THE TURNCOAT
It was late in the sunlit afternoon when there rode into the head
of the street of old St. Genevieve a weary and mud-stained
horseman, who presently dismounted at the hitching rail in front of
the little inn which he favored with his company. He was a tall
man who, as he turned down the street, walked with just the
slightest trace of a limp.
This traveler did not turn into the inn, did not pause, indeed, at
any of the points of greater interest, but sought out the little
cooper shop of Hector Fournier. That worthy greeted him, wiping
his hands upon his leathern apron.
"Eh, bien, then, it is Monsieur Dunwodee! Come in! Come in! I'll
been glad for see you. There was those talk you'll would not came."
"Yes, I have come, Hector," said Dunwody, "and naturally, I have
come to see you first. You are one of the few political allies
that I have left. At least, if you don't believe the way I do, you
are generous enough to listen!"
"But, Monsieur, believe me, the situation here is difficult. I had
a list here of twelve citizen of St. Genevieve who were willing
for listen to Monsieur Dunwodee to-night in a grand mass meeting;
but now talk has gone out. There is much indignation. In fact, it
is plan'--"
"What do you mean? What is going on?" demanded Dunwody.
"Alas! Monsieur, it is with regret I announce that the majority of
our citizen, who so dislike Monsieur Benton and his views, are much
in favor of riding upon a rail, after due treatment of the tar and
the feather, him who lately was their idol; that is to say,
yourself, Monsieur!"
Dunwody, his face grim, leaned against the door of the little shop.
"So that is the news?" said he. "It seems hardly generous, this
reception of St. Genevieve to myself! It is too bad that my
friend, Mr. Benton, is not here to share this hospitality of yours!"
"As I have said, alas! Monsieur!"
"But, now, as to that, Hector, listen!" said Dunwody sharply. "We
will hold the meeting here just the same. We do not run away!
To-night, in front of the hall there.
"But why trouble about that?" he added, almost lightly. "What
comes, comes. Now, as to yourself and your mother--and your wife?"
"And those baby!" exclaimed Hector. "Assuredly monsieur does not
forget the finest baby of St. Genevieve? Come, you shall see
Josephine St. Auban Jeanne Marie Fournier--at once, _tout de
suite_. _Voila_!" Hector was rolling down his sleeves and
loosening the string of his leathern apron. Suddenly he turned.
"But, Monsieur," he said, "come, I have news! It is a situation
_un peu difficile_; but it can not be concealed, and what can not
be concealed may best be revealed."
"What news?" asked Dunwody. "More bad news?"
"Not in the least, as we of my household regard it. With monsieur,
I am not so certain. It is _quelque chose un peu difficile, mais
oui_. But then--Monsieur remembers that lady, the Countess--?"
"Countess? Whom do you mean?"
"Who but our madame, the Countess St. Auban in her own right? She
who gave me my Jeanne--_at Tallwoods_, Monsieur! Have you not
known? She is, here. She is _chez nous_. Of wealth and
distinction, yes, she has traveled in this country merely for
divertisement--but the Countess St. Auban, yes, she pauses now
with the cooper, Hector Fournier! Does one find such beauty, such
distinction, such gentleness, such kindness, such courteousness
elsewhere than among the nobility?"
"When did she come?" demanded Dunwody quietly.
"But yesterday, upon the boat; without announcement. She is at
this very moment at my house yonder, busy with that baby, Josephine
St. Auban Jeanne Marie Fournier, named for a countess! But do not
turn back! Monsieur himself has not yet seen the baby. Come!"
For one moment Dunwody paused; then, quietly, he accompanied
Hector, making no comment. He limped just slightly. He was
older--yes, and graver.
The mother of Hector met them even before the gate was opened. Her
voice called to the door her daughter Jeanne, who was shaking hands
with Dunwody before he was half way up the walk. The ejaculations
of Jeanne attracted yet another ear farther within the house. A
moment later Dunwody saw pass before the door a figure which he
recognized, a face which called the blood to his own face. An
instant later, forgetting everything, he was at the door, had her
hands in his own.
"It is you!" he exclaimed. "How does it happen? It is impossible!"
Her face had more color than for days. "Yes, it is unexpected,"
she said simply, at last. "Everything is unexpected. But of all
things possible, this it seems to me is best--to come here--to rest
for a time."
"You are passing through to St. Louis?"
"Perhaps," she said. "My plans for the moment are somewhat
unsettled. I stopped off here, as no doubt you know, to serve as
godmother to this baby of Jeanne's! It is an important errand."
"But monsieur has not perfectly examined this infant as yet,"
interrupted Hector. "See, it has the eyes of Jeanne,--it has--"
"It is a darling!" said Josephine gently, and stroked the somewhat
scanty hair of the heiress of the Fournier estates.
In some way, a moment later, they were apart from the protestations
of the fond parents. They found themselves alone, in the special
apartment reserved for guests of distinction. An awkward moment
ensued. Josephine was first to break the silence. Dunwody could
only sit and look at her, devouring each line, each little
remembered gesture of her. Yes, it was she--a little older and
graver and thinner, yes. But it was she.
"I was talking with Jeanne this very morning," she said. "She was
telling me some story that you have been unfortunate--that there
have been--that is to say--political changes--"
He nodded, "Yes. Perhaps you know I have lost my place with my
people here? I am done for, politically."
He continued, smiling; "Just to show you the extent of my downfall,
I have heard that they are intending to tar and feather me
to-night,--perhaps to give me a ride upon a rail! That is the form
of entertainment which in the West hitherto has generally been
reserved for horse-thieves, unwelcome revivalists, and that sort of
thing. Not that it terrifies me. The meeting is going to be held!"
"Then it is true that you are to speak here to-night--and to uphold
doctrines precisely the reverse of what--"
"Yes, that is true." He spoke very quietly.
"I had not thought that possible," she said gently.
"Of course," she added, "I have been in entire ignorance of alt
matters out here for a year past. I have been busy."
"Why should you follow the political fortunes of an obscure
Missourian?" he asked. "On the contrary, there is at least one
obscure Missourian who has followed yours. I have known pretty
much all you have been doing of late. Yes, you at least have been
busy!"
As usual, she hung on the main point. "But tell me!" she demanded
of him presently, a little added color coming into her cheeks. "Do
you mean to say to me that you really remember what we talked
about--that you really--"
He nodded, smiling. "Don't you remember we talked about faith, and
how to get hold of it? And I said I couldn't find it? Well, I
have no apologies and no explanations. All I have to say is that I
fought it out, threshed it all over, and then somehow, I don't know
how,--well, faith _came_ to me,--that is all. I waked up one
night, and I--well, I just knew. That is all. Then I knew I had
been wrong."
"And it cost you everything."
"Just about everything in the world, I reckon, so far as worldly
goods go. I suppose you know what you and your little colonization
scheme have done to me?"
"But you--what do you mean?"
"Why, didn't you know that? Weren't Carlisle and Kammerer your
agents; and didn't Lily, our late disappearing slave and also late
lecturing fugitive yonder, represent them? Don't you really know
about that?"
"No, I had nothing to do with their operations."
"Do you mean to tell me that it was--Oh, I am glad you do not know
about it," he said soberly, "although I don't understand that part
of it."
"Won't you explain?" she besought him.
"Now, the truth is--and that is the main reason of all this popular
feeling against me here--that Lily, or these men, or people like
them, took away every solitary negro from my plantation, as well as
from two or three others neighboring me! They didn't stop to _buy_
my property--they just _took_ it! You see, Madam,"--he smiled
rather grimly,--"these northern abolitionists remain in the belief
that they have all the virtue and all the fair dealing in the
world. It has been a little hard on my cotton crop. I will not
have any crop this fall. I had no labor. I will not have any crop
next summer. With money at twelve per cent. and no munificent
state salary coming in,--that means rather more than I care to talk
about."
"And it was I--_I_ who did that for you! Believe, believe me, I
was wholly innocent of it! I did not know!--I did not! I did not!
I would not have done that to my worst enemy!"
"No, I suppose not; but here is where we come again to the real
heart of all of these questions which so many of us feel able to
solve offhand. What difference should you make between me and
another? If it is right for the North to free all these slaves
without paying for them, why should there be anything in my favor,
over any one of my neighbors? And, most of all, why should you not
be overjoyed at punishing me? Why am I not your worst enemy? I
differed from you,--I wronged you,--I harmed you,--I did everything
in the world I could to injure you. At least you have played even
with me. I got you Lily to take along. And I even once went so
far as to tell you my own notion, that the blacks ought to be
deported. Well, you got mine!"
"I never meant it! I never intended it! It was done wholly
without my knowledge! I am sorry! I am sorry!"
"You need not be sorry. It is only one of the consequences of
following one's faith. Anyhow, I'm just a little less inconsistent
than Mr. Benton, who had always been opposed to slavery, although
he still owns slaves. The same is true of Mr. Clay. They both
have been prominent politically. Well, set them free of their
slaves, and they and I would be about even, wouldn't we? It comes
to being pretty much on foot, I must confess."
"I can understand that," said she. "For that matter, we are both
ruined; and for the same reason."
"What do you mean? And, tell me, once more, who are you? You
certainly have stirred things up!"
"As to the latter, it makes little difference," said she. "I will
confess to being a revolutionist and a visionary reformer; and an
absolute failure. I will confess that I have undertaken things
which I thought were within my power, but which were entirely
beyond me. Well, it has ruined me also in a material way."
"How, do you mean?"
"This colonization work was carried on by my own funds. It is not long
ago that I got a letter, saying that my funds were at an end. I had
some small estates in the old country. They are gone,--confiscated.
My last rents were not collected."
She, in turn, smiled, spreading out her hands. "You see me here in
St. Genevieve, perhaps on my way to St. Louis. Tell me, is there
demand for persons of foreign experience, who understand a little
French, a little English, perhaps a little music? Or could there
perhaps be a place for an interpreter in Hungarian, French or
English?"
[Illustration: She turned, spreading out her hands.]
It was his turn to show consternation. "Is it indeed true?" he
said. "Now it is time for me to say I am sorry. I do not
understand all about it. Of course I could see all along that an
immense amount of money was being paid into this colonization
folly. And it was your money, and you are ruined,--for the same
hopeless cause! I am sorry, sorry! It's a shame, a shame!"
"I am not sorry," said she. "I am glad! It is victory!"
"I will not say that!" he burst out. "I will not admit it, not
confess it. It is all right for me, because I'm a man. I can
stand it. But you--you ought to have ease, luxury, all your life.
Now look what you have done!"
There came a sudden knock at the door, and without much pause.
Hector entered, somewhat excited.
"Monsieur,--Madame!" he exclaimed. "One comes!"
"Who is it?" demanded Dunwody, frowning.
"_Mon pere_! He is come but now from Tallwoods, Monsieur."
"What is wrong out there? Tell him to come in."
"I go."
A moment later, Dunwody left the room, to meet old Eleazar, who
made such response as he could to the hurried queries. "Monsieur,"
said he, "I have ridden down from the hills. There is trouble. In
the neighborhood are some who are angry because their negroes have
disappear'. They accuse Monsieur Dunwodee of being the cause, and
say that he is traitor, a turncoat. This very night a band are
said to plan an attack upon the house of monsieur! I have met
above there Monsieur Clayton, Monsieur Bill Jones, Monsieur le
Docteur Jamieson, and others, who ride to the assistance of
Monsieur Dunwodee. It is this very night, and I--there being no
other to come--have come to advise. Believing that monsieur might
desire to carry with him certain friends, I have brought the large
carriage. It is here!"
"Thank God!" said Dunwody, "they don't vote with me, but they ride
with me still--they're my neighbors, my friends, even yet!
"Hector," he exclaimed suddenly,--"come here!" Then, as they both
listened, he went on: "Tell the people there can not be a meeting,
after all. I am going back to my house, to see what is on up
yonder. Hector, can you get a fresh horse? And are there any
friends who would go with you?"
The sturdy young cooper did not lack in courage, and his response
was instant. "Assuredly I have a horse, Monsieur," was his reply.
"Assuredly we have friends. Six, ten, seven, h'eight person shall
go with us within the hour! But I must tell--"
Jeanne was at his elbow, catching scent of something of this,
guessing at possible danger. She broke out now into loud
expostulations at this rashness of her spouse, parent of this
progeny of theirs, thus undertaking to expose himself to midnight
dangers. Hector, none the less, shook his head.
"It is necessary that one go armed," commented Eleazar calmly. He
patted with affection the long barreled piece which lay over his
own arm.
Much of this conversation, loud and excited as it was, could not
fail to reach the ears of Josephine, who presently had joined them,
and who now heard the story of the old man, so fully confirming all
Dunwody said.
"There is trouble! There is trouble!" she said, with her usual
prompt decision. "There is room for me in the coach. I am going
along."
"You--what in the world do you mean? You'll do nothing of the
sort!" rejoined Dunwody. "It's going to be no place for women, up
there. It's a _fight_, this time!"
"Perhaps not for Jeanne or Hector's mother, or for many women; but
for me it is the very place where I belong! _I_ made that trouble
yonder. It was I, not you, who caused that disaffection among the
blacks. Your neighbors ought to blame me, not you--I will explain
it all to them in a moment, in an instant. Surely, they will
listen to me. Yes, I am going."
Dunwody looked at her in grave contemplation for an instant.
"In God's name, my dear girl, how can you find it in your heart to
see that place again? But do you find it? Will you go? If you
insist, we'll take care of you."
"Of course! Of course!" she replied, and even then was busy
hunting for her wraps. "Get ready! Let us start."
"Have cushions and blankets for the carriage, Eleazar," said
Dunwody quietly. "Better get a little lunch of some sort to take
along. Go down to the barn yonder and get fresh horses. I don't
think this team could stand it all the way back."