TALLWOODS
Meantime, events which might have held interest in certain circles
in Washington had they been known, passed on their course, and
toward that very region which had half in jest been named as the
storm center of the day--the state of Missouri, anomalous,
inchoate, discordant, half North, half South, itself the birth of
compromise and sired by political jealousy; whither, against her
will, voyaged a woman, herself engine of turbulence, doubt and
strife, and in company now of a savage captor who contemplated
nothing but establishing her for his own use in his own home.
Tallwoods, the home plantation of the Dunwody family in the West,
now the personal property of the surviving son, state senator
Warville Dunwody of Missouri, presented one of the contrasts which
now and again might have been seen in our early western
civilization. It lay somewhat remote from the nearest city of
consequence, in a region where the wide acres of the owner blended,
unused and uncultivated, with those still more wild, as yet
unclaimed under any private title. Yet in pretentiousness, indeed
in assuredness, it might have rivaled many of the old estates of
Kentucky, the Carolinas, or Virginia; so much did the customs and
ambitions of these older states follow their better bred sons out
into the newer regions.
These men of better rank, with more than competency at their
disposal, not infrequently had few neighbors other than the humble
but independent frontiersman who left for new fields when a dog
barked within fifty miles of his cabin. There were neighbors
within half that distance of Tallwoods, settlers nestled here or
there in these enfolding hills and forests; but of neighbors in
importance equal to that of the owner of Tallwoods there were few
or none in that portion of the state. The time was almost feudal,
but wilder and richer than any feudal day, in that fief tribute was
unknown. The original landlord of these acres had availed himself
of the easy laws and easy ways of the time and place, and taken
over to himself from the loose public domain a small realm all his
own. Here, almost in seclusion, certainly in privacy, a generation
had been spent in a life as baronial as any ever known in old
Virginia in earlier days. A day's ride to a court house, two days
to a steamer, five hours to get a letter to or from the occasional
post--these things seem slight in a lifelong accustomedness; and
here few had had closer touch than this with civilization.
[Illustration: Tallwoods]
The plantation itself was a little kingdom, and largely supplied
its own wants. Mills, looms, shops,--all these were part of the
careless system, easy and opulent, which found support and gained
arrogance from a rich and generous environment. The old house
itself, if it might be called old, built as it had been scarce
thirty years before, lay in the center of a singular valley, at the
edge of the Ozark Hills. The lands here were not so rich as the
wide acres thirty miles or more below, where on the fat bottom
soil, black and deep, the negroes raised in abundance the
wealth-making crop of the country. On the contrary, this, although
it was the capital of the vast Dunwody holdings thereabout, was
chosen not for its agricultural richness so much as for its
healthfulness and natural beauty.
In regard to these matters, the site could not better have been
selected. The valley, some three or four miles across, lay like a
deep saucer pressed down into the crest of the last rise of the
Ozarks. The sides of the depression were as regular as though
created by the hands of man. Into its upper extremity there ran a
little stream of clear and unfailing water, which made its entrance
at an angle, so that the rim of the hills seemed scarcely nicked by
its ingress. This stream crossed the floor of the valley, serving
to water the farms, and, making its way out of the lower end by a
similar curious angle, broke off sharply and hid itself among the
rocks on its way out and down from the mountains--last trace of a
giant geology which once dealt in continental terms, rivers once
seas, valleys a thousand miles in length. Thus, at first sight,
one set down in the valley might have felt that it had neither
inlet nor outlet, but had been created, panoplied and peopled by
some Titanic power, and owned by those who neither knew nor desired
any other world. As a matter of fact, the road up through the
lower Ozarks from the great Mississippi, which entered along the
bed of the little stream, ended at Tallwoods farm. Beyond it,
along the little river which led back into the remote hills, it was
no more than a horse path, and used rarely except by negroes or
whites in hunting expeditions back into the mountains, where the
deer, the wild turkey, the bear and the panther still roamed in
considerable numbers at no great distance from the home plantation.
Tallwoods itself needed no other fence than the vast wall of hills,
and had none save where here and there the native stone had been
heaped up roughly into walls, along some orchard side. The fruits
of the apple, the pear and the peach grew here handsomely, and the
original owner had planted such trees in abundance. The soil,
though at first it might have been, called inhospitable, showed
itself productive. The corn stood tall and strong, and here and
there the brown stalks of the cotton plant itself might have been
seen; proof of the wish of the average Southerner to cultivate that
plant, even in an environment not wholly suitable. All about, upon
the mountain sides, stood a heavy growth of deciduous trees, at
this time of the year lining the slopes in flaming reds and golds.
Beyond the valley's rim, tier on tier, stately and slow, the
mountains rose back for yet a way--mountains rich in their means of
frontier independence, later to be discovered rich also in
minerals, in woods, in all the things required by an advancing
civilization.
Corn, swine and cotton,--these made the wealth of the owner of
Tallwoods' plantation and of the richer lands in the river bottoms
below. These products brought the owner all the wealth he needed.
Here, like a feudal lord, master of all about him, he had lived all
his life and had, as do all created beings, taken on the color and
the savor of the environment about him. Rich, he was generous;
strong, he was merciful; independent, he was arrogant; used to his
own way, he was fierce and cruel when crossed in that way. Not
much difference, then, lay between this master of Tallwoods and the
owner of yonder castle along the embattled Rhine, or the towered
stronghold of some old lord located along an easy, wandering,
English stream; with this to be said in favor of this solitary lord
of the wilderness, that his was a place removed and little known.
It had been passed by in some manner through its lack of appeal to
those seeking cotton lands or hunting grounds, so that it lay
wholly out of the ken and the understanding of most folk of the
older states.
If in Tallwoods the owner might do as he liked, certainly he had
elected first of all to live somewhat as a gentleman. The mansion
house was modeled after the somewhat stereotyped pattern of the
great country places of the South. Originally planned to consist
of the one large central edifice of brick, with a wing on each side
of somewhat lesser height, it had never been entirely completed,
one wing only having been fully erected. The main portion of the
house was of two stories, its immediate front occupied by the
inevitable facade with its four white pillars, which rose from the
level of the ground to the edge of the roof, shading the front
entrance to the middle rooms. Under this tall gallery roof, whose
front showed high, white and striking all across the valley, lay
four windows, and at each side of the great double doors lay yet
other two windows. On either side of the pillars and in each
story, yet other two admitted light to the great rooms; and in the
completed wing which lay at one side of the main building, deep
embrasures came down almost to the level of the ground, well hidden
by the grouped shrubbery which grew close to the walls. The
visitor approaching up the straight gravel walk might not have
noticed the heavy iron bars which covered these, giving the place
something the look of a jail or a fortress. The shrubs,
carelessly, and for that reason more attractively planted, also
stood here and there over the wide and smooth bluegrass lawn.
The house was built in the edge of a growth of great oaks and elms,
which threw their arms out over even the lofty gables as though in
protection. Tradition had it that the reason the building had
never been completed was that the old master would have been
obliged to cut down a favorite elm in order to make room for it;
and he had declared that since his wife had died and all his
children but one had followed her, the house was large enough as it
was. So it stood as he had left it, with its two tall chimneys,
one at each end of the mid-body of the house, marking the two great
fireplaces, yet another chimney at the other end of the lesser wing.
Straight through the mid-body of the house ran a wide hall, usually
left open to all the airs of heaven; and through this one could see
far out over the approach, entirely through the house itself, and
note the framed picture beyond of woods glowing with foliage, and
masses of shrubbery, and lesser trees among which lay the white
huts of the negroes. Still to the left, beyond the existing wing,
lay the fenced vegetable gardens where grew rankly all manner of
provender intended for the bounteous table, whose boast it was
that, save for sugar and coffee, nothing was used at Tallwoods
which was not grown upon its grounds.
So lived one, and thus indeed lived more than one, baron on
American soil not so long ago, when this country was more American
than it is to-day--more like the old world in many ways, more like
a young world in many others. Here, for thirty years of his life,
had lived the present owner of Tallwoods, sole male of the family
surviving in these parts.
It might have been called matter of course that Warville Dunwody
should be chosen to the state legislature. So chosen, he had,
through sheer force of his commanding nature, easily become a
leader among men not without strength and individuality. Far up in
the northern comer, where the capital of the state lay, men spoke
of this place hid somewhere down among the hills of the lower
country. Those who in the easier acres of the northwestern prairie
lands reared their own corn and swine and cotton, often wondered at
the half-wild man from St. Francois, who came riding into the
capital on a blooded horse, who was followed by negroes also on
blooded horses, a self-contained man who never lacked money, who
never lacked wit, whose hand was heavy, whose tongue was keen,
whose mind was strong and whose purse was ever open.
The state which had produced a Benton was now building up a rival
to Benton. That giant, then rounding out a history of thirty years'
continuous service in the Senate of the United States, unlike the
men of this weaker day, reserved the right to his own honest and
personal political belief. He steadily refused to countenance the
extending of slavery, although himself a holder of slaves; and,
although he admitted the legality and constitutionality of the
Fugitive Slave Act, he deplored that act as much as any. To the
eventual day of his defeat he stood, careless of his fate, firm
in his own principles, going down in defeat at last because he
would not permit his own state legislature--headed then by men
such as Warville Dunwody and his friends--to dictate to him the
workings of his own conscience. Stronger than Daniel Webster, he
was one of those who would not obey the dictates of that leader,
and he _did_ set up his "conscience above the law." These two men,
Benton and Dunwody, therefore, were at the time of which we write
two gladiators upon the scenes of a wild western region, as yet
little known in the eastern states, though then swiftly coming
forward into more specific notice.
Perhaps thirty or forty slaves were employed about Tallwoods home
farm, as it was called. They did their work much as they liked, in
a way not grudging for the main part. Idle and shiftless, relying
on the frequent absence of the master and the ease of gaining a
living, they worked no more than was necessary to keep up a
semblance of routine. In some way the acres got plowed and reaped,
in some way the meats were cured, in some way the animals were fed
and the table was served and the rooms kept in a semi-tidiness,
none too scrupulous. Always in Tallwoods there was something at
hand ready to eat, and there was fuel whereby fires might be made.
Such as it was, the hospitality of the place was ready. It was a
rich, loose way of life, and went on lazily and loosely, like the
fashion of some roomy old vehicle, not quite run down, but
advancing now and then with a groan or a creak at tasks imposed.
But now, another and most important matter for our note--there was
no woman's hand at Tallwoods. The care was that of servants, of
slaves. When things grew insupportable in their shiftlessness the
master lashed out an order and got what he demanded; then soon
matters sank back again to their old state. None might tell when
the master would ride away, and when gone none could say when he
would return. Since the death of his mother no woman's control had
ruled here, nor, in spite of the busy tongues at the larger cities
above, did there seem likelihood that any would soon share or alter
the fortunes of Tallwoods. Rumors floated here and there, tongues
wagged; but Tallwoods lay apart; and Tallwoods, as commonly was
conceded, had ways of its own.
It was to these remote and somewhat singular surroundings that
there approached, on the evening of a bland autumn day, along the
winding road which followed the little stream, the great coach of
the master of Tallwoods, drawn by four blooded carriage horses,
weary, mud-stained and flecked with foam. At the end of the
valley, where the road emerged from its, hidden course among the
cliffs, the carriage now halted. Dunwody himself sprang down from
the driver's seat where he had been riding in order to give the
occupants of the coach the more room. He approached the window,
hat in hand.
"My dear lady," said he, "this is the end of our journey. Yonder
is my home. Will you not look at it?"
It was a pale and languid face which greeted him, the face of a
woman weary and even now in tears. Hastily she sought to conceal
these evidences of her distress. It was the first time he had seen
her weeping. Hitherto her courage had kept her cold and defiant,
else hot and full of reproofs. This spectacle gave him concern.
His face took on a troubled frown.
"Come now, do not weep, my dear girl,--anything but that."
"What, then, is it you would say?" she demanded. "It makes little
difference to me where you are taking me."
He threw open the coach door and extended a hand to aid her in
alighting. "Suppose we walk up from here," he said. "I know you
are tired by the ride. Besides," he added, with pride, "I want to
show you Tallwoods."
Scarce touching his hand, she stepped down. Dunwody motioned to
the driver to advance, and in spite of the protests of the maid
Jeanne, thus left alone within, the coach rolled on up the driveway
ahead of them.
It was in fact a beautiful prospect which lay before the travelers
thus arrived. The sun was low in the west, approaching the rim of
the hills, and its level rays lighted the autumn foliage, crossed
the great trees, brightened the tall white pillars. It even
illuminated the grounds beyond, so that quite through the body of
the house itself its golden light could be seen on the farther
slopes, framing the quaint and singular picture thus set apart.
All around rose the wide cup of the valley, its sides as yet
covered by unbroken decoration of vivid or parti-colored foliage.
Here and there the vivid reds of the wild sumac broke out in riot;
framed lower in the scale were patches of berry vines touched by
the frost; while now and again a maple lifted aloft a fan of clean
scarlet against the sky,--all backed by the more somber colors of
the oaks and elms, or the now almost naked branches of the lindens.
These enfolding forests gave a look of protectedness to this secret
place. They left a feeling not of discomfort but of shelter.
Moreover, the grass underfoot was soft and still green. Some sort
of comeliness, picturesque though rude, showed in the scant
attempts to modify nature in the arrangement of the grounds. And
there, noble and strong, upon a little eminence swelling at the
bottom of the valley's cup, lay the great house, rude, unfinished,
yet dignified. If it seemed just this side of elegance, yet the
look of it savored of comfort. To a woman distracted and wearied
it should have offered some sort of rest. To her who now gazed
upon it the sight afforded only horror. This then was the place.
Here was to be her trial. This was the battle-ground.
Dunwody lingered, hoping to hear some word of satisfaction.
"The hills are beautiful, the trees are beautiful, and the sky,"
she said, at length. "What God has done here is beautiful. But
God Himself is gone."
Rage filled him suddenly. "At any rate, this is what I have and
all I have," he said. "Like it, woman, or by that God! hate it!
Here you are, and here you stay, until--until I die or until God
returns. You are the only woman in it for me when you step into
that house there. You are its mistress. I rule here. But what
you want shall be yours at any time you want it. You can think of
nothing in the world that shall not be brought to you when you ask
for it. My servants are yours. Choose from them as many as you
like."
"Slaves for your slave? You are full of kindness indeed! But I
shall never be what you delicately call the mistress of Tallwoods."
"By the Lord! girl, if I thought that would be true--if I thought
for one moment that it were true--" in a half-frenzy he threw out
his arm, rigid. An instant later he had lapsed into one of the
moods new to him. "There is no punishment I don't deserve," he
said. "All the time I have hurt you, when I'd rather cut my tongue
out than hurt you. I've seen you, these few days. God knows, at
the hardest--me at the worst--you at the worst. But your worst is
better than the best of any other woman I ever saw. I'm going to
have you. It's you or nothing for me, and I'm going to have you.
Choose your own title here, then, Madam. This is your home or your
prison, as you like."
For a moment Josephine paused, looking around her at the
surrounding hills. He seemed to catch her thought, and smiled at
her.
"Twenty miles to the nearest house that way, Madam. None at all
that other way. Every path known and guarded by my people. No
paths at all in these hills out yonder. Wild animals in them,
little food in them for man or woman not used to living wild. You
would be helpless in one day, if you tried to get put. We'd find
you before you'd gone five miles. Don't attempt any foolishness
about trying to escape from here. You're mine, I say. I shall not
let you go."
Yet in spite of his savagery, his face softened in the next moment.
"If it could only be in the right way! Look at me, look at you.
You're so very beautiful, I'm so strong. There is only one right
way about it. Oh, woman!
"But come," he resumed with a half sigh, seeking in a rough way to
brush back a wisp of hair from his forehead, to join the tangled
mane upon his crest; "I hate myself as much as you hate me, but
it's your fault--your fault that you are as you are--that you set
me mad. Let's try to forget it for to-night, at least. You're
tired, worn out. I'm almost tired myself, with all this war
between us."
She was silent as they slowly advanced, silent as a prisoner facing
prison doors; but he still went on, arguing.
"Think of what you could do here, how happy we could be here.
Think of what we could do, together. There isn't anything I
wouldn't try to do. Why, I could do _anything_; and I'd bring
everything I got, everything, back to you,--and set it down at your
feet and say, 'I brought you this.' What would I care for it,
alone? What does it mean to me? What glory or success do I want?
Without you, what does all this world, all my life, all I can do,
mean to me after this? I knew long ago I couldn't be happy, but I
didn't know why, I know now what I wanted, all along. I can do
something in the world, I can succeed, I can be somebody now--and
now I want to, want to! Oh, I've lacked so much, I've longed so
much. Some way the world didn't seem made right. I wondered, I
puzzled, I didn't know, I couldn't understand--I thought all the
world was made to be unhappy--but it isn't, it's made for
happiness, for joy, for exultation. Why, I can see it plainly
enough now--all straight out, ahead of me,--all straight ahead of
us two!"
"How like a man you are!" she said slowly. "You seek your own
success, although your path lies over a woman's disgrace and ruin."
"Haven't you ever thought of the other side of this at all? Can't
a woman ever think of mercy to a man? Can't she ever blame herself
just for being Eve, for being the incarnate temptation that she is
to any real man? Can't she see what she is to him? You talk about
ruin--I tell you it's ruin here, sure as we are born, for one or
both of us. I reckon maybe it's for both."
"Yes, it is for both."
"No. I'll not admit it!" he blazed out. "If I've been strong
enough to pull you down, I'm strong enough to carry you up again.
Only, don't force the worst part of me to the front all the time."
"A gentle wooer, indeed! And yet you blame me that I can not see a
man's side in a case like this."
"But in God's name, why should a man see any but a man's side of
it? Things don't go by reason, after all. The world goes, I
reckon, because there is a man's side to it. Anyhow, I am as I am.
Whatever you do here, whatever you are, don't try to wheedle me,
nor ask me to see your side, when there is only one side to this.
If any man ever lifted hand or eye to you, I'd kill him. I'll not
give up one jot of the right I've got in you, little as it is--I've
taken the right to hold you here and talk to you. But when you say
you'll not listen to me, then you do run against my side of it, my
man's side of it; and I tell you once more, I'm the owner of this
place. I live here. It's mine. I rule here, over free and
thrall."
With rude strength and pride he swept an arm widely around him,
covering half the circle of the valley. "It's mine!" he said
slowly. "Fit for a king, isn't it? Yes, fit for a queen. It is
almost fit for you."
His hat was in his hand. The breeze of the evening, drawing down
the valley, now somewhat chilled, lifted the loose hair on his
forehead. He stood, big, bulky and strong, like some war lord of
older days. The argument on his lips was that of the day of skins
and stone.
She who stood at his side, this prisoner of his prowess, taken by
his ruthless disregard of wish or rights of others, stood even with
his shoulder, tall, deep-bosomed, comely, as fair and fit and
womanly a woman as man's need has asked in any age of the world.
In the evening light the tears which had wet her eyes were less
visible. She might indeed have been fit queen for a spot like
this, mate for a man like this.
And now the chill of autumn lay in the twilight. Night was
coming--the time when all creatures, save ravening night feeders,
feel apprehension, crave shelter, search out a haven for repose.
This woman was alone and weary, much in need of some place to rest
her head. Every fiber in her heart craved shelter, comfort,
security, protection.
Dunwody turned, offered her a hand, and led her to the wide double
doors.