I began to see myself as boring through opposition with lowered head and
indomitable will. I was strengthened by the fact that I had never
swerved from my duty to Zoe. And now that the beast was out of the way
who had caused her so much agony, my whole life seemed cleared. The
McCall gang might cause me trouble, but they would need to come
prepared, or to catch me off my guard. The opening up of the whole case
had had a wholesome effect upon my reputation. The brotherly innocence
of my relation to Zoe was the generally accepted one. Reverdy assured me
of this. Douglas was a valiant friend to me in this clarification of my
nature and my character before the community. The whole atmosphere of my
life was now freer; but it had cost Lamborn his life to make it so. It
seemed best, however, that I should leave town for a while. I decided to
go to Cincinnati and then to Nashville. I wanted to see Dorothy. I felt
that I must make myself clear to her, and face to face.
Having made all arrangements for Zoe and Mrs. Brown to keep the house
while I was gone and having laid out the work for my men, I set forth
for Vandalia, the capital of Illinois, by stage. There I took the
Cumberland Road, passed through Indianapolis, a small place; arrived in
good time at Cincinnati, a city of more than 30,000 people; a busy place
of manufacturers, distillers, and pork packers, since Kentucky, Ohio,
and Indiana shipped their hogs to this market to be converted into hams
and bacon and lard. I saw the town, the residence of the great Nicholas
Longworth, who had grown fabulously rich by making wine. And at the
hotel, this latter part of April being warm, I was treated to the
spectacle of the men in the dining room taking off their coats and
dining in their shirt sleeves amid the not inelegant appointments that
surrounded the table. But I was becoming Americanized now and was not as
sensitive as formerly to deportment of this sort.
The vastness of America came over me as I descended from Cincinnati to
Nashville. Yet there was the southern territory still south of me; and
beyond the Mississippi the unsettled empire of Louisiana. Cincinnati had
something of the activity and the character of other northern cities;
but as I passed through the domain of Kentucky and Tennessee I could not
help but see that here was an agricultural country which owed its
prosperity to slavery. But what was all that I saw here of industry and
utilization of the resources of the land compared to what I saw growing
up as a system around Jacksonville?
Yet the loveliness of the country around Nashville enchanted me. I was
in a mood to be won, to be sure; for I was completely captivated by
Dorothy and the delightful hospitality that was accorded me. Dorothy's
mother treated me with such gentle and thoughtful attention, as if she
received me not less upon the basis of my friendship to Reverdy than
upon my own appeal to her. And as for Dorothy--she was as kind to me as
a sister; and yet....
I loved the country and this little city of 6000 people on the hills
above the Cumberland valley. Still, so many negroes. In this whole state
of about 700,000 people, nearly 150,000 were slaves, so Dorothy told me.
It amazed me. Negro slavery, so far as England was concerned, had never
to me been a visible thing. But here in America, here in Tennessee, and
in this city, it struck one at every turn. It entered into all the daily
thinking and plans of every one. It was omnipresent. It touched every
life.
This was the town of James K. Polk, whose name meant nothing to me; but
Dorothy spoke of him as a leading man in Congress from Tennessee. Here
also was the residence of President Jackson, a place called the
"Hermitage," a few miles into the country. Dorothy and I drove to it.
These were the places of interest to see; and everywhere the southern
mansion: the upper and lower porch in front, the spacious windows, the
Dorian or Ionic columns, as the case might be; the great entrance door
set between mullioned panes at either side, and beneath a lunette of
woodwork and glass. The Clayton house was like this, for Dorothy's
father had been a man of wealth, a slave owner too in his prosperous
days. He had failed and died, Reverdy had gone to the newer country of
Illinois to seek his fortune, leaving Dorothy and the mother to the
possession of the diminished property which Mr. Clayton had left.
But above everything in the way of delight, for the beauty of the
prospect, for the opportunity it gave me to be with Dorothy, were the
hills that overlooked the Cumberland valley and the river. We climbed
here daily and sat beneath the lovely oaks that shaded the richness of
the grass. To the west and north the river flowed to its confluence with
the Ohio. Around us the hills. The valley between. The silence of
nature, the intensity of unfolding life around us. Always on my mind was
the thought of Dorothy as my wife. And why not speak my heart? I could
not tell why. Was it Zoe; Dorothy's knowledge of Zoe? Was I investing
Dorothy with my own thoughts, putting into her mouth the objections that
I could make against myself? I could not tell what Zoe might bring into
the life of the woman I married, as well as my own. Surely I was not
very robust, very hearty in my speculations. For Dorothy had received
me. There was nothing lacking in the warmth of her hospitality ... and
yet I sensed at times such a temperate feeling in her glance, in her
voice. Even her frankness had that character, or enhanced it perhaps.
And one afternoon as we were walking along the river I spoke what was in
my heart. I had this competence. I had built the house. I could make a
fortune in time. I was beginning to need some one to help me, to be with
me. And no sooner had I spoken than I saw myself: Zoe was my half-sister
and I was proposing marriage to a girl who had no feeling that did not
bespeak to her the inferiority of the colored skin, no matter if it were
lightened, no matter by whom. Dorothy's attitude was that of the
high-bred and kindly southerner: the negroes must be kept in slavery as
a solution of the social question and for the prosperity of the South;
but at the same time the negro should be treated with kindness. And here
was Zoe, the half-sister of the man who was asking her to be his
companion for life. To what extent, then, the associate on a basis of
equality with Zoe too? This was not all. My name had been coupled with
Zoe's. Above all, I had killed a man, my rival or Zoe's hunter, as one
might choose to believe.
Thus I saw myself. My very hair began to rise and to tingle. How had I
dared to make this proposal to Dorothy? And as Dorothy was silent, and
looked down as we walked, poking with her parasol at pebbles in the
road, I was in a tense anxiety to know with what words she would break
the oppressive pause between us. "I could see," she said, "that you
liked me; and of course you wouldn't come so far to see me if you
didn't. And you must know that Reverdy's friendship for you makes a
difference. Do you know...?"
Dorothy lost her voice. The tears came out of her eyes. As she did not
speak I began again, trying to say for her what she did not say for
herself. "There's Zoe," I said. And then Dorothy quite lost control of
herself. She wept piteously. And then she grew calmer. She had faced the
reluctant fact when I spoke Zoe's name. We had stumbled up and over
that roughness in the road. Any rut or obstacle in it might now be
easier endured ... if worse was not to come.
Yes, these stories about me. Had Dorothy heard them? And the life I had
taken for Zoe's sake. I was sure Dorothy had not heard of that. Even the
first was a subject difficult to approach. I was twenty, Dorothy was
nineteen. But the greatest obstacle was the age in which we lived. Women
now draped themselves in mystery. There were whole realms of subjects
that were not talked between the sexes. We managed things by mild
indirections, by absurd circumlocutions.
I began to think of the letter that Lamborn had written Zoe. I was
carrying it in my pocket. Did it not prove Lamborn's interest in Zoe? I
handed it to Dorothy, thinking that it would disprove my interest in
Zoe, of which I had been made self-conscious by the accusations; and not
realizing that Dorothy probably knew nothing of all these charges. "Read
this," I said, handing it to Dorothy.
Dorothy took it in at a glance, for it was only a few lines beginning
"Dear Zoe." It was an invitation to Zoe to meet Lamborn again at the
same place. Dorothy's face turned crimson. She handed the note back to
me without a word. I had to struggle with the tough materials of the
revelation that I wished to make. And I went on to tell Dorothy that the
author of the note was Lamborn. "You remember him?" I asked. Dorothy
nodded her head. "Well," I continued, "he is dead, thank God. I killed
him."
Dorothy was overcome. She reeled. After a moment, in which she found her
breath again, she faced about and began to walk toward the town.
I followed, hurt and crushed; for Dorothy had suddenly changed her whole
manner. Her face was impenetrable; and it had paralyzed my hope with its
expression of self-withdrawal, something almost of anger. I could not go
on now and tell my story: that I had killed Lamborn because of his
offense against Zoe, because of his menacing attitude toward me, because
of the vile things he had said about Zoe. No! nothing I could say now
would be in place. I had blundered, perhaps. We walked to the house,
silent all the way.
Dorothy went to her room, leaving me in the hands of her mother. Mrs.
Clayton, thinking that we had had a lovers' quarrel, endeavored by extra
attention to me to overcome Dorothy's absence, and to say to me in this
way that she did not share in Dorothy's attitude.
And so it was that Mrs. Clayton and I dined together; and I now had
opportunity to tell her of little Amos, of my life in England, of my
farm, my new house, my plans for the future. Mrs. Clayton was outspoken
enough. She said that Reverdy admired my father for many things, and did
not particularly censure his marriage. As for that it was a common
enough thing in the South for the planters to have children by negro
women, or by the prettier quadroons and octoroons. For herself she
hated slavery, but did not know what would be done if the negroes were
free.
Dorothy did not appear. We rose from the table and went out to sit under
one of the great trees in the yard. I thought I saw an opportunity. Why
not talk to Mrs. Clayton? She could tell Dorothy what I was unable to
say to her. I set my will to the task.
"You seem to know about my father, Mrs. Clayton. And I want you to know
about me. I want Dorothy for my wife. We had a kind of a flare-up this
afternoon. I was trying to make my case clear, and Dorothy fell to
crying. That's all. You see I came to America in ignorance of
everything. No one had told me about my father's marriage; and I blame
my grandmother that she did not tell me. Well, I got to Jacksonville and
was terribly ill, almost died. Zoe took care of me. And that won me. But
in addition to that she is as much my father's child as I am. I found
that out as soon as I got up. Then I took her to live with me, to help
me with the house, without thinking that there would be talk, not only
by those who didn't know that she was my sister as well as by those who
did know it. I went to St. Louis to buy furnishings for my new house.
While I was gone a man named Lamborn wronged her. This made great
trouble for me. And one thing led to another. He was saying vile things
about me and about Zoe. And my life was getting more and more
unendurable day by day on account of this fellow. And at last I was
coming down the street with Reverdy one day, and this Lamborn suddenly
confronted me. I drew and killed him. The state's attorney, Mr. Douglas,
brought out all the facts before the coroner's jury. The jury acquitted
me before leaving their seats. Mr. Douglas told the jury that he would
not prosecute me if an indictment was found against me. And so..." I was
about to say that I had come to Nashville to get away from the
circumstances. But I caught myself and forebore.
Mrs. Clayton had followed me with rapt attention, leaning more and more
toward me as my story progressed. She put out her hand to take mine. I
could not tell whether it was the hand of pity or admiration. Her eyes
were kindly, but they searched me. She seemed to say: "What difficulty
in this boy's life is he trying to mingle with my daughter's life?" She
spoke. "It is too bad. You are too young to have such tragedy." That was
all. Then we went in.
As I arose the next morning I began to wonder what reception would be
accorded me by Mrs. Clayton, not to say Dorothy. No one was astir but
the colored butler and the maids. Yes, slavery was very well for them. I
could see that all that was said in favor of the benevolence of the
institution had verification in them and perhaps in all slaves doing
like service. But what of the field hands, the heavier workers? I was
thinking of these things, but mostly of the desperate situation I was in
and of this day ahead of me. Would Dorothy see me again? Would I be the
honored guest of yesterday? This silence of the mansion made me feel
that its hospitality had cooled toward me. But in a little while Mrs.
Clayton appeared on the stair and descended to find me rather restlessly
pacing the room.
I could not specify any change in her manner. Perhaps as a matter of
breeding I was to be bowed out with all possible courtesy. She smiled me
a "Good morning," said that Dorothy would not be down until later. We
two went in to breakfast.
I began to feel embarrassed. I could not be at ease. Mrs. Clayton sensed
my diffidence. We managed the conversation in broken sentences and
forced remarks. My pride asserted itself. I had done nothing myself for
which I could be blamed. For the rest, if I was not wanted I should go
my way. I asked Mrs. Clayton when I could get a boat to St. Louis. She
did not know, but one ran almost every day either directly, or I could
change boats at a place called Freesland on the Ohio River. Accordingly,
after breakfast, I went to the steamboat landing to make inquiries ...
and without seeing Dorothy.
A kind of rebellion and resentment were rising in me. Dorothy was
Reverdy's sister; but surely she was of a different spirit if she
disapproved of me for what I had done. Perhaps it would be well to be
free of my love for Dorothy, to be once more without any feeling that my
life needed completion by uniting it with a woman's life. I had offered
myself. I was not accepted. My dignity, and place in the world, as I
saw them, were dishonored.
When I returned to the house Dorothy had appeared. She smiled gently in
recognition of me. I broke the silence by telling her that I could get a
boat the next day, and that I must be off. She made no reply.
Later we went to the yard, under one of the great trees. Dorothy was
evidently tortured in her mind and did not know what to say to me. She
looked worn and as if she had not slept. I searched her face. A tear
stole down her cheek. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands
together nervously. I could endure the suspense no longer.
"It is best for me to go," I said. She made no reply. "I am sorry that I
have made you suffer. Let me erase everything by withdrawing what I have
said to you." "You can't," said Dorothy. "You are Reverdy's friend; you
know how I love him. You couldn't suppose that anything that has
affected you so deeply would not affect him and therefore me. I never
believed that I could be so unhappy. You are going and that leaves me to
think and think."
My heart took fire again. I stretched my hand to take Dorothy's. She
removed hers gently out of reach. "Go your way, my friend," she said.
"Later I may write you. You are only a boy yet ... and many things may
happen. But be sure that I suffer, and that I remember and that I need
help."
She arose and preceded me back to the house. Mrs. Clayton seemed to
direct her influence toward smoothing our way. But nothing could be
done. I had met defeat and I wished to depart.
The next day I was on the Ohio but not bound for St. Louis. I had
decided to see New Orleans. Change of scene might allay my thoughts.