The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by the
big drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball. From the windows
might be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Waters
below. But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coat
of soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossoms
still fall thinly in the spring. The huge black town has coiled about
the place the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forest
are dying and dead. Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive of
fashion, is no more. Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow its
once rural windings, and gone forever are those comely wooded hills and
green pastures,--save in the memory of those who have been spared to
dream.
Still the old house stands, begrimed but stately, rebuking the sordid
life around it. Still come into it the Brinsmades to marriage and to
death. Five and sixty years are gone since Mr. Calvin Brinsmade took his
bride there. They sat on the porch in the morning light, harking to
the whistle of the quail in the corn, and watching the frightened deer
scamper across the open. Do you see the bride in her high-waisted gown,
and Mr. Calvin in his stock and his blue tail-coat and brass buttons?
Old people will tell you of the royal hospitality then, of the famous
men and women who promenaded under those chandeliers, and sat down to
the game-laden table. In 1835 General Atkinson and his officers thought
nothing of the twenty miles from Jefferson Barracks below, nor of
dancing all night with the Louisville belles, who were Mrs. Brinsmade's
guests. Thither came Miss Todd of Kentucky, long before she thought
of taking for a husband that rude man of the people, Abraham Lincoln.
Foreigners of distinction fell in love with the place, with its
open-hearted master and mistress, and wrote of it in their journals.
Would that many of our countrymen, who think of the West as rough, might
have known the quality of the Brinsmades and their neighbors!
An era of charity, of golden simplicity, was passing on that October
night of Anne Brinsmade's ball. Those who made merry there were soon
to be driven and scattered before the winds of war; to die at Wilson's
Creek, or Shiloh, or to be spared for heroes of the Wilderness. Some
were to eke out a life of widowhood in poverty. All were to live
soberly, chastened by what they had seen. A fear knocked at Colonel
Carvel's heart as he stood watching the bright figures.
“Brinsmade,” he said, “do you remember this room in May, '46?”
Mr. Brinsmade, startled, turned upon him quickly.
“Why, Colonel, you have read my very thoughts,” he said. “Some of those
who were here then are--are still in Mexico.”
“And some who came home, Brinsmade, blamed God because they had not
fallen,” said the Colonel.
“Hush, Comyn, His will be done,” he answered; “He has left a daughter to
comfort you.”
Unconsciously their eyes sought Virginia. In her gown of faded primrose
and blue with its quaint stays and short sleeves, she seemed to have
caught the very air of the decorous century to which it belonged. She
was standing against one of the pilasters at the side of the
room, laughing demurely at the antics of Becky Sharp and Sir John
Falstaff,--Miss Puss Russell and Mr. Jack Brinsmade, respectively.
Mr. Tennyson's “Idylls” having appeared but the year before, Anne was
dressed as Elaine, a part which suited her very well. It was strange
indeed to see her waltzing with Daniel Boone (Mr. Clarence Colfax)
in his Indian buckskins. Eugenie went as Marie Antoinette. Tall Maude
Catherwood was most imposing as Rebecca; and her brother George made a
towering Friar Tuck, Even little fifteen-year-old Spencer Catherwood,
the contradiction of the family, was there. He went as the lieutenant
Napoleon, walking about with his hands behind his back and his brows
thoughtfully contracted.
The Indian summer night was mild. It was at tine very height of the
festivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making their
way together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of Kenilworth
Castle came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing his
club in their faces. Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gave
back a step.
“Tom Catherwood! How dare you? You frightened me nearly to death.”
“I'm sorry, Jinny, indeed I am,” said the giant, repentant, and holding
her hand in his.
“Where have you been?” demanded Virginia, a little mollified. “What
makes you so late?”
“I've been to a Lincoln meeting,” said honest Tom; “where I heard a very
fine speech from a friend of yours.”
Virginia tossed her head.
“You might have been better employed,” said she, and added, with
dignity, “I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings.”
“How about Judge Whipple?” said Tom.
She stopped. “Did you mean the Judge?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“No,” said Tom, “I meant--”
He got no further. Virginia slipped her arm through Clarence's, and they
went off together to the end of the veranda. Poor Tom! He passed on into
the gay drawing-room, but the zest had been taken out of his antics for
that night.
“Whom did he mean, Jinny?” said Clarence, when they were on the seat
under the vines.
“He meant that Yankee, Stephen Brice,” answered Virginia, languidly. “I
am so tired of hearing about him.”
“So am I,” said Clarence, with a fervor by no means false. “By George,
I think he will make a Black Republican out of Tom, if he keeps on.
Puss and Jack have been talking about him all summer, until I am out
of patience. I reckon he has brains. But suppose he has addressed fifty
Lincoln meetings, as they say, is that any reason for making much
of him? I should not have him at Bellegarde. I am surprised that Mr.
Russell allows him in his house. I can see why Anne likes him.”
“Why?”
“He is on the Brinsmade charity list.”
“He is not on their charity list, nor on any other,” said Virginia,
quickly. “Stephen Brice is the last person who would submit to charity.”
“And you are the last person who I supposed would stand up for him,”
cried her cousin, surprised and nettled.
There was an instant's silence.
“I want to be fair, Max,” she said quietly. “Pa offered them our Glencoe
House last summer at a low price, and they insisted on paying what
Mr. Edwards gave five years ago,--or nothing. You know that I detest
a Yankee as much as you do,” she continued, indignation growing in her
voice. “I did not come out here with you to be insulted.”
With her hand on the rail, she made as if to rise. Clarence was perforce
mollified.
“Don't go, Jinny,” he said beseechingly. “I didn't mean to make you
angry--”
“I can't see why you should always be dragging in this Mr. Brice,” she
said, almost tearfully. (It will not do to pause now and inquire into
Virginia's logic.) “I came out to hear what you had to tell me.”
“Jinny, I have been made second lieutenant of Company A.”
“Oh, Max, I am so glad! I am so proud of you!”
“I suppose that you have heard the result of the October elections,
Jinny.”
“Pa said something about them to-night,” she answered; “why?”
“It looks now as if there were a chance of the Republicans winning,” he
answered. But it was elation that caught his voice, not gloom.
“You mean that this white trash Lincoln may be President?” she
exclaimed, seizing his arm.
“Never!” he cried. “The South will not submit to that until every man
who can bear arms is shot down.” He paused. The strains of a waltz
mingled with talk and laughter floated out of the open window. His voice
dropped to a low intensity. “We are getting ready in Company A,” he
said; “the traitors will be dropped. We are getting ready to fight for
Missouri and for the South.”
The girl felt his excitement, his exaltation.
“And if you were not, Max, I should disown you,” she whispered.
He leaned forward until his face was close to hers.
“And now?” he said.
“I am ready to work, to starve, to go to prison, to help--”
He sank back heavily into the corner.
“Is that all, Jinny?”
“All?” she repeated. “Oh, if a woman could only do more!”
“And is there nothing--for me?”
Virginia straightened.
“Are you doing this for a reward?” she demanded.
“No,” he answered passionately. “You know that I am not. Do you remember
when you told me that I was good for nothing, that I lacked purpose?”
“Yes, Max.”
“I have thought it over since,” he went on rapidly; “you were right. I
cannot work--it is not in me. But I have always felt that I could make a
name for myself--for you--in the army. I am sure that I could command a
regiment. And now the time is coming.”
She did not answer him, but absently twisted the fringe of his buckskins
in her fingers.
“Ever since I have known what love is I have loved you, Jinny. It was so
when we climbed the cherry trees at Bellegarde. And you loved me then--I
know you did. You loved me when I went East to school at the Military
Institute. But it has not been the same of late,” he faltered.
“Something has happened. I felt it first on that day you rode out to
Bellegarde when you said that my life was of no use. Jinny, I don't ask
much. I am content to prove myself. War is coming, and we shall have
to free ourselves from Yankee insolence. It is what we have both wished
for. When I am a general, will you marry me?”
For a wavering instant she might have thrown herself into his
outstretched arms. Why not, and have done with sickening doubts? Perhaps
her hesitation hung on the very boyishness of his proposal. Perhaps the
revelation that she did not then fathom was that he had not developed
since those childish days. But even while she held back, came the beat
of hoofs on the gravel below them, and one of the Bellegarde servants
rode into the light pouring through the open door. He called for his
master.
Clarence muttered his dismay as he followed his cousin to the steps.
“What is it?” asked Virginia, alarmed.
“Nothing; I forgot to sign the deed to the Elleardsville property,
and Worington wants it to-night.” Cutting short Sambo's explanations,
Clarence vaulted on the horse. Virginia was at his stirrup. Leaning over
in the saddle, he whispered: “I'll be back in a quarter of an hour Will
you wait?”
“Yes,” she said, so that he barely heard.
“Here?”
She nodded.
He was away at a gallop, leaving Virginia standing bareheaded to the
night, alone. A spring of pity, of affection for Clarence suddenly
welled up within her. There came again something of her old admiration
for a boy, impetuous and lovable, who had tormented and defended her
with the same hand.
Patriotism, stronger in Virginia than many of us now can conceive, was
on Clarence's side. Ambition was strong in her likewise. Now was she all
afire with the thought that she, a woman, might by a single word
give the South a leader. That word would steady him, for there was no
question of her influence. She trembled at the reckless lengths he might
go in his dejection, and a memory returned to her of a day at Glencoe,
before he had gone off to school, when she had refused to drive with
him. Colonel Carvel had been away from home. She had pretended not to
care. In spite of Ned's beseechings Clarence had ridden off on a wild
thoroughbred colt and had left her to an afternoon of agony. Vividly
she recalled his home-coming in the twilight, his coat torn and muddy, a
bleeding cut on his forehead, and the colt quivering tame.
In those days she had thought of herself unreservedly as meant for
him. Dash and courage and generosity had been the beacon lights on her
horizon. But now? Were there not other qualities? Yes, and Clarence
should have these, too. She would put them into him. She also had been
at fault, and perhaps it was because of her wavering loyalty to him that
he had not gained them.
Her name spoken within the hall startled Virginia from her reverie, and
she began to walk rapidly down the winding drive. A fragment of the air
to which they were dancing brought her to a stop. It was the Jenny Lind
waltz. And with it came clear and persistent the image she had sought to
shut out and failed. As if to escape it now, she fairly ran all the way
to the light at the entrance and hid in the magnolias clustered beside
the gateway. It was her cousin's name she whispered over and over to
herself as she waited, vibrant with a strange excitement. It was as
though the very elements might thwart her wail. Clarence would be
delayed, or they would miss her at the house, and search. It seemed an
eternity before she heard the muffled thud of a horse cantering in the
clay road.
Virginia stood out in the light fairly between the gate posts. Too late
she saw the horse rear as the rider flew back in his seat, for she had
seized the bridle. The beams from the lamp fell upon a Revolutionary
horseman, with cooked hat and sword and high riding-boots. For her his
profile was in silhouette, and the bold nose and chin belonged to but
one man she knew. He was Stephen Brice. She gave a cry of astonishment
and dropped the rein in dismay. Hot shame was surging in her face. Her
impulse was to fly, nor could she tell what force that stayed her feet.
As for Stephen, he stood high in his stirrups and stared down at the
girl. She was standing full in the light,--her lashes fallen, her face
crimson. But no sound of surprise escaped him because it was she, nor
did he wonder at her gown of a gone-by century. Her words came first,
and they were low. She did not address him by name.
“I--I thought that you were my cousin,” she said. “What must you think
of me!”
Stephen was calm.
“I expected it,” he answered.
She gave a step backward, and raised her frightened eyes to his.
“You expected it?” she faltered.
“I can't say why,” he said quickly, “but it seems to me as if this had
happened before. I know that I am talking nonsense--”
Virginia was trembling now. And her answer was not of her own choosing.
“It has happened before,” she cried. “But where? And when?”
“It may have been in a dream,” he answered her, “that I saw you as you
stand there by my bridle. I even know the gown you wear.”
She put her hand to her forehead. Had it been a dream? And what mystery
was it that sent him here this night of all nights? She could not even
have said that it was her own voice making reply.
“And I--I have seen you, with the sword, and the powdered hair, and the
blue coat and the buff waistcoat. It is a buff waistcoat like that my
great-grandfather wears in his pictures.”
“It is a buff waistcoat,” he said, all sense of strangeness gone.
The roses she held dropped on the gravel, and she put out her hand
against his horse's flank. In an instant he had leaped from his saddle,
and his arm was holding her. She did not resist, marvelling rather at
his own steadiness, nor did she then resent a tenderness in his voice.
“I hope you will forgive me--Virginia,” he said. “I should not have
mentioned this. And yet I could not help it.”
She looked up at him rather wildly.
“It was I who stopped you,” she said; “I was waiting for--”
“For whom?”
The interruption brought remembrance.
“For my cousin, Mr. Colfax,” she answered, in another tone. And as she
spoke she drew away from him, up the driveway. But she had scarcely
taken five steps whey she turned again, her face burning defiance. “They
told me you were not coming,” she said almost fiercely. “Why did you
come?”
It was a mad joy that Stephen felt.
“You did not wish me to come?” he demanded.
“Oh, why do you ask that?” she cried. “You know I would not have been
here had I thought you were coming. Anne promised me that you would not
come.”
What would she not have given for those words back again
Stephen took astride toward her, and to the girl that stride betokened a
thousand things that went to the man's character. Within its compass the
comparison in her mind was all complete. He was master of himself when
he spoke.
“You dislike me, Miss Carvel,” he said steadily. “I do not blame you.
Nor do I flatter myself that it is only because you believe one thing,
and I another. But I assure you that it is my misfortune rather than my
fault that I have not pleased you,--that I have met you only to anger
you.”
He paused, for she did not seem to hear him. She was gazing at the
distant lights moving on the river. Had he come one step farther?--but
he did not. Presently she knew that he was speaking again, in the same
measured tone.
“Had Miss Brinsmade told me that my presence here would cause you
annoyance, I should have stayed away. I hope that you will think nothing
of the--the mistake at the gate. You may be sure that I shall not
mention it. Good night, Miss Carvel.”
He lifted his hat, mounted his horse, and was gone. She had not even
known that he could ride--that was strangely the first thought. The
second discovered herself intent upon the rhythm of his canter as it
died southward upon the road. There was shame in this, mingled with a
thankfulness that he would not meet Clarence. She hurried a few steps
toward the house, and stopped again. What should she say to Clarence
now? What could she say to him?
But Clarence was not in her head. Ringing there was her talk with
Stephen Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on. His questions
and her replies--over and over again. Each trivial incident of an
encounter real and yet unreal! His transformation in the uniform, which
had seemed so natural. Though she strove to make it so, nothing of all
this was unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of his
arm about her nor yet again his calling her by her name.
Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on,
forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at
her side,--then dread.
“I thought I should never get back,” he cried breathlessly, as he threw
his reins to Sambo. “I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Did
it seem long, Jinny?”
She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. To
lead her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a
sudden fear came into his voice.
“Jinny!”
“Yes.”
She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how he
stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black
figure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her own
response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.
“Jinny,” he said, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you.”
“Then--then you won't marry me?”
“Oh, Max,” she cried, “it is no time to talk of that now. I feel
to-night as if something dreadful were to happen.”
“Do you mean war?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“But war is what we want,” he cried, “what we have prayed for, what we
have both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us our
rights--”
He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he saw
her shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewilderment
and anxiety.
“You are not well, Jinny,” he said.
“I am not well,” she answered. “Take me into the house.”
But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry.
Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit of
staying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks
(nay, not always whispered) until early morning. And of late breakfasts.
Miss Russell had not been the only one who remarked Virginia's long
absence with her cousin; but Puss found her friend in one of those moods
which even she dared not disturb. Accordingly Miss Russell stayed all
night with Anne.
And the two spent most of the dark hours remaining in unprofitable
discussion as to whether Virginia were at last engaged to her cousin,
and in vain queried over another unsolved mystery. This mystery was
taken up at the breakfast table the next morning, when Miss Carvel
surprised Mrs. Brinsmade and the male household by appearing at
half-past seven.
“Why, Jinny,” cried Mr. Brinsmade, “what does this mean? I always
thought that young ladies did not get up after a ball until noon.”
Virginia smiled a little nervously.
“I am going to ask you to take me to town when you go, Mr. Brinsmade.”
“Why, certainly, my dear,” he said. “But I under stood that your aunt
was to send for you this afternoon from Bellegarde.”
Virginia shook her head. “There is something I wish to do in town.”
“I'll drive her in, Pa,” said Jack. “You're too old. Will you go with
me, Jinny?”
“Of course, Jack.”
“But you must eat some breakfast, Jinny,” said Mrs Brinsmade, glancing
anxiously at the girl.
Mr. Brinsmade put down his newspaper.
“Where was Stephen Brice last night, Jack?” he asked. “I understood Anne
to say that he had spoke; of coming late.”
“Why, sir,” said Jack, “that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood,
who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republican
meeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggy
to the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over.
Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never got
here. At least I can find no one who saw him. Did you, Jinny?”
But Virginia did not raise her eyes from her plate. A miraculous
intervention came through Mrs. Brinsmade.
“There might have been an accident, Jack,” said that lady, with concern.
“Send Nicodemus over to Mrs. Russell's at once to inquire. You know that
Mr. Brice is a Northerner, and may not be able to ride.”
Jack laughed.
“He rides like a dragoon, mother,” said he. “I don't know where he
picked it up.”
“The reason I mentioned him,” said Mr. Brinsmade, lifting the blanket
sheet and adjusting his spectacles, “was because his name caught my eye
in this paper. His speech last night at the Library Hall is one of the
few sensible Republican speeches I have read. I think it very remarkable
for a man as young as he.” Mr. Brinsmade began to read: “'While waiting
for the speaker of the evening, who was half an hour late, Mr. Tiefel
rose in the audience and called loudly for Mr. Brice. Many citizens in
the hall were astonished at the cheering which followed the mention
of this name. Mr. Brice is a young lawyer with a quiet manner and a
determined face, who has sacrificed much to the Party's cause this
summer. He was introduced by Judge Whipple, in whose office he is.
He had hardly begun to speak before he had the ear of everyone in the
house. Mr. Brice's personality is prepossessing, his words are spoken
sharply, and he has a singular emphasis at times which seems to drive
his arguments into the minds of his hearers. We venture to say that if
party orators here and elsewhere were as logical and temperate as Mr.
Brice; if, like him, they appealed to reason rather than to passion,
those bitter and lamentable differences which threaten our country's
peace might be amicably adjusted.' Let me read what he said.”
But he was interrupted by the rising of Virginia. A high color was on
the girl's face as she said:
“Please excuse me, Mrs. Brinsmade, I must go and get ready.”
“But you've eaten nothing, my dear.”
Virginia did not reply. She was already on the stairs.
“You ought not have read that, Pa,” Mr. Jack remonstrated; “you know
that she detests Yankees.”