_SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY._
If what Silas Ropes had said of his patron, Augustus Bythewood, was
true, great must have been the chagrin of that chivalrous young
gentleman when an interview was brought about between him and Lysander,
and he learned that Penn, instead of being driven from the state, had
found refuge in the family of Mr. Villars--that he was there even at the
moment when he made his delightful little evening call, and was
entertained so charmingly by Virginia.
Bythewood gave Sprowl money, and Sprowl gave Bythewood information and
advice. It was in accordance with the programme decided upon by these
two worthies, that Mr. Ropes at the head of his gang presented himself
the next night at Mr. Villars's door.
Virginia, by her father's direction, admitted them. They crowded into
the sitting-room, where the old man rose to receive them, with his usual
urbanity.
"Virginia, have chairs brought for all our friends. I cannot see to
recognize them individually, but I salute them all."
"No matter about the cheers," said Silas. "We can do our business
standing. Sorry to trouble you with it, sir, but it's jest this. We
understand you're harboring a Yankee abolitionist, and we've called to
remind you that sech things can't be allowed in a well-regulated
community."
The old man, holding himself still erect with punctilious
politeness,--for his guests were not seated,--and smiling with grand and
venerable aspect, made reply in tones full of dignity and sweetness: "My
friends, I am an old man; I am a native of Virginia, and a citizen of
Tennessee; and all my life long I have been accustomed to regard the
laws of hospitality as sacred."
"My sentiments exactly. I won't hear a word said agin' southern
horsepitality, or southern perliteness." Mr. Ropes illustrated his
remark by spitting copious tobacco-juice on the floor. "Horsepitality I
look upon as one of the stable institootions of our country."
"No doubt it is so," said Mr. Villars, smiling at the unintentional pun.
"That's one thing," added Silas; "but harboring a abolitionist is
another. That's the question we've jest took the liberty to call and
have a little quiet talk about, to-night."
"Sit down, dear father, do!" entreated Virginia, remaining at his side
in spite of her dread and abhorrence of these men. Holding his hand, and
regarding him with pale and anxious looks, she endeavored with gentle
force to get him into his chair. "My father is very feeble," she said,
appealing to Silas, "and I beg you will have some consideration for
him."
"Sartin, sartin," said Silas. "Keep yer settin', keep yer settin', Mr.
Villars."
But the old man still remained upon his feet,--his tall, spare form,
bent with age, his long, thin locks of white hair, and his wan,
sightless, calm, and beautiful countenance presenting a wonderful
contrast to the blooming figure at his side. It was a picture which
might well command the respectful attention of Silas and his compeers.
"My friends," he said, with a grave smile, "we men of the south are
rather boastful of our hospitality. But true hospitality consists in
something besides eating and drinking with those whose companionship is
a sufficient recompense for all that we do for them. It clothes the
naked, feeds the hungry, shelters the distressed. With the Arabs, even
an enemy is sacred who happens to be a guest. Shall an old Virginian
think less of the honor of his house than an Arab?"
Silas looked abashed, silenced for a moment by these noble words, and
the venerable and majestic mien of the blind old clergyman. It would not
do, however, to give up his mission so; and after coughing, turning his
quid, and spitting again, he replied,--
"That'll do very well to talk, Mr. Villars. But come to the pint. You've
got a Yankee abolitionist in your house--that you won't deny."
"I have in my house," said the old man, "a person whose life is in
danger from injuries received at your hands last night. He came to us in
a condition which, I should have thought, would excite the pity of the
hardest heart. Whether or not he is a Yankee abolitionist, I never
inquired. It was enough for me that he was a fellow-creature in
distress. He is well known in this community, where he has never been
guilty of wrong towards any one; and, even if he were a dangerous
person, he is not now in a condition to do mischief. Gentlemen, my guest
is very ill with a fever."
"Can't help that; you must git red of him," said Silas. "I'm a talking
now for your own good as much as any body's, Mr. Villars. You're a man
we all respect; but already you've made yourself a object of suspicion,
by standing up fur the old rotten Union."
"When I can no longer befriend my guests, or stand up for my country,
then I shall have lived long enough!" said the old man, with impressive
earnestness.
"The old Union," said Gad, coming to the aid of Silas, "is played out.
We couldn't have our rights, and so we secede."
"What rights couldn't you have under the government left to us by
Washington?"
"That had become corrupted," said Mr. Ropes.
"How corrupted, my friend?"
"By the infernal anti-slavery element!"
"You forget," said Mr. Villars, "that Washington, Jefferson, and indeed
all the wisest and best men who assisted to frame the government under
which we have been so prospered, were anti-slavery men."
"Wal, I know, some on 'em hadn't got enlightened on the subject," Mr.
Ropes admitted.
"And do you know that if a stranger, endowed with all the virtues of
those patriots, should come among you and preach the political doctrines
of Washington and Jefferson, you would serve him as you served Penn
Hapgood last night?"
"Shouldn't wonder the least mite if we should!" Silas grinned. "But
that's nothing to the purpose. We claim the right to carry our slaves
into the territories, and Lincoln's party is pledged to keep 'em out,
and that's cause enough for secession."
"How many slaves do you own, Mr. Ropes?" Mr. Villars, still leaning on
his daughter's arm, smiled as he put this mild question.
"I--wal--truth is, I don't own nary slave myself--wish I did!" said
Silas.
"How many friends have you with you?"
"'Lev'n," said Gad, rapidly counting his companions.
"Well, of the eleven, how many own slaves?"
"I do!" "I do!" spoke up two eager voices.
"How many slaves do you own?"
"I've got as right smart a little nigger boy as there is anywheres in
Tennessee!" said the first, proudly.
"How old is he?"
"He'll be nine year' old next grass, I reckon."
"Well, how many negroes has your friend?"
"I've got one old woman, sir."
"How old is she?"
"Wal, plaguy nigh a hunderd,--old Bess, you know her."
"Yes, I know old Bess; and an excellent creature she is. So it seems
that you eleven men own two slaves. And these you wish to take into some
of the territories, I suppose."
The men looked foolish, and were obliged to own that they had never
dreamed of conveying either the nine-year-old lad or the female
centenarian out of the state of Tennessee.
"Then what is the grievance you complain of?" asked the old man. They
could not name any. "O, now, my friends, look you here! I believe in the
right of revolution when a government oppresses a people beyond
endurance. But in this case it appears, by your own showing, that not
one of you has suffered any wrong, and that this is not a revolution in
behalf of the poor and oppressed. If anybody is to be benefited by it,
it is a few rich owners of slaves, who are prosperous enough already,
and have really no cause of complaint. It is a revolution precipitated
by political leaders, who wish to be rulers; and what grieves me at the
heart is, that the poor and ignorant are thus permitting themselves to
be made the tools of this tyranny, which will soon prove more despotic
than it was possible for the dear old government ever to become. God
bless my country! God bless my poor distracted country!"
As he finished speaking, the old man sank down overcome with emotion
upon his chair, clasping his daughter's hand, while tears ran down his
cheeks.
His argument was so unanswerable that nothing was left for Silas but to
get angry.
"I see you're not only a Unionist, but more'n half a Yankee abolitionist
yourself! We didn't come here to listen to any sech incendiary talk.
Kick out the schoolmaster, if you wouldn't git into trouble,--I warn
you! That's the business we've come to see to, and you must tend to't."
"Pity him--spare him!" cried Virginia, shielding her aged father as
Ropes approached him. "He cannot turn a sick man out of his house, you
know he cannot!"
"You're partic'larly interested in the young man, hey?" said Ropes,
grinning insolently.
"I am interested that no harm comes either to my father or to his
guests," said the girl. "Go, I implore you! As soon as Mr. Hapgood is
able to leave us, he will do so,--he will have no wish to stay,--this I
promise you."
"I'll give him three days to quit the country," said Silas. "Only three
days. He'd better be dead than found here at the end of that time.
Gentlemen, we've performed this yer painful dooty; now le's adjourn to
Barber Jim's and take a drink."
With these words Mr. Ropes retired. While, however, he was treating his
men to whiskey and cigars with Augustus Bythewood's money, advanced for
the purpose, one of the eleven, separating himself from the rest,
hurried back to the minister's house. He had taken part in the patriotic
proceedings of his friends with great reluctance, as appeared from the
manner in which he shrank from view in corners and behind the backs of
his comrades, and drew down his woe-begone mouth, and rolled up his
dismal eyes, during the entire interview. And he had returned now, at
the risk of his life, to do Penn a service.
He crept to the kitchen door, and knocked softly. Carl opened it. There
stood the wretched figure, terrified, panting for breath.
"Vat is it?" said Carl.
"I've come fur to tell ye!" said the man, glancing timidly around into
the darkness to see if he was followed. "They mean to kill him! They
told you they'd give him three days, but they won't. I heard them saying
so among themselves. They may be back this very night, for they'll all
git drunk, and nothing will stop 'em then."
Carl stared, as these hoarsely whispered words were poured forth rapidly
by the frightened man at the door.
"Come in, and shpeak to Mishter Willars."
"No, no! I'll be killed if I'm found here!"
But Carl, sturdy and resolute, had no idea of permitting him to deliver
so hasty and alarming a message without subjecting him to a
cross-examination. He had already got him by the collar, and now he
dragged him into the house, the man not daring to resist for fear of
outcry and exposure.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Villars.
"A wisitor!" said Carl. And he repeated Dan's statement, while Dan was
recovering his breath.
"Is this true, Mr. Pepperill?" asked the old man, deeply concerned.
"Yes, I be durned if it ain't!" said Dan.
Virginia clung to her father's chair, white with apprehension. Toby was
also present, having left his patient an instant to run down stairs, and
learn what was the cause of this fresh disturbance.
"He's a lyin' to ye, Mass' Villars; he's a lyin' to ye! White trash
can't tell de troof if dey tries! Don't ye breeve a word he says,
massa."
Yet it was evident from the consternation the old negro's face betrayed
that he believed Dan's story,--or at least feared it would prove true if
he did not make haste and deny it stoutly; for Toby, like many persons
with whiter skins, always felt on such occasions a vague faith that if
he could get the bad news sufficiently denounced and discredited in
season, all would be well. As if simply setting our minds against the
truth would defeat it!
"But they spoke of fittin' yer neck to a noose too!"
"Mine? Ah, if nobody but myself was in danger, I should be well content!
What do you think we ought to do, Mr. Pepperill?"
"The master has done me a good turn, and I'll do him one, if I swing
fur't!" said Dan, straightening himself with sudden courage. "Get him
out 'fore they suspect what you're at, and I'll take him to my house and
hide him, I be durned if I won't!"
"It is a kind offer, and I thank you," said the old man. "But how can I
resolve to send a guest from my house in this way? Not to save my own
life would I do it!"
"But to save his, father!"
"It is only of him I am thinking, my child. Would it be safe to move
him, Toby?"
"Safe to move Massa Penn!" ejaculated the old negro, choking with wrath
and grief. "Neber tink o' sech a ting, massa! He'd die, shore, widout I
should go 'long wid him, and tote him in my ol' arms on a fedder-bed
jes' like I would a leetle baby, and den stay and nuss him arter I got
him dar. For dem 'ar white trash, what ye s'pose day knows 'bout takin'
keer ob a sick gemman like him? It's a bery 'tic'lar case. He's got de
delirimum a comin' on him now, and I can't be away from him a minute. I
mus' go back to him dis bery minute!"
And Toby departed, having suddenly conceived an idea of his own for
hiding Penn in the barn until the danger was over.
He had been absent from the room but a moment, however, when those
remaining in it heard a wild outcry, and presently the old negro
reappeared, inspired with superstitious terror, his eyes starting from
their sockets, his tongue paralyzed.
"What's the matter, Toby?" cried Virginia, perceiving that something
really alarming had happened.
The negro tried to speak, but his throat only gurgled incoherently,
while the whites of his eyes kept rolling up like saucers.
"Penn--has anything happened to Penn?" said Mr. Villars.
"O, debil, debil, Lord bress us!" gibbered Toby.
"Dead?" cried Virginia.
"Gone! gone, missis!"
Struck with consternation, but refusing to believe the words of the
bewildered black, Virginia flew to the sick man's chamber.
Then she understood the full meaning of Toby's words. Penn was not in
his bed, nor in the room, nor anywhere in the house. He had disappeared
suddenly, strangely, totally.