Produced by David Widger
THE CRISIS
By Winston Churchill
CONTENTS
BOOK I
Volume 1.
I. Which Deals With Origins
II. The Mole
III. The Unattainable Simplicity
IV. Black Cattle
V. The First Spark Passes
VI. Silas Whipple
VII. Callers
Volume 2.
VIII. Bellegarde
IX. A Quiet Sunday in Locust Street
X. The Little House
XI. The Invitation
XII. “Miss Jinny”
XIII. The Party
BOOK II.
Volume 3.
I. Raw Material.
II. Abraham Lincoln
III. In Which Stephen Learns Something
IV. The Question
V. The Crisis
VI. Glencoe
Volume 4.
VII. An Excursion
VIII. The Colonel is Warned
IX. Signs of the Times
X. Richter's Scar
XI. How a Prince Came
XII. Into Which a Potentate Comes
XIII. At Mr. Brinsmade's Gate
XIV. The Breach becomes Too Wide
XV. Mutterings
Volume 5.
XVI. The Guns of Sumter
XVII. Camp Jackson
XVIII. The Stone that is Rejected
XIX. The Tenth of May.
XX. In the Arsenal
XXI. The Stampede
XXII. The Straining of Another Friendship
XXIII. Of Clarence
BOOK III
Volume 6.
I. Introducing a Capitalist
II. News from Clarence
III. The Scourge of War,
IV. The List of Sixty
V. The Auction
VI. Eliphalet Plays his Trumps
Volume 7.
VII. With the Armies of the West
VIII. A Strange Meeting
IX. Bellegarde Once More
X. In Judge Whipple's Office
XI. Lead, Kindly Light
Volume 8.
XII. The Last Card
XIII. From the Letters of Major Stephen Brice
XIV. The Same, Continued
XV. The Man of Sorrows
XVI. Annapolis
THE CRISIS
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINS
Faithfully to relate how Eliphalet Hopper came try St. Louis is to
betray no secret. Mr. Hopper is wont to tell the story now, when his
daughter-in-law is not by; and sometimes he tells it in her presence,
for he is a shameless and determined old party who denies the divine
right of Boston, and has taken again to chewing tobacco.
When Eliphalet came to town, his son's wife, Mrs. Samuel D. (or S.
Dwyer as she is beginning to call herself), was not born. Gentlemen
of Cavalier and Puritan descent had not yet begun to arrive at the
Planters' House, to buy hunting shirts and broad rims, belts and
bowies, and depart quietly for Kansas, there to indulge in that; most
pleasurable of Anglo-Saxon pastimes, a free fight. Mr. Douglas had not
thrown his bone of Local Sovereignty to the sleeping dogs of war.
To return to Eliphalet's arrival,--a picture which has much that is
interesting in it. Behold the friendless boy he stands in the prow of
the great steamboat 'Louisiana' of a scorching summer morning, and looks
with something of a nameless disquiet on the chocolate waters of the
Mississippi. There have been other sights, since passing Louisville,
which might have disgusted a Massachusetts lad more. A certain deck
on the 'Paducah', which took him as far as Cairo, was devoted to
cattle--black cattle. Eliphalet possessed a fortunate temperament. The
deck was dark, and the smell of the wretches confined there was worse
than it should have been. And the incessant weeping of some of the women
was annoying, inasmuch as it drowned many of the profane communications
of the overseer who was showing Eliphalet the sights. Then a
fine-linened planter from down river had come in during the
conversation, and paying no attention to the overseer's salute cursed
them all into silence, and left.
Eliphalet had ambition, which is not a wholly undesirable quality.
He began to wonder how it would feel to own a few of these valuable
fellow-creatures. He reached out and touched lightly a young mulatto
woman who sat beside him with an infant in her arms. The peculiar dumb
expression on her face was lost on Eliphalet. The overseer had laughed
coarsely.
“What, skeered on 'em?” said he. And seizing the girl by the cheek, gave
it a cruel twinge that brought a cry out of her.
Eliphalet had reflected upon this incident after he had bid the overseer
good-by at Cairo, and had seen that pitiful coffle piled aboard a
steamer for New Orleans. And the result of his reflections was, that
some day he would like to own slaves.
A dome of smoke like a mushroom hung over the city, visible from
far down the river, motionless in the summer air. A long line of
steamboats--white, patient animals--was tethered along the levee, and
the Louisiana presently swung in her bow toward a gap in this line,
where a mass of people was awaiting her arrival. Some invisible force
lifted Eliphalet's eyes to the upper deck, where they rested, as if
by appointment, on the trim figure of the young man in command of the
Louisiana. He was very young for the captain of a large New Orleans
packet. When his lips moved, something happened. Once he raised his
voice, and a negro stevedore rushed frantically aft, as if he had
received the end of a lightning-bolt. Admiration burst from the
passengers, and one man cried out Captain Brent's age--it was
thirty-two.
Eliphalet snapped his teeth together. He was twenty-seven, and his
ambition actually hurt him at such times. After the boat was fast to the
landing stage he remained watching the captain, who was speaking a few
parting words to some passengers of fashion. The body-servants were
taking their luggage to the carriages. Mr. Hopper envied the captain his
free and vigorous speech, his ready jokes, and his hearty laugh. All the
rest he knew for his own--in times to come. The carriages, the trained
servants, the obsequiousness of the humbler passengers. For of such is
the Republic.
Then Eliphalet picked his way across the hot stones of the levee,
pushing hither and thither in the rough crowd of river men; dodging the
mules on the heavy drays, or making way for the carriages of the few
people of importance who arrived on the boat. If any recollections of
a cool, white farmhouse amongst barren New England hills disturbed his
thoughts, this is not recorded. He gained the mouth of a street between
the low houses which crowded on the broad river front. The black mud was
thick under his feet from an overnight shower, and already steaming in
the sun. The brick pavement was lumpy from much travel and near as dirty
as the street. Here, too, were drays blocking the way, and sweaty negro
teamsters swinging cowhides over the mules. The smell of many wares
poured through the open doors, mingling with the perspiration of the
porters. On every side of him were busy clerks, with their suspenders
much in evidence, and Eliphalet paused once or twice to listen to
their talk. It was tinged with that dialect he had heard, since leaving
Cincinnati.
Turning a corner, Eliphalet came abruptly upon a prophecy. A great drove
of mules was charging down the gorge of the street, and straight at him.
He dived into an entrance, and stood looking at the animals in startled
wonder as they thundered by, flinging the mud over the pavements. A
cursing lot of drovers on ragged horses made the rear guard.
Eliphalet mopped his brow. The mules seemed to have aroused in him some
sense of his atomity, where the sight of the pillar of smoke and of the
black cattle had failed. The feeling of a stranger in a strange land
was upon him at last. A strange land, indeed! Could it be one with his
native New England? Did Congress assemble from the Antipodes? Wasn't the
great, ugly river and dirty city at the end of the earth, to be written
about in Boston journals?
Turning in the doorway, he saw to his astonishment a great store, with
high ceilings supported by columns. The door was stacked high with
bales of dry goods. Beside him was a sign in gold lettering, “Carvel and
Company, Wholesale Dry Goods.” And lastly, looking down upon him with
a quizzical expression, was a gentleman. There was no mistaking the
gentleman. He was cool, which Eliphalet was not. And the fact is the
more remarkable because the gentleman was attired according to the
fashion of the day for men of his age, in a black coat with a teal of
ruffled shirt showing, and a heavy black stock around his collar. He had
a white mustache, and a goatee, and white hair under his black felt hat.
His face was long, his nose straight, and the sweetness of its smile had
a strange effect upon Eliphalet, who stood on one foot.
“Well, sonny, scared of mules, are you?” The speech is a stately drawl
very different from the nasal twang of Eliphalet's bringing up. “Reckon
you don't come from anywhere round here?”
“No, sir,” said Eliphalet. “From Willesden, Massachusetts.”
“Come in on the 'Louisiana'?”
“Yes, sir.” But why this politeness?
The elderly gentleman lighted a cigar. The noise of the rushing mules
had now become a distant roar, like a whirlwind which has swept by. But
Eliphalet did not stir.
“Friends in town?” inquired the gentleman at length.
“No, sir,” sighed Mr. Hopper.
At this point of the conversation a crisp step sounded from behind and
wonderful smile came again on the surface.
“Mornin', Colonel,” said a voice which made Eliphalet jump. And he swung
around to perceive the young captain of the Louisiana.
“Why, Captain Lige,” cried the Colonel, without ceremony, “and how do
you find yourself to-day, suh? A good trip from Orleans? We did not look
for you so soon.”
“Tolluble, Colonel, tolluble,” said the young man, grasping the
Colonel's hand. “Well, Colonel, I just called to say that I got the
seventy bales of goods you wanted.”
“Ephum” cried the Colonel, diving toward a counter where glasses
were set out,--a custom new to Eliphalet,--“Ephum, some of that very
particular Colonel Crittenden sent me over from Kentucky last week.”
An old darkey, with hair as white as the Colonel's, appeared from behind
the partition.
“I 'lowed you'd want it, Marse Comyn, when I seed de Cap'n comin',” said
he, with the privilege of an old servant. Indeed, the bottle was beneath
his arm.
The Colonel smiled.
“Hope you'se well, Cap'n,” said Ephum, as he drew the cork.
“Tolluble, Ephum,” replied the Captain. “But, Ephum--say, Ephum!”
“Yes, sah.”
“How's my little sweetheart, Ephum?”
“Bress your soul, sah,” said Ephum, his face falling perceptibly, “bress
your soul, sah, Miss Jinny's done gone to Halcyondale, in Kaintuck, to
see her grandma. Ole Ephum ain't de same nigger when she's away.”
The young Captain's face showed as much disappointment as the darkey's.
“Cuss it!” said he, strongly, “if that ain't too bad! I brought her a
Creole doll from New Orleans, which Madame Claire said was dressed finer
than any one she'd ever seen. All lace and French gewgaws, Colonel. But
you'll send it to her?”
“That I will, Lige,” said the Colonel, heartily. “And she shall write
you the prettiest note of thanks you ever got.”
“Bless her pretty face,” cried the Captain. “Her health, Colonel! Here's
a long life to Miss Virginia Carvel, and may she rule forever! How old
did you say this was?” he asked, looking into the glass.
“Over half a century,” said Colonel Carvel.
“If it came from the ruins of Pompeii,” cried Captain Brent, “it might
be worthy of her!”
“What an idiot you are about that child, Lige,” said the Colonel, who
was not hiding his pleasure. The Colonel could hide nothing. “You ruin
her!”
The bluff young Captain put down his glass to laugh.
“Ruin her!” he exclaimed. “Her pa don't ruin her I eh, Ephum? Her pa
don't ruin her!”
“Lawsy, Marse Lige, I reckon he's wuss'n any.”
“Ephum,” said the Colonel, pulling his goatee thoughtfully, “you're a
damned impertinent nigger. I vow I'll sell you South one of these days.
Have you taken that letter to Mr. Renault?” He winked at his friend as
the old darkey faded into the darkness of the store, and continued: “Did
I ever tell you about Wilson Peale's portrait of my grandmother, Dorothy
Carvel, that I saw this summer at my brother Daniel's, in Pennsylvania?
Jinny's going to look something like her, sir. Um! She was a fine woman.
Black hair, though. Jinny's is brown, like her Ma's.” The Colonel handed
a cigar to Captain Brent, and lit one himself. “Daniel has a book my
grandfather wrote, mostly about her. Lord, I remember her! She was
the queen-bee of the family while she lived. I wish some of us had her
spirit.”
“Colonel,” remarked Captain Lige, “what's this I heard on the levee just
now about your shootin' at a man named Babcock on the steps here?”
The Colonel became very grave. His face seemed to grow longer as he
pulled his goatee.
“He was standing right where you are, sir,” he replied (Captain Lige
moved), “and he proposed that I should buy his influence.”
“What did you do?”
Colonel Carvel laughed quietly at the recollection
“Shucks,” said he, “I just pushed him into the streets gave him a little
start, and put a bullet past his ear, just to let the trash know the
sound of it. Then Russell went down and bailed me out.”
The Captain shook with laughter. But Mr. Eliphalet Hopper's eyes were
glued to the mild-mannered man who told the story, and his hair rose
under his hat.
“By the way, Lige, how's that boy, Tato? Somehow after I let you have
him on the 'Louisiana', I thought I'd made a mistake to let him run the
river. Easter's afraid he'll lose the little religion she taught him.”
It was the Captain's turn to be grave.
“I tell you what, Colonel,” said he; “we have to have hands, of course.
But somehow I wish this business of slavery had never been started!”
“Sir,” said the Colonel, with some force, “God made the sons of Ham the
servants of Japheth's sons forever and forever.”
“Well, well, we won't quarrel about that, sir,” said Brent, quickly.
“If they all treated slaves as you do, there wouldn't be any cry
from Boston-way. And as for me, I need hands. I shall see you again,
Colonel.”
“Take supper with me to-night, Lige,” said Mr. Carvel. “I reckon you'll
find it rather lonesome without Jinny.”
“Awful lonesome,” said the Captain. “But you'll show me her letters,
won't you?”
He started out, and ran against Eliphalet.
“Hello!” he cried. “Who's this?”
“A young Yankee you landed here this morning, Lige,” said the Colonel.
“What do you think of him?”
“Humph!” exclaimed the Captain.
“He has no friends in town, and he is looking for employment. Isn't that
so, sonny?” asked the Colonels kindly.
“Yes.”
“Come, Lige, would you take him?” said Mr. Carvel.
The young Captain looked into Eliphalet's face. The dart that shot
from his eyes was of an aggressive honesty; and Mr. Hopper's, after an
attempt at defiance, were dropped.
“No,” said the Captain.
“Why not, Lige?”
“Well, for one thing, he's been listening,” said Captain Lige, as he
departed.
Colonel Carvel began to hum softly to himself:--
“'One said it was an owl, and the other he said nay,
One said it was a church with the steeple torn away,
Look a' there now!'
“I reckon you're a rank abolitionist,” said he to Eliphalet, abruptly.
“I don't see any particular harm in keepin' slaves,” Mr. Hopper replied,
shifting to the other foot.
Whereupon the Colonel stretched his legs apart, seized his goatee,
pulled his head down, and gazed at him for some time from under his
eyebrows, so searchingly that the blood flew to Mr. Hopper's fleshy
face. He mopped it with a dark-red handkerchief, stared at everything
in the place save the gentleman in front of him, and wondered whether he
had ever in his life been so uncomfortable. Then he smiled sheepishly,
hated himself, and began to hate the Colonel.
“Ever hear of the Liberator?”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Hopper.
“Where do you come from?” This was downright directness, from which
there was no escape.
“Willesden, Massachusetts.”
“Umph! And never heard of Mr. Garrison?”
“I've had to work all my life.”
“What can you do, sonny?”
“I cal'late to sweep out a store. I have kept books,” Mr. Hopper
vouchsafed.
“Would you like work here?” asked the Colonel, kindly. The green eyes
looked up swiftly, and down again.
“What'll you give me?”
The good man was surprised. “Well,” said he, “seven dollars a week.”
Many a time in after life had the Colonel reason to think over this
scene. He was a man the singleness of whose motives could not be
questioned. The one and sufficient reason for giving work to a homeless
boy, from the hated state of the Liberator, was charity. The Colonel had
his moods, like many another worthy man.
The small specks on the horizon sometimes grow into the hugest of
thunder clouds. And an act of charity, out of the wisdom of God, may
produce on this earth either good or evil.
Eliphalet closed with the bargain. Ephum was called and told to lead
the recruit to the presence of Mr. Hood, the manager. And he spent the
remainder of a hot day checking invoices in the shipping entrance on
Second Street.
It is not our place here to chronicle Eliphalet's faults. Whatever he
may have been, he was not lazy. But he was an anomaly to the rest of the
young men in the store, for those were days when political sentiments
decided fervent loves or hatreds. In two days was Eliphalet's reputation
for wisdom made. During that period he opened his mouth to speak but
twice. The first was in answer to a pointless question of Mr. Barbo's
(aetat 25), to the effect that he, Eliphalet Hopper, was a Pierce
Democrat, who looked with complacency on the extension of slavery.
This was wholly satisfactory, and saved the owner of these sentiments
a broken head. The other time Eliphalet spoke was to ask Mr. Barbo to
direct him to a boardinghouse.
“I reckon,” Mr. Barbo reflected, “that you'll want one of them
Congregational boarding-houses. We've got a heap of Yankees in the town,
and they all flock together and pray together. I reckon you'd ruther go
to Miss Crane's nor anywhere.”
Forthwith to Miss Crane's Eliphalet went. And that lady, being a Greek
herself, knew a Greek when she saw one. The kind-hearted Barbo lingered
in the gathering darkness to witness the game which ensued, a game dear
to all New Englanders, comical to Barbo. The two contestants calculated.
Barbo reckoned, and put his money on his new-found fellow-clerk.
Eliphalet, indeed, never showed to better advantage. The shyness he
had used with the Colonel, and the taciturnity practised on his
fellow-clerks, he slipped off like coat and waistcoat for the battle.
The scene was in the front yard of the third house in Dorcas Row.
Everybody knows where Dorcas Row was. Miss Crane, tall, with all the
severity of side curls and bombazine, stood like a stone lioness at the
gate. In the background, by the steps, the boarders sat, an interested
group. Eliphalet girded up his loins, and sharpened his nasal twang to
cope with hers. The preliminary sparring was an exchange of compliments,
and deceived neither party. It seemed rather to heighten mutual respect.
“You be from Willesden, eh?” said Crane. “I calculate you know the
Salters.”
If the truth were known, this evidence of an apparent omniscience rather
staggered Eliphalet. But training stood by him, and he showed no dismay.
Yes, he knew the Salters, and had drawed many a load out of Hiram
Salters' wood-lot to help pay for his schooling.
“Let me see,” said Miss Crane, innocently; “who was it one of them
Salters girls married, and lived across the way from the meetin'-house?”
“Spauldin',” was the prompt reply.
“Wal, I want t' know!” cried the spinster: “not Ezra Spauldin'?”
Eliphalet nodded. That nod was one of infinite shrewdness which
commended itself to Miss Crane. These courtesies, far from making
awkward the material discussion which followed; did not affect it in the
least.
“So you want me to board you?” said she, as if in consternation.
Eliphalet calculated, if they could come to terms. And Mr. Barbo keyed
himself to enjoyment.
“Single gentlemen,” said she, “pay as high as twelve dollars.” And she
added that they had no cause to complain of her table.
Eliphalet said he guessed he'd have to go somewhere else. Upon this the
lady vouchsafed the explanation that those gentlemen had high positions
and rented her large rooms. Since Mr. Hopper was from Willesden and knew
the Salters, she would be willing to take him for less. Eliphalet said
bluntly he would give three and a half. Barbo gasped. This particular
kind of courage was wholly beyond him.
Half an hour later Eliphalet carried his carpet-bag up three flights and
put it down in a tiny bedroom under the eaves, still pulsing with
heat waves. Here he was to live, and eat at Miss Crane's table for the
consideration of four dollars a week.
Such is the story of the humble beginning of one substantial prop of the
American Nation. And what a hackneyed story it is! How many other young
men from the East have travelled across the mountains and floated down
the rivers to enter those strange cities of the West, the growth of
which was like Jonah's gourd.
Two centuries before, when Charles Stuart walked out of a window in
Whitehall Palace to die; when the great English race was in the throes
of a Civil War; when the Stern and the Gay slew each other at Naseby and
Marston Moor, two currents flowed across the Atlantic to the New World.
Then the Stern men found the stern climate, and the Gay found the
smiling climate.
After many years the streams began to move again, westward, ever
westward. Over the ever blue mountains from the wonderland of Virginia
into the greater wonderland of Kentucky. And through the marvels of the
Inland Seas, and by white conestogas threading flat forests and floating
over wide prairies, until the two tides met in a maelstrom as fierce as
any in the great tawny torrent of the strange Father of Waters. A city
founded by Pierre Laclede, a certain adventurous subject of Louis who
dealt in furs, and who knew not Marly or Versailles, was to be the place
of the mingling of the tides. After cycles of separation, Puritan and
Cavalier united on this clay-bank in the Louisiana Purchase, and swept
westward together--like the struggle of two great rivers when they meet
the waters for a while were dangerous.
So Eliphalet was established, among the Puritans, at Miss Crane's. The
dishes were to his taste. Brown bread and beans and pies were plentiful,
for it was a land of plenty. All kinds of Puritans were there, and they
attended Mr. Davitt's Congregational Church. And may it be added in
justice to Mr. Hopper, that he became not the least devout of the
boarders.
CHAPTER. II. THE MOLE
For some years, while Stephen A. Douglas and Franklin Pierce and other
gentlemen of prominence were playing at bowls on the United States of
America; while Kansas was furnishing excitement free of charge to any
citizen who loved sport, Mr. Eliphalet Hopper was at work like the
industrious mole, underground. It is safe to affirm that Colonel Carvel
forgot his new hand as soon as he had turned him over to Mr. Hood, the
manager. As for Mr. Hopper, he was content. We can ill afford to dissect
motives. Genius is willing to lay the foundations of her structure
unobserved.
At first it was Mr. Barbo alone who perceived Eliphalet's
greatness,--Mr. Barbo, whose opinions were so easily had that they
counted for nothing. The other clerks, to say the least, found the
newcomer uncompanionable. He had no time for skylarking, the heat of the
day meant nothing to him, and he was never sleepy. He learned the stock
as if by intuition, and such was his strict attention to business that
Mr. Hood was heard is say, privately, he did not like the looks of it.
A young man should have other interests. And then, although he would not
hold it against him, he had heard that Mr. Hopper was a teacher in Mr.
Davitt's Sunday School.
Because he did not discuss his ambitions at dinner with the other clerks
in the side entry, it must not be thought that Eliphalet was without
other interests. He was likewise too shrewd to be dragged into political
discussions at the boarding-house table. He listened imperturbably to
the outbursts against the Border Ruffian, and smiled when Mr. Abner
Reed, in an angry passion, asked him to declare whether or not he was
a friend of the Divine Institution. After a while they forgot about him
(all save Miss Crane), which was what Mr. Hopper of all things desired.
One other friend besides Miss Crane did Eliphalet take unto himself,
wherein he showed much discrimination. This friend was none other than
Mr. Davitt, minister for many years of the Congregational Church. For
Mr. Davitt was a good man, zealous in his work, unpretentious, and
kindly. More than once Eliphalet went to his home to tea, and was
pressed to talk about himself and his home life. The minister and his
wife ware invariably astonished, after their guest was gone, at the
meagre result of their inquiries.
If Love had ever entered such a discreet soul as that into which we are
prying, he used a back entrance. Even Mr. Barbo's inquiries failed in
the discovery of any young person with whom Eliphalet “kept company.”
Whatever the notions abroad concerning him, he was admittedly a model.
There are many kinds of models. With some young ladies at the Sunday
School, indeed, he had a distant bowing acquaintance. They spoke of him
as the young man who knew the Bible as thoroughly as Mr. Davitt himself.
The only time that Mr. Hopper was discovered showing embarrassment was
when Mr. Davitt held his hand before them longer than necessary on the
church steps. Mr. Hopper was not sentimental.
However fascinating the subject, I do not propose to make a whole book
about Eliphalet. Yet sidelights on the life of every great man are
interesting. And there are a few incidents in his early career which
have not gotten into the subscription biographical Encyclopaedias. In
several of these volumes, to be sure, we may see steel engravings of
him, true likenesses all. His was the type of face which is the glory of
the steel engraving,--square and solid, as a corner-stone should be. The
very clothes he wore were made for the steel engraving, stiff and wiry
in texture, with sharp angles at the shoulders, and sombre in hue, as
befit such grave creations.
Let us go back to a certain fine morning in the September of the year
1857, when Mr. Hopper had arrived, all unnoticed, at the age of two and
thirty. Industry had told. He was now the manager's assistant; and, be
it said in passing, knew more about the stock than Mr. Hood himself. On
this particular morning, about nine o'clock, he was stacking bolts of
woollen goods near that delectable counter where the Colonel was wont
to regale his principal customers, when a vision appeared in the door.
Visions were rare at Carvel & Company's. This one was followed by an
old negress with leathery wrinkles, whose smile was joy incarnate.
They entered the store, paused at the entrance to the Colonel's private
office, and surveyed it with dismay.
“Clar t' goodness, Miss Jinny, yo' pa ain't heah! An' whah's Ephum, dat
black good-fo'-nuthin'!”
Miracle number one,--Mr. Hopper stopped work and stared. The vision was
searching the store with her eyes, and pouting.
“How mean of Pa!” she exclaimed, “when I took all this trouble to
surprise him, not to be here! Where are they all? Where's Ephum? Where's
Mr. Hood?”
The eyes lighted on Eliphalet. His blood was sluggish, but it could be
made to beat faster. The ladies he had met at Miss Crane's were not of
this description. As he came forward, embarrassment made him shamble,
and for the first time in his life he was angrily conscious of a poor
figure. Her first question dashed out the spark of his zeal.
“Oh,” said she, “are you employed here?”
Thoughtless Virginia! You little know the man you have insulted by your
haughty drawl.
“Yes.”
“Then find Mr. Carvel, won't you, please? And tell him that his daughter
has come from Kentucky, and is waiting for him.”
“I callate Mr. Carvel won't be here this morning,” said Eliphalet. He
went back to the pile of dry goods, and began to work. But he was unable
to meet the displeasure in her face.
“What is your name?” Miss Carvel demanded.
“Hopper.”
“Then, Mr. Hopper, please find Ephum, or Mr. Hood.”
Two more bolts were taken off the truck. Out of the corner of his eye he
watched her, and she seemed very tall, like her father. She was taller
than he, in fact.
“I ain't a servant, Miss Carvel,” he said, with a meaning glance at the
negress.
“Laws, Miss Jinny,” cried she, “I may's 'ell find Ephum. I knows he's
loafin' somewhar hereabouts. An' I ain't seed him dese five month.” And
she started for the back of the store.
“Mammy!”
The old woman stopped short. Eliphalet, electrified, looked up and
instantly down again.
“You say you are employed by Mr. Carvel, and refuse to do what I ask?”
“I ain't a servant,” Mr. Hopper repeated doggedly. He felt that he was
in the right,--and perhaps he was.
It was at this critical juncture in the proceedings that a young man
stepped lightly into the store behind Miss Jinny. Mr. Hopper's eye was
on him, and had taken in the details of his costume before realizing
the import of his presence. He was perhaps twenty, and wore a coat that
sprung in at the waist, and trousers of a light buff-color that gathered
at the ankle and were very copious above. His features were of the
straight type which has been called from time immemorial patrician. He
had dark hair which escaped in waves from under his hat, and black eyes
that snapped when they perceived Miss Virginia Carvel. At sight of her,
indeed, the gold-headed cane stopped in its gyrations in midair.
“Why, Jinny!” he cried--“Jinny!”
Mr. Hopper would have sold his soul to have been in the young man's
polished boots, to have worn his clothes, and to have been able to cry
out to the young lady, “Why, Jinny!”
To Mr. Hopper's surprise, the young lady did not turn around. She stood
perfectly still. But a red flush stole upon her cheek, and laughter
was dancing in her eyes yet she did not move. The young man took a step
forward, and then stood staring at her with such a comical expression
of injury on his face as was too much for Miss Jinny's serenity.
She laughed. That laugh also struck minor chords upon Mr. Hopper's
heart-strings.
But the young gentleman very properly grew angry.
“You've no right to treat me the way you do, Virginia,” he cried. “Why
didn't you let me know that you were coming home?” His tone was one of
authority. “You didn't come from Kentucky alone!”
“I had plenty of attendance, I assure you,” said Miss Carvel. “A
governor, and a senator, and two charming young gentlemen from New
Orleans as far as Cairo, where I found Captain Lige's boat. And Mr.
Brinsmade brought me here to the store. I wanted to surprise Pa,” she
continued rapidly, to head off the young gentleman's expostulations.
“How mean of him not to be here!”
“Allow me to escort you home,” said he, with ceremony:
“Allow me to decline the honah, Mr. Colfax,” she cried, imitating him.
“I intend to wait here until Pa comes in.”
Then Eliphalet knew that the young gentleman was Miss Virginia's first
cousin. And it seemed to him that he had heard a rumor, amongst the
clerks in the store; that she was to marry him one day.
“Where is Uncle Comyn?” demanded Mr. Colfax, swinging his cane with
impatience.
Virgina looked hard at Mr. Hopper.
“I don't know,” she said.
“Ephum!” shouted Mr. Colfax. “Ephum! Easters where the deuce is that
good-for-nothing husband of yours?”
“I dunno, Marse Clarence. 'Spec he whah he oughtn't ter be.”
Mr. Colfax spied the stooping figure of Eliphalet.
“Do you work here?” he demanded.
“I callate.”
“What?”
“I callate to,” responded Mr. Hopper again, without rising.
“Please find Mr. Hood,” directed Mr. Colfax, with a wave of his cane,
“and say that Miss Carvel is here--”
Whereupon Miss Carvel seated herself upon the edge of a bale and
giggled, which did not have a soothing effect upon either of the young
men. How abominably you were wont to behave in those days, Virginia.
“Just say that Mr. Colfax sent you,” Clarence continued, with a note of
irritation. “There's a good fellow.”
Virginia laughed outright. Her cousin did not deign to look at her. His
temper was slipping its leash.
“I wonder whether you hear me,” he remarked.
No answer.
“Colonel Carvel hires you, doesn't he? He pays you wages, and the
first time his daughter comes in here you refuse to do her a favor. By
thunder, I'll see that you are dismissed.”
Still Eliphalet gave him no manner of attention, but began marking the
tags at the bottom of the pile.
It was at this unpropitious moment that Colonel Carvel walked into the
store, and his daughter flew into his arms.
“Well, well,” he said, kissing her, “thought you'd surprise me, eh,
Jinny?”
“Oh, Pa,” she cried, looking reproachfully up at his Face. “You
knew--how mean of you!”
“I've been down on the Louisiana, where some inconsiderate man told me,
or I should not have seen you today. I was off to Alton. But what are
these goings-on?” said the Colonel, staring at young Mr. Colfax, rigid
as one of his own gamecocks. He was standing defiantly over the stooping
figure of the assistant manager.
“Oh,” said Virginia, indifferently, “it's only Clarence. He's so
tiresome. He's always wanting to fight with somebody.”
“What's the matter, Clarence?” asked the Colonel, with the mild
unconcern which deceived so many of the undiscerning.
“This person, sir, refused to do a favor for your daughter. She told
him, and I told him, to notify Mr. Hood that Miss Carvel was here, and
he refused.”
Mr. Hopper continued his occupation, which was absorbing. But he was
listening.
Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee, and smiled.
“Clarence,” said he, “I reckon I can run this establishment without any
help from you and Jinny. I've been at it now for a good many years.”
If Mr. Barbo had not been constitutionally unlucky, he might have
perceived Mr. Hopper, before dark that evening, in conversation with Mr.
Hood about a certain customer who lived up town, and presently leave the
store by the side entrance. He walked as rapidly as his legs would carry
him, for they were a trifle short for his body; and in due time, as the
lamps were flickering, he arrived near Colonel Carvel's large double
residence, on Tenth and Locust streets. Then he walked slowly along
Tenth, his eyes lifted to the tall, curtained windows. Now and anon they
scanned passers-by for a chance acquaintance.
Mr. Hopper walked around the block, arriving again opposite the Carvel
house, and beside Mr. Renault's, which was across from it. Eliphalet had
inherited the principle of mathematical chances. It is a fact that
the discreet sometimes take chances. Towards the back of Mr. Renault's
residence, a wide area was sunk to the depth of a tall man, which
was apparently used for the purpose of getting coal and wood into the
cellar. Mr. Hopper swept the neighborhood with a glance. The coast was
clear, and he dropped into the area.
Although the evening was chill, at first Mr. Hopper perspired very
freely. He crouched in the area while the steps of pedestrians beat
above his head, and took no thought but of escape. At last, however, he
grew cooler, removed his hat, and peeped over the stone coping. Colonel
Carvel's house--her house--was now ablaze with lights, and the shades
not yet drawn. There was the dining room, where the negro butler
was moving about the table; and the pantry, where the butler went
occasionally; and the kitchen, with black figures moving about. But
upstairs on the two streets was the sitting room. The straight figure
of the Colonel passed across the light. He held a newspaper in his hand.
Suddenly, full in the window, he stopped and flung away the paper. A
graceful shadow slipped across the wall. Virginia laid her hands on
his shoulders, and he stooped to kiss her. Now they sat between the
curtains, she on the arm of his chair and leaning on him, together
looking out of the window.
How long this lasted Mr. Hopper could not say. Even the wise forget
themselves. But all at once a wagon backed and bumped against the curb
in front of him, and Eliphalet's head dropped as if it had been struck
by the wheel. Above him a sash screamed as it opened, and he heard Mr.
Renault's voice say, to some person below:
“Is that you, Capitaine Grant?”
“The same,” was the brief reply.
“I am charmed that you have brought the wood. I thought that you had
forgotten me.”
“I try to do what I say, Mr. Renault.”
“Attendez--wait!” cried Mr. Renault, and closed the window.
Now was Eliphalet's chance to bolt. The perspiration had come again,
and it was cold. But directly the excitable little man, Renault, had
appeared on the pavement above him. He had been running.
“It is a long voyage from Gravois with a load of wood, Capitaine--I am
very grateful.”
“Business is business, Mr. Renault,” was the self-contained reply.
“Alphonse!” cried Mr. Renault, “Alphonse!” A door opened in the back
wall. “Du vin pour Monsieur le Capitaine.”
“Oui, M'sieu.”
Eliphalet was too frightened to wonder why this taciturn handler of wood
was called Captain, and treated with such respect.
“Guess I won't take any wine to-night, Mr. Renault,” said he. “You go
inside, or you'll take cold.”
Mr. Renault protested, asked about all the residents of Gravois way,
and finally obeyed. Eliphalet's heart was in his mouth. A bolder spirit
would have dashed for liberty. Eliphalet did not possess that kind of
bravery. He was waiting for the Captain to turn toward his wagon.
He looked down the area instead, with the light from the street lamp on
his face. Fear etched an ineffaceable portrait of him on Mr. Hopper's
mind, so that he knew him instantly when he saw him years afterward.
Little did he reckon that the fourth time he was to see him this man was
to be President of the United States. He wore a close-cropped beard,
an old blue army overcoat, and his trousers were tucked into a pair of
muddy cowhide boots.
Swiftly but silently the man reached down and hauled Eliphalet to the
sidewalk by the nape of the neck.
“What were you doing there?” demanded he of the blue overcoat, sternly.
Eliphalet did not answer. With one frantic wrench he freed himself, and
ran down Locust Street. At the corner, turning fearfully, he perceived
the man in the overcoat calmly preparing to unload his wood.
CHAPTER III. THE UNATTAINABLE SIMPLICITY
To Mr. Hopper the being caught was the unpardonable crime. And indeed,
with many of us, it is humiliation and not conscience which makes the
sting. He walked out to the end of the city's growth westward, where the
new houses were going up. He had reflected coolly on consequences, and
found there were none to speak of. Many a moralist, Mr. Davitt included,
would have shaken his head at this. Miss Crane's whole Puritan household
would have raised their hands in horror at such a doctrine.
Some novelists I know of, who are in reality celebrated surgeons in
disguise, would have shown a good part of Mr. Eliphalet Hopper's mental
insides in as many words as I have taken to chronicle his arrival in St.
Louis. They invite us to attend a clinic, and the horrible skill with
which they wield the scalpel holds us spellbound. For God has made all
of us, rogue and saint, burglar and burgomaster, marvellously alike.
We read a patent medicine circular and shudder with seven diseases. We
peruse one of Mr. So and So's intellectual tonics and are sure we are
complicated scandals, fearfully and wonderfully made.
Alas, I have neither the skill nor the scalpel to show the diseases of
Mr. Hopper's mind; if, indeed, he had any. Conscience, when contracted,
is just as troublesome as croup. Mr. Hopper was thoroughly healthy. He
had ambition, as I have said. But he was not morbidly sensitive. He was
calm enough when he got back to the boarding-house, which he found in as
high a pitch of excitement as New Englanders ever reach.
And over what?
Over the prospective arrival that evening of the Brices, mother and
son, from Boston. Miss Crane had received the message in the morning.
Palpitating with the news; she had hurried rustling to Mrs. Abner Reed,
with the paper in her hand.
“I guess you don't mean Mrs. Appleton Brice,” said Mrs. Reed.
“That's just who I mean,” answered Miss Crane, triumphantly,--nay,
aggressively.
Mrs. Abner shook her curls in a way that made people overwhelm her with
proofs.
“Mirandy, you're cracked,” said she. “Ain't you never been to Boston?”
Miss Crane bridled. This was an uncalled-for insult.
“I guess I visited down Boston-way oftener than you, Eliza Reed. You
never had any clothes.”
Mrs. Reed's strength was her imperturbability.
“And you never set eyes on the Brice house, opposite the Common, with
the swelled front? I'd like to find out where you were a-visitin'. And
you've never heard tell of the Brice homestead, at Westbury, that was
Colonel Wilton Brice's, who fought in the Revolution? I'm astonished at
you, Mirandy. When I used to be at the Dales', in Mount Vernon Street,
in thirty-seven, Mrs. Charles Atterbury Brice used to come there in
her carriage, a-callin'. She was Appleton's mother. Severe! Save us,”
exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “but she was stiff as starched crepe. His father
was minister to France. The Brices were in the India trade, and they had
money enough to buy the whole of St. Louis.”
Miss Crane rattled the letter in her hand. She brought forth her
reserves.
“Yes, and Appleton Brice lost it all, in the panic. And then he died,
and left the widow and son without a cent.”
Mrs. Reed took off her spectacles.
“I want to know!” she exclaimed. “The durned fool! Well, Appleton Brice
didn't have the family brains, ands he was kind of soft-hearted. I've
heard Mehitabel Dale say that.” She paused to reflect. “So they're
coming here?” she added. “I wonder why.”
Miss Crane's triumph was not over.
“Because Silas Whipple was some kin to Appleton Brice, and he has
offered the boy a place in his law office.”
Miss Reed laid down her knitting.
“Save us!” she said. “This is a day of wonders, Mirandy. Now Lord help
the boy if he's gain' to work for the Judge.”
“The Judge has a soft heart, if he is crabbed,” declared the spinster.
“I've heard say of a good bit of charity he's done. He's a soft heart.”
“Soft as a green quince!” said Mrs. Abner, scornfully. “How many friends
has he?”
“Those he has are warm enough,” Miss Crane retorted. “Look at Colonel
Carvel, who has him to dinner every Sunday.”
“That's plain as your nose, Mirandy Crane. They both like quarrellin'
better than anything in this world.”
“Well,” said Miss Crane, “I must go make ready for the Brices.”
Such was the importance of the occasion, however, that she could
not resist calling at Mrs. Merrill's room, and she knocked at Mrs.
Chandler's door to tell that lady and her daughter.
No Burke has as yet arisen in this country of ours to write a Peerage.
Fame awaits him. Indeed, it was even then awaiting him, at the time
of the panic of 1857. With what infinite pains were the pedigree
and possessions of the Brice family pieced together that day by the
scattered residents from Puritan-land in the City of St. Louis. And few
buildings would have borne the wear and tear of many house-cleanings of
the kind Miss Crane indulged in throughout the morning and afternoon.
Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, on his return from business, was met on the steps
and requested to wear his Sunday clothes. Like the good republican that
he was, Mr. Hopper refused. He had ascertained that the golden charm
which made the Brices worthy of tribute had been lost. Commercial
supremacy,--that was Mr. Hopper's creed. Family is a good thing, but
of what use is a crest without the panels on which to paint it? Can
a diamond brooch shine on a calico gown? Mr. Hopper deemed church the
place for worship. He likewise had his own idol in his closet.
Eliphalet at Willesden had heard a great deal of Boston airs and graces
and intellectuality, of the favored few of that city who lived in
mysterious houses, and who crossed the sea in ships. He pictured Mrs.
Brice asking for a spoon, and young Stephen sniffing at Mrs. Crane's
boarding-house. And he resolved with democratic spirit that he would
teach Stephen a lesson, if opportunity offered. His own discrepancy
between the real and the imagined was no greater than that of the rest
of his fellow-boarders.
Barring Eliphalet, there was a dress parade that evening,--silks and
bombazines and broadcloths, and Miss Crane's special preserves on the
tea-table. Alas, that most of the deserved honors of this world should
fall upon barren ground!
The quality which baffled Mr. Hopper, and some other boarders, was
simplicity. None save the truly great possess it (but this is not
generally known). Mrs. Brice was so natural, that first evening at tea,
that all were disappointed. The hero upon the reviewing stand with the
halo of the Unknown behind his head is one thing; the lady of Family who
sits beside you at a boarding-house and discusses the weather and the
journey is quite another. They were prepared to hear Mrs. Brice rail
at the dirt of St. Louis and the crudity of the West. They pictured
her referring with sighs to her Connections, and bewailing that Stephen
could not have finished his course at Harvard.
She did nothing of the sort.
The first shock was so great that Mrs. Abner Reed cried in the privacy
of her chamber, and the Widow Crane confessed her disappointment to the
confiding ear of her bosom friend, Mrs. Merrill. Not many years later a
man named Grant was to be in Springfield, with a carpet bag, despised as
a vagabond. A very homely man named Lincoln went to Cincinnati to try a
case before the Supreme Court, and was snubbed by a man named Stanton.
When we meet the truly great, several things may happen. In the first
place, we begin to believe in their luck, or fate, or whatever we choose
to call it, and to curse our own. We begin to respect ourselves the
more, and to realize that they are merely clay like us, that we are
great men without Opportunity. Sometimes, if we live long enough near
the Great, we begin to have misgivings. Then there is hope for us.
Mrs. Brice, with her simple black gowns, quiet manner, and serene face,
with her interest in others and none in herself, had a wonderful effect
upon the boarders. They were nearly all prepared to be humble. They grew
arrogant and pretentious. They asked Mrs. Brice if she knew this
and that person of consequence in Boston, with whom they claimed
relationship or intimacy. Her answers were amiable and self-contained.
But what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it
is he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. It
would be so easy to paint Stephen in shining colors, and to make him a
first-class prig (the horror of all novelists), that we must begin with
the drawbacks. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had
at that time what has been called “the Boston manner.” This was not
Stephen's fault, but Boston's. Young Mr. Brice possessed that
wonderful power of expressing distance in other terms besides ells and
furlongs,--and yet he was simple enough with it all.
Many a furtive stare he drew from the table that evening. There were one
or two of discernment present, and they noted that his were the generous
features of a marked man,--if he chose to become marked. He inherited
his mother's look; hers was the face of a strong woman, wide of
sympathy, broad of experience, showing peace of mind amid troubles--the
touch of femininity was there to soften it.
Her son had the air of the college-bred. In these surroundings he
escaped arrogance by the wonderful kindliness of his eye, which lighted
when his mother spoke to him. But he was not at home at Miss Crane's
table, and he made no attempt to appear at his ease.
This was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Let it not be
thought that he was the only one at that table to indulge in a little
secret rejoicing. But it was a peculiar satisfaction to him to reflect
that these people, who had held up their heads for so many generations,
were humbled at last. To be humbled meant, in Mr. Hopper's philosophy,
to lose one's money. It was thus he gauged the importance of his
acquaintances; it was thus he hoped some day to be gauged. And he
trusted and believed that the time would come when he could give
his fillip to the upper rim of fortune's wheel, and send it spinning
downward.
Mr. Hopper was drinking his tea and silently forming an estimate. He
concluded that young Brice was not the type to acquire the money which
his father had lost. And he reflected that Stephen must feel as strange
in St. Louis as a cod might amongst the cat-fish in the Mississippi.
So the assistant manager of Carvel & Company resolved to indulge in the
pleasure of patronizing the Bostonian.
“Callatin' to go to work?” he asked him, as the boarders walked into the
best room.
“Yes,” replied Stephen, taken aback. And it may be said here that, if
Mr. Hopper underestimated him, certainly he underestimated Mr. Hopper.
“It ain't easy to get a job this Fall,” said Eliphalet, “St. Louis
houses have felt the panic.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“What business was you callatin' to grapple with?”
“Law,” said Stephen.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Hopper, “I want to know.” In reality he was a
bit chagrined, having pictured with some pleasure the Boston aristocrat
going from store to store for a situation. “You didn't come here
figurin' on makin' a pile, I guess.”
“A what?”
“A pile.”
Stephen looked down and over Mr. Hopper attentively. He took in the
blocky shoulders and the square head, and he pictured the little eyes at
a vanishing-point in lines of a bargain. Then humor blessed humor--came
to his rescue. He had entered the race in the West, where all start
equal. He had come here, like this man who was succeeding, to make his
living. Would he succeed?
Mr. Hopper drew something out of his pocket, eyed Miss Crane, and bit
off a corner.
“What office was you going into?” he asked genially. Mr. Brice decided
to answer that.
“Judge Whipple's--unless he has changed his mind.” Eliphalet gave him a
look more eloquent than words.
“Know the Judge?”
Silent laughter.
“If all the Fourth of Julys we've had was piled into one,” said Mr.
Hopper, slowly and with conviction, “they wouldn't be a circumstance to
Silas Whipple when he gets mad. My boss, Colonel Carvel, is the only
man in town who'll stand up to him. I've seen 'em begin a quarrel in the
store and carry it all the way up the street. I callate you won't stay
with him a great while.”
CHAPTER IV. BLACK CATTLE
Later that evening Stephen Brice was sitting by the open windows in his
mother's room, looking on the street-lights below.
“Well, my dear,” asked the lady, at length, “what do you think of it
all?”
“They are kind people,” he said.
“Yes, they are kind,” she assented, with a sigh. “But they are not--they
are not from among our friends, Stephen.”
“I thought that one of our reasons for coming West, mother,” answered
Stephen.
His mother looked pained.
“Stephen, how can you! We came West in order that you might have more
chance for the career to which you are entitled. Our friends in Boston
were more than good.”
He left the window and came and stood behind her chair, his hands
clasped playfully beneath her chin.
“Have you the exact date about you, mother?”
“What date, Stephen?”
“When I shall leave St. Louis for the United States Senate. And you
must not forget that there is a youth limit in our Constitution for
senators.”
Then the widow smiled,--a little sadly, perhaps. But still a wonderfully
sweet smile. And it made her strong face akin to all that was human and
helpful.
“I believe that you have the subject of my first speech in that august
assembly. And, by the way, what was it?”
“It was on 'The Status of the Emigrant,'” she responded instantly,
thereby proving that she was his mother.
“And it touched the Rights of Privacy,” he added, laughing, “which do
not seem to exist in St. Louis boarding-houses.”
“In the eyes of your misguided profession, statesmen and authors and
emigrants and other public charges have no Rights of Privacy,” said she.
“Mr. Longfellow told me once that they were to name a brand of flour for
him, and that he had no redress.”
“Have you, too, been up before Miss Crane's Commission?” he asked, with
amused interest.
His mother laughed.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“They have some expert members,” he continued. “This Mrs. Abner
Reed could be a shining light in any bar. I overheard a part of her
cross-examination. She--she had evidently studied our case--”
“My dear,” answered Mrs. Brice, “I suppose they know all about us.” She
was silent a moment, “I had so hoped that they wouldn't. They lead the
same narrow life in this house that they did in their little New England
towns. They--they pity us, Stephen.”
“Mother!”
“I did not expect to find so many New Englanders here--I wish that Mr.
Whipple had directed us elsewhere-”
“He probably thought that we should feel at home among New Englanders. I
hope the Southerners will be more considerate. I believe they will,” he
added.
“They are very proud,” said his mother. “A wonderful people,--born
aristocrats. You don't remember those Randolphs with whom we travelled
through England. They were with us at Hollingdean, Lord Northwell's
place. You were too small at the time. There was a young girl, Eleanor
Randolph, a beauty. I shall never forget the way she entered those
English drawing-rooms. They visited us once in Beacon Street,
afterwards. And I have heard that there are a great many good Southern
families here in St. Louis.”
“You did not glean that from Judge Whipple's letter, mother,” said
Stephen, mischievously.
“He was very frank in his letter,” sighed Mrs. Brice.
“I imagine he is always frank, to put it delicately.”
“Your father always spoke in praise of Silas Whipple, my dear. I have
heard him call him one of the ablest lawyers in the country. He won a
remarkable case for Appleton here, and he once said that the Judge
would have sat on the Supreme Bench if he had not been pursued with such
relentlessness by rascally politicians.”
“The Judge indulges in a little relentlessness now and then, himself.
He is not precisely what might be termed a mild man, if what we hear is
correct.”
Mrs. Brice started.
“What have you heard?” she asked.
“Well, there was a gentleman on the steamboat who said that it took
more courage to enter the Judge's private office than to fight a Border
Ruffian. And another, a young lawyer, who declared that he would rather
face a wild cat than ask Whipple a question on the new code. And yet he
said that the Judge knew more law than any man in the West. And lastly,
there is a polished gentleman named Hopper here from Massachusetts who
enlightened me a little more.”
Stephen paused and bit his tongue. He saw that she was distressed by
these things. Heaven knows that she had borne enough trouble in the last
few months.
“Come, mother,” he said gently, “you should know how to take my jokes by
this time. I didn't mean it. I am sure the Judge is a good man,--one of
those aggressive good men who make enemies. I have but a single piece of
guilt to accuse him of.”
“And what is that?” asked the widow.
“The cunning forethought which he is showing in wishing to have it said
that a certain Senator and Judge Brice was trained in his office.”
“Stephen--you goose!” she said.
Her eye wandered around the room,--Widow Crane's best bedroom. It was
dimly lighted by an extremely ugly lamp. The hideous stuffy bed curtains
and the more hideous imitation marble mantel were the two objects that
held her glance. There was no change in her calm demeanor. But Stephen,
who knew his mother, felt that her little elation over her arrival had
ebbed, Neither would confess dejection to the other.
“I--even I--” said Stephen, tapping his chest, “have at least made
the acquaintance of one prominent citizen, Mr. Eliphalet D. Hopper.
According to Mr. Dickens, he is a true American gentleman, for he chews
tobacco. He has been in St. Louis five years, is now assistant manager
of the largest dry goods house, and still lives in one of Miss
Crane's four-dollar rooms. I think we may safely say that he will be a
millionaire before I am a senator.”
He paused.
“And mother?”
“Yes, dear.”
He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window.
“I think that it would be better if I did the same thing.”
“What do you mean, my son--”
“If I went to work,--started sweeping out a store, I mean. See here,
mother, you've sacrificed enough for me already. After paying father's
debts, we've come out here with only a few thousand dollars, and the
nine hundred I saved out of this year's Law School allowance. What shall
we do when that is gone? The honorable legal profession, as my friend
reminded me to-night, is not the swiftest road to millions.”
With a mother's discernment she guessed the agitation, he was striving
to hide; she knew that he had been gathering courage for this moment for
months. And she knew that he was renouncing thus lightly, for her sake
an ambition he had had from his school days.
Widow passed her hand over her brow. It was a space before she answered
him.
“My son,” she said, let us never speak of this again:
“It was your father's dearest wish that you should become a lawyer
and--and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us.”
She rose and kissed him good-night.
“Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning,
remember his kindness, and--.”
“And keep my temper. I shall, mother.”
A while later he stole gently back into her room again. She was on her
knees by the walnut bedstead.
At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane's, girded for the
struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple. He was not afraid, but a
poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to
be bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of
his father. Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and
believe in others having a hard time.
To a young man, who as his father's heir in Boston had been the
subject of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly
distasteful. But it had to be gone through. So presently, after inquiry,
he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome
of which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be
completed. Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle
of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty
stairway.
Here was a sign, “Law office of Silas Whipple.”
Stephen climbed the stairs, and arrived at a ground glass door, on which
the sign was repeated. Behind that door was the future: so he opened it
fearfully, with an impulse to throw his arm above his head. But he was
struck dumb on beholding, instead of a dragon, a good-natured young
man who smiled a broad welcome. The reaction was as great as though one
entered a dragon's den, armed to the teeth, to find a St. Bernard doing
the honors.
Stephen's heart went out to this young man,--after that organ had jumped
back into its place. This keeper of the dragon looked the part. Even the
long black coat which custom then decreed could not hide the bone and
sinew under it. The young man had a broad forehead, placid Dresden-blue
eyes, flaxen hair, and the German coloring. Across one of his high
cheek-bones was a great jagged scar which seemed to add distinction
to his appearance. That caught Stephen's eye, and held it. He wondered
whether it were the result of an encounter with the Judge.
“You wish to see Mr. Whipple?” he asked, in the accents of an educated
German.
“Yes,” said Stephen, “if he isn't busy.”
“He is out,” said the other, with just a suspicion of a 'd' in the word.
“You know he is much occupied now, fighting election frauds. You read
the papers?”
“I am a stranger here,” said Stephen.
“Ach!” exclaimed the German, “now I know you, Mr. Brice. The young
one from Boston the Judge spoke of. But you did not tell him of your
arrival.”
“I did not wish to bother him,” Stephen replied, smiling.
“My name is Richter--Carl Richter, sir.”
The pressure of Mr. Richter's big hands warmed Stephen as nothing else
had since he had come West. He was moved to return it with a little more
fervor than he usually showed. And he felt, whatever the Judge might be,
that he had a powerful friend near at hand--Mr. Richter's welcome came
near being an embrace.
“Sit down, Mr. Brice,” he said; “mild weather for November, eh? The
Judge will be here in an hour.”
Stephen looked around him: at the dusty books on the shelves, and the
still dustier books heaped on Mr. Richter's big table; at the cuspidors;
at the engravings of Washington and Webster; at the window in the jog
which looked out on the court-house square; and finally at another
ground-glass door on which was printed:
SILAS WHIPPLE
PRIVATE
This, then, was the den,--the arena in which was to take place a
memorable interview. But the thought of waiting an hour for the dragon
to appear was disquieting. Stephen remembered that he had something over
nine hundred dollars in his pocket (which he had saved out of his last
year's allowance at the Law School). So he asked Mr. Richter, who was
dusting off a chair, to direct him to the nearest bank.
“Why, certainly,” said he; “Mr. Brinsmade's bank on Chestnut Street.” He
took Stephen to the window and pointed across the square. “I am sorry I
cannot go with you,” he added, “but the Judge's negro, Shadrach, is out,
and I must stay in the office. I will give you a note to Mr. Brinsmade.”
“His negro!” exclaimed Stephen. “Why, I thought that Mr. Whipple was an
Abolitionist.”
Mr. Richter laughed.
“The man is free,” said he. “The Judge pays him wages.”
Stephen thanked his new friend for the note to the bank president, and
went slowly down the stairs. To be keyed up to a battle-pitch, and then
to have the battle deferred, is a trial of flesh and spirit.
As he reached the pavement, he saw people gathering in front of the wide
entrance of the Court House opposite, and perched on the copings.
He hesitated, curious. Then he walked slowly toward the place, and
buttoning his coat, pushed through the loafers and passers-by dallying
on the outskirts of the crowd. There, in the bright November sunlight, a
sight met his eyes which turned him sick and dizzy.
Against the walls and pillars of the building, already grimy with
soot, crouched a score of miserable human beings waiting to be sold at
auction. Mr. Lynch's slave pen had been disgorged that morning. Old and
young, husband and wife,--the moment was come for all and each. How
hard the stones and what more pitiless than the gaze of their
fellow-creatures in the crowd below! O friends, we who live in peace and
plenty amongst our families, how little do we realize the terror and
the misery and the dumb heart-aches of those days! Stephen thought with
agony of seeing his own mother sold before his eyes, and the building in
front of him was lifted from its foundation and rocked even as shall the
temples on the judgment day.
The oily auctioneer was inviting the people to pinch the wares. Men came
forward to feel the creatures and look into their mouths, and one brute,
unshaven and with filthy linen, snatched a child from its mother's
lap Stephen shuddered with the sharpest pain he had ever known. An
ocean-wide tempest arose in his breast, Samson's strength to break
the pillars of the temple to slay these men with his bare hands. Seven
generations of stern life and thought had their focus here in him,--from
Oliver Cromwell to John Brown.
Stephen was far from prepared for the storm that raged within him.
He had not been brought up an Abolitionist--far from it. Nor had his
father's friends--who were deemed at that time the best people in
Boston--been Abolitionists. Only three years before, when Boston had
been aflame over the delivery of the fugitive Anthony Burns, Stephen
had gone out of curiosity to the meeting at Faneuil Hall. How well he
remembered his father's indignation when he confessed it, and in his
anger Mr. Brice had called Phillips and Parker “agitators.” But his
father, nor his father's friends in Boston had never been brought face
to face with this hideous traffic.
Hark! Was that the sing-song voice of the auctioneer He was selling the
cattle. High and low, caressing an menacing, he teased and exhorted them
to buy. The were bidding, yes, for the possession of souls, bidding in
the currency of the Great Republic. And between the eager shouts came a
moan of sheer despair. What was the attendant doing now? He was tearing
two of then: from a last embrace.
Three--four were sold while Stephen was in a dream
Then came a lull, a hitch, and the crowd began to chatter gayly. But the
misery in front of him held Stephen in a spell. Figures stood out from
the group. A white-haired patriarch, with eyes raised to the sky;
a flat-breasted woman whose child was gone, whose weakness made her
valueless. Then two girls were pushed forth, one a quadroon of great
beauty, to be fingered. Stephen turned his face away,--to behold Mr.
Eliphalet Hopper looking calmly on.
“Wal, Mr. Brice, this is an interesting show now, ain't it? Something we
don't have. I generally stop here to take a look when I'm passing.” And
he spat tobacco juice on the coping.
Stephen came to his senses.
“And you are from New England?” he said.
Mr. Hopper laughed.
“Tarnation!” said he, “you get used to it. When I came here, I was a
sort of an Abolitionist. But after you've lived here awhile you get to
know that niggers ain't fit for freedom.”
Silence from Stephen.
“Likely gal, that beauty,” Eliphalet continued unrepressed. “There's a
well-known New Orleans dealer named Jenkins after her. I callate she'll
go down river.”
“I reckon you're right, Mistah,” a man with a matted beard chimed in,
and added with a wink: “She'll find it pleasant enough--fer a while.
Some of those other niggers will go too, and they'd rather go to hell.
They do treat 'em nefarious down thah on the wholesale plantations.
Household niggers! there ain't none better off than them. But seven
years in a cotton swamp,--seven years it takes, that's all, Mistah.”
Stephen moved away. He felt that to stay near the man was to be
tempted to murder. He moved away, and just then the auctioneer yelled,
“Attention!”
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “I have heah two sisters, the prope'ty of the
late Mistah Robe't Benbow, of St. Louis, as fine a pair of wenches as
was ever offe'd to the public from these heah steps--”
“Speak for the handsome gal,” cried a wag.
“Sell off the cart hoss fust,” said another.
The auctioneer turned to the darker sister:
“Sal ain't much on looks, gentlemen,” he said, “but she's the best
nigger for work Mistah Benbow had.” He seized her arm and squeezed it,
while the girl flinched and drew back. “She's solid, gentlemen, and
sound as a dollar, and she kin sew and cook. Twenty-two years old. What
am I bid?”
Much to the auctioneer's disgust, Sal was bought in for four hundred
dollars, the interest in the beautiful sister having made the crowd
impatient. Stephen, sick at heart, turned to leave. Halfway to the
corner he met a little elderly man who was the color of a dried gourd.
And just as Stephen passed him, this man was overtaken by an old
negress, with tears streaming down her face, who seized the threadbare
hem of his coat. Stephen paused involuntarily.
“Well, Nancy,” said the little man, “we had marvellous luck. I was able
to buy your daughter for you with less than the amount of your savings.”
“T'ank you, Mistah Cantah,” wailed the poor woman, “t'ank you, suh.
Praised be de name ob de Lawd. He gib me Sal again. Oh, Mistah Cantah”
(the agony in that cry), “is you gwineter stan' heah an' see her sister
Hester sol' to--to--oh, ma little Chile! De little Chile dat I nussed,
dat I raised up in God's 'ligion. Mistah Cantah, save her, suh, f'om dat
wicked life o' sin. De Lawd Jesus'll rewa'd you, suh. Dis ole woman'll
wuk fo' you twell de flesh drops off'n her fingers, suh.”
And had he not held her, she would have gone down on her knees on the
stone flagging before him. Her suffering was stamped on the little man's
face--and it seemed to Stephen that this was but one trial more which
adversity had brought to Mr. Canter.
“Nancy,” he answered (how often, and to how many, must he have had to
say the same thing), “I haven't the money, Nancy. Would to God that I
had, Nancy!”
She had sunk down on the bricks. But she had not fainted. It was not so
merciful as that. It was Stephen who lifted her, and helped her to the
coping, where she sat with her bandanna awry.
Stephen was not of a descent to do things upon impulse. But the tale
was told in after days that one of his first actions in St. Louis was of
this nature. The waters stored for ages in the four great lakes, given
the opportunity, rush over Niagara Falls into Ontario.
“Take the woman away,” said Stephen, in a low voice, “and I will buy the
girl,--if I can.”
The little man looked up, dazed.
“Give me your card,--your address. I will buy the girl, if I can, and
set her free.”
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a dirty piece of pasteboard. It
read: “R. Canter, Second Hand Furniture, 20 Second Street.” And still
he stared at Stephen, as one who gazes upon a mystery. A few curious
pedestrians had stopped in front of them.
“Get her away, if you can, for God's sake,” said Stephen again. And he
strode off toward the people at the auction. He was trembling. In his
eagerness to reach a place of vantage before the girl was sold, he
pushed roughly into the crowd.
But suddenly he was brought up short by the blocky body of Mr. Hopper,
who grunted with the force of the impact.
“Gosh,” said that gentleman, “but you are inters'ted. They ain't begun
to sell her yet--he's waitin' for somebody. Callatin' to buy her?” asked
Mr. Hopper, with genial humor.
Stephen took a deep breath. If he knocked Mr. Hopper down, he certainly
could not buy her. And it was a relief to know that the sale had not
begun.
As for Eliphalet, he was beginning to like young Brice. He approved
of any man from Boston who was not too squeamish to take pleasure in a
little affair of this kind.
As for Stephen, Mr. Hopper brought him back to earth. He ceased
trembling, and began to think.
“Tarnation!” said Eliphalet. “There's my boss, Colonel Carvel across the
street. Guess I'd better move on. But what d'ye think of him for a real
Southern gentleman?”
“The young dandy is his nephew, Clarence Colfax. He callates to own this
town.” Eliphalet was speaking leisurely, as usual, while preparing to
move. “That's Virginia Carvel, in red. Any gals down Boston-way to beat
her? Guess you won't find many as proud.”
He departed. And Stephen glanced absently at the group. They were
picking their way over the muddy crossing toward him. Was it possible
that these people were coming to a slave auction? Surely not. And yet
here they were on the pavement at his very side.
She wore a long Talma of crimson cashmere, and her face was in that most
seductive of frames, a scoop bonnet of dark green velvet, For a fleeting
second her eyes met his, and then her lashes fell. But he was aware,
when he had turned away, that she was looking at him again. He grew
uneasy. He wondered whether his appearance betrayed his purpose, or made
a question of his sanity.
Sanity! Yes, probably he was insane from her point of view. A sudden
anger shook him that she should be there calmly watching such a scene.
Just then there was a hush among the crowd. The beautiful slave-girl was
seized roughly by the man in charge and thrust forward, half fainting,
into view. Stephen winced. But unconsciously he turned, to see the
effect upon Virginia Carvel.
Thank God! There were tears upon her lashes.
Here was the rasp of the auctioneer's voice:-- “Gentlemen, I reckon
there ain't never been offered to bidders such an opportunity as this
heah. Look at her well, gentlemen. I ask you, ain't she a splendid
creature?”
Colonel Carvel, in annoyance, started to move on. “Come Jinny,” he said,
“I had no business to bring you aver.”
But Virginia caught his arm. “Pa,” she cried, “it's Mr. Benbow's Hester.
Don't go, dear. Buy her for me You know that I always wanted her.
Please!”
The Colonel halted, irresolute, and pulled his goatee Young Colfax
stepped in between them.
“I'll buy her for you, Jinny. Mother promised you a present, you know,
and you shall have her.”
Virginia had calmed.
“Do buy her, one of you,” was all she said
“You may do the bidding, Clarence,” said the Colonel, “and we'll settle
the ownership afterward.” Taking Virginia's arm, he escorted her across
the street.
Stephen was left in a quandary. Here was a home for the girl, and a good
one. Why should me spend the money which meant so much to him. He saw
the man Jenkin elbowing to the front. And yet--suppose Mr. Colfax did
not get her? He had promised to buy her if he could, and to set her
free:
Stephen had made up his mind: He shouldered his way after Jenkins.
CHAPTER V. THE FIRST SPARK PASSES
“Now, gentlemen,” shouted the auctioneer when he had finished his
oration upon the girl's attractions, “what 'tin I bid? Eight hundred?”
Stephen caught his breath. There was a long pause no one cared to start
the bidding.
“Come, gentlemen, come! There's my friend Alf Jenkins. He knows what
she's worth to a cent. What'll you give, Alf? Is it eight hundred?”
Mr. Jenkins winked at the auction joined in the laugh.
“Three hundred!” he said.
The auctioneer was mortally offended. Then some one cried:--“Three
hundred and fifty!”
It was young Colfax. He was recognized at once, by name, evidently as a
person of importance.
“Thank you, Mistah Colfax, suh,” said the auctioneer, with a servile
wave of the hand in his direction, while the crowd twisted their
necks to see him. He stood very straight, very haughty, as if entirely
oblivious to his conspicuous position.
“Three seventy-five!”
“That's better, Mistah Jenkins,” said the auctioneer, sarcastically. He
turned to the girl, who might have stood to a sculptor for a figure of
despair. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head bowed down. The
auctioneer put his hand under her chin and raised it roughly. “Cheer up,
my gal,” he said, “you ain't got nothing to blubber about now.”
Hester's breast heaved and from her black eyes there shot a magnificent
look of defiance. He laughed. That was the white blood.
The white blood!
Clarence Colfax had his bid taken from his lips. Above the heads of
the people he had a quick vision of a young man with a determined face,
whose voice rang clear and strong,-- “Four hundred!”
Even the auctioneer, braced two ways, was thrown off his balance by the
sudden appearance of this new force. Stephen grew red over the sensation
he made. Apparently the others present had deemed competition with such
as Jenkins and young Colfax the grossest folly. He was treated to much
liberal staring before the oily salesman arranged his wits to grapple
with the third factor.
Four hundred from--from--from that gentleman. And the chubby index
seemed the finger of scorn.
“Four hundred and fifty!” said Mr. Colfax, defiantly.
Whereupon Mr. Jenkins, the New Orleans dealer, lighted a very long cigar
and sat down on the coping. The auctioneer paid no attention to this
manoeuvre. But Mr. Brice and Mr. Colfax, being very young, fondly
imagined that they had the field to themselves, to fight to a finish.
Here wisdom suggested in a mild whisper to Stephen that there was a last
chance to pull out. And let Colfax have the girl? Never. That was pride,
and most reprehensible. But second he thought of Mr. Canter and of
Nancy, and that was not pride.
“Four seventy-five!” he cried.
“Thank you, suh.”
“Now fur it, young uns!” said the wag, and the crowd howled with
merriment.
“Five hundred!” snapped Mr. Colfax.
He was growing angry. But Stephen was from New England, and poor, and he
thought of the size of his purse. A glance at his adversary showed that
his blood was up. Money was plainly no consideration to him, and young
Colfax did not seem to be the kind who would relish returning to a young
lady and acknowledge a defeat.
Stephen raised the bid by ten dollars. The Southerner shot up fifty.
Again Stephen raised it ten. He was in full possession of himself now,
and proof against the thinly veiled irony of the oily man's remarks
in favor of Mr. Colfax. In an incredibly short time the latter's
impetuosity had brought them to eight hundred and ten dollars.
Then several things happened very quickly.
Mr. Jenkins got up from the curb and said, “Eight hundred and
twenty-five,” with his cigar in his mouth. Scarcely had the hum of
excitement died when Stephen, glancing at Colfax for the next move,
saw that young gentleman seized from the rear by his uncle, the tall
Colonel. And across the street was bliss Virginia Carvel, tapping her
foot on the pavement.
“What are you about, sir?” the Colonel cried. “The wench isn't worth
it.”
“Mr. Colfax shook himself free.
“I've got to buy her now, sir,” he cried.
“I reckon not,” said the Colonel. “You come along with me.”
Naturally Mr. Colfax was very angry. He struggled but he went. And so,
protesting, he passed Stephen, at whom he did not deign to glance. The
humiliation of it must have been great for Mr. Colfax. “Jinny wants her;
sir,” he said, “and I have a right to buy her.”
“Jinny wants everything,” was the Colonel's reply. And in a single look
of curiosity and amusement his own gray eyes met Stephen's. They seemed
to regret that this young man, too, had not a guardian. Then uncle and
nephew recrossed the street, and as they walked off the Colonel was seen
to laugh. Virginia had her chin in the air, and Clarence's was in his
collar.
The crowd, of course, indulged in roars of laughter, and even Stephen
could not repress a smile, a smile not without bitterness. Then he
wheeled to face Mr. Jerkins. Out of respect for the personages involved,
the auctioneer had been considerately silent daring the event. It was
Mr. Brice who was now the centre of observation.
Come, gentlemen, come, this here's a joke--eight twenty-five. She's
worth two thousand. I've been in the business twenty yea's, and I neve'
seen her equal. Give me a bid, Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me,
suh.”
“Eight hundred and thirty-five!” said Stephen.
“Now, Mr. Jerkins, now, suh! we've got twenty me' to sell.”
“Eight fifty!” said Mr. Jerkins.
“Eight sixty!” said Stephen, and they cheered him.
Mr. Jenkins took his cigar out of his teeth, and stared.
“Eight seventy-five!” said he.
“Eight eighty-five!” said Stephen.
There was a breathless pause.
“Nine hundred!” said the trader.
“Nine hundred and ten!” cried Stephen.
At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen
a derisive bow.
“She's youahs, suh,” he said. “These here are panic times. I've struck
my limit. I can do bettah in Louisville fo' less. Congratulate you,
suh--reckon you want her wuss'n I do.”
At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.
“What!” yelled the auctioneer. “Why, gentlemen, this heah's a joke. Nine
hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten. We've just begun,
gents. Come, Mr. Jerkins, that's giving her away.”
The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.
“Well,” cried the oily man, “this is a slaughter. Going at nine hundred
an' ten--nine ten--going--going--” down came the hammer--“gone at nine
hundred and ten to Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me, suh.”
An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and
was dragging her back. Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust
forward regardless of stares.
“Handle her gently, you blackguard,” he cried.
The man took his hands off.
“Suttinly, sah,” he said.
Hester lifted her eyes, and they were filled with such gratitude and
trust that suddenly he was overcome with embarrassment.
“Can you walk?” he demanded, somewhat harshly.
“Yes, massa.”
“Then get up,” he said, “and follow me.”
She rose obediently. Then a fat man came out of the Court House, with a
quill in his hand, and a merry twinkle in his eye that Stephen resented.
“This way, please, sah,” and he led him to a desk, from the drawer of
which he drew forth a blank deed.
“Name, please!”
“Stephen Atterbury Brice.”
“Residence, Mr. Brice!”
Stephen gave the number. But instead of writing it clown, the man merely
stared at him, while the fat creases in his face deepened and deepened.
Finally he put down his quill, and indulged in a gale of laughter,
hugely to Mr. Brice's discomfiture.
“Shucks!” said the fat man, as soon as he could.
“What are you givin' us? That the's a Yankee boa'din' house.”
“And I suppose that that is part of your business, too,” said Stephen,
acidly.
The fat man looked at him, pressed his lips, wrote down the number,
shaken all the while with a disturbance which promised to lead to
another explosion. Finally, after a deal of pantomime, and whispering
and laughter with the notary behind the wire screen, the deed was made
out, signed, attested, and delivered. Stephen counted out the money
grimly, in gold and Boston drafts.
Out in the sunlight on Chestnut Street, with the girl by his side, it
all seemed a nightmare. The son of Appleton Brice of Boston the owner of
a beautiful quadroon girl! And he had bought hex with his last cent.
Miss Crane herself opened the door in answer to his ring. Her keen eyes
instantly darted over his shoulder and dilated, But Stephen, summoning
all his courage, pushed past her to the stairs, and beckoned Hester to
follow.
“I have brought this--this person to see my mother,” he said
The spinster bowed from the back of her neck. She stood transfixed on a
great rose in the hall carpet until she heard Mrs. Brice's door open and
slam, and then she strode up the stairs and into the apartment of Mrs.
Abner Reed. As she passed the first landing, the quadroon girl was
waiting in the hall.
CHAPTER VI. SILAS WHIPPLE
The trouble with many narratives is that they tell too much. Stephen's
interview with his mother was a quiet affair, and not historic. Miss
Crane's boarding-house is not an interesting place, and the tempest in
that teapot is better imagined than described. Out of consideration for
Mr. Stephen Brice, we shall skip likewise a most affecting scene at Mr.
Canter's second-hand furniture store.
That afternoon Stephen came again to the dirty flight of steps which
led to Judge Whipple's office. He paused a moment to gather courage, and
then, gripping the rail, he ascended. The ascent required courage now,
certainly. He halted again before the door at the top. But even as he
stood there came to him, in low, rich tones, the notes of a German song.
He entered And Mr. Richter rose in shirt-sleeves from his desk to greet
him, all smiling.
“Ach, my friend!” said he, “but you are late. The Judge has been
awaiting you.”
“Has he?” inquired Stephen, with ill-concealed anxiety.
The big young German patted him on the shoulder.
Suddenly a voice roared from out the open transom of the private office,
like a cyclone through a gap.
“Mr. Richter!”
“Sir!”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Brice, sir.”
“Then why in thunder doesn't he come in?”
Mr. Richter opened the private door, and in Stephen walked. The door
closed again, and there he was in the dragon's dens face to face with
the dragon, who was staring him through and through. The first objects
that caught Stephen's attention were the grizzly gray eye brows, which
seemed as so much brush to mark the fire of the deep-set battery of the
eyes. And that battery, when in action, must have been truly terrible.
The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his
chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.
Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple's
glance. But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent.
Nor was it fear entirely.
“So you are Appleton Brice's son,” said the Judge, at last. His tone was
not quite so gruff as it might have been.
“Yes, sir,” said Stephen.
“Humph!” said the Judge, with a look that scarcely expressed approval.
“I guess you've been patted on the back too much by your father's
friends.” He leaned back in his wooden chair. “How I used to detest
people who patted boys on the back and said with a smirk, 'I know your
father.' I never had a father whom people could say that about. But,
sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his fist on the litter of papers
that covered his desk, “I made up my mind that one day people should
know me. That was my spur. And you'll start fair here, Mr. Brice. They
won't know your father here--”
If Stephen thought the Judge brutal, he did not say so. He glanced
around the little room,--at the bed in the corner, in which the Judge
slept, and which during the day did not escape the flood of books and
papers; at the washstand, with a roll of legal cap beside the pitcher.
“I guess you think this town pretty crude after Boston, Mr. Brice,” Mr.
Whipple continued. “From time immemorial it has been the pleasant habit
of old communities to be shocked at newer settlements, built by their
own countrymen. Are you shocked, sir?”
Stephen flushed. Fortunately the Judge did not give him time to answer.
“Why didn't your mother let me know that she was coming?”
“She didn't wish to put you to any trouble, sir.”
“Wasn't I a good friend of your father's? Didn't I ask you to come here
and go into my office?”
“But there was a chance, Mr. Whipple--”
“A chance of what?”
“That you would not like me. And there is still a chance of it,” added
Stephen, smiling.
For a second it looked as if the Judge might smile, too. He rubbed his
nose with a fearful violence.
“Mr. Richter tells me you were looking for a bank,” said he, presently.
Stephen quaked.
“Yes, sir, I was, but--”
But Mr. Whipple merely picked up the 'Counterfeit Bank Note Detector'.
“Beware of Western State Currency as you would the devil,” said he.
“That's one thing we don't equal the East in--yet. And so you want to
become a lawyer?”
“I intend to become a lawyer, sir.”
“And so you shall, sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his yellow fist
upon the 'Bank Note Detector'. “I'll make you a lawyer, sir. But my
methods ain't Harvard methods, sir.”
“I am ready to do anything, Mr. Whipple.”
The Judge merely grunted. He scratched among his papers, and produced
some legal cap and a bunch of notes.
“Go out there,” he said, “and take off your coat and copy this brief.
Mr. Richter will help you to-day. And tell your mother I shall do myself
the honor to call upon her this evening.”
Stephen did as he was told, without a word. But Mr. Richter was not in
the outer office when he returned to it. He tried to compose himself to
write, although the recollection of each act of the morning hung like a
cloud over the back of his head. Therefore the first sheet of legal cap
was spoiled utterly. But Stephen had a deep sense of failure. He had
gone through the ground glass door with the firm intention of making
a clean breast of the ownership of Hester. Now, as he sat still, the
trouble grew upon him. He started a new sheet, and ruined that: Once he
got as far as his feet, and sat down again. But at length he had quieted
to the extent of deciphering ten lines of Mr. Whipple's handwriting when
the creak of a door shattered his nerves completely.
He glanced up from his work to behold--none other than Colonel Comyn
Carvel.
Glancing at Mr. Richter's chair, and seeing it empty, the Colonel's eye
roved about the room until it found Stephen. There it remained, and the
Colonel remained in the middle of the floor, his soft hat on the back of
his head, one hand planted firmly on the gold head of his stick, and
the other tugging at his goatee, pulling down his chin to the quizzical
angle.
“Whoopee!” he cried.
The effect of this was to make one perspire freely. Stephen perspired.
And as there seemed no logical answer, he made none.
Suddenly Mr. Carvel turned, shaking with a laughter he could not
control, and strode into the private office the door slammed behind him.
Mr. Brice's impulse was flight. But he controlled himself.
First of all there was an eloquent silence. Then a ripple of guffaws.
Then the scratch-scratch of a quill pen, and finally the Judge's voice.
“Carvel, what the devil's the matter with you, sir?”
A squall of guffaws blew through the transom, and the Colonel was heard
slapping his knee.
“Judge Whipple,” said he, his voice vibrating from suppressed
explosions, “I am happy to see that you have overcome some of your
ridiculous prejudices, sir.”
“What prejudices, sir?” the Judge was heard to shout.
“Toward slavery, Judge,” said Mr. Carvel, seeming to recover his
gravity. “You are a broader man than I thought, sir.”
An unintelligible gurgle came from the Judge. Then he said.
“Carvel, haven't you and I quarrelled enough on that subject?”
“You didn't happen to attend the nigger auction this morning when you
were at the court?” asked the Colonel, blandly.
“Colonel,” said the Judge, “I've warned you a hundred times against the
stuff you lay out on your counter for customers.”
“You weren't at the auction, then,” continued the Colonel, undisturbed.
“You missed it, sir. You missed seeing this young man you've just
employed buy the prettiest quadroon wench I ever set eyes on.”
Now indeed was poor Stephen on his feet. But whether to fly in at the
one entrance or out at the other, he was undecided.
“Colonel,” said Mr. Whipple, “is that true?”
“Sir!” “MR. BRICE!”
It did not seem to Stephen as if he was walking when he went toward the
ground glass door. He opened it. There was Colonel Carvel seated on the
bed, his goatee in his hand. And there was the Judge leaning forward
from his hips, straight as a ramrod. Fire was darting from beneath his
bushy eyebrows. “Mr. Brice,” said he, “there is one question I always
ask of those whom I employ. I omitted it in your case because I have
known your father and your grandfather before you. What is your opinion,
sir, on the subject of holding human beings in bondage?”
The answer was immediate,--likewise simple.
“I do not believe in it, Mr. Whipple.”
The Judge shot out of his chair like a long jack-in-the box, and towered
to his full height.
“Mr. Brice, did you, or did you not, buy a woman at auction to-day?”
“I did, sir.”
Mr. Whipple literally staggered. But Stephen caught a glimpse of the
Colonel's hand slipping from his chin cover his mouth.
“Good God, sir!” cried the Judge, and he sat down heavily. “You say that
you are an Abolitionist?”
“No, sir, I do not say that. But it does not need an Abolitionist to
condemn what I saw this morning.”
“Are you a slave-owner, sir?” said Mr. Whipple.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get your coat and hat and leave my office, Mr. Brice.”
Stephen's coat was on his arm. He slipped it on, and turned to go. He
was, if the truth were told, more amused than angry. It was Colonel
Carvel's voice that stopped him.
“Hold on, Judge,” he drawled, “I reckon you haven't got all the packing
out of that case.”
Mr. Whipple locked at him in a sort of stupefaction. Then he glanced at
Stephen.
“Come back here, sir,” he cried. “I'll give you hearing. No man shall
say that I am not just.”
Stephen looked gratefully at the Colonel.
“I did not expect one, sir,” he said..
“And you don't deserve one, sir,” cried the Judge.
“I think I do,” replied Stephen, quietly.
The Judge suppressed something.
“What did you do with this person?” he demanded
“I took her to Miss Crane's boarding-house,” said Stephen.
It was the Colonel's turn to explode. The guffaw which came from hire
drowned every other sound.
“Good God!” said the Judge, helplessly. Again he looked at the Colonel,
and this time something very like mirth shivered his lean frame. “And
what do you intend to do with her?” he asked in strange tones.
“To give her freedom, sir, as soon as I can find somebody to go on her
bond.”
Again silence. Mr. Whipple rubbed his nose with more than customary
violence, and looked very hard at Mr. Carvel, whose face was
inscrutable. It was a solemn moment.
“Mr. Brice,” said the Judge, at length, “take off your coat, sir I will
go her bond.”
It was Stephen's turn to be taken aback. He stood regarding the Judge
curiously, wondering what manner of man he was. He did not know that
this question had puzzled many before him.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
His hand was on the knob of the door, when Mr. Whipple called him back
abruptly. His voice had lost some of its gruffness.
“What were your father's ideas about slavery, Mr. Brice?”
The young man thought a moment, as if seeking to be exact.
“I suppose he would have put slavery among the necessary evils, sir,”
he said, at length. “But he never could bear to have the liberator
mentioned in his presence. He was not at all in sympathy with Phillips,
or Parker, or Summer. And such was the general feeling among his
friends.”
“Then,” said the Judge, “contrary to popular opinion in the West and
South, Boston is not all Abolition.”
Stephen smiled.
“The conservative classes are not at all Abolitionists, sir.”
“The conservative classes!” growled the Judge, “the conservative
classes! I am tired of hearing about the conservative classes. Why not
come out with it, sir, and say the moneyed classes, who would rather
see souls held in bondage than risk their worldly goods in an attempt to
liberate them?”
Stephen flushed. It was not at all clear to him then how he was to get
along with Judge Whipple. But he kept his temper.
“I am sure that you do them an injustice, sir,” he said, with more
feeling them he had yet shown. “I am not speaking of the rich alone, and
I think that if you knew Boston you would not say that the conservative
class there is wholly composed of wealthy people. Many of may father's
friends were by no means wealthy. And I know that if he had been poor he
would have held the same views.”
Stephen did not mark the quick look of approval which Colonel Carvel
gave him. Judge Whipple merely rubbed his nose.
“Well, sir,” he said, “what were his views, then?”
“My father regarded slaves as property, sir. And conservative people”
(Stephen stuck to the word) “respect property the world over. My
father's argument was this: If men are deprived by violence of one kind
of property which they hold under the law, all other kinds of property
will be endangered. The result will be anarchy. Furthermore, he
recognized that the economic conditions in the South make slavery
necessary to prosperity. And he regarded the covenant made between the
states of the two sections as sacred.”
There was a brief silence, during which the uncompromising expression of
the Judge did not change.
“And do you, sir?” he demanded.
“I am not sure, sir, after what I saw yesterday. I--I must have time to
see more of it.”
“Good Lord,” said Colonel Carvel, “if the conservative people of
the North act this way when they see a slave sale, what will the
Abolitionists do? Whipple,” he added slowly, but with conviction, “this
means war.”
Then the Colonel got to his feet, and bowed to Stephen with ceremony.
“Whatever you believe, sir,” he said, “permit me to shake your hand. You
are a brave man, sir. And although my own belief is that the black race
is held in subjection by a divine decree, I can admire what you have
done, Mr. Brice. It was a noble act, sir,--a right noble act. And I have
more respect for the people of Boston, now, sir, than I ever had before,
sir.”
Having delivered himself of this somewhat dubious compliment (which he
meant well), the Colonel departed.
Judge Whipple said nothing.
CHAPTER VII. CALLERS
If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was as
nothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane's boarding-house.
during the second afternoon of their stay. Twenty times was Miss Crane
on the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by the
advice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted. The culmination came when the
news leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman in
order to give her freedom. Like those who have done noble acts since the
world began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool. The cream
from which heroes is made is very apt to turn.
“Phew!” cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea,
“wasn't that meal a fearful experience? Let's find a hovel, mother, and
go and live in it. We can't stand it here any longer.”
“Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,”
answered the widow, smiling.
“It was beastly hard luck,” said he, “that I should have been shouldered
with that experience the first day. But I have tried to think it over
calmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done.” He paused in his
pacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look. “It was
quite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn't it?”
“The family has never been called impetuous,” replied his mother. “It
must be the Western air.”
He began his pacing again. His mother had not said one word about the
money. Neither had he. Once more he stopped before her.
“We are at least a year nearer the poor-house,” he said; “you haven't
scolded me for that. I should feel so much better if you would.”
“Oh, Stephen, don't say that!” she exclaimed. “God has given me no
greater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of that
poor creature, Nancy. I shall never forget the old woman's joy at the
sight of her daughter. It made a palace out of that dingy furniture
shop. Hand me my handkerchief, dear.”
Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn at
the corner.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.
Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.
“Evenin', Mis' Brice. De good Lawd bless you, lady, an' Miste' Brice,”
said the old negress.
“Well, Nancy?”
Nancy pressed into the room. “Mis' Brice!”
“Yes?”
“Ain' you gwineter' low Hester an' me to wuk fo' you?”
“Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy. But we are boarding.”
“Yassm, yassm,” said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence. Then
again, “Mis' Brice!”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Ef you 'lows us t' come heah an' straighten out you' close, an' mend
'em--you dunno how happy you mek me an' Hester--des to do dat much, Mis'
Brice.”
The note of appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked the
trunks.
“You may unpack them, Nancy,” she said.
With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet and
shawl! “Whaffor you stannin' dere, Hester?” she cried.
“Hester is tired,” said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came to
her eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through that
day.
“Tired!” said Nancy, holding up her hands. “No'm, she ain' tired. She
des kinder stupefied by you' goodness, Mis' Brice.”
A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane's hired girl.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum,” she said.
If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane's
best parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room.
Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greeting
does not tally with the limpness of their grasp. He was attempting, when
Stephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them,
as a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor. The gentleman had
red chop-whiskers,--to continue to put his worst side foremost, which
demanded a ruddy face. He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborly
effusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs.
Brice.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I used often to go to Boston in the
forties. In fact--ahem--I may claim to be a New Englander. Alas, no, I
never met your father. But when I heard of the sad circumstances of his
death, I felt as if I had lost a personal friend. His probity, sir, and
his religious principles were an honor to the Athens of America. I have
listened to my friend, Mr. Atterbury,--Mr. Samuel Atterbury,--eulogize
him by the hour.”
Stephen was surprised.
“Why, yes,” said he, “Mr. Atterbury was a friend.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I knew it. Four years ago, the last
business trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street. Absence
makes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter.
They never change. Atterbury nearly took me in his arms. 'My dear
fellow,' he cried, 'how long are you to be in town?' I was going the
next day. 'Sorry I can't ask you to dinner,' says he, but step into the
Tremont House and have a bite.'--Wasn't that like Atterbury?”
Stephen thought it was. But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting no
answer.
“Well,” said he, “what I was going to say was that we heard you were in
town; 'Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,' I said to my wife. We are
neighbors, Mr. Brace. You must know the girls. You must come to supper.
We live very plainly, sir, very simply. I am afraid that you will miss
the luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen. I hope I
may call you so, my boy. We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, but
all are not so. I miss the atmosphere. I seemed to live again when I
got to Boston. But business, sir,--the making of money is a sordid
occupation. You will come to supper?”
“I scarcely think that my mother will go out,” said Stephen.
“Oh, be friends! It will cheer her. Not a dinner-party, my boy, only
a plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat. Of course she will. Of
course she will. Not a Boston social function, you understand. Boston,
Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe. Our
universe, I mean. America for Americans is a motto of mine. Oh, no,” he
added quickly, “I don't mean a Know Nothing. Religious freedom, my boy,
is part of our great Constitution. By the way, Stephen--Atterbury always
had such a respect for your father's opinions--”
“My father was not an Abolitionist, sir,” said Stephen, smiling.
“Quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Cluyme.
“But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not some
sympathy and respect for the Abolitionists.”
Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start. He glanced at the heavy hangings on
the windows and then out of the open door into the hall. For a space his
wife's chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.
“My dear Stephen,” said the gentleman, dropping his voice, “that is all
very well in Boston. But take a little advice from one who is old enough
to counsel you. You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself to
the tone of the place which you have made your home. St. Louis is full
of excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists. We are
gathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation.
But our New England population here is small yet compared to the
Southerners. And they are very violent, sir.”
Stephen could not resist saying, “Judge Whipple does not seem to have
tempered himself, sir.”
“Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir,” cried Mr. Cluyme.
“His hand is against every man's. He denounces Douglas on the slightest
excuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight with
Stephens and Toombs and Davis. But what good does it do him? He might
have been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred up
so much hatred. And yet I can't help liking Whipple. Do you know him?”
A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen's reply, and Mrs.
Cluyme's small talk to Mrs. Brice. In the hall rumbled a familiar voice,
and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself. Without noticing
the other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked at
her for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his large
hand.
“Pray, ma'am,” he said, “what have you done with your slave?”
Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightened
in a dream. Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair. But
Stephen smiled. And his mother smiled a little, too.
“Are you Mr. Whipple?” she asked.
“I am, madam,” was the reply.
“My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks,” said Mrs. Brice.
Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation. Then Mrs.
Cluyme sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused to
hold her.
“Well, well, ma'am!” The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleam
of mirth lighted the severity of his face. He was plainly pleased with
her--this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of women
who are well born and whose manner was so self-contained. To speak
truth, the Judge was prepared to dislike her. He had never laid eyes
upon her, and as he walked hither from his house he seemed to foresee
a helpless little woman who, once he had called, would fling her Boston
pride to the winds and dump her woes upon him. He looked again, and
decidedly approved of Mrs. Brice, and was unaware that his glance
embarrassed her.
“Mr. Whipple,” she said,--“do you know Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme?”
The Judge looked behind him abruptly, nodded ferociously at Mr. Cluyme,
and took the hand that fluttered out to him from Mrs. Cluyme.
“Know the Judge!” exclaimed that lady, “I reckon we do. And my Belle is
so fond of him. She thinks there is no one equal to Mr. Whipple. Judge,
you must come round to a family supper. Belle will surpass herself.”
“Umph!” said the Judge, “I think I like Edith best of your girls,
ma'am.”
“Edith is a good daughter, if I do say it myself,” said Mrs. Cluyme. “I
have tried to do right by my children.” She was still greatly flustered,
and curiosity about the matter of the slave burned upon her face.
Neither the Judge nor Mrs. Brice were people one could catechise.
Stephen, scanning the Judge, was wondering how far he regarded the
matter as a joke.
“Well, madam,” said Mr. Whipple, as he seated himself on the other end
of the horsehair sofa, “I'll warrant when you left Boston that you did
not expect to own a slave the day after you arrived in St. Louis.”
“But I do not own her,” said Mrs. Brice. “It is my son who owns her.”
This was too much for Mr. Cluyme.
“What!” he cried to Stephen. “You own a slave? You, a mere boy, have
bought a negress?”
“And what is more, sir, I approve of it,” the Judge put in, severely. “I
am going to take the young man into my office.”
Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking at
Mr. Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the window
curtains. But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.
“Pardon me, Judge,” said he, “but I trust that I may be allowed to
congratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I have
considered a clog to your career. They did you honor, sir, but they were
Quixotic. I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost. And we
have no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their very
means of livelihood.”
The Judge grinned diabolically. Mrs. Cluyme was as yet too stunned to
speak. Only Stephen's mother sniffed gunpowder in the air.
“This, Mr. Cluyme,” said the Judge, mildly, “is an age of shifting
winds. It was not long ago,” he added reflectively, “when you and I met
in the Planters' House, and you declared that every drop of Northern
blood spilled in Kansas was in a holy cause. Do you remember it, sir?”
Mr. Cluyme and Mr. Cluyme's wife alone knew whether he trembled.
“And I repeat that, sir,” he cried, with far too much zeal. “I repeat
it here and now. And yet I was for the Omnibus Bill, and I am with Mr.
Douglas in his local sovereignty. I am willing to bury my abhorrence of
a relic of barbarism, for the sake of union and peace.”
“Well, sir, I am not,” retorted the Judge, like lightning. He rubbed the
red spat on his nose, and pointed a bony finger at Mr. Cluyme. Many a
criminal had grovelled before that finger. “I, too, am for the Union.
And the Union will never be safe until the greatest crime of modern
times is wiped out in blood. Mind what I say, Mr. Cluyme, in blood,
sir,” he thundered.
Poor Mrs. Cluyme gasped.
“But the slave, sir? Did I not understand you to approve of Mr. Brice's
ownership?”
“As I never approved of any other. Good night, sir. Good night, madam.”
But to Mrs. Brice he crossed over and took her hand. It has been further
claimed that he bowed. This is not certain.
“Good night, madam,” he said. “I shall call again to pay my respects
when you are not occupied.”
Volume 2.
CHAPTER VIII. BELLEGARDE
Miss Virginia Carvel came down the steps in her riding-habit. And Ned,
who had been waiting in the street with the horses, obsequiously held
his hand while his young mistress leaped into Vixen's saddle. Leaving
the darkey to follow upon black Calhoun, she cantered off up the street,
greatly to the admiration of the neighbor. They threw open their windows
to wave at her, but Virginia pressed her lips and stared straight ahead.
She was going out to see the Russell girls at their father's country
place on Bellefontaine Road, especially to proclaim her detestation
for a certain young Yankee upstart. She had unbosomed herself to Anne
Brinsmade and timid Eugenie Renault the day before.
It was Indian summer, the gold and purple season of the year. Frost
had come and gone. Wasps were buzzing confusedly about the eaves again,
marvelling at the balmy air, and the two Misses Russell, Puss and
Emily, were seated within the wide doorway at needlework when Virginia
dismounted at the horseblock.
“Oh, Jinny, I'm so glad to see you,” said Miss Russell. “Here's Elise
Saint Simon from New Orleans. You must stay all day and to-night.”
“I can't, Puss,” said Virginia, submitting impatiently to Miss Russell's
warm embrace. She was disappointed at finding the stranger. “I only
came--to say that I am going to have a birthday party in a few weeks.
You must be sure to come, and bring your guest.”
Virginia took her bridle from Ned, and Miss Russell's hospitable face
fell.
“You're not going?” she said.
“To Bellegarde for dinner,” answered Virginia.
“But it's only ten o'clock,” said Puss. “And, Jinny?”
“Yes.”
“There's a new young man in town, and they do say his appearance is very
striking--not exactly handsome, you know, but strong-looking.”
“He's horrid!” said Virginia. “He's a Yankee.”
“How do you know?” demanded Puss and Emily in chorus.
“And he's no gentleman,” said Virginia.
“But how do you know, Jinny?”
“He's an upstart.”
“Oh. But he belongs to a very good Boston family, they say.”
“There are no good Boston families,” replied Virginia, with conviction,
as she separated her reins. “He has proved that. Who ever heard of a
good Yankee family?”
“What has he done to you, Virginia?” asked Puss, who had brains.
Virginia glanced at the guest. But her grievance was too hot within her
for suppression.
“Do you remember Mr. Benbow's Hester, girls? The one I always said I
wanted. She was sold at auction yesterday. Pa and I were passing the
Court House, with Clarence, when she was put up for sale. We crossed
the street to see what was going on, and there was your strong-looking
Yankee standing at the edge of the crowd. I am quite sure that he saw me
as plainly as I see you, Puss Russell.”
“How could he help it?” said Puss, slyly.
Virginia took no notice of the remark.
“He heard me ask Pa to buy her. He heard Clarence say that he would bid
her in for me. I know he did. And yet he goes in and outbids Clarence,
and buys her himself. Do you think any gentleman would do that, Puss
Russell?”
“He bought her himself!” cried the astonished Miss Russell. “Why I
thought that all Bostonians were Abolitionists.”
“Then he set her free,” said Miss Carvel, contemptuously, “Judge Whipple
went on her bond to-day.”
“Oh, I'm just crazy to see him now,” said Miss Russell.
“Ask him to your party, Virginia,” she added mischievously.
“Do you think I would have him in my house?” cried Virginia.
Miss Russell was likewise courageous--“I don't see why not. You have
Judge Whipple every Sunday dinner, and he's an Abolitionist.”
Virginia drew herself up.
“Judge Whipple has never insulted me,” she said, with dignity.
Puss gave way to laughter. Whereupon, despite her protests and prayers
for forgiveness, Virginia took to her mare again and galloped off. They
saw her turn northward on the Bellefontaine Road.
Presently the woodland hid from her sight the noble river shining far
below, and Virginia pulled Vixen between the gateposts which marked the
entrance to her aunt's place, Bellegarde. Half a mile through the cool
forest, the black dirt of the driveway flying from Vixen's hoofs, and
there was the Colfax house on the edge of the gentle slope; and beyond
it the orchard, and the blue grapes withering on the vines,--and
beyond that fields and fields of yellow stubble. The silver smoke of
a steamboat hung in wisps above the water. A young negro was busily
washing the broad veranda, but he stopped and straightened at sight of
the young horsewoman.
“Sambo, where's your mistress?”
“Clar t' goodness, Miss Jinny, she was heah leetle while ago.”
“Yo' git atter Miss Lilly, yo' good-fo'-nuthin' niggah,” said Ned,
warmly. “Ain't yo' be'n raised better'n to stan' theh wif yo'mouf open?”
Sambo was taking the hint, when Miss Virginia called him back.
“Where's Mr. Clarence?
“Young Masr? I'll fotch him, Miss Jinny. He jes come home f'um seein'
that thar trottin' hose he's gwine to race nex' week.”
Ned, who had tied Calhoun and was holding his mistress's bridle,
sniffed. He had been Colonel Carvel's jockey in his younger days.
“Shucks!” he said contemptuously. “I hoped to die befo' the day a
gemman'd own er trottah, Jinny. On'y runnin' hosses is fit fo' gemmen.”
“Ned,” said Virginia, “I shall be eighteen in two weeks and a young
lady. On that day you must call me Miss Jinny.”
Ned's face showed both astonishment and inquiry.
“Jinny, ain't I nussed you always? Ain't I come upstairs to quiet you
when yo' mammy ain't had no power ovah yo'? Ain't I cooked fo' yo', and
ain't I followed you everywheres since I quit ridin' yo' pa's bosses to
vict'ry? Ain't I one of de fambly? An' yit yo' ax me to call yo' Miss
Jinny?”
“Then you've had privileges enough,” Virginia answered. “One week from
to-morrow you are to say 'Miss Jinny.'”
“I'se tell you what, Jinny,” he answered mischievously, with an emphasis
on the word, “I'se call you Miss Jinny ef you'll call me Mistah Johnson.
Mistah Johnson. You aint gwinter forget? Mistah Johnson.”
“I'll remember,” she said. “Ned,” she demanded suddenly, “would you like
to be free?”
The negro started.
“Why you ax me dat, Jinny?”
“Mr. Benbow's Hester is free,” she said.
“Who done freed her?”
Miss Virginia flushed. “A detestable young Yankee, who has come out here
to meddle with what doesn't concern him. I wanted Hester, Ned. And you
should have married her, if you behaved yourself.”
Ned laughed uneasily.
“I reckon I'se too ol' fo' Heste'.” And added with privileged impudence,
“There ain't no cause why I can't marry her now.”
Virginia suddenly leaped to the ground without his assistance.
“That's enough, Ned,” she said, and started toward the house.
“Jinny! Miss Jinny!” The call was plaintive.
“Well, what?”
“Miss Jinny, I seed that than young gemman. Lan' sakes, he ain' look
like er Yankee.”
“Ned,” said Virginia, sternly, “do you want to go back to cooking?”
He quailed. “Oh, no'm--Lan' sakes, no'm. I didn't mean nuthin'.”
She turned, frowned, and bit her lip. Around the corner of the veranda
she ran into her cousin. He, too, was booted and spurred. He reached
out, boyishly, to catch her in his arms. But she drew back from his
grasp.
“Why, Jinny,” he cried, “what's the matter?”
“Nothing, Max.” She often called him so, his middle name being Maxwell.
“But you have no right to do that.”
“To do what?” said Clarence, making a face.
“You know,” answered Virginia, curtly. “Where's Aunt Lillian?”
“Why haven't I the right?” he asked, ignoring the inquiry.
“Because you have not, unless I choose. And I don't choose.”
“Are you angry with me still? It wasn't my fault. Uncle Comyn made me
come away. You should have had the girl, Jinny, if it took my fortune.”
“You have been drinking this morning, Max,” said Virginia.
“Only a julep or so,” he replied apologetically. “I rode over to the
race track to see the new trotter. I've called him Halcyon, Jinny,” he
continued, with enthusiasm. “And he'll win the handicap sure.”
She sat down on the veranda steps, with her knees crossed and her chin
resting on her hands. The air was heavy with the perfume of the grapes
and the smell of late flowers from the sunken garden near by. A blue
haze hung over the Illinois shore.
“Max, you promised me you wouldn't drink so much.”
“And I haven't been, Jinny, 'pon my word,” he replied. “But I met old
Sparks at the Tavern, and he started to talk about the horses, and--and
he insisted.”
“And you hadn't the strength of character,” she said, scornfully, “to
refuse.”
“Pshaw, Jinny, a gentleman must be a gentleman. I'm no Yankee.”
For a space Virginia answered nothing. Then she said, without changing
her position:
“If you were, you might be worth something.”
“Virginia!”
She did not reply, but sat gazing toward the water. He began to pace the
veranda, fiercely.
“Look here, Jinny,” he cried, pausing in front of her. “There are some
things you can't say to me, even in jest.”
Virginia rose, flicked her riding-whip, and started down the steps.
“Don't be a fool, Max,” she said.
He followed her, bewildered. She skirted the garden, passed the orchard,
and finally reached a summer house perched on a knoll at the edge of the
wood. Then she seated herself on a bench, silently. He took a place on
the opposite side, with his feet stretched out, dejectedly.
“I'm tired trying to please you,” he said. “I have been a fool. You
don't care that for me. It was all right when I was younger, when there
was no one else to take you riding, and jump off the barn for your
amusement, Miss. Now you have Tom Catherwood and Jack Brinsmade and
the Russell boys running after you, it's different. I reckon I'll go to
Kansas. There are Yankees to shoot in Kansas.”
He did not see her smile as he sat staring at his feet.
“Max,” said she, all at once, “why don't you settle down to something?
Why don't you work?”
Young Mr. Colfax's arm swept around in a circle.
“There are twelve hundred acres to look after here, and a few niggers.
That's enough for a gentleman.”
“Pooh!” exclaimed his cousin, “this isn't a cotton plantation. Aunt
Lillian doesn't farm for money. If she did, you would have to check your
extravagances mighty quick, sir.”
“I look after Pompey's reports, I do as much work as my ancestors,”
answered Clarence, hotly.
“Ah, that is the trouble,” said Virginia.
“What do you mean?” her cousin demanded.
“We have been gentlemen too long,” said Virginia.
The boy straightened up and rose. The pride and wilfulness of
generations was indeed in his handsome face. And something else went
with it. Around the mouth a grave tinge of indulgence.
“What has your life been?” she went on, speaking rapidly. “A mixture of
gamecocks and ponies and race horses and billiards, and idleness at the
Virginia Springs, and fighting with other boys. What do you know? You
wouldn't go to college. You wouldn't study law. You can't write a decent
letter. You don't know anything about the history of your country. What
can you do--?”
“I can ride and fight,” he said. “I can go to New Orleans to-morrow
to join Walker's Nicaragua expedition. We've got to beat the
Yankees,--they'll have Kansas away from us before we know it.”
Virginia's eye flashed appreciation.
“Do you remember, Jinny,” he cried, “one day long ago when those Dutch
ruffians were teasing you and Anne on the road, and Bert Russell and
Jack and I came along? We whipped 'em, Jinny. And my eye was closed.
And you were bathing it here, and one of my buttons was gone. And you
counted the rest.”
“Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,”
she recited, laughing. She crossed over and sat beside him, and her tone
changed. “Max, can't you understand? It isn't that. Max, if you would
only work at something. That is why the Yankees beat us. If you would
learn to weld iron, or to build bridges, or railroads. Or if you would
learn business, and go to work in Pa's store.”
“You do not care for me as I am?”
“I knew that you did not understand,” she answered passionately. “It is
because I care for you that I wish to make you great. You care too much
for a good time, for horses, Max. You love the South, but you think too
little how she is to be saved. If war is to come, we shall want men like
that Captain Robert Lee who was here. A man who can turn the forces of
the earth to his own purposes.”
For a moment Clarence was moodily silent.
“I have always intended to go into politics, after Pa's example,” he
said at length.
“Then--” began Virginia, and paused.
“Then--?” he said.
“Then--you must study law.”
He gave her the one keen look. And she met it, with her lips tightly
pressed together. Then he smiled.
“Virginia, you will never forgive that Yankee, Brice.”
“I shall never forgive any Yankee,” she retorted quickly. “But we are
not talking about him. I am thinking of the South, and of you.”
He stooped toward her face, but she avoided him and went back to the
bench.
“Why not?” he said.
“You must prove first that you are a man,” she said.
For years he remembered the scene. The vineyard, the yellow stubble; and
the river rushing on and on with tranquil power, and the slow panting of
the steamboat. A doe ran out of the forest, and paused, her head raised,
not twenty feet away.
“And then you will marry me, Jinny?” he asked finally.
“Before you may hope to control another, we shall see whether you can
control yourself, sir.”
“But it has all been arranged,” he exclaimed, “since we played here
together years ago!”
“No one shall arrange that for me,” replied Virginia promptly. “And
I should think that you would wish to have some of the credit for
yourself.”
“Jinny!”
Again she avoided him by leaping the low railing. The doe fled into the
forest, whistling fearfully. Virginia waved her hand to him and started
toward the house. At the corner of the porch she ran into her aunt Mrs.
Colfax was a beautiful woman. Beautiful when Addison Colfax married her
in Kentucky at nineteen, beautiful still at three and forty. This, I am
aware, is a bald statement. “Prove it,” you say. “We do not believe it.
It was told you by some old beau who lives upon the memory of the past.”
Ladies, a score of different daguerrotypes of Lillian Colfax are in
existence. And whatever may be said of portraits, daguerrotypes do not
flatter. All the town admitted that she was beautiful. All the town knew
that she was the daughter of old Judge Colfax's overseer at Halcyondale.
If she had not been beautiful, Addison Colfax would not have run away
with her. That is certain. He left her a rich widow at five and twenty,
mistress of the country place he had bought on the Bellefontaine Road,
near St. Louis. And when Mrs. Colfax was not dancing off to the Virginia
watering-places, Bellegarde was a gay house.
“Jinny,” exclaimed her aunt, “how you scared me! What on earth is the
matter?”
“Nothing,” said Virginia
“She refused to kiss me,” put in Clarence, half in play, half in
resentment.
Mrs. Colfax laughed musically. She put one of her white hands on each
of her niece's cheeks, kissed her, and then gazed into her face until
Virginia reddened.
“Law, Jinny, you're quite pretty,” said her aunt
“I hadn't realized it--but you must take care of your complexion. You're
horribly sunburned, and you let your hair blow all over your face. It's
barbarous not to wear a mask when you ride. Your Pa doesn't look after
you properly. I would ask you to stay to the dance to-night if your
skin were only white, instead of red. You're old enough to know better,
Virginia. Mr. Vance was to have driven out for dinner. Have you seen
him, Clarence?”
“No, mother.”
“He is so amusing,” Mrs. Colfax continued, “and he generally brings
candy. I shall die of the blues before supper.” She sat down with a
grand air at the head of the table, while Alfred took the lid from the
silver soup-tureen in front of her. “Jinny, can't you say something
bright? Do I have to listen to Clarence's horse talk for another hour?
Tell me some gossip. Will you have some gumbo soup?”
“Why do you listen to Clarence's horse talk?” said Virginia. “Why don't
you make him go to work!”
“Mercy!” said Mrs. Colfax, laughing, “what could he do?”
“That's just it,” said Virginia. “He hasn't a serious interest in life.”
Clarence looked sullen. And his mother, as usual, took his side.
“What put that into your head, Jinny,” she said. “He has the place here
to look after, a very gentlemanly occupation. That's what they do in
Virginia.”
“Yes,” said Virginia, scornfully, “we're all gentlemen in the South.
What do we know about business and developing the resources of the
country? Not THAT.”
“You make my head ache, my dear,” was her aunt's reply. “Where did you
get all this?”
“You ask me because I am a girl,” said Virginia. “You believe that women
were made to look at, and to play with,--not to think. But if we are
going to get ahead of the Yankees, we shall have to think. It was all
very well to be a gentleman in the days of my great-grandfather. But now
we have railroads and steamboats. And who builds them? The Yankees. We
of the South think of our ancestors, and drift deeper and deeper into
debt. We know how to fight, and we know how to command. But we have
been ruined by--” here she glanced at the retreating form of Alfred, and
lowered her voice, “by niggers.”
Mrs. Colfax's gaze rested languidly on her niece's faces which glowed
with indignation.
“You get this terrible habit of argument from Comyn,” she said. “He
ought to send you to boarding-school. How mean of Mr. Vance not to come!
You've been talking with that old reprobate Whipple. Why does Comyn put
up with him?”
“He isn't an old reprobate,” said Virginia, warmly.
“You really ought to go to school,” said her aunt. “Don't be eccentric.
It isn't fashionable. I suppose you wish Clarence to go into a factory.”
“If I were a man,” said Virginia, “and going into a factory would teach
me how to make a locomotive or a cotton press, or to build a bridge, I
should go into a factory. We shall never beat the Yankees until we meet
them on their own ground.”
“There is Mr. Vance now,” said Mrs. Colfax, and added fervently, “Thank
the Lord!”
CHAPTER IX. A QUIET SUNDAY IN LOCUST STREET
IF the truth were known where Virginia got the opinions which she
expressed so freely to her aunt and cousin, it was from Colonel Carvel
himself. The Colonel would rather have denounced the Dred Scott decision
than admit to Judge Whipple that one of the greatest weaknesses of the
South lay in her lack of mechanical and manufacturing ability. But he
had confessed as much in private to Captain Elijah Brent. The Colonel
would often sit for an hour or more, after supper, with his feet tucked
up on the mantel and his hat on the back of his head, buried in thought.
Then he would saunter slowly down to the Planters' House bar, which
served the purposes of a club in those days, in search of an argument
with other prominent citizens. The Colonel had his own particular chair
in his own particular corner, which was always vacated when he came in
at the door. And then he always had three fingers of the best Bourbon
whiskey, no more and no less, every evening.
He never met his bosom friend and pet antagonist at the Planters'
House bar. Judge Whipple, indeed, took his meals upstairs, but he never
descended,--it was generally supposed because of the strong slavery
atmosphere there. However, the Judge went periodically to his friend's
for a quiet Sunday dinner (so called in derision by St. Louisans), on
which occasions Virginia sat at the end of the table and endeavored to
pour water on the flames when they flared up too fiercely.
The Sunday following her ride to Bellegarde was the Judge's Sunday,
Certain tastes which she had inherited had hitherto provided her with
pleasurable sensations while these battles were in progress. More than
once had she scored a fair hit on the Judge for her father,--to the
mutual delight of both gentlemen. But to-day she dreaded being present
at the argument. Just why she dreaded it is a matter of feminine
psychology best left to the reader for solution.
The argument began, as usual, with the tearing apart limb by limb of the
unfortunate Franklin Pierce, by Judge Whipple.
“What a miserable exhibition in the eyes of the world,” said the
Judge. “Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire” (he pronounced this name with
infinite scorn) “managed by Jefferson Davis of Mississippi!”
“And he was well managed, sir,” said the Colonel.
“What a pliant tool of your Southern slaveholders! I hear that you are
to give him a plantation as a reward.”
“No such thing, sir.”
“He deserves it,” continued the Judge, with conviction. “See the
magnificent forts he permitted Davis to build up in the South, the
arsenals he let him stock. The country does not realize this. But the
day will, come when they will execrate Pierce before Benedict Arnold,
sir. And look at the infamous Kansas-Nebraska act! That is the greatest
crime, and Douglas and Pierce the greatest criminals, of the century.”
“Do have some more of that fried chicken, Judge,” said Virginia.
Mr. Whipple helped himself fiercely, and the Colonel smiled.
“You should be satisfied now,” said he. “Another Northern man is in the
White House.”
“Buchanan!” roared the Judge, with his mouth full.
“Another traitor, sir. Another traitor worse than the first. He swallows
the Dred Scott decision, and smirks. What a blot on the history of this
Republic! O Lord!” cried Mr. Whipple, “what are we coming to? A Northern
man, he could gag and bind Kansas and force her into slavery against the
will of her citizens. He packs his Cabinet to support the ruffians
you send over the borders. The very governors he ships out there, his
henchmen, have their stomachs turned. Look at Walker, whom they are
plotting against in Washington. He can't stand the smell of this
Lecompton Constitution Buchanan is trying to jam down their throats.
Jefferson Davis would have troops there, to be sure that it goes
through, if he had his way. Can't you see how one sin leads to another,
Carvel? How slavery is rapidly demoralizing a free people?”
“It is because you won't let it alone where it belongs, sir,” retorted
the Colonel. It was seldom that he showed any heat in his replies. He
talked slowly, and he had a way of stretching forth his hand to prevent
the more eager Judge from interrupting him.
“The welfare of the whole South, as matters now stand, sir, depends upon
slavery. Our plantations could not exist a day without slave labor. If
you abolished that institution, Judge Whipple, you would ruin millions
of your fellow-countrymen,--you would reduce sovereign states to a
situation of disgraceful dependence. And all, sir,” now he raised his
voice lest the Judge break in, “all, sir, for the sake of a low breed
that ain't fit for freedom. You and I, who have the Magna Charta and
the Declaration of Independence behind us, who are descended from a
race that has done nothing but rule for ten centuries and more, may well
establish a Republic where the basis of stability is the self-control of
the individual--as long as men such as you and I form its citizens. Look
at the South Americans. How do Republics go there? And the minute you
and I let in niggers, who haven't any more self-control than dogs, on
an equal basis, with as much of a vote as you have,--niggers, sir, that
have lived like wild beasts in the depths of the jungle since the days
of Ham,--what's going to become of our Republic?”
“Education,” cried the Judge.
But the word was snatched out of his mouth.
“Education isn't a matter of one generation. No, sir, nor two, nor
three, nor four. But of centuries.”
“Sir,” said the Judge, “I can point out negroes of intelligence and
learning.”
“And I reckon you could teach some monkeys to talk English, and recite
the catechism, and sing emotional hymns, if you brought over a couple of
million from Africa,” answered the Colonel, dryly, as he rose to put on
his hat and light a cigar.
It was his custom to offer a cigar to the Judge, who invariably refused,
and rubbed his nose with scornful violence.
Virginia, on the verge of leaving, stayed on, fascinated by the turn the
argument had taken.
“Your prejudice is hide-bound, sir,” said Mr. Whipple.
“No, Whipple,” said the Colonel, “when God washed off this wicked
earth, and started new, He saw fit to put the sons of Ham in subjection.
They're slaves of each other in Africa, and I reckon they're treated no
better than they are here. Abuses can't be helped in any system, sir,
though we are bettering them. Were the poor in London in the days of the
Edwards as well off as our niggers are to-day?”
The Judge snorted.
“A divine institution!” he shouted. “A black curse! Because the world
has been a wicked place of oppression since Noah's day, is that any
reason why it should so continue until the day of Judgment?”
The Colonel smiled, which was a sign that he was pleased with his
argument.
“Now, see here, Whipple,” said he. “If we had any guarantee that you
would let us alone where we are, to manage our slaves and to cultivate
our plantations, there wouldn't be any trouble. But the country keeps
on growing and growing, and you're not content with half. You want
everything,--all the new states must abolish slavery. And after a while
you will overwhelm us, and ruin us, and make us paupers. Do you wonder
that we contend for our rights, tooth and nail? They are our rights.”
“If it had not been for Virginia and Maryland and the South, this nation
would not be in existence.”
The Colonel laughed.
“First rate, Jinny,” he cried. “That's so.”
But the Judge was in a revery. He probably had not heard her.
“The nation is going to the dogs,” he said, mumbling rather to himself
than to the others. “We shall never prosper until the curse is shaken
off, or wiped out in blood. It clogs our progress. Our merchant marine,
of which we were so proud, has been annihilated by these continued
disturbances. But, sir,” he cried, hammering his fist upon the table
until the glasses rang, “the party that is to save us was born at
Pittsburgh last year on Washington's birthday. The Republican Party,
sir.”
“Shucks!” exclaimed Mr. Carvel, with amusement, “The Black Republican
Party, made up of old fools and young Anarchists, of Dutchmen and
nigger-worshippers. Why, Whipple, that party's a joke. Where's your
leader?”
“In Illinois,” was the quick response.
“What's his name?”
“Abraham Lincoln, sir,” thundered Mr. Whipple. “And to my way of
thinking he has uttered a more significant phrase on the situation than
any of your Washington statesmen. 'This government,' said he to a friend
of mine, 'cannot exist half slave and half free.'”
So impressively did Mr. Whipple pronounce these words that Mr. Carvel
stirred uneasily, and in spite of himself, as though he were listening
to an oracle. He recovered instantly.
“He's a demagogue, seeking for striking phrases, sir. You're too
intelligent a man to be taken in by such as he.”
“I tell you he is not, sir.”
“I know him, sir,” cried the Colonel, taking down his feet. “He's
an obscure lawyer. Poor white trash! Torn down poor! My friend Mr.
Richardson of Springfield tells me he is low down. He was born in a log
cabin, and spends most of his time in a drug-store telling stories that
you would not listen to, Judge Whipple.”
“I would listen to anything he said,” replied the Judge. “Poor white
trash, sir! The greatest men rise from the people. A demagogue!” Mr.
Whipple fairly shook with rage. “The nation doesn't know him yet. But
mark my words, the day will come when it will. He was ballotted for
Vice-President in the Philadelphia convention last year. Nobody paid any
attention to that. If the convention had heard him speak at Bloomington,
he would have been nominated instead of Fremont. If the nation could
have heard him, he would be President to-day instead of that miserable
Buchanan. I happened to be at Bloomington. And while the idiots on the
platform were drivelling, the people kept calling for Lincoln. I had
never heard of him then. I've never forgot him since. He came ambling
out of the back of the hall, a lanky, gawky looking man, ridiculously
ugly, sir. But the moment he opened his mouth he had us spellbound. The
language which your low-down lawyer used was that of a God-sent prophet,
sir. He had those Illinois bumpkins all worked up,--the women crying,
and some of the men, too. And mad! Good Lord, they were mad--'We will
say to the Southern disunionists,' he cried,--'we will say to the
Southern disunionists, we won't go out of the Union, and you shan't.'”
There was a silence when the Judge finished. But presently Mr.
Carvel took a match. And he stood over the Judge in his favorite
attitude,--with his feet apart,--as he lighted another cigar.
“I reckon we're going to have war, Silas,” said he, slowly; “but don't
you think that your Mr. Lincoln scares me into that belief. I don't
count his bluster worth a cent. No sirree! It's this youngster who comes
out here from Boston and buys a nigger with all the money he's got in
the world. And if he's an impetuous young fool; I'm no judge of men.”
“Appleton Brice wasn't precisely impetuous,” remarked Mr. Whipple. And
he smiled a little bitterly, as though the word had stirred a memory.
“I like that young fellow,” Mr. Carvel continued. “It seems to be a kind
of fatality with me to get along with Yankees. I reckon there's a screw
loose somewhere, but Brice acted the man all the way through. He goa
a fall out of you, Silas, in your room, after the show. Where are you
going, Jinny?”
Virginia had risen, and she was standing very erects with a flush on her
face, waiting for her father to finish.
“To see Anne Brinsmade,” she said. “Good-by, Uncle Silas.”
She had called him so from childhood. Hers was the one voice that seemed
to soften him--it never failed. He turned to her now with a movement
that was almost gentle. “Virginia, I should like you to know my young
Yankee,” said he.
“Thank you, Uncle Silas,” said the girl, with dignity, “but I scarcely
think that he would care to know me. He feels so strongly.”
“He feels no stronger than I do,” replied the Judge.
“You have gotten used to me in eighteen years, and besides,” she
flashed, “you never spent all the money you had in the world for a
principle.”
Mr. Whipple smiled as she went out of the door.
“I have spent pretty near all,” he said. But more to himself than to the
Colonel.
That evening, some young people came in to tea, two of the four big
Catherwood boys, Anne Brinsmade and her brother Jack, Puss Russell and
Bert, and Eugenie Renault. But Virginia lost her temper. In an evil
moment Puss Russell started the subject of the young Yankee who had
deprived her of Hester. Puss was ably seconded by Jack Brinsmade, whose
reputation as a tormentor extended far back into his boyhood. In vain;
did Anne, the peacemaker, try to quench him, while the big Catherwoods
and Bert Russell laughed incessantly. No wonder that Virginia was angry.
She would not speak to Puss as that young lady bade her good night. And
the Colonel, coming home from an evening with Mr. Brinsmade, found his
daughter in an armchair, staring into the sitting-room fire. There was
no other light in the room Her chin was in her hand, and her lips were
pursed.
“Heigho!” said the Colonel, “what's the trouble now?”
“Nothing,” said Virginia.
“Come,” he insisted, “what have they been doing to my girl?”
“Pa!”
“Yes, honey.”
“I don't want to go to balls all my life. I want to go to
boarding-school, and learn something. Emily is going to Monticello after
Christmas. Pa, will you let me?”
Mr. Carvel winced. He put an arm around her. He, thought of his lonely
widowerhood, of her whose place Virginia had taken.
“And what shall I do?” he said, trying to smile.
“It will only be for a little while. And Monticello isn't very far, Pa.”
“Well, well, there is plenty of time to think it over between now and
January,” he said. “And now I have a little favor to ask of you, honey.”
“Yes?” she said.
The Colonel took the other armchair, stretched his feet toward the
blaze, and stroked his goatee. He glanced covertly at his daughter's
profile. Twice he cleared hip throat.
“Jinny?”
“Yes, Pa” (without turning her head).
“Jinny, I was going to speak of this young. Brice. He's a stranger here,
and he comes of a good family, and--and I like him.”
“And you wish me to invite him to my party,” finished Virginia.
The Colonel started. “I reckon you guessed it,” he said.
Virginia remained immovable. She did not answer at once. Then she said:
“Do you think, in bidding against me, that he behaved, like a
gentleman?”
The Colonel blundered.
“Lord, Virginia,” he said, “I thought you told the judge this afternoon
teat it was done out of principle.”
Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip
“He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman.
He knew I wanted Hester.”
“What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?” asked
her father, mildly, “He does not know you.”
This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia.
“He overheard our conversation,” she answered.
“I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was
trying to save Hester from Jennings.”
“I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa,” said Virginia,
irrelevantly.
The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh.
“Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?” she asked.
“So you won't have him?” said the Colonel.
“I didn't say that I wouldn't have him,” she answered.
The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat.
“By Gum!” he said. “Women beat me.”
CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE HOUSE
When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's
bond, he merely said, “Tut, tut.”
The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his
breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat,
and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen
and Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great
part of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like
a great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a
time. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate
between age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short,
Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the
end of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into
the private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait
their turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main
office. There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressed
gentleman of middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours after
Shadrach had taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had been
admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of a
big railroad man from the East. The transom let out the true state of
affairs.
“See here, Callender,” the Judge was heard to say, “you fellows don't
like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your
road gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of
my friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait.”
Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, “Money!” roared the Judge,
“take your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case.”
Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this
vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a
defence.
Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar
on his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar.
Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown
meerschaum, and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'.
Often he sang quietly to himself:
“Deutschlands Sohne
Laut ertone
Euer Vaterlandgesang.
Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes,
Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes
Hutern, uns and unser Schwert.”
There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's
voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not
understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes
on his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out
that they were inspired.
The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had
gone out together, the ice was broken.
“You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice,” remarked
Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. “You do not show your feelings. You
are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he would
scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since
then I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice? No?
Then you must come with me, now.”
It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by
the side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled.
But inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and
purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give
Mr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced
to Stephen.
“We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany,” said Richter.
“You were all what?” asked Stephen, interested.
“Strivers, you might call it in English. In the Vaterland those who
seek for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid of
oppression--are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. And
that is why we came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never be
the great lawyer--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once more
to be rid of the black monster that sucks the blood of freedom--vampire.
Is it not so in English?”
Stephen was astonished at this outburst.
“You think it will come to war?”
“I fear,--yes, I fear,” said the German, shaking his head. “We fear. We
are already preparing.”
“Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?”
“A foreigner!” cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes
that died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. “Call me not a
foreigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when
the time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your
ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine
might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is
German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come
with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you
will perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign
swill, but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it.
You must come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the
time when the Union shall have need of us.”
“You are drilling now?” exclaimed Stephen, in still greater
astonishment. The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had
the songs.
“Prosit deine Blume!” answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass
of beer. “You will come to a 'commerce', and see.
“This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may
have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber,”
he added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, “we
Americans are rich.”
As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed
greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not
Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the
young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled
their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to
answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to
his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised
him to buy Whittlesey's “Missouri Form Book,” and warned him of Mr.
Whipple's hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a
fearful hour of judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple
descended out of a clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to
rattle in Stephen's head like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Style
of Pleading this time, without a knowledge of which the Judge declared
with vehemence that a lawyer was not fit to put pen to legal cap.
“Now, sir, the pleadings?” he cried.
“First,” said Stephen, “was the Declaration. The answer to that was the
Plea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder,
then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But they
rarely got that far,” he added unwisely.
“A good principle in Law, sir,” said the Judge, “is not to volunteer
information.”
Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturday
evening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. He
had been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafed
even to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thing
it is with young lawyers to feel that they are of no use in the world.
Besides, the rain continued. This was the fifth day.
His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him
with her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorous
account of his catechism of the morning, but failed.
“I am quite sure that he doesn't like me,” said Stephen.
His mother continued to smile.
“If he did, he would not show it,” she answered.
“I can feel it,” said Stephen, dejectedly.
“The Judge was here this afternoon,” said his mother.
“What?” cried Stephen. “Again this week? They say that he never calls in
the daytime, and rarely in the evening. What did he say?”
“He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,”
answered Mrs. Brice, laughing. “He said that you were too stiff. That
you needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West.
Who were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation
of thirteen states. And Stephen,” she added more earnestly, “I am not
sure but what he is right.”
Then Stephen laughed. And for a long time he sat staring into the fire.
“What else did he say?” he asked, after a while.
“He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply.
Too cheaply, it seems. The house is on this street, next door to Mr.
Brinsmade, to whom it belongs. And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that we
might inspect it to-morrow.”
“But a servant,” objected Stephen, “I suppose that we must have a
servant.”
His mother's voice fell.
“That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day. Old Nancy
does washing. But Hester has no work and she is a burden to Judge
Whipple. Oh, no,” she continued, in response to Stephen's glance, “the
Judge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nester
might come. And I am sure that she would.”
Sunday dawned brightly. After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked down
Olive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, two
large ones with scrolled fronts. Sad memories of Beacon Street filled
them both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other. As
Stephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentleman
came out of the larger house next door. He was past the middle age,
somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coat
and black stock. Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the large
nose that looked like Washington's, and benevolence fairly sparkled in
the blue eyes. He smiled at them as though he had known them always,
and the world seemed brighter that very instant. They smiled in return,
whereupon the gentleman lifted his hat. And the kindliness and the
courtliness of that bow made them very happy. “Did you wish to look at
the house, madam?” he asked “Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Brice.
“Allow me to open it for you,” he said, graciously taking the key from
her. “I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma'am.
I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant.”
He fitted the key in the door, while Stephen and his mother smiled at
each other at the thought of the rent. The gentleman opened the door,
and stood aside to let them enter, very much as if he were showing them
a palace for which he was the humble agent.
They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahogany
and horsehair. And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with a
little porch overlooking the back yard. Mrs. Brice thought of the dark
and stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her married
days: of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colony
had eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since. Thank God, she
had not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the high
sideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it. The widow's eyes
filled with tears. She had not hoped again to have a home for these
things, nor the father's armchair, nor the few family treasures that
were to come over the mountains.
The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way through
the rooms. There were not many of them. At the door of the kitchen he
stopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen's shoulder:-- “Here we may
not enter. This is your department, ma'am,” said he.
Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insisted
upon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurrying
up the street. As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon the
large house next door. But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caught
sight of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief. She flung open
the gate, and stood before him.
“Oh, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried, “mother is dying. You have done so much
for us, sir,--couldn't you come to her for a little while? She thought
if she might see you once more, she would die happy.” The voice was
choked by a sob.
Mr. Brinsmade took the girl's hand in his own, and turned to the lady
with as little haste, with as much politeness, as he had shown before.
“You will excuse me, ma'am,” he said, with his hat in his hand.
The widow had no words to answer him. But she and her son watched him
as he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl's, until they
were out of sight. And then they walked home silently.
Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of the
Brinsmade charity?
CHAPTER XI. THE INVITATION
Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday-best broadcloth was a marvel of
propriety. It seemed to Stephen that his face wore a graver expression
on Sunday when he met him standing on Miss Crane's doorstep, picking
the lint from his coat. Stephen's intention was not to speak. But he
remembered what the Judge had said to his mother, and nodded. Why,
indeed, should he put on airs with this man who had come to St. Louis
unknown and unrecommended and poor, who by sheer industry had made
himself of importance in the large business of Carvel &, Company? As
for Stephen Brice, he was not yet earning his salt, but existing by the
charity of Judge Silas Whipple.
“Howdy, Mr. Brice,” said Mr. Hopper, his glance caught by the
indefinable in Stephen's costume. This would have puzzled Mr. Hopper's
tailor more.
“Very well, thanks.”
“A fine day after the rain.”
Stephen nodded, and Mr. Hopper entered the hours after him.
“Be you asked to Virginia Carvel's party?” he asked abruptly.
“I do not know Miss Carvel,” said Stephen, wondering how well the other
did. And if the truth be told, he was a little annoyed at Mr. Hopper's
free use of her name.
“That shouldn't make no difference,” said Eliphalet with just a shade
of bitterness in his tone. “They keep open house, like all Southerners,”
Mr. Hopper hesitated,--“for such as come well recommended. I 'most
forgot,” said he. “I callate you're not any too well recommended. I
'most forgot that little transaction down to the Court House. They do
say that she wanted that gal almighty bad,--she was most awful cut up
not to get her. Served her right, though. I'm glad you did. Show her she
can't have everything her own way. And say,” he added, with laughter,
“how you did fix that there stuckup Colfax boy! He'll never forgive
you no more than she. But,” said Mr. Hopper, meditatively, “it was a
durned-fool trick.”
I think Stephen's critics will admit that he had a good right to be
angry, and that they will admire him just a little bit because he kept
his temper. But Mr. Hopper evidently thought he had gone too far.
“She ain't got no use for me, neither,” he said.
“She shows poor judgment,” answered Stephen.
“She's not long sighted, that's sure,” replied Eliphalet, with emphasis.
At dinner Stephen was tried still further. And it was then he made the
determination to write for the newspapers in order to pay the rent on
Mr. Brinsmade's house. Miss Carvel's coming-out party was the chief
topic.
“They do say the Colonel is to spend a sight of money on that ball,”
said Mrs. Abner Reed. “I guess it won't bankrupt him.” And she looked
hard at Mr. Hopper.
“I callate he ain't pushed for money,” that gentleman vouchsafed.
“He's a good man, and done well by you, Mr. Hopper.”
“So--so,” answered Eliphalet. “But I will say that I done something for
the Colonel. I've saved him a hundred times my pay since I showed old
Hood the leaks. And I got a thousand dollar order from Wright & Company
this week for him.”
“I dare say you'd keep a tight hand enough on expenses,” said Miss
Crane, half in sarcasm, half in approval.
“If Colonel Carvel was doin' business in New England,” said Eliphalet,
“he'd been bankrupt long ago.”
“That young Clarence Colfax,” Mrs. Abner Reed broke in, “he'll get a
right smart mint o' money when he marries Virginia. They do say her
mother left her independent. How now, Mr. Hopper?”
Eliphalet looked mysterious and knowing. He did not reply.
“And young Colfax ain't precisely a pauper,” said Miss Crane.
“I'll risk a good deal that she don't marry Colfax,” said Mr. Hopper.
“What on earth do you mean?” cried Mrs. Abner. “It ain't broke off?”
“No,” he answered, “it ain't broke off. But I callate she won't have him
when the time comes. She's got too much sense.”
Heavy at heart, Stephen climbed the stairs, thanking heaven that he
had not been drawn into the controversy. A partial comprehension of
Mr. Hopper was dawning upon him. He suspected that gentleman of an
aggressive determination to achieve wealth, and the power which comes
with it, for the purpose of using that power upon those beneath
him. Nay, when he thought over his conversation, he suspected him of
more,--of the intention to marry Virginia Carvel.
It will be seen whether Stephen was right or wrong.
He took a walk that afternoon, as far out as a place called Lindell's
Grove, which afterward became historic. And when he returned to the
house, his mother handed him a little white envelope.
“It came while you were out,” she said.
He turned it over, and stared at his name written across the front in a
feminine hand In those days young ladies did not write in the bold and
masculine manner now deemed proper. Stephen stared at the note, manlike,
and pondered.
“Who brought it, mother?”
“Why don't you open it, and see?” asked his mother with a smile.
He took the suggestion. What a funny formal little note we should think
it now! It was not funny to Stephen--then. He read it, and he read it
again, and finally he walked over to the window, still holding it in his
hand.
Some mothers would have shown their curiosity. Mrs. Brice did not,
wherein she proved herself their superiors in the knowledge of mankind.
Stephen stood for a long while looking out into the gathering dusk. Then
he went over to the fireplace and began tearing the note into little
bits. Only once did he pause, to look again at his name on the envelope.
“It is an invitation to Miss Carvel's party,” he said.
By Thursday of that week the Brices, with thanksgiving in their hearts,
had taken possession of Mr. Brinsmade's little house.
CHAPTER XII. “MISS JINNY”
The years have sped indeed since that gray December when Miss Virginia
Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant
Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site
of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's
thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to
a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among
the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime.
Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he
felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his
dead wife became an angel's face, far--so far away.
He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded
his business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child
came, and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her
sons to the service of the Republic.
Five simple, happy years--then war. A black war of conquest which,
like many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory
beckoned, honor called--or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the
profession of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice
farewell and steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri
regiment. The young wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn
Carvel been selfish?
Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange
sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress.
Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime
service of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master,
the Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.
Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his
chair, while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye
on his master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by
the swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants
itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the
door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains
her to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into
her face.
“Honey,” he said, “I was thinking of your mother.”
Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble
mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and
gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed
a prophecy.
The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head.
“You are not like her, honey,” he said: “You may see for yourself. You
are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she--”
“I know,” said Virginia, “she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy
Manners, who married my great-grandfather.”
“Yes, Jinny,” replied the Colonel, smiling. “That is so. You are
somewhat like your great-grandmother.”
“Somewhat!” cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, “I like
that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need
not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you
took me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember
the picture by, by--”
“Sir Joshua Reynolds.”
“Yes, Sir Joshua.”
“You were only eleven,” says the Colonel.
“She is not a difficult person to remember.”
“No,” said Mr. Carvel, laughing, “especially if you have lived with
her.”
“Not that I wish to be that kind,” said Virginia, meditatively,--“to
take London by storm, and keep a man dangling for years.”
“But he got her in the end,” said the Colonel. “Where did you hear all
this?” he asked.
“Uncle Daniel told me. He has Richard Carvel's diary.”
“And a very honorable record it is,” exclaimed the Colonel. “Jinny,
we shall read it together when we go a-visiting to Culvert House. I
remember the old gentleman as well as if I had seen him yesterday.”
Virginia appeared thoughtful.
“Pa,” she began, “Pa, did you ever see the pearls Dorothy Carvel wore on
her wedding day? What makes you jump like that? Did you ever see them?”
“Well, I reckon I did,” replied the Colonel, gazing at her steadfastly.
“Pa, Uncle Daniel told me that I was to have that necklace when I was
old enough.”
“Law!” said the Colonel, fidgeting, “your Uncle Daniel was just fooling
you.”
“He's a bachelor,” said Virginia; “what use has he got for it?”
“Why,” says the Colonel, “he's a young man yet, your uncle, only
fifty-three. I've known older fools than he to go and do it. Eh, Ned?”
“Yes, marsa. Yes, suh. I've seed 'em at seventy, an' shufflin' about
peart as Marse Clarence's gamecocks. Why, dar was old Marse Ludlow--”
“Now, Mister Johnson,” Virginia put in severely, “no more about old
Ludlow.”
Ned grinned from ear to ear, and in the ecstasy of his delight dropped
the Colonel's clothes-brush. “Lan' sakes!” he cried, “ef she ain't
recommembered.” Recovering his gravity and the brush simultaneously, he
made Virginia a low bow. “Mornin', Miss Jinny. I sholy is gwinter s'lute
you dis day. May de good Lawd make you happy, Miss Jinny, an' give you a
good husban'--”
“Thank you, Mister Johnson, thank you,” said Virginia, blushing.
“How come she recommembered, Marse Comyn? Dat's de quality. Dat's why.
Doan't you talk to Ned 'bout de quality, Marsa.”
“And when did I ever talk to you about the quality, you scalawag?” asks
the Colonel, laughing.
“Th' ain't none 'cept de bes' quality keep they word dat-a-way,” said
Ned, as he went off to tell Uncle Ben in the kitchen.
Was there ever, in all this wide country, a good cook who was not a
tyrant? Uncle Ben Carvel was a veritable emperor in his own domain; and
the Colonel himself, had he desired to enter the kitchen, would have
been obliged to come with humble and submissive spirit. As for Virginia,
she had had since childhood more than one passage at arms with Uncle
Ben. And the question of who had come off victorious had been the
subject of many a debate below stairs.
There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted
the sanctity of his territory to be violated. One was the seventh of
December. On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair
beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty
years). There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an
undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other
young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped. But
woe to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect!
Woe to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold
from the hall beyond! Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was
wont to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute
contempt for Ben's commands.
“So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?” Virginia would say mischievously.
“Order me out! Hugh! think I'se skeered o' him, honey? Reckon I'd frail
'em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands. Jes' let him try
to come upstairs once, honey, an' see what I say to 'm.”
Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered
Mammy Easter out, and she had gone. And now, as she was working the beat
biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben's eye rested on her with
suspicion.
What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which
were prepared in Uncle's kitchen that morning? No need in those days of
cooking schools. What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook
from the cradle? Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia's scorn for
pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches
of spices and flavors which she used. And he did Miss Eugenie the honor
to eat one of her praleens.
That night came Captain Lige Brent, the figure of an eager and
determined man swinging up the street, and pulling out his watch under
every lamp-post. And in his haste, in the darkness of a midblock, he
ran into another solid body clad in high boots and an old army overcoat,
beside a wood wagon.
“Howdy, Captain,” said he of the high boots.
“Well, I just thought as much,” was the energetic reply; “minute I seen
the rig I knew Captain Grant was behind it.”
He held out a big hand, which Captain Grant clasped, just looking at
his own with a smile. The stranger was Captain Elijah Brent of the
'Louisiana'.
“Now,” said Brent, “I'll just bet a full cargo that you're off to the
Planters' House, and smoke an El Sol with the boys.”
Mr. Grant nodded. “You're keen, Captain,” said he.
“I've got something here that'll outlast an El Sol a whole day,”
continued Captain Breast, tugging at his pocket and pulling out a
six-inch cigar as black as the night. “Just you try that.”
The Captain instantly struck a match on his boot and was puffing in a
silent enjoyment which delighted his friend.
“Reckon he don't bring out cigars when you make him a call,” said the
steamboat captain, jerking his thumb up at the house. It was Mr. Jacob
Cluyme's.
Captain Grant did not reply to that, nor did Captain Lige expect him to,
as it was the custom of this strange and silent man to speak ill of no
one. He turned rather to put the stakes back into his wagon.
“Where are you off to, Lige?” he asked.
“Lord bless my soul,” said Captain Lige, “to think that I could forget!”
He tucked a bundle tighter under his arm. “Grant, did you ever see my
little sweetheart, Jinny Carvel?” The Captain sighed. “She ain't little
any more, and she eighteen to-day.”
Captain Grant clapped his hand to his forehead.
“Say, Lige,” said he, “that reminds me. A month or so ago I pulled a
fellow out of Renault's area across from there. First I thought he was
a thief. After he got away I saw the Colonel and his daughter in the
window.”
Instantly Captain Lige became excited, and seized Captain Grant by the
cape of his overcoat.
“Say, Grant, what kind of appearing fellow was he?”
“Short, thick-set, blocky face.”
“I reckon I know,” said Breast, bringing down his fist on the wagon
board; “I've had my eye on him for some little time.”
He walked around the block twice after Captain Grant had driven down the
muddy street, before he composed himself to enter the Carvel mansion. He
paid no attention to the salutations of Jackson, the butler, who saw him
coming and opened the door, but climbed the stairs to the sitting-room.
“Why, Captain Lige, you must have put wings on the Louisiana,” said
Virginia, rising joyfully from the arm of her father's chair to meet
him. “We had given you up.”
“What?” cried the Captain. “Give me up? Don't you know better than that?
What, give me up when I never missed a birthday,--and this the best of
all of 'em.
“If your pa had got sight of me shovin' in wood and cussin' the pilot
for slowin' at the crossin's, he'd never let you ride in my boat again.
Bill Jenks said: 'Are you plum crazy, Brent? Look at them cressets.'
'Five dollars' says I; 'wouldn't go in for five hundred. To-morrow's
Jinny Carvel's birthday, and I've just got to be there.' I reckon the
time's come when I've got to say Miss Jinny,” he added ruefully.
The Colonel rose, laughing, and hit the Captain on the back.
“Drat you, Lige, why don't you kiss the girl? Can't you see she's
waiting?”
The honest Captain stole one glance at Virginia, and turned red copper
color.
“Shucks, Colonel, I can't be kissing her always. What'll her husband
say?”
For an instant Mr. Carvel's brow clouded.
“We'll not talk of husbands yet awhile, Lige.”
Virginia went up to Captain Lige, deftly twisted into shape his black
tie, and kissed him on the check. How his face burned when she touched
him.
“There!” said she, “and don't you ever dare to treat me as a young lady.
Why, Pa, he's blushing like a girl. I know. He's ashamed to kiss me now.
He's going to be married at last to that Creole girl in New Orleans.”
The Colonel slapped his knee, winked slyly at Lige, while Virginia began
to sing:
“I built me a house on the mountain so high,
To gaze at my true love as she do go by.”
“There's only one I'd ever marry, Jinny,” protested the Captain,
soberly, “and I'm a heap too old for her. But I've seen a youngster
that might mate with her, Colonel,” he added mischievously. “If he just
wasn't a Yankee. Jinny, what's the story I hear about Judge Whipple's
young man buying Hester?”
Mr. Carvel looked uneasy. It was Virginia's turn to blush, and she grew
red as a peony.
“He's a tall, hateful, Black Republican Yankee!” she said.
“Phee-ew!” whistled the Captain. “Any more epithets?”
“He's a nasty Abolitionist!”
“There you do him wrong, honey,” the Colonel put in.
“I hear he took Hester to Miss Crane's,” the Captain continued, filling
the room with his hearty laughter. “That boy has sand enough, Jinny; I'd
like to know him.”
“You'll have that priceless opportunity to-night,” retorted Miss
Virginia, as she flung herself out of the room. “Pa has made me invite
him to my party.”
“Here, Jinny! Hold on!” cried the Captain, running after her. “I've got
something for you.”
She stopped on the stairs, hesitating. Whereupon the Captain hastily
ripped open the bundle under his arm and produced a very handsome India
shawl. With a cry of delight Virginia threw it over her shoulders and
ran to the long glass between the high windows.
“Who spoils her, Lige?” asked the Colonel, fondly.
“Her father, I reckon,” was the prompt reply.
“Who spoils you, Jinny?”
“Captain Lige,” said she, turning to him. “If you had only kept the
presents you have brought me from New Orleans, you might sell out your
steamboat and be a rich man.”
“He is a rich man,” said the Colonel, promptly. “Did you ever miss
bringing her a present, Lige?” he asked.
“When the Cora Anderson burnt,” answered the Captain.
“Why,” cried Virginia, “you brought me a piece of her wheel, with the
char on it. You swam ashore with it.”
“So I did,” said Captain Brent. “I had forgotten that. It was when the
French dress, with the furbelows, which Madame Pitou had gotten me from
Paris for you, was lost.”
“And I think I liked the piece of wheel better,” says Virginia. “It was
brought me by a brave man, the last to leave his boat.”
“And who should be the last to leave, but the captain? I saw the thing
in the water; and I just thought we ought to have a relic.”
“Lige,” said the Colonel, putting up his feet, “do you remember the
French toys you used to bring up here from New Orleans?”
“Colonel,” replied Brent, “do you recall the rough and uncouth young
citizen who came over here from Cincinnati, as clerk on the Vicksburg?”
“I remember, sir, that he was so promising that they made him
provisional captain the next trip, and he was not yet twenty-four years
of age.”
“And do you remember buying the Vicksburg at the sheriff's sale for
twenty thousand dollars, and handing her over to young Brent, and
saying, 'There, my son, she's your boat, and you can pay for her when
you like'?”
“Shucks, Brent!” said Mr. Carvel, sternly, “your memory's too good. But
I proved myself a good business man, Jinny; he paid for her in a year.”
“You don't mean that you made him pay you for the boat?” cried Jinny.
“Why, Pa, I didn't think you were that mean!”
The two men laughed heartily.
“I was a heap meaner,” said her father. “I made him pay interest.”
Virginia drew in her breath, and looked at the Colonel in amazement.
“He's the meanest man I know,” said Captain Lige. “He made me pay
interest, and a mint julep.”
“Upon my word, Pa,” said Miss Virginia, soberly, “I shouldn't have
believed it of you.”
Just then Jackson, in his white jacket; came to announce that supper was
ready, and they met Ned at the dining-room door, fairly staggering under
a load of roses.
“Marse Clarence done send 'em in, des picked out'n de hothouse dis
afternoon, Miss Jinny. Jackson, fotch a bowl!”
“No,” said Virginia. She took the flowers from Ned, one by one, and to
the wonderment of Captain Lige and her--father strewed them hither and
thither upon the table until the white cloth was hid by the red flowers.
The Colonel stroked his goatee and nudged Captain Lige.
“Look-a-there, now,” said he. “Any other woman would have spent two
mortal hours stickin' 'em in china.”
Virginia, having critically surveyed her work, amid exclamations from
Ned and Jackson, had gone around to her place. And there upon her plate
lay a pearl necklace. For an instant she clapped her palms together,
staring at it in bewilderment. And once more the little childish cry of
delight, long sweet to the Colonel's ears, escaped her.
“Pa,” she said, “is it--?” And there she stopped, for fear that it might
not be. But he nodded encouragingly.
“Dorothy Carvel's necklace! No, it can't be.”
“Yes, honey,” said the Colonel. “Your Uncle Daniel sent it, as he
promised. And when you go upstairs, if Easter has done as I told her,
you will see a primrose dress with blue coin-flowers on your bed. Daniel
thought you might like that, too, for a keepsake. Dorothy Manners wore
it in London, when she was a girl.”
And so Virginia ran and threw her arms about her father's neck, and
kissed him again and again. And lest the Captain feel badly, she laid
his India shawl beside her; and the necklace upon it.
What a joyful supper they had,--just the three of them! And as the fresh
roses filled the room with fragrance, Virginia filled it with youth and
spirits, and Mr. Carvel and the Captain with honest, manly merriment.
And Jackson plied Captain Brent (who was a prime favorite in that house)
with broiled chicken and hot beat biscuits and with waffles, until at
length he lay back in his chair and heaved a sigh of content, lighting a
cigar. And then Virginia, with a little curtsey to both of them, ran off
to dress for the party.
“Well,” said Captain Brent, “I reckon there'll be gay goings-on here
to-night. I wouldn't miss the sight of 'em, Colonel, for all the cargoes
on the Mississippi. Ain't there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you, Lige,” Mr. Carvel answered. “Do you remember, one
morning some five years ago, when I took in at the store a Yankee named
Hopper? You didn't like him, I believe.”
Captain Brent jumped, and the ashes of his cigar fell on his coat. He
had forgotten his conversation with Captain Grant.
“I reckon I do,” he said dryly.
For a moment he was on the point of telling the affair. Then he
desisted. He could not be sure of Eliphalet from Grant's description. So
he decided to await a better time. Captain Brent was one to make sure of
his channel before going ahead.
“Well,” continued the Colonel, “I have been rather pushed the last week,
and Hopper managed things for this dance. He got the music, and saw the
confectioner. But he made such a close bargain with both of 'em that
they came around to me afterward,” he added, laughing.
“Is he coming here to-night?” demanded the Captain, looking disgusted.
“Lige,” replied the Colonel, “you never do get over a prejudice. Yes,
he's coming, just to oversee things. He seems to have mighty little
pleasure, and he's got the best business head I ever did see. A Yankee,”
said Mr. Carvel, meditatively, as he put on his hat, “a Yankee, when he
will work, works like all possessed. Hood don't like him any more than
you do, but he allows Hopper is a natural-born business man. Last month
Samuels got tight, and Wright & Company were going to place the largest
order in years. I called in Hood. 'Go yourself, Colonel,' says he. I I'm
too old to solicit business, Hood,' said I. 'Then there's only one man
to send,' says he, 'young Hopper. He'll get the order, or I'll give up
this place I've had for twenty years.' Hopper 'callated' to get it, and
another small one pitched in. And you'd die laughing, Lige, to hear how
he did it.”
“Some slickness, I'll gamble,” grunted Captain Lige.
“Well, I reckon 'twas slick,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully. “You know
old man Wright hates a solicitor like poison. He has his notions. And
maybe you've noticed signs stuck up all over his store, 'No Solicitors
nor Travelling Men Allowed Here'.”
The Captain nodded.
“But Hopper--Hopper walks in, sir, bold as you please, right past the
signs till he comes to the old man's cage. 'I want to see Mr. Wright,'
says he to the clerk. And the clerk begins to grin. 'Name, please,' says
he. Mr. Hopper whips out his business card. 'What!' shouts old Wright,
flying 'round in his chair, 'what the devil does this mean? Can't you
read, sir?' 'callate to,' says Mr. Hopper. 'And you dare to come in
here?
“'Business is business,' says Hopper. 'You “callate”!' bellowed the
old man; 'I reckon you're a damned Yankee. I reckon I'll upset your
“callations” for once. And if I catch you in here again, I'll wring your
neck like a roostah's. Git!'”
“Who told you this?” asked Captain Brent.
“Wright himself,--afterward,” replied Mr. Carvel, laughing. “But listen,
Lige. The old man lives at the Planters' House, you know. What does Mr.
Hopper do but go 'round there that very night and give a nigger two bits
to put him at the old man's table. When Wright comes and sees him, he
nearly has one of his apoplectic fits. But in marches Hopper the next
morning with twice the order. The good Lord knows how he did it.”
There was a silence. Then the door-bell rang.
“He's dangerous,” said the Captain, emphatically. “That's what I call
him.”
“The Yankees are changing business in this town,” was the Colonel's
answer. “We've got to keep the pace, Lige.”
CHAPTER XIII. THE PARTY
To gentle Miss Anne Brinsmade, to Puss Russell of the mischievous eyes,
and even to timid Eugenie Renault, the question that burned was: Would
he come, or would he not? And, secondarily, how would Virginia treat him
if he came? Put our friend Stephen for the subjective, and Miss Carvers
party for the objective in the above, and we have the clew. For very
young girls are given to making much out of a very little in such
matters. If Virginia had not gotten angry when she had been teased a
fortnight before, all would have been well.
Even Puss, who walked where angels feared to tread, did not dare to go
too far with Virginia. She had taken care before the day of the party to
beg forgiveness with considerable humility. It had been granted with a
queenly generosity. And after that none of the bevy had dared to broach
the subject to Virginia. Jack Brinsmade had. He told Puss afterward that
when Virginia got through with him, he felt as if he had taken a rapid
trip through the wheel-house of a large steamer. Puss tried, by
various ingenious devices, to learn whether Mr. Brice had accepted his
invitation. She failed.
These things added a zest to a party long looked forward to amongst
Virginia's intimates. In those days young ladies did not “come out” so
frankly as they do now. Mothers did not announce to the world that they
possessed marriageable daughters. The world was supposed to know
that. And then the matrimonial market was feverishly active. Young
men proposed as naturally as they now ask a young girl to go for a
walk,--and were refused quite as naturally. An offer of marriage was not
the fearful and wonderful thing--to be dealt with gingerly--which it has
since become. Seventeen was often the age at which they began. And one
of the big Catherwood boys had a habit of laying his heart and hand at
Virginia's feet once a month. Nor did his vanity suffer greatly when she
laughed at him.
It was with a flutter of excitement, therefore, that Miss Carvel's
guests flitted past Jackson, who held the door open obsequiously. The
boldest of them took a rapid survey of the big parlor, before they put
foot on the stairs to see whether Mr. Brice had yet arrived. And if
their curiosity held them too long, they were usually kissed by the
Colonel.
Mr. Carvel shook hands heartily with the young mean and called them by
their first names, for he knew most of their fathers and grandfathers.
And if an older gentleman arrived, perhaps the two might be seen going
down the hall together, arm in arm. So came his beloved enemy, Judge
Whipple, who did not make an excursion to the rear regions of the house
with the Colonel; but they stood and discussed Mr. President Buchanan's
responsibility for the recent panic, until the band, which Mr. Hopper
had stationed under the stairs, drowned their voices.
As we enter the room, there stands Virginia under the rainbowed prisms
of the great chandelier, receiving. But here was suddenly a woman of
twenty-eight, where only this evening we knew a slip of a girl. It was
a trick she had, to become majestic in a ball-gown. She held her head
high, as a woman should, and at her slender throat glowed the pearls of
Dorothy Manners.
The result of all this was to strike a little awe into the souls of many
of her playmates. Little Eugenie nearly dropped a curtsey. Belle Cluyme
was so impressed that she forgot for a whole hour to be spiteful. But
Puss Russell kissed her on both cheeks, and asked her if she really
wasn't nervous.
“Nervous!” exclaimed Jinny, “why?”
Miss Russell glanced significantly towards the doorway. But she said
nothing to her hostess, for fear of marring an otherwise happy occasion.
She retired with Jack Brim made to a corner, where she recited:--
“Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the East;
Of millions of Yankees I love him the least.”
“What a joke if he should come!” cried Jack.
Miss Russell gasped.
Just as Mr. Clarence Colfax, resplendent in new evening clothes just
arrived from New York, was pressing his claim for the first dance with
his cousin in opposition to numerous other claims, the chatter of the
guests died away. Virginia turned her head, and for an instant the
pearls trembled on her neck. There was a young man cordially and
unconcernedly shaking hands with her father and Captain Lige. Her memory
of that moment is, strangely, not of his face (she did not deign to
look at that), but of the muscle of his shoulder half revealed as he
stretched forth his arm.
Young Mr. Colfax bent over to her ear.
“Virginia,” he whispered earnestly, almost fiercely, “Virginia, who
invited him here?”
“I did,” said Virginia, calmly, “of course. Who invites any one here?”
“But!” cried Clarence, “do you know who he is?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I know. And is that any reason why he should not
come here as a guest? Would you bar any gentleman from your house on
account of his convictions?”
Ah, Virginia, who had thought to hear that argument from your lips? What
would frank Captain Lige say of the consistency of women, if he heard
you now? And how give an account of yourself to Anne Brinsmade? What
contrariness has set you so intense against your own argument?
Before one can answer this, before Mr. Clarence can recover from his
astonishment and remind her of her vehement words on the subject at
Bellegarde, Mr. Stephen is making thither with the air of one who
conquers. Again the natural contrariness of women. What bare-faced
impudence! Has he no shame that he should hold his head so high?
She feels her color mounting, even as her resentment rises at his
self-possession, and yet she would have despised him had he shown
self-consciousness in gait or manner in the sight of her assembled
guests. Nearly as tall as the Colonel himself, he is plainly seen, and
Miss Puss in her corner does not have to stand on tiptoe. Mr. Carvel
does the honors of the introduction.
But a daughter of the Carvels was not to fail before such a paltry
situation as this. Shall it be confessed that curiosity stepped into the
breach? As she gave him her hand she was wondering how he would act.
As a matter of fact he acted detestably. He said nothing whatever, but
stood regarding her with a clear eye and a face by far too severe.
The thought that he was meditating on the incident of the auction sale
crossed through her mind, and made her blood simmer. How dared he behave
so! The occasion called for a little small talk. An evil spirit took
possession of Virginia. She turned.
“Mr. Brice, do you know my cousin, Mr. Colfax?” she said.
Mr. Brice bowed. “I know Mr. Colfax by sight,” he replied.
Then Mr. Colfax made a stiff bow. To this new phase his sense of humor
did not rise. Mr. Brice was a Yankee and no gentleman, inasmuch as he
had overbid a lady for Hester.
“Have you come here to live, Mr. Brice?” he asked.
The Colonel eyed his nephew sharply. But Stephen smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “if I can presently make enough to keep me alive.” Then
turning to Virginia, he said, “Will you dance, Miss Carvel?”
The effrontery of this demand quite drew the breath from the impatient
young gentlemen who had been waiting their turn. Several of them spoke
up in remonstrance. And for the moment (let one confess it who knows),
Virginia was almost tempted to lay her arm in his. Then she made a bow
that would have been quite as effective the length of the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Brice,” she said, “but I am engaged to Mr. Colfax.”
Abstractedly he watched her glide away in her cousin's arms. Stephen had
a way of being preoccupied at such times. When he grew older he
would walk the length of Olive Street, look into face after face
of acquaintances, not a quiver of recognition in his eyes. But most
probably the next week he would win a brilliant case in the Supreme
Court. And so now, indifferent to the amusement of some about him, he
stood staring after Virginia and Clarence. Where had he seen Colfax's
face before he came West? Ah, he knew. Many, many years before he
had stood with his father in the mellow light of the long gallery at
Hollingdean, Kent, before a portrait of the Stuarts' time. The face was
that of one of Lord Northwell's ancestors, a sporting nobleman of the
time of the second Charles. It was a head which compelled one to pause
before it. Strangely enough,--it was the head likewise of Clarence
Colfax.
The image of it Stephen had carried undimmed in the eye of his memory.
White-haired Northwell's story, also. It was not a story that Mr. Brice
had expected his small son to grasp. As a matter of fact Stephen had not
grasped it then--but years afterward. It was not a pleasant story,--and
yet there was much of credit in it to the young rake its subject,--of
dash and courage and princely generosity beside the profligacy and
incontinence.
The face had impressed him, with its story. He had often dreamed of it,
and of the lace collar over the dull-gold velvet that became it so well.
And here it was at last, in a city west of the Mississippi River. Here
were the same delicately chiselled features, with their pallor, and
satiety engraved there at one and twenty. Here was the same lazy scorn
in the eyes, and the look which sleeplessness gives to the lids: the
hair, straight and fine and black; the wilful indulgence--not of one
life, but of generations--about the mouth; the pointed chin. And yet it
was a fact to dare anything, and to do anything.
One thing more ere we have done with that which no man may explain. Had
he dreamed, too, of the girl? Of Virginia? Stephen might not tell, but
thrice had the Colonel spoken to him before he answered.
“You must meet some of these young ladies, sir.”
It was little wonder that Puss Russell thought him dull on that first
occasion. Out of whom condescension is to flow is a matter of which
Heaven takes no cognizance. To use her own words, Puss thought him
“stuck up,” when he should have been grateful. We know that Stephen
was not stuck up, and later Miss Russell learned that likewise. Very
naturally she took preoccupation for indifference. It is a matter worth
recording, however, that she did not tease him, because she did not
dare. He did not ask her to dance, which was rude. So she passed him
back to Mr. Carvel, who introduced him to Miss Renault and Miss Saint
Cyr, and other young ladies of the best French families. And finally,
drifting hither and thither with his eyes on Virginia, in an evil moment
he was presented to Mrs. Colfax. Perhaps it has been guessed that Mrs.
Colfax was a very great lady indeed, albeit the daughter of an overseer.
She bore Addison Colfax's name, spent his fortune, and retained her good
looks. On this particular occasion she was enjoying herself quite as
much as any young girl in the room, and, while resting from a waltz, was
regaling a number of gentlemen with a humorous account of a scandal at
the Virginia Spring's.
None but a great lady could have meted out the punishment administered
to poor Stephen. None but a great lady could have concerned it. And he,
who had never been snubbed before, fell headlong into her trap. How
was the boy to know that there was no heart in the smile with which she
greeted him? It was all over in an instant. She continued to talk about
Virginia Springs, “Oh, Mr. Brice, of course you have been there. Of
course you know the Edmunds. No? You haven't been there? You don't know
the Edmunds? I thought every body had been there. Charles, you look
as if you were just dying to waltz. Let's have a turn before the music
stops.”
And so she whirled away, leaving Stephen forlorn, a little too angry to
be amused just then. In that state he spied a gentleman coming towards
him--a gentleman the sight of whom he soon came to associate with all
that is good and kindly in this world, Mr. Brinsmade. And now he put his
hand on Stephen's shoulder. Whether he had seen the incident just past,
who can tell?
“My son,” said he, “I am delighted to see you here. Now that we are such
near neighbors, we must be nearer friends. You must know my wife, and my
son Jack, and my daughter Anne.”
Mrs. Brinsmade was a pleasant little body, but plainly not a fit mate
for her husband. Jack gave Stephen a warm grasp of the hand, and
an amused look. As for Anne, she was more like her father; she was
Stephen's friend from that hour.
“I have seen you quite often, going in at your gate, Mr. Brice. And
I have seen your mother, too. I like her,” said Anne. “She has such a
wonderful face.” And the girl raised her truthful blue eyes to his.
“My mother would be delighted to know you,” he ventured, not knowing
what else to say. It was an effort for him to reflect upon their new
situation as poor tenants to a wealthy family.
“Oh, do you think so?” cried Anne. “I shall call on her to-morrow, with
mother. Do you know, Mr. Brice,” she continued, “do you know that your
mother is just the person I should go to if I were in trouble, whether I
knew her or not?”
“I have found her a good person in trouble,” said Stephen, simply. He
might have said the same of Anne.
Anne was enchanted. She had thought him cold, but these words belied
that. She had wrapped him in that diaphanous substance with which young
ladies (and sometimes older ones) are wont to deck their heroes. She had
approached a mystery--to find it human, as are many mysteries. But thank
heaven that she found a dignity, a seriousness,--and these more than
satisfied her. Likewise, she discovered something she had not looked
for, an occasional way of saying things that made her laugh. She danced
with him, and passed him back to Miss Puss Russell, who was better
pleased this time; she passed him on to her sister, who also danced with
him, and sent him upstairs for her handkerchief.
Nevertheless, Stephen was troubled. As the evening wore on, he was more
and more aware of an uncompromising attitude in his young hostess, whom
he had seen whispering to various young ladies from behind her fan as
they passed her. He had not felt equal to asking her to dance a second
time. Honest Captain Lige Breast, who seemed to have taken a fancy to
him, bandied him on his lack of courage with humor that was a little
rough. And, to Stephen's amazement, even Judge Whipple had pricked him
on.
It was on his way upstairs after Emily Russell's handkerchief that
he ran across another acquaintance. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in Sunday
broadcloth, was seated on the landing, his head lowered to the level of
the top of the high door of the parlor. Stephen caught a glimpse of the
picture whereon his eyes were fixed. Perhaps it is needless to add that
Miss Virginia Carvel formed the central figure of it.
“Enjoy in' yourself?” asked Mr. Hopper.
Stephen countered.
“Are you?” he asked.
“So so,” said Mr. Hopper, and added darkly: “I ain't in no hurry. Just
now they callate I'm about good enough to manage the business end of
an affair like this here. I guess I can wait. But some day,” said he,
suddenly barring Stephen's way, “some day I'll give a party. And hark to
me when I tell you that these here aristocrats 'll be glad enough to get
invitations.”
Stephen pushed past coldly. This time the man made him shiver. The
incident was all that was needed to dishearten and disgust him. Kindly
as he had been treated by others, far back in his soul was a thing that
rankled. Shall it be told crudely why he went that night? Stephen
Brice, who would not lie to others, lied to himself. And when he came
downstairs again and presented Miss Emily with her handkerchief,
his next move was in his mind. And that was to say good-night to the
Colonel, and more frigidly to Miss Carvel herself. But music has upset
many a man's calculations.
The strains of the Jenny Lind waltz were beginning to float through the
rooms. There was Miss Virginia in a corner of the big parlor, for the
moment alone with her cousin. And thither Stephen sternly strode. Not a
sign did she give of being aware of his presence until he stood before
her. Even then she did not lift her eyes. But she said: “So you have
come at last to try again, Mr. Brice?”
And Mr. Brice said: “If you will do me the honor, Miss Carvel.”
She did not reply at once. Clarence Colfax got to his feet. Then she
looked up at the two men as they stood side by side, and perhaps swept
them both in an instant's comparison.
The New Englander's face must have reminded her more of her own father,
Colonel Carvel. It possessed, from generations known, the power to
control itself. She afterwards admitted that she accepted him to tease
Clarence. Miss Russell, whose intuitions are usually correct, does not
believe this.
“I will dance with you,” said Virginia.
But, once in his arms, she seemed like a wild thing, resisting. Although
her gown brushed his coat, the space between them was infinite, and her
hand lay limp in his, unresponsive of his own pressure. Not so her feet;
they caught the step and moved with the rhythm of the music, and round
the room they swung. More than one pair paused in the dance to watch
them. Then, as they glided past the door, Stephen was disagreeably
conscious of some one gazing down from above, and he recalled Eliphalet
Hopper and his position. The sneer from Eliphalet's seemed to penetrate
like a chilly draught.
All at once, Virginia felt her partner gathering up his strength, and
by some compelling force, more of wild than of muscle, draw her nearer.
Unwillingly her hand tightened under his, and her blood beat faster
and her color came and went as they two moved as one. Anger--helpless
anger--took possession of her as she saw the smiles on the faces of her
friends, and Puss Russell mockingly throwing a kiss as she passed her.
And then, strange in the telling, a thrill as of power rose within her
which she strove against in vain. A knowledge of him who guided her so
swiftly, so unerringly, which she had felt with no other man. Faster and
faster they stepped, each forgetful of self and place, until the waltz
came suddenly to a stop.
“By gum!” said Captain Lige to Judge Whipple, “you can whollop me on my
own forecastle if they ain't the handsomest couple I ever did see.”
BOOK II.
Volume 3.
CHAPTER I. RAW MATERIAL
Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last. The families of
its richest citizens had fled. Even at that early day some braved the
long railroad journey to the Atlantic coast. Amongst these were our
friends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history. Some went
to the Virginia Springs. But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells,
the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, retired to the local paradise of
their country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights
above the river. Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was
often invited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his
own buggy. Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell. But Miss Virginia
Carvel he had never seen since the night he had danced with her.
This was because, after her return from the young ladies' school at
Monticello, she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched high
on wooded highlands. And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran
lightly on sand and pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the
Father of Waters.
To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which
(it was fondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean. You
generally spied one of the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their
tall sister Maude. The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the
summer. And on some Saturday afternoons a grim figure in a linen duster
and a silk skull-cap took a seat in the forward car. That was Judge
Whipple, on his way to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel.
To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formed
another habit. At least once a week he would drop in at the little house
on Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade's big one, which was shut up, and
take tea with Mrs. Brice. Afterward he would sit on the little porch
over the garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and watch the
bob-tailed horse-cars go by. His conversation was chiefly addressed to
the widow. Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer
had in no wise abated.
Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outer
office, straining at the law. Had it not been for the fact that Mr.
Whipple went to his mother's house, despair would have seized him long
since. Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only by
Mr. Richter. Truly the Judge's methods were not Harvard methods. And if
there were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew the
cure for it.
It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days. He
would often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with the
quiet German. Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a
red letter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself. Stephen's
eyes were opened. Richter took him across the Rhine. The Rhine was
Market Street, and south of that street was a country of which polite
American society took no cognizance.
Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great sod
uprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity in
the warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley. Here lager beer took the
place of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and fried
chicken. Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of wide
streets; Lutheran churches, square and uncompromising, and bulky Turner
Halls, where German children were taught the German tongue. Here, in a
shady grove of mulberry and locust, two hundred families were spread out
at their ease.
For a while Richter sat in silence, puffing at a meerschaum with a huge
brown bowl. A trick of the mind opened for Stephen one of the histories
in his father's library in Beacon Street, across the pages of which had
flitted the ancestors of this blue-eyed and great-chested Saxon. He saw
them in cathedral forests, with the red hair long upon their bodies.
He saw terrifying battles with the Roman Empire surging back and forth
through the low countries. He saw a lad of twenty at the head of rugged
legions clad in wild skins, sweeping Rome out of Gaul. Back in the dim
ages Richter's fathers must have defended grim Eresburg. And it seemed
to him that in the end the new Republic must profit by this rugged
stock, which had good women for wives and mothers, and for fathers men
in whose blood dwelt a fierce patriotism and contempt for cowardice.
This fancy of ancestry pleased Stephen. He thought of the forefathers of
those whom he knew, who dwelt north of Market Street. Many, though this
generation of the French might know it not, had bled at Calais and at
Agincourt, had followed the court of France in clumsy coaches to Blois
and Amboise, or lived in hovels under the castle walls. Others had
charged after the Black Prince at Poitiers, and fought as serf or noble.
in the war of the Roses; had been hatters or tailors in Cromwell's
armies, or else had sacrificed lands and fortunes for Charles Stuart.
These English had toiled, slow but resistless, over the misty Blue
Ridge after Boone and Harrod to this old St. Louis of the French, their
enemies, whose fur traders and missionaries had long followed the veins
of the vast western wilderness. And now, on to the structure builded by
these two, comes Germany to be welded, to strengthen or to weaken.
Richter put down his pipe on the table.
“Stephen,” he said suddenly, “you do not share the prejudice against us
here?”
Stephen flushed. He thought of some vigorous words that Miss Puss
Russell had used on the subject of the Dutch.
“No,” said he, emphatically.
“I am glad,” answered Richter, with a note of sadness, in his voice.
“Do not despise us before you know more of us. We are still feudal in
Germany--of the Middle Ages. The peasant is a serf. He is compelled to
serve the lord of the land every year with so much labor of his hands.
The small farmers, the 'Gross' and 'Mittel Bauern', we call them, are
also mortgaged to the nobles who tyrannize our Vaterland. Our merchants
are little merchants--shopkeepers, you would say. My poor father, an
educated man, was such. They fought our revolution.”
“And now,” said Stephen, “why do they not keep their hold?”
Richter sighed.
“We were unused to ruling,” he answered. “We knew not how to act--what
to do. You must remember that we were not trained to govern ourselves,
as are you of the English race, from children. Those who have been for
centuries ground under heel do not make practical parliamentarians. No;
your heritage is liberty--you Americans and English; and we Germans must
desert our native land to partake of it.”
“And was it not hard to leave?” asked Stephen, gently.
The eyes of the German filled at the recollection, nor did he seem
ashamed of his tears.
“I had a poor old father whose life was broken to save the Vaterland,
but not his spirit,” he cried, “no, not that. My father was born
in 1797. God directed my grandfather to send him to the Kolnisches
gymnasium, where the great Jahn taught. Jahn was our Washington, the
father of Germany that is to be.
“Then our Fatherland was French. Our women wore Parisian clothes, and
spoke the language; French immorality and atheism had spread like a
plague among us Napoleon the vile had taken the sword of our Frederick
from Berlin. It was Father Jahn (so we love to call him), it was Father
Jahn who founded the 'Turnschulen', that the generations to come might
return to simple German ways,--plain fare, high principles, our native
tongue; and the development of the body. The downfall of the fiend
Napoleon and the Vaterland united--these two his scholars must have
written in their hearts. All summer long, in their black caps and linen
pantaloons, they would trudge after him, begging a crust here and a
cheese there, to spread his teachings far and wide under the thatched
roofs.
“Then came 1811. I have heard my father tell how in the heat of that
year a great red comet burned in the sky, even as that we now see, my
friend. God forbid that this portends blood. But in the coming spring
the French conscripts filled our sacred land like a swarm of locusts,
devouring as they went. And at their head, with the pomp of Darius, rode
that destroyer of nations and homes, Napoleon. What was Germany then?
Ashes. But the red embers were beneath, fanned by Father Jahn. Napoleon
at Dresden made our princes weep. Never, even in the days of the
Frankish kings, had we been so humbled. He dragged our young men with
him to Russia, and left them to die moaning on the frozen wastes, while
he drove off in his sledge.
“It was the next year that Germany rose. High and low, rich and poor,
Jaeger and Landwehr, came flocking into the army, and even the old men,
the Landsturm. Russia was an ally, and later, Austria. My father, a last
of sixteen, was in the Landwehr, under the noble Blucher in Silesia,
when they drove the French into the Katzbach and the Neisse, swollen by
the rains into torrents. It had rained until the forests were marshes.
Powder would not burn. But Blucher, ah, there was a man! He whipped his
great sabre from under his cloak, crying 'Vorwarts! Vorwarts!' And the
Landwehr with one great shout slew their enemies with the butts of their
muskets until their arms were weary and the bodies were tossed like logs
in the foaming waters. They called Blucher Marachall Vorwarts!
“Then Napoleon was sent to Elba. But the victors quarrelled amongst
themselves, while Talleyrand and Metternich tore our Vaterland into
strips, and set brother against brother. And our blood, and the grief
for the widows and the fatherless, went for nothing.”
Richter paused to light his pipe.
“After a while,” he continued presently, “came the German Confederation,
with Austria at the head. Rid of Napoleon, we had another despot in
Metternich. But the tree which Jahn had planted grew, and its branches
spread. The great master was surrounded by spies. My father had gone to
Jena University, when he joined the Burschenschaft, or Students' League,
of which I will tell you later. It was pledged to the rescue of the
Vaterland. He was sent to prison for dipping his handkerchief in the
blood of Sand, beheaded for liberty at Mannheim. Afterwards he was
liberated, and went to Berlin and married my mother, who died when I
was young. Twice again he was in prison because the societies met at his
house. We were very poor, my friend. You in America know not the meaning
of that word. His health broke, and when '48 came, he was an old man.
His hair was white, and he walked the streets with a crutch. But he had
saved a little money to send me to Jena.
“He was proud of me. I was big-boned and fair, like my mother. And when
I came home at the end of a Semester I can see him now, as he
would hobble to the door, wearing the red and black and gold of the
Burschenschaft. And he would keep me up half the night-telling him of
our 'Schlager' fights with the aristocrats. My father had been a noted
swordsman in his day.”
He stopped abruptly, and colored. For Stephen was staring at the jagged
scar, He had never summoned the courage to ask Richter how he came by
it.
“Schlager fights?” he exclaimed.
“Broadswords,” answered the German, hastily. “Some day I will tell you
of them, and of the struggle with the troops in the 'Breite Strasse' in
March. We lost, as I told you because we knew not how to hold what we
had gained.
“I left Germany, hoping to make a home here for my poor father. How sad
his face as he kissed me farewell! And he said to me: 'Carl, if ever
your new Vaterland, the good Republic, be in danger, sacrifice all.
I have spent my years in bondage, and I say to you that life without
liberty is not worth the living.' Three months I was gone, and he was
dead, without that for which he had striven so bravely. He never knew
what it is to have an abundance of meat. He never knew from one day to
the other when he would have to embrace me, all he owned, and march away
to prison, because he was a patriot.” Richter's voice had fallen low,
but now he raised it. “Do you think, my friend,” he cried, “do you think
that I would not die willingly for this new country if the time should
come. Yes, and there are a million like me, once German, now American,
who will give their lives to preserve this Union. For without it the
world is not fit to live in.”
Stephen had food for thought as he walked northward through the strange
streets on that summer evening. Here indeed was a force not to be
reckoned, and which few had taken into account.