Our Nervous Friends, Robert S. Carroll [thriller books to read .TXT] 📗

THE TRIUMPH OF HARMONY

When man “conceives his superpower, his miraculous power to meet disaster, and in it to find profit; to face defeat after defeat and therein acquire faith in his own permanence; to live for years within a frail, defective body, with a mind unable to respond to the promptings of ambition and inspiration, and thereby take on the greatness of gentleness-the conviction comes clear, a conviction which will not comfortably stay put aside, that life is intended to develop a noble self.”

What could be more beautiful to senses that thrill with love than this pink-cheeked, azure-eyed babe, whose golden ringlets promise the glorious crown, the unfading beauty of her womanhood? She was hardly a month old, yet she seemed to understand—Mammy Lou said she did-that she must look her “beau’fulest”; so when her father came and bent over her little crib, she smiled, then coyly ducked her wobbly head, to smile again at Mother, the dear mother who only to-day had been allowed by the doctor to sit up for an hour. Mammy Lou must have been right, for there Baby lay playing with her fingers and the disappointed pink ribbons of her booties, while, now and then, when the discussion was specially serious, she would look soberly at her earnest-faced parents till they both would notice, and laugh. Then her little understanding smile-and some more play. It was an important conference. Considerations affecting Baby’s future were in the balance, and, as she gave such perfect attention and never interrupted, and insisted on every one keeping good-natured, Mammy Lou’s assertion that “Dat lil’ sweetness’ stood every word her pa an’

ma said. She knew dey’s findin’ her a name,” cannot be successfully disputed.

The Southards had been married twelve years. Georgia was eight, and Etta five. It must be a boy—one who would pass on the Southard name and traditions. The first Earl of Minto had contributed some nobleness of blood to the Southard stock, and the father had set his heart on a boy who should feel the double inspiration of “Minto Southard,” to help make him fine and great.

A “girl”! And business took the father away for a fortnight. It was rumored that he drowned his disappointment in Charleston-but not in the Bay. He did not fully realize that the brave wife was gravely ill, until his return. Then he was devoted and tender. They had made no plans for a little girl; so she was nearly a month old and was still being called “Sweetness” by Mammy Lou, and “The Baby” by others, and to-day, while Mother first sat up, her name was to be decided.

“Why, Father, dear, no girl was ever called that. I think it would be all right for a boy, but she’s such a dainty little thing, and I’m sure it will always seem odd to her.”

“What would you like better, Mater? I don’t wish to contend or to be unduly insistent, but you know I have looked forward to having the Earl’s name in the family, and, personally, I think it has the attraction of uniqueness, as well as the flavor of distinction. Then, you remember, you suggested the names for the other girls. I know you are thinking of her future and fear an odd name may make her unhappy, some time. But we can, we should, teach her to be proud of so distinguished an association. My personal desire is very strong, and I can’t think of any other name which will satisfy me nearly as well.”

Just then Baby looked at her mother, smiled and gurgled something which was intelligible to mother-ears, and the wife’s hand slipped into the husband’s, and the baby was named Minta Southard.

Where could a new baby have found a more perfect setting for her childhood and girlhood? The plantation lay on both sides of the Catawba River-fresh and crystal clear those days, as it sped down from mountains to sea-fertile, fruitful acres there were, which never failed to bring forth manyfold. Three times in as many generations, the Manor House, as the rambling southern home had always been called, had been enlarged, but nothing was ever done which lessened the dignity lent by its fine colonial portico, the artistic columns of which could be seen miles down the river-road. The Manor House was good to see in its rare setting of stately water-oaks, now in their full maturity.

For four years little Minta thrived and gave promise of bringing many joys to this home which knew no shadow but the father’s periodic “business trips” to Charleston. Mammy Lou was her slave, and even Georgia, who had her own way so much that she was far from unselfish, asked, at times, to “take care” of her dainty sister, and would let her play with some of her things without protest. Then the fever!

“Typhoid,” the doctor said, “affecting her brain.” Father, Mother and Mammy Lou took turns being with her those long, hot weeks, when it forgot to rain and the refreshing sea-breeze was cruelly withheld.

Doctors from Charlotte, doctors from Charleston and doctors from Atlanta came, to look grave, to shake their learned heads, and to sadly leave, offering no hopeful change in treatment. The fever was prolonged over five weeks, and the child seemed more lifeless each day as it left her drained and damaged-drained and damaged for life it proved. So slowly her shadowy form gained, that a single week was too short to evidence improvement. Six months, and she was not yet walking. One year, and she was still fragile. Then, in a month, normal childhood apparently slipped back, and she began to play and be merry.

Of course “Sweetness” was spoiled—and an autocrat she was, her mother, only, denying herself the indulgence of being her subject.

Mother, however, was lovingly tactful, and exercised the discipline she believed necessary for her child’s good most wisely. And Mother’s memory has ever remained a hallowed one. Mammy Lou did much to discredit all of the mother’s conscientious care. For so long the poor child “couldn’t eat no thin’,” and when at last Minta’s appetite returned, her loving black nurse would give her anything she wanted, and if the fever hadn’t hopelessly damaged the little one’s digestive glands, Mammy Lou’s unfailing “l’il snacks for her honey-chile” would have completed the wreckage. At first the trouble was not noticed.

Minta rarely spoke of suffering. She would be found lying with her face from the light, and would always reply that she was “tired playing,” sometimes only, “my head hurts.” The parents thought she did play too hard, for she was developing into an intense little miss, who entered into whatever she was doing with more than blue-eyed zest, those blue eyes which snapped blue-black when her will was crossed.

The girls all had their early teaching at home, so when Minta was thirteen, Miss Allison came from Washington to spend a year, as tutor, to prepare her for school the next fall. That was the year Georgia ran away. She had been visiting in Savannah several weeks, when she disappeared, leaving a hurried note to her friends, stating that she would write her people from