meant to waste their sweetness dis 
 coursing upon other matters." 
 
 Joy adjusted his pillows, seated herself in the bed 
 side chair, and announced with serenity, resolutely un 
 conscious of any under meaning in his words, "Hark, 
 then, I will read ye the most beautiful hymn of divine 
 love Charles Wesley ever wrote." 
 
 There was a little grimace, then followed a smile 
 as her eloquent young voice began upon the words : 
 
 "Thy only love do I require, 
 Nothing in earth beneath desire, 
 
 Nothing in heaven above: 
 Let earth and heaven and all things go, 
 Give me Thine only love to know, 
 Give me Thy only love." 
 
 "Mistress Joyce, when you read it," he murmured, 
 as the verses were finished "when you read it, t is 
 all one, divine love or earthly love; for whatever you 
 say, you speak to me of love." 
 
 "I hope so," answered Joy, simply; "it is God s com 
 mand that we love one another." 
 
 He raised his heavy eyes and gazed straight into her 
 earnest face. "Nay, sweet," he remonstrated, "love 
 not too many; love only me." 
 
 Joy drew back with a gesture of disrelish, and gath 
 ered up her hymnal and Bible, preparatory to depart 
 ure. "The command is to love all men, sinners as well 
 as the just," she remarked, somewhat dryly; "but I 
 assure you, Master Jessop, my father is much better 
 able to love sinners than I. I have not patience with 
 them, though oft I pray for it." 
 
 "Good lack!" called Colonel Burr s voice, from the 
 door. "Here s the Mother Superior shriving my pa 
 tient s soul. Is t so bad as that ? Is he in extremis?"
 
 MISTRESS JOY 35 
 
 "Not so, colonel," returned the sick man, and a spice 
 of malice gave strength to his voice. "Mistress Valen 
 tine hath but talked to me of love. Perchance my soul 
 doth not commend itself to her." 
 
 Joy greeted the newcomer gravely, and thanked 
 him for coming to sit with their almost recovered pa 
 tient. Burr had been unremitting in his attentions 
 during Jessop s tedious illness; and now, as he had 
 done several times formerly, he came to relieve Joy, so 
 that she should hear at least a portion of the morning 
 service. Jessop s last words gave the girl great of 
 fense, and she left the room with her haughty young 
 head well up. 
 
 A proud-carried creature, Joy impressed Burr as 
 little like the typical Methody devotee. Laughing, he 
 remarked to Judge Bruin, when shown a pet filly 
 turned loose in the south paddock: "True blue, that, 
 judge. Why not name her Mistress Joy? She s high- 
 headed, yet scarce as much so as our fair little Methody 
 herself." 
 
 "You see," he began now, sitting down by the bed, 
 "you go too far. T is no ordinary country parson s 
 daughter, to come fluttering to the first lure." 
 
 Joy s spiritual aloofness tantalized Jessop s curios 
 ity as much as her limpid candor compelled his respect. 
 But now he muttered peevishly : "They all like it hang 
 em! and they all flout it. That s to get more of it, 
 I warrant." 
 
 "Think you so?" returned Burr. "Likely you re 
 right in most cases; but, if I mistake not, Mistress 
 Joyce Valentine hath a mind of her own aye, and a 
 pretty little temper of her own to boot." He laid his 
 hand on the patient s forehead, asked him a few brief, 
 business-like questions, then, "I think we might try 
 sitting up to-morrow," he announced. 
 
 "Sit up?" echoed Jessop, angrily. "Do you want
 
 36 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to kill me, Colonel Burr? Here have I been, flat o 
 my back more than six weeks, and you a leech, in 
 deed ! have taken some quarts, or gallons, of my good 
 red blood. Now, you d have me sitting when I 
 scarce can lift my head !" 
 
 Burr stood at the window, measuring a dose from 
 one of his vials. "Good blood, eh, Jessop? I thought 
 as much. But I have e en fancied t was blue, rather 
 than red." 
 
 "Let be," growled the sick man. "You took too 
 much of it, red or blue, and I 11 not be able to stir 
 from this bed before spring." 
 
 Burr threw back his head and laughed. "Come now ! 
 You would lie there just so long as you could have a 
 pretty nurse to minister to you eh ? But let me warn 
 ye, my good man, Mistress Joyce is no fool. Those 
 bright eyes of hers can see farther into a thing and 
 clearer than you guess." 
 
 Jessop smiled, but uneasily. "Perhaps," he said, 
 "Mistress Joy, when she ceases to be interested in min 
 istering to a sick body, may find her good offices en 
 treated by a sick soul." 
 
 "Ahem ! Fair scheme," commented the other. "As 
 long as they think there s a chance of your turning 
 Methody you may live here off the old man and the 
 girl at no charge." 
 
 "God s blood, Colonel Burr! I swallow no such 
 words from any man, whether he be one who saved my 
 miserable life or no." The tears of weakness, mortifi 
 cation, and rage stood in Jessop s eyes. "Why do you 
 bait me thus ? T is your fault I m this side the river 
 Styx." Burr nodded, without a word. "Well, then, 
 you Ve played at God and created a man. What are 
 you going to do with him? Here am I. Will you 
 have me for a servant? I have myself been served 
 enough years to know how the thing should be done."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 37 
 
 "Nay, Major Jessop," Burr rejoined, and looked 
 covertly to see how this title struck the other. "I have 
 better things laid up for you than serving even myself." 
 
 An answering compression of Jessop s lips convinced 
 his companion that a military style was not new to him, 
 and half assured him that the one he had applied was 
 by no means too exalted. Seating himself by the bed 
 side, he began, with that skill and address of which he 
 was so perfect a master, to hint, and even practically 
 detail to Jessop, a scheme which was then brewing in 
 his restless brain. 
 
 The Mississippi Province claimed largely by Geor 
 gia was at this time practically without a govern 
 ment. Spain had ceded it, with other territory, to the 
 United States. There were still Spanish troops in the 
 garrisons at Natchez and Fort Nogales, but Spain s 
 claim to the land was no longer tenable. Yet the 
 United States, itself a young, untried government, had 
 not yet been able to occupy and control its newly gotten 
 southwest territory. General Wilkinson, commander- 
 in-chief of the army, writing at the time to Captain 
 Guion (uncle of Mistress Wilful Guion, Burr s friend 
 of the Half-way House, whom he had mentioned to 
 David Batchelor), in charge of the troops designed 
 to enter and occupy the province, speaks of the doubt 
 ful tenure by which the planters of the section now held 
 their land becoming "a dangerous element of agitation 
 in the hands of certain parties who must be described 
 as enemies of their country," and believes that "this 
 and other arguments are being used to persuade the 
 most influential class of men in the section to the usur 
 pation of the right of self-government." That such a 
 plan was contemplated, and even matured as to many 
 of its details, is certain. 
 
 The scheme which Burr now chose to describe to Jes 
 sop was the erection of this province into a separate
 
 3 8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 republic, which, if opportunity offered, should become 
 the Republic. This once established, Colonel Burr 
 hinted at greater opportunities for power. He touched 
 upon the success of Bonaparte s military despotism, 
 which was then preparing the world for his grand coup. 
 
 Jessop had never been the man for a desperate ven 
 ture ; his nature was too pleasure-loving and too incon 
 sequent. His fortunes were now, however, at that ebb 
 where they cried out for a new tide. But he was sick 
 and peevish, and he pushed aside Burr s most alluring 
 pictures to dilate on his own pains and necessities. 
 
 The exquisite adroitness with which Jessop s tempter 
 withdrew any suggestion that seemed to be unpleasing, 
 substituted something more attractive, bent to the pa 
 tient s opinions or desires, only to arouse other emo 
 tions which might serve his own turn, cajoled, flattered, 
 inflamed and half irritated his desired tool, showed, 
 indeed, a past master of his art. 
 
 All that was wilful, selfish, base, licentious in Jes 
 sop s being was brought uppermost. Burr s tactful 
 hints played about his mind like a light, veering breeze, 
 but they blew always upon the sullen embers of resent 
 ment which lay at the bottom of this poor bankrupt s 
 soul. Surely coals were there which might be fanned 
 to a destructive blaze. 
 
 And yet, occasionally, this man, born so close to the 
 purple that Burr s schemes seemed petty to him, saw 
 that he was being used, and resented it. Torn by 
 many conflicts, not the least among them an unrecog 
 nized appeal from the life he had seen and been a part 
 of in the house of Tobias Valentine, he turned finally 
 on his side and cried out sharply : "Well, well, Colonel 
 Burr, I 11 think of these things ! Let me sleep now, 
 an t please you." 
 
 The smiling patience with which Burr accepted 
 this check was thoroughly characteristic of the man.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 39 
 
 "Surely," he acquiesced; "let me read you to sleep. 
 Greek is like falling water or rumbling winds. T is 
 monstrous soothing to the ear that s weary of too sig 
 nificant English." 
 
 Taking the little leather-bound volume, he selected 
 his chapter, and, giving the rolling words in a sort 
 of monotone, read till he saw the tired eyes closing. 
 And Jessop s last waking thought bracketed him with 
 Father Tobias and Joy as the kindest and most consid 
 erate of friends. 
 
 But Burr knew well, as he sat studying the man s 
 sleeping face, that the seed he had sown, though cov 
 ered now by forgetfulness, was fallen on productive 
 soil.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 JHE flush of resentment still lay on her 
 clear, pale skin, when Joyce turned 
 away from the sick man and his vol 
 untary attendant. The dark gray 
 eyes, which as a rule gazed abroad on 
 the world with a fearless directness, 
 held a preoccupied look. She was 
 bound for the place of worship, but she was in no wor 
 shiping mood. 
 
 Pastor Valentine, in his broad-rimmed soft hat and 
 Quakerish garments, stepped a trifle ahead, for it was 
 close upon meeting-time. He carried his Bible and 
 prayer-book, and offered to take the lunch-basket 
 which, on bright days when the weather was sufficiently 
 warm, was a part of the church accoutrement, but Joy 
 refused, and herself carried it. With all her impulse 
 and enthusiasm, she had an unhurried walk. She 
 never lagged ; her step gave an impression of sureness, 
 but it was without haste. 
 
 After her, his gun across his shoulder, stalked Man- 
 teo, with stolid face, but with an eye keen to discover 
 any lurking peril. 
 
 At the bottom of Joy s mind lay a questioning un 
 rest, induced by Jessop s attitude toward her and his 
 words. Entirely unused to contact with such a mind 
 as this, she was bewildered by his light outlook upon 
 life. Before her, life had been spread, a serious thing. 
 She regarded it as a journey wherein the strongest 
 
 40
 
 MISTRESS JOY 41 
 
 must faint unless upheld by divine grace. Could it be 
 that there was somewhere a world peopled with men 
 and women like the man yonder, who laughed and 
 made merry over light things, unmindful of the dread 
 payment which must be made in a time to come ? 
 
 She allowed, in her crude young soul, that eternal 
 damnation was justly the portion of such, yet under 
 neath it all there was a feeling of kinship with this 
 world of laughter and enjoyment. She sighed. Jes- 
 sop had been shown to her in sorry guise. She was 
 not sure even that, had she seen him back in that 
 world to which he belonged, she would have admired 
 and cared for him; and yet there is to a girl always 
 a charm, a something unforgetable, about the first man. 
 who, breaking through her virgin reserve, assailing the 
 holy of holies in her pure, ignorant heart, dares speak 
 to her of love. 
 
 The three had been moving for some time toward 
 the little house of worship, set in the midst of a cane- 
 brake on the banks of the great southern Mississippi. 
 Each felt proprietorship in the tiny church. Tobias 
 Valentine had gone in among the canes, and with his 
 own hand had hewn and builded this first Methodist 
 chapel in the province. His love for the little log 
 building was reverent, humble, but as tender and en 
 during as that of a father for his helpless first-born. 
 It represented the first-fruits of his hopes indepen 
 dence to "worship God according to the dictates of his 
 own conscience." It stood to him in his time for all , 
 that this great Commonwealth of America stands for 
 to the men of to-day. 
 
 To Joyce it was a visible reminder of that which she 
 was striving to attain in her spiritual life; it was pre 
 cious, too, with the labor of her old father s toil-worn 
 hands, and as the building came in sight the clouds 
 left her face.
 
 42 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Little parties of two and three were overtaking, pass 
 ing, or following them as they walked. These were 
 mainly young mothers and fathers, each pair with a nu 
 merous brood of children about them. The old people 
 were few, and the young men and women walked 
 apart, concerned with affairs of their own. The blue- 
 gray homespun, dyed by the housewives themselves 
 with native indigo, was worn by both men and women. 
 The color appeared in wool and hemp and the new 
 cotton, which was then beginning to be woven exten 
 sively, so that Pastor Valentine s congregation looked 
 almost like a company of Quakers. The women s skirts 
 were short, and they wore heavy leathern shoes, show 
 ing broad, low heels, for there was mud to be tramped 
 through. No fluttering ribbons were in view, nothing 
 anywhere quite so bright as Joy s rebellious locks. The 
 discipline of the early Methodist Society permitted the 
 wearing of no gauds calculated to minister to the lusts 
 of the flesh as represented by a craving for beauty. 
 
 And yet, where purity and peace abide, poor chidden 
 beauty will slip in, though you make a stepchild of her. 
 The prim white kerchiefs were folded about necks 
 almost as white. The demure down-dropping of 
 young, bright eyes only served to display long, curled 
 lashes, and the gray homespun set off excellently well 
 many a fresh, young, round cheek that needed no rouge 
 added to the roses already abloom upon it. 
 
 The young men and girls, though holding a little 
 apart from their elders, did not walk together; the 
 girls went two and two, and the young men, singly or 
 in squads, followed them a trifle sheepishly. 
 
 There was no unseemly love-making at these primi 
 tive meetings, but was ever temple erected to any god 
 which could quite bar out the little blind deity of the 
 bow and quiver? 
 
 Two women, one tall almost to the stature of a
 
 GOING TO CHURCH.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 43 
 
 man, the other evidently her daughter, fair, slight and 
 young, overtook Father Tobias s party, and joined 
 them, with the usual Sabbath greetings. 
 
 The tall woman, who was spoken to as Sister Longa- 
 necker, looked sad reproach at the little basket Joy 
 was carrying. She considered it her own especial 
 and blessed privilege to feed the pastor with material 
 food, even as he fed her with spiritual bread. "Now, 
 Joyce," she lamented, in a small, cooing voice which 
 mismatched her great form, but accorded comically 
 with the matter of her speech, "I hold it most unkind 
 that ye bring food for your good father. I have a 
 pasty here ; t was made for him, and I put a prayer in 
 with every bird. The crust is as melting as love it 
 self." She cast a most affectionate glance at Father 
 Tobias s unresponsive, absent-minded old back, as he 
 strode ahead, already conning the words he was to 
 speak. 
 
 The young girl, Patience Longanecker, interrupted 
 Joyce, plucking her by the sleeve and whispering: "O 
 Joyce! is it a young man who is sick at your house, 
 and is he well favored?" 
 
 The lines of Joy s red lips were as prim as though 
 no unspiritual thoughts had ever invaded her own Sab 
 bath musings. "Patience," she said reprovingly, "do 
 you remember what day this is? We are going to 
 meeting," whereupon Patience dropped her eyes and 
 sighed. She was a dear little gossip, and she did long 
 to be able to tell all the other girls just what color the 
 stranger s eyes w T ere, and what wonderful things he 
 had said to Joyce Valentine. 
 
 The party walked on in seemly quiet. Near the 
 church door a huddled heap among the canes beside 
 the path unrolled itself, stood erect, and displayed the 
 shriveled face of a very old squaw. "Good day, Mas- 
 sawippa," spoke Father Tobias. "God be with you,"
 
 44 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 and Manteo greeted her with a low-uttered guttural, 
 evidently in her own tongue. 
 
 The old woman s bleared eyes turned adoringly upon 
 the girl. Joy, putting out her hand to take the with 
 ered and shaking one, drew the trembling creature for 
 ward, and said : "Now, Sister Longanecker, if it pleases 
 you, I will bestow my evening lunch on Massawippa, 
 and Father Tobias shall eat your pasty." 
 
 Manteo turned, with a contemptuous glance at the 
 newcomer. "What Manteo eat?" he inquired, point 
 edly. And as Sister Longanecker s bountiful affection 
 did not appear to reach so far, he was directed, to his 
 great disgust, to share the basket with Massawippa. 
 
 The bleak, gray meeting-place stood like a pale sil 
 houette against a reeded background. For miles an 
 almost unbroken cane-brake, or thicket, spread along 
 the river s edge. When Tobias Valentine chose a site 
 for his house of worship the thick, impenetrable bul 
 wark of these slender columns commended the spot for 
 his purpose. 
 
 To the eye accustomed to the broken, ornate archi 
 tecture of the old world, this little squared block was 
 as bare, unlovely, and undesirable as was to the church 
 man the creed which called for it. Its low windows 
 looked out unwinkingly, searching the thickets for foes. 
 More than once it had been the object of Indian at 
 tacks, and the doors were made thick and strong. 
 There were great inside shutters, loopholed for guns, 
 with poles beside them, that they might be propped at 
 need. It was an outlying spiritual stronghold, and a 
 physical fort as well, patiently prepared for defense 
 along both lines. 
 
 Joyce and the others stepped inside. Sister Longa 
 necker detained Pastor Valentine in earnest conversa 
 tion a little apart. The old man s saintly face took on 
 an expression of deep distress.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 45 
 
 "Oh, no," he remonstrated, "sister, surely not, surely 
 not." 
 
 "But I tell ye," cooed Sister Longanecker s dove- 
 like whispering tones, " t is like to bring scandal upon 
 the Society." 
 
 "I think less of that," returned Father Tobias, "than 
 that it may bring sorrow to the child herself." 
 
 "She hath need of it," returned Sister Longanecker, 
 energetically. " Woe be to him by whom offense 
 cometh ! We must keep ourselves unspotted from the 
 world. Though I myself have been a widow many 
 years, I warrant me there is no gallant gay nor fine 
 enough to tempt me to bring scandal upon the Society." 
 
 Father Tobias s misty eyes smiled faintly upon her 
 iron visage. "Nay," he said, "sister, we all know 
 that." And when he smiled so, one saw how like, with 
 all their differences, were his features and Joy s. 
 
 Once in the pulpit, or behind the poor little pine 
 table which served for pulpit, the world was shut away 
 from Tobias Valentine. He was in a place of white 
 light, and those before him were embodied souls for 
 whose salvation he was responsible. One was no 
 greate r than another. At such times Joy s soul was 
 not more precious to him than that of Sister Longa 
 necker. They were all his debt to God, to be striven 
 for strenuously, to be weighed in the scale lovingly. 
 The responsibility of their salvation was heavy upon 
 his heart. 
 
 The benches in that little meeting-house were back 
 less. A cushion the mere thought of one, could this 
 latter have been detected would have brought a mem 
 ber under discipline. The women sat in orderly rows, 
 eager, intent and untiring, listening while Father To 
 bias spoke to them for one long hour and a half. The 
 children divine grace is not applicable to babies, and 
 the doctrine of original sin is amply exemplified in
 
 46 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 many of them writhed and squirmed. Those old 
 enough, were sternly repressed. Their small, rough 
 shod feet swung off the floor. When too sleepy, their 
 poor little heads nodded, and occasionally they tumbled 
 head and heels to the planks, making a small diversion. 
 The tyrants who were younger, and therefore less 
 amenable, expressed their disapproval openly and 
 loudly. They were sometimes fed surreptitiously under 
 a shoulder cape, or, if the disturbance continued until 
 Father Tobias s gentle gaze began to wander in their 
 direction too frequently, they were carried outside and 
 hushed. 
 
 The men and women sat on opposite sides of the 
 room. Joy was on the front bench of the women s 
 side, and Batchelor on the front bench on the men s 
 side. A choir would have been an abomination, but 
 these two strong young voices were useful in holding 
 the singers together. 
 
 Joyce had heard so many sermons in her short life 
 that her mind wandered a bit during the discourse, and 
 occupied itself with its own concerns. She mused 
 deeply and long upon the matter of Jessop s salvation. 
 Would the blessed privilege be theirs of converting the 
 stranger within their gates? Oh, might they snatch 
 his soul as a brand from the burning? 
 
 Here she was suddenly recalled to her surroundings 
 by the conclusion of Father Tobias s seventhly with a 
 sonorous "Amen." After a pause the preacher s voice 
 began again: "Now, brothers and sisters, I have to 
 speak to you of a matter which hath been brought to 
 my notice this morning." Sister Longanecker settled 
 herself complacently to hear administered the reproof 
 for which she had asked. 
 
 "It hath been suggested to me that one member of 
 this Society may bring scandal upon the whole So 
 ciety. I desire to ask your prayers " there was a
 
 MISTRESS JOY 47 
 
 little hesitation, and he added "for that one who made 
 this suggestion to me." 
 
 Sister Longanecker bent her head and wept. She 
 had not the grace of artistic grief. Her sobs consider 
 ably resembled bleats, and it became evident to the 
 whole congregation for whom their petitions were re 
 quested. 
 
 "We are here, my brethren and sisters, a little hand 
 ful of the faithful in a far land," the pastor continued. 
 "There are hostile savages about us, and wild beasts 
 in the forests. Even as we live in daily fear of these, 
 so God ordains that we are set in a place of fear from 
 unseen spiritual foes. The painted savages of envy 
 and malice and uncharitableness lurk for our immortal 
 souls, even as we have seen the painted savages lurk 
 in these cane-brakes to harm our perishing bodies. 
 The wild beasts of doubt and sin will rend the immor 
 tal part, quite as surely as the panther or the wolf may 
 strike one of us down in the forests. 
 
 "What do we do against the savages and wild 
 beasts ? We band together. What shall we do against 
 these subtler and more dreadful foes?" He looked 
 wistfully and long at the faces before him ere he an 
 swered his own question. Then he concluded gently : 
 "To be strong against all these foes within, let us keep 
 fully Christ s command, That we love one another. 
 
 And, raising his hands, he blessed and dismissed 
 them.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOUGH services at the little meeting 
 house were to last all day, Joyce, 
 having gotten her freedom to hear 
 the morning sermon only through 
 Burr s courteous offer to stay dur 
 ing that time with the patient, set 
 forth on her return immediately they 
 were dismissed. 
 
 The day was warm and bright. Only a touch of 
 frost at morning and evening marked the approach of 
 winter. Cloths were being spread in the open, baskets 
 unpacked, and women went to and fro preparing for a 
 noon lunch. David Batchelor joined Joy as she turned 
 toward home. "May I walk with you, Mistress Valen 
 tine?" he asked. 
 
 Joy accepted his company gladly. Since she could 
 remember, David Batchelor had been one of the pleas 
 ant and stable facts of her existence. It was a relief, 
 in the vague unrest which followed Jessop s disquiet 
 ing words, to turn to Batchelor s kindness, which made 
 no demand. 
 
 It was characteristic of the frankness of the girl s 
 nature that she spoke to him at once of Jessop. "You 
 think he is a gentleman, do you not?" she inquired. 
 
 "A gentleman, Mistress Joyce? Truly, yes; the man 
 is of gentle blood." 
 
 "Sister Longanecker," hesitated Joy, with troubled 
 eyes, "holds it like that Master Jessop she doth not 
 
 4 8
 
 believe his name to be Jessop is some great lord or 
 rich man who hath committed a crime and is fleeing 
 from the authorities. What think you of that, Master 
 Batchelor? Is it like?" 
 
 "To my mind, not more likely," returned David, 
 "than that the man is innocent of all fault, save that 
 one fault which is very great in the eyes of some 
 misfortune." 
 
 Joy nodded. 
 
 "He may have come from England," continued 
 Batchelor, "like many another young blade, with much 
 wealth and little wisdom. We can see with no trouble 
 he hath lost the first. I think we should all pray that 
 he may be vouchsafed the second. In God s name, if 
 we be indeed God s people, let us think no evil until 
 evil be proven." 
 
 "Why do you speak of England?" inquired Joy, a 
 little curiously. 
 
 "Oh, the Testament, and the man s speech and bear 
 ing it seems like that he is an Englishman of rank." 
 
 This brought them to the doorway. David entered 
 with her, and after a little conversation among the 
 three men, while Joy was absent at her household 
 duties, Burr and Batchelor made their adieux, and 
 started on the Washington Road northward along the 
 river. Burr s horse had been tied to a sapling in the 
 grove near the cabin, but, out of courtesy to his com 
 panion, he forbore to mount it. 
 
 "Pray ride, Colonel Burr," suggested the other. "I 
 can easily keep pace with your horse." 
 
 "Nay," returned Burr ; "we will converse more pleas 
 antly if both walk, and I find your conversation of 
 much interest, Master Batchelor. You know this 
 country and these people as no man I have yet encoun 
 tered knows them." 
 
 The flattery was received with a grave bow. "I am 
 4
 
 50 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 much interested in the English-speaking people here 
 about," continued Burr. "Particularly am I curious 
 regarding your own sect. You are, after all, a Metho 
 dist, are you not; Master Batchelor?" 
 
 "Why, yes," answered Batchelor, with his quiet 
 smile; "I trust I have method in all things." 
 
 Burr was slightly taken aback. "Judge Bruin tells 
 me," he began once more, "that you are much con 
 cerned just now in matters military." 
 
 "I am," returned Batchelor, "or I have been. Here 
 we are subject, as you know, to continual uprisings of 
 the Indians. The blacks, so far from affording pro 
 tection, are themselves a source of anxiety. And now 
 that Spain no longer rightfully possesses, and yet will 
 not relinquish the land, our condition is bad promis 
 ing worse. It appeared to me that a man who had 
 leisure to do so should fit himself to train a militia com 
 pany, and when I found the time I went to Fort Rosalie 
 and did fit myself, as best I might, to instruct my 
 neighbors in the art of war." 
 
 "A man of your qualities," suggested Burr, "a natu 
 ral leader of men, as I conceive you to be, would enjoy 
 such positions as give power while entailing respon 
 sibility." 
 
 "Why, no," corrected Batchelor, quietly. "I cannot 
 say, Colonel Burr, that I seek or anticipate any enjoy 
 ment in the matter. I am, as you know, a planter, 
 a tiller of the soil. It is my ambition to breed better 
 stock, to raise finer crops than another, to adjust myself 
 more nearly to understand Nature as she reveals her 
 self here in this new country, but not, I believe, to be 
 come, as you suggest, a leader of men." 
 
 "I find I must reclass you in my mental register. 
 You are, meseems, in your present humor, a modern 
 Timon." 
 
 " T is like this," explained Batchelor, "God made
 
 MISTRESS JOY 51 
 
 man, and God made the cattle. I have worked with 
 cattle all my life, and now for some months I have 
 been driving men. I find them, as you must admit, 
 who have handled both men and cattle horses, at least 
 considerably alike. I think it no harm to prefer the 
 society of the cattle. They are both God s creatures, 
 and the cattle and the crops leave my mind freer to 
 its own workings than the society of mankind." 
 
 Burr laughed, and professed to treat the statement 
 as a sarcasm. 
 
 "Nay, I meant it not unkindly," supplemented 
 Batchelor. "This country is my country, these people 
 are my people. I have cast in my lot among them for 
 good and all, and especially with the Society of Metho 
 dists, though I have not joined them, their creed being 
 somewhat strait, or I, perchance, a trifle broad. I hold 
 no grudge against any man or any company of men, 
 and my interest is not limited to my own plantation 
 and its belongings." 
 
 Midway the slope of Half-way Hill, on the road 
 between Washington and Natchez, stood the cottage 
 of a widow, a gentlewoman from Virginia, with 
 one beautiful daughter Mistress Wilful Guion. The 
 younger woman was, through a combination of cir 
 cumstances, a probationer in Pastor Valentine s little 
 band ; the mother was a Catholic. The marked beauty 
 of the daughter, the aristocratic appearance of the 
 mother, the fact that their fortune, though modest, 
 permitted them to live without work, set them rather 
 apart in that sturdy little homespun group. Their 
 place, a little, picturesque cottage, was called, because 
 of its position on the hillside, "The Half-way House." 
 
 As David Batchelor and his companion neared its 
 gateway, Burr lifted his hat in adieu. "I stop here, 
 Master Batchelor," he said. "I believe your own place 
 is further on?"
 
 52 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "I shall take great pleasure in welcoming- you there, 
 sir, when your convenience serves you to visit The 
 Meadows, " answered Batchelor, formally; and he 
 added : "Mistress Guion is ill. Her daughter bade 
 me carry the news to Master Valentine this morning 
 as an excuse for her own non-appearance at the 
 meeting." 
 
 "I had heard of her illness," returned Burr, "and I 
 thought to call and inquire if there were aught in which 
 I could serve her. Methinks that is Mistress Wilful 
 at the casement now." Again he lifted his hat and 
 bowed. The girl, blushing and smiling, came from 
 the window to the open doorway, and seemed to hesi 
 tate whether or not she should walk down the pathway 
 toward them. It was evident to Batchelor that Burr s 
 visit was by appointment. There was to him a sugges 
 tion that the mother s illness was but a pretext to shield 
 her daughter from the gossip which even now coupled 
 her name with Burr s. 
 
 At sight of the waiting figure the colonel s hand 
 some face glowed, in spite of his pretended noncha 
 lance. Batchelor paused long enough to speak to Wil 
 ful, offering any assistance possible in case her mother 
 should be w r orse, and then went gravely on his way. 
 
 Looking back, he saw that the girl had stepped 
 through the wicket; Burr, with his horse s bridle still 
 over his arm, was walking, beside her, back and forth 
 in front of the cottage. They were talking earnestly ; 
 both heads were bent, and something in the attitude of 
 the slim, girlish form, which seemed to lean toward 
 that of her cavalier, and yet to shrink with a kind of 
 timorous panic, knocked loudly at his heart for sym 
 pathy. 
 
 His own conversation with Burr had resembled the 
 playing of a light and gracious wind about a granite 
 cliff, yet now that the wind was wooing a rose there
 
 MISTRESS JOY = : 
 
 V.-2.5 a rr.lshrv c:rrerer.:t. H:: E.:u:htrr. :r~_c5 ! : 
 
 he said 
 
 through^ 
 hourly. 
 hawks, a
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 [OLONEL BURR saw surprisingly lit 
 tle of the invalid during that call 
 which was made avowedly upon her. 
 It was the girl, in blooming health, 
 who occupied an unconscionable 
 amount of his time. But, returning, 
 he found his head filled, not with im 
 ages of sweet Wilful Guion ; that busy brain swarmed, 
 instead, with queries and vague conjectures concerning 
 the man who was, even then, thinking of him. 
 
 Batchelor s rather ponderous poise was in such broad 
 contrast to the petulant weakness of Jessop that Burr 
 sighed impatiently. "If a man could only come by 
 the proper tools," he muttered, "all would swim easy. 
 This fellow Batchelor he would have made a good 
 king of the stalwart persuasion, in the days when a 
 king won and kept his throne by his own physical 
 prowess as well as mental balance and ascendancy he 
 is not to be lightly won to anything; but the case is 
 not hopeless, I have ciphered harder sums. I will see 
 more of him." 
 
 Later, at Judge Bruin s table, he brought the con 
 versation around to the object of his personal interest. 
 "David Batchelor, sir," replied the judge to his in 
 quiry, "is one of the finest men God ever made one 
 of the very finest, Methodist or no Methodist, sir. He 
 will take his rank in this community, and he will leave 
 
 54
 
 MISTRESS JOY 55 
 
 his mark on this community, and this community is 
 the better for his having lived in it." 
 
 "He struck me," returned Burr, "as a man born con 
 siderably above the station which he at present chooses 
 for himself." 
 
 "His birth is good, sir," said the judge ; "how good, 
 I do not know. You would never surprise me if you 
 told me his blood was royal, and I should not think the 
 less of him if I learned he was the son of a peasant. 
 T is the man himself who counts, and counts high, 
 among us." 
 
 "What was his business in Mexico?" inquired Burr. 
 "He mentioned to me that he had been there." 
 
 "Cotton," answered the judge, laconically. "If this is 
 ever a cotton-growing country, and some of us think 
 it will be the cotton-growing section of the whole land, 
 it will be largely owing to David Batchelor. The first 
 cotton we got here was from Georgia. When Batche 
 lor heard there was better seed to be had in Jamaica, 
 he went over there. He is a man of means, and foot 
 loose. The Jamaica cotton you remember it, Burr 
 I raised it extensively. It was the black-seeded. Good 
 fiber, fine staple, and we did well with it until it began 
 to have the rot. If Batchelor had not been a man of 
 means he would have been ruined by the rot, for the 
 year in which it appeared every acre he had was in 
 cotton. Some of the planters then put in the green- 
 seeded Cumberland cotton inferior, short-staple stuff. 
 It did not rot; but, faith, I had so little pride in it, 
 I was willing it should." 
 
 "Master Batchelor, then, as I understand it," in 
 quired Burr, "was seeking a rot-proof cotton in 
 Mexico?" 
 
 "He was," replied the judge. "You asked me about 
 Batchelor s birth and antecedents. All I know of them 
 is that he had such influence in high quarters as pro-
 
 56 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 cured him letters which, carried to Mexico, got him 
 the friendship of the viceroy. He was dining at the 
 viceregal table when he stated his mission, and re 
 quested leave to take back with him some of the Mex 
 ican cotton-seed. The viceroy, however complaisant, 
 was helpless in the matter. T was after the treaty of 
 San Lorenzo, by which Spain ceded this province to the 
 United States. The double-dealing, grim old thief 
 hath never delivered up the land to its rightful owners 
 not to this day; but the treaty was made pretext to 
 deny us cotton-seed, on the ground that Spanish law 
 forbade its exportation." 
 
 "But Batchelor, I take it," suggested Colonel Burr, 
 "is a man to gain his ends. He is not to be balked." 
 
 Judge Bruin knit his shaggy white brows at some 
 hint the words appeared to convey to him. "Only by 
 fair means, Colonel Burr," put in Mistress Bruin, from 
 her end of the table. "David Batchelor is an upright 
 man in all his dealings, though a Methodist and a man 
 of uncouth manner." 
 
 "I should not call him uncouth, Mistress Bruin," 
 objected the judge. "A self-contained man, and one 
 not so like to take a silly girl s fancy as some popinjay 
 with one half his sense." 
 
 A glance at prim young Mistress Margaret Bruin 
 revealed the fact that she was blushing. "Dear me, 
 ma mdre, why did you start father off again? When 
 he is on the subject of his paragon we must all ap 
 plaud." 
 
 "Peg, be still! Speak when you re spoken to. 
 Children should be seen, and not heard, " remarked 
 the judge, in a rapid fusillade. 
 
 "There are those," suggested Colonel Burr, "who 
 can well afford, being seen, not to be heard." 
 
 Margaret arose swiftly, and, dropping a graceful 
 little curtsy, murmured her thanks.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 57 
 
 "It is not best to flatter them up too much," grum 
 bled the judge. "You see, don t you? She is like 
 all the others, and knows not a good thing when 
 she sees it ; hath not sense to appreciate a real man ; 
 wants a beau only fit to wear farthingale and 
 tucker." 
 
 "I do not want a beau at all," protested poor Mis 
 tress Peg, almost in tears. 
 
 "Margaret, you may retire," suggested Mistress 
 Bruin, in a stately fashion. "We will leave the gen 
 tlemen to their wine." 
 
 When Burr returned to his seat, after bowing the 
 ladies out, "About the cotton you were saying ?" he 
 inquired, with raised eyebrows. 
 
 "The cotton, yes," resumed the judge. "The vice 
 roy could not get Batchelor cotton-seed to carry home 
 with him, but, as they sat chatting over their wine, as 
 you and I sit now, he jokingly offered him a collec 
 tion of Mexican dolls. Batchelor well understood the 
 offer, and thanked him. These dolls were stuffed with 
 cotton-seed, and the whole Natchez district is now rais 
 ing cotton from the seed that was brought over in the 
 puppets." 
 
 "That, then, I understand, is the source of his 
 means." 
 
 "Not at all, not at all," replied the judge. "You 
 do not know the man. Did he trade upon the necessi 
 ties of the rest of us? Not he. He was three years 
 before he planted any cotton at The Meadows, except 
 ing such as was for seed to give away to his neighbors. 
 He has a competence outside his income from the plan 
 tation. Yet, had he not, t is my belief David Batche 
 lor would find a way to do all he does without it. He 
 has brought over Scotch mechanics, skilled men whom 
 he knew in the old country, to work on the perfecting 
 of a cotton-gin. His neighbors, and all comers, profit
 
 58 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 by any improvement he has made upon the gin at The 
 Meadows. 
 
 "I was talking with him this morning," remarked 
 Burr, "of his recent military duties." 
 
 "And," added Judge Bruin, "he let you think that 
 he learned all he knows of war and warlike tactics over 
 at Fort Rosalie?" 
 
 "That did he," replied Burr. 
 
 The judge chuckled. " T is like David. To what 
 command or what arm of the service he may have be 
 longed I know not, only that he was thoroughly 
 grounded in tactics when he came to this country I 
 know right well. The instruction he had at Rosalie 
 was merely to polish up his knowledge, and also .to 
 learn what might be learned of our methods of war 
 fare with the savages in this new land." 
 
 "Think you," inquired Burr, idly, "that such a man 
 as he is like to succeed Master Valentine as pastor here, 
 when he weds the daughter?" 
 
 "Weds whose daughter?" inquired Judge Bruin, 
 tartly. 
 
 "I speak of Mistress Joyce Valentine. Methinks 
 she and Master Batchelor are both unusual persons for 
 their class, and t would be a suitable match, eh, 
 judge?" 
 
 The old man s choleric countenance flushed darkly. 
 "God s blood ! Colonel Burr, a man would think, to 
 hear ye prate of classes and the like, we had treach 
 erous aristocrats in the nation s councils. Congress 
 hath abolished classes. There are no classes, sir. All 
 men be free and equal before God." 
 
 Burr smiled quietly as he soothed the old man s 
 passion with plausible explanations. He had gotten 
 the information he desired. Judge Bruin, it appeared, 
 was a hearty supporter of the United States govern 
 ment, and a whole-souled believer in all it stood for.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 59 
 
 "You talk of classes," the judge went on; "look at 
 Tobias Valentine. A man as well born as you or 
 I better, perchance he leaves country, friends, re 
 nounces even his fortune his connections are all 
 wealthy men, Colonel Burr, men of substance. He 
 comes here into the wilderness and labors among our 
 people for their betterment. Oh, he is a Dissenter, a 
 Methodist, I grant ye; but even the Spaniards respect 
 him, and I say that when we sit up at our tables and 
 prate of class regarding such a man as that we are 
 damned aristocrats, sir, damned aristocrats no less !" 
 and he banged an emphatic hand upon the board. 
 
 The entrance of a negro interrupted Burr s reply. 
 "Massa Valentine," announced Cassius, in some ex 
 citement. "He say, mightly ticklar. Mus I bring 
 im in?" Judge Bruin nodded. 
 
 In answer to some sudden alarm which was in the 
 air, both men arose and stood confronting Father To 
 bias with anxious faces as he entered. Having greeted 
 them and made his apologies for visiting upon the 
 sacred Sabbath day, the preacher seemed for the first 
 time to note the unusual excitement of both. "You 
 have already heard my news?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Nay," replied Judge Bruin, "what is it? Have the 
 negroes risen?" 
 
 And Burr in the same breath asked : "Is it the Span 
 ish? Is it the Indians?" And thus were voiced the 
 triune terrors of the Southwest of that day. 
 
 " T is not immediate," returned Father Tobias; 
 " t is rumor only, but I thought well to come at once." 
 
 "Be seated, Master Valentine," said the judge. He 
 beckoned a negro, and bade him place a glass of wine, 
 which Father Tobias declined. The three men then 
 settled themselves at the board for their conference. 
 
 " T is the old squaw, Massawippa," began the 
 visitor.
 
 60 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "She who warned us last spring," interrupted Judge 
 Bruin, "in time to prevent the slaughter of our hogs 
 and cattle in the outlying pastures." 
 
 The other nodded. "Massawippa comes at times to 
 our meeting-house," he went on, "and my daughter 
 Joyce hath much hope for the salvation of her soul." 
 
 It was evident that the judge thought so useful a 
 person as the squaw sure of salvation, heathen or no 
 heathen; but he repressed the words he would have 
 spoken upon the subject, and Pastor Valentine con 
 tinued : "This woman was at the meeting to-day, and 
 on her way home she stopped at our dwelling, where, 
 finding my daughter alone, she told her there was a 
 plan afoot for the Natchez to unite with the Chicka- 
 saws and cross the river here, going south on a foray." 
 
 "Then," remarked Burr, gravely, "they will reach 
 us in their full strength, and before they have struck 
 a blow. Is the Spanish garrison trustworthy, think 
 you?" 
 
 A quick, appreciative glance from both his compan 
 ions answered this prompt casting in of his lot with 
 theirs. "Nay," said the judge. " T is more like that 
 the Spanish are at the bottom of this, but David Batch- 
 elor and his company will do their part, and every 
 house in this poor, harried, and exposed land is a for 
 tress." 
 
 The preacher sighed as the judge left the room to 
 send a messenger bidding David Batchelor join their 
 councils. " T is not wonderful," he remarked, "that 
 these poor lost sheep of the Father come up against us 
 in battle. We have many times set them the example." 
 
 "The lesson of your own life, Master Valentine," 
 returned Burr, smoothly, "and that of your flock would 
 surely be a good one. It should teach peace." 
 
 "I pray for faith," said Father Tobias, "and yet it 
 hath oft seemed to me that evil is more quickly learned
 
 MISTRESS JOY 61 
 
 than good. The Spaniards burned an old woman here, 
 Colonel Burr. T was a harmless old squaw who had 
 come to my daughter many a time begging. I was 
 from home. T was when Sister Barbara Heck, with 
 many of the godliest of our faith, were gathered in 
 the East for a conference. I, one of the least among 
 us, was called to be present. On my return, daugh 
 ter Joyce, a child of scarce fifteen, told me of how, to 
 please the Choctaws, the governor (a Spaniard then, 
 you mind) had let them build a scaffold here and burn 
 the poor old soul. Manteo the Indian, you may have 
 seen at my house, speaks all their tongues, and he told 
 me that to the last she cried doom down upon our peo 
 ple as well as upon her tormentors. She prophesied 
 many raids and forays, which have since come to 
 pass." 
 
 "Such things could not take place under the United 
 States government," asserted Burr. 
 
 "Nay, but we inherit the deathless hatred which 
 those things engendered," returned Father Tobias. 
 
 "War is always a frightful thing," mused Burr. 
 
 "War !" ejaculated the other. "This thing is not 
 war, Colonel Burr. You propose purchasing near 
 Natchez, I hear, and becoming a planter in this section. 
 T is well for you to recognize what foes are these 
 Natchez folk we are called upon to deal with. It is pos 
 sible for a man to go to till his field, leaving his cabin, 
 as he thinks, amply protected, and to return to find his 
 wife and babes murdered or driven away to a worse 
 fate, and his home in flames. If Congress can and 
 will take possession of this territory, and give wise as 
 sistance to such men as yourself and my good friend 
 David Batchelor, men who are trained in wars, we 
 may, perchance, within a few years make life more 
 secure. There is a noble army of missionaries among 
 mine own people who will, in God s good time, reach
 
 62 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 the root of the matter. Once the Indian is converted 
 to know the true God, we shall live beside him in peace 
 and brotherly love." 
 
 "We will drench him with the gospel and dose him 
 with leaden pellets, eh, Master Valentine? T is a 
 brave mixture, and hath exterminated many a savage 
 tribe." 
 
 Judge Bruin here entered Math David Batchelor, 
 booted, spurred, and mud-spattered from hard riding. 
 Massawippa had no details of the proposed attack, but 
 it was considered best that the planters be exhorted to 
 remain on the alert, and those who felt themselves too 
 weak to offer resistance should be advised to come into 
 the settlement. 
 
 Four messengers were chosen Nicholas Swazey, 
 Abner Chew, Heritage Hamtranck, and Demler 
 Dunn to ride the four main routes from Natchez and 
 warn the settlers. But it was considered that, the 
 danger not appearing imminent, these warnings need 
 not be given before the following day. Meantime, 
 they would make all possible preparations to repel an 
 attack. Batchelor proposed a plan for fortifying the 
 bluff, which could then be used as a lookout. A line of 
 earth and log breastworks was to run from a point 
 near the river to the Valentine house. Bayou Pierre, 
 as the most secure and easily defended point they had, 
 was to be a depot of supplies and arms. With these 
 latter they felt they were fairly well provided ; the men 
 of substance in the community had been most liberal 
 in subscriptions for that purpose since Spain s attitude 
 in regard to the San Lorenzo treaty had become a 
 menace to the English-speaking residents of the prov 
 ince. After the arrest of a Baptist preacher named 
 Hanna, ostensibly for an insult to the Spanish gover 
 nor, and really because he had held public Protestant 
 services in the open air, the Home Guard, under David
 
 MISTRESS JOY 63 
 
 Batchelor, was looked to for defense from Spanish 
 aggressions. 
 
 The men sat talking for hours. Batchelor drew out 
 and spread upon the table a map of the district, with 
 every plantation and cabin marked upon it. The situ 
 ation of each, its liability to attack, its possibilities for 
 defense these points were brought up and weighed 
 by them with the gravity of men who knew that they 
 were dealing with matters of life and death. 
 
 From time to time, the judge signaled Cassius to 
 replenish the fire in the great stone fireplace. Mistress 
 Bruin came in, with a face of concern, curtsied to the 
 gentlemen, talked apart with her husband, and left the 
 room silently and in tears. 
 
 Outside the door they heard her daughter question 
 her, and break into terrified sobbing at the reply. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said David, rising, when every pos 
 sible point had been considered, " t is now hard upon 
 twelve of the clock ; let us disperse. There is no imme 
 diate cause for alarm, I take it. At the proper time 
 I will have these runners warned of their duty and 
 sent forth." 
 
 "And you, Master Batchelor, must surely not ride 
 back to "The Meadows this night," urged Judge Bruin. 
 "Will you honor me by lying at my house? Mistress 
 Bruin would be proud to have you. And she will feel 
 vastly secure with so doughty a soldier added to our 
 defense." 
 
 "I thank you and Madame Bruin, both," returned 
 David, courteously. "We anticipate no attack to 
 night, yet the dwelling of my good pastor here lieth 
 like an outpost fair in the path which the savages must 
 take if they cross the river at the point which I appre 
 hend they will choose. So, with your permission and 
 his, I will accompany Master Valentine and remain 
 with him."
 
 64 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 When the three stepped into the hallway, Manteo, 
 who was supposed to be waiting in his customary fash 
 ion to accompany Father Tobias home, was nowhere 
 to be seen. Judge Bruin called the grinning Cassius, 
 and bade him seek the Indian. He returned, grin 
 ning more broadly than before. "Indy-man done gone 
 cl ar way, massa. Cain fin im nowhuz," he declared. 
 
 "Well, mend the fire, you black rascal," concluded 
 the judge. "Look to this log you have left here for 
 me and my guests to break our shins over." 
 
 In the dim obscurity of the half-lighted hall, he gave 
 the log a vigorous kick, and the log responded with 
 a remonstrant grunt. It rolled over, and disclosed the 
 blank, placid countenance of Manteo. 
 
 "Why, the fellow hath gone to sleep here in the hall ! 
 What aileth you? Get up!" Words failing to reach 
 the sleeper, the judge interrogated him sharply with 
 his foot. 
 
 Manteo arose, blinking and gaping, very far indeed 
 from his usual stolid self. He lurched toward the 
 doorway, remembered his gun, returned for it, tangled 
 his feet, fell, and sat, in their astonished midst, chuck 
 ling foolishly. 
 
 "Manteo, are you ill ?" inquired Father Tobias, lay 
 ing his hand upon the Indian s head. 
 
 "No sick," gurgled the prostrate warrior. "Manteo 
 heap happy. Manteo heap brave. Manteo eat up 
 Natchez. Manteo eat up five-six hundred Natchez." 
 He spread his brown fingers abroad and smiled fatu 
 ously upon them. 
 
 "Manteo, where have you been?" There was a long 
 pause. "Have you been drinking anything?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," agreed Manteo. "Good black man give 
 Manteo heap fire-water. Two cups fire-water. Jug 
 fire-water. Barrel fire-water. Now Manteo eat up all 
 Natchez," and he collapsed and slumbered.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 65 
 
 "How shall we get this erring creature home?" Fa 
 ther Tobias inquired anxiously. 
 
 "He is welcome to remain where he is, if t will re 
 lieve your anxieties, Master Valentine. But for my 
 part and the judge s rage mounted. "Cassius! 
 You black villain ! Come here and pick up this un 
 fortunate man, whom you have made drunk on my 
 liquor, and carry him every step of the way to his 
 home. Every step of the way, d ye hear? See that 
 you let him down not once." 
 
 "Iss, massa," said the now thoroughly terrified Cas 
 sius, and he made an abortive attempt to hoist Manteo 
 upon his back. 
 
 The black, however, was short, and the Indian was 
 not only long, but limp. Pried up at the center of his 
 tall frame, his head and feet trailed upon the floor, and 
 he presented so comical a picture that Burr and David, 
 lacking the reasons of Judge Bruin and Father Tobias, 
 the one for anger and the other for anxiety, burst into 
 uncontrollable roars of laughter. 
 
 But Judge Bruin had not well bethought him of that 
 proverb which assures us that it takes two to make a 
 bargain. As the stout, squat, little black man pro 
 pelled the loosely waving Manteo toward the door, that 
 worthy, finding the method of travel unpleasing to him, 
 and some\vhat sobered by the proceedings, rose, shoul 
 dered his gun, and staggered down the path, Father 
 Tobias and David following.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ESSOP lay sleeping peacefully in his 
 bed, on that Sabbath evening when 
 Father Tobias left him to go to Judge 
 Bruin s. 
 
 Warming the room outside was a 
 bright fire, which sparkled and snap 
 ped in the huge old chimney. It 
 made of the peaceful interior a picture of comfort and 
 cheerful homeliness. The dark-stained walls threw 
 into relief rows of shining vessels of pewter and brass, 
 while just above the table containing the Bible and 
 other books of devotion hung the portrait of a fresh- 
 faced woman, scarce out of girlhood. The slender 
 throat, the deer-like head, and fearless long-lashed eyes 
 were Joy s. About the firm mouth and haunting eyes 
 hovered a wistful eagerness, and Joy s mother carried 
 in her whole personality, as pictured here, the intan 
 gible essence of breeding, with a suggestion of the in 
 domitable force, high courage, and truth which were so 
 marked in impetuous, spiritual, brave Joyce Valentine. 
 Left alone, the girl sat down in her Sabbath trim to 
 read the Book, but her thoughts, like her hair, were 
 bright and rebellious, difficult to reduce to the Puritan 
 primness which was her ideal. 
 
 The sight of Massawippa revived in her mind re 
 membrance of a story which the old squaw had told her 
 years ago. When Joyce was quite a child, Massawippa 
 came often to the cabin with little gifts of fragrant 
 
 66
 
 MISTRESS JOY 67 
 
 barks, or berries from the wood, pones of strange sweet 
 bread made of coarse maize meal and whole chestnuts, 
 and buckskin moccasins for Manteo or Father Tobias. 
 
 Joy, deprived of a mother s care, loved the strange, 
 dark old woman, and was most devotedly loved by her. 
 Massawippa used to take the slim, pale, bright-haired 
 little girl upon her knee and, rocking and crooning, tell 
 her Indian stories and legends. 
 
 The old squaw was not a Natchez. She seemed to be 
 a drifting shred from some tribe farther east. But she 
 had at one time lived with the Natchez, and the story 
 which came vividly back to Joy s mind, as she sat, was 
 that of a young Natchez princess, Stel-o-na, the beauti 
 ful daughter of the Chief White-apple. The home of 
 White-apple was near the spot where the Valentine 
 cottage now stood. His wigwam overlooked green 
 fields of maize and tobacco, where the children and 
 squaws labored all day long. 
 
 Then the French came. They were pleased with 
 the corn, they learned from the Indians the use of 
 tobacco. Then they demanded not only the crops 
 themselves, but the fields upon which they were grown, 
 and gave the rightful owners a month in which to 
 depart. 
 
 The Natchez, finding that they were to be starved 
 as well as exiled, determined to resist. They plotted 
 to unite with the two other Indian tribes of the sec 
 tion and sweep every white-face from the land. Run 
 ners were sent to the Choctaws and Chickasaws, and 
 a simultaneous uprising was prepared. A quiver of 
 twenty arrows went to each tribe. One was to be 
 withdrawn and broken every morning. At daybreak 
 on the morning when the last of the twenty arrows 
 should have been broken, the three tribes would attack 
 simultaneously, sharing the spoils. 
 
 The quiver of the Natchez was deposited in the Tern-
 
 68 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 pie of the Sun, and each day the priest, or medicine 
 man, was to burn one of the arrows in the sacred fire. 
 
 But Stel-o-na had seen and loved a young lieutenant 
 of the French, the Sieur de Mace. Now she was in 
 despair. Hoping to break the power of the three tribes 
 by causing her own people to begin the attack ahead 
 of time, she stole two of the arrows and destroyed 
 them. The French easily repulsed the Natchez, fight 
 ing there alone without reinforcements, drove them 
 back into their strongholds, and massacred them with 
 out mercy. Stel-o-na, fatally wounded, died in her 
 lover s arms, protesting to the last that she died happy, 
 since she had saved him and his people. 
 
 Joyce chided herself vainly for such worldly, not to 
 say unseemly, musings upon the Sabbath evening. She 
 opened her Bible at random, as was her custom, to 
 find a text which should drive away these intrusive 
 thoughts. And she read, "For this cause shall a man 
 leave father and mother, and cleave only to his wife." 
 
 Suddenly, the words were alive. It struck her as 
 curious and beautiful that there was love other than 
 divine love even in the Bible. Dropping the lids of 
 the sacred book together again, it opened of itself, 
 offering her, "And Ruth said, Entreat me not to 
 leave thee, nor to return from following after thee ; 
 for whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be 
 my people, and thy God my God. The words were 
 sweet, though Ruth was but speaking to her mother- 
 in-law. Joy turned back to the beginning, and read 
 the quaint little story through. She had always bten 
 taught that it was love of truth, seeking for the gospel, 
 which led Ruth into far lands. Now a new light 
 seemed to fall upon the story, illuminating it sentence 
 by sentence, and she felt that a lover s waiting arms 
 had drawn the widowed Ruth upon her travels. She 
 closed the Book, and sat dreaming.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 69 
 
 If the love of a man for a woman, or a woman for 
 a man, did not come from God, where, she wondered, 
 did it come from, or why came it at all? Jessop s 
 words and intonations were recalled, and dwelt upon in 
 detail. How much did they mean? How little? 
 
 Suddenly, a pleasant, quiet voice behind her shoul 
 der said : "A penny for your thoughts, Mistress Val 
 entine." 
 
 Joy turned, with a little shriek. Her patient, fully 
 dressed he had even shaved himself, though with un 
 steady hand stood, looking tall and pale, in the door 
 way of his room. 
 
 She ran to him, drew him forward, and placed him 
 in a chair before she spoke at all. "What a wicked, 
 wicked, sinful thing for you to do," she cried, "to tempt 
 Providence in such fashion !" 
 
 "Why, Mistress Joy," answered her patient, smil 
 ingly, "you yourself allowed that I might sit up next 
 week." 
 
 "Next week! Aye, but next week is not to-night. 
 Will you go back and lie down?" pleaded Joy. "Is 
 your fever on again, think you?" 
 
 Jessop held out a submissive hand. Joy took the 
 wrist between her fingers, and counted the beating of 
 his pulse with much anxiety. "Nay," she said ; "it is 
 even and measured, though weak. But I would my 
 father were here. I am afraid I do ill to let you run 
 such risk." 
 
 " T is little risk I run, Mistress Joy, so far as the 
 body is concerned, though for the heart that s quite 
 another matter." 
 
 "You should not say such things to me," returned 
 Joy, reprovingly. "In the first place, you do not mean 
 them, and lying is a mortal sin. And, in any case, it 
 is very foolish and frivolous and unmeet to be speaking 
 of these matters on a Sabbath evening."
 
 70 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Jessop burst out laughing. "Mistress Joy," he ex 
 claimed, "I do protest that not all the coquettes in 
 Christendom could make a man so determined to talk 
 of love as one fair Puritan, who says he shall not. 
 Now what, if an outcast sinner like myself may make 
 inquiry, would you suggest as a suitable subject for 
 Sabbath-day conversation? You counted my pulse; its 
 beat comes from the heart, and also from that heart 
 comes the love of which I speak. It appears to 
 me that you theologians (you are a theologian, are 
 you not, Mistress Joy?) are a mighty hair-splitting- 
 folk." 
 
 Because the stronger self within Joy answered to 
 the youth and happiness and abandon in Jessop s tone, 
 she replied to him the more austerely. "Here is the 
 Book of all books, sir; we can surely find therein im 
 proving matter for conversation." 
 
 "What were you reading in it as I came forth, Mis 
 tress Joy?" inquired Jessop. 
 
 The girl s cheeks flung out their maiden banners of 
 distress; white brow, and even neck and ears, were 
 dyed as she turned her face away. 
 
 Jessop noted her confusion. "I warrant me," he 
 cried, laughing boyishly and happily, "that you were 
 sitting here, alone in the firelight, searching out every 
 text on love which the dear old Book holds." 
 
 He leaned forward and caught the hand nearest him, 
 as it hung listless by her side. "Turn round and face 
 your judge, mistress; was t not so?" 
 
 "Indeed, t was not," Joy replied indignantly. "I 
 do not mix my religion with worldliness and folly." 
 Then, with her usual resolute honesty: "I opened the 
 Book at random twice or thrice, to get rid of some 
 very unwelcome thoughts, and those texts you mention 
 came of themselves." 
 
 "Came of themselves! Of course they did, sweet-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 71 
 
 ing; so they come always to those who are ready for 
 them." 
 
 "I am not," protested Joy. "I am not looking for 
 such things. I told you they were unwelcome those 
 thoughts I had." 
 
 Jessop sprang to his feet, dropping one arm lightly 
 around her waist. With the other hand beneath her 
 chin, he turned her face to his smiling one. "And 
 those thoughts were of me!" he exclaimed trium 
 phantly. "I know they were." 
 
 What more he would have said or done, Joy knew 
 not, for she freed herself, remonstrating, "This is un 
 seemly behavior, Master Jessop. I shall not remain 
 with you to hear such words and be so treated." 
 
 "Forgive me," he pleaded anxiously and earnestly. 
 "You have been so heavenly kind to a wretched out 
 cast, who came like a beggar to your door, I made sure 
 you were thinking of me." 
 
 "But I was not," returned Joy, naively. "I was 
 thinking of another girl and her lover, of whom Massa- 
 wippa told me, and wondering if I if you she 
 broke down in confusion. 
 
 Jessop would have been more or less than man could 
 he have resisted a confession so childlike, so endear 
 ingly innocent. Ere she had done speaking, his arms 
 were around her, and he had taken the kiss which was 
 the ultimate object of all his jesting and badinage. 
 
 At the sound of footsteps approaching the door, the 
 two started apart and faced each other. Joy was white 
 and shaking with fury. That temper, which in her 
 better moods she regarded as emanating straight from 
 the evil one, had full possession of her now. 
 
 Jessop was flushed and triumphant, but a bit shame 
 faced, too, at sight of her passionate anger. 
 
 There was no time for speech between them before 
 Father Tobias opened the door and ushered David in.
 
 72 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Manteo staggered after, and, unable to mount the stair 
 way to the attic room, fell in a tangled heap beside it 
 and slept. 
 
 The door was scarce closed behind the newcomers, 
 when there came a gentle tapping, and David opened 
 once more to admit Massawippa. 
 
 On the old squaw s face and in her manner was left 
 nothing of Indian stolidity. She urged upon them to 
 prepare immediately for defense, for that the attack 
 might now come at any moment. 
 
 All speaking at once, they urged her to explain. She 
 but reiterated her entreaties, her continual cry being 
 that it was this cabin which was especially menaced; 
 it was this household only which was threatened. 
 
 "How numbers the war party?" asked David. And 
 she admitted, but confusedly, that so far as she knew 
 it numbered but five. 
 
 The men were half disposed to laugh, and half in 
 clined to be suspicious of this singularly exact infor 
 mation; but Joyce maintained passionately that they 
 would do ill to distrust Massawippa, and pleaded the 
 old woman s past faithfulness. 
 
 And so it was decided to follow the squaw s counsel. 
 When the excitement over her news had abated, the 
 men had leisure to observe that Jessop was up and 
 dressed. Father Tobias was for having him hurried 
 back to his bed, but David interposed, "Nay, if Master 
 Jessop is able to load a rifle, though he be not strong 
 enough to bear one, we would best let him stay." 
 
 In the hurry of preparation, all thought of that pre 
 vious episode, all anger over the stolen kiss, was swept 
 out of sight. 
 
 "Not fight I?" cried Jessop. "I feel as well as 
 ever I did in my life." 
 
 The heavy inner shutters were put in place. "Man 
 teo should be in the attic to act as lookout," fretted
 
 MISTRESS JOY 73 
 
 Father Tobias, "but I fear me he is not fit for the 
 duty." 
 
 Jessop bent over the recumbent Indian, sniffed sus 
 piciously, then raised his eyebrows in inquiry, glancing 
 at David. "Cold water, taken exclusively, is a preven 
 tive of such seizure as this appears," he laughed ; "and 
 cold water, applied externally, is the best remedy 
 known to bibulous man." 
 
 "Think you we can revive him?" questioned David, 
 somewhat doubtfully. 
 
 "Methinks I have swum out of worse ports on cold 
 water," Jessop rejoined. 
 
 "Here goes, then," agreed Batchelor, dragging the 
 Indian toward Joy s immaculate kitchen. "I have 
 pulled many a good fellow, limber as this, from under 
 a table and pumped on him until he \vas a man again. 
 I will apply the remedy, but do you hold him, Master 
 Jessop, lest his recovery prove too demonstrative." 
 
 With much sousing, grunting, and splashing, and 
 with sympathetic bursts of laughter from the two men, 
 Manteo was brought finally to a condition in which 
 he conjectured that the stairs were things meant for 
 climbing. 
 
 He was then hoisted to his room and given a rifle, 
 with the hope that, as he sobered more and more, he 
 would be able to act with fair efficiency as lookout. 
 
 When the two men reached the lower room again, 
 they found Father Tobias and Joyce continuing the 
 defensive preparations. All the cabins of that time 
 were built for such emergencies. The inner shutters 
 were heavily loopholed, and so fastened as to be im 
 movable from without. Joyce laid all the available 
 weapons on her spotlessly scoured dining-table. She 
 had placed a small kettle on the coals, and the ladle 
 and bullet-molds, with the basin of water, were set 
 forth near it.
 
 74 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Is Manteo ill?" she inquired rather sternly of 
 David. It was plain she suspected the cause of the 
 Indian s condition. 
 
 "Well," remarked Jessop, before David could reply, 
 "I warrant me there have been times when he hath felt 
 better." 
 
 "What did you do to him?" pursued Joy. 
 
 "Faith, we doctored him, Mistress Valentine. We 
 gave him the proper remedy. May I have a rifle? 
 Cannot Mistress Joy load for three?" he queried. 
 
 "Are you a good shot?" asked David. "I myself 
 am only fair. I lack practice." 
 
 "Manteo can hit a silver coin at a hundred paces," 
 suggested Joy. 
 
 Jessop stole a humorous look at David, as they bent 
 together over the guns. "That he will not this even 
 ing, Mistress Valentine," he finally observed. " T is 
 my belief he might make shift to hit a good, large barn 
 door, an the barn-door would be complaisant and hold 
 quite still for him." 
 
 Joy looked at Jessop, and was filled with wonder. 
 His eyes were bright, a glow of excitement supplied the 
 flush of health on his cheek. She had no experience 
 of men of his type, to whom danger and risk are as 
 new wine. The men whom she knew best were brave ; 
 they faced awful danger, but they faced it soberly, 
 counting the cost, and only in defense of home, w r ife, 
 and children. 
 
 Jessop s dancing eyes roved gaily over the defenses. 
 He seemed to regard the whole thing as a play pre 
 pared for his diversion. Suddenly, on the hushed 
 hurry of their preparations fell a long-drawn, quiver 
 ing cry. It might have been an owl, it might even 
 have been a panther, though these latter seldom came 
 close to the settlement now. 
 
 Joyce paused in her bullet-molding, ladle in hand,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 75 
 
 while the bright moltei drops dripped back into the 
 kettle. "What was that?" she whispered. 
 
 Father Tobias murmured, "Hush! T will come 
 again." 
 
 But it did not come again. They had begun once 
 more to move stealthily, their nerves still tensely 
 strained, listening for the cry. There was a soft thud 
 upon the door, as though a feather-bed had been 
 thrown against it. Then a voice moaned, "O Tobias, 
 dear Tobias ! It s me, only me. Please let us in. I 
 do yearn to help take care of you." 
 
 Before the first sentence ended Father Tobias and 
 Joy had recognized the voice. But it was David 
 Batchelor who took away the prop and opened the door 
 to usher in Sister Loving Longanecker and her daugh 
 ter Patience. 
 
 "The Lord in his mercy be praised !" she gasped, 
 blinking at the light. Then she turned upon Batchelor 
 volubly : "Ye sent for me to bring the child to the man 
 Bruin s, and so " 
 
 "What!" broke in David. "You have not brought 
 the child here ?" 
 
 A sturdy boy of four, son of a countryman of 
 David s, and left to his care by the death of both pa 
 rents, was fast asleep in Patience s arms. 
 
 "Aye, that have we," answered Sister Loving, 
 stoutly. "When we got to Bruin s house there was 
 Miss wringing of her hands and weeping, and Madame 
 no whit better. They told us t was feared there were 
 Indians abroad. They said you had come here. And 
 Patience says to me, says she, Mummy, we must go to 
 be a sword and buckler to dear Pastor Valentine. 
 
 Sister Loving ogled Father Tobias coyly. It be 
 came evident to Jessop, as she proceeded with her ram 
 bling narrative of their terror and the dangers which 
 had beset their journey to the Valentine s, that the
 
 76 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 elder woman was in the habit of representing herself 
 as a mere puppet in the hands of her daughter. 
 
 "Patience says, says she, Mummy, take your gun, 
 because if we meet any of the Indians ye 11 need it, 
 says she." Poor Patience small, meek, frightened, 
 with slightly retreating chin and protruding eyes lis 
 tened while her great, gaunt parent added : "And me 
 that s so feared of a gun." 
 
 "Tut, tut, Sister Loving !" interrupted Pastor Valen 
 tine, impatiently. "You can shoot truer than any other 
 woman of our Society, and well you know it. Let 
 Patience lay the boy upon the settle and care for him. 
 Take you this loophole to guard. It sweeps the whole 
 east hill. Mind you keep a sharp lookout, and speak 
 never a word." 
 
 "If he hath a mind to do slow murder, he hath gone 
 the right way about it," whispered Jessop, in a gleeful 
 aside to David. "Methinks that latter command will 
 surely finish the grenadier in petticoats." 
 
 Silence fell in the little room. Again every nerve 
 was stretched like a violin string. The firelight flared 
 and glinted on the wall. The child, after some drowsy 
 protests, slumbered on his hastily spread couch of 
 blankets. 
 
 Jessop turned occasionally from his post to snatch 
 a hasty glance at Joy, where she sat on a low stool by 
 the hearthside, molding bullets. Ever, when the flame 
 dropped low, its scattered brightness seemed to muster 
 on that down-bent, red-gold head. Her face showed, 
 serious and attentive, but not terrified. The color 
 was in her curved lips, and a little flush from the heat 
 of the fire painted the warm whiteness of her cheek. 
 vShe was molding excellent bullets, one could see that. 
 Joy s bullets would be true in time of need, just as her 
 prayers would be in time of spiritual stress. When the 
 boy stirred she quieted him with an adroit hand.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 77 
 
 How different was she from any feminine thing 
 which had come into Jessop s life before. History re 
 news often enough its proofs that the women of the 
 grande monde can meet suffering unmoved, that they 
 know how to laugh in the teeth of disaster, and smile 
 upon the front of death. But it is pain and danger 
 thrust upon them which evoke this fortitude, this he 
 roism. But Joy danger, hardship, renunciation were 
 her familiars, made so willingly and freely for her 
 father s sake. 
 
 It was not in the blood of a man like Jessop to re 
 gard a daughter of the people as other than legitimate 
 prey. Yet, thrown in the society of Joyce Valentine in 
 a manner which to his aristocratic ideas seemed the 
 crude familiarity of peasant life, he had never been able 
 to assume toward her other than a respectful mental 
 attitude. He doggedly refused to admit to himself 
 that she was his equal. To wife with her were impos 
 sible but well he knew that she was his superior. 
 
 He beheld her now strong hands, intelligent face, 
 brave eyes that looked at danger unflinchingly. Some 
 how, the sight brought to him the vision of one at 
 home in England, a very great lady as the world counts 
 greatness, young and beautiful too, even as Joyce was 
 beautiful. He wondered smilingly what would she 
 think of Joyce Valentine; and what good faith! 
 would she do at such a push as this? She, with her 
 first tiring-woman and her second tiring-woman, and 
 her spaniel, which must have its own attendant, her 
 silken hose, her heelless kid sandals, her multitudinous 
 smelling-bottles, and her affected horror at anything 
 real, natural, or human ! 
 
 With a whispered laugh, he once more leaned to his 
 lookout. What mattered it? One of these women 
 was dead to him, and the other was near and fair and 
 kind. But was she kind ?
 
 78 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 For the first time there entered his mind a creeping 
 doubt of his ability to take this feminine fortress, so 
 oddly garrisoned with defenses quite new to him. 
 "Say I offered her marriage," he communed with him 
 self. "And then, if the succession falls to me by 
 God, why not?" He turned to glance once more. 
 Their mutual danger had brought Joy nearer to him 
 than ever before. "She looks every inch a countess," 
 he said. "And for courage, not one of them can touch 
 her."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AVID was stationed at a loophole 
 across the corner from that guarded 
 by Jessop. Now he leaned forward 
 and touched the other on the shoul 
 der. "Think you," he said, "the In 
 dian above is too drunk to keep guard ? 
 Will they be upon us unawares?" 
 "I fear so," answered Jessop. 
 
 Massawippa had stolen unnoticed from her place at 
 the fireside. She crept up the ladder-like stair, and 
 stood in the bare little attic room. It was even as 
 the men had anticipated. Manteo lay sprawled across 
 his gun and snoring. The squaw crouched at the loop 
 hole to watch in his place. 
 
 Out of the silence came the cry of Joy s wildcat, 
 Satan, suing at the back door for admission. It struck 
 on the strained nerves of the little band like a blow. 
 They jarred vividly to it. Despite the remonstrances 
 of David and Father Tobias, who were well versed in 
 that Indian ruse of imitating the cry or call of wild 
 animal and bird, Joy, insisting that she knew her 
 Satan s voice, opened the low little door and let him 
 in. The gray, streaked creature sprang to her lap, purr 
 ing, its broad frilled face alive with love and grati 
 tude, its green eyes glowing, as it rubbed its head 
 against her breast. 
 
 Again for a weary hour there was but the purring 
 of the cat, the whispering of the fire, a murmur from 
 
 79
 
 8o MISTRESS JOY 
 
 the sleeping child, or the uneasy sighing of Sister Lov 
 ing, as some idea which she might not express swelled 
 big within her. 
 
 Faithful, awakening out of a dream of mice and un 
 limited cream, arose from her basket and stretched 
 herself luxuriously. Suddenly her one yellow eye en 
 countered the hated Satan, seated aloft in state and 
 being made much of. A thunderous growl from the 
 cat, as unfeminine as Sister Loving s tones were low 
 and sweet, greeted the odious sight. 
 
 Patience, who had been kneeling by her mother, arose 
 at the sound, and, tiptoeing gently across the room, 
 crouched at Joy s side. The bullets were molded, and 
 Joy had put them upon the table along with the two 
 spare guns, ready to reload for the men at the loop 
 holes. Father Tobias called softly to Faithful, and the 
 growling ceased. 
 
 On the perfect stillness which followed there came a 
 sound, muffled but distinct the three raps on the floor 
 above. It was Manteo s signal, as agreed upon. Jes- 
 sop s blood tingled, and the red came into his fagged, 
 weary face. Patience moaned and clung to Joy s 
 skirts, hiding her face. None of the watchers at the 
 loopholes could see anything approaching, though the 
 night was clear and starlit. 
 
 Above, Manteo still slumbered drunkenly. The sig 
 nal had came from Massawippa, who, from her out 
 look over the door, had caught sight of a stealthy 
 movement in the edge of the cane-brake. 
 
 Again and yet again something stirred. Finally a 
 dark form stole a few paces into the open toward the 
 black, silent little hut. It was joined by another and 
 another, till there were five figures in view. As she 
 watched them, apparently consulting together in regard 
 to their next move, she made desperate efforts to pull 
 Manteo s gun from under him, or to rouse him that
 
 MISTRESS JOY 81 
 
 he might shoot. But Manteo was like a drugged crea 
 ture, and she finally got the weapon in her own hands, 
 aimed it as best she could, and fired. Her shot was 
 the signal for a yell and a rush toward the cabin. 
 
 Roused at last by the sound of firing and the familiar 
 war-whoop, Manteo struggled up and grappled with 
 the thing which he conceived to be his adversary. Sav 
 agely, again and again, he struck Massawippa. As 
 best she might, she parried and evaded the blows, but 
 never returned them. To and fro they swayed, the 
 squaw whispering, "Massawippa, Massawippa! Man 
 teo Massawippa /" 
 
 But Manteo either did not hear her, or, hearing, did 
 not care. His drunken fury blinded him to the peril 
 of their position. 
 
 The first rush brought one of the besiegers within 
 range of Sister Loving s rifle. Ah, Sister Loving 
 Sister Loving, of the tender heart, the piping voice, 
 the warrior soul, and the keen, true aim ! She belied 
 her name by waiting until the man was within point- 
 blank range, and then firing with a steady hand. 
 
 "One wicked heathen gone," she remarked in dove- 
 like tones, tossing the gun backward to Patience and 
 reaching for the fresh rifle which that astute young 
 woman knew better than not to have waiting for her 
 mother s hand. 
 
 As Sister Loving s eye came back to the loophole 
 she cried out with dissatisfaction, for her Indian was 
 up and limping off. She sent another shot after him, 
 which failed of effect. 
 
 Sister Loving s victim had approached the house on 
 the east, the side farthest from the river. Next to 
 Mistress Longanecker, and commanding the northern 
 outlook, stood Jessop. As the wounded savage reached 
 the cane-brake, a companion bounded out, and, circling 
 westward to avoid the fate of his predecessor, passed 
 6
 
 82 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Jessop s loophole at a swift nin. Jessop s nerves were 
 as steel, and his heart leaped exultantly. It was like 
 shooting at a fleeing pheasant on a Scotch moor. He 
 felt the same elation and no remorse as, with a clean 
 shot, he bowled his man over. And this Indian lay 
 quite still ; he did not rise again. 
 
 "Didst git im?" inquired Mistress Longanecker. 
 At Jessop s nod, she continued ruefully : "Well, you ve 
 the lead o* me, then. I grassed mine, but he got away." 
 
 A rifle shot rang out clear and loud, and a bullet 
 cried past Mistress Longanecker s ear. Her fatal pro 
 pensity for conversation had caused the momentary 
 neglect of her outlook. 
 
 Father Tobias was kneeling by the south door, to 
 bring his eye on a level with its loophole. The bullet 
 struck the stones above the fireplace and Was deflected, 
 wounding him slightly in the head. 
 
 As Mistress Longanecker saw her beloved Tobias 
 sink to the floor, she leaped up with a yell. Turning to 
 Patience, she bellowed in her reserve voice, which was 
 to her usual tones as a hurricane to a summer zephyr : 
 "Shut your mouth ! * 
 
 "Why, mummy," whimpered her daughter, "I 
 hain t opened it. * 
 
 "But ye were a-goin to. Y know ye were a-goin 
 to," screamed her irate parent, as she ran to where 
 Father Tobias was already striving to rise. 
 
 David and Jessop stuck to their respective positions, 
 and shouted to Mistress Longanecker to stick to hers. 
 Manteo alone, David said, would be sufficient protec 
 tion for the south front, though Master Valentine was 
 down. 
 
 But the sister heeded nothing, not even the voice 
 of her clearly beloved Tobias, as he protested that he 
 was scarcely scratched. Struggling to his feet, he 
 sought to evade her onslaught. She flung herself
 
 MISTRESS JOY 83 
 
 down before him and clasped his knees, volleying forth 
 praises and hosannas for his deliverance. "And Pa 
 tience says to me, says she, O dear Master Tobias, are 
 you sure you re not hurt no worse than what ye think 
 ye are ? Just lean right down on me, and I 11 help ye 
 over to the settle." 
 
 Father Tobias was in an agony of impatience to get 
 back to his unguarded door. "Let me go, my good 
 soul; pray let be. Calm thyself, dear Sister Loving! 
 Let me go, I say, good Mistress Longanecker." 
 
 And as Father Tobias withdrew first one foot and 
 then the other from her toils, stepping high lest per 
 chance he tread upon his supplicant, and inching minc- 
 ingly toward his old station at the south door, the 
 graceless Jessop was irresistibly reminded of the an 
 tics of a reverend old crane. 
 
 "O-o-oh, he called me dear!" hosannahed Mistress 
 Loving. "And Patience says to me, says she, I do 
 love Joy like a sister, er-ready. 
 
 Father Tobias was by no means extricated, and his 
 reckless use of words had emboldened Sister Longa 
 necker to block his path anew. Manteo, above, whom 
 Jessop and David supposed to be guarding the south 
 approach, was still wrestling with Massawippa for 
 his gun. 
 
 There were but three of the five Indians left active 
 in the field. These, finding that they were not fired 
 upon from the south side of the dwelling, came boldly 
 up, and two of them, under the direction of the third, 
 who seemed to be the leader, raised a log of firewood 
 a monster back-log which lay beside the door-stone 
 and, using it as a battering-ram, at one blow drove 
 the door inward. 
 
 Master Valentine, Sister Longanecker and Patience 
 were all knocked down by the falling door, while the 
 sleeping child, rudely awakened, crouched sobbing on
 
 84 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 the settle. Jessop and David both fired into the open 
 doorway, and succeeded in driving off the two Indians 
 who had used the log. 
 
 But the savage who had been directing them leaped 
 into the open doorway and, brandishing his tomahawk, 
 sprang across the room toward Joy, as she stood at 
 the table absorbed in loading and handing the extra 
 guns. 
 
 The weapons of both Jessop and David were empty. 
 Father Tobias had not yet extricated himself from the 
 fallen door and Sister Loving s scarcely less formid 
 able endearments. A moment more, and the whirling 
 tomahawk would descend, when suddenly, like a gray 
 streak, Satan launched himself, all teeth and claws, full 
 in the Indian s face. 
 
 The savage leaped back, unprepared for such war 
 methods in the cabin of a white medicine-man. Joyce 
 wheeled, flung up the loaded rifle she held ready to pass 
 to whichever defender might need it first, and fired in 
 stantly, filling the room with smoke and uproar. 
 
 The man trembled and sank to one knee. Then, 
 with a wrench, he rose to his feet and started off at a 
 sort of shambling run. 
 
 David leaned forward, snatched a rifle from the 
 table, and shot him as he ran. 
 
 "O Master Batchelor!" remonstrated Joyce, from 
 the end of the settle, against which the gun s recoil 
 had flung her. "He was a very wicked man. Per 
 chance, had you let him live, he might have repented." 
 
 "Let him repent in hell," groaned Batchelor, between 
 his shut teeth. "Are you hurt, Joy? Did he strike 
 you?" 
 
 "No," said Joy, turning to recover and reload the 
 empty gun. 
 
 Jessop had run forward, and was attempting to lift 
 the heavy door from Father Tobias. Weakened by
 
 MISTRESS JOY 85 
 
 his long illness, however, his strength proved unequal 
 to the task. 
 
 David laid his hand upon the table, and, vaulting 
 lightly over it, added his exertions, and the door was 
 soon in place. Father Tobias was lifted to the couch. 
 
 "We must back to our loopholes, must we not?" 
 queried Jessop, in a hurried undertone. 
 
 "I think the fight is over," replied David. "I be 
 lieve there were but a half-dozen of our assailants, and 
 we have lamed or wounded three or four." 
 
 "Manteo should be all the lookout that we need 
 now," said Jessop. "But," as they peered once more 
 from the various outlooks, "though he gave the signal, 
 yet he let two or three approach the door." 
 
 "Belike he is too drunk to see them. Methought I 
 heard a struggle up there while we fought down here," 
 commented David. 
 
 "And where is Massawippa?" asked Joy. She had 
 taken the child in her arms, and was hushing him gently 
 as she spoke. Sister Loving was once more in close 
 attendance upon the pastor an attendance with which 
 it appeared he would have gladly dispensed. 
 
 Suddenly there came to the ears of those below a 
 yell, the sound of a struggle, and of a shutter being 
 torn away above-stairs. 
 
 They believed for a moment that one of the be 
 siegers had, in some manner inexplicable to them, 
 climbed to Manteo s window and, breaking in its de 
 fense, attacked the drunken Indian as he lay. 
 
 What really had occurred was this : The attacking 
 party actually consisted of but five Indians. They 
 were led by a tall man who was not a Natchez, but 
 spoke, instead, in a dialect which the four Natchez, his 
 companions, seemed at times to find difficult of com 
 prehension. This man David had shot. The others, 
 in departing, followed a custom not uncommon in these
 
 86 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Indian forays, which were more for purposes of rob 
 bery than in the way of ordinary warfare. Firing a 
 well-seasoned torch, they threw it upon the roof of the 
 cabin as they fled to the shelter of the canes. The 
 sight of it as it whirled past the loophole sobered Man- 
 teo, and the sound of it, as it sputtered and crackled 
 upon the shingles, caused him to release his grasp upon 
 Massawippa. 
 
 Well he knew that the hand which threw that brand 
 was waiting, if it blazed undisturbed, to complete the 
 work of murder and destruction. 
 
 He wrenched loose the fastenings of the window 
 shutter. "Massawippa go," pleaded the squaw. "Man- 
 teo no be killed. Massawippa heap like be shot." She 
 sank down and clung to his feet. 
 
 Turning, he struck savagely at the upturned, plead 
 ing face, and climbed through the window. 
 
 Outside, the light of the torch made him a fair tar 
 get for lurking foes, but this was not enough for Man- 
 teo s bravado, fed by the liquor he had consumed and 
 roused to white heat by a sudden realization of the fact 
 that, while others had defended the cottage and slain 
 some of its besiegers, he had wasted his time and 
 strength upon a wretched squaw. 
 
 Grasping the flaming brand, he stood erect, and, 
 swinging it above his head, yelled a defiance at the 
 unseen enemy. His taunt was promptly answered by 
 the crack of a rifle from the edge of the cane-brake; 
 Manteo, torch in hand, fell headlong from the roof s 
 edge, dropped in a shapeless heap in front of the bar 
 ricaded door, and the extinguished torch scattered a 
 circle of sparks beside him. 
 
 The sounds of all this came to those below. "What 
 is to do?" cried Father Tobias, sitting up and pushing 
 aside Sister Loving s too ardent ministrations. 
 
 " T is a feint to draw us out, belike," said Patience.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 87 
 
 " T was even so they did when they fired Prudence 
 Rideout s house and burned it over her head." 
 
 " Pears to me," said her mother, "that I smell fire 
 somewhur beside the fireplace." 
 
 Father Tobias, climbing the stairs, met poor Massa- 
 wippa creeping down. "Manteo!" she gasped, and 
 pointed to the front of the house. 
 
 "Was t he who fell?" inquired Jessop. . "Is he out 
 there?" And Joy ran to unbar the door. 
 
 "Have a care, Mistress Joy," cried David; "neither 
 of our loopholes can defend you. If t is a feint, as 
 seemeth likely, you will be shot as soon as you open 
 the door." 
 
 Joy was too good a frontierswoman to run needless 
 risks. "We know," she said, "that they are very few 
 not enough to make a rush. Do you, or Master Jes 
 sop, guard the opening. If Manteo be indeed with 
 out, we must help him." 
 
 As became afterward apparent, the besieging Indians 
 had, in the death of Manteo, accomplished their pur 
 pose, and the three who survived the encounter had 
 gone, taking their dead with them. 
 
 The door was opened, and Manteo s body dragged 
 inside without interference. His seared right hand and 
 the extinguished torch told their own tale of heroism. 
 
 "Is the roof fired?" inquired David, and the squaw 
 shook her head. She had waited to see that the shin 
 gles were not ignited before putting the heavy window 
 shutters back in place. 
 
 Seating herself on the floor, she took the dead In 
 dian s head in her lap and began a sort of crooning or 
 wailing, inexpressibly desolate and heart-moving. 
 
 Father Tobias attempted some words of comfort, 
 and to them she answered, speaking in her native 
 tongue, which he then found, with surprise, was Man 
 teo s own musical Cherokee.
 
 88 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "White Father," she said, "this brave was my man. 
 I served and followed him in the wars and on the hunt 
 ing-trail for ten years before he met the White Father 
 and learned to believe in the White Father s Manitou. 
 When it came that the White Father and the little Day 
 Star were leaving the land where Manteo was born, to 
 come to this far and barren country, Manteo \vent with 
 them. 
 
 "Massawippa would fain have gone too, but Manteo 
 said, No. In that far country, the White Father needs 
 a brave to defend him, not a squaw to be a burden 
 upon him, and he drove me away with hard words. 
 Then Massawippa followed day and night. Day and 
 night she followed, and kept the little boat in view. 
 When the White Father built this house, Massawippa 
 stayed with the Natchez and with the Chickasaws. 
 She became an outcast, and wandered from tribe to 
 tribe and from camp to camp. Manteo was angry 
 when he saw her face. Yet sometimes, when he 
 hunted or fished, he gave poor Massawippa meat be 
 cause she had once been his squaw and had been 
 faithful." 
 
 Jessop and David, who were at the loopholes again, 
 guarding the cottage, listened to this extraordinary 
 story, David translating to the other as she spoke. 
 "Faith! t is not the first time by many," whispered 
 Jessop, with a whimsical grimace, "that a man hath 
 fed two families." 
 
 Massawippa turned her hopeless eyes to the men at 
 the loopholes. "Tell them," she said to Father Tobias, 
 "that they need watch no more. It was Manteo s an 
 cient enemy, Amehota. He had followed from the 
 Land of the Rising Sun, swearing to take Manteo s 
 scalp, and now that he knows Manteo is dead he will be 
 swift upon the trail home." 
 
 "Methought t was some such thing," said David, as
 
 MISTRESS JOY 89 
 
 he laid his gun upon the table. " T is no general up 
 rising; there were but five of the villains." 
 
 "Forgive me, O White Father !" begged Massa- 
 wippa, "that I told you not this thing that I spoke 
 words with a double meaning. Had I told you other 
 wise, you would have cast Manteo out, that you might 
 live in safety." 
 
 "Why, not so, sister," remonstrated Father Tobias. 
 "The white man, who serves the Great Spirit, does not 
 desert a brave in his time of need." But the old squaw, 
 her unseeing eyes raised, had gone back to her deso 
 late chanting over the dead husband who had in his 
 lifetime despised and cast her off. 
 
 "Women are curious creatures," murmured Jessop 
 to David. "Without regard to color, a gun-butt or a 
 doubled fist, judiciously used, seems ever to open up 
 the way to their affections. Think you not t is so?" 
 
 David, the boy in his arms, laughed. The child 
 stirred sleepily, and put up a loving hand to stroke the 
 man s face. "What Dabie laugh for?" he inquired.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 APTUROUSLY dawned the morn 
 ing after the uprising that uprising 
 which rose to so inconsiderable a 
 height. The sky arched above the 
 glad earth with an intense blueness. 
 Sunshine sifted in great patches of 
 gold through the bare trees which 
 stood like sentinels about the exposed front of the 
 little cabin. There was frost, but no stress of cold in 
 the January air. A light breeze played a delicate reed- 
 like monotone through the pale-columned cane that 
 curved in a close phalanx about the sides of Father 
 Tobias s homestead. 
 
 To Joyce, who stood, an incarnation of the new day, 
 among her flocks, it sounded like a requiem. It minded 
 her of the poor dead Indian back in the little cabin, 
 whose life, however useless in the living, went out in 
 an act of courage and self-sacrifice. 
 
 Her cheek wore its usual clear pallor, and dark shad 
 ows, wrought by anxiety and fatigue, added depth to 
 her gray eyes. There was a serious beauty about the 
 whole face. She seemed in accord with the strong 
 sunlight and the blue sky, the wind, with its breath 
 of early morning and its smell of vigorous, earthy 
 things, drawn up from the source of all life. The note 
 which was brave and dominant in the girl s personal 
 ity chorded .harmoniously with the new day. 
 
 Jessop stood unobserved and watched her, first from 
 
 90
 
 MISTRESS JOY 91 
 
 the cabin window and then from the doorway. His 
 thoughts were not altogether sweet. The stimulation 
 of last night s danger, being evaporated, showed him 
 decidedly the worse for his long and serious illness. 
 To him the six weeks had been like six months, for, 
 with all his nonchalance and seeming indolence, Jessop 
 was preeminently a man of action. 
 
 Joy had been struck, during the terrible strain of the 
 night previous, by his gauntness of contour. She was 
 not apt to sentimentalize over a convalescent, man or 
 woman. But to her there was something touching in 
 the thin, elegant figure, rather under than above the 
 ordinary height, so recently helpless from illness, yet 
 keeping doggedly at its post, thrusting back weakness 
 and exulting in untried perils. 
 
 He was like the bare outline of a man hung with 
 misfit clothes. But though gaunt and haggard, he felt 
 himself well enough at last to possess no further excuse 
 for inaction. The girl, in her fresh vigor, undaunted 
 by the night s dangers, shamed him. He strolled out 
 to where, back in the little clearing, a poultry-yard had 
 been inclosed ; the chickens and ducks and geese, tender 
 objects of Joy s solicitude, were breakfasting. 
 
 "Shame there, Yellow-neck! don t be greedy," Joyce 
 cried, and, lifting her narrow, short stuff gown, she 
 "shooed" the encroacher away. "Pretty-bill, thou art 
 ever generous and forgiving," she added, stooping to 
 smooth the portly speckled hen, which was clucking 
 amicably, in perfect willingness to share her meal with 
 the returning Yellow-neck. Joy laughed. "I 11 e en 
 spare my bad words, Pretty-bill; you must take care 
 of your own breakfast." 
 
 Manteo s great wolf-dog had crept in among the flut 
 tering chickens and. curled himself, with a desolate 
 whine, at her feet. "Poor Toka," she said softly, 
 "you must find another master now."
 
 92 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Old Faithful, Father Tobias s monster cat, crouched 
 blinking on the fence. Faithful loved the cabin and 
 Father Tobias. Joy she tolerated, though that young 
 woman s frenzied upheavals in behalf of cleanliness 
 often worked woe to her feline soul. But Manteo and 
 Manteo s dog had been her twin abominations, and she 
 kept her one eye fixed in baleful scrutiny upon Toka, 
 as he lay at her young mistress s feet. Faithful s crip 
 pled vision had first commended her to that pity in 
 gentle Father Tobias s heart which is akin to love. 
 
 From her benign, merciful old father, Joy had inher 
 ited the bounteous nature which in her became so 
 largely maternal. From the time of their advent in 
 the Mississippi cane-brake, where, with dauntless faith, 
 Tobias Valentine builded his temple in the wilderness, 
 Joy had always a larger or smaller brood of detrimen 
 tal wayfarers of the hairy and feathered tribes, which, 
 yielding to an adverse fate, had fallen by the wayside. 
 An ailing chicken, a crippled rabbit or wounded bird, 
 called irresistibly upon the mother instinct in the girl s 
 complex nature. 
 
 Once, when a nest of infantile snakelets had been 
 unearthed, after Manteo s neat and conclusive despatch 
 of the mother snake, Joy stood a moment eying them 
 wistfully. She had a shuddering fear of all crawling 
 things, but their helplessness made its instant appeal. 
 
 "Ugh! No pet snake," quoth the Indian. "Snake 
 like Huron. Sting friend. Eat chicken. Manteo kill 
 im now; kill im sure." And the girl, barely fifteen, 
 covering eyes and ears, fled to the house while the 
 butchery went on. 
 
 Satan, a mere kitten, remained in the track of a 
 storm of shot and powder which cleared a woodland 
 near by of many dangerous beasts. "Poor kitty, he was 
 left, mayhap, for some wise purpose," cooed Joy, "and 
 I 11 mother the poor baby." Last night gave Satan,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 93 
 
 as well as Manteo, his chance, and he had paid his debt 
 to the young foster mother. 
 
 "Faith, fair Mistress Joy," Jessop called, as he con 
 templated the girl and her flock, "you thrifty birds put 
 worms like me to the blush. T were some salving 
 to my conscience were you less intent on catching them 
 at this hour." 
 
 "Good day, Master Jessop," returned Joy, demurely. 
 "You may have seen it writ large in copy-books, Pro 
 crastination is the thief of time. Was that, pray, what 
 brought you out so early?" 
 
 Jessop looked upon the pretty picture she made, sur 
 rounded by her feathered dependents, all straining 
 eagerly, as is the wont of their betters, to pick up the 
 biggest crumbs. 
 
 "Is there aught about the cottage I could do to 
 help you?" he inquired, with diffident abruptness. 
 
 "You are not strong enough to work, are you?" 
 deprecated Joy, kindly. 
 
 "I should have doubted it myself yestermorn; but, 
 holy blue! Mistress Valentine, what right hath a man 
 with not one cent in his pocket to fine gentleman airs ? 
 I must e en to work, and pay my score." 
 
 Joy turned toward him a face in which the bright 
 ness was quite dashed. Jessop s bitterness, his ungra 
 cious outbursts, always wounded her deeply, but she 
 answered steadily: "I applaud your decision, sir. If 
 a man will not work, neither shall he eat. 
 
 " T is a frequent text with you, Mistress Joy, and a 
 true saying as well," agreed Jessop. "I may work and 
 die; but I shall not live and beg." 
 
 Joy was overcome with swift remorse. "You surely 
 know I meant no such thing as that. My father is most 
 willing that you be provided at his table with material 
 food, and both of us long earnestly to feed you with 
 that spiritual bread without which the body itself
 
 94 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 faileth. O Master Jessop, would that I could show 
 you how good a thing it is !" 
 
 She had approached him, her eager eyes alight, her 
 red lips apart. Jessop looked at her a trifle whim 
 sically. She was, he thought, the embodiment of youth 
 and love; and these (to him) canting phrases seemed 
 quaintly incongruous from such lips. But it was clear 
 that his best chance for holding Joy s attention as a 
 lover was to present himself as an interesting penitent; 
 so, with some effort, he drew a long face and professed 
 a desire to hear more. 
 
 The young enthusiast was delighted. "My father 
 will be so happy !" she said. Joy s private opinion \vas 
 that nobody who listened to her Father Tobias could 
 resist him, and she looked upon their penitent as al 
 ready saved. 
 
 "Nay, Mistress Joy," insinuated Jessop, "your father 
 is a very busy man. Many depend on him. If you 
 could give me instruction t would perchance be better." 
 
 "Oh, I shall !" agreed Joy. "I think now of so 
 many things I wish to say to you, but one word of 
 father s is worth ten of mine. His ministrations are 
 always blessed. It discourages me sometimes, for you 
 know I humbly believe myself called. I look forward 
 my poor life is consecrated to the preaching of the 
 Word." 
 
 Jessop s face wore an expression of strong disrelish, 
 but, warned and disciplined somewhat by former inter 
 views, he forbore remonstrances. 
 
 " T is a beautiful hope to look forward to," finished 
 Joy, innocently. 
 
 "Would you rather be a Methody preacher in the 
 wilderness here, than a lady, such as you are fitted to 
 be, with title and wealth, the world at your feet and a 
 man at your command who loved only you ?" 
 
 "Yes," asserted Joy, with the prompt finality of
 
 MISTRESS JOY 95 
 
 complete ignorance, the certainty of the untempted. 
 "These worldly things of which you speak be but husks 
 which starve the soul." 
 
 "Husks, are they?" inquired Jessop, as he followed 
 her toward the house. "Then you think, do you, Mis 
 tress Joy, that this gospel you offer me is the kernel of 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "It is the seed of eternal life," declared Joy, seriously 
 and sweetly. "I long inexpressibly to see you lay hold 
 upon it. Master Jessop, my soul loveth thy soul. Yea, 
 I could say to thee as Jacob said to the angel, I will 
 not let thee go except thou bless me. Even so can 
 not I see you depart from among us till you have 
 blessed our ministrations by accepting the truth." 
 
 What an impossible girl ! Jessop would have said 
 that such words from such lips could excite only amuse 
 ment in him; yet now he found the tears in his eyes 
 at the innocent kindness of the young creature. 
 
 "Mistress Joy," he said, with a quick impulse, and it 
 was as though another spoke rather than himself, "I do 
 believe in your true concern for me. I have had little 
 love in my life. I have been fawned upon, I have been 
 cajoled. God knows I was always a ready enough tool 
 to any who sought so to use me. I have been indulged 
 madly by those who who cast me off when I wounded 
 their pride; but as for such pure love as this of which 
 you speak, I have known naught of it. Meseems that 
 for its sake a man might do anything, be anything, you 
 desired." 
 
 "Not that I desired," returned Joy, with some gentle 
 reproof in her tone "that God desires." 
 
 "Oh, but the instrument," urged Jessop. "Surely 
 I remember hearing you say that God works through 
 instruments?" 
 
 "Yea," answered Joy, "and I should feel blessed 
 among women to be that instrument."
 
 96 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 It trembled on his lips to say there could be none 
 fairer nor sweeter, but the sight of Mistress Longa- 
 necker in the doorway they had paused, in the ear 
 nestness of their speech, before again entering the cabin 
 checked their conversation. 
 
 " What, ho ! Is the good dame dancing mad ? Hath 
 she been bitten by a tarantula? " quoted Jessop. Mis 
 tress Longanecker signaled them with incomprehen 
 sible gestures and grimaces, as she pointed to the room 
 behind her, which appeared to contain the cause of 
 her perturbation. Joy hurried forward alone, and Jes 
 sop, following more slowly, saw her enter and greet 
 Ambrose Gibson and Glass Parkinson, two of the stew 
 ards of the Society. These two and Father Tobias 
 were in earnest conversation. 
 
 "He was a brother in Christ and a member of our 
 Society," insisted Master Gibson. 
 
 "He was this woman s husband," corrected Pastor 
 Valentine. " Whom God hath joined, let not man put 
 asunder. 
 
 Massawippa, shrunken and fallen together from 
 grief, her long vigil, and abstinence from food, sat at 
 the dead Indian s head, moaning softly. Her bleared 
 eyes were raised, fixed and sightless, to the ceiling. 
 Her face was seamed and creased and marred. The 
 weather-beaten dwelling of her strong, patient soul was 
 well-nigh ruinous. It had been raftered and roofed 
 with hardship, clapboarded with abnegation, the nails 
 driven deep by the hammer of necessity fate. 
 
 "It is not seemly," asserted Glass Parkinson, a tall, 
 gray, angular old man, "that heathen rites be done 
 upon the body of one who hath accepted Christ as his 
 salvation." 
 
 "I can see no sin," persisted the pastor, with gen 
 tle obstinacy, "in giving the body of this man to his 
 wife. I shall call the Society together and hold the
 
 MISTRESS JOY 97 
 
 burial service here in this house at sunset. Two of 
 this woman s people have promised to come at moon- 
 rise to bear the body away and inter it according to 
 their ancient customs." 
 
 "In death, every man goeth to his own gods," said 
 David s voice from the doorway. He came forward, 
 laid a hand on Father Tobias s shoulder, looked smil 
 ingly from one to other of the two stewards, and 
 added : "Content ye, my friends. A creed is a thing 
 for a man to live by." 
 
 "Perchance ye re right, Master Batchelor," debated 
 Gibson, thoughtfully. "I warrant ye, t were better 
 for the world that more folk lived by their creeds, 
 rather than put them off as a thing to die by." 
 
 "That s what Patience says," agreed Sister Loving, 
 in her plaintive treble. "She says to me, Patience says, 
 Mommy, if there was more folks in the Society that 
 minded their own business and let other folks busi 
 ness alone, t would be a sight better. 
 
 This highly relevant comment was received in abso 
 lute silence by all save Jessop, who, in the hope of 
 hearing more, agreed courteously. 
 
 "Now, Brother Gibson and you, Brother Parkinson, 
 ye re not women." The men so distinguished looked 
 extremely uncomfortable, but were fain to admit the 
 truth of her statement. And Jessop whispered to Joy, 
 "That leaves your father, Master Batchelor, and myself 
 unclassified." 
 
 "Ye re not women; neither of ye knows, as Pa 
 tience says to me, says she, what t is to be a wife," the 
 sister went on. "Now, here s our good pastor ; he hath 
 been wedded once," she caressed the numeral with a 
 tender emphasis, and lingered upon it as though to sug 
 gest that the same thing might happen again, and the 
 two stewards, who were themselves husbands and 
 heads of families, glanced at each other, exchang-
 
 9 S MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ing something very like a smile, in spite of their 
 austerity. 
 
 "Brother Gibson, Brother Parkinson, will ye help 
 me to call the Society together for the burial service?" 
 interposed Pastor Valentine, and, stepping outside with 
 the two men and David, he left Sister Loving assuring 
 the irresponsive Massawippa that she, Sister Loving, 
 knew just how it all was, and could appreciate her 
 sufferings. 
 
 Statements as to what Patience said, tender commen 
 dations of Father Tobias, and random references to 
 almost every subject which nobody would have men 
 tioned made up the balance of Sister Loving s dis 
 course. 
 
 The cabin was speckless and ordered, through Mis 
 tress Longanecker s ministrations. "She is so good," 
 deprecated Joy, "that you must forgive her innocent 
 eccentricities." 
 
 Jessop, to whom the remark was addressed, drew 
 his mouth down at the corners with mock solemnity. 
 "I will forgive her everything," he said, "till she dow- 
 ereth me with her affections, even as she doth our good, 
 unsuspecting Father Tobias." 
 
 "Fie !" exclaimed Joy, though the dimples about her 
 mouth belied the seriousness of her reproach; "she is, 
 as I am sure she herself could tell you, a better woman 
 than you will ever be." 
 
 Jessop s complaisant humor held throughout the day. 
 His black mood of self-torment and bitterness, which 
 Joy had come to recognize in her weeks of nursing and 
 care for him, kept itself quite aloof. He insisted upon 
 helping her, awkwardly it is true, with all her tasks, 
 saying in explanation that, Manteo being gone, he con 
 sidered himself man-of-all-work, and begged most ear 
 nestly to be so considered by her. 
 
 "I have turned a new leaf, Mistress Joy," he assured
 
 MISTRESS JOY 99 
 
 her. "And at the head of that new leaf is inscribed, 
 The most humble and obedient and loving servant 
 to command of Mistress Joyce Valentine. Signed : 
 Charles Edward Mountfalcon a Jessop. 
 
 Joy smiled. "And I have only one small name," 
 she commented. " T is the custom of our Society. 
 The giving of more names than one is counted a 
 worldly frivolity." She sighed a little, for his ampli 
 tude of title carried an elegant suggestion. 
 
 " T is a matter which may be mended," hinted Jes 
 sop. "I myself have one which I " he caught him 
 self back in mid-speech, and hesitated. He had begun 
 in gentle badinage, and he ended with a passionate ear 
 nestness which surprised and annoyed, rather than 
 pleased him. 
 
 "Mind ye tell the bees, Joy," cautioned Mistress 
 Longanecker, as she tied on her hood preparatory to 
 departure. "Oh, t is nothing to smile at. The bees 
 must be told, or you will lose them. Mind, about the 
 edge of the evening, when they be all hived, go ye and 
 strike upon the hive strike gently and they will an 
 swer by their buzzing. Patience says, says she, that 
 will mean, What is t? or What want ye? Says ye 
 then, softly, Manteo be dead. 
 
 She gathered her shawl about her. "Patience," she 
 called, her voice dropping to the heavy bass note it 
 sometimes took in moments of excitement, usually di 
 rected toward her meek daughter, "come on, and step 
 brisk. Ye know well enough I m afeard to go home 
 alone." 
 
 The idea of Sister Longanecker being "afeard" of 
 anything, man or beast, struck Jessop as so comical 
 that he laughed immoderately. And when the gentle 
 Patience, she of the bulging eye and the recessive chin, 
 meek fount of opinion for her drastic parent, came 
 trundling by, rifle upon shoulder, he laughed the more.
 
 ioo MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "What is t about the bees?" he asked Joy. "Shall 
 you really tell them?" 
 
 She opened her clear eyes very wide. "Heard ye 
 not, Master Jessop, that I said I would?" 
 
 "Aye, but saying and doing are oft quite different 
 things," smiling. 
 
 "With the world s people, yes. But with us with 
 me a promise is held sacred." 
 
 "Heaven send, then, that you make me a promise, 
 Mistress Joy, some day, since you are so faithful in 
 the keeping of them," he returned, and was again 
 vexed at the fervor in his own tones. 
 
 When this mood was upon him, Joy felt a vague 
 distrust of both Jessop and herself. She hastened to 
 say : "I have never told the bees, because we have not 
 before been visited by death. But the country people 
 hereabout say and perchance t is true, for God made 
 the bees too and gave them their wisdom that they 
 will not prosper unless you love them and tell them 
 of your joys and sorrows. T is held that if you fail 
 to do this they will leave you and swarm elsewhere, 
 or, grieved at your coldness, perish in the hive." 
 
 All day, as the usual household affairs went for 
 ward, Massawippa sat motionless, the only sign of life 
 she gave the low, moaning chant which sometimes 
 rose to a wail and sometimes dropped to a whisper. 
 Toka raised his head from the door-stone at intervals, 
 and added a long-drawn, despairing howl. 
 
 "Faith," said Jessop, finally, "if this thing keeps up 
 much longer, I shall be ready to be buried myself by 
 nightfall." The neighbors were in and out, and their 
 direct and rather distressing comments did little to 
 soothe his irritated nerves. 
 
 Delight Dunn, after quoting unnecessarily pointed 
 passages of Scripture for some time, expressed the 
 opinion that it was more than likely Manteo was not
 
 MISTRESS JOY 101 
 
 among those saved. Peter, her husband, was inclined 
 to moralize upon sudden death in general, with dis 
 quieting personal applications as they occurred to him. 
 
 In short, these plain Methodist folk used no art to 
 coddle hypersensitive feelings, but rather appeared to 
 take pleasure in discussing the most painful facts in 
 the most public manner. Altogether, it was a relief 
 to Joy as well as to Jessop when an interruption came. 
 The sound of a horse s galloping hoofs was followed 
 by the appearance of Colonel Burr upon Judge Bruin s 
 favorite tall, black saddle-horse, with Mistress Wilful 
 Guion riding pillion behind him. 
 
 The errand was surely not a cheerful one, yet the 
 girl s dark eyes were wells of happiness, her red lips 
 curved into smiles in spite of her efforts for gravity. 
 "Oh, Joy," she cried, "do show me just where you 
 stood when you shot your Indian. And did you aim 
 for to kill him?" 
 
 "I aimed not at all, to the best of my recollection," 
 returned Joy, a little dryly. "And as for my Indian, 
 methinks he belongeth by right of trove to Master 
 David Batchelor, who slew him without ruth." 
 
 "And were you kneeling, Joy? And did he have 
 you by the hair? T is so told in the settlement." 
 
 " "T was a very plain matter. I had the rifles to load, 
 and when the man broke in the door and came close 
 to me I fired one of them at him. It appears to me 
 that any fool would have done as much." 
 
 "Most fools do not, however, Mistress Valentine," 
 Burr put in, "and some wise people, even, fall consid 
 erably short of heroism." 
 
 "Sister Loving Longanecker did far more than I," 
 protested Joy, "and yet nobody calls her a heroine." 
 
 "Oh, but she is one," supplied Jessop, "whenever 
 Mistress Patience bids her be." There was a quickly 
 suppressed laugh from the more worldly minded at
 
 io2 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 this sally. The advent of Mistress Wilful was soon 
 followed by the assembling of other members of the 
 Society gathered for the simple funeral ceremonies. 
 Colonel Burr, whose presence, it appeared, was acci 
 dental, he having been at some pains to state that he 
 had merely overtaken Mistress Wilful and set her so 
 far upon her journey, soon departed. 
 
 As he went forth to mount his horse Jessop accom 
 panied him, and in supplying some added details of 
 last night s adventure spoke with warm admiration of 
 Joyce Valentine s part in it. 
 
 "So soon so soon," laughed Burr, "has innocency 
 and girlish simplicity subdued our gallant Lothario!" 
 
 "Nay," returned Jessop, not altogether pleased. "I 
 could ever have appreciated such traits at their worth 
 had I met them." 
 
 "My friend," remarked Burr, "an indifference to 
 champagne may signify a natural simplicity of taste, 
 but more oft it results from a too prolonged acquain 
 tance with the best-stocked wine-cellars." 
 
 "I take the figure for what t is worth," retorted 
 Jessop, merrily, "and I reply that I am by no means 
 weary of champagne ; and here, in this primitive place, 
 I have stumbled upon a new and entrancing brand. 
 At least t is new to me, but t is, I 11 swear, the genu 
 ine. Its stimulating quality is its own. Its sparkle 
 even its froth is not supplied by artificial gases 
 t is native. T is a living fount which perpetually 
 tosses up bubbles of kaleidoscopic luster. The bubbles 
 are fugitive, the luster varies, but that which illumines 
 the fountain is a steady-shining soul. Faugh ! colonel, 
 how came we coupling anything artificial with this 
 pure, untrammeled creature?" 
 
 And, waving the other a smiling farewell, he re 
 turned to the room where the circle of benches and 
 chairs was already filled with a primly dressed and 
 prim-mannered gathering.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 103 
 
 Father Tobias knelt in their midst and prayed. A 
 hymn was sung, then he arose and spoke feelingly of 
 the dead. He repeated the parable of the talents, and 
 reminded them that while little had been vouchsafed 
 poor Manteo, he had been faithful over that little. 
 
 "This, our brother, who was yesterday in our midst 
 and is now gone hence," said the preacher, "came to 
 this country with me fourteen years ago. He had 
 been convicted of sin under my ministration in the 
 Carolinas, and, leaving all for truth, leaving wife, 
 home, and friends, he followed me for the truth s sake 
 into the wilderness." 
 
 This version of Manteo s wanderings rather startled 
 Jessop, but the congregation, who were in the habit of 
 regarding all things from the spiritual side, saw in 
 it nothing strained. The body of the funeral discourse 
 would sound strange indeed to modern ears. As was 
 the custom of the time, the speaker handled with great 
 plainness the faults of the deceased, drew from them 
 such lessons as he deemed salutary to his hearers, dwelt 
 at length upon the insecurity of life, the possibility of 
 sudden death, and closed with an admonition to watch 
 fulness and diligence in well-doing. Many of the sis 
 ters wept not, certainly, over the loss of Manteo, but 
 apparently at the stern, searching exhortation of their 
 pastor. 
 
 The Indians, who had come, in answer to Massa- 
 wippa s request, to bear away Manteo s body, lingered 
 outside. Their dusky faces, peering through the win 
 dow to watch the "medicine-man of the palefaces," 
 gave added strangeness to the wild and singular scene. 
 All through the services sounded Massawippa s plaint. 
 The dead Indian lay uncoffined; Massawippa had re 
 jected the offer of a coffin for the body. 
 
 Through the open door stole the tender evening 
 light. It lay upon the spotlessly scrubbed floor, touched 
 softly the grim, bronzed features of the dead man, and
 
 104 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 lost itself in the veil of Massawippa s heavy hair, as 
 she sat, her forehead on her knees, huddled at the head 
 of the rude bier. It lingered lovingly on the homely 
 furnishings of the room. The cats, wild and tame, lay, 
 for once reconciled, side by side on the hearth. Toka, 
 who had never been known to enter the house before, 
 sat, straight and tall, evidently feeling himself chief 
 mourner, at his master s feet. 
 
 David looked across at Joy s rapt countenance. Her 
 eyes were slightly raised as she listened reverently 
 while her father invoked a blessing. Her face was 
 full of a tender sorrow, yet absolutely peaceful. She 
 looked, in her girlish fervor, like a young saint; and 
 Batchelor remembered, with a sudden force of con 
 trast, the Amazonian Mistress Valentine of last night. 
 He was strongly aware that there was more than one 
 Joyce. Which was the real? Or were they all real? 
 And were there not yet other facets to that affluent 
 young nature which had not been developed and pre 
 sented ? 
 
 While he debated, the dying light seemed suddenly 
 to concentrate itself upon the brightness of her head 
 and then go out, leaving the room in twilight, so that 
 as the Indians stepped with soundless tread to lift Man- 
 teo and bear him away on this first station to the happy 
 hunting-grounds, they seemed like vague figures in a 
 dream. 
 
 Father Tobias followed them outside, and Joyce and 
 Jessop were halted on the door-stone by Mistress Long- 
 anecker. "Patience says to me, says she," cooed Sister 
 Loving, " Mommy, is Master Valentine a-goin with 
 them Indians over into the Chippewa country? Cause 
 if he is, says she, you Ve got to go long and take 
 care of him/ 
 
 Reassured as to the intentions of Father Tobias, Sis 
 ter Longanecker again brought up the subject of the
 
 MISTRESS JOY 105 
 
 bees. "Ain t ye told em yet ? Why, Joyce Valentine, 
 go this minute, or ye 11 be lackin for honey, let alone 
 wax, next fall." 
 
 The members of the Society were dispersing. Wil 
 ful Guion paused longer than the others for a moment s 
 low-toned speech with Joy. Then, mindful of Sister 
 Loving s urgency, Joyce, with Jessop still following, 
 turned her steps toward where the hives, ranged in 
 orderly rows, stood upon the edge of a tiny buckwheat 
 patch, planted for the maintenance of the bees. 
 
 The hives were of the old-time conical shape, made 
 of tawny sedge-grass wrapped into a great cable with 
 cotton twine, and then twisted round and round into a 
 pyramid. 
 
 The tall, erect young figure stepped lightly toward 
 the line of hives. Softly, with her open hand, she 
 struck upon each, and, when answered by a hum of in 
 quiry from the inmates, bent down and whispered, 
 "Manteo is dead." 
 
 As she spoke to the last hive, the desolate little cor 
 tege passed the corner of the field on its way to the 
 canoe, and so onward to the Chickasaw country. The 
 men bore their dead upon an open hurdle ; after trudged 
 the old squaw and the gaunt hound, with lowered 
 heads. The bearers, shod in silence, made no appeal 
 to the ear. Their gray forms against the gray evening 
 asked scarcely more of the eye. Shadow of a sound, 
 echo of a picture, if it made little demand upon the 
 physical senses, its spiritual significance called strenu 
 ously upon the heart. 
 
 "A woman a dog," said Jessop ; "two things which 
 follow a man even unto the end." He turned and 
 looked at his companion, and his heart swelled with 
 the purest tenderness it had ever known. How fair 
 she was, how young, how inexpressibly sweet, how full 
 of hope. And yet, to his thinking, what a gray-shad-
 
 106 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 owed, sad existence hers had been! He recognized 
 instinctively in the girl that which would answer 
 promptly to the call of all his world rated as happiness. 
 Would she ever know it ? Was he to lead her into the 
 sunshine? He bent toward her with an inarticulate 
 murmur, and caught both her hands in his. 
 
 "Mistress Joyce," he began, a little hesitatingly, "I 
 who am but a drone in the hive, think shame to make 
 promises to you, but I have had some speech with 
 David Batchelor. He offers to give me such \vork as 
 my unskilled hands are able to perform, and to teach 
 me further skill. T was for thy sake I made these 
 plans that I might be near thee. Art pleased, Mis 
 tress Joyce? Turn, I pray you, and let me see your 
 face." 
 
 Steps sounded on the path behind them, and David 
 Batchelor, passing on his way to the highroad, paused 
 to give them good evening. The little canoe, with the 
 two Indians dipping noiseless paddles at prow and 
 stern, the stark burden between, the crouching squaw 
 at head and the old dog at foot of it, grounded upon 
 the opposite shore. They stood and watched the two 
 men lift the body, the squaw shoulder paddles and 
 canoe, and the three, with the dog following, lose them 
 selves in the virgin forest beyond. 
 
 T is the one and unsatisfactory riddle of the 
 Sphinx," commented Jessop, as he gazed. 
 
 "Out of the wilderness he came," responded David, 
 "and, lo ! the wilderness hath swallowed him up."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 T "The Meadows" the gin had broken 
 down. It was at that date the primi 
 tive Whitney gin, and subject to 
 strange disconcertions and balks. 
 When Jessop arrived, he found Batch- 
 elor s motley tribe of employees set to 
 the work of picking staple from seed 
 by hand. In a long, low shed, open on three sides, 
 sat negroes, Indians, men, women, and children such 
 unassorted humanity as David Batchelor had been able 
 to gather for the work and with more or less skilful 
 fingers separated the fleece from the germ. 
 
 David himself, in a blue cottonade blouse open at 
 the throat, and with a white kerchief knotted beneath 
 its loose collar, was working earnestly at the recalci 
 trant gin. Little Reason, the boy whom Jessop had 
 seen on the night of the attack upon the cabin, followed 
 him, constant as the dog-star to the moon, and played 
 at mending imaginary gins. 
 
 The newcomer introduced to his work and fellow 
 workmen, Batchelor scanned his face keenly for signs 
 of dismay. Jessop, still gaunt from illness, wore his 
 long-skirted coat, knee-breeches, and cocked hat. In 
 deed, it was not in his power to make a change to a 
 more appropriate costume, since the clothing in which 
 he stood was all he possessed. Batchelor watched, with 
 a twinkle of amusement in his eye, and yet with entire 
 approval, as Jessop, after a proper greeting, seated 
 
 107
 
 io8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 self between a gigantic negress and a young Indian 
 boy, and, questioning with his usual courteous manner, 
 proceeded in a most amicable fashion to learn from 
 them the nature of his novel task. 
 
 Then, in the stress of his work, the master forgot his 
 new workman. Improvement in the agriculture of 
 his section was a passion with David Batchelor. He 
 was a typical son of the soil. The development of the 
 cotton-raising industry lay as close to his heart as the 
 singing of a people s lyrics might lie to the heart of 
 the poet. With the ardor of a poet constructing son 
 nets, he had attacked the problem of ginning the 
 product. 
 
 The original Whitney gin, invented by Eli Whitney, 
 a Massachusetts school-teacher, was in many respects 
 unsatisfactory. Reason s father was a skilled mechanic 
 and inventor whom David had induced to come from 
 Scotland, in hope to have the gin perfected. This man 
 had set sail from home with wife and child, and, the 
 wife dying on the voyage, had come to "The Meadows" 
 with his baby in his arms. Here he found no woman 
 to care for the boy, but, in the master of the house, 
 one as tender as a woman, if not so skilled. And 
 when a fever carried off the father in the following 
 spring, David made the boy his own. Batchelor was 
 still laboring to complete the work the Scotchman had 
 left unfinished. 
 
 Now, in entire absorption, he bent an intent face 
 above his work. Hammer in hand, his blue sleeves 
 rolled to the shoulder, showing the big muscles of his 
 strong arms, he gave a thoughtful coaxing tap here, a 
 direct ringing blow there, calling now and then for 
 materials and aid. 
 
 This would have been Jessop s opportunity to return 
 the scrutiny to which himself had been subjected, 
 but the unfamiliar task, at which he felt bound in honor
 
 MISTRESS JOY 109 
 
 to succeed, quite blotted out everything else from his 
 mind. The Indian lad was uncommunicative, but his 
 negro neighbor took Jessop under her motherly wing. 
 "Iss, honey," she said to him kindly, "oo picky im dess 
 lacky dat," and she went off into oily chuckles over 
 Jessop s awkward attempts to follow her instructions. 
 
 Most of the workers sat or squatted on the shed 
 floor, and Jessop followed their example until his limbs 
 became so cramped that he went over to the gin to get 
 a cotton-basket to serve for a seat, when Batchelor once 
 more became aware of him. 
 
 "How now, Master Jessop, so soon discouraged?" 
 he asked smilingly. "Well, t is a toil quite unfitted 
 for your hands, which have, I warrant me, skill in 
 other lines of industry to which they might be better 
 addressed." 
 
 "You mistake," rejoined Jessop; "I vow that the 
 hand-picking of cotton is the most fascinating amuse 
 ment ever devised by man, and the company you have 
 gathered to meet me, Master Batchelor, charms me ex 
 tremely. The dusky dame, my neighbor, is well worth 
 study. I do protest that I have sat next a duchess at 
 dinner and been less entertained." 
 
 All this was said with frank gaiety, and Jessop 
 turned with so contented an air to go back to his work, 
 that David was moved to stop him and inquire, "Is 
 there aught else you could do better?" 
 
 "Faith, my friend," returned the other, with a show 
 of jesting, and yet with serious meaning in his tones. 
 "I believe there is naught worth doing which I can do 
 well. These fingers of mine you mentioned that they 
 might have skill at other employment well, so they 
 have. There are certain fifty-two pasteboards, with 
 spots and marks and royal portraits thereon, which they 
 can manipulate to admiration. They are also expert at 
 letting money slip through them, have been heard to
 
 no MISTRESS JOY 
 
 play with some skill upon the harpsichord, can twang a 
 lute indifferently, and so my last fair friend assured 
 me can wring the hearts of ladies. These things, how 
 ever, do not bring wage ; rather they dissipate one s sub 
 stance. So now, let me back to my labors, and teach 
 them, if I may, an honest occupation." 
 
 He strode gaily over to his place in the shed, and 
 shortly David heard him joining with the cheerful 
 voices of the negroes when they began to sing, as is 
 their wont over tasks light or heavy. 
 
 At noon David forgot him, and was conscience- 
 stricken, when he came at night to tally over the books 
 of his pickers, to find his new hand with a hectic flush 
 upon his face and a tired droop of his thin figure, 
 which bespoke an aching weariness of every limb and 
 member. 
 
 Jessop approached cheerfully, however, and David 
 restrained his impulse to create for him employment 
 more agreeable, with some diversity of movement and 
 better suited to his present physical needs, reflecting 
 that such discipline as this was good for him, and must 
 be met by him sometime if he were ever to grow to the 
 stature of independent manhood. 
 
 Jessop paused to chat with his employer a moment 
 before starting homeward. "Did you know Mistress 
 Valentine s mother, Master Batchelor?" he asked. "Is 
 there the answer to the fair riddle? Did our young 
 friend get there her fire and sparkle? It comes not, 
 sure, from Pastor Valentine, who, scarce awake, goes 
 through this life with eyes turned aside from all its 
 verities and fixed upon the unseen the unattainable." 
 
 "The mother died before our good pastor left the 
 Carolinas. I never saw her, but I have known Mis 
 tress Joyce since childhood, and I warn you, Master 
 Jessop, she is like to prove more of her father s metal 
 than you suspect."
 
 MISTRESS JOY in 
 
 "Say you so?" laughed the young scoffer. "May 
 hap ; but I will swear that in her younger, sturdier soul 
 there lie perdue longings after the flesh-pots of the 
 world, the which appeal to me as asking temptations 
 fit for their development." 
 
 David smiled a bit sadly. "Bethink you, sir," he 
 recommended, "when you would offer these temptations 
 so generously, that any un-Methodistic aspirations of 
 the maid s are like to remain perforce ungratified." 
 
 "And even so," returned Jessop, lightly, "unsatisfied 
 ambitions do feed growth. I myself have some few, 
 and I am, beneath their power, burgeoning into an as 
 piring agriculturist I may e en end a good Methody." 
 
 Three times, on his way home that evening, Jessop 
 was forced by weakness to sit down for rest. Twice 
 he thought he must have fainted, for there was a period 
 of which he knew nothing between halting and the 
 rousing himself to find that he was lying beside the 
 path, the bushes and trees still whirling about him in 
 most unpleasant fashion. 
 
 At first he jeered his weakness. He, a man and a 
 soldier, unable to bear work which seemed light and 
 easy to women and children ! Later, when every step 
 was an agony, that quick temper of his flamed up, 
 and he ground his teeth together, declaring furiously 
 that, though he died for it, no more halts should be 
 made. The result of this Spartan resolution was that 
 he reached the cabin in a fainting condition, flung open 
 the door, grasped blindly at the lintel, and fell uncon 
 scious across the threshold. 
 
 Father Tobias sprang up from his place on the settle, 
 and called Joy from some task in the little kitchen. 
 "Oh, why did he overtax himself so?" she mourned, as 
 they managed between them to lift him to the bed 
 where he had already spent so many weary weeks. 
 
 "I warned him to be cautious," lamented Father To-
 
 ii2 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 bias. "Now, perchance he hath quite undone the good 
 work of thy nursing, little daughter." 
 
 "I think not of my part in t," returned Joy, with a 
 nurse s tenderness for her patient. "I would do as 
 much again gladly if he would only be prudent and 
 grow strong. I hold him much to blame for thus for 
 doing all he hath so painfully gained. Methinks a sen 
 sible man might know better." 
 
 "Nay, my Joy," remonstrated Father Tobias, a bit 
 humorously. "When you speak of impatience and lack 
 of prudence, methinks t is what I ve heard called 
 Satan reproving sin. 
 
 The two, experienced in tending upon ailments, as 
 was necessary in those times, worked over Jessop faith 
 fully. After what seemed a long while, he groaned 
 and pushed away Father Tobias s hand, muttering, "My 
 head, my head !" 
 
 "He will do now, Joyce, if the wet bandage be kept 
 renewed upon his forehead," comforted Father Tobias. 
 "Do you brew him a pannikin of the bitter tea. I 
 must do your milking for you, and see that the kine are 
 housed. Keep Satan indoors, lest he make havoc when 
 I go to tend upon your little orphan chicks." 
 
 "Cover them well, Father Toby; t is chill weather, 
 and the impatient things would come into this world 
 when t was full bleak for them," called Joy. 
 
 "I shall not forget, daughter Joy," he reassured her, 
 taking the thick homespun coop-covers she handed him. 
 
 Just as she had months before, Joyce brewed her bit 
 ter tea, poured it into the selfsame blue-and-white wil 
 low-pattern bowl, and stepped into Jessop s room with 
 it. Even as he had done on that occasion, Jessop 
 opened upon her eyes bright with fever and quite un- 
 recognizing. Again he mistook her for the fair 
 young mother who had died when he was a boy of 
 seven, whose unforgotten presence always haunted his
 
 MISTRESS JOY 113 
 
 dreams in illness or distress. He lay and smiled up 
 into Joy s face, now tender with remorseful concern 
 for him. 
 
 She set her bowl upon a little table, and knelt beside 
 his bed. "Will you take your tea now?" she asked, 
 and added, "It will be good for you." 
 
 "Why, mother, is it time for my porridge?" he mur 
 mured. "I m sorry I was naughty." He took the 
 bitter brew very patiently. There must have been 
 childish memories of times when he had been dosed 
 with such decoctions, for once he asked drowsily, "Will 
 it make me well ?" and once, "Will it make me good ?" 
 
 Joyce administered the tea deftly by spoonfuls, 
 changed the wet cloth, and thought her patient quite 
 rational till he turned on his side and, signing sleepily, 
 promised : "I 11 be good now, mother, and if you 11 
 kiss me I will sleep." 
 
 The interval between impulse and action is some 
 times too short for analysis. Joy s heart was full of 
 a tenderness which was almost purely maternal. With 
 out hesitating for thought, she bent forward and laid 
 her cool, fresh lips softly, full on his. Then in the 
 instant of it she knew she should not have done this 
 thing. 
 
 She drew back with a burning blush and a startled 
 intake of the breath. Jessop s eyes were looking into 
 hers calmly and with perfect comprehension. Swiftly 
 she rose, gathered up her bowls and basin, and fled to 
 the kitchen. 
 
 There she stood on the hearth-stone, her hands 
 knotted together, and could have wept with shame and 
 a sort of panicked astonishment, not only at what she 
 had done, but at the new and terrifying emotions born 
 out of her act. 
 
 That other kiss, the one Jessop had lightly, almost 
 jestingly given her, had been crowded quite out of 
 
 8
 
 ii4 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 memory by matters more important. Now, with an 
 access of dismay, she remembered it. 
 
 She had been angry then, had thought Jessop for 
 ward, had imagined he must think lightly of her ; she 
 had been able not only to forgive, but to forget it. 
 Now her virgin soul was shaken, the very wells of her 
 being were troubled, clouded by this strange and ter 
 rible thing which she imagined could never before have 
 chanced to any woman. She sought sorrowfully a 
 reason for her own conduct, and for this upheaval in 
 her consciousness which had followed the apparently 
 simple act. 
 
 She. fancied that she had given the kiss for his mo 
 ther s sake, just as she might have given it to an ailing 
 child. Jessop s light love-making during his early con 
 valescence was the first to which she had listened. De 
 spite her strict upbringing, she had of course had her 
 dreams and fancies like other girls, but these were so 
 very vague and nebulous, so entirely unconnected with 
 anything in the world of reality about her, that their 
 sudden embodiment was both shocking and alarming. 
 
 Finally, the courage which was the dominant note 
 in Joy s nature asserted itself. She would go back 
 and speak to Master Jessop. She would face the issue, 
 and tell him exactly how she came to do this dreadful 
 thing which had come about so naturally and seemed 
 in the doing so little dreadful. 
 
 She knew that Jessop liked and respected her; she 
 felt that to hold that liking and respect she must re 
 trace this one false step and blot out the incident once 
 for all. To go was like treading hot plowshares, but 
 she crushed her hands over her tumultuously beating 
 heart and stole back to the doorway. Jessop lay sleep 
 ing brokenly, his dark curls tossed abroad upon the 
 white pillow, his lips parted and smiling. On his 
 cheeks, flushed a little with fever, lay the long lashes,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 115 
 
 and his hurried, uneven breathing stirred the covers 
 above his breast. 
 
 The stress which Joy had put upon herself relaxed. 
 She stood silent, and gazed at him. Suddenly that 
 emotion which had so terrified her laid hold once more 
 upon her heart. She remembered Jessop s eyes as they 
 had looked into hers just after the kiss. They had held 
 a something new, an expression which she had never 
 seen in them before. What was it? Would he ever 
 so look at her again ? And in a storm of contradictory 
 feeling it appeared to her that she should die if he ever 
 did so look at her; and that if he did not, she should 
 perish for lack of that something which had thrilled 
 her so. 
 
 When Father Tobias came in with his pails from 
 the milking, he found Joy with her head enveloped in 
 a large white cloth, which was a regalia assumed by 
 her during certain domestic ceremonials. Over in one 
 corner of the kitchen she busied herself about some 
 matter apparently very important. When he asked of 
 the patient, she replied : "He seems quite well, and is 
 sleeping so quietly, father, that I thought it best not 
 to disturb him, and so came in here." 
 
 When Jessop crept painfully up from this relapse, 
 he insisted upon going once more to "The Meadows." 
 Just beyond "Half-way Cottage" he was overtaken by 
 Colonel Burr, who greeted him, dismounted, and in 
 sisted upon his riding. "Well, Major Jessop," the 
 colonel observed, "you lacked a leech for this last rather 
 Unnecessary performance, I believe." 
 
 "Perchance," retorted Jessop, gaily, "that is the rea 
 son I am here to tell the tale." 
 
 "That and Mistress Joy s nursing," hinted Burr. 
 "I myself have been enduring worse things than a 
 relapse of swamp fever. I have been in Philadelphia, 
 as you may know, Major Jessop, where the politicians
 
 n6 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 meet and wrestle and tear each other tooth and nail. 
 I do protest that I am weary of it, and long inexpressi 
 bly for the peace of mine own vine and fig-tree here." 
 
 "I have renounced my first opinion of this Missis 
 sippi country," said Jessop. " T is a glorious land. 
 The skies here appear to me ever smiling 
 
 "Even," interposed Burr, slyly, "as the eyes of Mis 
 tress Joy." 
 
 "Not ever-smiling," objected Jessop; "the eyes of 
 Mistress Joyce Valentine are subject to cloud and 
 storm, and even to a sort of occultation, when a sinful 
 man may not see them at all." 
 
 "And there s their great attraction," added Burr. 
 "Know you the eastern part of this country? Have 
 you sojourned in New York or Philadelphia?" 
 
 "A short time," answered Jessop. "I have friends 
 and relatives in both places." 
 
 "There s a vile climate for you," grumbled Burr. 
 "You re ready, in doublet and hose, to warble spring 
 sonnets under Clorinda s window, and a damned frost 
 comes and freezes your shins for you, while Clorinda s 
 nose is as red as a love-apple." 
 
 Jessop laughed. "We hear rumors, Colonel Burr," 
 he remarked, "that you are going very high in the coun 
 cils of this same desolate land you describe so aptly. 
 Surely you have no mind to desert it because of a little 
 frost and cast in your lot with us here?" 
 
 "I have greater disrelish for politics and politicians 
 the scrambling, get-what-you-can politics of a new 
 republic like ours than I have for bad weather and 
 frost-bitten toes. This is a land here to uphold a real 
 aristocracy. T is suited to be tilled by slave labor. 
 There seems no chance in the East to get above the 
 shopkeeping class. Money is what an aristocracy 
 must have, and there money is gotten through trade. 
 This is a country to nurture barons."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 117 
 
 "King-makers and a king?" retorted Jessop, lightly. 
 "With a queen I wot of to share the throne, a man 
 might make shift." 
 
 "Which minds me," remarked Burr, "that mine er 
 rand with our good friend Batchelor this morning con 
 cerns the visit to Mississippi of a certain possible sov 
 ereign. Louis Philippe, Due d Orleans, is shortly to 
 be here on his way down the river to New Orleans. 
 Judge Bruin and many others of my good friends here 
 are most desirous that the English-speaking residents 
 be also represented in those attentions which the Span 
 ish will pay him." 
 
 It struck Jessop as a trifle peculiar that David should 
 be consulted in this matter, but he made no comment, 
 and Burr continued : "Our good friend Batchelor hath 
 a fancy for investigating the silk industry. T is said 
 the Salzburgers over in seaboard Georgia that Geor 
 gia which is even now trying to claim most of the Mis 
 sissippi province are doing well with silk-raising. 
 There is a man in the duke s suite, Vicomte de Courcy, 
 who is a mine of information on the subject ; they say 
 he hath the Lyons district in his pocket. I promised 
 Master David to get him speech with this man, though 
 belike his own merits had done as much for him with 
 out me." 
 
 They were approaching the large gate which ad 
 mitted into the pasture surrounding David Batchelor s 
 homestead. "A very fine location Master Batchelor 
 hath chosen the where to pitch his tent," remarked 
 Burr, with a wave of his hand toward the grove of 
 magnolia and beech immediately surrounding the 
 dwelling. Although used for pasture, it had a well- 
 cared-for appearance, and the close-cropped slope 
 dotted with noble trees gave a look of the old country. 
 
 A rough fence inclosed perhaps fifty acres, and in the 
 near distance cows were grazing on the yellowed grass,
 
 n8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 which occasionally showed a little greenery among its 
 dry stubble. 
 
 Giant magnolias reared their dark green branches, 
 hung with streamers of the strange gray moss, toward 
 a clear February sky. Mast from beech-trees, which 
 grow with peculiar luxuriance throughout the whole of 
 Mississippi, covered the ground thickly where a few 
 especially fine specimens stood among the more stately 
 magnolias. A fairly good roadway led to the dwell 
 ing-house, built of stout, hewn logs. A recently added 
 portico or gallery, as it was called in the South at that 
 day, was made of plank. Here sat David, at his elbow 
 a small table bearing ink-horn, quills, and a wide- 
 mouthed bottle of sand. Reason, his rosy face puck 
 ered with anxiety, was perched in a high chair, work 
 ing diligently with a quill pen at the forming of his 
 letters. Children began their education early in those 
 days, and David was already teaching his four-year- 
 old with great system and regularity. The boy s love 
 for him, and natural infantile distaste for study, made 
 the hours so spent a mixture of the keenest joy and woe 
 to his baby soul. 
 
 David had paused to mend a pen as they came up, 
 and Reasie scrambled down at sight of the two men, 
 ducked under the table, and, crying, "Reasie go now, 
 Dadie. Reason know nough now, Dadie!" fled toward 
 the gin-shed. 
 
 Burr broached the matter of the ball. Somewhat to 
 Jessop s surprise, David acceded promptly and quietly 
 to Burr s suggestion that he join in the arrangements 
 for the young duke s entertainment. This was, to Jes- 
 sop at least, a new phase of David Batchelor s charac 
 ter, and in his eyes it added a considerable grace to 
 the man. 
 
 "Major Jessop here is going," Burr remarked, when 
 they were about to depart.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 119 
 
 "To wait upon table or act as lackey. The pres 
 ent state of my exchequer and wardrobe would fit me 
 well, methinks, for either post," remarked Jessop, with 
 somewhat labored flippancy. 
 
 "Why, major, if your luggage hath not yet arrived 
 you and I might surely wear the same coat, though 
 each is belike in his own esteem the greater man if 
 your luggage hath not yet arrived, t \vould be my 
 pleasure to supply your deficiencies." 
 
 "My luggage," quoth Jessop, musingly; "why, 
 surely, I had forgot. Master Batchelor here advanced 
 me certain moneys this three weeks gone in anticipa 
 tion of the prodigies I should perform, not in the tented 
 field, but in the cotton-field. And I, thrifty soul that 
 I have now become, sent for a half-forgotten box of 
 my old clothing left with a friend. T will come up 
 by the next keel-boat. In it there should be suits 
 which I might wear. I thank you, Colonel Burr; I 
 shall be upon your generosity for no more than the 
 invitation, and that I 11 take right gladly." 
 
 "Do you bring a lady with you?" Burr inquired 
 abruptly. 
 
 "That I know not," Jessop replied, flushing a little 
 and smiling boyishly. "The only damsel who at pres 
 ent fills my eye hath, methinks, scant use for balls and 
 the like is t not so, friend David?" 
 
 "Yes, if you speak of Mistress Valentine, t is even 
 so. She hath chosen the calling of a preacher, and the 
 Methodist Society is strict." 
 
 Burr gave an inexpressibly comical twist to his fea 
 tures as he exclaimed: "And do the women preach? 
 Lord, Lord ! then would I be converted instanter to 
 save trouble. How look your Methodist friends upon 
 your frivolities, Master David?" 
 
 "I hold a ball no harm, else should I not attend one; 
 and, not being a member, they have never, spoken to
 
 120 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 me of such matters. Yet, for Mistress Guion, who you 
 tell me goes with you, Colonel Burr, and for Mistress 
 Valentine as well, t were better they dissevered them 
 selves from the Society before engaging in that which 
 the Society condemns." 
 
 "Will they discipline her, think you? That s the 
 word, is t not? I trust they may; t will free her, 
 mayhap, from a connection she should never have 
 formed." 
 
 "They will, you may be sure," returned David, 
 quietly. "Will you, who have brought her into this 
 position, be present to stand by her then? I hope so."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 OUIS PHILIPPE, born at the Palais 
 Royal in Paris in 1773, was at this 
 time a handsome young man of just 
 twenty-five. The execution of his 
 father during the Reign of Terror 
 gave him the title of Due d Orleans. 
 He was a brilliant and dashing sol 
 dier, who had seen service and proved his valor on 
 more than one bloody field. Fleeing from the turbu 
 lence in his own country, he passed through the new 
 republic to join his mother, who had found an asylum 
 in Spain. With his two brothers and a suite of at 
 tendants proper to his princely rank, his progress 
 through the French-Spanish-American colonies, still 
 loyal to Bourbon traditions, was one long triumph. 
 
 There were those among the English-speaking resi 
 dents of Natchez no whit behind their Spanish neigh 
 bors in the homage and distinguished courtesies with 
 which they designed to honor the royal wanderer. 
 General Wilkinson, commander-in-chief of the United 
 States army, wrote Captain Guion, in charge of the 
 Natchez district, exhorting him to show hospitality 
 and respect to the young duke and his suite. In the 
 course of his communication he used these prophetic 
 words : "When you receive this letter" it was deliv 
 ered in person by the Marquis de Mountjoye, an im 
 portant member of the duke s party "you will prob 
 ably see the future King of France."
 
 122 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 For months preparations had been making for the 
 proper reception of the royal party at Natchez. The 
 treaty between the United States government and His 
 Most Catholic Majesty of Spain was signed in 95. 
 The year of grace 98 saw a curious state of affairs in 
 the province ceded by this treaty. Spanish law was 
 still in force, since law there must be for the protection 
 of life and property. Spanish troops garrisoned most 
 of the forts, yet the Spaniards and the people at large 
 were aware that these laws were obeyed only, as one 
 may say, by courtesy, and that the troops had no au 
 thority. Early in 98 the government at Philadelphia 
 having found that a display of military power, and not 
 an exercise of diplomacy, was necessary to force the 
 Spaniard to a recognition of the pact, United States 
 troops began coming into the southwest territories to 
 displace the Spanish. 
 
 At the time of the young duke s visit the troops of 
 both governments were in Natchez and in Fort No- 
 gales. The Spaniards were preparing to evacuate, the 
 United States to occupy this entire territory. It was 
 an extremely critical situation, big with possibilities of 
 the most tragic sort. Yet, owing to the courtesy and 
 the honorable behavior of both commanders, the sol 
 diery of the two nations had been able to lie encamped 
 close together without collision. 
 
 When the royal party passed Fort Nogales and Wal 
 nut Hills, where Vicksburg now stands, Governor 
 Manuel Gayoso de Lemos, with an extensive suite of 
 his own, joined the duke and accompanied him to 
 Natchez. 
 
 The little town in the wilderness was filled with 
 brave soldiery, with brilliantly dressed, distinguished 
 visitors, and citizens gay in holiday attire. The town 
 itself, "Natchez under the Hill," was somewhat primi 
 tive, but near and upon the bluffs were many luxurious
 
 MISTRESS JOY 123 
 
 homes, and there was more wealth and culture than 
 would have been deemed possible in a territory so re 
 cently settled. The inns of the day were of course 
 quite insufficient for such superior company, but the 
 planters in the surrounding district and the few fami 
 lies of wealth who had already established residences 
 within the town itself, were more than willing to sup 
 ply the deficiency. 
 
 Louis Philippe, the deposed Spanish governor, the 
 Spaniards accompanying him, and a few American 
 gentlemen who had been added to the train in its pro 
 gress through this country, were received with great 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 The soldiery, American and Spanish, had been for 
 weeks drilling, burnishing arms and accoutrements, and 
 putting all in such order that something like a mili 
 tary display or review might greet this young scion 
 of the Bourbons, who was himself an honorable and 
 intrepid soldier. 
 
 Two large keel-boats brought the visitors to Natchez. 
 That containing the duke s party was decorated with 
 the Bourbon lilies and the colors of Spain. These 
 adornments, which had been arranged at Fort Nogales, 
 added much to the picturesqueness of the modest trans 
 port. 
 
 The duke s party greeted the Spanish flag, which was 
 still flying over Fort Rosalie, with cheers and much 
 demonstration of enthusiasm, but the governor s suite 
 was discreetly silent. Lined up on either side of the 
 way which led from the landing to the main street, 
 facing each other, but not for battle, were the Spanish 
 and the United States troops. The bands of both 
 joined in the national airs of France. 
 
 The carriages of the aristocracy, decorated with 
 scarfs, bunches of early spring flowers, and silken 
 .flags, waited at one end of the main street to take the
 
 i2 4 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 distinguished guests on a tour of inspection. Over 
 the vilest roads that can be imagined, they crawled to 
 Fort Rosalie and other points of local and historical 
 interest. 
 
 One feature of his reception particularly pleased and 
 interested the duke. A band of friendly Chickasaws 
 had been induced to give, in the open square, a war- 
 dance, a sun-dance, and other of their peculiar cere 
 monies. 
 
 Seats were arranged for the visitors under an awn 
 ing. Many of the beautiful and cultured women of 
 the section, both Spanish and American, were in at 
 tendance. The Indians were in full regalia; war-bon 
 nets of quivering quills and brilliantly dyed feathers 
 swayed to their rhythmic movements as they danced. 
 
 Young beauties, clad in the latest modes from Paris, 
 or as near it as the time and distance would permit, 
 gently nurtured, high-bred, looked on at the savage 
 spectacle. There were times and places when the sight 
 of one of these painted braves would have meant to 
 both men and women a terror worse than death. Now 
 they laughed and jested and admired the muscular en 
 durance of the sinewy dancers, who, with impassive 
 features, sprang and leaped and writhed to the wailing 
 and thudding of their barbaric music. 
 
 Slaves carrying huge trays of fruit and silver salvers 
 of rare wines and fine liqueurs passed among the guests. 
 The young beauties were not less fair, less witty, nor 
 less well clad than those of Madrid or Versailles. And 
 there was a subtle exhilaration like new wine in the 
 very air of this crude country, a piquant contrast be 
 tween these elegant and gracious people and the sav 
 age dancers also citizens of the land which spurred 
 the fancy and captivated the senses. 
 
 The Indian ceremonials over, the newcomers were 
 driven to the various residences of those who were
 
 MISTRESS JOY 125 
 
 to entertain them, and the little town settled to the 
 breathless quiet of mighty preparation for the night s 
 ball, which was to be the grand affair of the fes 
 tivities. 
 
 During these goings on, our friends of the Methodist 
 Society kept within doors, as though a plague were 
 abroad in the land. Indeed, they felt that such was the 
 case. In some households the children were strictly 
 forbidden to look from window or door if a portion of 
 the pageant passed near the cabin. 
 
 How lax, then, was Master Tobias, how weak and 
 more than lax Mistress Joyce Valentine! For this 
 reprehensible young woman, assisted in the capacity, 
 one may say, of mirror at the very last and finishing 
 touches given to Master Jessop s costuming for the 
 great event. Yea, she not only assisted at them, but 
 was moved thereby to envy and admiration. 
 
 At the bottom of Jessop s box of clothing, which 
 arrived the week before, lay a forgotten suit of white 
 satin. He had considered it quite too fine for wear 
 since he had been in the Americas. It had first seen 
 the light in a king s palace, and Jessop smiled whim 
 sically as he lifted and looked at it. 
 
 There was nothing else in the box absolutely noth 
 ing suitable for wear at a ball, and this costume was, 
 to his thinking, as unsuitably fine as his ragged work 
 ing-dress was unsuitably coarse. 
 
 "Yet," he said, as he lifted the long silken hose and 
 the white morocco shoes, from which the diamond 
 buckles had been removed in time of need, "beggars 
 cannot be choosers. I cannot greet the Due d Orleans 
 in a scarlet riding-coat nor in a robe de chambre. I 
 am e en reduced to outshining everybody, because I 
 have naught less glorious." 
 
 He sought Mistress Joyce, in her freshly scrubbed 
 kitchen, and begged of her a pannikin of hot water,
 
 126 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 that he might shave himself. He was humming "The 
 Brown Girl," and he dwelt rather conspicuously on the 
 lines : 
 
 " They sat her up at the head of the table, 
 She was the flower of all she was the flower of all." 
 
 His feet unconsciously accommodated themselves to 
 the measure as he went, with a light, balancing step, 
 about his preparations. 
 
 She was the flower of all she was the flower of 
 all/ That s what I 11 be, Mistress Joyce," he added, 
 laughing. The youthful gaiety, the joy of life, ran 
 strong in Jessop s veins once more. 
 
 When he was shaved, dressed, and combed there 
 came the problem of his hair. The abundant dark 
 curls would have been a scandal, almost an insult, dis 
 played at an evening company of that date, and this 
 was a ball at which royalty appeared. 
 
 He looked in dismay at his powder-box, the silver 
 clasps and white satin ribbon for winding the club and 
 keeping the queue in place. Finally, he went out to 
 where Father Tobias was cleaning a rifle, holding a 
 tallow candle in its old silver candlestick first to one 
 side and then to the other to observe the progress of 
 his work. 
 
 "It puts me to the blush to ask it of you," Jessop hesi 
 tated, "and yet in the nature of things, Master Valen 
 tine, I cannot do my own hair." Father Tobias looked 
 up bewildered. "The one barber in yonder town," 
 went on Jessop, "hath by this time, I doubt not, been 
 mobbed and dismembered. And in any case, he is six 
 miles away, over the worst road, I do think me, that 
 ever lay outside man s door. 
 
 "Certainly," assented Father Tobias, with kindly 
 alacrity, "you want me to comb your hair." 
 
 "Why, no," deprecated Jessop, " t is not quite so
 
 MISTRESS JOY 127 
 
 bad as that. I have myself combed it quite thoroughly. 
 Now, if you will but step here to my room one moment, 
 tie a ribbon as I 11 show you, and dust a bit of powder 
 on, t will answer." 
 
 But, however easy in the telling, Father Tobias 
 found it no simple task. He tied his amiable, blunder 
 ing fingers into the knots of ribbon, and untangled 
 them with great difficulty. The powder he was afraid 
 to touch, dreading that by a too copious shower of it 
 he would spoil all. 
 
 After fumbling conscientiously for fifteen minutes, 
 he owned himself quite beaten. "I begin to believe," 
 he hesitated gently, rubbing his temple with a dubious 
 forefinger and eying the strange wreck he had made 
 of Jessop s head, "that I was not born for a hair 
 dresser." 
 
 "But for greater and better things," supplied Jessop, 
 whose bubbling gaiety and satisfaction nothing could 
 damp. 
 
 "Why, yes, perchance; for a preacher of the Word, 
 I and my friends who love me think. And as these 
 trappings of the world are forbidden us by the dis 
 cipline of our Society, I am limited to the plentiful 
 powder of age upon mine own locks, and have no prac 
 tised hand wherewith to powder the locks of another. 
 Come to the room without, Master Jessop, and let us 
 call daughter Joy to help me. Betwixt us, we can 
 surely accomplish the work." 
 
 The two men gathered up awkwardly the necessary 
 paraphernalia and went into the living-room. 
 
 Something very like dismay swept over Joyce as she 
 got her first sight of Jessop s shining figure. She cov 
 ered her feeling by an instant show of concern for his 
 coat. "You should not dress his hair above that silken 
 collar," she objected sharply. " T will soil it, may 
 hap. Doth not the hair-dresser always pin a towel
 
 128 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 about your shoulders, Master Jessop, when he dresses 
 your hair?" 
 
 Not twice in his life had Jessop been under the hands 
 of a public barber. His own valets, first and second, 
 were both trained hair-dressers. He remembered 
 humorously that there had been some sort of silken 
 affair provided to spread above the robe de chambrc 
 while his dark locks were curled or powdered or 
 tied up. 
 
 Now he said seriously: "Why, yes, I think a towel 
 is the proper thing. I thank you, Mistress Joyce, for 
 the suggestion. T is so long since I have been dressed 
 I have been merely clothed of late that I find I have 
 forgotten how dressing is done." 
 
 Joyce brought a large, snowy, coarse cloth of her own 
 weaving. Jessop was not a tall man, he was scarce 
 above Joy s own height, yet the pinning of this cloth 
 about his neck was attended with some difficulty. Her 
 face, directly opposite and slightly lower than his own, 
 was raised to his, while her fingers, made suddenly 
 awkward, sought vainly to knot the cloth in place. 
 Her eyes, down-dropped, refused persistently to meet 
 his own, which permitted Jessop to note the unusual 
 length and beauty of her lashes. 
 
 He was half minded to ask something which should 
 make her lift these heavy lashes and favor him with 
 one of those swift, half-revealing glances for which he 
 had come of late to watch. But he observed the tremu- 
 lousness of her lips and the trouble in her face, and, 
 with a consideration which was a new thing in Jessop, 
 he not only forbore speech, but turned aside his gaze 
 and addressed himself to Father Tobias. 
 
 "She s bibbing me, Master Valentine, you observe. 
 Faith, it minds me of nursery days. A touch more of 
 this and I shall say, Mama, I 11 be good. 
 
 "I pray you, sit down," cut in Joy s voice querulously.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 129 
 
 "I cannot reach you here, as you might well know with 
 a little forethought." And Jessop turned in surprise, 
 to see that she had blushed burningly. He could have 
 sworn, too, that there were tears beneath those myste 
 rious lashes. 
 
 Something in her face, or perhaps something in his 
 own consciousness, that subconsciousness of ours 
 which is said to store away and retain all our acts, sleep 
 ing or waking, knowing or unknowing, brought to his 
 mind the memory of that kiss which Joyce had given 
 him, and which had remained an unmentioned, unac 
 knowledged secret between them. He felt a great rush 
 of tenderness toward the brave young creature who 
 faced all the issues of her life with such dauntless cour 
 age, and who was yet a very woman. 
 
 As he stood there, exquisite in his silk attire, his 
 powder and lace, Jessop felt an unaccustomed film in 
 his eyes at which he wondered half cynically. When 
 he was seated as she had commanded, Joy brought him 
 her own quaint little silver mirror, a keepsake which 
 had come to her with some other trinkets from the 
 young mother whom she had never seen. 
 
 "Now, Master Jessop, you may look in that and 
 tell me what to do, for I have small skill in dressing 
 the heads of gentlemen." 
 
 "Whatever you may do to their hearts, Mistress 
 Joy," supplied Jessop, gaily "whatever you may do 
 to their hearts. Now, may I trouble you? Will you 
 gather it all in one hand, somewhat as an Indian brave 
 about to scalp me though, as I am already your vic 
 tim, I hope you will spare me that." 
 
 Her slender, toil-roughened fingers slipped through 
 the fine mesh of his curls. Dark strands twisted silkily 
 about them. The touch sent a thrill to Joy s heart, 
 unwelcome because it reminded her of that memorable 
 day when she had forgotten herself, and, as it seemed 
 9
 
 130 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to her now, had kissed the owner of those curls boldly, 
 wantonly, sinfully. 
 
 "Now, Mistress Joy, divide it in three parts, and 
 lay them loosely over one another in a braid so. 
 Draw them out about the ears, will you? That s called 
 the pigeon wings I m a dove about to take flight, 
 you see. Next, plait tighter with your three strands. 
 Draw them as snugly as you can now; that s the 
 club, and we must have it a good, stout one, or, 
 what with dancing and bowing and mincing, I shall 
 have my locks flying about in the most ungenteel 
 fashion." 
 
 Joyce followed each direction with intelligent docil 
 ity. Her lips were pressed tight together, and her 
 eyes were full of tears. She was ashamed of the feel 
 ing, yet it broke the heart in her bosom to look down 
 upon her own coarse garb against Jessop s sumptuous 
 satin. The thought that she stood playing valet, mak 
 ing him fine that he might go out to a world of pleasure 
 which she could not share which she could never share 
 was exceeding bitter. 
 
 She had carefully kept Jessop s head between her and 
 the mirror. Now, with a sudden shifting of it, he 
 caught a full view of the woeful countenance. 
 
 He sprang up in alarm, quite undoing all Joy s pa 
 tient work. "Mistress Joyce!" he cried, "what is it? 
 What have I done? Did I speak harshly to you? 
 I m such a thoughtless brute," and, unmindful of 
 Father Tobias, he caught her hands and attempted to 
 gaze into her eyes. 
 
 "Why, t is naught," returned Joy, pulling away her 
 hands. "Now, look you ; you ve undone all my work, 
 and I was near finishing. W T hy should you ask what 
 ails me?" 
 
 Silenced, but not satisfied, Jessop sat meekly down. 
 He was resolved, however, not to offend again, and to
 
 A 1.1 I I 1.1. li Till-: l.KKT, PRAY, MISTRESS JOY.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 131 
 
 this end with every suggestion he made he kept a wary 
 eye upon Joy s face in the mirror. 
 
 That young woman, however, was equally resolute 
 not to have her tell-tale features studied. 
 
 A little to the left, pray, Mistress Joy," Jessop would 
 counsel, moving his mirror slightly to the right, and 
 be rewarded with a flying glimpse of the tip of Joy s 
 ear and the twist of her shining hair as she dodged 
 skilfully behind her own handiwork. 
 
 At last the queue was braided, the pigeon wings 
 worked up, the club tightly wrapped with its white- 
 satin ribbon, the silver clasps something quite new to 
 this provincial community fastened in place, and Joy 
 was ready to dust the powder on. To do this she 
 would have to face him, and Jessop, weary of the game 
 of bo-peep, heaved a sigh of relief. He would now 
 be able to study her face and know if he had really 
 wounded her, either by his attitude or speech. 
 
 But no woman of the grand monde could have met 
 the situation with more tact than this young backwoods 
 woman, whose aspiration it was to become a Metho 
 dist preacher. "There," she said in a tone of satisfac 
 tion, "what with your instruction and my disposition 
 to observe worldly frivolities of this sort, I should say 
 we have done famously, Master Jessop. Now, close 
 your eyes and we 11 get the powder on. Oh, close 
 them tight ; t is no use blinking like that they would 
 be dusted full." 
 
 Jessop obeyed, half sulkily. He was chagrined at 
 being met and so completely worsted on his own 
 ground. 
 
 This minor triumph somewhat lightened Joy s drag 
 ging heart, but not for long. As she flecked the pow 
 der from an exposed portion of his sleeve and unpinned 
 the cloth, the bleak pathos of her position came home 
 to her.
 
 132 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Instinctively she turned to Father Tobias. "Here, 
 Father Toby," she said, "when they turn me out of the 
 Society and will have none of me for a preacher, shall 
 I not make my living bravely as a hair-dresser?" 
 
 Jessop stood up full dressed. He had put on, with 
 this attire, something else. Unconsciously he had as 
 sumed the manner of his former world, and, to some 
 extent, there came with it that world s point of view 
 and spiritual outlook. As Father Tobias and Joy 
 turned to inspect him, he raised his beruffled hand, laid 
 it against his heart, and, laughing, gave them the grand 
 salute. 
 
 Jessop was a graceful fellow. Born to wealth and 
 power, their trappings sat well upon him. He might 
 have dazzled a more experienced girl. Standing there 
 in his shimmering white satin that took the light like 
 pearl, with the powdered curls above his forehead 
 bringing out all the fervid beauty of his dark eyes, to 
 Joy he looked like a being from another sphere. She 
 felt poignantly that he was at least of a world which 
 was not hers. 
 
 Father Tobias took the antique candlestick and, rais 
 ing it high, walked about Jessop, viewing him from all 
 sides. "Why, now," he said approvingly, " t is well 
 done, my Joy. Back in my time, when I was one of 
 the world s people, we all wore wigs." 
 
 "As some do now," supplemented Jessop. "But I, 
 who have no wig and no money wherewith to purchase 
 a wig, must content myself with meeting the fashion 
 in powdered hair." 
 
 Joy looked at the two men, one young, handsome, 
 gay in his magnificent evening dress, the other a little 
 bent, and in the old black coat whose narrow skirts 
 were almost gown-like, his thin, silvery hair falling 
 lightly on his shoulders and making a sort of aureole 
 to frame the gentle, unworldly old face.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 133 
 
 They imaged to her, although she scarcely realized it 
 at that moment, the two possibilities in her nature. 
 Father Tobias stood for her childhood and youth, her 
 old ideals and hopes. He represented to her the Joyce 
 Valentine whose highest aspiration it was to become a 
 preacher of the Word. 
 
 Jessop typified another woman, whose first stirrings 
 within her she had regarded as deadly sin. She had 
 been learning of late that there was a potential Joyce 
 Valentine who loved, beyond all else, beauty and luxury 
 and gaiety and life and form and color a woman of 
 restless and passionate desires, one who would bring to 
 bear upon what Joyce now considered sinful and selfish 
 pleasures the same courage and address that the Puri 
 tan Joyce Valentine had ever brought to bear upon the 
 doing of her duty. 
 
 Father Tobias reminded them that it was time Mas 
 ter Batchelor would be passing with the coach. Jessop 
 brought out the three-cornered white hat which, robbed 
 as it was of its diamond star, was much finer than he 
 desired it to be, and, the coach having driven up, the 
 old man cautioned Jessop lest he soil his white shoes or 
 injure his beautiful costume. His placid old face ex 
 pressed the most innocent and unmeasured delight in 
 Jessop s magnificence. He lighted him quite to the 
 coach door, shading the candle with his withered 
 hands, lest some untoward accident happen to the 
 snowy splendor he so much admired.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ATHER TOBIAS appreciated to the 
 full that this glimpse of a life she 
 could not hope to enter must be surely 
 trying to a young and ardent creature 
 like his daughter. "My Joy," he 
 said, pausing beside her chair on his 
 way to the little attic chamber, "you d 
 never think it, dearest, but your old gray-headed father 
 has been through it all." 
 
 "Through what?" asked Joyce, in a muffled voice, 
 her lips against the palm of the hand she had drawn 
 about her neck. 
 
 "Oh, the longing and the trouble and the heavy 
 cross, dear heart, when the things of this world look 
 so beautiful and the Voice is not always strong enough 
 to be heard." 
 
 "The Voice?" repeated Joy. 
 ever did hear it, Father Toby, 
 called ; what think you ? Did it seem to you a true 
 call?" 
 
 " Many shall be called and few chosen, " quoted 
 Father Tobias, softly. "Yea, I did think, my daugh 
 ter, that thou wert one of God s own. Shall we take 
 it to the Lord in prayer ?" 
 
 The two knelt down beside that humble hearth-stone, 
 which was surely in purity and love an acceptable altar, 
 and Father Tobias prayed, not that Joy should be led 
 in one way or the other, but that she should be led 
 
 134
 
 MISTRESS JOY 135 
 
 aright. His gentle, humble petition acknowledged the 
 fallibility of human judgment, the weakness of the 
 human heart, and left room for other beliefs than his 
 own to be proven best. 
 
 This touch of warm human sympathy somewhat 
 comforted Joy s sore heart. But when he was gone, 
 and she sat alone waiting for Jessop, her spirit sank 
 very low indeed. Since Manteo s death, Joyce had 
 been sleeping above stairs, but this night she had for a 
 while persuaded herself that it was necessary some one 
 should await Jessop s coming, to see the house safely 
 closed after him. Then misery rent away the dis 
 guise, and she acknowledged that she was sitting there 
 waiting for another glimpse of him, hungry to hear 
 him talk of that gay world with which he had mingled, 
 eager to know if he would, after it, still care to look 
 into her eyes as he had done. 
 
 For a long time she fought against the desire to rise 
 and take from the mantel shelf, where she had placed 
 it, the quaint little mirror which Jessop had held. 
 Finally, she reached it down, and looked at herself 
 sadly and long. She saw in it a face of irregular 
 beauty, full of charm a charm she did not recognize. 
 She sighed impatiently, and wondered how white satin 
 would become her, and then she fell to dreaming. She 
 was a child again, listening to the sweet, droning voice 
 of an old woman telling her fairy tales. 
 
 Back in the early days, when Father Tobias was 
 struggling with the problem of what might be best 
 for an eager, restless girl of twelve, there was an old 
 Irish lady, a woman of birth and title, who had fol 
 lowed her two sons into the wilderness, and who loved 
 to have Joyce about her chair or the companion of her 
 solitary dinner when these same sons were absent. 
 Pastor Valentine was much criticized for permitting 
 the intimacy, since Lady Connor was a Catholic. But,
 
 136 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 gentle as was Father Tobias, he always managed his 
 own affairs in his own way, and during the winter 
 which the Connors spent in Mississippi, Joy was in 
 structed in all the fairy lore which had nurtured the 
 old Irishwoman s own youth. 
 
 Now, as she sat, with the little mirror in her lap, 
 musing of Jessop, these fairy tales echoed through her 
 mind and mingled themselves with her thoughts of 
 him. She brooded upon the "Knight in Snow-white 
 Armor, the very Flower of Men." She thought that 
 just as Jessop looked in his satin and laces, so must 
 have looked the fairy prince who waked the Sleeping 
 Beauty. Before her the picture floated dreamily of the 
 prince kneeling beside the sleeping princess as he bent 
 to kiss her. That kiss had wakened not only the prin 
 cess, but her whole castle to life. Then she remem 
 bered with a burning blush the time when, kneeling, 
 she had given, not received, such a kiss, and that it 
 had wakened many things in her woman s soul to 
 which she had been a stranger. Burying her face in 
 her hands, she for the first time seriously entertained 
 the thought that not only was she unfit to preach the 
 Word, but that the strongest part of her belonged to 
 the world. 
 
 And here, in spite of all her honest efforts, rebellious 
 thoughts would follow Jessop. She saw him moving, 
 a lustrous figure in a dream, through gorgeous rooms, 
 courtly, elegant, far off, as he had seemed to her to 
 night. 
 
 Back of all lay the consciousness that there was 
 shame in thus giving rein to her idle and sinful fancy. 
 Her father s face, mild and protecting as it had beamed 
 down on her after his prayer, half formed, wavered, 
 and then faded to give place to another. 
 
 She wondered dully why David Batchelor should 
 intrude upon her musings. She decided finally that it
 
 MISTRESS JOY 137 
 
 must be because he was not a member of the Society, 
 but one who voluntarily and without constraint of any 
 sort elected to tread the path which she was beginning 
 to find too bleak and difficult for her feet. 
 
 Well, why should he not? If she were free, even 
 as he was, to take or leave as she list, she felt that the 
 leaving would be less hard, the taking less repugnant. 
 David had gone to the ball. If she might only go to 
 such a place once, if she might see the worldly life as 
 it was, she would then be willing to give it up for all 
 time. But her own reason showed her that this was 
 idle and sophistical. As she phrased it to herself, it 
 was "a lure of the evil one to lead her soul astray." 
 
 Wearied with doubts and questionings to which she 
 found no answer, she at last fell asleep on the hard old 
 settle, her head pillowed on her arm, to doze and dream 
 uneasily till Jessop s hand upon the latch wakened her. 
 
 He was flushed, smiling, alert. She had never seen 
 him so gay, so poised, so completely a man of the 
 world. 
 
 And suddenly the room was smaller, more homely, 
 meaner, humbler in its appointments, as though he had 
 contracted it by its greatness, and with his brilliance 
 dimmed the light of its one pitiful candle. 
 
 "You should not have waited up for me, Mistress 
 Valentine. Your father gave me the secret of the 
 latch, so that I might enter, disturbing none." 
 
 She had attempted to cajole her own judgment. 
 But now, when inquired of by Jessop, she replied with 
 characteristic candor: "Nay, Master Jessop, I am so 
 worldly minded that I could not rest till you had told 
 me of the ball, and who was there, and how the young 
 duke appeared. I never in my life saw aught like it. 
 I fear I think too much upon such things. But per 
 chance if t were once freely told me t would quiet 
 what I sometimes think is a wicked craving."
 
 138 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 All this was said so naively, yet so sweetly, that 
 Jessop was charmed. He looked with a swift access of 
 admiration at the tall, slight figure and the serious, pale 
 face. If this girl, he thought, could be transformed 
 into one of the fine ladies with whom he had been 
 dancing, half her charm would be lost. Her quaint 
 simplicity and directness moved him strongly. He re 
 membered, with something like surprise, that he had 
 once thought her unfit for an exalted station in life. 
 So fair, so pure, so utterly honest and courageous a 
 young creature! Why, she was a very queen among 
 women, and fit for any position, even a royal one. He 
 glowed with admiration for her as they seated them 
 selves and he began to speak. 
 
 "In the first place, Mistress Joy, to begin with your 
 own friends, I went, as you know, with Master David 
 Batchelor. He was attired or did you see him, per 
 chance ? in a sober suit of black satin which was, like 
 himself, the proper thing, and good enough and not 
 too good, so that you marveled somewhat, as you 
 often do of Master Batchelor, that he should have 
 hit it so exactly. Colonel Burr who, by the way, 
 asked of you, and expressed his sorrow that you were 
 not present was resplendent in pearl satin, and had 
 with him a pearl indeed in Mistress Wilful Guion, who 
 quite out-flamed him, since she was attired, like a 
 poppy, all in scarlet." 
 
 "In scarlet and at a ball Wilful?" 
 
 "Why not?" questioned Jessop. 
 
 "Know you not that she is a probationer of our 
 Society? Such things are not permitted to us. T is 
 but six months since she was taken into the Society 
 upon probation. Her mother is a Papist, but her fa 
 ther was a member of the Society back in the Caro- 
 linas, and on his death-bed Wilful promised him to 
 join us. And now they will say she hath fallen from
 
 MISTRESS JOY 139 
 
 grace, and they will discipline her. Oh, poor Wilful ! 
 I am sorry for her, though I am in my heart, belike, 
 no better." She bowed her head in proud humility. 
 
 As he sat in the ball clothes, powdered, curled, 
 alight, his fine dark eyes, at Joy s last humble words, 
 fixed upon her tired, wistful face an ardent look. 
 "Poor little sinner" Joy s lithe, young form rose al 
 most as high as Jessop s, but she was in no mood to 
 object to the manner of his speech, which held so sweet 
 caressing "and do you really deem you are a wicked 
 reprobate because, forsooth, you feel the pulse of youth 
 bound free within you ? Hast thou ever done harm to 
 mortal creature unless to one poor heart which thou 
 first warmed, and then blew cold upon, and now per 
 chance hast lit a fire within that may consume it?" 
 
 His smooth, pleasant voice dropped low, and he 
 brought his face perilously close to that beside him. 
 "Wilt seek to put it out, or only starve the flame for 
 want of proper feeding?" Then, whispering, "I have 
 grown hard and bitter and sinful in misfortune, but I 
 was once used to joy, and could yet learn to live with 
 it again." 
 
 Every nerve in the girl s body was tense, strung to 
 a pitch which was almost irresponsibility, but, with a 
 brave effort which Jessop recognized and in his heart 
 applauded, she drew herself together and said : "Me- 
 thought I was to hear about the ball? Wilful wore 
 red, you say; she often did before she joined with us. 
 It much becomes her ; but what of the prince the duke 
 was he in white?" and then flushed painfully. 
 
 With a light laugh, Jessop bent one knee and, look 
 ing straight up into the delicate, yet strong face, wan 
 in the dimness of the dull old room, he said : "One 
 there was in white who would fain be prince to Prin 
 cess Joy. May he swear fealty to her here, and claim 
 a prince s right?"
 
 140 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Her heart was in a tumult. She labored to fetch her 
 breath. But almost roughly she repulsed him. " T is 
 to be hoped your other clothes, which were so sadly 
 needed, will be better served than these. Ashes are ill 
 powder for your satins. Look to the hearth there ; you 
 will foul yourself. Besides, Master Jessop, this is the 
 cabin of a Methodist preacher, and not a fine lady s 
 drawing-room. The prince what, then, was his at 
 tire?" 
 
 Abashed, but nowise angered, Jessop rose quietly to 
 his feet. For a moment his sword-knot claimed close 
 attention. Then he strolled, humming a bit of dance 
 music beneath his breath, toward the window; and, 
 coming back to begin life all over again as Jessop 
 ever did after any check or hindrance seated himself 
 by the table and resumed smilingly : 
 
 "The prince s attire? Well, Mistress Joy, the prince 
 wore blue, not white ; the blue that is the sky-tint, much 
 jeweled, and bedecked with priceless lace, and on his 
 breast were many orders " 
 
 "Orders?" Joyce echoed, puzzled. 
 
 "Orders are ribbons, or badges, bestowed in recog 
 nition of high rank, or some special deed of chivalry 
 or courage. T is not only princes may wear these. 
 Thyself, my queen, have already decorated me with the 
 order of the Bleeding Heart." He threw her one of 
 those daring, languishing glances befitting the exag 
 gerated speech. 
 
 "Master Jessop," remonstrated Joyce, soberly, "I 
 pray you do not use this tone toward me. Bethink 
 you I am a poor, humble girl ; I have no skill where 
 with to parry such speeches, or pay them back in kind. 
 If I were foolish, I might even think you meant them." 
 
 She looked so sweet and serious, so noble, and 
 withal so beautiful, that Jessop s blood was fired. He 
 sprang up, and, going to her, dropped again beside her
 
 MISTRESS JOY 141 
 
 on his knee. All that was manly, all that was best 
 in him was uppermost. "I beg you to believe," he 
 cried, looking straight into her eyes, "that I do mean 
 them every word, and not only such doltish speeches 
 as those which are current among the belles and beaux 
 of Christendom, but very much more which you de 
 serve and which I cannot express to my kind little 
 nurse and the dear saint who is careful over the saving 
 of my renegade soul." 
 
 He did not touch her, nor offer her the light gal 
 lantries of the time. A better note had been struck. 
 Seating himself beside her on the settle, he said gaily : 
 T will soon be day, my monitress and teacher my 
 soul s keeper. As you have prayed for me these many 
 times, I doubt not, why, let me make a fair return by 
 telling you how the sinful world wags at a ball. 
 
 "There was fair Mistress Margaret Bruin, of Bayou 
 Pierre, in slippers all too tight for her. Brave child ! 
 She danced and never flinched at all. Were her feet 
 as dainty as some I wot of, she d have no need to 
 cramp them so," and he glanced down at Joy s rough, 
 clumsy little shoe, which could not hide the noble arch 
 ing of her slender foot. "There were two ladies with 
 the governor two Spanish ladies whom I met in 
 London five years gone ; they brought me news of that 
 world in which I used to live before I died and came 
 here." 
 
 "Before you died and came here?" echoed Joyce, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "Yea, certes," returned Jessop, lightly ; "are you not 
 an angel? and is not this therefore heaven? and 
 must not a sinful man die before he go to heaven?" 
 
 "Were the gentlemen all dressed as you were?" 
 asked Joyce, rather hastily. "I mean in silks and 
 satins and white. Were there any there so beautiful 
 as that?"
 
 i 4 2 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Again Jessop was touched almost to tears. "Why, 
 no, my little friend," he answered. "Your poor peni 
 tent quite out-dazzled all of them so far as clothing 
 went, and that s because he had naught else. The 
 duke wore jewels, and my jewels, Mistress Joy, have 
 passed beneath the sign of the three golden apples, and 
 are thereby in occultation till prosperity s sunshine 
 bring me a better day. 
 
 He turned and saw the face beside him wet with 
 tears. "Dear Mistress Joy," he said, in some awe of 
 her unusual emotion, "is t possible those tears are shed 
 for me? If that is so, I ask no other jewels." 
 
 They rose by common consent, hand in hand. 
 Something, Joy felt, had come to her with that night 
 and its revelations which left her other than she had 
 been, which marked a milestone on her way from girl 
 hood to womanhood. She had been angry at Jessop, 
 indignant with him, half afraid of him, and through it 
 all admired and loved him more than she desired to do. 
 Now, spent with resistance and doubtings and emotion, 
 she only felt that he was very dear, and that it was 
 sweet to her to be loved by him. All other questions 
 were pushed aside for future answering. 
 
 She took her hands from his, raised them, and laid 
 them lightly on his shoulders. The new clay, coming 
 through the little low window, smote upon her face. 
 There was something kindred between Joyce Valentine 
 and the daybreak. Her eyes were large and serious. 
 She fixed them upon his, and whispered very softly, 
 "God bless you," and then, after a brief pause, "God 
 keep you always." 
 
 And it is to be recorded of Jessop that so impressed 
 was he, and so touched, by this strange termination 
 of a frivolous conversation about a ball, that he for 
 bore to proffer any caress or to presume in the least 
 upon her loving-kindness.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 HE Valentine cabin lay peaceful and 
 quiet in the evening sunlight. Satan 
 dozed on the hearth beside Faithful. 
 Father Tobias, book in hand, paced 
 the length of the living-room, as was 
 his wont when in any peculiar stress 
 of thought or emotion. 
 Joy was busied with bread-making. The conflict 
 of emotions through which she had come since Father 
 Tobias called her in to help with Jessop s hair had left 
 a spent and wearied look upon her young face. The 
 corners of her red lips drooped a bit ; her step was in 
 elastic and dragging as she went from the hearth to 
 the table with bowl or tray. Jessop was gone again 
 to "The Meadows," and life had settled down once 
 more to its workaday round. 
 
 Joy had begun upon Jessop s song at her work : 
 
 "The brown girl she hath houses and lands, 
 Fair Ellen she hath none," 
 
 murmured the fresh, young voice over and over. 
 
 There were steps outside, and Nicholas Swazey, 
 Abner Chew, Heritage Hamtranck, and Demler Dunn, 
 accompanied by Sister Loving Longanecker, who was 
 in turn followed by the inevitable Patience, filed sol 
 emnly in. The callers were suitably greeted and given 
 chairs, where they sat in silence so persistent that the
 
 144 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 meeting appeared to be a Quaker rather than a Metho 
 dist one. 
 
 But that "loquacious vessel," Sister Longanecker, 
 could not long remain poised without spilling over in 
 conversation. "Patience has been a-telling me, Pas 
 tor Valentine, for a long time that something ought to 
 be done about one of our members," she began. 
 
 "The one of whom you spoke to me?" questioned 
 Father Tobias. "I should be very sorry to have that 
 matter once more raised in the Society." 
 
 "We are all mighty sorry, Master Valentine," said 
 Demler Dunn s grave, low voice, "yet none of us can 
 see any way but that young person will have to be 
 dealt with." 
 
 Abner Chew, a very tall, thin man, with rugged, seri 
 ous face and gray hair, began solemnly, as a man enun 
 ciating important matter, to relate the delinquencies 
 of the young girl whose case was under consideration. 
 "It is Mistress Wilful Guion of whom we speak," he 
 announced. "I am informed that she hath been seen 
 with ribbons of a blue or scarlet color was it blue or 
 scarlet, Sister Longanecker? tying up her locks." 
 
 "Aye," volleyed the sister thus bidden forth from 
 silence, "and a tucker frilled till t was scarce to be 
 known as a tucker at all ! T was modish frivolity a 
 scandal, and a shame on the neck of a young female 
 who professes to belong to the Methodist Society 
 though she be but a probationer, and " 
 
 Father Tobias turned impatiently to Master Dunn. 
 There was an infrequent frown on his brow. "These 
 be small matters, it appears to me, to bring against a 
 brother or a sister in the Society. . Have ye aught more 
 serious to present?" he interrupted sharply. 
 
 "Why, surely, Master Valentine," broke in Nicholas 
 Swazey, "you are not unaware that this young woman 
 hath attended a ball ? Yea, in the company of a god-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 145 
 
 less man called Burr. I myself have no desire to know 
 of these matters. If we have put the world away from 
 us, I hold that curiosity as to its doings is sinful; but 
 I have a son, as you know, who is a young man, and 
 the young are not always to be controlled in their 
 desires." 
 
 Back at the kitchen table, her hands deep in dough, 
 Joyce winced at these words,. 
 
 "Well, Master Swazey, and what then?" urged the 
 preacher. "Are we to discipline your son also?" 
 
 "Nay, I meant not that," returned Nicholas, naively; 
 "yet I will relate his fault, and if it seemeth good to 
 the class I will not, because he is my son, seek to 
 shield him from the discipline." 
 
 Master Valentine strode to the window and stood 
 looking out, his hands knotted behind his back, his 
 troubled eyes upon the roadway. 
 
 Such scenes as this always tried his soul. For some 
 reason which he could not explain to himself, he longed 
 for the sight of David Batchelor. 
 
 As David was not a member of any of the classes, 
 it would be improper for him to be present, and Father 
 Tobias sighed restively and turned back to face those 
 in the room behind him. They were good people, they 
 were his own people, yet the harshness of their judg 
 ment, the narrowness of their vision in this matter, 
 made him crave speech with one w r hose breadth and 
 strong humanity were more nearly akin to the pastor s 
 own soul. 
 
 Sister Longanecker could bear repression no longer. 
 "She hath danced! Wilful Guion hath danced! She 
 was seen moving her feet, and her hands, and head 
 and body too, belike, to the lewd music of the fiddle. 
 Nicholas Swazey s own son Samuel spied through the 
 window and saw her, and " with a swift side glance 
 at Patience " t was a wicked, wicked thing for him
 
 146 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to do, and one for which he should be disciplined, I 
 warrant, as his own father doth not deny." 
 
 "Well, well, well, now let us have the conclusion 
 of the whole matter," interposed Father Tobias. 
 "This child, who is particularly dear to my soul be 
 cause she came to us out of the fold of the Catholics, 
 and of her own free will, not six months gone, hath 
 been seen to tie her hair with a bright ribbon and she 
 hath gone to a dance." 
 
 "With a most godless man," supplied Sister Longa- 
 necker, promptly. "Patience says to me early this 
 morning, Mommy, says she, if that wicked man was 
 to come about you or me they d have us up before the 
 class, and I don t see what better Wilful Guion is just 
 because she hath been a Catholic. 
 
 "My friends," said the pastor, who appeared to 
 have listened not at all to these edifying remarks, "I 
 will attend to this matter. I should prefer that the 
 poor child seek me, but the occurrence of the ball can 
 not be passed over, and I must e en go to her with 
 fatherly counsel." 
 
 "Not to her house," interposed Sister Longanecker, 
 in a horrified tone. "The mother is a Papist, and a 
 widow at that." Why a widow, Papist or otherwise, 
 should be a dangerous creature for Master Valentine to 
 encounter, Sister Loving did not pause to explain. 
 
 Joy had withdrawn her hands from the dough and 
 washed them. Now she appeared in the doorway, 
 looking tall and pale and tired, but her clear eyes bright 
 with indignation. "You need not trouble yourselves," 
 she said quietly, "to discipline Wilful ; and father here 
 may never go to see her, except as a friend. We have 
 lost her. She is gone back to her own church." 
 
 There was an expression of deep dismay on the faces 
 of all her hearers all except Sister Longanecker. 
 
 "Well, of all things !" cried Patience s mother.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 147 
 
 " T is an easy way to dodge the discipline. I hold 
 that we should turn her out for our own credit, whether 
 she goeth back to the Catholics or no." 
 
 "Nay, Sister Longanecker," said Swazey, the man 
 who had been willing that his own son should be dis 
 ciplined. "I am grieved to the heart, and I know that 
 all the Society will be so grieved, that we should lose 
 Mistress Wilful not that we should lose her, but that 
 she should fall thus from grace to the damnation of 
 her own soul. Yet I think it not meet nor kind that 
 we should attempt to discipline one who is no longer 
 a member." 
 
 "Though my daughter s words come upon me as a 
 distressing surprise," said the pastor, "I am not with 
 out hope in the case. The child is young, she hath 
 been over-persuaded, her mother is a Papist; she may 
 yet repent, and see once more the errors of Rome. 
 I would not have her think that the Society had cast 
 her out, nor that we love her less; rather should we 
 love her more for her error, which needeth more love, 
 and seek to lay hold upon her and draw her back into 
 the fold." 
 
 At all this talk of love, Sister Longanecker looked 
 very wild indeed. She appeared to examine the re 
 marks, and to decide finally that there was nothing 
 actually contraband in them. Finally she said, in a 
 dissatisfied tone : "I fear me the Society is growing lax, 
 Master Valentine. What would ye say now if I, or my 
 daughter Patience here, accepted attentions from this 
 man Burr?" 
 
 The pastor could not repress a smile. "Why, I 
 think I should say, sister, that as you are well grounded 
 in the true faith, and Colonel Burr a very courteous 
 gentleman, he was like to do you no harm, and you 
 might mayhap do him a world of good." 
 
 "Are you aware, Sister Longanecker," broke in Joy s
 
 148 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 clear, angry tones, "that Colonel Burr hath been a fre 
 quent guest in this house yea, and a very welcome 
 and a pleasant guest?" 
 
 Sister Longanecker s face puckered into a most curi 
 ous expression. She did know this, nor was it her 
 fault if the thing had not become a public scandal in 
 the Society. "I have heard say," she finally began 
 cautiously, "but those who spoke to me were more con 
 cerned about this wayfaring man whom you have 
 taken in." 
 
 For three years Sister Longanecker s one hope had 
 been to steer Joyce into the haven of matrimony, when 
 Pastor Valentine, left quite unprotected, would surely 
 be an easy victim. She was perhaps a little mad on the 
 subject, and every man who approached the Valentine 
 homestead presented himself to her mind as a possible 
 suitor for Joy. Jessop had appeared extremely avail 
 able material for this use, and she regretted to do 
 anything which might interfere with so excellent a 
 plan. Candor, however, compelled her to mention 
 him. 
 
 At the words, Joyce flushed and looked to her father 
 for assistance. "I see no scandal," said Father Tobias, 
 "in a man, be he pastor of the flock or member of the 
 Society, succoring the needy. Nay, we are com 
 manded so to do. I have great hope for the soul of 
 the young brother who is with me. The Society may 
 at any time question me in this matter or any other, 
 but I would ask that, so far as this is concerned, they 
 have patience and give me time, for I have, as I say 
 to you, high hopes for his soul." 
 
 Sister Longanecker rose, wreathed in smiles, and 
 went over to Joy, who retreated before her to the 
 kitchen. "Well, now, if I had known that was the 
 way of it," she whispered, "I d never have spoken a 
 word. Patience says to me, she says, only this morn-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 149 
 
 ing, Mommy, nobody can t live in the house with Sis 
 ter Joyce Valentine without loving her. Patience she 
 loves you, Sister Joyce, I do assure you, just like a 
 sister exactly like a sister." 
 
 Joy s graceful head was held very high indeed; there 
 was a scarlet stain on each cheek. To speak in worldly 
 parlance, she was angry. She would have liked to 
 shake the speaker. "I do not understand what you 
 may be hinting at, Sister Longanecker," she said 
 haughtily, and then proved that she did understand by 
 adding: "I do not hold every man who giveth me 
 good morrow to have made me a tender of marriage. 
 Master Jessop is my father s guest, not mine. I know 
 him little, and" with a sudden access of temper "I 
 like him less." 
 
 Suddenly she caught sight of Jessop s face behind 
 Sister Longanecker s broad shoulder. He had re 
 turned from his work, and, not desiring to interrupt 
 the men, who were still talking in the living-room, had 
 rome toward the kitchen, where Sister Longanecker s 
 portly form blocked the doorway. 
 
 In her embarrassment and distress, Joy turned once 
 more to her neglected bread. The pones must be 
 ready and hot for Jessop s supper. He was working 
 all day now in the field like a day laborer, and Joy, 
 whose attitude toward all for whom she cared was ma 
 ternal, took great thought that he should be properly 
 fed and nourished. 
 
 Sister Longanecker s embarrassment was quite equal 
 to Joy s, but she covered it as best she might with volu 
 ble references to what the inexhaustible Patience had 
 said to her and what she had said in reply. 
 
 Back in the room beyond, one of the hard-featured, 
 weather-beaten old men was in tears. He wept freely 
 and without shame, as a child might weep, this ear 
 nest, narrow-minded, good old man, over the falling
 
 150 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 from grace of a young girl with whom he had scarcely 
 exchanged a dozen words. 
 
 To these early Christians the terms sister and bro 
 ther were not empty ones; rather they stood for more 
 than the words could mean where in the family they 
 represent the tie of blood alone. The five old men 
 went patiently into the details of the matter. The 
 exact shade of the ribbon which poor Wilful had worn, 
 its width and disposition, were in their eyes impor 
 tant concerns things to be weighed and debated upon. 
 The very tune to which she had moved her erring little 
 feet came under consideration, and when it was known 
 that the gown she wore was a scarlet one, that fact was 
 held to seriously aggravate her offense. 
 
 Before the committee departed, Master Valentine re 
 called Sister Longanecker to the room, and they all 
 knelt in earnest prayer. The pastor supplicated first 
 for the erring sister, that she be led aright, that 
 God, in his own good time, would show her the way. 
 For themselves, he asked that they be given grace to 
 bear with the failings of others, to look each into his 
 own heart, and, seeing there the sin, be very merciful to 
 those who falter or stumble openly, where their failings 
 may be known of men. 
 
 The door was closed between the living-room and 
 the kitchen; Jessop leaned his shoulder against the 
 lintel, and gazed at Joy while she worked over her 
 bread. This scrutiny did not improve her skill. She 
 spilled the coarse, yellow meal over the snowy table, 
 dropped her spoon with a startling clatter, and bent 
 her head down over the pones till Jessop could see no 
 thing but the twist of her bronze hair and the nape of 
 her white neck. 
 
 Finally he quoted, in a reminiscent tone: "And so, 
 Mistress Joy, you know me little, and like me less. 
 Perchance if you knew me better you would like me 
 better; what think you?"
 
 MISTRESS JOY 151 
 
 Joy was so long silent that he almost fancied she 
 was not going to answer at all. Finally she began, 
 in a very low voice : "I am sorry, Master Jessop; I was 
 angry. T is a besetting sin of mine, one against 
 which I daily pray for grace/ 
 
 "What angered you, Mistress Joy?" inquired Jessop. 
 "Was t something I did?" 
 
 "Nay," returned Joy, with quick, innocent kindliness. 
 "You never anger me now; t was what Sister Lov 
 ing said." 
 
 "What she said of me?" persisted Jessop. "Why, 
 let her say what she will" laughing a little "she 
 will not paint me as black as the truth." 
 
 "She spoke no ill of you; she said that you that 
 I " and then Joyce quite broke down. 
 
 Jessop whistled softly, and laughed again. Joyce 
 was putting her pones in the oven, setting that upon 
 its bed of coals, and heaping the live coals on its lid. 
 "So," he said, as she finished and stood up facing 
 him, "we have gossips here in the wilderness as well 
 as in the great world. You did well to be angry, Mis 
 tress Valentine, at your name being linked with that of 
 a man who comes from the Lord knows where and 
 may have done the Lord knows what." The pleasant 
 voice dropped to a tone of bitterness as he finished. 
 
 T was not that," corrected Joy, in haste to com 
 fort him. " T was because there was n t any truth in 
 what she said that I was angry." 
 
 "Mistress Joy, Mistress Joy !" cried Jessop, throwing 
 back his head and laughing. "Now, who but Mistress 
 Joyce Valentine would say a thing like that?" He 
 drew nearer, flushed and smiling, and Joy retreated to 
 her table, where she made pretense of some task to 
 occupy her hands and still that uncomfortably tumul 
 tuous beating of the heart which, she had found, always 
 answered this mood in Jessop. 
 
 "See, sweeting," leaning upon the table beside her,
 
 152 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 and trying to look around into her half-averted face, 
 "you say that you were angry because t was not so. 
 Then that means that you would be pleased if t were 
 true, doth it not? doth it not, sweet Mistress Joy?" 
 
 Honesty kept Joy silent till she felt Jessop s arm 
 stealing about her waist. Then she turned, and, with 
 drawing herself a little from him, faltered, "I do not 
 know what t is I feel. T is always pleasant to be 
 loved, is it not, Master Jessop?" looking him honestly 
 in the face. "And when I think so I take great de 
 light in your words." 
 
 "Then listen," murmured Jessop, again attempting to 
 put that ready arm about her. "I have very many of 
 those sweet words to say to you ; listen to them, sweet 
 heart, an they please you." 
 
 But Joy again drew away, speaking in the hushed 
 tone they had come to use they were both a trifle 
 frightened. "That is not all. I say that sometimes I 
 am pleased, but sometimes I am afraid ; and then I feel 
 that it is a sin to listen to you at all. I am, you know, 
 to be a preacher of the Word, and you belong to that 
 world which we have renounced." 
 
 Jessop was thoroughly in earnest now; opposition 
 was all he ever needed to produce that frame of mind. 
 "And yet," he said reproachfully, "you claim that you 
 love my soul, that you desire my salvation. How can 
 you push me from you, and out into temptation? 
 With you, beloved, I could be all that you desire. 
 These little hands could lead me anywhere." 
 
 He had possessed himself of both the members of 
 which he spoke so feelingly. 
 
 Joy, far from pushing him away as she had been 
 accused of doing, drooped so close to his shoulder that 
 a few threads of her loosened hair blew across his 
 cheek. And the name of the next Countess of Shrop 
 shire trembled in the balance.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 153 
 
 The sound of the departing committee, the approach 
 of Father Tobias toward the kitchen, brought these 
 two back from the frontiers of that dangerous fairyland 
 toward which they had been traveling. 
 
 "Do not forget that I love you," whispered Jessop, 
 passionately, as he pressed the little hands against his 
 breast. "Give me speech with you again." And Joy 
 did not say nay.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 was three years since the treaty of San 
 Lorenzo had given the Mississippi 
 province to the United States. 
 
 Yet, owing to Spain s policy of de 
 lay, the Natchez district was still, in 
 spite of the entry of some United 
 States troops, a no-man s-land, offer 
 ing an alluring field to the enterprising adventurer. 
 
 For months past, Burr s friends spies, his enemies 
 called them had been busy feeling for him the public 
 pulse. 
 
 The happiest peoples, we say, have no history. And 
 yet we find it true that the failures, also, are apt to be 
 dropped out of or never get into the register. Who 
 knows of the engagement which was secretly made, 
 and secretly broken, between two young people a hun 
 dred years ago? Where is the record of the conspir 
 acy, freighted with hopes, beset with fears, and care 
 fully guarded to the day of its failure by those who 
 have been churchyard mold these fifty years ? 
 
 The plotting of the Spaniards to hold this territory, 
 the aid and countenance given them by prominent men 
 of Tennessee and Georgia who had no mind to be cut 
 off by a hostile power from the fine market of New 
 Orleans, come down to us in documentary evidence. 
 
 For the other cabals we have only hints. It is cer 
 tain that Ellicott, of whom Burr made much use, 
 was ambitious to be appointed first governor of the new
 
 MISTRESS JOY 155 
 
 territory when the United States should formally take 
 possession. His machinations, therefore, never con 
 templated the dissevering of the province from this 
 country. That he and others carried on a system of 
 intrigue and spying, fomented quarrels between pri 
 vate families where it served their turn, and kept an 
 unwritten record of every man s politics and possibili 
 ties, lives in tradition and upon the pages of many a 
 musty, little-read history of the times. But later, when 
 conditions were much more unfavorable for such a 
 venture, Aaron Burr was attainted of this very treason. 
 
 What his ultimate ambition was in 1798 regarding 
 the Mississippi territory will now never be known. It 
 seems likely, from the temper of the man as it appears 
 to us in this day, that his hopes reached forward to the 
 founding of an empire, and not a republic. Had suc 
 cess waited upon his efforts, there would have been 
 another face in our gallery of heroes and patriots. But 
 he failed. Failure and treason are apt to be one in 
 this world. 
 
 It was March, 1798. The time approached when, if 
 any blow was to be struck, it could no longer be de 
 layed. Since Jessop s convalescence and his conspicu 
 ous appearance at the ball, Colonel Burr had thought 
 best to discontinue his visits to Pastor Valentine s 
 house, lest the attention of his friends the enemy as 
 represented by the Spanish commandant and garrison 
 be unduly attracted to his movements. Yet com 
 munication between the two men was not wanting. 
 
 Wilful having gone back to her own church, the 
 relations between the Guions and their Spanish neigh 
 bors were again harmonious. Burr was more con 
 tinually than ever at "Half-way Cottage," and he fre 
 quently joined Jessop when the latter was on his way 
 to or from "The Meadows." These meetings did not 
 take place upon the highroad, but usually in a little
 
 156 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 grove of beech and magnolia through which Jessop 
 passed to reach the farm gate. Here earnest confabu 
 lations were held, Burr walking with his horse s bridle 
 looped over his arm. Frequently they were joined by 
 two or three others. These brought information, oral 
 messages, but never a scrap of written paper. 
 
 The recklessness in Jessop s nature, which went so 
 closely hand in hand with generosity and gay good 
 humor that it almost seemed another virtue, inclined 
 him to lend a ready ear to such matters as were dis 
 cussed at these meetings. Then, too, he was in urgent 
 need of money. David paid him the wage of a work 
 ing-man, which, unskilled as he was, he felt that he 
 scarcely earned. The thought of again appealing for 
 aid to those at home was bitter. The idea of selling 
 such articles of value as had come in the great chest of 
 clothing never occurred to him. He had wrenched 
 away the diamond star and buckles from his white suit 
 and pawned them long ago. A gentleman pawns his 
 jewels, but he does not turn old clo -man and sell his 
 cast-off apparel. 
 
 The sign agreed upon between these conspirators 
 if conspirators they were was that when a general 
 meeting was called, a little bundle of sticks should be 
 sent to each member of the band, the number signifying 
 how many days should elapse before the meeting. The 
 rendezvous was always the little grove; the time, sun 
 rise. 
 
 One clay, as Jessop was departing for his work, he 
 turned back. "Mistress Joyce," he called, and then 
 finding her alone in the living-room, "Joy, one may 
 come here a little Indian lad, mayhap with some 
 what for me. If I am absent when the messenger ar 
 rives, will you keep that which he brings, and not fail 
 to give it to me on my return?" 
 
 "Why, that depends," returned Joyce, saucily. She
 
 MISTRESS JOY 157 
 
 was learning to be at ease in Jessop s company, and 
 perhaps learning other lessons which he was at much 
 patient pains to teach her. 
 
 "It depends, doth it, sweetheart and upon what?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Well, for one thing," answered Joy, "it depends 
 upon whether that which the boy brings be anything 
 I want for myself. Mayhap if t is I shall keep it." 
 
 Jessop shook his head smilingly. "Nay, t is no 
 thing you would want," he said. 
 
 "Well, then," pursued Joy, "it depends on whether 
 I think the thing is something which will be good for 
 you. If I believe this, then I may give it you." 
 
 " T will be naught but a little bundle of sticks," 
 explained Jessop; "just little barky twigs. And pray 
 you, dearest, do not unbind them, for the number will 
 have a significance to me." 
 
 Across Joy s jnind flashed Massawippa s story of the 
 stolen arrows. For some reason, she knew not what, 
 she caught her breath, dropped all jesting, and began 
 to speak in sober earnest. " T is a signal," she said ; 
 "I feel it is. You are to meet some one, somewhere, 
 in just so many days as there be sticks in the bunch. 
 I know it." 
 
 Her face was so troubled that Jessop, delighted at 
 the emotion he had aroused, drew near and caught her 
 hand. "You are jealous, Joy!" he cried boyishly. 
 "Sweetheart, you do love me a little ! But indeed here 
 is no reason for jealousy. There is but one Joy in the 
 world for me, and she is here." 
 
 For once, Joy let his tender words pass quite unre- 
 buked. "What is this thing must needs be done so 
 secretly?" she questioned. "That which is right fears 
 not the day." 
 
 "Well, then, I promise you, my heart, that I shall, 
 by reason of those twigs, go nowhere but from here
 
 158 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to The Meadows, and at my usual time. I shall 
 meet by the way, so far as I now know, none but men. 
 Will that content my jealous sweetheart?" 
 
 "No, I am not jealous" a little impatiently "yes, 
 I am. I am jealous for your soul, Master Jessop. I 
 would not have you fall again into sin." 
 
 Jessop puckered his lips as if to whistle, and looked 
 a trifle annoyed. Making love to the prettiest Puri 
 tan in the world is a tantalizing piece of business. 
 "You Methodists," he expostulated, "are full of quib 
 bles. How can you be jealous for a man s soul and 
 not for the man himself?" 
 
 Joy sighed. "I fear you are right," she answered 
 meekly. "I pray daily for grace, but I know that I 
 am very faulty ; I can never tell whether these impulses 
 which seem to me strongest and most beautiful in my 
 heart come really from God or no." 
 
 Father Tobias, searching for the hundredth time for 
 the book which he had been reading and the loose sheets 
 upon which he had been making notes, called to his 
 daughter from the room above. 
 
 "If they come I shall burn them," whispered Joyce, 
 defiantly, as she pulled away her hand. 
 
 "Aye, burn them burn them! I shall exact a kiss 
 for each stick," laughed Jessop, "and pray, in that case, 
 that there be many of them." 
 
 All day, about her household tasks, the puzzle of 
 this thing followed Joy. She was the material of 
 which prophetess and priestess are made. A very little 
 hint led her instinctively to the truth of any matter, 
 especially where her heart was engaged. Now, as she 
 swept and dusted and scrubbed and garnished, there 
 came together in her mind a dozen half-forgotten 
 things which persuaded her that Jessop s appointment 
 was with Colonel Burr. 
 
 Her guess was not so wonderful as it may seem. It
 
 MISTRESS JOY 159 
 
 was an open secret which anybody even the Metho 
 dists, who held themselves a people apart not only from 
 the Spanish Catholics, but from the other creeds among 
 their own countrymen might know, that there was 
 political ferment abroad in the land, that not one but 
 many conspiracies were afoot, and that there was dan 
 ger of the territory going back to Spain. Further than 
 this Joyce could not, of course, imagine. 
 
 Spain old Catholic Spain stood to Joy s people 
 for the antichrist. The prospect of speedy deliverance 
 from Spanish rule had been hailed by them with ho- 
 sannas. The feebleness of the efforts made by the 
 United States to hold the land was regarded with 
 terror. That Jessop should be concerned with any 
 thing which might be inimical to the United States 
 government seemed to her very terrible, but quite pos 
 sible. He was an Englishman. Little as she knew of 
 him, she well understood that his sympathies were with 
 his own people in the matter of the Revolution a 
 rebellion, he called it. 
 
 Late in the day, when she had begun to look down 
 the path by which Jessop might be expected, came one 
 of Master David s negro farm-hands, bearing a letter 
 addressed to Mistress Joyce Valentine. 
 
 Joyce had received three letters in her life ; of these, 
 one was a note from Lady Connor, accompanying a 
 little gift of books sent to her on her fourteenth birth 
 day. The others came from Father Tobias during 
 that memorable time when he went East to hear Bar 
 bara Heck preach. Lady Connor s letter was a thin, 
 sweet-scented, silken little thing, written in the cramped, 
 delicate hand of age. It was formal though affec 
 tionate, and there were in it many beautiful phrases, 
 which Joyce learned by heart and still treasured in her 
 mind. It appeared to her at fourteen the most won 
 derful and beautiful epistle ever penned.
 
 160 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Father Tobias s two letters were models, according 
 to the standards of that day and time, of all that a 
 father s letters should be. They conveyed much in 
 formation, they administered much good advice, and 
 they now reposed in Joy s little casket, along with her 
 handkerchiefs, her hymnal, and sundry sprigs of lav 
 ender. But something in her inexperienced heart told 
 her that this letter was a different affair. It was writ 
 ten on heavy, rough paper, sealed with the signet ring 
 Jessop always wore, and addressed in a bold, practised 
 masculine hand. The very letters which formed her 
 own name upon it looked, to her eye, masterful and 
 encroaching. She took it with a fluttering heart, bade 
 the negro sit down on the kitchen doorstep, and fled to 
 her little attic room to read it. 
 
 This was the letter : 
 
 "SWEETHEART: I am detained to-night by Master 
 David s entreaties. We are setting the new Gin in 
 place, and Master Batchelor is so impatient that we 
 will work all night to be ready for the ginning by 
 Daylight. Since I shall not sleep, Dear One, I shall 
 not dream of you; but my thoughts, Heart s Delight, 
 will be with you as always. I shall send a Thousand 
 little Loves to flutter about your Pillow and whisper 
 to you of me, so that your Dreams may be of no other. 
 I send you, Dearest, the Kisses which you would not 
 let me give you, were I there. And I am, Beloved, 
 
 "Yours always, 
 
 "JESSOP." 
 
 Can any other communication ever be to a woman 
 like her first love-letter? The characters written by 
 Jessop at speed and carelessly seemed alive before Joy s 
 eyes. She put down her fingers and caressed the lines, 
 and then blushing, though there was none to see the
 
 MISTRESS JOY 161 
 
 action, she raised and kissed them gently as one might 
 kiss a baby s cheek. 
 
 The words were music, and, to her simple mind, so 
 much more binding, so much truer, than mere spoken 
 words. She had read the letter over for perhaps the 
 twentieth time, and was beginning to think that she 
 would better go back and dismiss its bearer, when a 
 little dusky head rose solemnly through the opening of 
 the stairway, and a diminutive Indian boy presented 
 for her inspection a couple of twigs bound tightly to 
 gether with a cotton twine. 
 
 "Who sent it, Tohopeka?" she questioned. The boy 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Who is it for?" she next asked. 
 
 "Him," was all the reply she could extort. It was 
 evidently the message which Jessop had been expecting. 
 
 "When did you get it ?" she persisted. 
 
 "Yesterday," he answered laconically. 
 
 "Why did n t you bring it then ?" 
 
 "Fishing," he replied, apparently much bored by her 
 inquisition. 
 
 She took the sticks and the letter, and laid them 
 one upon the other in her treasure-box. Theft she 
 went below, dismissed the negro, and set about her 
 preparations for Father Tobias s supper. 
 
 It was the first time since his convalescence that 
 Jessop s presence had been wanting at the board, and 
 they both missed him sorely. He was subject to moods 
 of depression, of almost savage gloom, but the ruling 
 spirit of his nature was gaiety, and, as Father Tobias 
 said, he seemed when gone to take some of the sun 
 shine with him. 
 
 Jessop may have sent the winged loves to Joy s pil 
 low that night, but perchance the little wanderers were 
 scared by the desolate land in which they found them 
 selves, or lost upon the way; for the dreams Joy had,
 
 162 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 if troubled, half-waking visions such as hers may be 
 called dreams, were far from pleasant. 
 
 In the morning she rose while it was yet dark, 
 donned her gray homespun dress, and added, more for 
 concealment than for warmth, though the morning air 
 had its own sharp chill, the long gray homespun cloak 
 and hood. Then she slipped the sticks and the letter 
 into her pocket and set forth. 
 
 Jessop had said that he would obey the signal by 
 going at his usual time to "The Meadows." Well, 
 she would go somewhat earlier than was his wont, and 
 she doubted not that she should meet upon the way 
 evidence of what the sign meant. 
 
 The slim, erect, vigorous young figure stepped from 
 the low portal into the new-born day. Dawn was just 
 brushing aside a few lingering cobwebs which night 
 had woven lightly above the eastern horizon. The 
 daily resurrection held no novelty for Joy; but, roused 
 to keener seeing by the trouble in her soul, its hope 
 and beauty thrilled her afresh. The little listening 
 world of cane and beech and magnolia was new cre 
 ated. The wing-tips of God s angels who had builded 
 all its splendors and its peace had but just vanished 
 from the skies ; the breath of their going still trembled 
 fragrant in the tree-tops. 
 
 At the gate she stopped an instant to snood her 
 bright, defiant locks more snugly, glancing out toward 
 the roadway and then back to the little nestling cabin. 
 It was dark with the stains of many winters. Its great 
 bark logs served prettily for background, and about, 
 on, in, and under them twined and clambered riotous 
 honeysuckle. Its venturesome trumpet-bells, in every 
 shade from cream to yellow, had snared a myriad 
 honey-bees out for their early gathering. From the tall 
 locust back in the fowl-yard came the warning cluck 
 of one of Joy s feathered brood, and even as she lin-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 163 
 
 gered chicks and ducks and geese began their matin 
 calls. 
 
 Satan came out to her, purring himself into a gray 
 ball, his green eyes blinking lovingly into her face. 
 Nay, nay, Satan," protested Joy, as he signified his 
 desire to accompany her; "I fear me your namesake 
 hath found some mischief for mine idle hands, but I 
 must e en go to it alone." 
 
 She turned toward the woodland from which a road 
 way led to "The Meadows." It was here at the far 
 ther end she was to keep Jessop s tryst. The wood 
 still gloomed beneath the uncertain light. Her feet 
 slipped noiselessly through brown, decaying leaves 
 dropped months ago in gold and crimson glory from 
 autumn s crowded hands. She noted an occasional 
 blue eye a-peep from earth s dark face, and, stooping, 
 gathered a bunch of early violets which she grouped 
 against a curved heart-leaf and held, scarce conscious 
 that she did so, to her lips. Their dewy freshness was 
 grateful to her. 
 
 About the dark, shining magnolias spiders had set 
 their silver wheels. These, interlooped with the shad 
 owy Spanish moss, added a pallid mystery to the tall 
 woodland. Everywhere dew lay like a sylvan baptism. 
 The air was indescribably fresh and spicy, as if Dawn 
 had crushed her lips to earth and leaf and root, and 
 drawn forth their richest aroma to perfume the coming 
 day. Overhead a new-wakened mocker dropped down 
 a trickle of song to saturate the girl s uneasy soul. 
 
 She looked up through the interlacing boughs and 
 caught the deepened blue of the sky. Great ribbons 
 of sunlight, dyed in purple and gold and crimson, 
 streamed and knotted about the east. All the magic 
 and the beauty and the peace sang irresistibly into her 
 fretted spirit, and Joy reached the grove in her seren- 
 est mood.
 
 164 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 She was, though of course she could not know it, 
 somewhat ahead of time. She walked the length of 
 the grove without seeing a soul, and was about to turn 
 and retrace her steps. "I was mistaken," she thought; 
 "how foolish I have been !" And upon the instant, the 
 voice of Colonel Burr remarked behind her shoulder : 
 "You are early abroad, Mistress Valentine, and look 
 ing as fair as the day-dawn itself." 
 
 For answer, Joyce turned silently and held out to 
 him the two little twigs bound with frayed cord. 
 "Why, what have we here?" inquired Burr, taking 
 and inspecting them with apparent curiosity. "Is it a 
 sign or token ?" 
 
 "It is, Colonel Burr," returned Joyce. " T is a 
 sign and a token of man s treachery. Ask me not how 
 I know of this, but believe me that I do know." 
 
 Burr looked piercingly at the girl. His estimate of 
 the situation was that Jessop had told her all he knew, 
 and that she, dominating the man, as the stronger 
 nature always does the weaker, had forced him to re 
 main at home while she came in his stead. 
 
 Her first words undeceived him. "I ask two things 
 of you, sir," she said "nay, I demand them of you. 
 One is that you do not tell Master Jessop of my being 
 here I shall tell him myself. The other is that you 
 leave him poor, weak, tempted, unhappy gentleman 
 out of your councils." 
 
 "Why, Mistress Valentine," retorted Burr, "you are 
 none too modest in your demands. How know you 
 that we have councils, or that to be in them is not best 
 for your friend? Your lover would perhaps be the 
 more accurate designation." 
 
 Joyce flushed painfully, but she stood her ground. 
 "Will you deny," she urged, "that you sent the twigs, 
 or had them sent? Can you say that I am mistaken? 
 You cannot. Then, pray you, leave Master Jessop
 
 MISTRESS JOY 165 
 
 alone. No good can come of this ; t is a secret matter, 
 something of which you are ashamed, of which you are 
 afraid to write and set your hand to the writing," and 
 she glanced down at the sticks, where he had dropped 
 them in the mosses by the path. 
 
 Burr saw one or two of the men whom he had asso 
 ciated with him in his secret work entering the grove 
 on their way to the rendezvous. The sight spurred 
 his temper. Joy was greatly in his way. "Look you 
 here, Mistress Joyce Valentine," he began, "you Meth 
 odists bear the name of being meddling folk; and I 
 have the woman yet to see who has not a tattling 
 tongue. Let this matter get abroad through fault of 
 yours, and I 11 find means to settle with this fine gen 
 tleman lover." 
 
 Joyce was all courage ; for herself she was not afraid, 
 she dreaded only the failure of her mission. "Colonel 
 Burr," she answered, unscared, "I do not know you in 
 such guise as this. I do believe this speech belies you, 
 and for my part I still will trust you so far that if 
 you pledge me what I ask, I will in turn give you my 
 word to speak of this matter to none." 
 
 Burr did not relish being worsted by a girl. Also 
 he had need of Jessop. 
 
 "Mistress Valentine," he said, becoming once more 
 the winning gentleman and charming friend whom she 
 had formerly known, "I crave your pardon for my 
 hasty words. Come, let us reason together. This 
 man Jessop is, in point of fact, according to the best 
 accounts of him, a profligate fellow. He hath lived a 
 life of debauchery since he was old enough to choose 
 for himself, and run through such fortune as he was 
 born to. What hath Mistress Joyce Valentine, daugh 
 ter of Pastor Valentine, to do with such a man as that ? 
 What hath she to do with him, I ask of you?" 
 
 "I pray you," interrupted Joy, unsteadily, "forget
 
 166 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 that I am a woman, and a young woman. Remember 
 only that I am one who hath been called to preach the 
 Word. Shall a soul be more than a soul to me or less 
 because it be lodged in the body of a man ?" 
 
 "Who talks of saving and damning souls ?" inquired 
 Burr, lightly. "Why, Mistress Joyce, this is the sheer 
 est nonsense. Men have oft their affairs which they 
 do not tell to the world at large, their secret societies, 
 their intrigues and cabals. T is only a woman whose 
 life must be, like a chained book in a temple, open to 
 all comers. Nay, I 11 not hurt your penitent s soul. 
 I will return it you in good order. You have not 
 been so careful, I warrant me, of his heart." 
 
 Joyce sighed impatiently. "Will you give me your 
 promise?" she persisted doggedly. 
 
 Burr laughed, and owned to himself that he was 
 beaten. "Why, needs must, it seems needs must, 
 when a certain personage, who shall be nameless, 
 drives, or so the saying goes. You leave me no choice, 
 I think." 
 
 . The sneering lightness of the promise did not daunt 
 Joy. "And will you keep your vow?" she asked 
 "keep it as though t were made to a man?" 
 
 At the frankness of her words, Burr flushed a little. 
 His reputation as a trifler with women was a source 
 of pride to him ; but somehow before Joyce Valentine s 
 honest eyes the thing took on, momentarily, another 
 color. "The devil even, Mistress Joy," he remarked, 
 "is said to be less black than he is painted. Believe 
 or believe not all that you have heard of me; but this 
 one thing is sure, I have given you my promise, and 
 you may trust my word." 
 
 "I thank you, sir," said Joyce, and turned away. 
 
 This girl had gone in fearless innocency, without 
 conception of the risk, to keep tryst at day-dawn with 
 a man of national ill repute in affairs of the heart.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 167 
 
 She had not come, as Burr supposed, counting the cost, 
 and willing for love s sake to face the risk. The actu 
 ating motive, inconceivable to him, was duty to a soul 
 she felt to be trembling in the balance. She loved the 
 soul, only half comprehending that the man was grown 
 most dear to her. 
 
 After the meeting with his friends in the grove, 
 Burr took his way under the magnolias to the hedge 
 at the side of "Half-way Cottage." Here he paused, 
 and whistled low a bird-call of two or three soft, slid 
 ing notes. He waited, and repeated the signal. There 
 was a movement within doors, and Mistress Wilful 
 Guion first pushed aside the curtain to look out, then, 
 opening the door, came swiftly across to the hedge. 
 "Is the mother awake?" asked Burr, quietly. 
 
 "No," she returned, in the same hushed tone, "but 
 you will breakfast with us, will you not?" 
 
 "Presently," said Burr; "now I want to talk to you. 
 Can you come and walk awhile under the trees?" 
 
 Wilful turned back to give some directions to the 
 servant, brought her wide garden hat, and passed 
 through a gap in the hedge in submissive silence. It 
 was plain her attitude toward him was one of adoring 
 obedience. When they had gone some little distance 
 he turned, drew his arm closely about her, and kissed 
 her not once, but many times. "There," he said, 
 "you were such a pale, woe-begone little mustard-seed 
 that I could take no delight in you. Now you are a 
 blushing Hebe." 
 
 The girl raised to his a glorified face a face so 
 radiant with love and youth and beauty that one could 
 scarce feel surprise if even he was momentarily turned 
 aside by its spell from the path of his ambition. Morn 
 ing s damp wind had loosed the little dusky curls 
 about her forehead. Her complexion was of a pecu 
 liar delicacy most unusual with dark hair and eyes.
 
 168 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Her color was a rich carnation stain which lends that 
 vivid look an almost hectic beauty which old-fash 
 ioned people, and those given to gloomy prophesyings, 
 declare is only to be found upon faces not long for 
 this world. 
 
 Burr looked at this exquisite creature by his side, 
 and his soul was melted to a tenderness quite foreign 
 to the cold, ambitious mold of the man. "And now, 
 my Wilful sweetheart, did they discipline you for going 
 to the ball all for to please this ancient, silvery-haired 
 old lover of yours?" He pushed back the brown locks 
 on his temples, inconspicuously streaked by some few 
 silver threads. 
 
 "They could not discipline me," answered poor Wil 
 ful, somberly; "I have gone back to my mother s 
 church. I could not face them." 
 
 At this Burr knitted his brows. A sweetheart who 
 went to confessional was not to his taste. "Why did 
 you that?" he asked. "Must a woman always have a 
 church?" 
 
 "It pleased my mother," replied Wilful, wearily; 
 "and for myself, I did not care." 
 
 "Why do it, then ?" repeated Burr. 
 
 "You do not object to it?" she inquired anxiously. 
 "I thought, since you were not satisfied to have me a 
 Methodist, you would be glad I should go back." 
 
 "Nay," demurred Burr, lightly, "I would have you 
 to have no church but that of which I am priest; no 
 religion but that which still finds me supreme. Thou 
 shalt have no other gods before me, dear heart." 
 
 And Wilful, turning, whispered, his arms about her 
 and her face pressed in against his breast, "Sometimes 
 I think I have not."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 [HE Spanish garrison withdrew from 
 Fort Rosalie at Natchez, and, join 
 ing the troops from Fort Nogales, 
 went on down the river to New Or 
 leans but a few days after Joy s in 
 terview with Burr. 
 
 Ellicott, accused by his enemies of 
 no worse than being to the Spaniards "a proper play 
 thing suited to the theme of evasion," was informed 
 one night, "through a confidential channel," of this 
 proposed evacuation. He arose next morning at four 
 o clock, walked to the fort, and found the last party, 
 or rear-guard, just leaving it. Seeing the gate open, 
 he went in, and, as he rather quaintly puts it, "enjoyed 
 from the parapet the pleasant prospect of the galleys 
 and boats getting under way." And at eight o clock 
 Captain Guion s men had unfurled the American flag 
 over the fort. 
 
 There was still before the territory a factional strug 
 gle between its own "Little Council" and "Permanent 
 Committee." All conspiracies to sever it from the 
 United States had failed. Yet it appears that the au 
 thorities must have gotten some wind of a contem 
 plated "grand coup," for three of the men who met 
 with Burr that morning in the grove were, almost di 
 rectly after the Spanish evacuation, arrested upon 
 United States warrants. These warrants, it is true, 
 
 169
 
 170 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 charged them with various offenses and none specified 
 conspiracy, but they were sent to Philadelphia for trial. 
 
 Colonel Burr himself appears to have been unsus 
 pected at this time, and he followed the Spanish gar 
 rison to New Orleans. 
 
 The explanation seems to be that the United States 
 occupation and the appointment of Winthrop Sargent 
 as governor of the Mississippi territory came, like 
 all long-delayed things, with unexpected suddenness. 
 Burr s plans were still inchoate. No actual move was 
 made, and, as is usual in such cases, the man at the 
 head escaped with the lightest breath of suspicion, 
 while his lieutenants and tools suffered. 
 
 Jessop was somewhat taken aback by the arrests. 
 He was helping Joyce at corn-shelling. They sat at 
 the work in an open doorway beneath the tender efful 
 gence of the moon, while within Father Tobias, by a 
 light much less brilliant, bent over his books and papers. 
 The young people spoke in lowered tones, partly that 
 they might not disturb the old man and partly with a 
 view to having their conversation to themselves. 
 
 Joyce mentioned the family of one of the men who 
 had been arrested, and said she pitied them. 
 
 "They are shiftless creatures," she added, "and, I 
 warrant me, will be upon the town ere poor William is 
 released." 
 
 "Know you the real cause of this man s arrest?" 
 asked Jessop. 
 
 "I believe that I can guess," returned Joy. 
 
 " T was for attending some meetings," explained 
 Jessop "meetings at which I also was present. Why 
 I should have been left when others were taken, is 
 more than I can say." Then, after a thoughtful pause : 
 "The man at the head of the affair is left, too. He 
 hath gone on down the river with the Spaniards." 
 
 "Colonel Burr," supplied Joyce.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 171 
 
 "How know you?" cried Jessop, in astonishment. 
 
 "Oh, I know that," returned Joy. "And methinks 
 I know, too, why you were not arrested. Wait, Mas 
 ter Jessop; I have a confession to make." 
 
 She ran up to her little room, and, returning with 
 the two sticks she had picked up and brought away 
 from her interview with Burr, laid them in Jessop s 
 hand. "So they were sent, then," he commented. 
 "The colonel did not drop me, as I fancied. Where 
 got you these?" 
 
 "They were brought to the house," returned Joyce, 
 quietly, "by the little Indian lad Tohopeka, and I kept 
 them from you. T was the night you stayed at Mas 
 ter Batchelor s to help him set the gin, you mind." The 
 remembrance of the letter he had sent, and which she 
 had worn with many foldings and unfoldings and 
 much carrying about, till it was breaking at the creases 
 the letter which even then lay warm above her heart 
 brought a soft brightness to Joy s face. 
 
 "You did keep them, then you did it! Meseems 
 that at the time we had some talk of a forfeit for such 
 behavior. Art ready to pay it now, mistress?" He 
 looked laughingly at her. Something in the passionless 
 kindness of the girl s aspect, but more perhaps in that 
 serious feeling toward her which he found daily grow 
 ing in his heart, reproved the lightness of his speech, and 
 made him forbear further reference to his jesting threat. 
 
 It was not Joy s self who did so, for even as she 
 shook her head in negation she smiled at him with 
 something of that indulgent smile a mother gives a 
 too importunate child. 
 
 " T would seem that Colonel Burr was easily dis 
 couraged," Jessop went on, striking the sticks together 
 as he held them. " T was not like him to give me up 
 because I failed to keep an appointment; perchance he 
 cared not much for my assistance."
 
 172 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "That is not all. I kept the sticks, and then I went 
 and spoke to Colonel Burr myself," confessed Joy. 
 
 "To Burr?" cried Jessop, turning quite about to face 
 her. "Why, Joy!" He mused a moment. "Colonel 
 Burr, if I mistake not the man, would have been rough 
 with you then, and taunted you with appealing to him 
 on behalf of a lover. Is not that what he said?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Joyce, faintly, "he said that, and 
 much more. But he promised me that he would spare 
 you, and he did spare you, so I was content." 
 
 Jessop bent his head and looked with brooding eyes 
 at the corn-basket between his knees. All the worth 
 of this which she had done for him was bright before 
 his eyes, spread upon the background of his own 
 doubtful performances. He said : "I am a hound, not 
 worth the saving. But had I been arrested and sent 
 on to Philadelphia for trial with these three other 
 scapegoats, there are more would have suffered than 
 my unworthy self alone. There is an old man over 
 in England, Joy ; he is getting very old and feeble now, 
 and he hath had five sons ; three of them be dead, and 
 one has brought him naught but trouble." 
 
 "Yourself," breathed Joy. 
 
 Jessop nodded. "Now, had this thing happened to 
 me which your wit and kindness hath averted, this old 
 man s name, his honorable name it is a very great 
 name, dearest, and hath come down to him unspotted 
 for nigh a thousand years his name and mine would 
 have been dragged through the mud, in the courts of 
 this little twopenny-ha penny republic, which had been 
 glad, methinks, to see one of our breed so humiliated." 
 
 He was silent, looking at her seriously and consid 
 eringly. Surely the woman who had saved the name 
 from disgrace was fit to bear it. "Joy," he said, in a 
 little, hushed undertone, "will you marry me?" 
 
 He had been so occupied with his own point of view,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 173 
 
 so concerned with the thought that this Methodist par 
 son s daughter was no mate for a possible heir to one 
 of the oldest titles in England, that he was quite un 
 prepared for her reply. It came upon him like a sud 
 den sousing of cold water, when Joy s sweet face went 
 first red, then white, and she answered in a voice even 
 lower than his own : 
 
 "I don t know no. Oh, why did you ask me that? 
 You are of the world s people, and I have my life con 
 secrated and set apart." 
 
 Yet when he rose there was a confident smile upon 
 his lips. "We will talk to your father about it, Joyce," 
 he said very tenderly and kindly, as he reached his 
 hand to raise her from the step. 
 
 Thus, hand in hand, this son of a hundred earls and 
 the simple backwoodsman s daughter, they went in to 
 gether, and stood before Father Tobias like two chil 
 dren. 
 
 The old man looked up at them inquiringly, took off 
 his spectacles, wiped them, put them on, and looked 
 again. Their attitude told him the story, and a world 
 of protest showed itself in his usually calm face. 
 
 "It has come," announced Jessop, still smiling a 
 little "the time which comes to every father the time 
 when you must give her up." 
 
 "I hope not," said Father Tobias, gravely. "How 
 is it, my Joy?" 
 
 Joy s face was burning with blushes. "I do not 
 know, father," she protested. "I would have you to 
 choose for me." 
 
 "Nay, child," returned her father ; "that is what one 
 soul may not do for another." 
 
 Then, turning to Jessop, he said, with a sort of re 
 proof : "I think, Master Jessop, you do not indeed want 
 my daughter. Another damsel, who was fair and 
 young, might be fitting wife for a worldly man like
 
 174 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 yourself; but this child here is not as other women. 
 She hath had a call to preach the Word. I feel that she 
 belongs to God and to her own people. Indeed, Mas 
 ter Jessop, you must think again." 
 
 Jessop had been hounded through two London sea 
 sons by bold young beauties, to whom his wealth and 
 rank made him a coveted quarry. He had been, more 
 than once, well-nigh run to earth by those more privi 
 leged scourers of the field mothers and aunts of dam 
 sels who must be wed. Opposition from this unex 
 pected quarter fanned his desire for Joyce Valentine 
 to a very flame. His better part was already engaged 
 in the matter, and now the reckless, frivolous side 
 the side that brooked no opposition answered to this 
 challenge. 
 
 He told Pastor Valentine of his birth and rank. 
 His father was Earl of Shropshire. "But," he added 
 eagerly, "I am a younger son, and a black sheep. 
 There is naught to prevent my choosing a people and 
 a land of my own. If Joy can love me, my family 
 will though I have run through one patrimony, more 
 shame to me ! be glad to provide such moneys as will 
 here give us ease, even luxury." 
 
 Jessop saw, and with mounting ardor, that these 
 considerations moved Father Tobias and Joyce not at 
 all. He sought other argument. He urged the pas 
 tor to think what good might be accomplished with 
 this wealth. He averred that he would not stand be 
 tween Joy and her calling, and insisted that he had no 
 thought of ever living elsewhere than in the Americas, 
 or being other than a plain country gentleman. He 
 doubted not that, with Joyce to guide him, he should 
 be converted and eventually join the Society. 
 
 And all that Father Tobias would do was to gently 
 shake his obstinate old head and repeat: "Well, well, 
 we shall see, Master Jessop. We will take time to con 
 sider these things."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 175 
 
 The day following, Jessop, thwarted and unhappy, 
 sulking like a child who has been denied a new toy, 
 took his grievance to David Batchelor. David heard 
 him through, and answered with great moderation: 
 
 "But look you, Master Jessop I shall still call you 
 so, shall I not? the man of whom you think so hardly 
 hath but one daughter. This child of his love, the 
 staff of his declining years, you expect him to hand 
 over to the first passing stranger who desires her, and 
 to add, Thank ye kindly. "T is not reasonable." 
 
 Jessop was not inclined to regard himself in the light 
 of an ordinary passer-by. He naturally considered that 
 the Earl of Shropshire s son was a very fine match in 
 deed for a humble Methodist parson s daughter, and 
 in the course of their conversation he made so much 
 clear to David. 
 
 "Aye," said Batchelor, smilingly, "why, so t is. 
 But in this case you have come to the place where 
 neither riches nor rank will avail ye. T is as though 
 you had died and gone to heaven, so far as that s 
 concerned. Pastor Valentine would sooner give his 
 daughter to you to wife were you the scum of the earth, 
 without a cent in your pocket or a second coat to your 
 back, an he believed you one of the Lord s chosen." 
 
 Over these statements Jessop swore with point and 
 fluency the more, that he knew them to be exactly 
 true. 
 
 "Now, Master Jessop," added the other, "Pastor 
 Valentine desires to see me, here or at his own house, 
 to consult me, as I suspect, upon this very matter, and 
 I shall give him a piece of advice which ought, I think, 
 to please you." 
 
 Jessop was moved to suggest that David assure Fa 
 ther Tobias that never again would such a match come 
 Joy s way. But he forbore. 
 
 David concluded : "I believe that Mistress Joy hath 
 that in her which would be the making of a great lady."
 
 176 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Jessop agreed warmly. 
 
 "I say," continued Batchelor, "that I think the world 
 calls her strongly, but I also believe that Joyce Valen 
 tine s spiritual nature will never be satisfied with the 
 things of the world." 
 
 "Pah canting humbug!" fumed Jessop; "you speak 
 as though I were Sathanus himself. Why should 
 her spiritual growth be dwarfed because she is my 
 wife? Have I not said that I will buy a plantation? 
 She may preach the Word, and, for aught I care, 
 fill the house from garret to cellar with Methodies. 
 T is Joy I want. For her sake I would e en turn 
 Methody myself, and sing psalms through my nose 
 with the best of them." 
 
 "I marvel greatly, Master Jessop," cried David, 
 laughing, "at this state of spiritual exaltation which I 
 find in you. Methinks, could Pastor Tobias and Mis 
 tress Joyce hear your words, the maid were yours." 
 
 Jessop flushed. "I have told them so," he admitted, 
 "but not exactly in those words. One trims one s 
 speech a bit when courting." 
 
 "And after marriage t is no such matter," supplied 
 Batchelor, dryly. "In my appreciation of this fact, 
 Master Jessop, I shall advise my old friend to let his 
 daughter, ere you be wedded, or even betrothed, make 
 experiment of this worldly life into which she would, 
 as your wife, inevitably go. Let the child try her 
 wings," he added softly, more to himself than to the 
 other. "Perchance she will come back to the nest like 
 a homing pigeon." 
 
 "A capital idea. Master Batchelor! Well thought 
 of! T is even as Father Tobias says; you are a man 
 excellent in counsel. I have a cousin in New York, 
 wife to one of the high officials there. This husband 
 is a scurvy fellow, of whom we have thought little be 
 cause he turned against his country in the rebellion of
 
 MISTRESS JOY 177 
 
 the colonies. Yet he hath money and standing, and 
 my cousin is a gentlewoman. They will be right glad 
 to receive Mistress Joy for my sake, and thus patch, 
 if they may, the breach between themselves and my 
 family." 
 
 "I think, Master Jessop," amended David, that 
 t were better, as there is to be no promise of marriage, 
 Mistress Joyce went to her own people. Master Val 
 entine never mentions the fact t is not known in this 
 community yet his brothers are men of wealth as 
 well as fine breeding. One, an elder brother, I be 
 lieve, is not more than a fortnight s journey, at most, 
 from here." 
 
 Jessop looked his surprise. "If she be really to see 
 the world," he suggested, with an irrepressible touch 
 of arrogance, "methinks t were better she went to a 
 city or so near that thing as there is in this uncouth 
 land and lodge with people of of 
 
 "So say I," interrupted David. "And surely New 
 Oilcans t is there her uncle lives is wicked enough 
 for the purpose. There will be no dearth of money. 
 Master Valentine put by all those things when he put 
 by the world, but other members of his family do not 
 lack for means." 
 
 A curious change had come over Jessop s face dur 
 ing this speech. "Why New Orleans?" he inquired 
 brusquely. 
 
 "Why not New Orleans?" countered David. And 
 the other was at a loss to say. 
 
 Both men turned, as they reached this conversational 
 deadlock, and saw the figure of Father Tobias coming 
 up the pathway toward the house. Jessop, with his 
 usual delicacy, withdrew, that the others might speak 
 more freely. David had chairs brought, and they 
 seated themselves on the wide gallery. 
 
 "Belike, Master Jessop hath told you the nature of 
 
 12
 
 178 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 my errand this morning, friend Batchelor," began Fa 
 ther Tobias, and David bowed his assent. 
 
 "What think you?" asked the elder man, wistfully. 
 "Am I another old hen, screaming vainly at her duck 
 ling in the pool, and fearing for it mightily because she 
 herself was not born to swim? Am I indeed such 
 an old hen, or is this not a strange and unsuitable 
 match ?" 
 
 "Not altogether. No," returned Batchelor, thought 
 fully. "Bethink you, sir, Mistress Joyce hath a many- 
 sided nature. That fervor and zeal which called her to 
 the speaking of the Word may burn full as brightly 
 to light for her the lamps of pleasure. She hath de 
 light in many things which your strait creed denies 
 her." 
 
 The pastor sighed. "I have often thought so," he 
 admitted. "Yet, after all, is not that earnest young 
 Christian who would be indeed a daughter to me the 
 true Joyce ?" 
 
 "I think it is," agreed the other; "but unproved, un 
 tried fealty is not the thing which you or I, Master 
 Valentine, desire to see in your daughter." He put 
 before her father his plan for giving Joy an opportunity 
 to see the things of the world and test herself, going 
 more fully into details than he had done with Jes- 
 sop. At the end of all, he suggested that there was a 
 fund upon which the pastor had been used to draw in 
 cases of need, and which was now quite as much at his 
 service to provide all that was necessary for the jour 
 ney and the visit. 
 
 "I think," he concluded, "that both you and I, friend, 
 are able to see your daughter go into the world if 
 t is there she really belongs and to believe that God 
 can bless her wherever she goes. I know that we 
 both will have more joy in it if, having tried the things 
 of the world, she freely renounce them, as you and
 
 MISTRESS JOY 179 
 
 I have each done, and come back to her simple faith 
 and simple life, than to think she should live here, 
 longing perhaps for these things to the last, though 
 outwardly holding to the faith." 
 
 David Batchelor," said the preacher, "heaven has 
 denied me a son of my body. But, to compensate 
 therefor, God sent me you, I think, as the son of my 
 spirit." 
 
 "If you follow it," suggested Batchelor, much 
 moved, "I doubt not that this advice I offer will sub 
 ject you to grave criticism from the Society." 
 
 "In nothing," returned Father Tobias, "do you show 
 your spiritual kinship to me more strongly than in the 
 knowing that such consideration would not weigh with 
 me. This maid of whom we speak is my only child. 
 She must not live a thwarted, imperfect life. I dare 
 not, at this turning-point, risk that she make, through 
 ignorance, a false step ; or that, held ignorant now, she 
 fall hereafter into error." 
 
 "And whatever comes will be right," added David, 
 drawing upon the wells of his philosophy. 
 
 "But God will take care of his own," supplemented 
 Father Tobias, peacefully. His comfort came from 
 a deeper source. "I thank you for the proffer of the 
 money, my son ; it will be necessary, and I accept it as 
 freely as t is offered." 
 
 Here Jessop, who was too full of restless ferment to 
 work, came through the house and joined them. 
 
 He had sent letters to England. He had ordered, 
 though appearing a trifle doubtful of results, certain 
 possessions of his own sent up the river to him from 
 a place which he vaguely designated as "below." 
 
 Batchelor watched the two men depart Father To 
 bias, always impressive, a noble and touching figure, 
 yet with a very simple dignity; his companion, light, 
 alert, elegant, fine gentleman from the crown of his
 
 180 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 head to the sole of his shoe, graceful always, even in 
 rags. As David studied Jessop s debonair bearing, and 
 remembered the disfavor with which the proposition 
 that Joyce go to New Orleans had been received by 
 him, he wondered a little if it were not in that particu 
 lar city that this handsome young prodigal s last meal 
 of husks had been eaten. The words of Father Tobias, 
 who had said to him, "I hoped she might have chosen, 
 nearer home, a man of her own world," were recalled 
 to David by the contrast between the two figures 
 their absolute incongruity. 
 
 And again, as he looked, he murmured, "Why not 
 New Orleans?"
 
 THE WORLD
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 [HE big, strong, muddy stream which 
 flows past these river towns and plan 
 tations of Mississippi, showing its an 
 cient contempt for the puny plans of 
 mankind by every toss of its ragged, 
 tawny mane, furnishes much of the 
 romance, the song, story, and legend, 
 of the dwellers on its banks. And at the last they find 
 it involved, too, in most of the practical affairs of their 
 lives. 
 
 The open thoroughfare which first allured these val 
 iant pioneers into this wilderness, it remained their 
 line of communication with that world they had left 
 behind them. It carried away to market the products 
 of their labor, and brought them back the price there 
 for along with somewhat aged news of the world s 
 doings. 
 
 For all this, the shambling, unreplying, hostile, ser 
 viceable creature took toll, lawless, irregular, arbitrary. 
 Now, a life two lives; again, a boat, with its hope 
 ful freight of goods and lives ; or a broad, rich, profit 
 able slice of plantation, with lives on it too, mayhap, all 
 swallowed up boats, merchandise, plantation, crops, 
 and lives in a moment of the day or of the night, 
 indifferently. 
 
 Down this great primeval highway, sinister, benefi 
 cent, set thick with nature s splendors, bristling with 
 half-conjectured robbers and slayers, father and child 
 
 183
 
 184 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 had come twelve years before. And now once more, in 
 late March and early April, they took their way down 
 the stream in a flat-boat, going back to and not away 
 from the world. 
 
 The journey to New Orleans occupied several days, 
 and at this time was made in flat-boats and keel-boats. 
 Men who could endure the hardship went down in 
 their canoes. Planters living near the city had well- 
 kept skiffs, with gay awnings, whose negro oarsmen 
 sang as they rowed. 
 
 The river banks were one tangle of greenery and 
 bloom. It was as though nature had trimmed for 
 Joy a royal route into fairyland. Great tulip-trees 
 hung their reversed chalices above the current. Mon 
 ster live-oaks and sycamores raised shadowy banners 
 of gray moss. An occasional orchard or inland gar 
 den sent messages of sweetness out to the voyagers as 
 they passed. The dogwood flung a white flag among 
 the darkness of the beeches. Garlands of the yellow 
 jessamine flaunted everywhere, showering largess of 
 scented gold upon the sliding water. 
 
 The flat-boat was a big, rough craft, with two small 
 cabins, in which the men and women were stowed 
 away like documents in pigeonholes. An awning of 
 unbleached cotton cloth furnished some protection from 
 the sun. 
 
 Joy could not have said when she was first assailed 
 by a stealthy doubt of the religious dogmas in which 
 she had been born and reared. It came thief-like, and 
 strove secretly to steal away that firm belief which had 
 been to her thought always the one invincible fastness 
 of her soul. Finally she began to dare to judge the 
 repression, the narrowness, the infinite dreariness of 
 the creed by which her Society lived. Antagonistic 
 always to the breadth and humanness, the sunny, up- 
 looking hopefulness of the girl s rich nature, it now be-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 185 
 
 came distasteful. Yet she was, from force of habit, 
 still holding to the doctrines of her former faith. It 
 was the one bit of untruth which had crept into Joyce 
 Valentine s sound wholesomeness. 
 
 The tumult of their preparations had left her little 
 time for thought. Whether these new, unrestful emo 
 tions which possessed her were pain or pleasure was 
 still undetermined in her mind. 
 
 That she longed to see the world, she knew. That 
 she loved Jessop, she was not sure. That her soul was 
 a mirror to the pageant of life s beauty, a harp to the 
 wind of its pulsing music, an empty chalice waiting to 
 be brimmed with the wine of its pleasure, she was be 
 ginning to find out. 
 
 A virgin, grazed by the wing of Love, not yet quite 
 enthralled by his exigent bondage, is apotheosized. 
 She becomes a poet, a musician, a bacchante, a saint. 
 The intoxication of actual living projects her fancy 
 into a hundred lives other than her own. She would 
 fain taste all waters, that she may judge for herself 
 which is the Water of Life. 
 
 There were other passengers aboard the flat-boat, 
 and great piles of merchandise. Joyce held herself a 
 little apart from the rest, and took counsel of her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 There was an old French Canadian, going for the 
 first time down the river with his wife. This brown- 
 faced, quaint, vivacious old fellow was so charmed 
 with the opulence and beauty of the scenes through 
 which they drifted that he harangued Father Tobias 
 ceaselessly, putting forward a thousand questions and 
 conjectures expressing unbounded astonishment and 
 admiration. 
 
 At the many stopping-places of the awkward craft, 
 negroes and Indians came down to trade or to receive 
 merchandise intended for the plantations along the
 
 186 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 route. These usually carried great bundles or large 
 reed-baskets of blossoms, so that the deck of the flat- 
 boat was soon carpeted like a royal barge. 
 
 Joyce sat at the forward end, that which would 
 have been the prow had there been a prow to the ves 
 sel, and dreamily watched the tardy but unwearied 
 current bear the boat onward. 
 
 Slow-moving, mysterious, impenetrable, irresistible, 
 it seemed to her like fate. She began to realize that 
 we do not consciously choose our lives, but that they 
 are an outgrowth of ourselves ; that the thistle may not 
 elect to bear figs, nor the rose-tree to bring forth lilies. 
 And through it all there grew upon her a horror of 
 the big river, a nameless terror of its slow, insolent 
 urgency. She felt that it was bearing her on to a 
 passage of life for which she was not prepared. She 
 knew that it was leaving behind and between her and 
 all the happy, simple past, a weltering waste which she 
 could never recross. 
 
 The long voyage gave much time for thought, but 
 Joyce could not think ; she could only muse and dream 
 and wonder. A fat little Creole on the boat he 
 scarcely reached her shoulder, and she was serenely un 
 conscious of his very existence brought out his gui 
 tar and sang many exceedingly amorous French songs 
 for her behoof, all supported by a battery of killing 
 glances, with windy sighs for buglers. 
 
 The twanging of the guitar formed a background 
 for her thoughts. These were often of Jessop, but 
 oftener of the new life to which she was going. Jes 
 sop had left Natchez before themselves. He was bound 
 or so they understood for New York, where he had 
 relatives, and he would return to meet them at Natchez 
 in the summer. 
 
 Joy wondered idly if he would write to her, and, if 
 so, whether his letters would be at all like that first
 
 MISTRESS JOY 187 
 
 one, and if, amid all her novel surroundings, she should 
 find herself so changed that they would no longer 
 affect her as had that first love-letter. 
 
 She marveled a little that there had been, in the 
 course of Jessop s passionate farewell, nothing said of 
 writing. He had exacted what seemed to her the quite 
 unnecessary assurance that she would never forget him, 
 that she would not learn to love another; but he had 
 neither asked her to write nor promised that he himself 
 would do so. 
 
 At last the slow, silent, monotonous voyage was 
 nearing its end. Hour by hour the river widened. 
 Back from its brown, dull, drifting flood swept the low 
 marshes, disked with stagnant pools of overflow, set 
 with fresh green grasses. Reeds swayed to the murky 
 current. Cranes and curious waterfowl stood or 
 floated near the bank, while numberless birds fluttered 
 about on light wings, dipping to the glassy tide in the 
 exuberant joyousness of living all accorded with the 
 clamoring pulse of early springtime in this land of 
 warmth and light. 
 
 On the eastern bank lay that city which to both 
 Father Tobias and Joyce had been a sort of dream city, 
 full of the mystery of the unknown, rich in the charm 
 of something wholly different from all their even lives 
 had hitherto held. 
 
 The bare, yellow shore, topped by a few shanties 
 Joyce would have named them cabins and a small 
 crowd of loafing idlers, who watched with lazy curi 
 osity the passengers unload from the rude flat-boat 
 it was a very different picture from the bright, gay, 
 busy place of her imagination. 
 
 It was noon of a Sabbath day. The deck-hands, if 
 one may use this term in speaking of a craft which was 
 all deck, dumped our travelers modest luggage on the 
 levee; the two wayfarers stood beside it, bewildered.
 
 i88 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 There was no crowd of vociferous hackmen to scram 
 ble for them or the luggage; but presently a gigantic 
 negro in white cottonade very much soiled and mud- 
 bespattered, with a great whip coiled around his arm, 
 sauntered past and asked in strange patois if they de 
 sired a dray. They replied that they did; the trunks 
 were lifted upon the small, unsteady vehicle, the ad 
 dress given to the driver, the mule sleepy and cynical, 
 as everything else appeared to Joyce in this unsatis 
 factory realization of her dreams was induced to 
 move, and, the driver running beside and encourag 
 ing the animal, and the travelers following at a breath 
 less pace, that they might keep their property in view, 
 the caravan started for Royal Street. 
 
 Sieur Henri Valentine s mansion, a fine brick struc 
 ture, was built eight years before Joy s memorable 
 visit and two years after the great fire of 1778. Stuc 
 coed and painted white, to Joy s wondering eyes it was 
 a marble palace in a fairy-tale. The main entrance, on 
 Royal Street, displayed a great arched doorway, deeply 
 recessed, its wood- and iron-work painted white like 
 the stucco. But here a lavish use of gold upon the 
 carving added a sumptuous touch. 
 
 A negro in livery sat inside the recess, ready to open 
 the door and announce the guests. As Joy and Father 
 Tobias stepped from the glare of the street into the 
 dusk and quiet of the entrance-hall, the girl s heart 
 began to mount with pleasurable excitement. 
 
 When once he had ushered them in, the negro ap 
 peared to find them much in his way. All aristocratic 
 New Orleans then, as now, slept through the hot hours 
 of early afternoon. To disturb the siesta of his mas 
 ter and mistress or the young demoiselles was not to 
 be thought of. Suddenly he had an inspiration. He 
 would take these people who did not look like any of 
 the quality to whom he was used, and who were still
 
 MISTRESS JOY 189 
 
 certainly not common people up to the drawing-room 
 and call Celeste. Celeste would know what to do; 
 Celeste knew everything. Pursuant to this plan, they 
 were led up the winding iron stair, with its beautiful 
 foliated balustrading. 
 
 The immense drawing-rooms, answering for ball 
 rooms as well, were decorated and furnished in the 
 French fashion. The panels, the fluted columns, the 
 lofty ceilings, the profusion of gilding and mirrors, all 
 this dazzled Joy s eyes, as well it might, for she was 
 looking at an excellent example of Louis Quinze deco 
 rations and fittings, called then the finest in the city, 
 and therefore the finest outside of France. She turned 
 to her father confidently, to share her pleasure with 
 him. 
 
 "It is very beautiful, my Joy," he said, a little wist 
 fully; "almost as beautiful as the grove near our cabin 
 when spring first sets the flowers to blossoming." And 
 then they laughed a little, seeing that Father Tobias 
 had arrayed the old, simple life against the glories of 
 this new existence. 
 
 "They are both very beautiful," urged Joyce. "Can 
 not one love them both ?" 
 
 A very light step the whisper of a step caused 
 them to turn. A tall negress, slender, almost fragile- 
 looking, with thin, patrician features, in spite of her 
 brown skin, and with eyes like wells of black sun 
 light if sunlight could ever be black was approach 
 ing from the doorway. She was dressed entirely in 
 white, her hair was covered with a great white tignon, 
 shining hoops of gold were in her delicate ears. She 
 was shod with thin and heelless slippers, and her slim, 
 brown hands had the capable look which means execu 
 tive ability. This was Celeste, the mainstay of the 
 household, at times dictator and despot. 
 
 She raised those capable, slim hands now in astonish-
 
 i 9 o MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ment, and, speaking in French, cried : "It is indeed the 
 brother of Sieur Valentine! How like how very 
 like to master ! And this is the blooming daughter ! 
 The household sleeps, and Celeste will take you to your 
 rooms, that you may repose yourselves after your 
 weary journey." 
 
 All this, uttered softly in the clear, sliding Creole 
 French, was but half intelligible to Joyce. Father To 
 bias understood enough of it to know that they were 
 bidden to go somewhere for rest and refreshment. So 
 they followed, Joy after Celeste and Father Tobias 
 after a negro man summoned for the purpose, to what 
 appeared to them very sumptuous rooms. 
 
 Celeste departed at once, leaving Joy alone in hers, 
 and returned with a young negress whom she called 
 Zette. This girl, she informed Joy, was to be her own 
 maid, to attend on her in the daytime and to sleep 
 across her door at night. 
 
 Left alone with Zette, Joy was a little puzzled as to 
 what might come next. But Zette knew her duties too 
 well to need prompting. Dropping at her demoiselle s 
 feet, she began removing the shoes. Joy was helpless 
 in the matter, as the girl only half understood the 
 French in which she addressed her. 
 
 The shoes once off, she brought fresh water, basin, 
 and towel, and laved Joy s feet, slipping them finally 
 into a pair of gay silken mules procured for the pur 
 pose. This done, she loosened Joy s abundant hair 
 from the pins which confined it, exclaiming as she did 
 so over its beauty and length, and proceeded to brush 
 it out with a long, rhythmic, practised stroke which was 
 very soothing. 
 
 When its brightness was all braided up in two long 
 plaits, the inexhaustible Zette presented a daintily em 
 broidered camisole. "Would mam selle sleep now? 
 She must be very weary."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 191 
 
 Father Tobias had never employed such disciplinary 
 measures, but Joyce remembered somewhat humorously 
 that Sister Loving Longanecker had been used, all 
 through her timid childhood, to putting Patience to 
 bed at noonday for the smallest offenses. The recol 
 lection inclined her to laugh, but, having no one to 
 laugh with, she meekly donned the camisole and lay 
 down upon the couch to dream, if not to sleep. She 
 was yet to learn that one of the strangest things in 
 this strange, new life of hers was that she was expected 
 to be always tired, always in need of rest. 
 
 Intent upon being obedient and not breaking in on 
 the customs of the household, Joy lay so long staring 
 at the blue, blue sky and the green tops of the mag 
 nolias against it, inhaling the mingled rose, magnolia 
 fuscati and jasmine odors which wooed her through 
 the window, that she was finally aware of a little soft 
 sound, like a giggle behind her. She turned upon her 
 couch, and saw two pairs of very bright eyes regarding 
 her from the doorway. 
 
 When the two owners of these eyes saw that she 
 was awake, they rushed in and attacked her, apparently 
 from all sides. She was hugged, caressed, told that 
 she was beautiful as a flower, smothered with flutter 
 ing scarfs and flying ringlets till she scarcely knew 
 whether she was Joyce Valentine or no. When the 
 riot settled down somewhat, she found two very slim, 
 very dark, very pretty, eager, bright young girls sitting 
 beside her on the couch. 
 
 "Sit thee up, dear, delightful, beautiful thing, and let 
 us look at thee!" cried the elder and quieter, who had 
 introduced herself as Cousin Madeleine. "Ausite, be 
 hold those lashes. Didst ever see any so long, so 
 heart-breaking?" 
 
 Ausite, appealed to, pounced upon the astonished 
 Joy and kissed the apostrophized eyelashes, first one eye
 
 i 9 2 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 and then the other. "Methinks there never, never was 
 anything so charming," she cried, and then, with a 
 sudden spreading abroad of her pretty little hands and 
 an indescribable widening of her clear, dark eyes : 
 "There s so-o-o much of her! She s a banqueet of 
 beautee." 
 
 Joyce did indeed look of heroic mold beside her slim, 
 dark, restless cousins, whose lips and hands and eyes 
 were never still. They caressed her, they chattered, 
 till presently Madeleine arose, with a little shriek and 
 an explosion of Creole French which included "Maman 
 diner!" 
 
 The absent Zette was hastily recalled, and, both girls 
 assisting or hindering Joy s toilet was made. She 
 was then conducted to Maman s room, to be presented 
 before the afternoon meal. 
 
 Joy s one trunk had been brought up and unfastened 
 by the servants. She had expected to purchase most 
 of her wardrobe in New Orleans. Now, upon going 
 to select something for wear in her uncle s house this 
 first day, she found but one gown suited to the pur 
 pose, and that a white muslin her best bought after 
 the trip to New Orleans was decided upon. It was 
 made after the model of one of Wilful Guion s frocks, 
 and, though short-waisted and scant of skirt, was not 
 so much amiss. But there was no one other garment 
 in the trunk in which Joy felt she could properly appear. 
 
 Joy found her uncle s wife, her new "tante," as she 
 was bidden to call her, an enlarged edition of the 
 daughters, but very fat and, in spite of her vivacity, 
 very languid. She kissed Joy with the kindest affec 
 tion, and looked her over, beaming with satisfaction. 
 
 "Why, t is a young beauty Brother Toby hath 
 brought me from the wilderness. And, oh, me !" with 
 a little sigh, "beauties are such a responsibility." As 
 the mother of sons, she was wary of beauties.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 193 
 
 Joyce blushed rosily. "Indeed, maclame " "Ma 
 tante," supplied Madame Valentine, promptly. "In 
 deed, ma tante," corrected Joyce, "I have ne er been 
 considered so fair. If I can but be good and please 
 you thus, I shall be satisfied/ 
 
 Madame Valentine s fine eyes interrogated the ceil 
 ing. "Listen to the young saint!" she cried. "Why 
 do my girls never talk like that?" 
 
 But Ausite pouted. "Nobody looks for virtues in 
 a pretty woman," she said. "The ugly ones have no 
 choice but to behave themselves." 
 
 "You sinful, wicked girl," reproved Maman, with 
 apparent severity. "You should say at least a dozen 
 Paternosters for that, and mind you don t forget it 
 when you go to confession. Such light speech is sin." 
 
 For the first time Joyce realized fully that these 
 relatives of hers were Catholics, and understood what 
 had set such a gulf between Father Tobias and his 
 brother s family. 
 
 The dining-table looked to the inexperienced girl 
 magnificent. The silver was massive, the china ex 
 quisite, and the service perfect ; for Madame Valentine 
 was, with all her languor, an exceptional housewife. 
 
 In the dining-room two more cousins were presented 
 to Joyce. One of these was a tall young officer, Cap 
 tain Luis Le Blanc Valentine, who drew his heels 
 together, made her the most military of bows, and then 
 bent and kissed her hand after the approved fashion 
 of the times. The other was a boy of sixteen, so like 
 his mother that the resemblance was almost comical. 
 His short, arched upper lip showed the first darkening 
 of a manly down; but in each round, olive cheek, 
 smooth as a baby s, there was a deep dimple which 
 played at hide and seek as he laughed or talked. Joy 
 felt herself drawn to this boy at once, sweetly and ten 
 derly. His very large, clear, dark eyes had a look as 
 13
 
 194 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 though there were a lamp behind them a spiritual 
 light and his white teeth were always flashing in 
 smiles. 
 
 Joyce found her uncle to be a big, genial, material 
 version of Father Tobias. Celeste was correct in her 
 estimate of the resemblance between them. He took 
 his young relative into a bearish embrace. 
 
 "God bless my soul, but you re a beauty! Just 
 what your mother was at your age," he cried, kissing 
 her heartily on both cheeks, while the young captain 
 looked enviously on. "Ah, Toby, Toby, she minds 
 me of the milk-and-roses English lasses. Our dark 
 beauties here will be quite outshone." 
 
 And the girl wondered to hear, for the fourth time 
 since she entered that house, the question of beauty 
 given such prominence. It was one which up to this 
 time she had never debated, and the importance which 
 it appeared to have in the estimation of her uncle s fam 
 ily quite astonished her. She considered seriously 
 whether or no she were really beautiful, and if other 
 people than these kind relatives of hers would find 
 her so. 
 
 Father Toby was away from her, across quite a sea 
 of linen and silver and flowers; but her native fine 
 ness prevented embarrassment, since she never thought 
 at all of any special etiquette pertaining to table ser 
 vice. And contrasting her gentle, unworldly old fa 
 ther with her uncle, she felt no shame, but a distinct 
 pride in his simple good breeding. 
 
 That first night, before Joy slept, madame came in 
 to see that she had everything for her comfort. Fa 
 ther Tobias was going home on the following day, and 
 Joyce handed the purse which contained all her money 
 to Madame Valentine. 
 
 "I shall want a great many things, of course, which 
 I never needed at home," she began frankly. "Indeed,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 195 
 
 tante, I have but the one frock which is fitting for my 
 wear here. T were better you bought for me or tell 
 me what to buy for I see I know scarce anything 
 about it all." 
 
 Madame Valentine took the purse, kissed her niece, 
 and assured her that the wardrobe would all be pro 
 vided in good time. "When a demoiselle is as pretty 
 as you are, ma petite," she said affectionately, "pretty 
 things belong to her by right, and everybody sees that 
 she gets them. My naughty Luis, who is a great flirt 
 and hath the name of breaking more hearts than any 
 gallant in town the wicked fellow ! is already sigh 
 ing for you and dying for you. But I have warned 
 him that you are not a frivolous girl, such as those to 
 whom he is used, but a very earnest young saint, and 
 that he must let you alone." 
 
 "I thought my Cousin Luis very handsome," re 
 turned Joy, proffering the commendation so current in 
 this household. "All of my cousins are handsome, but 
 the youngest one, Neville, pleased me, I believe, most 
 of any." 
 
 "Ah," smiled Madame Valentine, with evident satis 
 faction, "I call Neville the baby because he is the last 
 boy out of the nursery, and he is a dear child." 
 
 "Have you other children, tante?" asked Joy, in 
 wonderment. The house was so large, the company 
 so numerous, and servants so swarmed everywhere 
 that she had failed to gather any hint of more family 
 than appeared at dinner. 
 
 "Any more children?" cried Madame Valentine, 
 with a little shriek, and she added, with her comfort 
 able laugh : "Loads of them, sweetheart. I know not 
 how many, because we count them only on high days 
 and holidays, or when there is a family fete." 
 
 When Joyce laid her head on her pillow it was to 
 dream not of Jessop nor even of her new cousins, but
 
 196 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 of sundry frills and frivols which she much desired 
 to have, that she might appear like other young maids. 
 And her last waking thought was in regard to that 
 curious valuation which her new relatives seemed to 
 set upon beauty.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Convent of the Three Sorrows was 
 a small, shabby building, on one of 
 the less desirable streets of New Or 
 leans. The sisterhood was vowed to 
 poverty, and a little hospital, sup 
 ported by voluntary contributions, 
 gave occupation to the nuns. 
 In the fall of 1798 came to this humble convent a 
 rather curious consignment, in the person of a small 
 black girl, perhaps ten years of age, clad in a costly 
 and elegant costume many sizes too large for her, the 
 great sleeves pinned up on her thin, little arms, the 
 multitudinously flounced skirt festooned to escape the 
 floor. Also there was a personal attendant, a gigantic 
 negress called Zoombi, who wore great barbaric cres 
 cents of gold in her ears and a most imposing tignon 
 on the top of her tall head. 
 
 This child was the daughter of a king and hight the 
 Princess Lalla. 
 
 Her father was one of those who from time to time 
 have seized and held brief control of a West Indian 
 island. And this man, when he thought his hold was 
 sufficiently secure to venture upon displaying the ne 
 gro s love of pomp and title, proclaimed himself king, 
 and ruled his sorry little kingdom with a strong and 
 bloody hand. 
 
 This, his only child, was sent to New Orleans to be 
 educated for those dignities and duties which he in- 
 
 197
 
 198 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 tended should be presently hers. He was making a 
 barbarian s overtures to England. His daughter had 
 been taught good English, she spoke French quite as 
 well, and Spanish was mainly the language of the 
 island. With the distrust and suspiciousness of an 
 ignorant half -savage, the man desired to have about 
 him an interpreter of his own blood. 
 
 Despite the smallness and poverty of his kingdom, 
 there was plenty of money to spend for this purpose. 
 His emissary was an American-born mulatto who, find 
 ing it impossible to place a negress even though a 
 princess in any school attended by white children, 
 picked out an obscure convent whose nuns were nurs 
 ing sisters, not teachers. 
 
 After much persuasion, these sisters agreed to per 
 mit Broutin, as the mulatto styled himself, to fit up in 
 the convent a suite of rooms, which he furnished and 
 decorated in a most flamboyant style. 
 
 A great price was paid for the maintenance and tui 
 tion of the princess, and there were many stipulations, 
 not only in regard to the royal well-being, but to the 
 observation of that state and etiquette which befitted 
 her rank. 
 
 Zoombi was the tiring-woman. It was her humble 
 office, and one which she performed to the satisfaction 
 of both parties, to endue the royal person with the 
 astonishing accoutrement of Lai s own choosing. 
 
 The great, gaunt, savage-looking creature waited 
 upon her small charge hand and foot, fanned her with a 
 fan of shining peacock feathers, carried about a rug 
 and footstool, stood always behind her chair when she 
 sat, and walked a pace or two behind her when she 
 walked. 
 
 Sister Angelina, who was held to be prodigiously 
 learned, was the royal instructor, and she taught this 
 most profitable pupil conscientiously.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 199 
 
 On a Saturday the attendant was allowed, if the 
 princess desired, to conduct her royal charge into the 
 city. If the day were warm, the big negress always 
 carried a broad, red umbrella over her mistress, and 
 though it was very difficult to do this and continue to 
 walk behind her highness, Zoombi s diligent humility 
 managed to compass it. 
 
 The little black royalty, in her resplendent attire, 
 her tall, grim-visaged servitor clad in speckless white 
 cottonade, the turban which topped her head a thing 
 to muse upon it was a procession which might have 
 marched, complete, from between the covers of some 
 old Eastern volume, and the quaint humor of its in 
 congruity was not lost upon the laughter-loving 
 Creoles. 
 
 New Orleans was even then a considerable city, and 
 yet the peculiarities of its arrangement, still so marked 
 among the towns of this country, made it appear less 
 of a city than it really was. 
 
 The houses, showing from the street only low, pink- 
 plastered facades, proved the portal once passed, or 
 even the courtyard entered to be homes of a beauty 
 and elegance which in many cases approached mag 
 nificence. Built around courts, in which were foun 
 tains and a profusion of flowers, native and exotic, 
 were balconies covered with monster vines of bloom 
 ing roses brought from France. These homes were 
 unique in America, and, indeed, in beauty and charm, 
 were not elsewhere surpassed. 
 
 Ten years before, in 1788, the core of the city was 
 bitten out by a great fire, which left a bare, blackened 
 waste for a heart-broken populace to rebuild. This 
 disaster proved, however, a disguised blessing to the 
 town. The buildings destroyed were largely one-story 
 wooden structures, and most of the magnificence of the 
 New Orleans of a hundred years ago which is the
 
 200 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 French quarter of the modern city dates from the 
 rebuilding of this burned district. 
 
 The little wooden structures were succeeded by edi 
 fices of brick, stuccoed. Spanish models were gen 
 erally followed the city, be it remembered, was still 
 under Spanish sway and there prevailed in the archi 
 tecture an amplitude and elegance which have scarce 
 been exceeded since. 
 
 The destroyed public buildings were renewed by Don 
 Andreas Almonester and Alferez Real. At this time 
 was built the old cathedral still called for the don, its 
 giver. Under its altar his dust is laid, and there each 
 day at vespers a prayer is still said for the repose of 
 his soul. 
 
 The stores of the day were small and unpretentious. 
 But in these little shops were vended, at fat prices 
 never questioned, the most magnificent fabrics, the 
 costliest silks, laces, tissues, shell, and ivories that Paris 
 could supply. It was a rich field, and from their ex 
 peditions the princess and her retainer brought back 
 wonderful spoil. 
 
 Lalla always bought till the big, purple-silk, bead- 
 fringed money-pouch, which hung ever at Zoombi s 
 girdle, was limp and empty. Her purchases gave no 
 tice of a truly royal disregard for the humble detail 
 of mere fitness. The sovereign caprice lit, not improb 
 ably, upon a gorgeous tobacco-pouch, a gentleman s 
 lace cravat, a tinseled bolero intended for the wear of 
 some Spanish caballero. And she wore her inappro 
 priate purchases with a most appropriate gravity and 
 decorum. 
 
 The Princess Lai s first school term was drawing 
 toward its close. With the pride of voluntary dili 
 gence and that silent singleness of purpose which the 
 child showed in the conduct of her affairs, she had ap 
 plied herself to learn. And always, between the les-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 201 
 
 son hours, she studied in significant silence the little 
 migratory tribes which ran and laughed and played, in 
 vulgar, unfettered, irresponsible bliss, in the street be 
 fore the convent, reflecting austerely that they were 
 born to be common people, subjects, and she a queen 
 ruler over such. 
 
 Bred in a community where a white face was rare, 
 familiar with the arrogant display of new-gotten power, 
 the question of race, of color, did not then present 
 itself to Lalla, or, if considered at all, did not assume 
 that ultimate importance which, as she was later to 
 learn, attached to it. Looking upon these children, 
 she told herself that, so high as her lot was above 
 theirs, just so far must she excel them in every way. 
 
 Unlike most negroes, she had an aptitude for learn 
 ing which felt no hardship in study. Instead, it sup 
 plied companionship and solace to this self-imposed 
 loneliness. But as the season advanced, and birds, 
 trees, and flowers all brought more and more to her 
 memory the warm, laughing, joyful summer of her 
 tropical home, nobody knew how heavy Lai s heart was 
 with that passionate homesickness which spring always 
 brings to the exile. 
 
 In the open door of the refectory, two of the hooded 
 sisters were shelling peas. Lessons were over. It 
 was a golden afternoon. The magnolias loaded every 
 gust with flattering sweetness. In the garden, Lai sat 
 in solitary state, Zoombi, the great peacock-feather fan 
 dropped from her hand, asleep behind her. 
 
 In the warm, soft, drowsy stillness, the cords of this 
 lonely young potentate s stern resolution relaxed. An 
 emissary from the free and fearless Bedouins infesting 
 the banquette outside was struck rigid with amazement 
 upon being received with something suspiciously akin 
 to relief and eagerness, and sent back with a message 
 which bade the whole tribe to enter.
 
 202 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 The lapse was sudden and complete. This thing 
 also Lai did energetically. The pied assembly, black, 
 white, and yellow, was shrieking in mid-ecstasy of a 
 strenuous and recondite game of tag, when down the 
 long corridor came the Mother Superior, with a very 
 finely dressed and highly rouged dame beside her. At 
 the door she met a mounted post with a packet of 
 letters. 
 
 The lady who accompanied Mother Clemence was 
 known among her associates simply as "Madame." 
 Her house on Canal Street, demure of exterior, gor 
 geous within, was much frequented by the dandies of 
 the town. But it was especially the resort of gentle 
 men adventurers, soldiers of fortune, all sorts of loose 
 fish which swam the cosmopolitan tide that rose upon 
 those coasts. 
 
 Three years before, Madame, deserted by her ser 
 vants, had been nursed through the yellow fever by the 
 sisters of the Three Sorrows. Her gratitude took the 
 form of an annual visit and gift to the convent. This 
 pilgrimage was perhaps as near a religious observance 
 as Madame s life ever approached. 
 
 Mother Clemence called one of the sisters, and bade 
 her show Madame through the hospital, while she her 
 self should read the letters brought by the post. 
 
 Madame s interest in the improvements which her 
 last gift had enabled the sisters to make, as shown to 
 her in detail by the meek nun, w T as but languid. "Yes, 
 yes," she cried, "the cots will, perchance, be better that 
 way; but methinks they are most horrible, anyhow. 
 Being ill is sure a sin. People should be soundly 
 flogged for daring to." 
 
 "O Madame, our poor patients!" protested the nun. 
 
 But Madame looked about upon the ailing creatures 
 with her hard, bright smile. "A good trouncing would 
 cure most of em, I warrant me," she declared, and
 
 MISTRESS JOY 203 
 
 swept on down the stairway, the dismayed nun trotting 
 after her. 
 
 When the sister reached the courtyard, Madame was 
 standing near Lalla, and the last heel of the last fleeing 
 Bedouin was vanishing through the gateway. 
 
 "Who is that little monkey?" the woman asked, point 
 ing with her cane to Lalla. And in a respectful under 
 tone the child s title and dignities were recited to her. 
 
 " Od s life, a princess !" she sneered. "What is t 
 ye tell me the father pays for her keep and schooling 
 here?" 
 
 The sister did not know, but mentioned a sum which 
 she thought might be near the figure. "La !" screamed 
 Madame, " t is revenue enough to keep up two con 
 vents and you ding-donging at the public for gifts! 
 Well, the churches and hell are never filled, as the 
 saying goes." 
 
 The horrified nun strove to draw her away from the 
 children, but Madame was interested in the princess, 
 and refused bluntly to go. "How many wives hath 
 your father?" she asked, touching the child on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 Lalla arose with dignity, and was about to depart 
 without speaking. "Sulky imp !" commented Madame. 
 "Make her answer, Sister Mary Paul." 
 
 "Your pardon, Madame; I cannot force her to re 
 ply," deprecated the sister, with lowered eyes. " T is 
 not permitted that any save Sister Angelina, her 
 teacher, take authority with her. I can myself tell you 
 that her father hath no wife. He is widowed, and 
 Lalla is his only child." 
 
 Madame looked curiously at the small, black face, 
 turned up to hers, full of defiant dislike. "Humph !" 
 she muttered, "a nigger brat a piccaninny to finger 
 all that chink! And later to be Her eyes nar 
 rowed thoughtfully. "What doth the girl like?" she
 
 204 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 asked abruptly, turning to the nun. "Sugar-plums? 
 Is she never friendly?" 
 
 "She hath all that she desires. And t is not per 
 mitted," answered the nun, returning to her formula, 
 "that she make friends or visit in the city." 
 
 She had all that she desired ! Who in the grown-up 
 world about them ever fathoms the heart of a child? 
 Poor Lalla was one bundle of ignorant, uncontrolled, 
 battling desires. 
 
 Madame, who seemed to have some vague plan con 
 cerning her, turned and spoke with some attempt at 
 kindness to the child, questioning at random, but with 
 watchful eyes, of her studies and of her life here and 
 at home on the island. 
 
 Lalla, her chin held high, answered in haughty mon 
 osyllables. 
 
 As they talked, Mother Clemence came down the 
 stair from the upper gallery, bearing a very troubled 
 countenance. She listened a moment to Madame s con 
 ciliatory speeches, then, drawing nearer to Lalla, "My 
 poor child, I have terrible news for you," she said. 
 
 "My father!" cried Lalla, instantly. "They have 
 killed him?" 
 
 The mother silently nodded. 
 
 Lalla s father was dead ; that was the news the let 
 ters had brought stabbed by one of his own house 
 hold. The pretender who had procured his death now 
 occupied the throne that seat so insecure, so uncom 
 fortable, which cost many lives to reach and more to 
 hold. To insure his own dynasty, the new king or 
 president, as he at first called himself was now, so ran 
 the letter, day by day hastily trying, condemning, and 
 executing the old king s friends and followers. 
 
 The whole fabric of Lalla s life had fallen at a 
 stroke, and left her desolate. She stood before the 
 Mother Superior, clutching and unclutching her thin,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 205 
 
 little black hands. "Will nobody come for me?" she 
 choked. 
 
 "No; there is none left now to send for you, my 
 child. You must e en bide here." 
 
 "And not be a princess any more? Be a negress a 
 common negress? Be a servant?" her voice rising on 
 each broken ejaculation, until she screamed in terror: 
 "Ai, ai ! Will I be a servant?" 
 
 The nun, habituated to the sight of suffering through 
 the experiences of her daily life, and by birth and edu 
 cation indifferent to all sufferings of Lalla s race, was 
 touched by the untempered despair of one so young. 
 
 But Madame watched with eager, enjoying curiosity 
 while Lalla stormed and raged, then wept forlornly. 
 At the last she cried : "Be quiet ! I would speak to 
 Mother Clemence." 
 
 She pointed with her cane toward Zoombi, who was 
 patiently trying to set to rights her princess s disar 
 ranged attire, and said sharply : 
 
 "Look you, this woman appears a stout, able negress. 
 I will take her into my service, and pay you a small 
 wage. T will help make up to you for the keep of 
 the brat." And once more, as though to a little howl 
 ing dog or cat, she cried, "Be quiet!" and added, 
 "Faith, the little devil screams like a macaw!" 
 
 But Lalla had heard only Madame s proposal to take 
 Zoombi, and she wailed : 
 
 "If you send Zoombi away O Mother Clemence! 
 You will not send her away! Who would dress me, 
 then and clean my shoes and wash me and bring 
 my breakfast? Oh, who will talk to me of home?" 
 
 "Child," came the reply, in the nun s voice of trained 
 repression, "we are all poor. We have made ourselves 
 as beggars, for the love of the blessed Lord. None 
 here can leave her holy labors to do those offices. And 
 for Zoombi, she must now earn her bread perchance
 
 206 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 your own as well." Mother Clemence cast down her 
 eyes and stood passive. 
 
 Madame glanced from Lalla s little, black face to 
 the nun s mask-like countenance. She stepped boldly 
 up to the child, and again cried : "Why, look you ! I 
 see here two things which I can use, instead of one. 
 My macaw this brat screams just like it died yes 
 terday; both my monkeys are in a consumption; me- 
 thinks her majesty might slip into their places amazing 
 well. Why not let me take both negresses?" 
 
 "The princess " began Mother Clemence. 
 
 "Nay, nay," interrupted Madame, "the child need 
 work but little, and she shall not be beaten. I cannot 
 promise quite royal state, but t will be food and shelter, 
 and methinks the girl might be useful to me." 
 
 Mother Clemence debated with herself a moment. 
 "I will speak to Father Bernard of the matter," she 
 said finally. "We will see we will see. If no ar 
 rangement may be made here, perhaps perhaps, my 
 daughter." 
 
 And she continued, as she walked away with Ma 
 dame : "Remember this poor creature hath a soul to be 
 saved, even as you or I." 
 
 Madame laughed lightly. "In which she differs, I 
 judge you would fain say to me, from my macaw and 
 my monkeys. Well, then, Mother Clemence, I will 
 lay it to heart that she hath a soul to be saved or to 
 be damned ; and she may be either, for all I care," she 
 added under her breath, as she gathered up her silken 
 draperies and sailed away to her waiting volante.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 was a long room with lofty, painted 
 ceiling, and handsomely but oddly fur 
 nished. There were pictures on the 
 walls excellent pictures, but all of one 
 type. Down the center of the apart 
 ment stood tables, and these tables 
 were covered with green cloth. There 
 was something overdone in the magnificence of the 
 place. A little too much gilding, ornaments too many, 
 draperies too voluminous, proclaimed the public room 
 and not the home. 
 
 This was what Madame pleased to call her draw 
 ing-room. To-night it was full of guests sitting at 
 the long tables, and these guests were all men. Ma- 
 dame s drawing-room was, in short, the salon of one 
 of the most noted gambling resorts in the New Orleans 
 of that date. 
 
 The air was a glare of brightness, and almost intol 
 erably warm from the flame of multitudinous candles. 
 An orchestra, somewhere out of sight, played dance 
 music. Madame, magnificently dressed, received her 
 guests near the doorway, or passed from table to table, 
 with here and there a familiar word, a nod or a smile 
 to some special friend. 
 
 At Madame s elbow, clad in a quiet suit of puce silk, 
 yet with speckless ruffles of fine lace, and a diamond 
 like a great tear shining in his shirt frill, stood Jessop. 
 
 207
 
 208 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Not playing, Jessop?" Madame inquired. "You used 
 not to be shy of it. Have you turned Methody?" 
 
 Jessop flushed uneasily. "Perhaps I have turned 
 honest man, Madame," he retorted. 
 
 " Once a gambler, always a gambler/ " quoted Ma 
 dame, sententiously. "Best sit thee down and have it 
 out. T is bound to come sooner or later." 
 
 Jessop glanced moodily toward the table, as though 
 he half considered the advisability of accepting the 
 woman s counsel. 
 
 "Well met, Major Jessop!" cried a familiar voice 
 from the doorway, and Colonel Aaron Burr came for 
 ward with outstretched hand. 
 
 Jessop s first impulse was, ignoring the hand, to tax 
 Burr to his face with his recent perfidy in leaving his 
 poor tools of the abortive Mississippi plot to their fate. 
 But there was his own coat, morally speaking, in tat 
 ters, and he felt that a certain laxness as to such rents in 
 the garments of others not only became him, but was 
 in some sort an apology for his own shortcomings. 
 His greeting to Colonel Burr could not, however, have 
 been called warm. The two men strolled the length 
 of the room together, remarking the players and chat 
 ting of indifferent matters. 
 
 As they turned again toward the entrance where 
 Madame stood, "I presume you have been meeting Mis 
 tress Joyce Valentine here," Burr remarked. 
 
 "Why, no," returned Jessop; "I came but the day 
 before yesterday. I knew Mistress Valentine was in 
 New Orleans, but I have not called." 
 
 "Faith," laughed Burr, "I do think t is the only 
 young gallant in town who hath not done so." 
 
 "Is Mistress Joyce, then, so much a belle?" inquired 
 Jessop, with uneasy interest. 
 
 "So much a belle, is it?" repeated Burr. "I give you 
 my word that our little Natchez Methody is turning
 
 MISTRESS JOY 209 
 
 the heads of all the men in town. They serenade her 
 three deep, so that her uncle, at whose house she lies, 
 hath thought, I am told, of asking protection from the 
 military. And whenever she goes abroad, t is like 
 an Easter procession in which all the novices are young 
 beaux." 
 
 To Jessop this information was both pleasing and 
 unwelcome. He had his own reasons for not desiring 
 to meet Joyce during her stay in New Orleans, and 
 yet he hoped that he might see her. 
 
 When a drunkard is troubled the drink reaches for 
 him, and in anxiety the gambler reaches for his cards. 
 Considering thus, it may not seem so strange that, dis 
 quieted by this news, Jessop, almost before he knew it, 
 was sitting at one of the little tables, with the old, 
 familiar bits of pasteboard in his hand. 
 
 Burr, whose visit was mainly one of curiosity, seated 
 himself finally upon one of the sofas. The music 
 sad, as dance music is always sad wailed and sobbed 
 through the rooms. The light swish of the paste 
 boards, the hum of subdued conversation, an oath pro 
 nounced now and then with a little more vivacity than 
 the words which preceded or followed it these made 
 up the sounds in Madame s drawing-room. 
 
 Through the window came the scent of the ever- 
 present orange blossoms. All about the apartment 
 were tall china vases carrying great pyramids of the 
 waxen bloom ; on tiny stands the golden globes of the 
 fruit itself. 
 
 A tall, gray-haired old gentleman, in a plum-colored 
 suit, pushed back from one of the tables near Burr, 
 and, leaving it, seated himself beside the colonel on the 
 sofa, after first courteously asking his permission to 
 do so. 
 
 Burr remarked that the scene before them was an 
 interesting one. "It is so to me still," confirmed the 
 14
 
 zio MISTRESS JOY 
 
 old gentleman, "though I have been coming here for 
 my evening game these fifteen years. In fact, I have 
 been coming here for my evening game ever since Juan 
 Rubio launched her. Madame was a young woman 
 then and pretty. Perchance you may remember 
 Rubio was hung eventually, and Madame draped the 
 place in black. T was curious playing cards in among 
 the crape, but then Madame is curious. She would 
 never go by Rubio s name after he was hung. T was 
 piracy, you know. That s what they made it, though, 
 to the best of my knowledge and belief, t was no more 
 than a bit of smuggling." 
 
 "Madame Rubio," murmured Burr. "And what 
 name does she bear now ? I find the tradesmen and the 
 drivers of volantes and caleches all know her simply 
 as Madame." 
 
 " Od s life!" ejaculated the elder man, "I could 
 not tell you, old friend as I am. I think she changes 
 her names with her frocks. A year or so gone, t was 
 Madame Jessop. She was plucking a young fool of 
 an Englishman then Mountfalcon a Jessop, I think 
 he called himself." 
 
 "Is that the man?" asked Burr, quietly, glancing to 
 where Jessop sat intent upon his game. 
 
 The old gentleman put up his glass and looked. 
 "Why, so t is," he agreed. "The fellow hath come 
 back. He left here mightily frayed at the seams. He 
 appears to be again in fortune. Well, if so, Madame 
 will find him worth the plucking once more," and the 
 old gentleman chuckled. 
 
 The sofas about the room were now well filled with 
 spectators. A genial buzz of conversation accom 
 panied the serving of fruits and wines. Suddenly 
 the music ceased, a bell was rung, a man and a wo 
 man in Spanish costume mounted a raised platform 
 at one end of the room, whereupon the music recom-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 211 
 
 menced, but in a new measure, and a Spanish dance 
 was given. 
 
 At its close the old gentleman yawned slightly. 
 "Madame Jessop, as I suppose I must now begin to 
 call her again is famous for getting the most curious 
 performers to amuse her audiences. Sometimes she 
 goes too far. Five years agone she had in a man with 
 performing leopards ; one of them got loose and clawed 
 a slave, I think, to death. She has learned to be more 
 prudent nowadays." 
 
 A singer had followed the dancers, and now a jug 
 gler was tossing aloft little balls, drawing rabbits from 
 his hat, and performing the usual repertoire of tricks. 
 
 Burr s attention came back to Jessop; he fancied 
 the man was playing high and losing. When his 
 eyes were recalled to the stage he saw a giant negress, 
 all in white, holding aloft a crimson, gold-fringed um 
 brella. Beneath this canopy stood the most absurd 
 small figure that could be imagined. It was a child, in 
 tensely black, very solemn. A small gilt crown was on 
 her woolly head. She was tricked out in a gown of 
 purple velvet, an ermine stole about her neck. As he 
 looked with some surprise at this grotesque figure, the 
 child began reciting, with considerable spirit and abil 
 ity, a queen s soliloquy from one of the plays of an old 
 French dramatist. 
 
 The effect of the grandiose words, so tragically ut 
 tered by this quaint little piccaninny, was inexpressibly 
 incongruous. At a table nearest the platform some 
 men looked up from their game and began to laugh. 
 
 The child instantly halted and glared at them. The 
 laugh grew louder. Her little face convulsed with 
 rage. Her eyes rolled whitely. "I will not say it I 
 will not !" she screamed. "I will not stand here to be 
 mocked !" She stamped her foot, and, tearing the tin 
 sel crown from her head, trampled it in a transport of
 
 212 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 rage. "Nobody can make me say it," she cried. "I 
 am a queen, my father is a king, and he will have 
 every one of your silly heads cut off !" 
 
 At this a great roar of laughter arose. And when the 
 poor Princess Lai, kicking and screaming, was borne 
 off by Zoombi, it was voted quite the most amusing 
 performance of the evening. 
 
 As Colonel Burr took his departure, he paused beside 
 the table at which Jessop was playing. "What luck, 
 major?" he asked gaily. 
 
 "The devil s own," Jessop answered savagely. 
 
 "Ah, well," smiled Burr, "you know the proverb, 
 major, lucky in love, unlucky at cards. That man 
 who hath won the heart of sweet Mistress Joyce Val 
 entine needs not luck at cards." 
 
 At mention of Joy s name, Jessop s face went white. 
 "How knew you of that?" he gasped hoarsely, half 
 rising. His hand groped for the hilt of his sword. 
 "Who told you of it, and how dare you come here with 
 your damned meddling tongue to prate of it ?" 
 
 "Softly, softly," counseled Burr. "Fair and softly, 
 major. I said naught but what all the world knows." 
 And to himself he murmured, as he went out : "Soho ! 
 The prodigal weds the parson s daughter, after all. 
 And a pernicious fellow it is one into whose wheel I 
 would fain thrust a spoke." 
 
 It was broad daylight before Madame s drawing- 
 room was cleared of its guests. When they were all 
 gone, Jessop, who had lingered to the last, turned to 
 the woman and said : "Why the devil did you send me 
 that money? T is gone. Meseems t is like chang 
 ing coins from one pocket to another for you to give 
 it me and then win it back over the cloth here." 
 
 Madame smiled an inscrutable smile. "I wearied 
 for you," she declared, "ere you were a month gone. 
 And when your letter came, desiring the clothes, I
 
 MISTRESS JOY 213 
 
 sent first them, and, seeing that did not recall you, the 
 money after. T was like rolling pennies downhill 
 after a lost coin; but, since it brought you back, I am 
 right glad I ventured it." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense !" broke in Jessop. "You never 
 cared one groat for me. I know right well, Madame, 
 that when you spend money it is to get money; but 
 how you shall come by any from such an empty purse 
 as I, t is a riddle to me." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and looked at her with 
 narrowed, speculative eyes, as she sat across from him. 
 Was it possible she had heard of his intended mar 
 riage with Joy, and was jealous thereat? Vanity fa 
 vored this conclusion, but Jessop s vanity had learned 
 hard lessons so far as Madame was concerned. 
 
 Daylight in a room which has contained a consid 
 erable party overnight always brings cynical revela 
 tions. Refuse bits of paper, torn playing-cards, scraps 
 of orange-peel, and the ash of many cigarettes strewed 
 table and floor in Madame s drawing-room. 
 
 The servants had been sent away, that she might 
 have her talk with Jessop uninterrupted. Glasses 
 empty and half filled encumbered the tables. Despite 
 the freshness of the morning, there was a stale air in 
 the room, a fagged, haggard look over everything 
 and upon the faces of the two who sat talking. Ma- 
 dame s rouge stood out startlingly on her pale cheeks, 
 but she bore Jessop s scrutiny with her usual impas 
 sive calm. 
 
 "If my damned vanity had not led me to ask for 
 those clothes, I was quit of you," he growled. 
 
 "Who is this woman ?" asked Madame, hardily. 
 
 "Cherchez la femme," returned Jessop, in his most 
 trifling and cynical manner. "You believe in the say 
 ing, meseems." 
 
 "For what else should you want evening clothes?"
 
 2i 4 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 inquired Madame. "Is t a maid? Hath she money? 
 Are you thinking to wed, Jessop ?" 
 
 " T is a maid, she hath not money, and I am even 
 thinking of breaking incontinently into the holy es 
 tate of matrimony," answered Jessop, with mounting 
 gaiety. 
 
 "You d never be such a fool !" exclaimed Madame. 
 "Money you needs must have; women come for the 
 asking." 
 
 "Prate not to me of being a fool, my mentor; you 
 have not seen Joyce Valentine." With the uttering of 
 Joy s name here in this place, the realization of who it 
 was to whom he was dilating upon her charms, there 
 came a sudden tightness in Jessop s throat. He rose 
 with a gesture of loathing, and stood looking the 
 woman over somberly. Under that naked distaste she 
 shrank a trifle. At last he broke out: "Body o God, 
 Madame, what a hound you make of me !" 
 
 "I?" she queried. "Did I corrupt the immaculate 
 Mountfalcon a Jessop? Sad is t not? that the 
 wicked women will not let these pious youths alone, but 
 must still come tempting them." 
 
 " T is no use bandying words," rejoined Jessop, 
 fiercely, "whether you, or life, or circumstances have 
 made a villain of me, methinks my father s son was 
 born for better things." 
 
 "La, la," exclaimed Madame, "fine words, my Jes 
 sop! The coat upon your back is bought with my 
 money, you have just lost the last penny I gave you 
 across the table, and your tongue is even now tickling 
 to ask me for more." 
 
 Jessop looked down at the woman furiously. Every 
 word she uttered was true, even to the last that he 
 needed money, and knew not where else to come by it. 
 
 Madame had been figuring upon some little tablets 
 drawn from her girdle. Now she reached across, and
 
 MISTRESS JOY 215 
 
 laid them on the table before him. There, set down 
 with his name and the date, was every sum of money 
 she had given him after his own fortune went across 
 her gaming-tables. She pointed to the reckoning at 
 the bottom. 
 
 "A pretty little total, my friend," she said dryly. 
 "A man who would be free must pay his score. Have 
 ye wherewith to pay? I doubt it." Then, with a sud 
 den change of tone, as her companion dropped into his 
 chair and hid his shamed face among the scattered 
 cards upon the table : "Ah, Jessop, Jessop, you are but a 
 boy, after all. I am not angry with you. I cannot be 
 angry with you. See, here, I give it freely, just as I 
 give you my love always." She pushed a pile of 
 coins over against his hand. Jessop, without raising 
 his head, shrunk as though their touch had burned 
 him. 
 
 Madame was a wise woman. She made no fur 
 ther tender of herself or her affections, but, bending, 
 placed a hand upon his hair and whispered softly : 
 "Poor boy! In faith, I m sorry; but I love you too 
 well to give you up without a struggle." And, moving 
 noiselessly away, she left him, the untouched money on 
 the table beside him. 
 
 After a little, Jessop felt a timid touch upon his 
 knee. "Can t you let me alone, damn you?" he 
 groaned, without looking up. 
 
 "Lalla thought you were dead," said a very small, 
 meek voice. "Lalla found a dead man here one morn 
 ing, but there was a hole in his head, and blood every 
 where. It spoiled the carpet, and Madame was angry." 
 All this in good French, not the clipped Creole French. 
 
 Jessop raised his haggard face, ashen under the cold 
 search of the early day, and looked. It was the small, 
 black girl who had recited the Queen s Soliloquy. She 
 was dressed now in the garb which the other servants
 
 216 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 wore. "Poor man, has the white devil ordered you 
 whipped?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Jessop, under his breath, and speaking 
 not to the wondering child, but to himself, she has 
 ordered me whipped by all the furies of hell." 
 
 "Prithee, let us go and kill her," was the child s 
 startling proposition. "Zoombi is afraid; Zoombi is 
 a great big coward." 
 
 Jessop rose up, and, forgetting the child, stood star 
 ing at the money. He knew that he would eventually 
 take it; he felt to the full the shame of doing so. 
 He realized that if he could but wait, money would 
 come to him from England. But did a gambler ever 
 wait? 
 
 His hand stole toward the pieces. When funds 
 came from his father he would repay it. But he must 
 have money now. Beaten back into the old slough of 
 degradation, he longed inexpressibly for sight of Joy, 
 the one creature who had ever helped him at his worst 
 to attain his better self. To be able to see her, he must 
 have money. It was a risk, of course, to see her at 
 all, but it was a risk he must run. 
 
 He shoved the coins carelessly into the pocket of his 
 coat, then became again aware of the little creature 
 standing beside him, staring at him solemnly. "Dost 
 want some of it?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 "Yes," returned Lalla. "Had we money, Zoombi 
 and I could get away from the white devil." 
 
 Jessop laughed discordantly as he drew out a coin 
 and flung it to her. "Pardie, I shall use it to get away 
 from the white devil, too!" he said. 
 
 "I pray you, help me to kill her," urged Lalla. 
 "I would rather kill her than run away from her. 
 Why do you run away?" she added. "You have a 
 sword. Had I a sword, none should drive me." 
 
 Again the mirthless laugh came to Jessop s lips.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 217 
 
 "Faith," he said, "even the throneless queen knows me 
 for a renegade." 
 
 The two exiles from high position stood measuring 
 and estimating each other : one a child a woman child 
 small, black, ignorant, with the high heart and cour 
 age of a warrior; the other of earth s dominant race, 
 a man, trained to arms, whose soul was unstable as 
 tide- water. 
 
 Lalla sighed impatiently. "Thank you for the 
 money," she said. She was learning humility and 
 courtesy in a hard school. "But I wish you were a 
 man like my father, and would go with me and help 
 me to kill her."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HE abundant finery Madame Ausite 
 provided for Joyce all, as she as 
 serted, purchased with the contents of 
 the small purse, which must have ri 
 valed that of Fortunatus was mon 
 strously becoming to the stately 
 young beauty. 
 When Joyce told her aunt that she thought there 
 could never have been such a shopper before, and ex 
 claimed over the quantity and elegance of her pur 
 chases, good Madame Valentine merely laughed and, 
 with a hearty kiss, declared that naught could be too 
 fine for such a pretty chick as her sweet niece. The girl 
 was becoming warmly attached to her new relatives, 
 but among them she had her favorites. Her cousin 
 Madeleine she deemed the most beautiful girl she had 
 ever seen. Not even Wilful, so famous far and near 
 for charm and loveliness, could equal her, Joyce de 
 cided. 
 
 And still they talked of beauty, and of Joy s beauty, 
 until she went fairly dizzy with the adulation and 
 the pride of it all. The soldier cousin showed great 
 eagerness to be foremost among her flatterers, but she 
 minded well all that Tante Ausite had said to her of 
 Captain Luis and his fancy for flirtation. His ardor 
 mounting with opposition, Luis swore he loved her, 
 and her alone of all the world, denied that he had ever 
 flirted or could flirt with any, and wept great tears or 
 
 218
 
 MISTRESS JOY 219 
 
 disappointment not of love, as Joyce believed over 
 her coldness. 
 
 It seemed to Joy that these days in her uncle s house 
 were fuller of pleasure than the days at home had ever 
 been of work. Sometimes she thought, with a little 
 dismay, that the work had been easier, for her at least, 
 than all this junketing. Her direct mind, trained to 
 the simple "yea" and "nay" of a primitive society, was 
 continually disquieted to search the real meaning of 
 these people who talked so much hyperbole, who ogled 
 and simpered or made great eyes over nothing at all. 
 
 When thoughts like these came to her, Joy taxed 
 herself with treachery because she, even as they, said 
 one thing and felt another. The fear which haunted 
 her most was that she was really of a vacillating mind 
 and unstable in purpose. She reproached herself that 
 she had grown weary of the simplicity of her home, 
 had given up that first aim of her life to preach the 
 Word, and come here to seek she knew not what. 
 Now, was she tired of this also in a few weeks, and 
 longing for yet another change ? She knew there was 
 no desire to go back to the old cabin and the old life, 
 and sighed over herself as a hopeless problem. 
 
 Luis, not content with sending Joy flowers and cast 
 ing languishing glances at her whenever she was vis 
 ible, planned continually new festivities of which she 
 should be the center. These plans were for the most 
 part promptly dismissed by his mother, but at last one 
 of them found favor in her eyes. It was to be a picnic 
 on Lake Pontchartrain upon his approaching birthday, 
 and he had arranged it down to the smallest detail be 
 fore he notified the ladies of his family. 
 
 Well, that, maman allowed, might not be so bad, 
 after all. Indeed, so well impressed was Madame Val 
 entine with the picnic plan that she even deigned to 
 give aid in the preparations. Her niece was permitted
 
 220 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to assist, by her presence, at some of the more recon 
 dite of these arrangings. In the course of this work 
 Joyce learned much of the mechanism of a large 
 menage, and she came to regard her aunt as a marvel 
 of housewifely skill and executive ability. Every ser 
 vant in the establishment had his or her duties accu 
 rately defined and rigorously required; with the same 
 exactness were privileges and rewards bestowed and 
 penalties imposed. 
 
 The household was so large and so composite that 
 Joyce never wholly understood who were permanent 
 inmates and who merely visitors like herself. The rela 
 tionships among these various collateral branches of 
 the family, and between them and the Valentines, was 
 an endless source of puzzlement to her. 
 
 These voluble, volatile French people at once ex 
 tended their circle to embrace her, and she became upon 
 their Gallic tongues "Cousin Joyous," a version of her 
 stern and simple name which was typical of their dis 
 position to brighten and soften everything as it passed 
 them. 
 
 The day preceding the picnic fete, Joy was allowed 
 to go with Celeste on her regular early morning mar 
 keting trip. Zette was in attendance upon her, and two 
 negro men followed with baskets, to carry home the 
 purchases. The freshness of the streets at that hour, the 
 odor of the flowers from behind garden walls, the cries 
 of the street venders, were all interesting to Joy. She 
 noted with curiosity an entirely different world of peo 
 ple abroad at this hour from those she would see later. 
 
 There were portly matrons going to attend to their 
 own marketing, some in their carriages, others afoot 
 and followed by negroes. There were stately negresses 
 like Celeste, who were apparently purchasing for 
 wealthy families, as she was. But there were no de 
 moiselles or young gallants.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 221 
 
 Perilously near the curb at one of the street corners 
 they passed a small, rickety stand, piled high with great, 
 odorous bunches of violets, jasmine, and orange blos 
 soms. Behind this stood a small, black girl. She 
 attracted Joy s attention because, while the other flower- 
 venders were voluble in crying their merchandise, run 
 ning after the "pretty lady," even laying hands upon 
 her in their effort to attract her attention and con 
 vince her that their wares were just what she needed, 
 this child stood perfectly stolid. She looked neither 
 to right nor to left, but stared straight before her with 
 a desolate, introspective gaze, as though she were 
 searching illimitable spaces for something lost. 
 
 Celeste chid and even cuffed the too pressing sales 
 women; but this little graven image found even less 
 favor in her eyes. She alluded to her in passing as a 
 surly mechanic who needed the whip. 
 
 While they were still in sight of the stand and its 
 wooden proprietress, a caleche, dashing around the cor 
 ner, overthrew the flimsy table, scattering bouquets far 
 and wide, and passed, grazing the girl. 
 
 Joy turned back with quick sympathy. A shrieking 
 crowd of black, white, and yellow street urchins ran 
 out, and, scrambling and fighting, flung themselves 
 upon the fallen blossoms. 
 
 The girl made no effort to check their onslaught nor 
 recover her own, but stood, her small, black hands 
 clenched by her sides, vainly endeavoring to suppress 
 the sobs which shook her thin, little body. 
 
 "Were you hurt?" asked Joy, kindly, while Celeste 
 directed one of the negroes to pick up the fragments 
 of the stand and gather together such remnants of the 
 stock as might remain. 
 
 There were only a few splintered boards left, and 
 the bunches which could be recovered were so dam 
 aged as to be unsalable. "Will your mother punish
 
 222 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 you?" inquired Joy of the little marchande, in the pre 
 occupation of her sympathy speaking in English. 
 
 "I have no mother," came the answer, in the same 
 language, and surprisingly clear and correct. "I sell 
 flowers for a white woman down there," and she waved 
 her hand toward Canal Street. 
 
 "Hear the impudent little baggage," commented 
 Celeste. Then, to the child, "You should not call your 
 mistress a woman." 
 
 "She is not my mistress," flashed the other, angrily. 
 "I am not a slave I am a king s daughter." 
 
 "Umph!" sniffed Celeste; "one of these African nig 
 gers. I m tired of their airs me. I hope your mis 
 tress will beat you well. T will do you good. Oui, 
 mamselje, t is the only way to train such as these" to 
 Joyce, who interposed in the child s behalf. 
 
 "She will beat me," said the girl, stolidly, "but I 
 care not for that. Sometime I shall kill her," she 
 added, quite as though she were discussing any ordi 
 nary matter. 
 
 Joy was both repelled and interested. "Come, mam- 
 selle ; methmks madame would not be pleased that you 
 should stand talking here on the street corner." Then, 
 seeing the unwilling look in Joy s eyes, Celeste turned 
 to the child and added : "You may follow, an it please 
 you to. There s naught left here for you to look after, 
 and my young lady seems to have taken a fancy to your 
 ugly, black face." 
 
 One would not have supposed that the child heard, 
 but that as they went on she followed them. Wher 
 ever they paused for Celeste to make purchases, Joy 
 talked to the girl, thus hearing piecemeal the poor little 
 Princess Lai s story. 
 
 It touched her more than another, because she felt 
 that they were in a sense fellow-exiles. Her own exile 
 was voluntary. She had left poverty and hardship,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 223 
 
 she had come to ease and luxury ; yet somewhere in her 
 heart was that which answered to the homesick long 
 ing in this child s eyes. 
 
 Lalla spoke indifferently of Madame s cruelty, which 
 was excessive. "But," said Celeste, who caught scraps 
 of the conversation, "you are not a slave." Turning 
 to Joyce, she added : "These free negroes have a hard 
 time. T is better to have a kind master than to have 
 no master." 
 
 "Would not the sisters take you back?" asked Joy. 
 
 "Nay," returned the Princess Lai, seriously. "I 
 must kill the white devil first, and then Zoombi and I 
 will go home. But," she added, as an after-thought, 
 "methinks if I could never go home, and I had to be a 
 slave, I should be glacl to belong to thee. Thou rt 
 like to the Holy Mother at home in my father s chapel. 
 She hath such a face and such gilded hair." 
 
 "You should not say thee to the demoiselle," re 
 proved Celeste, frowningly. 
 
 A gigantic negress with a great tray of fruit con 
 serves on her head checked the singsong chant in 
 which she was setting forth the values of her wares, 
 turned, and came toward them. " T is Zoombi," said 
 Lalla, calmly. "Now will I make her get some money 
 for me, and perchance I shall not be beaten." 
 
 Joy appealed to Celeste she was out without money 
 of her own and Celeste unwillingly handed the child 
 a coin. The addresses of the sisters and the mistress 
 of the poor little princess were noted down, and the 
 two blacks went their way. 
 
 . When the marketing party arrived at home it was 
 near ten o clock, and Tante Sophie came slipping into 
 Joy s room to ask if she did not wish to come up to 
 the nurseries for the bath hour. 
 
 Deeply interested, Joy followed. Tante Sophie led 
 her to a remote wing of the house in which she had
 
 224 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 never been. Two great, airy rooms, with lofty ceil 
 ings, wide casements, and white walls, contained the 
 younger children of the house of Valentine. There 
 were perhaps seven of them, but since each little Val 
 entine was attended by a nurse or two, and revolved 
 about by a little dark satellite who had been given it 
 as companion and plaything, they appeared to Joy be- 
 wilderingly numerous. 
 
 The advent of Tante Sophie with a stranger was 
 greeted with shrieks of delight. Tubs had been 
 brought in and set upon the bare, polished floor, and 
 the nurses were busy removing dainty white garments 
 from dimpled, rosy bodies. 
 
 Two or three naked, bright-eyed little Loves rushed 
 forward and charged the intruders. They swarmed 
 all over Tante Sophie, and, demanding Joy s name, 
 were soon capering about and addressing her in every 
 grade of infantile and Creole patois as "Cousin Joy 
 ous." The scene was pretty enough to have charmed 
 any onlooker. The children, running and shouting, 
 splashed the water and shook the bright drops from 
 their curly heads, while the odor of orange-trees and 
 an occasional stray petal or blossom wafted in through 
 the high casements. The mockers were in the midst 
 of their morning concert, and their rapturous trills 
 mingled with the wee ones bubbling mirth. The whole 
 scene was tuned to a high pitch of sunlight and song. 
 And in the midst glowed Joy, incarnate Youth, with a 
 little court of laughing Loves. 
 
 Midway the revels, Tante Ausite s stately figure ap 
 peared. If Joy was a queen in her court, Tante was 
 judge of the circuit. The judicial bench was, it ap 
 peared, a certain large carved chair reserved evidently 
 for this one occupant. In it Madame Ausite seated 
 herself, and received smilingly or frowningly, but with 
 scrupulous attention to detail, all the nursery reports.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 225 
 
 And here again Joy was impressed by this languid 
 fine lady s thoroughness in the doing of her duty as she 
 saw it. As Madame Maman was in a hurry, the chil 
 dren were slipped at once into their little chemises, and 
 then began an inquisition into the mental, moral, and 
 physical health of the entire brood. Even the wee 
 toddlers were learning to dance, and must rehearse 
 their baby accomplishments, while the catechism was 
 not neglected. Through it all Joy noted the love and 
 veneration with which Madame Valentine was treated 
 by each of her children. 
 
 The nursery inspected, Tante, taking Joyce with her, 
 proceeded to the weaving-room. This was a huge, 
 well-lighted, rough apartment, removed some distance 
 from the house proper, and connected with the servants 
 quarters, kitchen, and other detached buildings. Here 
 all of the cloth used upon the Valentine plantations 
 Valencia, Rosemary, and Sligo was, under Madame 
 Valentine s direct supervision, spun, woven, cut, and 
 made into garments. 
 
 Around the room, ranged upon shelves, were great 
 bundles of the cream-white cloth, blue cottonade, and 
 gray homespun. Piles of clothing, made and in the 
 process of making, encumbered the long tables, or, 
 baled ready for distribution, lay piled upon the floor. 
 
 The forewoman in charge of the sewing brought her 
 reports and requests to madame. The spinners and 
 weavers were absent, the looms were idle. Joy looked 
 at these latter with great delight. "O tante," she 
 begged, "pray let me weave a bit on this great loom. 
 T is three times as large as any I ever touched before. 
 We had no loom at home, and I, who wove all our 
 wear, must go to Sister Longanecker s or some other 
 neighbor s, carrying my thread." 
 
 Tante was not entirely convinced of the advisability 
 of permitting a demoiselle to weave, there in the pres- 
 15
 
 226 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ence of the negroes ; but as Ausite and Madeleine came 
 in and added their entreaties to Joy s, she reluctantly 
 consented. 
 
 Seating herself at the great loom, Joy took up the 
 big shuttle and deftly flung it across, dipping her lithe 
 young figure to the motion. Down came her little 
 foot on the treadle, and as the reed crossed the warp 
 she caught the shuttle again, tossed it back to the other 
 side, and, swaying rhythmically, brought her foot down 
 once more. 
 
 "I vow," exclaimed Ausite, " t is almost like danc 
 ing if there were only music now !" 
 
 Luis, who had been busied all morning at the lake 
 with Neville, here put his head in the door. Seeing the 
 slender, white-robed figure at the loom, he came inside 
 crying, "Why, there should be no lack of music, for 
 sure that is St. Cecilia s self seated there at her organ!" 
 
 Joy turned laughingly, never pausing in her work, 
 to greet her cousin. The morning sun came through 
 the window, and glorified her fair hair into such an 
 aureole that Luis s comparison seemed not, after all, 
 so strained. 
 
 And now, as she wove, Joy began to sing. It was 
 the first time they had heard that fresh, caroling young 
 voice of hers ; for, having never sung in public anything 
 other that Methodist hymns, she had not thought best 
 to confess a singing voice at all. Now she raised it in 
 a weaving-song which the negroes and Indians sang at 
 the looms in Natchez. It was an old barbaric chant, 
 cadenced to the swinging of her light, elastic body, and 
 checked off into measure by the thud of the loom. She 
 began in Massawippa s clear, liquid Cherokee, the many- 
 voweled syllables of which flowed like purling water; 
 and when she had sung all she remembered of those 
 words, she fell back upon the negro version, whose re 
 frain was, "Weave de shinin gol ."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 227 
 
 "Th ow, th ow cle shuttle thoo, weave de shinin 
 gol ," warbled the full, blithe voice. And while her 
 fingers tossed the shuttle to and fro, weaving the 
 creamy cloth, the morning sun flung his beams through 
 the meshes of her bright hair and wove the shining 
 gold. 
 
 Tante turned and, catching sight of Luis s rapt, ar 
 dent face, put a stop to the performance, declaring 
 dryly that t was all very pretty, but not fit work for a 
 demoiselle, and she only wished that, instead of weav 
 ing, her dear little Joyous could dance so well. 
 
 As they left the loom-room, Luis took the opportu 
 nity to say aside to his cousin, "How cruel you are, 
 Cousin Joyous, never to have sung to us before ! Will 
 you sing at my birthday fete to-morrow?" And Joy 
 promised him a song for a birthday gift. 
 
 Early the following morning Luis sent a huge bunch 
 of flowers to each of the girls, with the petition that 
 they wear wreaths in their hair instead of hats, as this 
 was a spring festival, and he intended that a queen, if 
 not of May at least of April, should be crowned. 
 
 He had been up since dawn directing the work of 
 the negroes, and even doing with his own hands some 
 things which required special skill. A bountiful 
 lunch, under charge of Celeste and old Simon, the but 
 ler, had been sent over to the spot selected for his 
 picnic. 
 
 With the request that the girls wear wreaths came 
 one also that they should dress in white. Joy s flow 
 ers were gardenias. Zette wound them into a thick 
 white chaplet; but this, set over Joy s abundant hair, 
 gave much too heavy an effect. Zette lifted off the 
 crown impatiently. "Wait, missy," she said; "I make 
 it pitty now." 
 
 Pulling out the pins, she loosened the elaborate 
 structure which she had just built up with such care.
 
 228 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Joy s hair was almost to her knees, and very thick a 
 gjory of sunlit bronze. The negress, who luxuriated 
 in its light and warmth as in the sunshine itself, twisted 
 the shining strangs around her dark fingers and drew 
 the mass into a half dozen great, loose curled tresses. 
 Then, narrowing the crown, she set it back in place, 
 and exclaimed with delight over her own handiwork, 
 "Momzell zess lak a li l picshaw! All de gemmem 
 goin crezzy bout dis demoiselle dis day." 
 
 And Joyce was beautiful in her white dress, crowned 
 with white flowers, while the same waxen blossoms 
 formed a berthe about the neck of her half-low gown. 
 
 When the girls reached the carriages there was a 
 wild outburst of enthusiasm over Joy s appearance, in 
 which she was told that such hair as hers should never 
 be bound up, that it was as wicked as prisoning sun 
 shine to do so, and much more delightful nonsense of 
 the sort. Then ensued a chattering of delight over 
 the decorations of the vehicles. Luis had had his boys 
 trimming them with fresh flowers since dawn; great 
 bunches of yellow roses and big, odorous violets were 
 knotted on the headstalls of the horses, while the car 
 riages themselves were wreathed with flowers. "Ah, 
 but just wait, mes demoiselles, until you see the boats," 
 hinted Neville, with pride. "Lu and I put there our 
 best skill, because t would show best and last longer." 
 
 The main party was conveyed in a flat-boat or barge, 
 twenty negro rowers, dressed in white, keeping time 
 with their voices to the movement of the oars. Their 
 vessel was banked around the edges with palmetto and 
 laurel and the foliage of the magnolia, the center space 
 being occupied by an awning which showed the United 
 States flag and the French flag intertwined. 
 
 It chanced that the only French flag available for 
 the purpose was a monster affair designed for trim 
 ming the house-front during the parade in honor of
 
 MISTRESS JOY 229 
 
 Louis Philippe. "Behold, a big, big flag for maman, 
 and a poor, little wee one for papa," whispered Ausite, 
 mischievously. 
 
 The flags, however, were hardly seen for the lavish 
 trimming of flowers, greenery, and gray moss. Be 
 neath their canopy was a raised dais, and on it a seat 
 covered with green velvet. This, Luis explained, was 
 for the Queen of the Revels. " T is deemed best that 
 we have a new queen every hour," he announced, "that 
 the demoiselles be not jealous of each other; and 
 maman shall be our first." He bowed gracefully, and 
 led Madame Valentine to the throne. 
 
 Seated in the midst of the barge, she looked about 
 on her children and the children of her friends. There 
 was Toinette Cassard, whom she hoped Luis would 
 marry. T was true the child was an ugly, dark little 
 thing, but such a pedigree and then, the money! 
 And there were the sons of her old friends to whom 
 she would like to give her daughters; but Ausite had 
 no more idea of ranging herself than a butterfly, 
 and Madeleine often talked as though she might wed 
 the church rather than the youth of her mother s 
 selection. 
 
 Madame s glance roved to Joyce Joyce the myste 
 rious, Joyce the beautiful, the fascinating, the unread 
 able who had come like a young savage out of the 
 wilderness and taken the land by storm. Really, these 
 modern young people were very trying. They pre 
 sumed to have ideas and preferences and fancies of 
 their own. She was sure she never did so when she 
 was a girl. 
 
 She closed her eyes with a little sigh. Presently 
 Neville s fresh, young lips were pressed on her hand, 
 and his irresistible boy s voice was asking : "What are 
 your commands, O queen?" 
 
 Smiling indulgently she answered, "I command you
 
 2 3 o MISTRESS JOY 
 
 all to be happy," and composed herself for a brief 
 nap. After all, a picnic was quite a comfortable affair. 
 
 It seemed a pity that the picnickers could not see 
 their barge from the outside. The flower-trimmed 
 boat, gay with fluttering streamers and flags, and the 
 white-robed, wreath-crowned occupants, repeated and 
 magnified in the water, made a beautiful picture. 
 
 They danced, they laughed, they sang, they flirted ; 
 they tried in every way to follow madame s command 
 and be happy. Joyce had her brief reign as queen. 
 Luis got his opportunity, when he installed her, to tell 
 her that she was queen of his heart as well. 
 
 When Madeleine was enthroned, she declared that 
 she desired her position of authority solely that she 
 might command Cousin Joyous to sing. Joyce de 
 murred. She knew, as she told them, only hymns and 
 a few old English ballads which her father was used 
 to sing. 
 
 Being laughingly answered that the queen s com 
 mand might not be gainsaid, she brought out her best 
 to please them, and the woes of "Cruel Barbara Allen," 
 the praise of the "Nut Brown Mayde," and the 
 tragic tale of "Edom o Gordon" charmed her hearers 
 mightily. 
 
 " Now all young maidens warning take from Cruel 
 Barbara Allen, " quoted Luis in a whispered aside as 
 they disembarked. 
 
 Luncheon was spread for them in a grove. Joy s 
 defense against Luis was Neville. An experienced 
 woman would never have employed it; but to Joy, the 
 stripling of sixteen was still a child. When they were 
 taking their places around the improvised table for 
 lunch, she noted that Luis was arranging matters so 
 that he might sit beside her. To avoid this, she called 
 the younger brother, and bade him take that place. 
 
 Nothing daunted, Luis came over after he had seen
 
 MISTRESS JOY 231 
 
 all of his guests seated, and, putting his hand on Nev 
 ille s shoulder, commanded, "Get up, little boy; t is 
 my place." 
 
 Neville turned to him a face white with passion. 
 "Is t so, mon capitaine? Then take it if you can," he 
 retorted insolently. 
 
 Luis s, face darkened. "Get up !" he repeated, in a 
 fierce undertone. 
 
 "That will I not," answered his brother. 
 
 Luis s hand gripped the little cane he carried and 
 snapped it. "I will flog you, sir, when I get you 
 home," he said thickly. "You are too young .to fight 
 like a gentleman." 
 
 Simple horror had kept Joyce silent until now. She 
 looked appealingly across to where Madame Valentine 
 sat, serenely unconscious. T was I asked Neville to 
 sit here," she protested finally, in distress. "How can 
 you speak so, Cousin Luis?" 
 
 "Oh, any command of the queen s !" rejoined Luis. 
 "May I bring my chair and sit at your left, then, maj 
 esty? An we move a bit we may all sit here." 
 
 Joy was sure, from the black looks which traveled 
 past her, that the quarrel between the brothers was 
 postponed, not ended. Her heart sickened at the 
 thought. To her eyes, shocked and sorrowful, the day 
 was clouded, the gold of its sunshine tarnished. For 
 all the beauty she saw in them, the gaily trimmed boats 
 might as well have been funeral barges. 
 
 On the way home she found courage to speak to Luis 
 of the matter. He was the elder and more responsi 
 ble of the two. "Faith, sweet cousin," he answered, 
 "women should not be so fair and so alluring if they 
 do not wish men to fall out and quarrel over them." 
 
 "Oh, indeed, indeed, Luis," protested Joy, "it breaks 
 my heart to hear you hint that the quarrel was about 
 me. You only do it to flatter me, do you not, cousin ?
 
 232 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 I am not used to consider whether I be fair or no ; but 
 if I thought you in earnest I should wish I were old 
 and gray and toothless, so that none would ever care to 
 sit by me." 
 
 "So do not I, then, fair coz," answered Luis, gaily. 
 "Be a little kinder to me not cousinly kind, you un 
 derstand, sweetheart, but kind in the way I crave and, 
 faith, I will not thrash the boy." 
 
 Ah, the gilt was wearing in great patches off poor 
 Joy s gingerbread!
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 HEN Joy reached the dinner-table one 
 day, she found a family council in 
 progress. It was about four weeks 
 after her arrival in New Orleans. 
 There was much stir over the young 
 Duke d Orleans, afterward Louis 
 1 Philippe of France. 
 This prince had arrived in the city some two weeks 
 previous, in company with Don Manuel Gayoso de 
 Lemos. The don, ex-governor of the Natchez district, 
 was now to succeed as governor of the Louisiana prov 
 ince. 
 
 To the Spaniards, young Orleans was a Bourbon; 
 to the French even republican French he was dear 
 as coming from that country which is to this day 
 dearer than the land of their adoption. 
 
 Namesake of a Due d Orleans, the town, and more 
 especially its French population, then its wealthiest and 
 most influential class, was wild with enthusiasm over 
 the duke s visit. On his first arrival, he had remained 
 but a week, and was now gone, with his suite, to the 
 plantation of a wealthy Frenchman to be entertained 
 for a few days. It was their return to New Orleans 
 which was being vivaciously, not to say stormily, dis 
 cussed at her uncle s table. 
 
 Madame Valentine was a Frenchwoman to her fin 
 ger-tips, a loyal adherent of the house of Bourbon., 
 From her family, the LeBlancs, came the enormous 
 
 233
 
 234 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 estates which made Henri Valentine the richest man of 
 his time in New Orleans, if not in the entire province. 
 
 That her beloved prince should return to the city 
 and not be feted and honored according to his deserts 
 was a thing which madame could not endure. Joy 
 had never before seen her aunt angry; but now it was 
 evident the lady was in a towering passion. 
 
 "But, my dear, t would not have been appropriate," 
 urged her husband. "I myself, who esteem the prince, 
 cannot see how the United States authorities could 
 have ordered public demonstrations of any sort in 
 honor of one of the house of Bourbon." 
 
 These well-meant words appeared about to precipi 
 tate a rupture in the Valentine family. Madame arose, 
 drew herself up very tall indeed, and Joy observed for 
 the first time how handsome and imposing a woman 
 she really was. "Very well, Henri Valentine; you 
 may quote a canaille government to me, an t please 
 you" ("But I do not, my love," put in her husband 
 in swift parenthesis) "you may be willing that only 
 the Spaniard do a fitting part in the matter. I and 
 my children will honor a royal prince of France. 
 T will not be the first one hath lodged with the Le- 
 Blancs. The Due d Orleans shall come to my house, 
 if he will." 
 
 "As a private citizen, I have n t the slightest objec 
 tion in the world," put in her husband again, "to en 
 tertain the prince." 
 
 "And I will give him a ball," she concluded. "I 
 will show these beggarly Americans how to treat roy 
 alty," and she swept out of the room, her head held 
 very high indeed. 
 
 Ausite and Madeleine, relieved from the constraint 
 of her presence, embraced each other and Joy in trans 
 ports at the thought of a ball and a real prince. 
 
 "Oh, the dear maman ! Oh, the charming maman !"
 
 MISTRESS JOY 235 
 
 they cried over and over again ; then, running to their 
 father with that amiability which was to Joy one of 
 their greatest charms, they inquired, "You are not 
 angry, are you, mon pere? You want to entertain the 
 dear prince, too? Ah, we will make a good French 
 man of the dear little papa in time !" 
 
 Luis, an officer in the Spanish army, but always a 
 Frenchman at heart, seconded his mother s plans en 
 thusiastically. 
 
 Ausite and Madeleine dragged Joy off directly after 
 dinner. "Oh, the frocks!" cried Ausite, clasping her 
 hands and rolling up her big, black eyes with an al 
 most religious fervor. "Will there be anything fine 
 enough in New Orleans, think you, sweet sister? O 
 Madeleine!" she shrieked, with a comical drop of dis 
 may in her tones, "you are the eldest demoiselle of the 
 house of Valentine. T is you the prince will dance 
 with, and I shall only get to worship him afar off." 
 
 Madeleine nodded, and began practising a few airy 
 dancing-steps, ending with a grand curtsy in which 
 she sank almost to the floor, veiling her big eyes de 
 murely and murmuring, "Mon prince," as she grace 
 fully recovered herself. 
 
 The sight of her satisfaction so irritated Ausite that 
 she pounced upon her and shook her, crying, "Horrid 
 old maid! Why art not wed, and out of the way? I 
 want to be Mamselle Valentine." 
 
 "Well," returned Madeleine, composedly, "here s 
 sweet Cousin Joyous; she s older than either of us." 
 (Madeleine was seventeen and Ausite fifteen.) "Old 
 maids! Cousin Joyous was an old maid five years 
 ago. Let her be demoiselle de Valentine, and dance 
 with the prince." Ausite agreed rather doubtfully; 
 Madeleine s generosity in such matters went far be 
 yond her own. 
 
 "But I cannot dance at all," objected Joy, who
 
 236 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 scarcely understood how great the sacrifice if this thing 
 were actually done for her. 
 
 "But t is an art one may learn," urged Madeleine. 
 " Sieur Pas Seul will soon set that right. I shall 
 speak to maman about it," she added seriously. "Me- 
 thinks we should offer the prince the best we have ; and, 
 sweet cousin, were I a man, I know right well whom 
 I should call best among the demoiselles de Valentine." 
 
 Down in a cross alley leading from Royal Street 
 there stood, in the year of grace 1798, a low, dingy 
 little building abutting directly upon the street. It 
 was a mean structure, yet it was frequented by the 
 youth, fashion, and beauty of the town. Carefully 
 wrapped young beauties descended from elegant vo- 
 lantes before its dingy portals at all hours of the day; 
 and in the evening the most dapper of beaux might 
 be seen lifting its tarnished knocker. 
 
 This was the home of Monsieur Legras, playfully 
 nicknamed by his pupils Sieur Pas Seul. The old 
 man had been ballet-master at the Comedie Franchise. 
 He had come to the New World to mend his fortunes, 
 and had marred them. But here in New Orleans, 
 though he no longer trained premieres dansenses to daz 
 zle an audience, he was the beloved instructor of the 
 most beautiful and graceful women in the world, as 
 he was wont affectionately to call them. The dance 
 was a passion with the little, brown, withered French 
 man. It was to him what poetry is to the poet, or 
 music to the musician. A docile pupil, the faultless 
 rendering of a difficult series of steps, a perfect pose 
 these moved him almost to tears. On the other hand, 
 inelegance, awkwardness, and, worst of all, a lack of 
 veneration for the traditions of the dance, aroused him 
 to a sort of frenzy. 
 
 He had taught Ausite and Madeleine since they were 
 wee toddlers beginning, as most Creole girls do, to
 
 MISTRESS JOY 237 
 
 dance and to walk at one and the same time. When 
 it was suggested to Joy that she learn to dance, she 
 protested in dismay. Then she began to reason upon 
 it, and some good man has said that "he who reasons 
 upon a question of right and wrong is already damned." 
 Be that as it may, Joy, after thoroughly canvassing 
 the matter in her own mind, recollected that Father 
 Tobias had desired her while she was with her uncle s 
 family to conform to their customs, and to test herself 
 by living their life as fully as possible. She decided 
 then promptly that she would take the instruction of 
 fered her. 
 
 Pastor Valentine had not realized the impression 
 such words might make upon his daughter s mind. 
 That things which had long lost, or never contained, 
 charms for him should tempt her this he had expected. 
 But that she should show herself so ill prepared to meet 
 these temptations he could not have conceived. Joyce 
 was as radical in the doing as he was vague in the 
 instructing. 
 
 Tante sighed a little regretfully when the matter 
 was broached to her. "She is indeed, methinks, some 
 thing to offer a king; but, my little demoiselles, you 
 have rated your importance quite too high. I know 
 not what is coming to the young people of this day. 
 Meseems they are all stark mad on the subject of them 
 selves. T is the fat old maman who entertains the 
 duke, pray remember, and t is she who will open the 
 ball with him. But if I read the princes of Bourbon 
 aright, so high and so bright a head as our cousin s 
 here will not escape his eye. Why was not one of 
 you a blonde, you little blackamoors? The pere is 
 blonde enough." 
 
 "Oh, well, maman," quoth Madeleine, "you have an 
 assortment of blonde daughters coming on. Our little 
 Hortense is nigh as fair as cousin Joyous. When
 
 238 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Ausite is wed and I am in a convent, you will have 
 blondes of all shades for sale." 
 
 "Tiens! little one," said madame, affectionately; "we 
 shall hear no more of convents when your prince 
 comes." 
 
 "Lord send him soon !" cried Ausite, flippantly. "I 
 am tired of playing second violin." 
 
 "Fly away, birdies, and take little cousin with you," 
 smiled madame. "Celeste may accompany you to M. 
 Legras s, if neither Xante Leonie nor Tante Sophie can 
 do so this morning. Fail not to wear your pretty 
 frocks and carry flowers. The poor old man so rages 
 when you attend in careless toilets." 
 
 The girls, to Joy s great surprise, were dressed by 
 their maids as though for a fete. " Sieur Pas Seul," 
 they explained, insisted that dancing was a matter of 
 emotion as well as muscle, and that no lady could learn 
 to dance as a lady should unless en grande tcnue. 
 
 Maids attended, carrying bags with special slippers, 
 extra scarfs, smelling-bottles, and dozens of other tri 
 fles. Tante Sophie, a seventh or eighth cousin of 
 madame s, and a gentle, faded, self-effacing little 
 person, proved to be at liberty, and accompanied 
 them. 
 
 Though the distance was not more than three blocks, 
 the volante was brought around and the trip made in 
 state. The girls greeted very warmly the bright-eyed 
 little old man who met them, violin in hand, and pre 
 sented their cousin with much pride. A half-dozen 
 demoiselles, some near their own age, but mostly 
 younger, were leaving as they arrived. Ausite and 
 Madeleine appeared to know them all, and Joy went 
 through the ordeal of more introductions, an ordeal to 
 which she was becoming used. 
 
 When Sieur Pas Seul was informed that the tall 
 cousin came as a pupil, he looked her over rather
 
 MISTRESS JOY 239 
 
 doubtfully. That upright, almost majestic young fig 
 ure promised more strength than suppleness. 
 
 Ausite had already been slippered by her maid. 
 Now she was capering madly about the room, taking 
 steps which seemed to Joy to be as entirely without 
 plan or forethought as the erratic darts of a drifting 
 butterfly, but which wove themselves finally into a 
 rhythmic and charming dance. 
 
 This slight, dainty little Creole maid appeared, as 
 Zette admiringly whispered, not to have a bone in her 
 body. She bent, she swayed, she caught a tambourine 
 from the maid s hand and, dropping back with it, struck 
 it lightly upon the floor. Then, like a blossoming 
 branch tossed by the wind, she flung forward and 
 tapped the tambourine upon the floor just in front of 
 her two little feet. 
 
 Joyce watched these evolutions, pleasing as they 
 were, with a sort of terror. Would she be expected to 
 do all that ? She felt that she never, never could learn 
 it ; and then, with this conviction, there came a dogged 
 resolution to master these things or perish in the at 
 tempt. 
 
 The thought that Ausite little, laughing, foolish 
 Ausite was passed mistress of arts whose first sylla 
 ble she knew not, was intolerable. She had been 
 praised for many things. Now the feverish unrest 
 which assails the novice in a life of pleasure, the aspira 
 tion to excel everywhere, to dominate everybody, laid 
 hold upon her. She would dance she would dance 
 better than Ausite or Madeleine. And with this rash 
 resolve she turned to Sieur Legras, who was talking 
 gravely to her cousin. 
 
 "Mamselle has never danced at all?" he inquired 
 dolefully. "And she s all learn it all in two veeks? 
 C est impossible, mamselles." He shrugged his shoul 
 ders, raised his eyebrows, and smiled deprecatingly.
 
 240 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Oh, but I will try very, very hard," urged Joy, 
 eagerly. She had quite forgotten that she once 
 thought this dancing might be deadly sin ; she was re 
 solved, if necessary, to practise all night and every 
 night till The Day arrived. 
 
 "Mamselle can be teach to pose," suggested the 
 old sieur. "Ah, zo beautiful she could pose!" 
 
 "Pose?" asked Joy, hopeful that she had found 
 something possible to her. "How is that done, sieur?" 
 
 The old dancing-master laid down his violin, gazed 
 at her thoughtfully, then came across to where she 
 stood. Madeleine and Ausite both looked on with 
 much interest, while the maids and Tante Sophie 
 watched the performance eagerly. "Zo, now," he di 
 rected, taking her head lightly between the tips of his 
 fingers. "Raise ze chin a leetle, an look t roo ze win 
 dow at ze sky." 
 
 With a deft movement he shifted her shoulders into 
 better position, then brought a rapier from the wall, 
 put it in her hand, and lifted her arm so that she bran 
 dished the blade above her head. "O-o-o! But not 
 zo steef, mamselle. T is a young queen now, which 
 lead her armies. Hark! ze trumpet sound." 
 
 He picked up his violin, and drew from it a martial 
 strain. "Listen," he said; "ze trumpet call to victoree 
 or date." 
 
 Music was a language Joy could understand. The 
 dingy little room faded away before her eyes. Once 
 more she stood in the flicker of firelight on the hearth 
 at home, and confronted death with upraised rifle. 
 
 She was recalled to the time and place by the sieur s 
 voice crying, "Magnifique eet ees!" Tante Sophie ex 
 claiming, "Oh, how grand she is!" and Ausite whim 
 pering, "Yes, but she s terrible, too. I shall be afraid 
 of her at night after this." 
 
 She dropped the sword-point, laughed, and felt ex-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 241 
 
 tremely silly. After all, if this was dancing, she 
 thought it a very simple play in which to excel. 
 
 Poor Joyce, she little knew what was before her! 
 After this bit of triumph there came a laborious and a 
 terrible hour, in which she was patiently instructed in 
 the primary and fundamental dancing-steps. In the 
 course of this session Sieur Pas Seul was almost re 
 duced to imbecility. He rumpled his gray hair fran 
 tically (Ausite declared he tore it), and just when Joyce 
 was brought to the verge of wrathful hysterics he an 
 nounced, with a sigh, "Dat vill do." 
 
 "Cannot she learn it, Sieur Legras?" inquired 
 Madeleine, in the hushed voice of dismay. She knew 
 the weather signs of the old man s countenance. 
 
 "I zink she learn it zomtime," gasped the dancing- 
 master; "maybe ven she try vair hard." 
 
 "Oh, but she must learn in two weeks a minuet, 
 anyhow." 
 
 "Zo?" inquired the teacher, in a tone which was 
 anything but encouraging, and the directions, the re 
 proofs, the scrapings of the violin, and Joy s awkward 
 attempts began all over again. 
 
 This time the lesson was shorter. "Now," said the 
 sieur, in concluding it, "eef you vill vork vair hard 
 and practeeze vair mooch, I zink I try teach you ze 
 sword minuet. Zee," he added, with great generos 
 ity, for a pupil like Joy was a sad trial to his soul, 
 "zat beautiful, bright head vill be charmante ven eet 
 coom down ze line under ze beeg steel blades zhust 
 a leetle, leetle dust of powdaire vill turn heem to ze 
 pure gold." 
 
 That night at bedtime, after Joy had turned Ausite 
 and Madeleine out of her room, she practised, and prac 
 tised, and practised the steps which had been taught 
 her, till too weary to practise more. And when she 
 laid her tired young limbs upon the bed and closed her 
 
 16
 
 242 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 eyes, it was to practise them over in her dreams. At 
 dawn she was awake and practising again. And Zette, 
 who could dance all the wild, half-savage negro dances, 
 and had learned from attending upon her young mis 
 tresses all the steps they knew, acted as coach. 
 
 The household was never astir before ten o clock. 
 Chocolate was served in bed, but Joy was too busy 
 and too desperately resolute to take hers. So she 
 bowed, and stepped, and bent, and wheeled, and curt 
 sied, every muscle aching, her head swimming, her 
 hands trembling, till she heard Madeleine s light step 
 coming toward the door. 
 
 Then she sat down, and, reaching to the little stand 
 beside her bed, picked up a book by way of assuming a 
 deceptive air of leisure. This volume proved to be her 
 long-neglected Bible. Madeleine s pretty head peeped 
 in at the door. She glanced at the volume, and, saying 
 reverently, "I will not disturb your devotions, cousin," 
 retired. 
 
 Joy bent her crimson face above the sacred pages, 
 and wept for shame. Was this creature, so greedy of 
 admiration and dominion, to whom no labors were 
 tedious and painful if they but enabled her to flaunt 
 and to outshine was she indeed the woman who, six 
 months ago, had been so absolutely sure of herself? to 
 whom right and wrong had seemed so perfectly distinct 
 and clear that none need err? She had descended to 
 hypocrisy, had used the sacred Word to cloak light be 
 havior, and she shuddered a little at the remembrance 
 that she had not for days read the Book. 
 
 Was she that woman who had dared fancy herself 
 the instrument which, in divine hands, might effect the 
 conversion of other souls? She had been so strong 
 in her own conceit when she lectured and exhorted 
 Jessop, she had dared to pronounce him weak and un 
 stable; and now, at the first touch of temptation, she
 
 MISTRESS JOY 243 
 
 had fallen quite away from all her early traditions, 
 hopes, plans, ambitions, beliefs. She had forgotten 
 even Jessop himself. 
 
 She wondered at her own abandoned moral condi 
 tion, yet with a dull, impersonal curiosity which prom 
 ised no speedy amendment. She would go on to the 
 end with this which she had chosen. 
 
 It was characteristic of Joyce, of her thoroughness 
 in well or ill doing, that, having mastered her emotion, 
 she laid her Bible back upon the stand, and, lifting her 
 skirts, began once more the monotonous one, two, three 
 one, two, three. 
 
 To such good purpose did she practise though ever 
 with that haunting doubt that the little feet whose 
 beauty Jessop had been first to notice were, with each 
 measured step, traveling the certain way to perdition 
 that the sieur, when her next lesson came, exclaimed 
 with delight over the progress she had made. 
 
 The way in which these people among whom she 
 now was carried their religion along side by side with 
 the frivolities of every-day life was a matter of con 
 tinual wonder to Joyce. She had gone with the girls 
 when they went to the cathedral to confess. They 
 tripped lightly in, chatting of balls or beaux and frocks 
 and furbelows up to the very last moment. When 
 they came out, it was to go with maman to a fete cham- 
 petre at a great house over by the river, where both 
 girls danced tirelessly. Yet she perceived the confes 
 sion to be a genuine religious observance. 
 
 Tante said a dozen times daily, "Now don t forget 
 that, petites, when you go to confession." The words 
 might be preceded or followed by some trivial house 
 hold direction, or a light jest even, but Tante intended 
 they should be obeyed, and obeyed they were. 
 
 While Joy had led what most people what she her 
 self would have believed to be a much more religious
 
 244 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 life than these relatives of hers, she felt that she had 
 always held her religion a thing apart, that she had 
 never woven it into the fabric of her daily living as 
 they did. 
 
 Another thing which abashed her in those whose 
 creed she had been taught to regard as error, was their 
 simple, uncondemning attitude. Uncle Henri was a 
 lax Catholic, Tante Sophie a very strict and devout one ; 
 and yet, to Joy s great surprise, the sister-in-law did not 
 appear to think Sieur Valentine in need of discipline, 
 nor did Sieur Valentine hold Tante Sophie unneces 
 sarily zealous. 
 
 There was a warm, sweet, kindly tolerance in all 
 their thoughts of each other, which Joy was sometimes 
 near believing to be the virtue of all virtues. In after 
 years, when time had helped her to understanding, she 
 knew such tolerance was indeed approved by Him who 
 said, "The greatest of these is charity." 
 
 Had she been narrow, cold, hard, overbearing, too 
 zealous in her crude self-righteousness? She began to 
 think so. She was learning that one need not become 
 a Catholic to love and revere the Catholic faith, to find 
 the face of God behind the picture which any creed 
 might make of Him, and to be neither ashamed nor 
 afraid that she did so.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 [HE Valentine household was in a 
 state of modified uproar. It required 
 near upon a week of these conditions 
 to prepare for the grand ball. Ma 
 dame Valentine was an able woman, 
 but an entertainment of such magni 
 tude as this would tax the resources 
 of any private house ; indeed, our country then boasted 
 few in which it could have been attempted. In 1798 
 the florist and caterer were unknown auxiliaries to 
 the entertainer. The floral decorating, the enormous 
 amount of cookery, must all be done under one roof, 
 and largely by the servants of the household. The 
 wealth which Madame Valentine had brought her 
 husband included three extensive plantations. Every 
 fruit which the section produced was raised upon these 
 plantations, and Madame Valentine s store-room was 
 furnished with jars of orange conserve and marmalade, 
 flasks of fine liqueurs, preserves, jellies, and dried and 
 candied fruits beyond computation. 
 
 As the date of the ball approached, Tante s temper 
 became extremely brittle. Joy, realizing her useless- 
 ness, effaced herself as much as possible, and remained 
 in her own room, practising ceaselessly upon the steps 
 of the minuet, which Sieur Pas Seul admitted she 
 now did fairly well. She was learning also, under 
 Madeleine s direction, how to hold her hands, how to 
 make the grand curtsy, how to enter and leave a ball- 
 
 245
 
 246 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 room, how to manage her skirts when she sat down, 
 and her scarf at all times. 
 
 It had appeared, before this question of the ball came 
 up, that Joy knew very well how to behave herself as 
 a young demoiselle should; but now everything had 
 to be pulled to pieces and made over in honor of the 
 duke. The girl came to feel finally that she knew abso 
 lutely nothing, and was entirely unpresentable. 
 
 She had at first proposed to wear on this occasion 
 the ball-gown purchased for a rout given by one of the 
 Spanish officials early in her visit; but Tante forbade 
 this almost fiercely. "My two chicks," she said, "are 
 having as pretty frocks made for them as money will 
 buy. If you do not have as fine, or finer, everybody 
 will surmise, and I shall feel, that t is because you sym 
 pathize with the canaille, and care not to do honor 
 to a royal duke of France." This closed the argu 
 ment, and Tante felt free to design and purchase such 
 a costume as she deemed fitting for her beautiful 
 niece. 
 
 Madeleine s dress was a rich white silk, brocaded 
 with great bunches of blush-roses tied with love-knots 
 of pale blue. Its long, pointed waist had a stomacher 
 of pink crush-roses set thickly together and matching 
 in hue those brocaded upon the skirt. A dainty wreath 
 of miniature roses, with their buds, was to be used for 
 the hair. Maman did not approve of powder for 
 young girls, so that it was only after much entreaty 
 that Madeleine received permission to wear "just 
 enough to make her eyes bright." 
 
 Ausite s frock was, she sulkily said, a "silly, miss- 
 ish thing." It was an exquisitely embroidered muslin 
 from India, with cherry ribbons. Madame Valentine 
 well appreciated the value of consistency in the dressing 
 of young girls. The slippers, laces, gloves, and jewels 
 which formed the accessories of her daughters cos-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 247 
 
 tumes were irreproachable, and through everything 
 ran the note of girlish simplicity. 
 
 With Joy, who was twenty quite mature, accord 
 ing to Creole ideas she felt that she could be more 
 lavish. "I would I had a poet to help me design your 
 frock, my dear. It shall be something really like you, 
 something to put those who see it in mind of fresh 
 wild things. T is my feeling when I look at you that 
 I want to make your wear become you as the leaves 
 become the young trees in the forest." 
 
 The ball gown, when it came home, almost fright 
 ened Joy with its costliness and its beauty. Her aunt 
 had chosen a soft, heavy silk of a silvery-green tint. 
 Around the edges and in trails up the breadths of the 
 skirt, ran a thick wrought garland of deep-green leaves 
 and creamy-white blossoms. There were silver threads 
 and tiny artificial pearls mingled with the embroidery, 
 so that the effect, while one of dewy freshness, was 
 wonderfully rich and brilliant. 
 
 Joyce Valentine was lithe but not thin. Slender she 
 was, but with the slimness of youth only. There were 
 bones, one knew, to be covered, but they were guessed 
 at, not seen. The long waist, which fitted her pliant 
 young body as the calyx clasps the flower bud, was en 
 tirely plain, except for a massive garland and stomacher 
 of the same creamy-white blossoms. In this case they 
 were not embroidered, but, formed of pearls and silver 
 bullion, stood quite free from the fabric. The slippers 
 were white, with scarlet heels, the long gloves a marvel 
 of pearl embroidery and inset lace. For her hair, upon 
 which madame decided to permit, as Sieur Pas Seul 
 had suggested, barely a dust of shining powder, there 
 was a single silver lily amid its own gleaming dark 
 leaves. 
 
 This dress haunted Joy s dreams. There seemed 
 something significant, almost prophetic, in the fact
 
 248 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 that, in spite of its richness, it reminded her strangely 
 of the old simple days at home. The green was just the 
 tint which the young leaves showed when first they 
 unrolled themselves in springtime. The white flowers 
 were like many she had been wont to gather in the near 
 grove as a child. The sight of the pretty toilet brought 
 tears to her eyes, and, for the first time since her visit 
 began, a sort of faint, homesick longing to her heart. 
 
 On the day before the ball an army of negroes from 
 the near-by plantation took possession of the house. 
 Sieur Valentine had fled on an ostensible business trip. 
 Luis was at the barracks. Neville, who was a member 
 of a junior military organization, was away on duty. 
 The brood of little ones was strictly pent within the 
 nursery. Ausite and Madeleine were wrestling with 
 the final alterations of the modiste. Joy, in her own 
 room, practised her endless dancing-steps. Madame 
 Valentine had her own large chair carried from place to 
 place by an attendant; in it she sat and directed the 
 work. All heavy hangings in the great parlors were 
 taken down. Garlands of palm leaves, wild vines, and 
 gray moss took their places. On the night of the ball, 
 myriads of fresh flowers would be added to these. The 
 floors were rubbed, waxed, and rubbed again to perfect 
 dancing condition. The brasses were polished, and 
 fresh candles set in all the sconces. 
 
 Madame sat like an enchantress. She was perfectly 
 inert, except for hands and voice. When one of those 
 plump, white, be jeweled members was waved it set in 
 motion at once a train of black servitors, who hastened 
 to do her bidding. Celeste and Tante Sophie, who 
 appeared to be her familiars, were sent flying in all 
 directions upon all sorts of errands. 
 
 When the ball-rooms above-stairs were well under 
 way, madame s chair was carried out through the gal 
 lery across the grassy back court to the kitchens. In
 
 MISTRESS JOY 249 
 
 these precincts she remained, directing and planning, 
 for the greater part of two days. A ball supper, at that 
 time and place, was no flimsy affair, but a heavy, sub 
 stantial meal. The key-note of all the preparations was 
 over-lavish abundance. 
 
 Madame could not be content till the rooms set apart 
 for the duke and that portion of his suite which would 
 remain with him were finally redecorated and refur 
 nished. She wanted them in blue and silver, with the 
 lilies of France appearing everywhere in the decora 
 tions. Sieur Valentine groaned over the bills for this 
 particular folly; but since Madame Valentine was 
 spending her own money, he preserved a discreet 
 silence. 
 
 More than a thousand invitations had been issued, 
 and preparations were made to entertain almost so 
 many, as, though a number of the guests were bidden 
 from outlying parishes, the interest in Louis Philippe s 
 visit being great, it was believed nearly all invited 
 would attend. Since the great drawing-rooms were 
 used for ball-rooms, there remained no apartment of 
 sufficient size to serve as banquet-hall for such an occa 
 sion. To answer this purpose the broad gallery sur 
 rounding the courtyard at the back of the house was 
 walled with heavy white cloth, such as Joy had seen 
 woven down in the loom-room. This creamy surface 
 made an excellent background for garlands of flowers 
 and evergreens, streamers and flags. 
 
 Twenty of the negroes were busy all day, under 
 Tante Sophie s direction, finishing this part of the deco 
 rative scheme. Celeste, drilling the maids for the 
 ladies cloak-rooms, marshaled and trained her force 
 with the precision of a sergeant instructing a military 
 squad. She was severe in the matter of turbans, and 
 even acrimonious upon the subject of aprons. 
 
 When the evening arrived, Joy s heart mounted with
 
 250 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 a feverish exultation and delight. Zette worked for 
 hours arranging the bright hair, pomading, powder 
 ing, whitening, and beautifying the small hands, and 
 seeing that every detail was perfect. When the three 
 girls were dressed, long before the earliest guest was 
 expected to arrive nothing dilatory was tolerated in 
 that well-disciplined household they went dutifully 
 to present themselves to maman. 
 
 Her own daughters she kissed and commended 
 warmly, but her eyes traveled past them to rest with 
 even greater approval upon Joy. "Now, my niece," 
 she said, "you look as every girl should look once in 
 her life your very best. That frock was an inspira 
 tion. T is like a young willow-tree when the sun 
 strikes across it; but"-- and she drew her dark brows 
 together "there is something lacking. What is it? 
 Ah, I have it now." 
 
 She was sitting, three maids at work over her toilet, 
 while she talked composedly. Almost upsetting Ce 
 leste, who was busily fitting on her slippers, she turned 
 and drew a key from a casket upon the dressing-table 
 beside her. Tossing it to the kneeling Celeste, she bade 
 her, "There, take that, go to the armoire, and bring 
 me my little old jewel-case not the one in use, you 
 understand the black one with the silver clasps, the 
 casket de ma grande manian." 
 
 This brought and opened on her lap, she sought out 
 from among the quaint old trinkets some ornaments in 
 silver settings, a most peculiar combination of pearls 
 and diamonds. The stones were not large, but they 
 were extremely clear and brilliant, and the effect, while 
 unusual, was singularly suited to Joy s costume. 
 
 "Here, petite," she said to Madeleine, "I cannot rise 
 to put them on, so do you place them; you have good 
 taste." 
 
 When Joy was led before the mirror in the great
 
 MISTRESS JOY 251 
 
 ball-room, she saw the reflection of a tall, slender figure 
 in pale shimmering green, garlanded like a wood 
 nymph with blossoms and leaves. The costume was 
 cool, chaste, exquisite ; only the starry eyes and the rich 
 scarlet of her lips gave life and vivacity to her appear 
 ance. At sight of her own loveliness, an intoxication 
 seized upon her. She was in a world where beauty 
 counted for everything, and she saw that she was beau 
 tiful. The old Joyce Valentine dropped finally away 
 from her, the chrysalis was burst, and the butterfly 
 spread its dazzling new wings to flutter awhile in the 
 sunshine of pleasure and adulation. 
 
 Meantime guests had begun to arrive, music was 
 wailing through the rooms the wonderful Spanish 
 music of harp, viol, and violin, and the lighter French 
 music of the guitar. 
 
 Joyce was in line with her cousins to receive the 
 guests. Maman had said, when she told her daugh 
 ters that the duke was to open the ball with herself, 
 and might dance thereafter with whom he chose, "I 
 miss my count if a prince of the house of Bourbon 
 overlooks a fair head like this." 
 
 Now, as Joyce stood, taller than her two pretty 
 cousins, pulsing through every vein and tingling in 
 every nerve and fiber with the sheer delight and vain 
 glory of being young and beautiful and admired, the 
 duke s eyes did indeed rest upon her, and, "Your eldest 
 daughter is blonde," he observed to maman. "You 
 Americans puzzle me with your piquant contrasts." 
 
 It was explained to him that the demoiselle was a 
 niece, and not a daughter. He continued to gaze at 
 her approvingly. The ball had been opened, the duke 
 dancing with Madame Valentine. His highness had 
 asked a dance of each of her daughters. He then ex 
 pressed a desire to dance with the charming niece. 
 
 Joy ~ was rapt in utter ecstasy. It would not have
 
 252 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 seemed strange nor embarrassing to her if the moon 
 had dipped down from heaven to salute her. When 
 the young duke stood before her, debonair and grace 
 ful, she answered him as frankly and smilingly as she 
 would have answered David in the old cabin at home. 
 "I should be so happy and proud to, monseigneur; but 
 I can only dance one dance, and perhaps that is not 
 the one for which you will ask me." 
 
 "You can only began the duke, and broke off 
 inquiringly. A demoiselle who was strictly limited to 
 one dance was something new in his experience. 
 
 "I mean that I have only learned how to dance one," 
 explained Joy, innocently. 
 
 "But, pardon, how was that?" inquired his grace, 
 with interest. "Will Tante permit? May I sit beside 
 you and talk to you ?" 
 
 It seemed, when interrogated upon the subject, that 
 Tante would permit. Orleans, with a graceful salute 
 and a murmured word of thanks, seated himself beside 
 Joy. And there, before the envious eyes of the most 
 brilliant society which the New World could produce, 
 this young backwoods woman, whose highest ambi 
 tion had once been to become a Methodist preacher, 
 monopolized, entertained, and charmed the one scion 
 of royalty present, the future King of France. 
 
 The duke s English was excellent, interlarded with 
 French words and phrases which Joy comprehended 
 perfectly and was even beginning to use since her stay 
 at her uncle s house. 
 
 She told him, in answer to his questions, of Sieur 
 Pas Seul and her earnest practisings. "So that I 
 might dance genteelly at this your ball, monseigneur," 
 she said. 
 
 "And you can dance like an angel now?" hazarded 
 he, laughing. 
 
 "No," returned Joy, soberly ; "but I have learned it ;
 
 MISTRESS JOY 253 
 
 I can dance it correctly. You need not fear to ask me ; 
 I shall not make any mistake if you ask me for the one 
 dance I know." 
 
 "And what dance is that?" inquired the duke, still 
 smiling. She was really too delicious, this little pro 
 vincial. 
 
 "It is the sword minuet," replied Joyce. "The sieur 
 thought my head would look well going down the line 
 of swords, because it is fair." 
 
 The duke s face clouded a little. So many fair 
 heads had gone down before the swords of France in 
 his day that the association of ideas was not a pleas 
 ant one. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, then, is promised to me for the sword 
 minuet," he agreed. "And now will you tell me, since 
 you say you live at Natchez, why I did not see you at 
 the ball there? Were you already here visiting the 
 good Uncle Valentine?" 
 
 At the inquiry, the ball-room and its lights, the 
 duke s elegant young figure, swam for an instant quite 
 away from Joy s consciousness. She was the won 
 dering girl standing upon the hearth-stone at home, 
 adoring and envying Jessop s magnificence. After all, 
 she had seen nothing so beautiful since. The duke, 
 in blue and silver, with his orders and medals those 
 orders which Jessop had mentioned and which she had 
 then misunderstood was more the finicky fine gentle 
 man and less the fairy prince than he who knelt and 
 claimed her for his princess on that never-to-be-for 
 gotten evening. 
 
 "I was at Natchez, monseigneur, and I dressed the 
 hair of one of the gentlemen who attended your ball," 
 said Joy, with one of her sudden and characteristic 
 flashes of mischievous fun. 
 
 "Is mademoiselle, then, a dresser of gentlemen s 
 hair?" returned Orleans, demurely. "May one hope
 
 254 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to profit by her talents? Mine own hair-dresser (now I 
 hear of this) is quite unsatisfactory. But why, having 
 dressed the gentleman s head, did you not dress your 
 own and attend the ball ?" 
 
 The extent of all she would have to explain to this 
 man, to whom her former life was quite an unknown 
 tongue, showed Joy more clearly than anything yet 
 had done how far she had traveled from that old self 
 of hers. She began by telling him that she was a 
 Methodist, that her creed did not permit dancing or 
 indulgence in any of the pleasures of the gay world. 
 She added that her father had now sent her to test her 
 self in this same world before going back to take up 
 her old life and to assume, perhaps, her calling as a 
 preacher of the Word. 
 
 "So mademoiselle is devote," returned Orleans, 
 comprehendingly, "and she goes back to the the 
 convent, is it not? after this visit." 
 
 Joy smilingly explained once more; but, after all, a 
 convent, she thought, meant to him what her life stood 
 for to her. 
 
 "And mademoiselle has learned to dance for me? 
 She will dance this once with me before she goes back 
 to renounce the world? Quel honncur for a poor 
 exile!" 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur, I shall dance with you, and I 
 shall never dance again." The words came almost 
 without volition. Joy had made no such resolution, 
 and yet once the thing was said she knew that it was 
 true. The statement itself, the tone in which she 
 spoke, and a something tender and exalted that came 
 into her face as the words were uttered, touched the 
 young duke strangely. He believed, not unnaturally, 
 that it was devotion to the cause he represented which 
 prompted all. 
 
 "Ah, but mademoiselle should dance many times.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 255 
 
 Such beauty as hers should never be in eclipse," he 
 protested. 
 
 "I beg you to believe," said Joyce, returning to her 
 laughing manner, "that I can do many things better 
 than I can dance." 
 
 "For instance ?" interrogated the duke. 
 
 "Bake, brew, spin, weave, handle an ax or a rifle 
 and dress gentlemen s heads withal," she returned 
 archly. 
 
 "Faith, t is an accomplished demoiselle," jested 
 Orleans. He took her enumerations for simple pleasan 
 try. "And where, may I ask," he continued, "did these 
 little hands learn to wield an ax or handle a rifle?" 
 
 Joyce gave some brief description of her life at 
 Natchez which would account for the wood-chopping. 
 It was all so strange and new to this man, and to other 
 guests who began to cluster around and listen as she 
 spoke, that when Orleans asked, "And what of the 
 rifle?" there was a general murmur of inquiry from 
 those near. 
 
 Joy s spirits had mounted, as those of a young girl 
 at her first ball must mount, yet her exaltation had a 
 deeper spiritual significance. These people were not 
 her people, this world was not her world, and she 
 moved among them, and in it, intoxicated by her own 
 emotions indeed, but composed as a child among pup 
 pets. They were to her no more than a bright show. 
 Their homage, their adulation, added its little share to 
 the free, wild rapture which coursed through her. Had 
 they turned their backs, had they sneered, it seemed 
 to her that it could not have reached Joyce Valentine. 
 With no more embarrassment than if she had been 
 speaking to the playmates of her childhood in the little 
 meeting-house at home, she began to tell the story of 
 how and why a woman learns to use a rifle in the 
 backwoods.
 
 256 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Maman was divided between pride in her niece s 
 conquest and a tremulous uneasiness as to the pro 
 priety of a demoiselle attracting so much attention. 
 Drawn into the circle, she listened with the others. 
 Joyce held her audience with the unerring instinct of 
 the natural raconteur. They saw with her eyes. 
 Again, in that brilliant ball-room, the great, sullen 
 Mississippi crept beside the bank where the little cabin 
 stood ; the cane-brake whispered around it, the painted 
 savages lurked without, the wild-cat s moaning call 
 came from the thicket, the settlers barricaded and de 
 fended their homes. 
 
 When she ended there was a long-drawn sigh among 
 her listeners, better applause than the hand-clapping 
 and vivacious exclamations which followed it. Fail 
 ure, Joy felt, could not touch her; but this unexpected 
 and overwhelming success did slightly abash. To Ma 
 dame Valentine s great relief, Orleans himself ended 
 a situation which she, as hostess, felt was growing im 
 possible. Rising, he bowed profoundly. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "you are indeed an en 
 chantress. You transport your hearers whither you 
 will, so that they forget time and place. But, I pray 
 you, forget not that the next dance but one is that 
 which you have called my dance, and which I shall 
 herafter forever call ours."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HE ball given by that loyal French 
 woman, born Le Blanc, then Madame 
 Henri Valentine, to the exiled nephew 
 of him whom she still proudly called 
 "our martyred king," went down in 
 tradition as the "royal ball." 
 
 The festivities were at their height. 
 Couples were ranged at the head of the long ball-room 
 for the sword minuet, Louis Philippe and Mistress 
 Joyce Valentine dancing together. 
 
 Captain Luis Valentine had invited a fellow-soldier 
 and United States officer to the ball. This officer, 
 Colonel Burr, represented that there were then in New 
 Orleans two friends of Master Tobias and Mistress 
 Joyce Valentine who should also be bidden to attend. 
 These friends were Major Mountfalcon a Jessop and 
 Master David Batchelor, the latter there on business 
 connected with the levees at Natchez. 
 
 These four men, walking together, entered the ball 
 room just as Mistress Joy, leading her train of beau 
 ties, came stepping down under the arching steel. She 
 was taller than those who followed her. Her red-gold 
 head was lifted high. Added to the light, balancing 
 step of the minuet, there was something free and wild 
 and unconquerable in her bearing. Her eyes glowed 
 exultantly, her red lips were parted, the light of a 
 thousand lusters seemed to center in her bright hair. 
 It was the supreme moment. The tide was at its 
 17 257
 
 258 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 height, and as she touched high-water mark something 
 back of her triumphant rapture told her that after this 
 there could come nothing but ebb. 
 
 "Behold our little Methodist preacher, queen of the 
 revels ! Who would have believed it ? And yet t was 
 always in her," cried Burr, gaily. 
 
 "My cousin looks a goddess, rather than a queen," 
 corrected Luis Valentine, a trifle stiffly. His dark eyes 
 were fixed upon Joy with passionate adoration an 
 open adoration Jessop at once noted and resented. 
 
 "Neither role, methinks, suits Mistress Valentine. 
 She was born to be a saint, rather than queen or god 
 dess. I have seen her look better." He spoke in a 
 surly tone, which provoked from Burr a half-smoth 
 ered burst of laughter. 
 
 David s equable face was turned upon the young 
 beauty with simple delight in her loveliness. Whether 
 he felt or thought further than that, it would have 
 been impossible to say. His tall, fine form just within 
 the open door, his bright, keen, kindly eyes glancing 
 interestedly about the unfamiliar scene, David Batche- 
 lor, in his handsome and becoming attire, was, even in 
 that brilliant assemblage, a noble and striking figure. 
 
 His towering fair head topped that of the tallest man 
 in the room. His clear gaze held neither the wonder 
 of a child looking at things beyond his round of know 
 ledge, nor the patronage of an elder, directed toward 
 the amusements of those beneath him in understand 
 ing. It was the level look of kind equality which gave 
 to those about him the privilege of enjoying with his 
 endorsement that for which he himself did not care. 
 
 As they spoke, the music rose upon a brave cres 
 cendo, the lines of dancers once more parted, the swords 
 which had been sheathed were drawn from their scab 
 bards and leaped aloft like quivering flames. Beneath 
 their overarching brightness, Louis Philippe bent low
 
 M1STKKSS ](>Y l.KADINC. H K K TRAIN ol- BKAfTIKS.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 259 
 
 to salute his partner. "The whimsy of fate!" com 
 mented Burr. "To see that little Methody dancing 
 with a possible sovereign yea, and carrying all off 
 with a high hand!" 
 
 Jessop s dissatisfied glance roamed over the gor 
 geous rooms and the splendid company. He was 
 angry that there seemed nothing at which to take ex 
 ception. It galled his pride to think that Joy, through 
 no agency of his, was enjoying yes, and adorning 
 such a scene. There was in his heart, too, a lingering 
 jealousy of this new Joyce for the sake of the old. 
 Her appeal to him had been in the days past stronger 
 than it now was. He was beginning to see that if he 
 should promote her to this life, her charm for him 
 would be impaired, if not destroyed. 
 
 As the dance ceased, Joy caught sight of the four 
 men standing together, and gave them such greeting 
 as a young sovereign might have done just a mere 
 lowering of the lids and a faint bend of the regal young 
 head. The ebbing of her tide of rapture had not yet 
 set in. Orleans having returned his partner to her 
 aunt s side, Captain Valentine pressed forward to en 
 treat Joy for a dance, and to reproach her for never 
 having looked his way the entire evening. 
 
 "Nay, Cousin Luis, I have danced for the last time ; 
 this I have promised his highness," was her answer, 
 very lightly and idly given. 
 
 Luis was furious. Had she been the most finished 
 coquette, she could scarcely have selected a reply more 
 calculated to fan the flame of his fancy. Her promise 
 to the duke had been in reality a compact with her own 
 soul, but this he could not know. She now asked 
 Tante s permission to have Luis take her across, that 
 she might speak to these gentlemen, who were friends 
 of her father s. Luis, glad to be of service and sorry 
 to assist her to what he supposed would be fresh con-
 
 260 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 quests, escorted her with mingled gallantry and re 
 luctance. 
 
 Burr, as the eldest man of the group, was greeted 
 first Joy was learning social usage famously. 
 
 Then she turned to Jessop Jessop, resplendent in 
 his white satin and powder and lace, with the diamonds 
 returned to their places on shoe-buckle, hand, and frill 
 the fairy prince well met in fairyland. There was no 
 thrill of expectation at thought or sight of him, no 
 quickening of the pulses. 
 
 There he stood, handsomer than the duke, he who 
 had given her her first lessons in love, and yet and 
 yet was he anything to her now ? 
 
 She turned eagerly to David. "When saw you my 
 father, Master Batchelor? Was he well, and did he 
 send any message by you?" 
 
 She felt an absurd impulse to ask Jessop, Colonel 
 Burr, and her cousin to go away, while she should talk 
 to Batchelor of the chickens and the cats, of Reasie and 
 Sister Longanecker and the meetings of the Society 
 and the old homely details which used to make up life 
 for her. 
 
 David must have read something of this in her face, 
 for he answered very kindly, though with a half smile. 
 "Mistress Valentine, I have, from various sources, 
 many messages for you, the which I will deliver here 
 after. Perchance I may have speech with you to-mor 
 row. I go home on the day following, and you may 
 desire to return these greetings." 
 
 Colonel Burr, who had engaged Luis in conversa 
 tion, covertly watched the three others. He seemed to 
 find something amusing in the situation of affairs, and 
 said finally to David : "My friend Captain Valentine 
 hath promised, if Major Jessop will take the belle of 
 the ball to her chaperone, to present us to what would 
 be, were Mistress Valentine not present, the prettiest 
 demoiselle in the room."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 261 
 
 Left together, a curious silence fell between the two. 
 "Will you come out on the balcony and talk to me, 
 Joy?" asked Jessop, at last, in a low tone. 
 
 "That I may not do without Tante s permission," 
 returned Joy; "and I much doubt if she will approve 
 of such a thing." 
 
 They looked at each other, and both smiled a little 
 ruefully. The thread of their love seemed difficult to 
 pick up again. Where the stitch had been dropped, 
 and how, neither could say. There was no sponta 
 neity, no warmth of feeling. There was even no vi 
 vacity of disappointment in Joyce; she felt only a 
 pained surprise. He had embodied for her once all the 
 charm of such a scene as this. He had been her first 
 glimpse into a world where beauty counted. 
 
 Back in the old life, when she had dressed his hair 
 and wondered at his magnificence, nothing could have 
 seemed to Joyce nearer paradise than to be at a ball 
 with her fairy prince. Now she was transformed into 
 a fairy princess, the prince beside her, fairyland about 
 her, and in her bosom a heart of lead. 
 
 But when a woman s heart begins to drag, she al 
 ways turns to jesting. "If you are bold enough to 
 face a chaperone, Master Jessop," she said, "I will ac 
 company you and attend to the reserve guns, as I have 
 done before. We can but ask my aunt and be refused." 
 
 Wondering much, for a woman is never so com 
 pletely a puzzle to a man as when she is herself doubt 
 ful of her own feelings, Jessop conducted Joy to her 
 aunt. 
 
 So marked a figure as his had not failed to attract 
 the attention of that watchful lady. Turning to Col 
 onel Burr, who now stood beside her in conversation 
 with Madeleine, she asked, "Did not the cavalier in 
 white come in with you, monsieur ? Who is he ? What 
 of him?" 
 
 " T is a Major Jessop," returned Burr, "late of the
 
 262 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 English army, cadet of a noble house, rather a wild 
 fellow, I fear, but not worse than another." 
 
 Jessop being presented, and the permission asked, 
 madame shook her head. "You may take Major Jes 
 sop to the supper-room or to the picture salon, but as 
 to balconies fie, Major Jessop! I m ashamed of you, 
 Joyous. The dew is falling; t is no time for balconies 
 and such." 
 
 Like culprits, the two turned and retraced their steps. 
 "Shall we go to look at the pictures?" inquired Joy, 
 rather wearily. 
 
 "I care not for pictures while I have you before 
 me," whispered Jessop. "Which is the quieter place? 
 Where can we talk?" 
 
 "Who talks at a ball? If any talk, surely there s 
 none to listen," she demurred, with a shrug. 
 
 "Does that mean that you would not listen to me, 
 or I to you?" inquired Jessop, irritably. 
 
 "Nay, I know not," returned Joy, with a repetition 
 of the little shrug. "You might try it and see." 
 
 Their unpremeditated footsteps had brought them to 
 one of the entrances of the long banqueting-hall. They 
 stood together and looked down its length. It was 
 very late, and the company at the tables much thinned. 
 The flowers were beginning to wear an air of haggard 
 dejection, a sadness which Joy found echoed in her 
 heart. The centerpieces of the long tables were, in the 
 fashion of the times, enormously tall. 
 
 Jessop, with that quick eye for an opportunity which 
 belonged to the gallants of his world, saw the possibili 
 ties of one of those great masses of ferns and flowers 
 for screening. Beckoning to a servant, he suggested 
 that the demoiselle and he would sit where an opening 
 toward the court gave coolness. A skilfully used coin 
 in the man s palm, a hint as to the moving of some 
 monster flower-pots, and before she realized it, Joy
 
 MISTRESS JOY 263 
 
 found herself shut in a little bower of greenery, the 
 great epergne flanking one side and cutting them quite 
 off from the rest of the table. 
 
 Jessop seated himself close beside her. With the 
 difficulty of approach, his ardor had momentarily ral 
 lied. "Sweetheart, how beautiful you are!" he mur 
 mured feverishly. T is the torture of Tantalus to 
 see those lips so near me, so enticing, all my own, and 
 not be able to touch them." 
 
 That words like those left Joy cold was no matter 
 for surprise. However light and jesting his manner, 
 in the old days he had certainly never addressed her 
 thus. "Will will you not have some supper?" she 
 asked, inwardly recoiling. "Tante will be distressed 
 if I am not a good hostess." 
 
 "How can you talk to me of such things? Let us, 
 for these few moments, speak only of each other and 
 our love." Upon the chair behind her shoulders she 
 felt the light touch of his arm. 
 
 The possibility of anything like a caress in so public 
 a place shocked and frightened her. Celeste was pass 
 ing up the steps from the court below ; Joy put out her 
 hand and caught the flying edges of an apron. "Ce 
 leste," she appealed, "wait here behind my chair. I 
 have a message I desire to send presently to Tante." 
 
 Celeste parted her lips to say that she was on an 
 errand and would send some one else, but those large, 
 clear eyes of hers, which saw and comprehended so 
 many things they were not supposed to see, perceived 
 the situation. Without a word, she dropped her brown 
 hands on the back of Joy s chair, and stood immovable. 
 Her fingers w r ere almost against the white satin sleeve, 
 which stirred slightly and was then withdrawn. 
 
 Leaning forward where he sat, Jessop could look 
 into the entrance-hall. He observed that Colonel Burr 
 was taking his departure. After trifling for a few mo-
 
 264 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ments with the dishes and wines which had been set 
 before him, so that time enough might elapse to make 
 the errand one impossible of accomplishment, he re 
 marked, as though the idea had just occurred to him : 
 "I would that Colonel Burr were here. He hath some 
 later news of Natchez which would, methinks, interest 
 you. He may be leaving anon. May I send the maid 
 to seek him?" 
 
 Against her fingers Celeste felt the pressure of a 
 coin, though Jessop did not turn his head, but kept his 
 eyes fixed on Joy s painfully blushing face. 
 
 "Can we not go to him you and I?" she asked, in 
 a hesitating undertone. 
 
 "Why, look you," said Jessop ; "a moment gone you 
 were anxious to feed me. And now, when I have but 
 begun my supper, you would hurry me away. Me 
 thinks Madame Valentine might well chide, if t is 
 thus you starve her guests," and he laughed lightly. 
 
 The brown fingers did not close, but let the coin fall 
 ringing to the floor. 
 
 Jessop turned one furious glance upon the negress, 
 then addressed himself once more to Joy. As a last 
 shift, he called upon the secret which had lain un 
 touched, a sweet bond between them, since the night 
 when her sympathy, stirred by his weakness, had over 
 flowed to him in that kiss which he had always held to 
 be believed a revelation of love. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, bending close to her, ignoring 
 Celeste s presence, "do you remember dare you re 
 member the time when you loved me well enough to 
 lay those sweet lips of yours on mine yea, without 
 my asking and give me the kiss give it me that 
 kiss for which I am now starving? Be merciful, 
 sweetheart! Be once more kind as kind as you are 
 fair." 
 
 Joyce drew back, filled with repugnance. From his
 
 MISTRESS JOY 265 
 
 first appearance here, Jessop s attitude had been to her 
 intolerable. Coarse, encroaching-, selfish she felt it to 
 be. She had the kindness, the nobility of nature, to 
 believe that this was but a mood that it would pass, 
 leaving him once more the man she had known at 
 Natchez. But now her only wish was to get away 
 from everybody, to be alone with this new problem 
 which confronted her. 
 
 As she rose unsteadily to her feet, hasty steps came 
 down the hall. The screen of palms was pushed aside, 
 and Luis Valentine s dark face looked in. "Ah, here 
 you are!" he exclaimed, glancing sharply from one to 
 the other, his eyes resting finally with approval upon 
 the immovable Celeste. "I have been seeking you 
 everywhere; maman is asking for you. Maman s de 
 moiselles are strictly limited in the time they give each 
 cavalier, Major Jessop, and your quart d hcure, accord 
 ing to the maternal clock, is up, I believe. Cousin 
 Joyous, will you permit me, or will the major take 
 you back?" 
 
 Joy put her hand upon her cousin s arm with a feel 
 ing of intense relief. "I 11 go with you, Cousin Luis, 
 please if I may be excused ?" She bowed slightly to 
 Jessop. 
 
 "Have you been presented to maman?" asked the 
 captain, recollecting, in his satisfaction, to be mannerly. 
 "She was dancing when we camejn, I remember. May 
 I present you now ?" 
 
 Jessop explained that he had met madame, but prom 
 ised to attend later upon his hostess. 
 
 "Who built your bower, sweet cousin?" Luis in 
 quired, as soon as they were out of earshot. " T was 
 a fine one for playing Corydon and Phyllis, methinks." 
 
 Joy plucked up spirit to say that she believed a num 
 ber of the negroes did the decorating ; she could scarce 
 say which one placed the palms.
 
 266 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Fie, Cousin Joyous, you know well my meaning! 
 You had no need of rouge, I warrant me, when I poked 
 my rash, intruding nose into your paradise." 
 
 As Joy gained her aunt s side, that matron said to 
 Luis anxiously: "Where is the man? Hath he gone 
 without returning her to me? That looks as though 
 t were all true." To Joyce she added, in an under 
 tone: "The gentleman with whom you were, petite, 
 is, we find, a married man. T is an unsavory mar 
 riage one he scarce acknowledges ; and so, like a good 
 old hen, I desired to cluck to my chick and have her 
 beneath my own wing. Ah, you young demoiselles 
 have to learn that there are many hawks about." 
 
 The solid earth seemed to slip from under Joy s feet 
 those happy feet which had danced so lightly but an 
 hour agone. That terror which is felt to the full only 
 by a creature who is young and who, unfortunate, has 
 been born a woman, laid its clammy clutch upon her 
 heart. Fearing to fall should she attempt to stand, she 
 sat perfectly silent, with down-bent head, till she had 
 a little recovered herself. 
 
 Luis, behind her shoulder, was whispering to her : 
 "Ah, Joyous, tell me something hard, something diffi 
 cult and dreadful which I may do to prove my love for 
 you. You laugh at me and call me a trifler; put me 
 to the test." 
 
 At first the words went past Joy s consciousness as 
 though they were not said. By and by came the 
 thought of David. It seemed to her that, in the vast 
 shifting sea of misery in which she felt herself sub 
 merged, he would be something steadfast to lay hold 
 upon. "Cousin Luis," she asked finally, "would you 
 find the gentleman who came in with you and Colonel 
 Burr but now Master David Batchelor? I have 
 somewhat to say to him. I would send a message to 
 my father."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 267 
 
 Luis s fine eyes clouded. "You set me a hard task," 
 he protested, "when you send me for another upon 
 whom you would smile instead of your poor slave. But 
 your lightest wish, my Joyous, has only to be breathed. 
 I go at once; I fly to execute it." 
 
 Captain Valentine s search was vain. To one of the 
 quaint, cage-like balconies which had been forbidden 
 Joy and her lover, Jessop had brought David. To this 
 calm strength the weakling appealed instantly when 
 his own efforts failed to compass the thing he desired. 
 
 Jessop s resplendent figure, in its court trappings, 
 stood glorified outside the lighted window. A foun 
 tain splashed with soft, lapsing rhythm into the stone 
 basin underneath, and mirrored starry blossoms float 
 ing like flower ghosts in the wan light. A small breeze, 
 heralding the hour before dawn, whipped the sultry air 
 and sent a shiver through the orange and myrtle boughs 
 of this old Creole garden, shaking out great cascades 
 of fragrance to drown the night. He stood there in 
 his shining satin, exhibiting the peevish anger of a 
 child, while the other faced him patiently. And the 
 smaller man s ire rose under Batchelor s silent waiting. 
 
 " T is for this fool s play you made your plans, 
 Master Batchelor!" flung out Jessop. "Methinks my 
 debt to you is over large, and if t is not paid in quite 
 the coin you counted on, why then that comes of med 
 dling in the concerns of those who could right well dis 
 pense with such unwarranted intrusion." 
 
 The man addressed looked down on the elegant, in 
 effectual figure, and the calm which Jessop had found 
 irritating was broken by a merely suggested smile. 
 "How now, Master Jessop or shall I say, under this 
 different sun, your lordship ? hast fault to find, and 
 a scapegoat here at hand?" 
 
 Jessop s anger blazed at the cool, half-jesting words. 
 "Fault? Have I fault to find? You know right well
 
 268 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 I have ground of complaint. You knew, when you 
 proposed this scheme, how t would end. T was finely 
 plotted, Master Batchelor, and e en pious, godly Pastor 
 Valentine himself was ready to send his Methody dove 
 out after a better dowered mate." 
 
 The clear eyes watching Jessop hardened, but Batch 
 elor, controlling his disgust, replied: Master Jessop, 
 your world and mine are far apart. You are noble 
 man born!" Jessop flinched as from a blow. "It 
 e en may be the way with noblemen, to impugn their 
 benefactors. For myself I care naught I owe you 
 neither regard nor explanation ; but Pastor Valentine s 
 name you must let be, or speak it with that respect 
 owing him by you, of all men. As to your charges 
 against me what are they, sir? What intrusion has 
 been in your concerns I take it you cite your own 
 concerns, Master Jessop ?" 
 
 "Was t not you who brought Mistress Joy to this 
 accursed hole to take part in all this junketing? And 
 now, forsooth, she s got her little Methody head 
 turned." 
 
 "Was t intrusion, sir ? Who came to me for advise 
 ment, Master Jessop? I gave it, mayhap too freely." 
 His lips straightened, and he looked off to the lighten 
 ing east. "But t was you would have it. You de 
 sired to take this unworldly maid from her primitive 
 life and plunge her into such a maelstrom as that" 
 pointing back where the music still wailed, the dancers 
 still whirled and curtsied. "You would have plunged 
 her there when t was too late to put her to the test." 
 
 "Test!" broke in Jessop, irritably. "That solemn 
 cant, again ! And there comes in the Methody proba 
 tion. Faith, life brings its tests soon enough, with 
 out pushing out to meet them." 
 
 A ring of genuine feeling in the sharp tones softened 
 David s heart somewhat; but, despite himself, a certain
 
 MISTRESS JOY 269 
 
 scorn rang in his voice as he answered : "Man, man 
 wouldst take a woman blindfold ? For me, not though 
 my soul craved her till it sickened, would I have her 
 untried. She should come to me of her own wish, 
 having sounded the deeps within her, and knowing that 
 where I am there only she belongs." His voice shook 
 with a passion which Jessop had never guessed, and at 
 which he wondered with a vague uneasiness. 
 
 Ere the other could speak, Batchelor went on : 
 "What I did was not for you, though I wish you 
 well. T was for Pastor Valentine and his daugh 
 ter. And now, since you speak of intrusion, how 
 is t I find you here in this city, the mere mention 
 of which I w r ell remember displeased you, Master Jes 
 sop? T was agreed that you return to Natchez in 
 the coming summer for a settlement with Mistress Joy. 
 What changed your plans? T is what well might be 
 called in you intrusion to present yourself thus un 
 heralded." 
 
 And what, pray, of Master Batchelor? He is free 
 to go and come as pleaseth him. Only my unworthy 
 self is to be thus held to account. Is t not so?" 
 
 At his words Batchelor s eyes darkened, and a flush 
 rose in his tanned face; but, without resentment, he 
 made answer, "A very proper query, Master Jessop, 
 to come from you ; but the conditions are unlike, as you 
 must yourself admit. I am here to prosecute the busi 
 ness you know of that pertaining to the Mississippi 
 levees. Colonel Burr urged my presence at this ball, 
 to absent myself from which would have seemed rude 
 ness, and I am here." Then, smiling more genially, 
 "Now for your altered plans, Master Jessop what of 
 them?" 
 
 Jessop made explanation, with an uneasy halting 
 that caused the other s eyes to narrow in earnest scru 
 tiny as they rested on his scowling face. "Faith, t is
 
 2 7 o MISTRESS JOY 
 
 not so monstrous that a man change his mind. Mis 
 tress Joy was but to stay a matter of weeks, and here 
 t is months ! I thought her gone from New Orleans. 
 I I have friends here there were matters. I " 
 He stopped, with a mocking laugh. "Forsooth, friend 
 David, love needs no apology. T was but natural, 
 methinks, to follow the lady of my choice." 
 
 "Aye," agreed David, dryly, "even when you sup 
 posed her some hundreds of miles away." 
 
 Jessop s face was black, but, remembering all this 
 man s patience and helpfulness toward him in former 
 straits, he put out his hand and said very winningly : 
 "Let be, Master Batchelor; I crave your pardon. Mis 
 tress Joy s mood to-night is not engaging, and I would 
 ask of you once more " 
 
 Batchelor interrupted decidedly: "The pardon is 
 granted for your asking, Master Jessop; there is my 
 hand upon it. But for the balance, it must rest with 
 you and Pastor Valentine and Mistress Joyce herself. 
 My very good will is yours, but my advisement I will 
 e en keep to myself." 
 
 To this resolution he held, though Jessop fumed and 
 swore, and went far toward losing even the kindly 
 good will Batchelor had promised. And, since he 
 petulantly refused to join David when he went to make 
 his adieus, Jessop left without seeking his hostess at 
 all, cursing the evil star which had led him to New 
 Orleans, to this ball, and to this interview with Batch 
 elor.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 553) 
 
 5JS==5^ 
 
 mr\m 
 
 lifc^^ 
 
 are you ill?" 
 "I feel not 
 
 S the leaden moments passed, and Luis 
 did not return, Joy s sufferings be 
 came intolerable. Finally Tante, re 
 marking- her distress, whispered soft 
 ly: "What is it, Joyette? Why, 
 where are all the roses gone? You 
 are white as my handkerchief, child ; 
 
 faltered Joy. "I if 
 
 I might 
 
 well, 
 go" 
 
 "And lie down," supplied Madame Valentine. "So 
 you shall, little one." To the footman behind her 
 chair, she said sharply, below her breath, "Briq, bring 
 Celeste to me." And when her order had been obeyed 
 she gave the negress explicit directions as to a cordial 
 which was to be administered, and bade Joy go with 
 her. 
 
 Even in the preoccupation of her misery, Joy noted 
 the perfect poise with which Madame Valentine man 
 aged this little by-play, giving her orders in a rapid 
 aside, never losing the amiable smile of the hostess 
 while receiving the devoirs and compliments of her 
 departing guests. 
 
 Madeleine and Ausite were yet dancing, although 
 the rooms were thinning fast, the duke having just re 
 tired. Once outside in the hallway, Joy turned back 
 to Celeste and said : "Nay, I m not ill. Pray give me 
 no cordial. I only want to be in the open air alone." 
 
 271
 
 272 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Oui, mamselle," agreed the patient, gentle- voiced 
 Celeste, believing that she understood, and full of 
 quick sympathy. She led Joyce, silently and without 
 attracting unnecessary attention, through a cross-hall 
 out upon a small iron-railed balcony, whence a flight of 
 steps led directly into the grounds. 
 
 Joy stood quite still in the sweet, odorous dusk of 
 the garden. Through the interlacing branches of a 
 mimosa she looked at the patient stars. Those same 
 stars were shining now on the river and the bluff and 
 Father Toby s little cabin against the cane-brake; and at 
 the thought the first sob of her misery broke from her. 
 
 The desire to leave it all, to walk out of this house, 
 and on and on in the cool, pitying, friendly dark till 
 she came to her father s cabin grew uncontrollable. 
 She went hesitatingly across the little grassy yard to 
 a gate. 
 
 "O mamselle, mamselle, your dress!" remonstrated 
 Celeste s plaintive voice behind her, as the silken folds 
 trailed through drenching dew. 
 
 " T is no matter," returned Joy, absently; "I shall 
 never wear it again." The negress caught up the 
 flowing skirt, with its great garlands of embroidery, 
 and laid it about the girl s bare shoulders. Such ruth 
 less havoc shocked her. 
 
 Joy opened the gate and stepped out upon the ban 
 quette. Too desperately engrossed with her own suf 
 ferings to note whither she was going, she turned in 
 stinctively to where the dawn wrought pallidly upon 
 the eastern sky. It was not yet daybreak, but the spires 
 of the cathedral down past the corner, where she had 
 gone with her cousins to confession, were like beckon 
 ing fingers against the half light. Her whole world 
 had at this one touch jarred, shaken, and fallen in ruins 
 about her. If Jessop were this thing he seemed, who, 
 then, was true ? Was all love such a ghastly mockery ?
 
 MISTRESS JOY 273 
 
 Might any one whom you dared trust be found in the 
 end to be a liar a cheat? 
 
 Back of these questionings rioted the tumult of a 
 suffering which was almost physical a revolt at 
 thought of her intimacy, her loving companionship 
 with this man. He had kissed her nay, she had 
 kissed him she, Joyce Valentine ! He had been a part 
 of her home life, hers and her upright, confiding, gen 
 tle old father s, for weeks months. Recalling all 
 the daily familiarities of that life, she shuddered, she 
 shrank as from pollution, and walked on the faster. 
 
 The habit of Joy s life had been prayer. Now she 
 raised her face and tried to pray. The stars were ob 
 scured by a sudden drift of cloud. Out from a tat 
 tered rift looked wanly a waning moon which illumined 
 nothing. The first big drops of a shower pattered on 
 the pavement. Joy s prayer would not come. It lin 
 gered somewhere back in her consciousness, and she 
 longed only for her earthly father s arms around her, 
 and his broad, loving breast to lay her shamed head 
 upon. 
 
 She had been walking very fast, had turned sharply 
 into Chartres Street, and Celeste, panting after, saw 
 with satisfaction the wide portal and welcome light of 
 the cathedral just ahead. No doubt the poor demoi 
 selle had been imprudent, and Madame Valentine had 
 reproved her. Now she was coming to make her peti 
 tion in the church. 
 
 Joy stood a moment, fascinated, before the open 
 door. Its silent invitation always touched her fancy. 
 It was to her like a reaching hand, the outstretched 
 arms of divine love. She wished dumbly that it had 
 been her own meeting-house door so open to her, and 
 then she realized that troubles such as hers could not 
 be carried to that meeting-house. There was no place 
 for them. 
 
 18
 
 274 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 The negress laid a gentle, constraining hand upon 
 her shoulder, and pushed her softly toward the portal. 
 "Mamselle s poor little pretty shoes," she whispered 
 caressingly. 
 
 Joy dropped her gathered skirts from about her 
 shoulders, and stood, a gleaming figure, in the half 
 light. She put out one white, scarlet-heeled slipper, 
 sadly soiled and stained now. "What matter for the 
 shoes, either?" she asked. "I shall never dance again, 
 nor care to go to balls any more. Why should I keep 
 them?" 
 
 As the edges of her skirts trailed upon the muddy 
 pavement, Celeste said, in actual pain : "It will be 
 ruined, mamselle." But Joy did not hear. With up 
 lifted face and unseeing eyes, she let the rain, which 
 increased every moment, beat upon her uncovered head 
 and bare, white neck. The gracious coolness of it was 
 sweet to her fevered, thirsting soul. 
 
 Then, with the bright drops gemming all her hair, 
 she turned and walked slowly, as in a dream, into the 
 church. 
 
 At the altar a priest knelt in prayer. 
 
 As Joy hesitated toward one of the confessionals, he 
 finished his devotions and rose. Her hand was on the 
 curtain when he approached and accosted her. 
 
 So wildly strange a figure as she made there, in her 
 ball-gown with the rain upon her hair, might well have 
 moved to curiosity, but he spoke as to the most usual 
 of penitents. "Do you desire to confess, my daugh 
 ter?" he asked quietly. Then, as Joy bent her head 
 and drew the curtain further back, "There is none 
 within to hear you now." 
 
 "No one to hear me?" cried Joy, in anguish. "There 
 is no one to hear me, I know." 
 
 "I will go in," the gentle voice of the priest went on, 
 "if you desire it."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 275 
 
 "I am not a Catholic," burst out Joy, abruptly. "I 
 was brought up to become a Methodist preacher a 
 preacher of the Word. But I am in sore trouble yea, 
 the blackness of darkness hath encompassed me, and I 
 cannot see God s face at all. I cannot find his provi 
 dence in anything that hath happened. Will you lis 
 ten to me? Do you think you might help me?" 
 
 "Surely, my child," replied the priest, "I will listen. 
 As for help, that comes in time of trouble from higher 
 than human sources. Perchance I can aid you to ask 
 for it aright, so that it may be given you." 
 
 Joyce scarcely heeded him. Too preoccupied to 
 loose it, she stood with the curtain of the confessional 
 still in her hand, her eyes strained and unseeing, her 
 smooth, young face white, affrayed, convulsed. In 
 sentences halting, hurrying, in a voice none had ever 
 heard before a voice unconscious almost as the voice 
 of madness, now sharp and agonized, now choked by 
 mangling sobs she poured out the whole of her story. 
 
 The forms of living, the customary dignities of 
 adulthood, fell away. Tears burst from her, and 
 streamed unregarded down to mingle with the rain 
 which soaked her shining broideries. 
 
 There was much that the priest in no wise compre 
 hended ; but he asked no questions. The tale of youth s 
 disillusionment, the conflict between spiritual and 
 worldly longings through which some souls must of 
 necessity go, these were to him old stories which called 
 for no exactness in the telling, nor needed explanations. 
 When the passionate, broken young voice had made an 
 end there was silence for a time. Then the priest said 
 softly: "I will pray for you, my daughter; not here 
 nor now, but later." 
 
 A month before, Joyce would have thought Papist 
 prayers scarce desirable, that to accept them might even 
 be sinful. But the thought of being carried to the
 
 276 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 throne of grace, borne as a child in the arms of an 
 other, came to her here sweet and comforting. 
 
 "And you would wish me to advise you to tell you 
 what it is that you should do?" he inquired kindly. 
 
 Joy had not consciously desired this; she had only 
 longed overwhelmingly to unburden her heart, but she 
 bent her head in assent. 
 
 "I think, my daughter, that your safest earthly ref 
 uge is with your father. Go to him at once, tell him 
 all that you have told me; and when you are at peace 
 with him, methinks you will not seek God in vain." 
 
 At mention of Father Toby, the remembrance, which 
 had somehow seemed obscured, that he and the old 
 home remained hers still, that it was only the things 
 of this new life which had failed her, brought a sud 
 den lightening of Joy s spirits. 
 
 Thanking the priest, she would have turned to go, 
 but Celeste, who had been praying at the altar, whis 
 pered to her to kneel ; and as both women bent before 
 him, the old man spread his hands above Joy s heretic 
 head and blessed her in sonorous Latin. 
 
 Closely attended by Celeste, Joy took her way back 
 over the wet, shining pavements. The primrose lights 
 of dawn were clear behind the old cathedral toward the 
 east. The shower was past ; Joy s spirit was inexpres 
 sibly comforted. 
 
 "Belike," she said to herself, "this thing which hurts 
 me now so cruelly is a summer thunder-shower too. 
 And when I go back to the old life, mayhap I shall 
 step forth into the light again."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 OY S shrinking eyes opened unwill 
 ingly to the morning light. With 
 the surprise which the young always 
 feel to find that, however the heart be 
 torn, the processes of nature, the eat 
 ing, the drinking, and the sleeping, 
 still go on, she discovered that she 
 had slept till ten o clock. 
 
 Zette was in the room, sitting, or squatting, near the 
 foot of her couch, plying a monster fan. She smiled 
 delightedly when Joy awoke, and said : "Momzelle has 
 slept like one baybee. Oh, how sweetly momzelle has 
 slept! All the gentlemen who were at the ball last 
 night have broken hearts to-day because of my mom 
 zelle, and here she lies and sleeps !" 
 
 Joy had won Zette s adoration without trying to do 
 so. That milk-white skin of hers, her ruddy-gold hair 
 were claims enough upon the dusky damsel s reveren 
 tial love. "Would that I might sleep forever," she 
 murmured wearily, more to herself than to Zette. 
 
 "Ah, wicked, wicked Joyous!" called a laughing 
 voice from the doorway. "You desire to be the Sleep 
 ing Beauty only that all the good knights may be slain 
 outside your castle wall, till a fairy prince comes to 
 wake you with a kiss." Madeleine whirled in, all in a 
 cloud of filmy white, sailed over to the bedside, and 
 kissed her cousin. "I know I am a good girl," she said. 
 "I think I am a saint, not to hate you for last night." 
 
 277
 
 278 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Joy s recollections of how and by whom she had 
 been put to bed were very hazy, and she looked about 
 apprehensively lest her ruined ball-gown should dis 
 close the secret of last night s excursion. But it was 
 Celeste who had assisted the waiting Zette to cleanse 
 and put away all the paraphernalia of the ball, and 
 there was nothing left to betray poor Joy. Her snowy 
 negligee and slippers were laid ready, and the room was 
 set in its usual faultless order. 
 
 "What shall you wear to the theater to-night, Joy 
 ous?" demanded Madeleine. 
 
 "Must I go?" Joy almost groaned. Then, realizing 
 the ungraciousness of the question, she added, "Will 
 Tante desire it? Is it necessary, do you think?" 
 
 "Necessary ! Listen to the little hypocrite !" cried 
 Madeleine. "Ausite," she called, as her sister flitted 
 past the door, "here s Joyous fishing for compliments. 
 She would have us to say how proud we are of the con 
 quest she made of the duke." 
 
 Ausite swam into the room with all sails set, like 
 a little ship of war, and, to continue the simile, bom 
 barded Joy with a broadside of kisses and admiring 
 exclamations. Of course she must go; maman would 
 be desolee. The prince was to sail for Spain on the 
 morrow. He must have every caprice gratified. 
 
 Joy found, with a repugnance which she sought to 
 stifle as unworthy and unkind, that her importance in 
 the eyes of these young relatives was very considerably 
 augmented by the attentions she had received from roy 
 alty. Her sick soul loathed it all. She felt no emo 
 tion save a weary craving to be at home in her father s 
 house, and yet these relatives had been kind to her, 
 in their own way, which was not her way, they loved 
 her. And she obediently donned the dress she was told 
 to assume, and accompanied the royal party to the 
 theater.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 279 
 
 The one theater in the New Orleans of that day was 
 small, but served amply for the size of the city. It 
 consisted of a horseshoe of boxes, with an amphithea 
 ter in the center raised above the pit; above the horse 
 shoe was a gallery. 
 
 The plays were performed in French, and the acting 
 was creditable. The music accompanying the plays 
 was invariably amateur, as we should now say, being 
 furnished by some of the most distinguished gentle 
 men in the city. There was none other to be obtained, 
 and it was frequently the most excellent feature of the 
 performance. On this occasion, in honor of the ex 
 iled Bourbon, everything had been arranged with espe 
 cial care. The theater was in gala attire, its boxes 
 draped in the colors of France, gay with scarfs and 
 knots and rosettes. 
 
 Two boxes thrown into one, the arms of the Bour 
 bons blazoned upon them, had been set apart for the 
 prince and his friends. Everywhere the Bourbon lilies 
 spoke in a universal tongue to these volatile, emotional 
 Frenchmen. 
 
 Filled with the most elegant men and beautiful 
 women of New Orleans and Paris, in their satins and 
 jewels and laces, with powdered hair and patches and 
 paint and shining eyes, rarely has a modern play-house 
 presented a more dazzling setting even for royalty 
 itself. 
 
 As Joy placed herself behind Tante s ample shoul 
 ders a Creole demoiselle of the day was not put upon 
 display in public places she looked, in spite of the 
 dull heartache which underlay her every thought, with 
 some interest at the brilliant scene before her. No 
 where in the New World could have been found any 
 thing so nearly resembling the Paris of that day. 
 Full dress was the rule, and men vied with women in 
 the brilliance and beauty of their costumes. The entry
 
 280 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 of the duke was the signal for a wild burst of applause. 
 He bowed smilingly. But again and again the cheers 
 burst forth, handkerchiefs were waved, and kisses 
 were thrown to him in answer to his own repeated 
 salutes. 
 
 This feeling of the exiled royalists for the exiled 
 scion of their royal house had in it something touching 
 which, although she was quite ignorant of such mat 
 ters and had been brought up to regard courts and 
 kings as among the lures of the flesh, Joy could not 
 fail to appreciate. Leaning around Tante s shoulder, 
 she glanced up at the blithe, gallant young gentleman 
 who stood for so much to these cheering people, and 
 her eyes rilled with tears. 
 
 The play was a French classic. The theater was 
 no longer new to Joy, and, with her heart so full of its 
 own tragedy, the painted scene, the mimic passion could 
 not hold her attention for a moment. Safe back in 
 her obscurity, she drooped her weary head and tried to 
 think. She had already told her uncle s family that she 
 must go home at once. Her Uncle Henri found that a 
 keel-boat was going up the river on the morrow. 
 Tante Ausite, who thought it inexpressibly shocking 
 that a demoiselle should make such a trip alone, was 
 sending Zette with her. Zette was a present from this 
 affectionate aunt to the niece of whom she was both 
 fond and proud. The negress was in a transport of 
 delight at thought of going with and belonging to an 
 adored young mistress. She had packed away most of 
 the pretty dresses and quantities of little trinkets and 
 keepsakes. Dear little baubles they were, brought and 
 given, with the fondest caresses and tears, to sweet 
 cousin Joyous by the members of the big, loving, en 
 thusiastic household. A certain peace came to Joy 
 partly it was the peace of weariness and partly the 
 serenity of an unalterable resolution as she consid-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 281 
 
 ered these preparations and hugged the thought of 
 being at home once more. 
 
 In the midst of her musings, the curtain descended. 
 There was a stirring in the audience, and with the 
 bursting forth of orchestral music came also a hum of 
 conversation. Joy raised her head and began glancing 
 idly about at the people in the theater. 
 
 Across from her, almost opposite, sat a very beauti 
 ful woman. The girl s eyes singled her out because she 
 appeared to be alone, and because of a certain defiant 
 hardihood in her bearing. But as Joy regarded her, 
 she became aware that the woman was not alone; her 
 escort merely sat where he was screened behind the 
 sheltering curtains. Something in the curve of his 
 arm, the white hand, half hid in its lace ruffle, that he 
 had laid upon the box-ledge, was familiar. As Joy 
 looked, the woman turned and addressed him. He 
 bent forward, and showed the face of Jessop. 
 
 Again, as at the ball last night, Joy felt that qualm 
 of deadly sickness come over her. She feared that she 
 should faint; but, though she drew back quite in the 
 shadow, and pushed the curtain so that it might shield 
 her more, her eyes never left Jessop s face. 
 
 He was laughing as he talked, but not pleasantly 
 nor kindly. Something in her fixed gaze must have 
 drawn his, for he turned toward the royal box and scru 
 tinized the duke s party. Lifting a lorgnette from the 
 woman s lap, he raised it to his eyes and looked again. 
 
 Joy had no doubt that he was searching for her. 
 She had told him, when he asked her at the ball the 
 night before, that she should not attend the theater 
 with the Valentines. Now, as she almost crouched 
 there, horrified and shuddering, the duke bent forward 
 and, concluding some remark in regard to Natchez and 
 the entertainments there, said : "Is it not so, Made 
 moiselle Valentine?"
 
 282 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over Joy. Why 
 was it, she asked in her soul, as many a woman has 
 asked before and many will do after her, that a man 
 can do shamelessly, boldly, things at which a \voman 
 looking on, his victim only, must blush and shrink and 
 tremble ? 
 
 The intrepid spirit of old returned to her. Up 
 came her regal little head, and the color flashed into 
 her pale cheeks. She answered the duke merrily, 
 averring that her time was so taken up, dressing the 
 hair of gallants who were to adorn the ball at Natchez 
 that she had no time to attend the festivities. "Mon- 
 seigneur," she concluded, "you may have forgotten 
 that I had not then learned to dance. What should a 
 demoiselle who could not dance do at a ball?" 
 
 "Break hearts, an she be Mistress Joyce Valentine," 
 rejoined the duke, gallantly. 
 
 When Jessop s glass focussed upon Joy s laughing, 
 brilliant face he lowered it with an oath. "I thought 
 she spoke truth, but they ll all lie, damn them!" he said. 
 
 His glance traveled to the duke. "Higher game," 
 he sneered. 
 
 Madame, a woman used to the instant reading of 
 faces and events, noted his agitation, caught up the 
 glass, and for herself examined into the cause of it. 
 
 Jessop half rose, sat down, trifled a moment un 
 easily with some tablets which he drew from his pocket, 
 and then, putting them aside, took out a slip of paper 
 and began to write. 
 
 Madame s hard eyes never left him as he w r rote, and 
 her busy, quick brain was scheming. The note writ 
 ten and folded, he called one of the liveried negro at 
 taches of the theater, and, with a fee, gave directions 
 that the billet be slipped unnoticed into the hand of the 
 lady whom he indicated. 
 
 Joy felt the touch upon her arm, and Zette the wait-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 283 
 
 ing-woman of that time was used to such errands 
 pushed the folded paper into her mistress s fingers. 
 
 Some instinct told her what the note was. The cur 
 tain was up again. The players were upon the stage. 
 Joy s eyes noted their movements calmly, as she sat ap 
 parently watching the scene with pleased interest, while 
 Jessop s note lay unread. 
 
 The Joyce of last night the stormy, tumultuous, 
 battling Joyce was to the Joyce of this evening what a 
 blazing prairie is to that same plain when the flames 
 have gone over it, leaving it a blackened waste. 
 
 Since her first recoil at sight of Jessop and the 
 woman whom she believed to be his wife, she felt no 
 more shame nor fear, not even disgust. Anger was 
 dead in her. She was conscious only of a dull wish 
 not to read his note. 
 
 Finally, with a feeling more of weariness than aught 
 else, she drew out the paper, glanced over it, and read : 
 
 "Are you gone up too High to look dow r n even, upon 
 Those to whom you once Belonged? That you are 
 mine, remember. I am not a Man who gives up his 
 own to Another. I must see you. Where will you 
 meet me? JESSOP." 
 
 She folded the note with great precision. Jessop s 
 hungry, imperious eyes were on her face. Through his 
 glass he watched her every turn of expression as she 
 tore the paper slowly through, once, twice, three times, 
 then from her hand let it drop absently, a little shower 
 of fluttering snow. 
 
 She never looked his way again, and his efforts 
 to gain access to her were fruitless. Joy could not 
 herself have told whether the sight of Jessop and the 
 woman added to her weary distaste of this life or no. 
 But for some reason she found it possible, after that, 
 to put him more completely out of her thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 FTER the theater, in the great dining- 
 hall of the Valentine mansion, there 
 was a late supper for the duke, at 
 which he took his formal farewell of 
 the men of New Orleans who had 
 been foremost in doing him honor. 
 When Orleans and his suite had 
 
 retired, and the guests were departing, Luis Valentine 
 signed to a group of intimates, and, after he had 
 speeded the others, invited these chosen ones to a little 
 smoking-room on the floor above. 
 
 There they now sat, drinking deeper than was good 
 for their wits, and playing higher than was good for 
 their purses. A gray-haired, red-faced Irishman, Cap 
 tain O Neil, a bold, ruffling blade, with the fire of youth 
 and the duplicity of his years, was leading the play 
 along routes profitable to him. The room was, despite 
 its open windows, blue with smoke. Luis had been 
 losing heavily to O Neil, and had, as a natural conse 
 quence, applied himself to the specious consolation of 
 the wine-bottle. 
 
 It was the hour and the situation for a brawl, when 
 the door opened and Neville stepped into the room. 
 Luis raised his head with an oath. Since the day on 
 the lake there had been at best an armed truce between 
 the brothers, and at worst a series of skirmishes. 
 
 A few days before the ball Captain Valentine had 
 spoken to the commander of Neville s company a very 
 
 284
 
 MISTRESS JOY 285 
 
 proud little band of boy soldiers, independents, state 
 troops, militia and suggested that his own comfort 
 would be ministered to by sending the boy on a sort 
 of scouting expedition that would keep him out of 
 New Orleans till the festivities were over. 
 
 The youthful captain, jealous of respect, was flat 
 tered by the older man s familiar approach, and so, 
 amid much laughter, the errand was invented. 
 
 Luis had not met Neville for two days, and the sight 
 of him now was an exasperation. "Go to bed, little 
 boy," he cried, returning to that first taunt which so 
 maddened the younger. 
 
 Neville was well aware of the treachery which had 
 cost him the ball, and thereby a promised dance with 
 Joyce. Tall as any man in the room, his seraph s face 
 strangely out of place in that half-drunken company, 
 he came on toward the table and sat down. "May I 
 join you, Captain O Neil? Will you deal me cards?" 
 he asked, openly ignoring his brother. 
 
 O Neil had no mind that the play should be ham 
 pered by the presence of a moneyless boy who, as he 
 conceived, might at any time turn informer. He 
 dropped his eyes to the bits of pasteboard before him. 
 "Captain Valentine is my host, sir," he answered 
 finally "and yours, if you would join this company." 
 
 Neville, instead of flushing, went white. O Neil, 
 who was watching his face, counted it an evil sign. 
 It was the day of the duello. The sword which hung 
 at each gentleman s side was not there merely for or 
 nament. O Neil himself was a man of undoubted 
 bravery and a noted duelist, but one of whom it was 
 well known that he would fight upon the most imma 
 terial provocation or none to gain ends other than 
 honorable. 
 
 Colonel Burr, the only man present who did not be 
 long to Luis s intimate circle, rose and suggested de-
 
 286 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 parture. "We have overstayed, gentlemen," he said. 
 "In the charm of Captain Valentine s hospitality, we 
 have quite lost count of the hours." 
 
 But the word of this new friend, who had already 
 gained with Luis something of his usual influence, was 
 powerless to stay the rising tumult. "Sit down, Col 
 onel Burr," he growled, catching at the other s wrist. 
 "I promised this brat a thrashing months agone, and 
 t is in my mind to give it him. Sit down, sir, and 
 behold an example of family discipline." 
 
 Neville rose, tall and pale. "Gentlemen," he cried, 
 "I am without a sword. Will one of you accommo 
 date me?" 
 
 He turned instinctively toward that voice in which he 
 had heard kindness ; but Burr shook his head smilingly 
 and dropped a hand on Luis s shoulder, holding him 
 forcibly, that he might not rise. 
 
 O Neil was up in a moment, whipped to the door, 
 and locked it, crying over his shoulder : "Here s a 
 blade for you, you young divil, once I get the dure 
 locked !" 
 
 At the word "sword" and at sight of the Irishman 
 locking the door, Luis s face changed. 
 
 "Captain Valentine, this is your brother," remon 
 strated Burr. 
 
 "The more reason he should be made to smart 
 for t," boomed O Neil s big tones from the doorway, 
 where he was unloosing his weapon. "I ve a bit of a 
 brother in O Neil Castle, and if he bruk in on com 
 pany of mine with is impudence, t is I would never 
 touch him with hand, but I d tache him with steel." 
 
 "Keep your weapon, Captain O Neil," called Luis. 
 "No need for steel to teach a cub like this." 
 
 The other men present had so far held themselves 
 strictly neutral, according to the code of honor in that 
 day. To one of these his cousin, a young French-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 287 
 
 man, Camilla Decloussis Neville now made his ap 
 peal for a sword, and was almost passionately refused. 
 
 "If he touch me," said Neville, through his teeth 
 "if he dare lay finger on me, I shall kill him I have 
 borne enough !" 
 
 A young Spanish lieutenant, Ignacio Flores, had 
 unloosed and was now tendering his blade. 
 
 The boy accepted the weapon, and backed toward 
 the wall. He was a good swordsman, better perhaps 
 than his brother, but at his years the hardness of mus 
 cle requisite for much staying power was not possible. 
 
 "I will not be struck," he panted. "I will not be 
 degraded. I will have the treatment of a gentleman." 
 
 Have it, then," snarled Luis, past all bounds. 
 
 Code or no code, Decloussis, a relative, could bear 
 the pressure no longer. "You said you meant to thrash 
 him, Luis," he burst out. "For God s sake put up the 
 swords put up the swords ! Oh, my God !" as Luis s 
 blade flashed from the scabbard. "Will nobody stop 
 them?" and he dropped his head on the table among 
 the cards and sobbed. 
 
 His neighbor, Flores, looked at him contemptuously. 
 Both were Latins, but the sterner mold of the Span 
 ish character only hardened before the ghastliness of 
 the situation. 
 
 Neville stood at bay. Those about the table held 
 back from him, as men do hold back from one in ex 
 tremity, fearing to be involved in his downfall. 
 
 The boy s large, fawn-like eyes roved from side to 
 side of the company. "I have no second, gentlemen," 
 he repeated again and yet again, in a tone which began 
 to be piteous. "Is nobody with me? Colonel Burr, 
 do I fight alone?" 
 
 Burr had from the first made a strong effort to take 
 the matter lightly, to assume toward it his habitual 
 attitude of command. But as he remonstrated with
 
 288 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 the maddened elder brother and contemplated the 
 touching figure of the younger, a look of horror settled 
 upon his face. The hatefulness of the position thrust 
 upon him that of impotent onlooker or participator in 
 the unnatural tragedy was appallingly clear to him. 
 
 "I cannot assist you, M. Valentine," he answered 
 shortly. "Gentlemen, I refuse to be present. I bid 
 you good evening. As Captain O Neil holds the door, 
 I shall make here my exit." 
 
 He turned swiftly to the open window, and stepped 
 out upon the balcony. Behind him rose a storm of 
 oaths and cries. The adversaries, united in a common 
 dismay, rushed pell-mell toward the window, and, jam 
 ming in that narrow opening, gave Burr a moment of 
 grace. He glanced coolly about the little iron-railed 
 gallery. It crossed the window of another room, 
 but that window was shut. Without hesitation, he 
 mounted the railing, swung himself lightly over, and, 
 finding footing in a riot of vines, dropped easily to a 
 balcony below. Behind him was the lamp-lit room, 
 hazy with smoke, foul with the stale odor of wine, its 
 half-tipsy occupants bent upon doing or seeing murder. 
 Outside, there was the pallid hint of dawn, and the 
 dawn s chill breath struck cool upon the fever of that 
 scene. 
 
 It needed not this tonic air, however, to steady 
 Aaron Burr s purpose. At the risk of something dear 
 to a man of his temper, facing the chance that he might 
 be branded a coward in that he had infringed the code 
 of honor, he was going for help. 
 
 The gallery upon which he had dropped was a long 
 one. Tearing himself free from the vines, carrying 
 unconsciously a great, blossoming streamer on his arm, 
 he hurried its length past the windows, seeking a door 
 or stairway. 
 
 He was brought to sudden halt by a face at one of
 
 MISTRESS JOY 289 
 
 the casements. Joy, unable to sleep, had sent Zette 
 away; now she sat, fully dressed, looking out into the 
 night. 
 
 "Mistress Joy !" cried Burr. 
 
 "Colonel Burr! What is it?" came the swift re 
 sponse. 
 
 " T is murder being done in the room above," re 
 turned Burr. "Your uncle where can I find him? 
 Quick, Mistress Joy !" 
 
 "My cousins?" inquired the girl. "Luis has 
 Take me to them." 
 
 "You cannot go as I came," whispered Burr, "and 
 they have the door locked." 
 
 "This way," breathed Joy. She stepped without, 
 leading him through a door and toward a stairway. 
 "The room next Luis s, is it not?" she whispered, as 
 they ran hand in hand through the dark hall. "Did 
 Luis strike the boy?" 
 
 " T is that accursed thing they call a duel," an 
 swered Burr; "that devil s code which counsels a man 
 to barter, for a perverted honor, his peace of mind, his 
 very hopes of heaven." 
 
 Burr s confidence in the girl s quick wit was rein 
 forced by a belief that she was herself the real subject of 
 quarrel between the brothers, and would be, therefore, 
 the one most suitable to quell the storm. 
 
 She led him up the stairs and, through an unoccu 
 pied room, to that closed window which gave upon the 
 balcony outside the smoking-room, the window which 
 Burr had passed finding it fastened as he hastened 
 for help. Through it they stepped onto the balcony, 
 and came quickly and silently to the window of the 
 smoking-room itself. The men had not thought it 
 worth while to barricade this entrance, but had rather 
 turned to get the affair over, if they might, before in 
 terference should arrive. 
 19
 
 290 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Decloussis still sat, his head upon the table. He 
 might have been asleep, except that now and again a 
 start or shudder took him. The Spaniard was second 
 ing Neville, while O Neil stood beside Luis. 
 
 The center of the tiny room was cleared it was a 
 deadly place for sword-play. Luis was darkly flushed, 
 the light of madness in his eyes. 
 
 It appeared that the men had been placed, and a 
 round fought. Burr and Joyce heard the clash of steel 
 as they came up. Then it ceased suddenly, and Luis 
 panted, in a voice half smothered with rage : "I 11 not 
 kill thee, poor, pretty fool because thou art a Valen 
 tine but I 11 mark that baby face of thine till 
 she" 
 
 The last word wrought his adversary to fury past 
 bearing. Without waiting for the seconds to give the 
 word to recommence, he cried, in his clear, boyish 
 tones: "On guard!" 
 
 The window was latched or bolted; Burr had tried 
 it with his hand. Now he raised his foot and drove it 
 inward with a great clattering of glass. 
 
 As the two burst into the room, the men all turned 
 to them with such composure as they could muster, even 
 Decloussis sitting up and disclosing a tear-stained face. 
 
 The blades, which had crossed with a shattering 
 clang just after Neville s words, were dropped in 
 stantly. Luis came toward them, breathing fast, but 
 smiling. "How now, sweet cousin?" he said. "You 
 have interrupted a bit of practice." 
 
 "Luis!" cried Joy, in a voice of anguish. "My 
 cousin oh, how could you!" 
 
 She had run to him and clasped his sword-arm 
 with both shaking hands. He laid possessive fingers 
 over those two small hands, and answered reassur 
 ingly : " T was but a fencing-bout, and all in the best 
 spirit, ma cousine"
 
 MISTRESS JOY 291 
 
 Captain O Neil, muttering beneath his breath, "The 
 cause of the ruction, by God! Might have known 
 t was more than cards," slipped stealthily toward the 
 door, that he might, unobserved, turn back the key. 
 
 Colonel Burr s eye was upon him, however, and that 
 gentleman heaved a great sigh of relief. If O Neil 
 was giving up the case, there would be no further 
 trouble. 
 
 When the Irishman came forward, full of voluble 
 compliments, desiring to be presented to Mistress Val 
 entine that he might reassure her, Joy turned her back 
 upon him, not unkindly, but rather as though unable 
 either to see or hear till her mind was set at rest. 
 
 "Luis," she urged, "promise me. I cannot forget 
 those dreadful words you said on the lake. They 
 haunt me, and make me feel myself a creature of ill 
 omen. Promise me. Neville " She turned her 
 head. 
 
 "My brother will tell you, as I do, Joyous, that 
 t was only a friendly bout at fencing," Luis inter 
 rupted, in a raised, warning tone. 
 
 " T was naught more," came Neville s voice faintly, 
 from where he stood. 
 
 Luis frowned savagely, and bit his lip at the half 
 hearted acquiescence. But Joy, whose loving eye was 
 quicker than another s, sprang toward Neville, and 
 cried out so sharply that the Spaniard caught the boy 
 as he swayed and went down. 
 
 Then his head was in Joy s lap, blood from a wound 
 upon his temple dabbling all her white dress, and Celt 
 and Latin burst into a salvo of outcry and explanations. 
 
 Burr alone, of those in the room, retained presence 
 of mind. Dipping his handkerchief in a flower-bowl 
 upon a table, he knelt beside the boy and wiped away 
 the blood to ascertain the extent of injury. 
 
 Upon the other side of the prostrate form, Luis was
 
 292 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 on his knees, weeping, praying heartbrokenly, pub 
 lishing to any listener the full extent of his guilt in 
 the matter. 
 
 Joy, sick with horror, yet preserved sufficient com 
 posure to offer Burr more prospect of assistance than 
 the others. 
 
 " T is a scratch a mere scratch," the colonel cried 
 reassuringly. "A small vein hath been cut. Pray, 
 Mistress Valentine, press with your ringer here to stay 
 the bleeding till I make a bandage. Gentlemen, give 
 me another handkerchief." 
 
 As Burr worked with light, skilled fingers over the 
 wounded youth, poor Luis regained himself somewhat. 
 "Must you go, Captain O Neil?" he said, rising. "I 
 bid you, then, good night, sir." 
 
 The captain, who had been waiting the issue of 
 affairs in hope, apparently, that, this thing smoothed, 
 another meeting might be arranged and his services 
 still required took the check with an equal counte 
 nance. "Why, then, good night," he said, smiling 
 nonchalantly; "and good night to the beauteous Mis 
 tress Valentine, who appears to be skilled in the wound 
 ing of hearts and the healing of heads." 
 
 The Spaniard went with O Neil. Decloussis, as a 
 member of the family, remained. 
 
 When Neville s wound was bound, his face bathed, 
 and a little wine held to his lips, he roused himself 
 enough to say loyally : " T was not Luis s fault. We 
 were fencing, and there came a noise at the window, 
 and his blade slipped." Then, looking up into Joy s 
 tearful face above him, he added, with a child s smile, 
 "And now Luis is envying me my broken head, because 
 sweet Cousin Joyous weeps about it." 
 
 When they had helped him to a couch, Burr asked if 
 Madame Valentine should be summoned. 
 
 The elder brother, with God knows what devils fight-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 293 
 
 ing in his heart, stood at the window, his back to them 
 all. "Why should she, sir?" he answered coldly. 
 "You heard my brother say the thing was an accident, 
 and you yourself have told us that the injury is 
 naught; why should you call my mother?" 
 
 Of all the personal griefs which Joy had suffered in 
 this new life of hers, nothing had so shaken her as 
 this; nothing had made her so long to escape. She 
 went to her cousin, and, whispering, asked, "Luis, will 
 you promise me?" 
 
 "Nay," he answered fiercely; "that will I not. You 
 will make me no promise." 
 
 In her bitter need, she turned unconsciously to the 
 one comfort which had once been daily bread to her, 
 and now seemed almost forgotten. "God help me, 
 what shall I do?" she said. 
 
 The simple, humble cry touched her cousin s heart 
 for the moment, at least. "Joyous," he began, husk 
 ily, "I will not promise, but I will tell you that you 
 may trust me without promises. What you fear I 
 will never do. But such women as you, with your 
 beautiful faces and your cold hearts He paused, 
 flung out an impetuous hand, and finished "Such 
 women as you must e en be willing to face the natural 
 and inevitable results of the things you do." 
 
 Joy s hand fell from her cousin s arm. Had he 
 struck her, she could scarce have felt the blow more 
 acutely. Her sense of rebuff was physical. Was she 
 indeed such a creature as Luis had described? 
 
 And her traitor heart answered her then, and gave 
 her lying assurance many times thereafter, when she 
 brooded upon the horrors of that night, that the accu 
 sation was just.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 UIS cut Joyce to the soul by flinching 
 from sight of her, as a monk might 
 flinch from some carnal temptation. 
 It was the morning after the duel, 
 and the last day of her visit in New 
 Orleans. His great, black eyes 
 Luis s bold, challenging, passionate 
 The too ardent glances which 
 
 eyes sought the floor, 
 she had deprecated were turned aside from her face. 
 His greeting his farewells, even were brief, con 
 strained, perfunctory. Joy forgave him with quick 
 generosity when she saw his own countenance seamed 
 and marred by last night s experiences. She could 
 
 guess from it through what hells of self-abasement 
 he had walked since dawn. For herself, she felt, as 
 do the noblest women, all the shame which should 
 have been his, and before the high tribunal of her own 
 heart was condemned as the thing which his perverted 
 vision had seen her. She loathed, momentarily and 
 unjustly, that beauty which had set the brothers at 
 each other s throats. 
 
 Neville was nowhere to be seen, but since Tante did 
 not mention him, Joy timidly forbore to do so, hoping 
 his wound had been accounted for and naught sus 
 pected. 
 
 Uncle Henri insisted that she go down with him 
 that morning to choose some jewels with which he de 
 sired to present her. Madame Valentine objected that 
 
 294
 
 MISTRESS JOY 295 
 
 no demoiselle went to shops, but Uncle Henri was firm. 
 Joyce, he said, was not to be bound by the rules ap 
 plicable to young French demoiselles. She was a vis 
 itor to New Orleans, and must see the shops along with 
 other sights. In the end he had his way; the volante 
 was brought around, and Joy, wearing the dress in 
 which she was to travel, was allowed to accompany 
 him. Madeleine and Ausite occupied the front seat, 
 and chattered all the way. 
 
 These volatile young cousins were dear to Joy; yet 
 sometimes, as now, their insistent gaiety jarred upon 
 her. The carriage drew up before the door of the 
 principal jeweler s establishment. These little New 
 Orleans shops were dingy as to exterior, but the wares 
 within were as fine as anything to be bought in London 
 or Paris. 
 
 As was customary, the jeweler and his assistants 
 came out to them, bringing trays of rings, chains and 
 bracelets for the inspection of the ladies. While Ausite 
 and Madeleine bent over the jewels, absorbed in assist 
 ing her selection, and their cousin tried vainly to force 
 into her manner an interest which she did not feel, a 
 pitiful-looking negro girl stole toward the carriage, 
 and, crouching on the curbstone, stared at Joyce. 
 
 One of the clerks, turning, touched the child with 
 his foot. "Have a care, Sieur Girarde," he warned. 
 "I 11 wager this black imp here is bent on theft." 
 
 "I am not," returned Lalla, indignantly. "I was 
 looking at her," and she pointed her little black fore 
 finger at Joyce. 
 
 "Well, take yourself off," said M. Girarde. "Cease 
 gaping at the lady and begone." 
 
 A porter carrying one of the jewel-trays pushed the 
 child a trifle roughly, and she fell. She sprang up 
 and turned on him like a little fury. "I will look at 
 her I will! I would rather say my prayers to her
 
 296 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 than to Madonna in the church. She knows me. She 
 will not send me away." 
 
 The party in the carriage, who had been so absorbed 
 in the choosing of Joy s souvenirs as to let this alter 
 cation pass unnoticed, were now attracted by Lalla s 
 raised tones. "What is it?" inquired Sieur Valentine. 
 "Did the child snatch one of the rings?" 
 
 "No; but I doubt not she is a thief," returned the 
 jeweler. And Lalla, protesting, was being shoved to 
 one side, when Joy s eyes fell upon her. 
 
 "Why, t is the child I saw in the market!" cried 
 she. Her heart smote her because, in the preoccupa 
 tion of her own sorrows, she had made no effort to 
 trace or help the waif. 
 
 At the sound of her voice, Lalla reached up both 
 hands and clung to the side of the volante as a drown 
 ing creature might cling to a boat s edge. "How do 
 they know," she half whispered, indicating the jeweler 
 and his assistants with a motion of her head, "that the 
 white devil says I must steal for her?" 
 
 "They do not know it," Joy reassured her. "None 
 will hurt you, child." 
 
 Then, turning to her uncle, she told him briefly of 
 the meeting with Lalla in the market, and her assertion 
 that she was a free negro and unkindly treated. And 
 she concluded, "Dear Uncle Henri, when I go back to 
 my home, the rules of my Society will not allow me to 
 wear these beautiful things which you desire to give 
 me. Will you not then, instead, allow me to help this 
 poor child? Believe me, t will be the most welcome 
 gift I could receive." 
 
 "Why," said her uncle, "for the matter of that, 
 there s no reason you should not have them both. 
 As for the rules of your church, they would permit, 
 methinks, that you should eat from silver. Your old 
 uncle may e en be reduced to filling you a dower-chest
 
 MISTRESS JOY 297 
 
 with plate if you may not wear the gewgaws. As for 
 the child, she seems an unpromising brat enough; but 
 if you say you want her, off to the sisters we go, and 
 I will buy her for you." 
 
 So much of this as she could understand was com 
 municated to Lalla. The carriage was turned and the 
 convent visited; but the sisters told Sieur Valentine 
 that the little negress was indeed ownerless, and had 
 been merely lent Madame along with Zoombi, who 
 was hired there. 
 
 The sieur drew a long face, whistled a bit, and said 
 to the waiting girls in the carriage; "Now, my lassies, 
 home with you, for papa has an errand upon which 
 he cannot take demoiselles." 
 
 Joy inquired eagerly as to the prospect of success in 
 Lalla s case, and when he admitted that he was now 
 going to call upon the woman with whom she was 
 living, she begged to go with him. 
 
 At first the sieur demurred, then entered into some 
 partial explanations. But when Joy urged that she was 
 not a resident of the town, but merely a sojourner 
 going at once away, and quoted his own arguments 
 used in regard to her seeing the shops, he laughed a 
 little like a naughty school-boy, said, "How horrified 
 your aunt will be!" and ended by sending his daugh 
 ters home and taking Joyce with him, in a hired car 
 riage. And so they called together upon Madame. 
 
 Madame s house was long, low, not imposing in ex 
 terior. Inside the furnishings were rich. The little 
 reception-room into which Joyce and her uncle were 
 shown was crowded with unnecessary furniture and 
 ornament, and when Madame herself appeared, over 
 dressed, over-jeweled and overdone in patronizing 
 suavity of manner, the picture of the woman and her 
 life was complete. 
 
 Sieur Valentine did not present his niece, but, ris-
 
 298 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ing, stated his business briefly. Joyce, overwhelmed 
 at unexpected sight of the woman who had sat beside 
 Jessop in the theater box, remained stunned and 
 speechless till her uncle came to that point in his con 
 versation where he announced : "I desire to get pos 
 session of the child, that I may give her to my niece 
 here, who hath a fancy for her, though the Lord 
 knows why." 
 
 "Your niece," repeated Madame, in her clear, over 
 bearing tones, "Mistress Joyce Valentine?" 
 
 This seemed to call for something like an introduc 
 tion, and sieur repeated : "Mistress Joyce Valentine, 
 Madame " He paused interrogatively, and Madame 
 supplied, with savage celerity, "Madame Jessop." 
 
 She looked Joyce over with the measuring glance one 
 adversary gives another when preparing for a bout at 
 wrestling. This, she felt, was no milksop miss, but a 
 woman to be reckoned with. New plans were even 
 then brewing in her mind ; but she said, with much com 
 plaisance, "Where shall I send the girl, and when?" 
 
 "To the keel-boat which leaves for Natchez this 
 afternoon. My niece goes home by it," returned the 
 sieur. 
 
 And when both, declining the hospitality of fruit 
 and cake and wine which Madame urged upon them, 
 were gone forth to the waiting carriage, she laughed 
 triumphantly to herself. "So soon driven from the 
 field so soon and easily! Aha, my Jessop! I see 
 you, and that which you represent, drifting even into 
 my hand." 
 
 Joy s departure from her uncle s home was the more 
 easily accomplished and created less stir in the house 
 hold because Orleans and his suite were upon the 
 same day embarking for Spain. "You are more for 
 tunate than I," the young duke said, in making his 
 adieus to Joyce. "You are going home, while I, fair
 
 MISTRESS JOY 299 
 
 mistress, am setting out upon travels whose end I can 
 not foresee." 
 
 "God grant there be a throne at the goal of your 
 highness s wanderings," interposed Madame Valentine, 
 fervently. 
 
 Joyce said her farewells and went her way to the 
 waiting carriage. It was necessary that her Uncle 
 Henri s family should remain for the formal leave- 
 taking with the royal party. So only Tante Sophie 
 and Celeste accompanied Joy to the landing. 
 
 Arrived at the wharf, they found Neville on his 
 horse waiting for them. His rich, dark curls were 
 pushed down to cover the strip of plaster on his temple. 
 Those wonderful eyes were all alight; the confident, 
 affectionate boy was timid and tremulous with happi 
 ness that he was permitted to be her cavalier. 
 
 Joy s luggage, of which there was a bewildering 
 amount, was properly placed. The conveyance up 
 stream was a keel-boat with sweeps, and the merchan 
 dise was therefore stowed in the hold. 
 
 When Neville had lingered to see the last chest and 
 package in place, Joy admonished for the twentieth 
 time: "Maman will be angry, cousin, if you are not 
 at the house when the duke departs. Please you to 
 hurry back." 
 
 "Joyous," he whispered, when he came to make his 
 farewells, "Luis hath made a child of me but thou 
 knowest. Wait for me, wilt not, dear heart ? Let not 
 Luis nor another persuade thee to wed ere I come." 
 
 The first touch of actual comfort and healing Joy 
 had felt came to her with the boy s words. Somebody 
 really loved her, after all. There was truth and devo 
 tion in the world. She clung to him, laughing a little, 
 it is true, yet with tears in her eyes. "O Neville," she 
 said, "you will find some one much better and more 
 suitable than I when the time comes, and I have other
 
 3 oo MISTRESS JOY 
 
 thoughts than those of marriage in my heart. But 
 just now I cannot help being glad that you feel thus 
 toward me. There will be some one after a while to 
 make you very happy." 
 
 " T is you I love, Joyous," he answered, a little re 
 proachfully, "not myself. If a holy life calls you, 
 sweet, as we have all fancied if that be your meaning 
 why, then I shall be blest if I may come and be a her 
 mit in that grove near your home." 
 
 "You are very dear to me, Neville," the girl an 
 swered, "and my heart bleeds for my other cousin. 
 You must love your brother Luis, if I am to love you." 
 
 As she spoke, the boy s eyes were humid. Across 
 his mind came the vision of that heart-shaking thing 
 which had chanced to him at sunrise. It was after 
 the fight. He had slept, his valet Cesare watching 
 over him. Suddenly he was awake; the room was 
 full of gray light. Cesare was gone. Beside his bed 
 stood Luis. No other man can be to a boy so great 
 as can his elder brother. The memory of that brother 
 kneeling, groveling, humiliated, begging for pardon, 
 still rent Neville s heart with pity and shame. 
 
 "Nay, Joyous, there is no quarrel between Luis and 
 me," he declared loyally. "You must not think, be 
 cause his hand slipped in a fencing-bout, that there was 
 any quarrel." 
 
 When Joyce, tall woman that she was, reached up to 
 proffer a good-by kiss to her six-foot boy lover, a little 
 ripple of the irrepressible fun which was always in the 
 girl flashed up. "Farewell, little cousin," she smiled. 
 "I shall come no more to New Orleans until I come 
 to dance at thy wedding. And doubt not I shall dance 
 on that blest day yea, though I have ere that become 
 a preacher of the Word, and should be cast out for so 
 doing." 
 
 Neville put aside in true man fashion the allusion to
 
 MISTRESS JOY 301 
 
 his possible marriage. "I have been urged to go into 
 the priesthood, too," he returned, and added seriously, 
 But I shall always love you, Joyous, just as now." 
 
 The delicacy, the poetry, the distance of this boy s 
 passion was balm to Joy s scorched heart. The unsel 
 fishness which asked nothing, gained much from her. 
 And though she jested again about dancing at his wed 
 ding, Neville s heart was full of pride at her loving 
 farewells.
 
 THE WORLD IN THE WILDERNESS
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 HE boat was almost ready for depart 
 ure when David Batchelor, who had 
 been detained and had in his turn de 
 tained the craft, came hurrying down 
 and boarded it. His presence brought 
 a sense of protection and comfort to 
 Joy. Yet, after he had greeted her 
 and asked if he could be of service, she saw little of 
 him till the boat was well on its way. 
 
 Zoombi had brought Lai to the landing. It was 
 evident that the parting from her former attendant was 
 full of terror to the child, yet so invincible was the 
 dignity, so stern the self-control of this little stoic, that 
 she made no outward demonstration. As the day 
 wore on, she followed her mistress about like a little 
 black shadow. 
 
 Joy sat on the prow when evening came, her sad, 
 eager eyes searching the distance before her, as though 
 their longing could bring her more swiftly to her jour 
 ney s end. 
 
 The west was a glory of purple and rose. Even the 
 widowed east, deserted by the sun, flung back a timid 
 reflection of his passing smile, and mimicked the maiden 
 blush of dawn upon the piled masses of her clouds. 
 
 Lalla crouched, a faithful silhouette, at Joy s feet. 
 The great gray cape which Zette had brought and 
 folded about her mistress as a protection from possible 
 chill in the evening air, was fallen back. Its envelop 
 ing hood had dropped from her bright hair. David, 
 20 305
 
 306 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 coming up from the boat s hold, stood looking long at 
 the picture she made against the sunset light. 
 
 He advanced, and, seating himself on the rail be 
 side her, asked : "Mistress Joyce, are you glad to be 
 going home?" 
 
 She turned upon him somberly. "Glad ?" she echoed, 
 in a low, passionate tone; "can I ever be glad of any 
 thing again ? I feel myself a leper. I am going home, 
 sir, to see if at the touch of my dear old father s hand 
 this pollution may pass from me; but I am not going 
 home in a hopeful humor." 
 
 She dropped her head, and her eyes fixed themselves 
 on the water as the prow cut slowly through it. "I 
 feel sometimes," she continued, "as though, if I had no 
 home to go to, I could find one there," and she pointed 
 down to the sullen tide beneath her. 
 
 "Is t so with you, my little friend?" asked David, 
 tenderly. "Have things gone so ill? I am grieved 
 to my heart s core." 
 
 "You are grieved !" exclaimed Joy. "Yea, and you 
 should be. T was you who tossed me down into that 
 current, sink or swim, to go clean under its black 
 waves. But for you, Father Toby had never thought 
 nor dared to do such a thing." 
 
 David neither denied nor affirmed his responsibility 
 in the matter. "Believe me," he urged, "whatever 
 wounds you, wounds me. Only I, who am a man and 
 used to suffering, would that I could bear yours for 
 you." 
 
 " T is lightly said," returned Joy. "Men can nei 
 ther bear, nor know, the sufferings women must go 
 through. I think, Master Batchelor, that you were 
 rash in your advice to my father. I give you this 
 grace, that I believe you knew not what you did." 
 
 "Nay," demurred David, "give me no such grace as 
 that. I knew all that I did, and yet I risked it."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 307 
 
 }oy looked at him with wonderment. "Did you 
 guess," she began, in a half whisper, "that I should 
 walk with erring, sinful feet into a place where there 
 was neither God nor duty? Did you know that all 
 my old, sure faith would crumble from me, and did 
 you believe that in the end I should find this fruit of 
 worldly pleasure, so blooming to the sight, but dust 
 and ashes, so that my mouth was filled with bit 
 terness?" 
 
 A quiet light came into David s face as she spoke. 
 "I hoped so," he answered, smilingly; and then Joy 
 turned upon him. 
 
 "You hoped so?" she cried. "Have you not ruth 
 nor pity, sir? Think you t is well to put your fellow- 
 creatures to the torture? Aye, torture sharper than 
 the rack or thumb-screw; for while those hurt only 
 the perishing body, this is the pangs of hell laid hold 
 upon the soul. And know you, sir learn all your 
 work I feel now sometimes that there is neither hope, 
 nor love, nor trust, nor purity left in me. I am not 
 only soiled and fouled by these things, but all the fabric 
 of that which was irry spiritual life is wrecked away 
 from me. I seem to see myself a shivering, naked, deso 
 late soul, adrift upon a spar in the ocean of doubt, and 
 not one kindly beam of hope. This was your doing; 
 and you say, now it is done, you like the work. You 
 think t was bravely done. Well, mayhap. Nothing 
 that used to be is as it was. Perchance my father will 
 come down to the water s edge and revile me, or, when 
 I reach the cabin, will drive me with hard words from 
 his door. All things seem possible, since what hath 
 been." 
 
 David was silent so long, searching for an answer 
 which might be helpful, that Joy, turned once more to 
 her moody contemplation of the water, had quite for 
 gotten his presence. The black child crouching beside
 
 3o8 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 her comprehended little of what passed, yet she pushed 
 nearer to her mistress s skirts, and, taking the hand 
 which hung nerveless at Joy s side, caressed it softly, 
 not kissing, but stroking it with a light, tender motion, 
 as though it were a bird. 
 
 Presently David, having set his thoughts a bit in 
 order, began with some little hesitation : "I doubt, my 
 sister, if you are quite ready to hear this thing which 
 I must say to you, and yet it cannot now be left un 
 said. See, dear to my soul, I found you nearly ten 
 years agone, a pearl dropped here in the wilderness 
 we will not say cast before swine, for our good folk 
 should not be so called, but we will say uncompre- 
 hended, for that you were. Those things which are 
 your chiefest virtues were like, in the narrow beliefs 
 of our Society, to be named failings, to be even called 
 deadly sin. Ah, little Joy, I had, myself, won through 
 even such a pass. I brought a sore heart with me into 
 this retreat. Through my suffering I found great 
 peace. Yet I had lost the love of some whose love was 
 much to me, and I had made some grave mistakes, from 
 which t was my thought, if the time should ever come, 
 I would try, as best might be, to shield you." 
 
 The thought that David Batchelor, always simply 
 one of the pleasant but prosaic facts of her life, had 
 been thus concerned for her was new to Joy, and some 
 what softened her mood. "Forgive me if I spoke has 
 tily to you," she murmured. 
 
 "Nay, Joy, between you and me there will, I trust, 
 never be question of wounding or forgiveness. I saw, 
 dear, long ago that the strait creed which was your 
 father s could never bind your spiritual life as it will 
 not, in the end, bind the life of the Society itself. I 
 watched with anxiety nay, with terror as I saw you 
 full of zeal to become a preacher of the Word, who had 
 not yet tried your own soul."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 39 
 
 Joy hung her head, and blushed for shame. "I was 
 a presumptuous fool," she said bitterly, "who thought 
 to teach others, when she herself did sorely need 
 teaching." 
 
 "Only young, dear heart, with the beautiful confi 
 dence of youth, which needs must lead aright, though 
 oft by difficult paths. You have in you, Joy, the soul 
 of a poet and a warrior, too," he added, smiling a 
 little. " T is a richly dowered nature. Every fairy 
 who came to your christening gave you much, and the 
 last mischievous one brought nothing which to my 
 eyes was a fault. She simply set you, dear, in such 
 surroundings that your best gifts from the other fairies 
 had well been misunderstood misprized. 
 
 "When Jessop came " 
 
 Joy sprang to her feet. "Speak not of him!" she 
 cried. "I cannot bear it. You do not know. Oh, 
 never mention him to me again!" She wrung her 
 hands together, and, turning from him, walked the 
 length of the deck, past the piles of merchandise, 
 among the groups of passengers, Lalla slipping in her 
 wake, a fold of the white dress between her little black 
 fingers. 
 
 When Joy came back her face, though pale, was 
 quite calm. "Well, what of Master Jessop?" she 
 asked quietly. 
 
 "When he came," resumed David, "and I knew, as 
 I did almost immediately, of his lineage, when I found 
 the man one to charm a maid, I thought perchance that- 
 other half of your bright nature would come upper 
 most, and you, who might be almost anything you 
 chose, become a great lady, reconciling this young 
 prodigal to his own people." 
 
 Joy s face was hard and cold. It had softened much 
 during her conversation with David, but these words 
 brought back all her former bitterness. "The man is
 
 310 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 already wed. Let us not speak of him. T is naught 
 to me whether he be wedded or no. T was only one 
 thing among the many. Methinks that you can tell me, 
 without bringing Master Jessop in, why you were fain 
 to have me put to the torture. Can you not do so? 
 He is no longer part of anything for me." 
 
 "We cannot say that of the past, and make it true, 
 however fain," demurred David. "As I say, when I 
 thought such was to be your future when Jessop came 
 to me and voiced his love for you, and begged my 
 intercession " 
 
 "Did he do so?" interrupted Joy, with cool con 
 tempt. "I wonder why he did?" 
 
 "Then," David continued, "I began to fear that, tak 
 ing up a life so different from the one to which your 
 youth was trained, you might find, when the thing 
 was irrevocable, that it had been the wrong thing. 
 And believing, as I do, that all souls must be proved 
 yea," in answer to her look of inquiry, "proved in the 
 torture. If they be such souls as yours or mine they 
 must have torture, they wring it from the common 
 affairs of life believing this, I advised your father 
 as I did. 
 
 "And, Joy," he added softly, "I am not sorry. Be 
 hold, dear, though you know it not, an ill thing hath 
 done you only good, and you will build upon founda 
 tion stones hewn by the strong hands of this pain and 
 doubt a new Joyce Valentine, who shall be better than 
 the old, wiser, broader, a tower of strength, a. very 
 present help in time of trouble to all about her." 
 
 "Think you so?" asked Joy, wearily. "I only know 
 that now I am in an oozy sea of unfaith and horror, 
 and that I think I never shall get back to mine old 
 foothold." 
 
 "Nay, that you never may. God grant you never 
 shall. We must go forward in this world, dear heart,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 3" 
 
 not back to childish things ; and when you find a better 
 place to stand, a higher outlook on this world of ours, 
 you will not regret the past." 
 
 In the long days and nights which followed, these 
 matters were not mentioned between the two. By 
 mutual understanding they were dropped, and David, 
 for the diversion of the heart-weary girl, drew upon 
 stores of entertainment unguessed by her. 
 
 He had indeed been a soldier, had traveled widely, 
 and was well read. But most grateful of all to poor 
 Joy at this time, he had a strong and restful person 
 ality, not ruffled by every little gust of adverse opinion, 
 but bearing steadily and calmly toward his purposes. 
 
 Batchelor s hold on those with whom he came in 
 close contact was very marked. He laid no conscious 
 finger upon any creature. It was the srze and poise of 
 the man. Lesser, weaker, more easily moved natures 
 were held by this and by the impression that he gave of 
 reserve force, feeling, stored knowledge, which might 
 at need be disclosed and made available. Finally, the 
 attraction, the drawing power was that conjectured in 
 ner sanctuary from which a suave immobility barred 
 the merely curious. 
 
 Jessop s attraction, equally strong, was manifested 
 along the lighter, more ephemeral lines of fascination. 
 The charm of the two men represented the subjective 
 and the objective, the lasting and the impermanent. 
 
 Joy and David sang together, as they had been wont 
 to sing in the little meeting-house at home. Madame 
 Valentine would have held, and Joyce while under her 
 influence, that finding upon the boat an unmarried man 
 with whom she was well acquainted, she should scarce 
 speak to him all the long journey through. But the girl 
 was already back in a clearer, freer atmosphere. Upon 
 a craft like this, with the necessary publicity of all one s 
 daily living, there was chaperonage enough, as she well
 
 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 knew, to satisfy Father Tobias; and, even so, she was 
 growing to the stature when satisfying Joyce Valen 
 tine in such matters was sufficient. 
 
 "I wonder much," she said one day to David, "that 
 you, with all your love of freedom, joined yourself to 
 our Society." 
 
 "Why, look you," he responded, laughing a little, 
 "I have not bound myself even there. T was the best 
 to be had. I was done with the old creeds. There is 
 a purity and uprightness among the followers of this 
 new faith which draws me to them; but, as I say, I 
 have not bound myself, nor shall till the life be broader, 
 holding more of God s love than now it doth." 
 
 Something of the old Joy was coming back, or was 
 it the beginnings of that new Joy which David so con 
 fidently predicted? She turned and laughed. "Mas 
 ter Batchelor," she quoth, "with all your caution, all 
 your determination to be free, how will you ever wed ?" 
 
 "When the time comes," returned David, with un 
 expected gravity, "if come it ever does, t will be the 
 one bondage sweet to me." 
 
 And somehow, though the words were said in most 
 impersonal fashion, and not one glance made any 
 nearer application of them, Joy found herself blushing, 
 and turned her head to hide this strange embarrass 
 ment. 
 
 If the Joyce Valentine who traveled back over that 
 route which she had come months before was a new 
 creature, it surely seemed to her that she had met with 
 a new David Batchelor. Always a man to command 
 admiration, she now saw him one to win love. 
 
 Once, in a rare moment of confidence, David spoke 
 to the girl of his people and his home in Scotland. "I 
 come of a line of ecclesiastics, Joy," he said "Scotch 
 Covenanters, proud of their blood as any princes 
 proud with that pride which apes humility. Daring
 
 MISTRESS JOY 313 
 
 to think for myself, I would fain, when I came to man s 
 estate, have lived in harmony with them without sub 
 scribing fully to their creed even as I do with our 
 Society at Natchez." 
 
 "And you could not?" 
 
 " T was not to be. I loved them, but not their 
 creed. They could not permit me to distinguish in 
 the matter. I gave my world, as it then stood, for 
 freedom. I have always thought it well lost." 
 
 There were whole days when the black waters went 
 over Joy s soul; then nothing, not even his voice, 
 reached her. At such times she sat on the boat edge, 
 staring at the river, and begged to be let alone. How 
 ever Zette s ministrations might be rejected, Lalla al 
 ways crouched beside Joy, and if she could gain a 
 moment s recognition, would sing or talk to her young 
 mistress. 
 
 It was then Joy learned from the child all the de 
 tails of her life in that bright, never-forgotten past. 
 A desolation so much greater than her own, sent upon 
 one so young, and borne with such fortitude, shamed 
 her to once more trying heartily. 
 
 She learned, too, from Lalla numerous Latin prayers 
 and chants. David found her one evening humming 
 these over, and corrected here and there her Latin 
 phrases. Then, joining his voice to hers, they sat and 
 sang for near an hour. 
 
 "Veni, Creator, spiritus 
 Mentes tuorum visita," 
 
 rang the sonorous words across the water. 
 
 Joy looked at David, and smiled a little ruefully. 
 "Master Batchelor, she asked, "are you leading me 
 farther astray? We both know right well what the 
 Society would think of these Popish chantings."
 
 3 J 4 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Nay," returned David, "we are neither of us, 
 surely, doing any ill. Examine your own heart, Mis 
 tress Joyce. Doth it not tell you that these songs 
 speak also of God, even as do our Methody hymns? 
 Yea, and the day shall come when our own Society, 
 reared to a mighty church, grown to that stature which 
 its truth deserves, will not despise any form of earnest 
 worship." 
 
 "Think you so?" inquired Joy, doubtfully. She 
 was yet a child in some things, and the immutability 
 of the laws her elders made was still one of her prime 
 beliefs. "Why, that would be heaven, indeed. Could 
 I but take the hand of those once in spiritual accord 
 with me, and say to them, Such and such things have 
 I done which were wrong, and of them I do repent me ; 
 I freely renounce them ; I will do them no more. But 
 such other things also have I done, of which I do not 
 repent, because they are not wrong, though ye have 
 condemned them, if I could do that, Master Batche- 
 lor, and they would not cast me out, I think I could 
 take up my life once more and live it." 
 
 " T is too much to expect," murmured David, wist 
 fully. "I would that I could spare her, but the time 
 is not yet ripe. They will not fellowship her now, 
 and yet He turned to Joy. "This thing of meet 
 ing the Society, of facing all that you have done, 
 t will come to you how it shall be. You are much 
 beloved, Joy; if you go back, saying no \vord of all 
 these things, methinks no word will be said to you 
 in return. Your father s daughter may not be re 
 proved, nor disciplined, nor cast out. What think 
 you ? Can you do it ?" 
 
 Joy looked at him in wonderment. "Do that?" she 
 cried. "Sneak back into the fold? Wouldst have 
 me? W T hy, if t were good for me to know and do 
 these things which I have done, t is surely well I
 
 MISTRESS JOY 315 
 
 go back and tell of them, and take such sentence as is 
 imposed. Is it not well to do so ? Is it not?" 
 
 "It is," he answered. "God grant you patience in 
 the doing. Patience, my fiery friend, t is all you lack. 
 
 God grant it you, God keep you, and God bless you! 
 j 
 
 He turned away with something left unspoken, came 
 back, and said : "To-morrow we shall be home, Mis 
 tress Joy, or so the captain hopes. To-morrow sees 
 the beginning of this fight. I will not come to you 
 unless you send for me; but I will hope that, having 
 any need the lightest you will send. Will you do 
 so ?" Joy promised, and the next day s noon saw them 
 near Natchez. 
 
 Father Tobias was waiting at the landing. His ten 
 der acceptance of Joy as the same child he had left at 
 his brother s house in New Orleans was to her inex 
 pressibly touching. She laughed fondly at his trou 
 bled wonder over her two black waiting-women, her 
 fine attire, and apparently endless luggage. 
 
 "Ah, Father Toby, Father Toby !" she said. "Thou 
 wilt find thy Joy changed in more matters than those 
 of worldly prosperity and worldly attire." 
 
 "Why, now I look at you," returned Father Tobias, 
 a little anxiously, "this frock you wear t is mon 
 strous pretty, dear heart, do not think I criticize it 
 would surely bring you under discipline." 
 
 The boat had landed to discharge Mistress Joy and 
 her parcels at the little wharf near the cabin, and six 
 miles from Natchez as the river ran. There was none 
 to see them, none to remark upon the offending gown, 
 and Father Tobias, who found he must supplement his 
 one bullock-cart with some more commodious means 
 of transportation if he would get Joy s boxes to the 
 house before nightfall, bade her go on with David, and 
 himself would follow when he could.
 
 316 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 To this Master Batchelor would not consent, but, 
 sending them ahead, and giving Lai and Zette what 
 they could comfortably carry, himself set about the 
 transportation of Joy s baggage. 
 
 Who that has been young, gone from home to finer 
 things, and then returned, does not remember the dizzy 
 sense of unreality which comes when these familiar be 
 longings are seen once more with that new vision got 
 ten out in the world ? Was the house always so small ? 
 Has it not shrunk? Is it possible that we lived all 
 these years lacking so many necessary things, and 
 never knew it? Why, calling up with difficulty the 
 self we were before we went away, we can remember 
 that we thought these strange, small, dark, unfriendly 
 things part of the eternal verities. And now we are 
 come back, there are no verities; and the strangeness 
 which lay upon the world outside, when we first met 
 it, has stolen back to face us here. 
 
 As she stepped through the cabin doorway, Joy felt 
 an impulse to bend her head. The portals of her uncle s 
 mansion were tall enough to admit a man on horse 
 back, and most of them were so wide that a coach could 
 have been driven through; and the great, white, lofty 
 ceilings gave a sense of space and freedom. These 
 low rafters of her father s roof closed down above her 
 head so that for a moment she felt a resentful sense 
 of being shut away beneath it from what was beautiful 
 and bright and high. 
 
 But this bewildered feeling was scarcely more than 
 momentary. The bullock-cart followed them close. 
 Lai, under Zette s direction, was busy helping place its 
 freight. 
 
 Joy, finding that Faithful had usurped the hearth 
 stone entirely and driven Satan out, flew to the door 
 to call her pet. Then on to the fowl-yard to greet its 
 feathered citizens, and so to the cow-lot, where Father
 
 MISTRESS JOY 317 
 
 Tobias found her, her arms around the neck of the 
 Devon heifer, receiving bovine sympathy and caresses. 
 
 Finally, recalled to the cabin, she found that Zette 
 had opened the dower-chest of silver, and also one of 
 fine linen her aunt s gift. "Only zat mamzelle shall 
 see im before Zette put im away," urged the negress. 
 David, coming in with a second load, found Father 
 Tobias rather more distressed than pleased as he 
 watched Joy examine these gifts. She had not seen 
 them before, and her housewifely soul could but de 
 light in them, while a few belated, frost-bitten doubts 
 as to the righteousness of such delight poor little off 
 spring of lifelong habit limped sadly in the rear. 
 
 When David was gone, and the two negresses in the 
 kitchen preparing the evening meal, Father Toby put 
 a bewildered hand to his head. "Methinks, daughter 
 Joy," he said, "that you have brought with you a very 
 considerable portion of that world which you went 
 forth to see." 
 
 Yes, father," returned Joy, lovingly and gravely, 
 "I have brought the visible sign and token of it, and I 
 fear you may think that I have brought more of it in 
 my heart." 
 
 "A preacher of the Word," suggested the old man 
 gently, "should not wear that which will bring her 
 under the discipline." The offending gown had not 
 been removed. 
 
 "Father dear," answered Joy, "I hope it may not 
 wound you that is the one thing for which I now 
 care; but I have not one garment in my boxes the 
 wearing of which would not bring me under dis 
 cipline." 
 
 "I fear I much fear," said Father Tobias, sadly, 
 " t was a great mistake for you to go. You were too 
 young. You should not have been subjected to this 
 test."
 
 318 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Nay," returned Joy, firmly, and then for the first 
 time the meaning of it all unrolled itself before her. 
 She realized what was coming to her out of its turmoil 
 and distress. She saw with David Batchelor s eyes. 
 She knew now why he advised the thing, and she added 
 simply: 
 
 "Father Toby, if I am not disciplined but I shall 
 be, of course I shall myself ask the Society to con 
 sider my case. I want to speak to them in the meeting 
 house, dear there where I presumptuously believed I 
 was called upon to preach the Word and tell them of 
 my experience." 
 
 "That may not be," returned Father Tobias. " T is 
 not allowed. But Joy little Joy my little daughter," 
 he added, his voice breaking suddenly, "you have surely 
 done naught which would bring you before your class." 
 
 Joy was kneeling at his knees as they talked. He 
 took her face between his hands, and gazed into it with 
 wistful tenderness. " T is the same face," he mur 
 mured, "as dear and pure but high-couraged. Are 
 you sure, my dear, that you do not in this matter mis 
 take for a prompting of the spirit some feeling of re 
 sentment at that yoke which we all must wear ? I had 
 my times, daughter when I was young and perchance 
 too full of fiery zeal when I would have disputed 
 with the very founders of the church. That s youth, 
 dear; t is naught else. Consider well, daughter, be 
 fore you speak of these matters to to others than 
 your old father, who loves you and who understands." 
 
 "I will, father," agreed Joy, briefly. "I will con 
 sider. I have thought of naught else since first this 
 thing came upon me ; but I promise you to do nothing 
 rash; and, most of all, I long to spare my dear, dear 
 old father any pang."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 |T fell upon the morning following Joy s 
 return that Father Tobias set out for 
 one of the near-by stations of his cir 
 cuit. The cheerful serenity of his 
 daughter s bearing entirely reassured 
 him, and he bade her good-by with 
 no further apprehensions. 
 Immediately her- father was gone, Joy turned as one 
 to a definite aim. She began, with Zette, to set the 
 house in very spotless order. Soon, leaving the ne- 
 gress to complete the work, she took her way down a 
 wild little thread of path to the hut of an Indian 
 woman, a mile beyond Father Tobias s cabin. She 
 was seeking Tohopeka, that she might send a message 
 to David Batchelor, bidding him to her at once. 
 
 June had breathed full and warm upon the Southern 
 land, and all sweet, wild things ripened into richer life 
 under her magic. Joy looked about her wistfully. 
 Her home country had never seemed so beautiful to 
 her; the birds had never sung with so much rapture; 
 the sky had never been so blue. Spring was over. It 
 was the royal outburst of lusty summer, and her heart 
 rose to it. Despite the deep waters through which 
 she had passed nay, the more for them Joy Valen 
 tine still stood for all the goodliness of youth and faith 
 and the unshaken hopefulness of living. 
 
 The little, thready path now left the open pasture, 
 with its straggling growth and burning heat, and con 
 ducted her to some bars, through which she stepped al- 
 
 319
 
 322 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Doyce dot a pitty coat," he announced promptly. 
 "Reasie love Doyce much." 
 
 " T is ever thus the younger and more frivolous 
 of mankind are snared," commented David, with mirth 
 ful eyes. 
 
 When she was seated, and Reasie, with Lalla in tow, 
 gone to display some childish treasure, Joy had time 
 to look about her at certain changes which had been 
 made in the room since last she saw it. 
 
 "Why, David," she commented, having come, dur 
 ing the intimacy of their long journey up, to use his 
 name familiarly, "meseems I am not the only one 
 who hath a leaning toward the flesh-pots of beauty and 
 luxury." 
 
 "That are you not," rejoined David, heartily. "And 
 yet, Joy t is the strangest thing to me I knew not 
 fully how I lacked for these things till I saw you amid 
 a worldly setting." 
 
 "Am I leading you astray?" she murmured, a little 
 troubled, and then she laughed, in the safe, comfort 
 able assurance that here was a soul she could not lead 
 or, leading in the least, could only lead aright. 
 
 Now she put forward that request which she had 
 come to make, that he would help her to have the 
 class take action upon her case before her father s 
 return. 
 
 "These friends of mine must know me as I am," 
 she said. "Then, if they cast me out " Her voice 
 failed a little at the thought. 
 
 "Why, if they cast you out," supplied David, smil 
 ing, though with some serious meaning in his tones, 
 " t will be into the limbo where I am. Hast ever 
 thought of that, Joy?" 
 
 Joy flashed one of her old, quick smiles at him. 
 "Yea, so t is," she said. "I never think of it. You 
 seem so one of us and not the least. But, after all,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 323 
 
 were I cast out I should but be where you remain by 
 choice." 
 
 The thought appeared to comfort her. She made 
 request of David that he go to the leader of her class, 
 explain to him her desire for discipline, and ask that 
 the class meet in her father s house the following 
 morning. 
 
 "I so much want to have them all hear, David," 
 she added ; "but father declares I may not be judged in 
 the meeting-house. Will you not beg brother Am 
 brose Gibson that I may have as many of the Society 
 bidden to come as be willing to attend? Believe me, 
 t is not in the spirit of one who flaunts what she hath 
 done, or who desires to offend." 
 
 "Surely," returned David, "I know that, and am in 
 heartiest accord with your wish in this. I will do all 
 I can to have this matter arranged as you ask. And I 
 will come betimes to tell you how I speed." 
 
 As they took their way homeward, the child gathered 
 armfuls of tall ferns, woodland blossoms, and fra 
 grant leaves. Joyce remembered, with a sort of pa 
 tient wonder at the blackness of her ignorance in times 
 past, that she would once have thought the decking of 
 a house with such things folly, if not sin. Now, when 
 Lalla said to her, "Can you reach the big, white flow 
 ers, Madonna? Lalla would take some back home 
 to make the house beautiful," Joy went back with the 
 child along the path, and when they came, in the grove, 
 to a young magnolia-tree well laden with fine blos 
 soms, she broke an arm-load of the great, creamy 
 things, each white chalice in a setting of shining green, 
 and gave them to Lai to carry on before, while she 
 should follow at her leisure. 
 
 Her purpose, at first scarce formulated, was now 
 taking complete shape in her mind. Most of all things 
 on earth, the natural Joyce Valentine craved love. Yet,
 
 324 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 to have a love which was given her mistakenly, which 
 would have been denied her had she been fully under 
 stood, this was what her honesty could not brook. 
 
 "They shall know all," she said to herself; "yes, 
 know and realize it as fully as I can make them. 
 Then, if after that they have the heart to love me, I 
 shall know that God can love me, too." 
 
 Through the fabric of Joy s courage, both moral and 
 physical, there had run always an odd little feminine 
 thread of shrinking. She was afraid of small, creep 
 ing things. An inch-worm on her gown would set her 
 shuddering, when a panther s cry from the cane-brake 
 could not stir the color in her cheek, nor bring her 
 heart s beat a second faster. Now, with a sudden in 
 take of breath, she noted, glancing down at the path, 
 a brown caterpillar making his slow and devious way 
 across just where she would have set her foot. 
 
 She stopped short, and stood looking down thought 
 fully at the furry atom. "Art thou, too, adrift in a 
 world too big for thee, little brother ?" she asked softly, 
 and knelt to examine the worm more closely. The 
 hairs upon it were golden at their roots, changing at 
 the tips to jet. "How beautiful it is !" she whispered. 
 "Why, I never dreamed one of the things could be 
 beautiful !" 
 
 Across her mind came the text, "Perfect love cast- 
 eth out fear." "I shall never be afraid of them again." 
 And then, noticing the little creature questing and 
 changing his path, she said, "Who knows what long 
 ings for love animate this tiny frame?" and reached 
 down a tentative forefinger to stroke the worm gently. 
 
 "God bless you," she said. "God send you may find 
 that for which you seek ;" then Joy arose, and her heart 
 was lightened, for she had received as well as bestowed 
 a blessing. 
 
 Arrived at the cabin, she found that her new waiting-
 
 MISTRESS JOY 325 
 
 woman had made some very considerable alteration in 
 its appearance. Following the plans to which she had 
 been trained, the negress had attempted to beautify its 
 plain interior as much as possible, and Lalla, whose 
 flowers, much to her joy, had not been rejected, was 
 now bunching them into bouquets, preparatory to filling 
 the few cups and bowls which she had been able to 
 gather together for the purpose. 
 
 "Now, Zette," called Joy, in high, cheerful tones, 
 "let us bring out the best we have, and put the house 
 en fete" 
 
 The woman was nothing loath. She assisted in 
 opening the great chests and packing-cases, which had 
 come with them the day before, and which had mostly 
 been stowed in a little shed adjoining the cabin. Out 
 of these they drew stores of bright-colored draperies, 
 rugs, and fine linen spreads rich with needlework and 
 lace. All the silver in Joy s dower-chest was brought 
 out. 
 
 The plain old deal table upon which she had made 
 her bread for years was carried in from the kitchen, 
 and, trimmed with scarfs, set forth with silver, was 
 converted into a buffet. 
 
 When they had done, the room was indeed trans 
 formed. There were some glaring incongruities, but 
 yet the changes they had made would serve to typify 
 to her friends, as Joy intended they should, the change 
 in herself. 
 
 While they were yet working, steps sounded with 
 out, and David Batchelor s tall form stood in the 
 doorway. He looked about him with approval, then 
 came straight to where Joy stood; taking both her 
 hands, he said, "That s my brave girl. I knew that 
 you would meet it even as it should be met." 
 
 "I longed for you, at first," Joy answered, "to prop 
 my failing courage, supposing it should fail; but,
 
 326 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 David, I find my spirit mounts as I go on in this. I 
 know I must be right. T would not be so if I were 
 wrong." 
 
 "Yes," returned David, with much content; "do 
 you so ? Then all is well with you. Not my approval, 
 nor that of another, is needed." 
 
 "Can you be here?" she asked, a little wistfully, as 
 David prepared to go, after telling her that her class 
 and as many more of the Society as she should bid him 
 notify would meet with her on the following afternoon. 
 
 "That may not be, dear heart," he answered her. "I 
 belong to no class. My spirit will be with thee, not 
 anxiously, for I know that all you do will be well 
 done, but full of pride in you." 
 
 Next morning, and till long after noon, the opening 
 of the heavy boxes, the sorting and placing of the 
 beautiful articles which they contained, many of which 
 Joy now saw for the first time, kept both women oc 
 cupied. 
 
 Since Joy could remember, time had been told in 
 Father Tobias s cabin by a noon-mark upon the kitchen 
 floor. Now she wound, afterward setting it by this 
 same noon-mark, a great ormolu clock of rococo de 
 sign, and placed it upon the mantel-board. When its 
 gilded hands pointed the quarter before two, she went 
 to make certain alterations in her dress. 
 
 She decided not to put on, as she had at first thought 
 of doing, a ball gown. That would be foolish, would 
 look defiant, and belie her. She would wear just such 
 a frock as she had been wont to wear for afternoons 
 there in her uncle s house just such a frock as she 
 considered a gentlewoman ought to wear who was 
 young and fair, and who cared enough for beauty to 
 desire to set off properly so much as God had given 
 her. 
 
 One of the gifts which came in her well-filled coffers
 
 MISTRESS JOY 327 
 
 was a Venetian mirror. This was hung above the 
 small, rude toilet-table in her little attic room. And 
 when Mistress Joy had finished dressing before it, she 
 turned and went down the steep stair to the room 
 below. 
 
 Her foot had not reached the last step when the 
 clock chimed out the hour of two in clear, thin tones, 
 and after it the little music-box which was connected 
 with the mechanism set off upon a merry dance-tune. 
 
 At the same instant Sister Longanecker, with the 
 inevitable Patience close following, reached the door. 
 Up went both hands; her mouth was open, but words 
 failed her. T was perhaps because she was deprived, 
 on this occasion, of the opportunity to tell what Pa 
 tience said to her; for Patience, hanging back, merely 
 glared with those light-blue, protruding eyes of hers, 
 and, like her mother, was quite dumb. 
 
 "Come in," called Joy. "I am right glad to see 
 you." She went forward, took a hand of each, and 
 drew them, in an almost cataleptic state, into the room. 
 
 They stared about it, and then at Joy s unusual 
 attire. Finally Sister Loving, whose usual small, pip 
 ing tones were quite inadequate to the occasion brought 
 out in thundering bass, "What does Pastor Tobias 
 say to all this ? What does it mean ? Have ye turned 
 Papist, Joyce Valentine, and set up an altar here in 
 your father s house?" 
 
 It was the buffet which had called forth this last. 
 Joyce answered all these queries in one, as she replied : 
 "I have called you here, dear Sister Loving, along with 
 the others, that I may tell you exactly what it all doth 
 mean." 
 
 As they spoke, other members of the Society pre 
 sented themselves, were welcomed by Joyce, and took 
 their places silently upon the seats prepared for them. 
 
 The men, after their first look at the untoward deco-
 
 328 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ration of the room, kept their eyes down-dropped, as 
 though they feared contamination from the sight. But 
 the women, more curious or more attracted by their 
 unusual surroundings, kept stealing glances now and 
 then, though evidently half ashamed to do so. 
 
 The next batch of arrivals brought Brother Am 
 brose Gibson, leader of Joy s class. He paid slight 
 heed to the reception which had been prepared for 
 them, but took her aside for speech. 
 
 "This is a most unusual proceeding, Sister Joyce," 
 he said. "I know not but that I do ill to accede to 
 your request. Why do we not wait till your father, 
 our beloved pastor, is at home? I earnestly conjure 
 you to do so." 
 
 Joy shook her head. " T was to spare him all I 
 might," she answered, "that I chose this day of his 
 absence. Are we not all brothers and sisters here? 
 Is there aught but loving-kindness in any of your 
 hearts toward me? Why should I need my father s 
 protection against you?" 
 
 Silenced, but not convinced, the good old man went 
 back into the room and took his station with the others. 
 The class was now almost fully assembled, and Joy 
 arose before them, prepared to speak. As she did so, 
 the clock reached the half hour. 
 
 Again, following the stroke, came a little, chiming, 
 lilting bit of dance music. She paused uncertainly. 
 Most of the women listened with ill-concealed delight, 
 but Brother Hamtramck s rasping voice inquired, "Can 
 you not silence that ungodly instrument, Sister Joyce?" 
 
 Outside the window a mocking-bird on a blossom 
 ing spray, atilt in the wind, was pouring out his soul 
 in a mad ecstasy of music. 
 
 As the last note of the clock chime ceased, and left the 
 bird-song more insistently audible, Joy lifted a warn 
 ing finger. "Shall we not silence both, brother?" she
 
 MISTRESS JOY 329 
 
 asked gently. "God hath, it seems, choristers who do 
 not sing hymns only." 
 
 There being no reply, she went on : "I have called 
 you here, my friends, because there are matters which 
 must be settled betwixt us. I feel myself an offend 
 ing member of our Society, and I desire to be ques 
 tioned and disciplined." 
 
 "As I have been telling our sister, this is not 
 seemly," interrupted Ambrose Gibson. "The govern 
 ment of our Society provides that an offending mem 
 ber be first dealt with by the pastor, or by some elder 
 or class leader, and that privately. We have no wish 
 to be unduly harsh. If our sister here, being thus 
 dealt with in private, promise amendment, saying she 
 hath been in fault, that is all the letter of our law de 
 mands ; then the fault is washed away ; it is as though 
 it had not been. Even if for a time she refuse such 
 acknowledgment and atonement, but yet press not this 
 open disagreement upon us, surely our loving-kindness 
 is sufficient to pardon the error." He looked entreat- 
 ingly about him. This most zealous young member 
 of his class was very dear to the old man s soul. 
 
 "I pray you," returned Joy, more firmly than be 
 fore, "do not use undue gentleness toward me. Re 
 member I am that one who felt called upon who be 
 lieved she had a genuine call to preach the Word. 
 Surely, if I be in error, my fault is greater than 
 the fault of another. I earnestly desire to be ques 
 tioned." 
 
 And though the class leader still deprecated the too 
 public occasion which made it appear that they were 
 using excessive severity toward a sister whom they all 
 loved, he finally, and with manifest reluctance, put the 
 question, "Have you worn ribbons or other gauds un- 
 suited to a member of the Society?" 
 
 For answer, Joy pointed to the gown she wore, a
 
 330 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 flowered muslin, bound and looped with ribbons of 
 tabbied silk. 
 
 "But you do repent of that?" urged the old man, 
 eagerly. "You will put off such unseemly wear?" 
 
 "Yea," answered Joy, smiling, "when the trees in 
 springtime put off their joyous beauty of green leaves 
 and wear instead repentant gray; when the flowers 
 are all dyed in somber hues, and the noonday sky is 
 black instead of blue then, brother, I shall see in it 
 God s command that I go sadly all my days, then shall 
 I know that beautiful apparel is a snare." 
 
 From this drowning rush of heretical eloquence the 
 elder sought refuge in the mere form of the discipline ; 
 and, "Have you indulged in worldly pleasures to the 
 injury of your soul?" his hesitant voice went on, 
 through cadences of helpless wonder and mild per 
 suasion. 
 
 "In worldly pleasures? yes," answered Joy. "Such 
 things as I have been wont most to condemn, those 
 have I done. I have danced." 
 
 There was a perceptible stir among her hearers ; Sis 
 ter Loving moaned aloud. 
 
 "Aye," went on Joy, "I learned to dance, most pain 
 fully. To theaters have I been, and to races. Such 
 music as you heard but now, and found so unpleas- 
 ing, is only a little echo of those sounds to which I 
 have been listening entranced. But, for the further 
 part of your questioning, whether I did these things 
 to the hurt of mine own soul, I doubt it. For all of 
 them, I were, perchance, no whit the worse. The fault 
 I would confess to you, though you do not question me 
 of it, is that, for a time, I put these worldly pleasures 
 and successes above the welfare of my spirit; I forgot 
 to read the Word, I left off praying. I found not in 
 his commandments my delight ; and when trouble came 
 upon me, and shame and humiliation of spirit, they
 
 MISTRESS JOY 331 
 
 found me afar from the shelter of God s love. All 
 these things I did and suffered; and, having proved 
 them bitter in the end, I humbly repented of them. I 
 could not fall into that snare again. 
 
 "But ye must know the new Joyce Valentine who 
 hath come home to you. There is an inward and spir 
 itual man, who more doth signify than this outward 
 and visible. And this Joyce, whose outward show 
 calls for your censure, she hath, beneath the ribbon of 
 disobedience, a larger heart to love her kind withal. 
 T is now like our Savior s own acquainted with 
 grief. And since, even like his, it knows the sorrows 
 and pains and weaknesses of this our human frame, it 
 can never again shut its doors to arty brother s need. 
 Nor can it ever come back to be so narrow that it can 
 hold but our Society. I have e en been inside a Catho 
 lic church. Oh, yes," in answer to a sort of groan 
 which went up from her hearers, "I went there with 
 those whom I loved. They are Catholics. They went 
 to the confessional. And in mine own dark hour, when 
 I had done so ill that God s face was hid from me, I, 
 too, w r ent there." 
 
 "Went to confessional?" thundered one of the old 
 men. 
 
 "Yea," replied Joyce, "even to confessional. I did 
 confess me to their priest. And he, Brother Ambrose, 
 gave me as good advice as you or any mortal man 
 could give. All his words seemed to bring God nearer 
 to me." She paused a moment. "And in the end he 
 blessed me." 
 
 "A Popish practice," muttered Brother Dunn. 
 
 There fell a long silence. The men had plucked up 
 spirit to look about them. Keziah Hamtramck nudged 
 her liege lord, and whispered, "Heritage, I would have 
 you to look at the silver there on that table. T is 
 enough to buy a farm two farms, methinks. And,"
 
 332 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 she concluded triumphantly, "it comes not within the 
 discipline!" 
 
 "My dear young sister," said the old class leader 
 at last, "what would you have us do with you? This 
 is a most strange and unnatural proceeding. Do you 
 desire to be quit of us? Is that the thing which you 
 would ask?" 
 
 The tears were in his eyes. Tears in Joy s eyes an 
 swered them. "Nay oh, not so," she replied. "Ye 
 are my people, and surely your God is my God. But 
 I have gathered you together here that you may know 
 there are things in our discipline to which hereafter I 
 cannot conform. If these things cause you to cast me 
 out, why then, in all good will, let me go forth from 
 among you." 
 
 "You are young," returned the old man. "The 
 young are still hot-headed. You will change your 
 mind. What are these things which you love better 
 than your father s faith?" 
 
 "Stay," spoke Joy, quickly, and, though her voice 
 was kind, it rang with undiminished courage, "all is 
 well between my father and me. All is well now be 
 tween God and me. T is only between my class and 
 myself, between the Society and myself, that there must 
 be no shadow. I shall live here among you, I doubt 
 not, till I am an old woman. I shall be one of you, 
 if I may. But I shall never more hold that beauty 
 and mirth and music yea, and dancing, too, and all 
 those things which go to make up the innocent pleasures 
 of life are sinful." 
 
 "Do do you intend to dance?" inquired an awed 
 feminine voice from a back seat "you, a pastor s 
 daughter !" 
 
 "I do not," replied Joy. Her sweet face looked pale, 
 and for the first time her eyes were full of trouble. 
 "There are some thoughts it would bring up which 
 are too painful to me. I shall not dance again."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 333 
 
 And now there fell upon the group a long, distressed 
 silence. Finally a gaunt old matron, a true frontiers- 
 woman both on the material and the spiritual fron 
 tier, rose up and said; "Why not let this lie awhile? 
 Why decide it till our pastor hath returned?" 
 
 "Oh, I pray you," began Joy, hurriedly, "I beg of 
 you I cannot bear it ! Do not put this thing upon my 
 father. Let it be finished here and now." 
 
 But the other answered shrewdly she was old 
 enough to know the mellowing power of time in human 
 destinies "Why should we not continue Sister Joyce 
 a member of us for six months upon probation, as it 
 were? If at the end of six months she sees reason 
 for to change her mind, and to come back to our way of 
 thinking, I know that we shall all be right glad. And 
 if she do not so, why, we shall be no worse off. Her 
 ticket can be taken from her, though we would all 
 beg that if she offend not in her practices more than 
 she promiseth to-day, she still hold us in such kind 
 good-fellowship as might lead her to attend our meet 
 ings, even as David Batchelor and several more who 
 never yet have joined with us are doing." 
 
 " T would put her outside her class," sighed the 
 class leader. 
 
 "Yes, but six months," counseled the matron in a 
 lower tone "a maid may well change her mind in 
 six months. I have known them that could change 
 in six minutes." And thus, after further discussion 
 and earnest prayer, it was agreed. 
 
 Brother Gibson went forth first and alone. Then 
 Heritage Hamtramck voyaged as far as the doorway, 
 where he stopped and looked back, calling for his 
 spouse. 
 
 "Nay, go your way!" she cried pettishly. "I will 
 o ertake you. I have somewhat to say to Sister 
 Joyce." 
 
 When she had watched him half way to the gate,
 
 334 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 she turned back and whispered, "Sister Joyce, pray 
 show me your frocks. I have seen naught like that 
 gown you wear. It must be a new mode; and though 
 I care not for new modes, yet it monstrously becomes 
 you, and I fain would see if you have others finer." 
 
 Sister Loving and Patience, on an open tour of the 
 room, were systematically inspecting everything. 
 
 "I wonder, now, if you could show me this stitch 
 here," cried Sister Charity Krumpecker. She drew 
 Joyce toward the buffet, and pointed to a particular 
 line in its embroidered cover. "Good lack, man !" she 
 snapped, as her husband suggested that they must be 
 going, "can I not stay one moment to learn a new 
 sort of work to set my hand to?" 
 
 In short, the women were all women as well as 
 Methodies. When the men were at last gotten rid of, 
 Joy was obliged to bring out, or to have Zette bring 
 out and display, every gift she had received in her 
 uncle s house. 
 
 The ruined ball gown only, a memento too significant 
 for any eyes but her own, lay undisturbed in its box 
 up in the little attic room.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 [HAT scene at Joy s home, in which 
 she had boldly taken her stand, ear 
 nestly desiring not to be fellowshiped 
 if aught in her conduct was displeas 
 ing to the Society, did not produce 
 the result she expected. There was 
 no disposition in the members to draw 
 away from her this would have seemed to Joy per 
 fectly natural ; their inclination was, rather, to hold her 
 in closer fellowship with themselves. 
 
 It was touching to her to observe an effort among 
 the sisters to offer her small, kindly attentions. No 
 quilting was thought of unless she was bidden. The 
 apple-cuttings were not complete without her. And 
 late one afternoon Tohopeka brought a request from 
 Sister Loving Longanecker that Joy come over the 
 next day, as they intended to pluck geese. 
 
 In these days Joy had rather unwholesomely ample 
 leisure. Zette was an accomplished cook as well as 
 waiting-woman, and poor Lalla, who could never learn 
 anything through harshness, was being taught by her 
 love for her new mistress to become an acceptable little 
 servitor. 
 
 About three o clock, Joy, with the little faithful 
 shadow in attendance, took her way over to Mistress 
 Longanecker s. She was met at the door by Patience, 
 who told her that "mommy" was busy catching the 
 geese. After Joyce had laid off her hat and been 
 
 335
 
 3;5 MISTRESS TOY 
 
 offered the refreshment of the period and section, she 
 was taken through the house to a great, bare, unfin 
 ished room at the back, where the geese were to be 
 plucked. There she found Sister Loving, and she 
 longed to have some one to say it to "about twenty 
 
 Sister Longanecker. "a sight to shake the midriff 
 of despair with laughter," came forward and greeted 
 Joy warmly. 
 
 "If yon don t pot them on." she explained, "the 
 :.:::.:: r :-:.: --- _ :- :. in: y:ur clothes And 
 so I say. fix yourself op right in the beginnin*. Pa 
 tience says to me, says she, says Patience, "Mommy, 
 you re enough to make a boss shy." But I says. Well. 
 I won t scare the geese, I reckon so where "s the dif 
 ference " 
 
 The articles deprecated by the prudent Patience as 
 ;:. : / :.:- . :: ilimr hrrses : m - -: : -.-... :. 
 
 donned by Mistress Longanecker whenever called upon 
 : if hirh criestess :: the sriemn r::e :: e 
 
 Sister Lcvingr s large feet were thrust through the 
 
 O 
 
 tne sjcirts ot 
 
 ird. A string run through 
 le fuilness about her waist. 
 
 :" hers were wrapped 
 
 : . .- 
 
 --- . r:::"j r ::::-.: ::r :7\: :7- ; Htr : r. - 77 7- ere 
 in ::i ?r.ur".v =: the v.-ri=t=: her he^i 
 
 was enveloped in a great turban, somewhat like those 
 :m :y r.c^rerrr: :.:: ~.re :7\:5::~7 A.t:ret.ter 
 t i- : . ::.-. -- h~-"e :: fun ~s :? n:t :::en 5een rut- 
 is i : .:u: r:r iniee-i. frezuentiv m=tcher! in rne.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 337 
 
 After greeting Joy, she once more tallied over her 
 geese, the objects of her immediate onslaught. It ap 
 peared that there was one, or possibly there were two, 
 missing. 
 
 "Patience !" she shrieked, "the big gander ain t here, 
 and I miss out the oldest gray goose. Bring em in 
 before we start." 
 
 She capered up and down the room, following the 
 hissing, shrieking geese, and attempted once more to 
 count them. "Xo, he ain t here," she shouted, just as 
 two or three squawking fowls ran between her feet 
 and tripped her up. 
 
 More calls for Patience followed, and finally Sister 
 Loving, who appeared to lack not only the young 
 woman of that cognomen, but the quality for which 
 she was named, decided that she would herself sally 
 forth and capture the omitted geese. 
 
 "Oh, no," remonstrated Joy, quaking with inward 
 laughter : "please do not you go ; Patience will be here 
 an^n. or I will get them for you." 
 
 "Xay." retorted Sister Loving: "a body s business 
 is never so well attended to as when he "tends to it 
 himself. I am a-goin out and git them geese!" 
 
 She started with such celerity as the hampering 
 sleeves of the nightrail, which permitted a step only 
 about a foot long and gave a singular, mincing, am 
 bling turn to her gait, would allow. Joy, convulsed 
 with laughter, and Lalla, solemn and observant, fol 
 lowed her. 
 
 And then was Patience s wisdom proven, for David 
 Batchelor came riding up to the gate, with little Rea 
 son before him on the pommel, and his big. gray horse 
 shied wildly at sight of Sister Longanecker. who was 
 dancing down the yard like a gigantic rag doll gone 
 violently mad, quite oblivious to the figure she cut, and 
 intent only upon securing her prey.
 
 338 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Joy s face was flushed with much suppressed mirth 
 as she raised it to David s. "I want to leave the boy 
 here with you," he said, "an t please you, Mistress 
 Joy. Sister Loving hath promised he should see the 
 geese plucked. The post is in, and I am going to the 
 settlement to bring back letters." 
 
 The story of poor Princess Lai and her downfall 
 had not failed to touch David s generous heart. He 
 expressed a belief upon hearing it that her father, or 
 at least some of her friends or kindred, might have 
 found refuge in Jamaica, and, having friends there, he 
 decided he would write to make inquiries. David re 
 minded Joy of these letters of his which had been writ 
 ten aboard the keel-boat but one day s travel out of 
 New Orleans, and sent back by the rowers of a skiff. 
 All had not gone to Jamaica. Some were addressed 
 to friends in Florida. "And so," he said, "methinks 
 t is possible that I shall have news for little Shadow 
 there when I return." 
 
 He handed down the laughing boy, who straight 
 way ran cheering after Sister Longanecker, evidently 
 considering her quite the most fascinating thing with 
 which it had as yet been his good fortune to meet. 
 
 David laughed out suddenly and cantered off, as a 
 great squalling broke forth just back of Joy. She 
 turned to behold Sister Longanecker galloping buoy 
 antly up, a goose under each arm, while little Reason, 
 who had caught the flying ends of her waist scarf be 
 hind, "playing horse," must needs make his brief but 
 enthusiastic legs fly if he would keep up. 
 
 "Shall I get a nightrail for you, Joy?" Sister Lov 
 ing panted. " T would never do to spoil that pretty 
 frock with feathers." 
 
 "Nay, that you shall not," answered Joy. "I will 
 tie up my hair and watch you pluck awhile, but for my 
 self the geese may keep their feathers, for all of me."
 
 "SISTER I.ONGANECKER GALLOPING BUOYANTLY UP, 
 A GOOSE UNDER EACH ARM."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 339 
 
 "Just like Patience," grumbled Sister Longanecker. 
 " T is so you foolish, sentimental maids all talk 
 afraid of giving pain. I pity any man who must de 
 pend on one of you to care for him." 
 
 "Yet my father hath not so far complained," mur 
 mured Joyce, demurely. 
 
 "Well, then, t is because he is too near a saint to 
 do so," retorted Sister Longanecker. "I vow he needs 
 a woman s care, and doth not get it." 
 
 They were inside the room now. Sister Longa 
 necker had taken a resentful goose in hand, and, with 
 two fingers round its neck so that she might shut off at 
 one and the same time its breath and its protesting 
 shrieks, was proceeding to denude it of its feathers. 
 Joy s head had been covered with a kerchief; little 
 Reason, all pinned up in towels, bibs, and pinafores, 
 was enjoying himself hugely. 
 
 "Watch de snow, Doyce. See de pitty snow!" he 
 cried as each handful of feathers flew abroad. 
 
 "But truly, Sister Joyce," resumed Mistress Longa 
 necker, insinuatingly, "to return now to that of which 
 we were speaking. You will be wedding one of these 
 clays what then will your poor father do?" 
 
 "Why, Mistress Longanecker," retorted Joy, laugh 
 ing, "by your own telling of the story I am naught, 
 and not fit to care for my father how, then, should he 
 miss me?" 
 
 "Nay, I meant not quite that; but think ye not he 
 needs some one more lovinger, some older w r oman, 
 now, of a more serious mind to understand him, like 
 you know?" 
 
 Joy opened her clear eyes very wide indeed, with a 
 pretense of surprise. Poor Sister Loving loving 
 though she was in fact as well as in name dared not 
 pay quite open court to Father Tobias. But these 
 times of hints and messages and suggestions as to her
 
 340 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 father s loneliness were something which Joy remem 
 bered as far back as she could remember Sister Loving 
 at all. 
 
 "Why, Sister Longanecker," she answered, "I think 
 father doth very well without me. When I was 
 away so long in New Orleans he seemed quite con 
 tent." 
 
 "Nay, Mistress Joyce, that did he not. I saw it with 
 my own eyes he pined. Patience says to me the first 
 week you were gone, Mommy, she says, our dear 
 pastor is a-pinin . What is there that we can take 
 him? And I do think, Joyce," she continued, rather 
 severely, "that I was over at your house every blessed 
 day while you was gone, except them days your father 
 was away on circuit." 
 
 "I knew that he had kind and loving friends here," 
 answered Joyce; "those who would care for him, else 
 had I scarce dared be away so long." 
 
 "Aw, the poor, dear man," returned Sister Longa 
 necker, who was still vigorously at the goose, "and 
 him that absent-minded he scarce knew whether he 
 was eatin pone-bread or the best pound-cake I could 
 make for him always so soft and tender, too let go, 
 ye villain !" 
 
 In the stress of her sentimental reminiscences, Sister 
 Loving had relaxed her hold upon the gander s throat, 
 and it had seized the opportunity even a goose, it 
 seems, will know an opportunity when one is put 
 squarely before it to catch the sister s thumb in its 
 strong beak and pinch it well. 
 
 The geese were plucked, one after another, with 
 much squalling and chasing and fluttering of feathers. 
 They nipped Sister Longanecker when, sentiment get 
 ting the better of her vigilance, she slackened her grip 
 on their necks. They eluded her and sailed the whole 
 length of the room, fulminating wild squawks and
 
 MISTRESS JOY 341 
 
 throwing up clouds of feathers, which made the small 
 man shout with glee. 
 
 In the midst of all the uproar, when the fun was at 
 the maddest, came David knocking at the door and 
 asking for the child and Joy. 
 
 Patience would have denied him entrance. But 
 little Reason, pulling the door out of her hand, shouted 
 gaily to David to come in and see the pretty snow. 
 
 The last goose was at the moment in process of 
 plucking. All the plucked fowls were huddled, angry 
 and ashamed, down in one corner. 
 
 "Look, Dadie !" cried the child, "dey dot no kose on, 
 an her say" pointing to Mistress Longanecker with 
 a small, accusing finger " at her won t put no 
 nighties on em. Is n t her wicked ? Poor geeses !" 
 
 In her embarrassment, Mistress Longanecker let go 
 the goose upon which she was then operating. The re 
 leased fowl, Mistress Loving after it, fled shrieking 
 toward the door, and therefore toward the party of 
 spectators. 
 
 "Minerva and her bird," gasped David, his eyes 
 dancing with laughter, as he drew Joyce outside. 
 
 They heard the goose caught, and the noise begin 
 again. David had called her out to tell her that he 
 had news that certain of Lalla s kindred were in Ja 
 maica, and he hoped, after a few months, the child 
 might go to them there. 
 
 "I think t will be safe now," he said, "to send for 
 the negress who came with her. My understanding 
 is that both are free; or if the woman belongs to any 
 one, it must have been to little Shadow s father." 
 
 He left, promising to write to the sisters the request 
 that Zoombi be allowed to join the Princess Lai if the 
 child should go through New Orleans on her way home. 
 If it was thought well to send Zoombi up to Natchez, 
 he would, he said, proffer money for her journey. Tak-
 
 342 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ing Reason up before him, he rode away toward "The 
 Meadows," carrying with him also the squawking of 
 the denuded geese and the rasping sound of Sister Lov- 
 ing s adjurations. 
 
 Mistress Wilful Guion stood in her kitchen garden 
 gathering herbs for drying. At this time and place 
 the herbs and simples of the garden played an impor 
 tant part in household supplies. There were lavender 
 and marjoram for sweetness, with basil and rosemary 
 beside; thyme and bay and chervil for seasoning; and 
 boneset, camomile, and poppies for medical uses. 
 
 As she stood, her scant white skirts brushed the 
 poppies bells of shaken flame. It was a clear, warm 
 evening in June. Baby airs dropped laughing over the 
 hedge of Mistress Wilful s garden, pelted each other 
 with great fistfuls of perfume, and played at hide-and- 
 seek amid the blossoming mimosa. Humming-birds 
 darted in and out with a soft whir of tiny wings. 
 Life was keyed to a high, joyous pitch. The opulent 
 gladness and beauty of a Southern summer-time rioted 
 everywhere. 
 
 Only in the girl s wide, woeful eyes lay the shadow 
 that sunshine could not lighten. Her filmy, lusterless 
 black hair was loosened under the white sunbonnet. 
 As she heard a horse approaching, she drew this latter 
 down to hide the telltale redness of her eyes. 
 
 "Good even, Mistress Guion," called David s cheer 
 ful voice across the hedge; "I bring you a message 
 nay, t is not a message, but information of which you 
 may or may not be glad." 
 
 The girl looked up at the tall man with the laugh 
 ing boy before him on his saddle, and the painful color 
 flooded her wan face till it was deeply flushed. 
 
 "May Reasie have some pitty f owers, p ease?" cried 
 the child. And David, dismounting, set the boy inside 
 the hedge, while he himself stood close outside to speak 
 to Wilful.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 343 
 
 "What is your message? Is he coming back?" she 
 whispered, putting her hands together and wringing 
 them in her distress. 
 
 Batchelor nodded. 
 
 "Oh, I cannot bear it if he come back. Once, al 
 ready, have I been strong and sent him away. But if 
 he come back again, what shall I do !" 
 
 "Nay, sister," returned Batchelor, much moved, and 
 falling into a rare use of the Methodist form of ad 
 dress; "if you are weak, you know where to go for 
 strength." 
 
 "My God!" broke out the tortured girl; "have I not 
 prayed through long, weary nights, when sleep was 
 denied me have I not prayed ? Oh, David Batchelor, 
 what do you know? You, who are strong and good 
 and cold !" 
 
 David smiled a curious smile, which had the tender 
 ness of a blessing and the sadness of tears. "Am I 
 cold, think you, Mistress Wilful? Have I no heart 
 to ache? Well, have it so." 
 
 She threw back her head, and laughed a little wildly. 
 The white bonnet slipped from her disordered hair, 
 and Batchelor saw for the first time the disarray of her 
 whole appearance, the haggard, worn look of the sweet, 
 young face. 
 
 "Hearts, Master Batchelor!" she cried, mockingly. 
 "Have men hearts, too? And can they suffer so? 
 Nay, I will never believe it." 
 
 Batchelor reached impulsively across the hedge, and 
 caught the two little hands which she flung out in a 
 gesture of dissent. They were like ice, and trembled 
 in his own. 
 
 "Poor child, poor little one! T is the tenderest 
 things life bruises most, methinks. And has it come 
 to this, little sister? Has it gone so far?" 
 
 He looked off to the westering sun, and his blue eyes, 
 direct and fearless, caught a glow from the warm sky.
 
 344 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 There was a silence, and then, kind, infinitely com 
 passionate, they came back to rest upon the white face 
 near him. 
 
 "Hearts?" he repeated. "Aye, some of us. And, 
 little one, hearts are troublesome, belike, for men as 
 for women." 
 
 A sort of ashen horror settled down on the girl s 
 tense features. "I do sometimes believe he hath no 
 heart to trouble him. Oh, Master Batchelor, may I 
 speak to you? I have no one to counsel with, and I 
 am in sore trouble." 
 
 Without a word, David sought the gate, entered, and 
 drew the trembling girl to a bench beneath a gnarled 
 old plum-tree. "Now, Mistress Wilful, speak to me 
 as freely as you will. Command me as you would com 
 mand your own members. I will be hand and foot 
 for you, and never a mind to judge you nor remember 
 aught you would fain I should forget." 
 
 Then all the long repressed misery and terror in the 
 poor child s mind burst forth. She told, in a few 
 broken and almost incoherent sentences, of Burr s in 
 sidious encroachments from warm friend to passion 
 ate and declared lover, her humiliation that this love 
 should be so openly spoken without formal declaration 
 of his intentions. "He claims all and and offers 
 nothing!" she sobbed. 
 
 "He has not presumed he has not dared " 
 
 "No, no! But if he offers to put no open affront 
 upon me, neither does he offer to honor me. He talks 
 of love, and love oh, David, he talks so sweetly, I 
 think an angel s voice could speak no sweeter than his 
 voice when he talks of love. But there is no word of 
 marriage, or the future. And I sometimes " 
 
 She sprang up, and buried her face in her hands. 
 Standing before him, a slim, shaken figure for which 
 the moonlight and the sunset glow struggled, she half
 
 MISTRESS JOY 345 
 
 sobbed, half whispered, "I love him so, David, that 
 sometimes I am afraid I I am afraid Oh, I am 
 sorely terrified !" 
 
 "Your mother," suggested David, with husky voice 
 and swimming eyes. 
 
 "Speak not of her," interrupted poor Wilful. "She 
 is so dotingly fond, he hath so beguiled her, that she 
 oft reproaches me for my coldness to him, when my 
 own heart is breaking and I feel I must be firm." 
 
 David rose and looked at her. She stood like a 
 young martyr, straight and white, with the flaunting 
 poppies ablaze at her feet. 
 
 She bent and crushed the glowing petals to her face, 
 as though to steep her senses in the Lethe of their fate 
 ful odor. Plucking from their midst a long-stemmed 
 handful, she raised them to her lips and held them 
 toward him, saying, with a pitiful half-smile : 
 
 "See, here is forgetfulness, here is sleep that sleep 
 which hath forsworn my pillow. Oh, David," with a 
 breaking sob, "I never sleep now. His face, filled with 
 smiling, or proud and angry, or drowned and dead, 
 swims between sleep and me." 
 
 "God !" from him who sat, big and strong, beside 
 her, "no man s worth it." 
 
 "Yes, David, it does ; it swims between me and sleep, 
 just as it swims between God and me when I try to 
 pray. And, oh, I am afraid so afraid of what I 
 may be tempted to And here is forgetfulness." 
 
 "Nay, child," said David, a world of passionate pity 
 in voice and eyes, as he took the crushed blossoms from 
 her nerveless fingers and strewed them on the grass at 
 her feet; "never that. T is medicine for a bruised 
 body I mind we bound them on my hand last spring 
 when I had it crushed in the gin-wheel but for a 
 bruised spirit, for a wounded heart, never drug it. 
 There is a medicine, there is a balm, but we can find
 
 346 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 it only through pain, my poor dear only through 
 pain." 
 
 The ghost of that wan smile flickered again over 
 Mistress Wilful s face. "Oh, think you not I have 
 suffered enough to find it? Surely, I have suffered 
 enough." 
 
 "Nay," said David, "there is one more pang; once 
 more he will come; once more you must be strong. 
 Are there are there letters, writings of yours, in that 
 man s possession? I have been told that when angered 
 by resistance he makes cruel use of such." 
 
 Poor Wilful flinched, and crimsoned to the poppies 
 hue. "Can he can any man be so base?" she cried. 
 
 "He has such writings, then?" urged Batchelor. 
 "You must have them from him again. Think of your 
 good name." 
 
 "Ah," with a catch in her voice, " t is past praying 
 for, I fear. At best, t is sadly blown upon. Is t not 
 so, Master Batchelor? Do not folk speak lightly of 
 me?" And she studied his face with terror-stricken 
 eyes that face of such fathomless and impersonal 
 kindliness. "My father used to say that when a maid s 
 good name was soiled, nothing but churchyard mold 
 could cleanse it. Churchyard mold a brave shelter 
 and oft I wish that I lay under it." 
 
 Reasie had found the old garden a world built for 
 a boy s delight. His shrill pipe broke insistently into 
 the evening stillness. His yellow curls were tossed 
 about his heated face, as his ruthless baby feet tram 
 pled through the poppies and crushed their sleepy splen 
 dors into the earth. His grimy little hands reached 
 forward for a floating butterfly adrift like a loosened 
 petal on the scented air. 
 
 "Ho ! de f ower f ied away. Det Reasie pitty 
 f ower," he cried. They stood among the glowing 
 poppies, the child a sphered delight, the girl with life s
 
 MISTRESS JOY 347 
 
 broken chalice at her feet, disillusioned youth incar 
 nate; beside them, David s calm, protecting strength. 
 
 "Nay, nay," he protested, and again his firm, sup 
 ple fingers shut hers close, and sent to the poor, cold, 
 tired heart of the shaken girl a wave of hope and cour 
 age. "Dear little one, only we can befoul ourselves. 
 We are but what we ourselves make us, and you you 
 little, fluttering, half-caged dove of purity" he smiled 
 into the dark, mournful eyes with a world of tender 
 ness and faith "the bars shall snap and you be free 
 again. Foulness and thou, sweet Wilful Guion, are 
 worlds apart. Be no more frightened. Meet the test 
 but once again, and then freedom, dear little child." 
 
 He stooped his towering, fair head and touched each 
 little, cold, trembling hand with his warm, firm lips. 
 Then he turned and left her standing amid her poppies, 
 \vith a look of new-born courage in her face.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 power of the woman who has once 
 cast a man off, flouted and scorned 
 him is, if she choose to prove kind, 
 easily resumed. Jessop, flung back 
 upon himself, pushed, as it were, into 
 the old life, drifted slowly but surely 
 beneath Madame s influence. To 
 stand still in his own strength was a thing denied him. 
 Was he not traveling toward heaven? Then pitward 
 at a quickstep. 
 
 He was. wounded in spirit, his heart was sore, but, 
 most of all, his vanity and self-esteem were abraded. 
 Madame, who had during his earlier acquaintance 
 with her chosen to treat him as an inferior, now took 
 quite another tone. She was at all times his admirer, 
 his adoring suitor. Her house and its atmosphere 
 agreed with one phase of Jessop s development quite 
 perfectly was always open to him. He came and 
 went unquestioned. 
 
 When there, it was shown him that his presence was 
 much desired and delighted in; he was made the head 
 and center of everything. But if he chose to absent 
 himself, as he often did for weeks, he was not re 
 proached nor made uncomfortable because of it. Most 
 powerful of all, he was amply supplied with money. 
 
 Jessop s heart had failed him when he came to the 
 point of writing home for funds. He could not ad- 
 
 348
 
 MISTRESS JOY 349 
 
 dress the father whom he had disgraced, nor the bro 
 ther who had dismissed him with such farewells as he 
 flinched yet to remember. He compromised by writing 
 to the Jews, to raise money on his very remote pros 
 pect of succession to the earldom. His elder brother, 
 a man of powerful physique, was recently married, and 
 these chances appeared so slight that, but for the nearer 
 prospect of his family being some day hounded into 
 paying his debts, it would seem unlikely any money 
 whatever could be raised in that way. 
 
 Madame knew her spendthrift. She lined his pock 
 ets well. She left him free to take his pleasures, and 
 bided her time. Three years before, when Jessop 
 then a raw boy, with three lives between him and an 
 earldom met her in New Orleans, she considered him 
 worth plucking only for the modest patrimony he 
 brought with him. Jessop himself, in the flush of his 
 first love for her, talked marriage. The remembrance 
 that she herself had at the time rejected such an idea 
 gave her a sense of security now, when she desired to 
 marry him. 
 
 But the Jessop of three years before and the Jessop 
 of to-day though he came back to her, glad to do so, 
 and she was able to fan the embers of his passion into 
 some little glow were different men. 
 
 His life in Father Tobias s cabin, most of all his 
 knowledge of Joyce Valentine and his love for her, 
 had put something into his nature, or wakened some 
 thing already there, with which Madame found, as time 
 went on, she had to reckon. 
 
 About the middle of September he received a bulky 
 package from London. His negotiations with the 
 Jews had been unexpectedly and speedily successful. 
 He sat in his own room alone, and spread his wealth 
 upon the table before him. It would not have been 
 Jessop s way to ask for a modest sum. What lay there
 
 350 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 would repay Madame, and leave him enough to begin 
 the purchase of that plantation at Natchez. 
 
 With the thought was brought up also the picture 
 of Joy s face not the haughty young beauty of the 
 ball-room, not that queen of the revels coining down 
 between the upraised swords, but the Joyce he had 
 known back in Natchez strong, true, tender, kind, 
 and, above all, pure pure with the limpid, untouched 
 purity which a debauched man of the world rates 
 higher than a good man would. 
 
 The money represented freedom and Joy. He got 
 up, pushed the papers into his pocket, and drew a long 
 breath. The past months went dully before him. 
 They seemed, in the reviewing, jumbled and unreal as 
 a dream. He was like a man recovering from a fever. 
 Surely he would go at once. He wondered at the 
 triviality of the things which had held him from Joy 
 so long. 
 
 His was a most uncautious temperament, and yet 
 when he came to repay Madame and inform her that he 
 was going away he used some caution. He had been 
 made aware more than once what her present hopes 
 were. He feared a scene if he informed her that it was 
 now his determination to break with her forever, and so 
 he merely announced his intention of visiting friends in 
 the East for a time. 
 
 When she tearfully rejected the money, he pressed 
 it laughingly upon her, suggesting that she be his 
 banker for so much, adding that when he had once more 
 lost his all he would come back for it. 
 
 Arrived at Natchez, a sudden timidity seized him. 
 The stake began to appear so great that he feared to 
 play out his hand. 
 
 After long hesitation, he went finally to David 
 Batchelor. He did not desire that Joy should know 
 he was in Natchez, but "The Meadows" was removed
 
 MISTRESS JOY 351 
 
 a distance from Pastor Valentine s cabin, and he was 
 able to have some long and serious conversations with 
 Master Batchelor, without the news reaching any mem 
 ber of the Society. 
 
 David, while amused at Jessop s childlike ignoring 
 of their last interview and the plainness of speech used 
 then on both sides, met him kindly. He was generous 
 as well as just, and these two qualities united to make 
 him especially kind toward this wanderer returning to 
 the beacon which had for so short a time lighted his 
 way. Then, back in Batchelor s consciousness, though 
 he realized it not at all, lay the conviction that he, 
 David Batchelor, could here well afford generosity. 
 
 Jessop learned from him of Joy s course in offering 
 to withdraw from the Society. He judged, from what 
 David told him, that, while much changed, all that he 
 loved best in her still remained that she was, indeed, 
 better suited to become his wife than she had been 
 before. Three mornings the two men spent talking 
 over these things, with little Reason playing at their 
 feet or running out and in, to bring childish discoveries 
 or treasures to David s notice. 
 
 Master Batchelor gave to the other every help which 
 he would have given a beloved brother. One thing 
 only he refused, and that was to accept the office of 
 ambassador. 
 
 "Nay, Major Jessop," he repeated, "Joyce Valen 
 tine could never love a coward. You must e en face 
 your fate, and dree your weird, whatever it may 
 be." 
 
 "I know I know she would not," Jessop agreed, 
 and declared that he would go on the morrow. 
 
 After he left New Orleans, Madame, whose thoughts 
 were much engrossed with that which was now her 
 all engrossing scheme, received letters from certain 
 friends of hers in England, advising her of the death,
 
 352 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 without issue, of Jessop s brother. The old father, too, 
 lay very ill. Any hour might see him pass away. 
 
 She knew her plans ruined if this knowledge came 
 to Jessop before she should have persuaded and cajoled 
 him into that marriage with herself which he had once 
 so much desired and she had denied him. The cadet 
 of a noble house might marry a woman of her sort. 
 She seriously doubted that Jessop, once come into his 
 title, would consider it at all. 
 
 She sent to his hotel, as he, when at her house, often 
 sent, and secured such letters as had accumulated for 
 him. These, opened, brought her even later informa 
 tion than her own. The earl was dead. Jessop had 
 succeeded to the title. 
 
 Now, it occurred to her that at such news as this 
 Sieur Valentine s niece might once more take the field. 
 It was worth while, she thought, to make a journey 
 up the river. 
 
 She would warn the girl that Jessop was already 
 wedded ; or, that story failing, try to work upon her 
 sympathies, posing as a deserted and heart-broken 
 woman. So that when Jessop set forth that morning 
 in early October for the little cabin by the river, Ma 
 dame was moving tovvard the same goal. 
 
 His feelings were much mingled as his feet carried 
 him along the old familiar path. He was ashamed, 
 he was afraid; and yet, now that his face was set 
 toward Joyce, toward purity and honest love and all 
 she stood for to his wayward heart, there fell on his 
 soul a great peace. 
 
 He was curiously like a school-boy going home to 
 be reproved, but, as he trusted, taken into loving arms 
 once more. Joy s strength, her faithful courage and 
 patient mastery of herself, her brave, undying hopeful 
 ness, endeared her to him, and, even more than her 
 beauty, made him long for her. 
 
 There were changes in the outer aspect of the cabin,
 
 MISTRESS JOY 353 
 
 which he was too preoccupied to note as he stepped 
 inside the gate. 
 
 Joy, all in white the selfsame Joy her bright hair 
 ruffled above that serene brow of hers, came to the 
 open door. She looked at him, and her lips even were 
 drained of color. 
 
 Joy s face was always pale, with a sweet, warm 
 whiteness which belonged to its beauty. 
 
 He halted a pace from the door ; she put her hand up 
 to its lintel to steady herself, and these two, who had 
 been so much to each other, stood for one long, deso 
 late moment confronted in silence. 
 
 T was the man who spoke first. "I have come back, 
 Joy," he said, in a sort of undertone. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, as low; "why did you so?" 
 
 He came toward her, and attempted to take her hand. 
 "Why did I, dear heart?" he whispered. "Because I 
 love you." 
 
 "Not here," she cried, a little wildly, "not in my 
 father s house! I will not hear such words as these 
 where he is." 
 
 "I must talk to you, Joy," urged Jessop, humbly. 
 "You would never condemn unheard not even the 
 greatest criminal." 
 
 "Out under the free sky, then," she answered him; 
 "not in this place. Yes, I will hear you, Master Jes 
 sop." She struggled for composure. "I was going, 
 but now, to the grove for autumn leaves and berries. 
 Come, an t please you. We can talk there." 
 
 Lalla, who had been provided with a basket for the 
 excursion of which Joy spoke, followed, and together 
 they went in almost complete silence down the little 
 winding path into the beech grove. 
 
 Brilliant leaves already carpeted the ground, but the 
 branches above were still clad in their valiant autumn 
 livery. 
 
 The season spoke to Jessop of Joyce Valentine ; even 
 23
 
 354 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 so would she meet disaster, defeat, death itself, with 
 colors flying, with all her beauty brought well to the 
 front, and brave and strong and glorious to the last 
 
 Joy stood bareheaded under the glowing branches in 
 the splendid wood. 
 
 The child, pushing her basket close, asked : "Will 
 Madonna reach those tall boughs for me now? Then 
 I will get the berries." 
 
 Joy turned absently, forgetful of Jessop s presence, 
 and began breaking those beautiful bouquet-like branch- 
 ends of the sour-wood, which run from winey red to 
 softest rose. 
 
 When the basket was piled high she stopped, a great 
 crimson spray still in her ringers, and turned quietly to 
 Jessop. "You may speak now," she said, "if you have 
 aught to say to me." 
 
 Her tone was quite passionless and calm. The thing 
 which shook Jessop s heart with terror was that it was 
 almost kind. 
 
 "What is it, Joy?" he began feverishly. "What is 
 this thing which hath come between thee and me? 
 Where did I miss the road to thy heart? I thought I 
 knew it once. If I have been in error, set me right. 
 In mercy set me right, I pray you." 
 
 "I met Madame Jessop when I was in New Orleans. 
 I saw you with her at the theater," said Joy, abruptly. 
 
 A great relief appeared in Jessop s face. "Was that 
 all, sweetheart?" he inquired. "Was t there the cloud 
 began to form between us? Nay, dear, there is no 
 Madame Jessop, but I am very fain that there should 
 be a Mistress Jessop, and that soon." 
 
 "I saw you with her at the theater," repeated Joyce. 
 
 Jessop shrugged his shoulders. "She belongs to 
 the past, Joy," he said. "I had many friends before I 
 met you whom I would not that my wife should 
 know."
 
 MISTRESS JOY 355 
 
 He pronounced the words "my wife" proudly and 
 tenderly, but Joyce was, to her own surprise, curiously 
 unmoved by them. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of his urgency, there came 
 before the man a picture of the pitiful figure he cut 
 in it all. 
 
 " T is husks that I am offering you, my dear," he 
 said humbly; "you who have stores of garnered grain; 
 but Joy, dear Joy, your love could make me anything." 
 
 "Yea, could it?" asked Joy, thoughtfully. "It hath 
 not done so in the past, meseems. And now, to be 
 quite honest with you, I do think I have no love such 
 as you ask to give you." 
 
 "In the past?" echoed Jessop. "But then were you 
 not my wife. With you always at my side O Joy, 
 with you! I should never be tempted; or, being 
 tempted, I should never fall from what is best and 
 highest in me. Dear, can you forgive the past an 
 ugly, sinful, hateful past?" 
 
 Joy turned to him, and put out both her hands. 
 "Why, yes," she said, "right heartily; if I have aught 
 to forgive, being myself a sinful creature, I can forgive 
 it you." 
 
 The calm frankness of her tone struck cold on Jes- 
 sop s passionate mood. "A sinful creature? Nay, you 
 are an angel, and had I you beside me, life were 
 heaven." 
 
 The old, maternal feeling, which was, after all, the 
 base of Joy s affection for the man, swelled in her heart 
 as she looked at him. He watched her face, and, 
 "Joy," he cried jealously, "those who really love do 
 not forgive so easily !" 
 
 "Am I too kind?" she asked, smiling a little. " T is 
 true, then, that I do not love you; but well I know I 
 wish you every good." 
 
 "Will you marry me?" he questioned fiercely, catch-
 
 356 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 ing her wrist, and looking into her eyes. "Do you 
 mean that? Or is it that you will cast me back into 
 that mire from which you plucked me? Oh, women 
 are all alike! You have seen things finer, to your 
 thinking, and now the man you once cajoled may wend 
 to hell for aught you care !" 
 
 Joy regarded him gravely. "If your salvation ap 
 pears to you to depend upon an imperfect creature like 
 myself," she said, "you are in great error. I wish you 
 well. I might even say I love you ; at least, I love the 
 memory of what hath been between us, but " 
 
 "Oh, do not say it!" broke in Jessop s anguished 
 tones. "Forgive me, Joy! I am a soul in torment. 
 You cannot expect smooth speeches from the damned."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 HILE poor Jessop pleaded with Joyce 
 his cause a cause which, after all, 
 was perhaps prejudged, and sentence 
 already passed while he brought 
 forward every argument and invoked 
 every aid his love could suggest, a 
 skiff with white awning and six black 
 rowers drew up to the little creek landing by Father 
 Tobias s cabin. From it there stepped a figure which 
 appeared wildly out of place in that rude, homely set 
 ting. It was that of a woman whose beauty was 
 great, though not youthful. Her gown of gay brocade 
 was stiff with bullion broideries, work of the chilly 
 ringers of patient nuns. Her powdered hair was raised 
 high over a cushion. Her square-cut gown showed 
 the white neck and bosom, with a bare shadowing of 
 lace tucker. She was dressed as for a rout. For 
 added stateliness, she had wrapped a great furred man 
 tle about her, and she carried a tall, lacquered, berib- 
 boned cane. 
 
 As she came trailing her magnificence up to Father 
 Tobias s door, the old man stared at her and well he 
 might half thinking her the idle fantasy of a dream. 
 He paused, with his ringer in the book he had been 
 reading as he sat there under the great beech-trees, and 
 rising, bowed and asked if he could serve her. 
 
 "This is, methinks," she said, with a most ingratiat 
 ing smile, "Master Tobias Valentine. Nay, sir I do 
 24 357
 
 353 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 not care to sit; rather will I stand here until I find 
 whether I may have speech with Mistress Valentine. 
 T is she I seek." 
 
 The old man called Zette, and Zette informed them 
 that Mistress Joy had gone with a servant to the grove 
 to gather leaves and flowers for dressing the house. 
 Something in the woman s appearance aroused the ne~ 
 gress s antagonism. "If ze lady," she suggested, "will 
 go up in her boat a li l way, she fin ze bayou. Dass 
 where Missie Joyous iss. Unless she lak to wait here?" 
 
 The lady was as little willing to wait as Zette was 
 desirous to have her do so. Calling her attendant, a 
 great, gaunt negress all in white, she returned to her 
 boat, and so on up the stream and out of sight. 
 
 JOY S heart, so tender where this man was in question, 
 still held back from the ultimate pain of a complete 
 rejection. Her eyes were so pitying, her very silence 
 so ruthful, that Jessop hoped he might be winning back 
 something of what he had once believed his. 
 
 As Madame came upon these two, standing like lov 
 ers in the glowing wood, her wrath flared up mightily. 
 Jessop was here, then. Her errand was, as it appeared 
 to her, all in vain. This creature whom she had 
 robbed both of his money and his honor, whom she had 
 had at call like any spaniel, was daring now to choose 
 for himself a wife. 
 
 Well, let him so. As for herself, she was dead 
 weary of the part which she had played. She crossed 
 her hands upon the cane and stood, with sneering lips, 
 regarding them. The patch set below the rouge upon 
 her cheek flaunted the skull and crossed bones of the 
 pirate flag. It was her humor thus at times to glory 
 in the shame of that early pirate lover of hers. The 
 ensign well suited her. She was a pirate upon the 
 land, even as he had been upon the high seas. Now
 
 MISTRESS JOY 359 
 
 she decided, having failed, to carry all off with a high 
 hand. 
 
 "So!" she cried, in her clear, ringing voice. "My 
 Lord Edward Montfalcon a Jessop, Earl of Shropshire, 
 I am too late. I came up to this place to intercede 
 with this young damsel upon your behalf. I perceive 
 that a mightier than I -even 1 Amour himself hath 
 pleaded your cause." 
 
 Jessop and Joy both turned. Joy saw the woman 
 she had known as Madame Jessop. Jessop answered 
 the newcomer coldly. "You give me strange titles," 
 he said. "What brings you here?" 
 
 And now the woman s cheek needed no rouge. "I 
 give you your own," she replied. "And mind you," 
 she added, "ye silly, mawkish boy, not fit to thread my 
 shoe, who hint that I come after you because of love 
 mind you, I say, t is the earldom I fain would have 
 wedded, not thee. Miss, here, may have thee and thy 
 foolish beaux yeux, and welcome. T is thy title and 
 wealth tempted me for a little." 
 
 As she stood there and sneered, tall, beautiful, and 
 above all, where Jessop was concerned, strong and self- 
 poised, he felt that, if Joy should cast him off, he would 
 go back to this woman. Poor Jessop ! he must always 
 be Edward Jessop plus some one else! If it could 
 not be his good angel, why, then, room there for the 
 spread of his bad angel s wings! He had a moun 
 tain of belief in fate, chance, fortune, circumstance, the 
 good or evil which might be portioned out to him by 
 the hand of another, and not one grain of faith in his 
 own ability to choose for himself what manner of man 
 he would be, what life he would lead. 
 
 Something of this Joy felt, and the old protecting 
 instinct, always strong in her where Jessop was con 
 cerned, was roused by it. Almost she wavered. He 
 was so weak; he needed her so much.
 
 360 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 "Yea, t was the earldom," reiterated Madame. 
 " T is in my blood, methinks, to honor it. You be 
 lieved, perchance, that when you met me three years 
 agone, you met me then for the first time ?" 
 
 "I had seen you in London. Have done with this ! 
 Did you break open my letters? Is my father indeed 
 dead?" returned Jessop. 
 
 "Aye, you had seen me in London, on the dirty 
 boards of a theater, where I would not have shown my 
 face except that there I kept the run of all the gallants 
 worth my notice." 
 
 "Is the old man gone, then?" Jessop inquired again, 
 suddenly and huskily, as though the knowledge had 
 just come home to him. "Would that he might have 
 lived to see me amend my faults ! If that he be indeed 
 gone, the more reason that I must now strive to live as 
 his son should." 
 
 "Yea, is he gone and Alfred, too; you are, as I 
 have called you, earl. And I was born, look you, my 
 Jessop, at your park gates. My father and my fa 
 ther s father belonged to the soil your fathers owned. 
 T is strange how such things cling. Much as I have 
 seen, it ever seems a greater thing to me to go back to 
 that home which flung me out as Countess of Shrop 
 shire than as Queen of England !" 
 
 Jessop stood looking moodily down upon the scat 
 tered autumn brilliance at his feet. Of his father s 
 death he had expected to hear at any moment; Alfred 
 had been cold and unloving always ; both had disowned 
 him long since; yet, at the thought that he was now 
 utterly alone, there came sadness. 
 
 "That you may surely know," taunted Madame, 
 " t was not for yourself but for your title I did follow 
 you why, look you : while Alfred lived I would not 
 wed you not I ! Aye, mistress," turning to Joyce, 
 "belike he hath not told you so, but t is true. I
 
 MISTRESS JOY 361 
 
 changed my mind only when I learned of Alfred s mor 
 tal sickness." 
 
 "When knew you of it?" inquired Jessop. 
 
 Madame laughed exultingly. "Months gone," she 
 cried. "Oh, you were out of the family councils, but 
 I was in them. I wrote the old man, when your last 
 cent was gone, telling who I was and that we were soon 
 to wed. Aye, that wrung his pride and brought the 
 money he would surely have denied to you. T was 
 better worth my while to throw you over, my lord, and 
 to be bought so to do from month to month, than t was 
 to wed you." 
 
 "Have you done?" asked Jessop, sternly. "Will you 
 begone now? This lady here and I were speaking, 
 when you came, of most important matters." 
 
 Madame burst into jarring laughter. "I warrant 
 me you were! Hast thou converted him, mistress? 
 Is he become a Methody as yet ? Yea, turn your back 
 on me. He is a sweet, attractive sinner, and a man 
 I but an erring woman." 
 
 "If there were aught that I could do or say " began 
 Joy, in a troubled tone. 
 
 "Nay," snarled Madame, "you will never make a 
 Methody of me. The old Church is good enough for 
 my sort. T is like our mothers to us. We cannot 
 fall so low but that its arms are still under us. It 
 christens us; it buries us, however vile we be. God s 
 blood !" she burst out angrily, "a curse upon you and 
 your Methody whining, that set me talking here of 
 death!" 
 
 Jessop drew Joy away. The woman looked after 
 them with haggard eyes, in which there were some 
 tears. " T is not his love I grudge her," she mut 
 tered ; " t is not his love, God wot nor is t himself ! 
 T is that she can love again that she can desire his 
 love."
 
 362 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 She regarded the two youthful figures, moving to 
 gether down the aisles of the richly colored wood. 
 "God O God !" she wailed. "To be young again like 
 that ! Not only to be loved, but to be loving !" 
 
 She shuddered, and drew her great furred and 
 hooded mantle round her. Then, with bent head, she 
 took her way to the boat which waited for her. 
 
 "I will go home there I can forget it." 
 
 She hurried down to the water s edge, looking nei 
 ther to the right nor to the left, her head held low and 
 her rich silks trailing after her. 
 
 Zoombi followed sullenly. She had not been able 
 to see her princess, and she began to fear that she was 
 going to be taken away without one glimpse. 
 
 Had Madame not been so preoccupied with her cha 
 grin, she would have seen the child s thin, little black 
 face peering at her from behind a tree-trunk almost at 
 the water s edge. 
 
 The rowers, having been told that the lady would 
 not be in haste to return, had taken the opportunity to 
 go further up-stream on some errand of their own. 
 Madame swore roundly as she searched the empty 
 waste of waters for them. 
 
 Stepping out on a tussock of grass which reached 
 into the shallow water at the stream s edge, she leaned 
 forward and gazed up and down the river. "Hang 
 the black rascals ! Were they mine, I d cut them half 
 to pieces for such doings," she muttered. 
 
 Zoombi saw her princess now. Lai was bending 
 round from behind the sheltering tree-trunk, making 
 Masonic signals to her old slave. 
 
 She pointed to Madame, frowned, pointed again, and 
 then, while Zoombi still hung stupidly staring, unable 
 to grasp her highness s meaning, the child slipped out, 
 stole softly up behind Madame, bent, clutched the 
 woman s ankles, and dragged her down.
 
 MISTRESS JOY 363 
 
 "Now, Zoombi!" she cried. She need not have 
 called. The other, with that quick instinct of the sav 
 age which recognizes deeds though it be dull to words 
 or signs, flung herself promptly upon the prostrate and 
 writhing woman. 
 
 Madame was strong, there were people within easy 
 earshot; yet these two poor exiles, whom she had 
 flouted, whom she had shamed and degraded without 
 fear of any reprisals, held her down. 
 
 The sense of wrongs long borne gave might to the 
 two black creatures. They saw ia her the incarnation 
 of that fate which had shut them out from home and 
 kindred. Still she struggled, and still they held her, 
 strangled, drowned in six inches of muddy water as 
 stained, as foul as was the thing it but half concealed. 
 
 "Push her out into the stream, Zoombi. Let her 
 go back home," whispered Lalla, hoarsely, when the 
 prostrate woman lay at last quite still. 
 
 Zoombi stooped to the drenched form ; a black finger 
 plucked at the jewels on delicate hand and ear. 
 
 "You shall not!" cried the child. "I am a king s 
 daughter, and I do not steal." Which bit of royal 
 honor probably saved the lives of both blacks, as, with 
 the jewels in their possession, the murder must in 
 evitably have been brought home to them. 
 
 Zoombi obediently slipped back the ring which she 
 had half withdrawn from the dead w r oman s finger. 
 She pushed the body, first with her foot and then with 
 a sapling, out into the current, that the stream might 
 take it. 
 
 Madame s rowers, a little later, gave scarce a thought 
 to Zoombi s explanation that her mistress would not 
 return with them, but would walk back to the cabin, 
 and, remaining there, take the keel-boat as it passed. 
 
 Among those who frequented her house, and the ser 
 vants in it, were none to set on foot earnest inquiry for
 
 364 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 Madame s whereabouts. She might take her own time 
 for her returning. 
 
 Nobody was surprised that Madame should go on, 
 leaving Zoombi behind to accompany Lalla to Jamaica 
 indeed this was what the sisters had requested, and 
 what she had given an unwilling half promise to do. 
 Mother Clemence had taken the precaution, when she 
 heard that Madame was going up to Natchez, of ad 
 vising Joy; and though the letter was delayed, it con 
 firmed, when it came, Lai s triumphant announcement 
 to Joy and David. "I have Zoombi back now. The 
 white devil hath gone home without her." 
 
 When time brought good news of Lalla s friends, 
 Zoombi and the child, sent by David Batchelor s kind 
 ness, went together to their own place, forever unsus 
 pected of the murder and forever unrepentant of it. 
 
 Neither unpremeditated criminal thought of weights, 
 so Madame was not handicapped going home. The 
 stiff, unyielding mud clutched and clogged her for a 
 time, but at last, at last she rose, a ghastly thing, and 
 floated back whence she came. 
 
 The white face, with its dark hair all unloosed about 
 it, was turned upward, sometimes to flaming suns 
 which did not vex her quiet eyes at all, and sometimes 
 to high, vast, black night skies, all filled with solemn 
 stars which watched her like accusing eyes. Cranes 
 dipped and screamed above her, the water-fowl flew 
 over. With the dark, bats came hideous creatures of 
 the nightfall and, with a whir of naked wings, 
 swooped to the water, peered into the dead face, with its 
 awful, sightless, staring eyes, and sped affrighted. She 
 who had been ever swift, eager to reach the bourn for 
 which she strove, dallied long upon the bosom of the 
 torpid, heavy stream. She rested whole days in reed 
 patches, did Madame, on this last journey. 
 
 Out in midstream the great, brutish current bore
 
 MISTRESS JOY 365 
 
 onward like a bull. But Madame s progress was slower 
 than the shifty, creeping water of the stream s edge. 
 Yet it was sure. And the big, foul stream which 
 muddies all it touches, muddied her and tossed her and 
 wrecked her beauty, but at last it carried her home. 
 
 LEFT alone with Joy, Jessop made one more trial of 
 his fate. 
 
 "Now," he said, and his piteous tone was more mov 
 ing to her than any fiery, passionate protestations 
 "now, dear heart, you know the worst of me. This 
 woman bore my name for three shameful years. My 
 wife she never was. T was only, dear," he has 
 tened to add, in eager honesty, "because she did not 
 choose to be. I would have wedded her at any time she 
 had said the word. She preferred to take me, young 
 fool that I was, to empty me of all the wealth I had, 
 and, shaking out the last penny, fling me aside. T was 
 then, dear, I drifted here into the wilderness and found 
 you, my Joy." 
 
 "You offered her," said Joy, thoughtfully, "just 
 what you offer me." 
 
 Jessop flung himself on his knees before her and 
 caught a fold of her dress with an impulsive, protesting 
 hand. His face, upraised to hers, was pale and ardent. 
 
 "Nay, never say it," he besought; "she had naught 
 from me which I would offer you. All that is best 
 and purest and most manly in me t is not much, but 
 what there is of good I do not offer it to you you 
 have it. It is yours. You do create it, love. Say 
 yes," he added, in a passionate whisper. "My heart s 
 delight, say yes." 
 
 Joy would have been more than mortal if the lofty 
 title and estates which Madame had announced had not 
 in her eyes added some luster to the charm of this man, 
 whom she already held tenderly in her heart. Her
 
 366 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 brief glimpse of his world had taught her something 
 of what such station means. She knew now that she 
 loved these things which he could give her but did 
 she love him? Almost she thought so. 
 
 Down the dim aisle of the wood beyond came 
 David s tall figure. He was singing in an undertone, 
 his hound at heel, the image of poised, contented man 
 hood. Her heart answered her. 
 
 Jessop turned his head, never moving from his atti 
 tude of supplication. Batchelor well knew the whole 
 affair. No need to bar him out. Something in Joy s 
 eyes beckoned the on-coming man, and he went for 
 ward till he stood beside her. There had been no 
 word as yet of actual love between them, no question 
 asked and answered. But, as he paused beside her, 
 Joy said, and knew that she was safe in the saying: 
 "Nay, friend; my choice is here." 
 
 Jessop rose silently. It seemed strange to him now 
 that he had never thought of this. These two stood 
 for the highest spiritual reach of his life. 
 
 As he faced them there, the splendors of the autumn 
 wood above, about, beneath them, it seemed to him 
 but for the aching of his own heart he would have been 
 glad that it was so that God himself had mated them. 
 
 The man was strength in repose, inexhaustible pa 
 tience and courage and faith to respond to her every 
 demand. 
 
 Joy was creative energy, the force in action, strong 
 no less, but from the nature of her strength requir 
 ing his. 
 
 Jessop lifted his hat, and the beating sun fell full 
 upon his drawn, white face. "Had you told me of this 
 sooner, Mistress Joy," he said, with the first bitterness 
 he had shown, "it had spared me some pain and been, 
 methinks, more like your old, kind self." 
 
 "Believe me, Master Jessop," Joy answered, "you do
 
 6 
 
 DOWN THE DIM AISLE OF THE WOOD BEYOND CAME 
 DAVID S TAI.I. KKU RE."
 
 J 
 
 MISTRESS JOY 367 
 
 me wrong. T is but now I knew it, and -scarce do 
 I know it now." 
 
 She turned, and mutely sent a question from her 
 own fearless eyes to David s. He gave her back a 
 smile. 
 
 "Aye, is it so?" asked Jessop, wearily. Then, as if 
 remembering that there were courtesies to be observed, 
 "A wise choice, Mistress Joy," he said ; "a wise choice, 
 David Batchelor." And, after a long, heartsick pause, 
 "God bless you both." 
 
 WERE Joyce and David married? Do the rivers run 
 into the sea? Does spring follow, after winter is over? 
 In short, do the things which God has ordained come 
 to pass? 
 
 And were they happy? Is there any bliss for the 
 river like that of losing itself in the sea ? Is there any 
 joy for the ocean which can equal that of receiving 
 in its bosom the sweetness and freshness of the stream ? 
 Can you not feel in the annual spring miracle the ti 
 tanic gladness of earth herself? 
 
 That day upon which Father Tobias rose in the little 
 meeting-house amid the cane-brakes to make this twain 
 one was not to them only a day to mark with a white 
 stone. The old man had called David his spiritual 
 son ; this day was to make him a son indeed. The tears 
 were upon his saintly face, and upon the face of many 
 another, as he pronounced them man and wife. 
 
 It was not till years afterward that the great church 
 whose foundation stones were laid by many such bands 
 as this one, there in the wilderness the church which 
 has mothers where others have church fathers over 
 took these two pioneers upon the path of progressive 
 thought, and absorbed them into itself. 
 
 Long before that day, there had come happy news to 
 them from over seas of one who believed, and no doubt
 
 368 MISTRESS JOY 
 
 truly, that the knowing of them both had made him a 
 better and in the end, therefore, a happier man. 
 
 Aaron Burr s arrest for treason followed a later con 
 spiracy. And she who had loved him? A quaint, 
 little-read old history of that time tells us that during 
 his latest visit to the "Half-way House," finding the 
 maiden purity of the girl whom he undoubtedly loved 
 invincible, he proposed marriage. Nor did he give her 
 up until, a fugitive from the government he had de 
 spised, he wrote from abroad to release her. 
 
 His after story is well known. As to hers, we read 
 upon the yellowed page that the hotel in which she lay, 
 when in after time she visited Havana, was mobbed 
 by those desiring to behold such famous beauty, and 
 that the crowd could not be dispersed till she had gra 
 ciously greeted them from an upper balcony. 
 
 After that, we are told that "she married a very 
 worthy gentleman of Savannah, a man of substance 
 and family." And then, no more, for the happy have 
 no history. 
 
 The descendants of the house of Valentine children 
 of Luis and of younger brothers, and the sons and 
 daughters of Madeleine and Ausite, who did not, of 
 course, bear the name of Valentine still form a 
 mighty clan in the vieu carre. 
 
 Neville entered the priesthood in the flower of his 
 youth. His attachment to Joyce Valentine was un 
 broken to the day of his death. A poet, he apotheo 
 sized that boyish passion and carried it, a thing divine, 
 into the life of a Catholic priest. Passed through the 
 alembic of his crystal soul, the love of woman became 
 an active principle for good. 
 
 He died, a very old man, during the yellow-fever 
 epidemic of 1854. A tablet in the cathedral records 
 the good deeds of his many and blessed years. 
 
 The idea for which Father Tobias labored has waxed
 
 MISTRESS JOY 369 
 
 and grown. The broader acceptance of it, for which 
 his son and daughter strove, has become to-day the 
 thing itself. 
 
 Two such beings as Joyce Valentine and David 
 Batchelor could not pursue mere personal happiness. 
 Both were, along different lines, reaching forward for 
 the common weal. And both found not only the indi 
 vidual bliss we all crave, but that which one of earth s 
 wisest has called "a higher than happiness, which is 
 blessedness."
 
 \
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A.
 
 3 1970 00278 6397 
 
 A 000 567 284 5