Armstrong was half engaged to go to the Gordons. He was turning his
gracefully uttered thanks into a refusal, when Mistress Amanda moved
toward the pew on her left to pick up her fan, and in so doing gave
him a glimpse of Nellie, who had kept modestly behind her mother all
this time. Mistress Amanda was tall; Nellie was short and slim; a
sylph, a dainty fairy figure, over whose face played the luminous light
of the moon as it is reflected in water. Her great soft eyes dwelt upon
him with pathetic sympathy. The brightness of partizanship was there,
too. A dove whose heart had been moved to side with an eagle engaged
in combat with its fellow would probably have looked so. Nellie felt
in her gentle bosom the stirring of vindictiveness against Peter's
rough hands that had essayed to tear away the veil of sanctity which
hung over the Lord's chosen vessel. Her ears still held the echo of
those strong, stern words with which the preacher had rebuked sin. She
mentally bowed before them. She, too, was a sinner. Oh, that he might
lead her into the light!
Armstrong's eyes had found her while these thoughts were writing
themselves upon her innocent face. In a second he caught a breath of
that incense which filled the heart of the sweetbriar rose. Youth,
enthusiasm, worshipful instinct met and united in the one swift glance.
The words of excuse died away in Armstrong's throat.
"Let me present you to my daughter, Nellie," said Mistress Amanda
carelessly; hearing only a murmured acceptance of her invitation. The
young girl bent her head, the rose tint deepening in her cheeks. The
preacher bowed as to a queen. His manner seemed a trifle exaggerated to
Mistress Amanda, but her critical reading of his character was that he
would probably over-do everything.
She moved toward the church door with him, her negligent glance taking
in an impression of a rather good-looking, gentlemanly bigot. Such
people were bores that good breeding obliged one to suffer patiently.
The church was perfectly quiet by the time they had reached the door,
for they were the last. The crowd outside compelled them to stop for
an instant in the vestibule.
Suddenly there came to the ears of all three the sound of a long,
mournful howl, deeper than that any dog could make; heavy yet
tremulous, as of something in great distress.
Peter had been stayed at the door--probably he had loitered to see
Nellie--and he, too, heard the sound. His round eyes widened and his
mouth opened in astonishment. Without dying away completely the painful
bellow was renewed.
It seemed to come from the interior of the church.
II.
SOME remarkable epithet rolled from the throat of Peter as he turned
his head from side to side in a perplexed grasping after the location
of this disturbance.
"It seems to come from the basement," observed Mistress Amanda. Peter
strode to the basement door and took hold of the knob. It was locked;
an occurrence so unusual as to arouse renewed surprise.
There was now a renewal of the sounds; a succession of low,
long-drawn-out bellows, becoming more and more faint, and dying away
completely while the four listeners stood looking at each other.
"May not some stray cow have got into the basement or cellar?"
Armstrong suggested. It seemed to him that this big farmer showed more
annoyance than the occasion demanded. Doubtless the explanation would
prove to be very simple. But he had not Peter's premises to argue from.
Mistress Amanda and he both knew that if any animal was imprisoned
beneath the church it must have been driven there, and shut in. Why
should such a thing be done? There was but one explanation. Over a
week ago a fine cow belonging to Peter had bodily disappeared, without
leaving a trace to identify the thief. He had had a strong suspicion
that the guilt lay at the door of his neighbor, Theodore Funkhausen,
one of the richest men in the county, but commonly called "Skunk."
Many a quarrel had taken place between "Skunk" and Peter Weaver, in
which the generous nature had been the victim. The last one dated a
fortnight back, and was about Peter's cattle. Soon afterward the cow
had disappeared. Funkhausen's sour visage had worn a particularly
malicious look lately, when he and Peter met, a look that one who knew
him might interpret as pleasure in an accomplished act of vengeance.
"I'm going to get at the meaning of them noises," said Peter, with
mighty emphasis, and he laid violent hands upon the door lock, which
was weak and yielded without much resistance. "If it's as I think,"
he added calmly, "Thed Funkhausen's going to have one thrashing!" He
descended the dark stairway, and they heard the crackle of matches as
he went. Peter's pipe was not in his pocket when he attended church but
his match-box was.
"What does he mean?" asked Armstrong of Mistress Amanda. The boyish
liking for an adventure and the instinct of the southerner for a fight
struggled in his breast with the severity of the preacher. He had a
vague idea that Peter Weaver was one of the unregenerate persons toward
whom one's sympathies must not be allowed to flow incautiously. On the
other hand, Funkhausen's reputation had reached Roselawn. To the fact
that he was a _carpet-bagger_, the true-blooded Virginian laid some
contemptible acts which otherwise would have been unaccountable. But
there were persons who found the rich man good enough in his way, and
he had a certain following, was a school trustee, member of the county
jockey-club, and sure of a seat among the judges at the annual fair.
Consequently, when he took it into his head to quarrel the possibility
of his antagonist being in the wrong naturally presented itself to fair
minds.
Armstrong had never heard of Peter Weaver, although the farmer-poet
was well known throughout the county, and now that he had made his
acquaintance he was not greatly disposed to admire him. There was
enough resentment in his mind for the elder man's plain speaking to
make neutrality in a quarrel between him and Funkhausen appear a
Christian duty. But he could not find fault with any circumstances that
led to his standing in the little vestibule close to this wonderfully
fair young girl, whose spiritual face wore the far-away look of one
whose thoughts are set on things above this earth. Yet Nellie had her
practical side. In some things she was more practical than her mother.
Mistress Amanda's commanding bearing, however, was a complete contrast
to the young girl's modest, timid mien. Her fine, black eyes rested
coldly upon the young man who had put his question to her in a judicial
tone. She murmured a few words that were no reply, and busied herself
in drawing up the folds of her black satin skirt to sweep out to her
carriage. Peter was heard coming up the steps. He emerged with an
apoplectic face, breathing hard.
"_Was_ it?" asked Mistress Amanda.
He nodded. "Shorely, starved to death--the darned skunk!"
His friend gave him a look expressive of the wisdom of keeping cool and
waiting for the right occasion. It was something like throwing water on
a red-hot stove. But Peter had unlimited confidence in the good sense
of Mistress Amanda. And he bore in mind that it is a man's duty not to
show fight in the presence of ladies. So, sighing inwardly, he helped
them up the step of the great family coach, where old Mrs. Powell and
her niece were seated, waiting; and, mounting his horse, rode off at a
pace that harmonized with his feelings.
Peter's bulk was unhandsome on horseback. As young Armstrong lightly
vaulted into his saddle and reined his horse beside the window,
where Nellie's sweet face peeped out from beneath the shadow of a
flower-laden leghorn hat, she silently noted the contrast between the
riders.
"What kep' you so, Mandy?" asked old Mrs. Powell, with as near the
suspicion of a complaint in her voice as ever got into it.
"Why, something very singular, mother. Would you credit it, that
Funkhausen put Peter Weaver's cow under the church and starved it to
death! We heard its moans--probably its last ones, and Peter went down
and found it. He says he'll thrash Funkhausen, and I think everybody in
the county'll stand by him if he does."
"How perfectly dreadful!" chimed in the girls, in thrilled accents.
"Oh, dear, Mandy, that wuz mean indeed of Funkhausen," said the grieved
old lady. "And he a member o' the chu'ch, and holdin' to particular
redemption, which he oughtn't to dare to do less he's shore he's one o'
the elect hisself."
"He'll need all his particular redemption--when Peter gets hold of
him," commented Mistress Amanda, who was no Antinomian. She took some
pleasure in making remarks like these, less to shock her mother,
to whom she was more tenderly deferential than to anybody else in
the world, than to enlarge the outlook of Nellie, whose innate bent
toward Calvinism irritated her. She disbelieved in the possibility of
a woman saint under sixty. Of men, she had been heard to remark that
they "only got to heaven through the grace of God and the goodness of
women." But while she hated pretensions to special piety she readily
pardoned sinners who were confessedly incorrigible. She would overlook
all offenses save self-complacency or the possession of a bloodless
nature incapable alike of sterling virtues or robust wickedness. There
are persons to whom the touch of velvet is odious. Mistress Amanda
detested velvety natures. Some Viking-like quality in the woman,
something fierce and grand as the breaking of a storm at sea, threw out
a challenge for rough honesty; for the strong hand of untamed manhood
to touch and calm her mood. In Peter Weaver she realized her ideal of
robust, simple manliness. Twenty years before her maiden fancies would
have passed him by with disdain. But there comes a period of life
when a second set of desires replace the dreams of youth, unlike them
in every respect, especially where "the curse of a granted prayer" has
robbed the dreamer of illusions. In so many words, Mistress Amanda
had never said to herself since she had been left a widow five years
ago,--I like best the man who least resembles my husband:--but her
regard involuntarily fell upon everything in the shape of both men and
women, who were innocent of the suavity, the grace, and the polished
egotism of the late Col. Thomas.
To revise one's personal ideals is sometimes commendable; but a good
mother usually reads her new philosophy into the life of her daughter.
In Mistress Amanda's hands Nellie had been as ductile as gold foil,
showing a fragility, however, that exacted delicate treatment. Here
was a sweet, affectionate, domestic disposition, without any of the
deep and subtle qualities that had rendered her own life stormy; a
nature formed to lean on strength and create a happy home for a good
man. And Mistress Amanda had given to Peter's shy wooing an unspoken
but emphatic approval. But the sleeping beauty's repose was not yet
broken. Nellie's maidenly meditations had still leave to wander where
they listed. But one little cloud hung over the rosy sky of Mistress
Amanda's hopes: Nellie, always given to shy musings and conscientious
scruples--had lately shown a strong bias toward her grandmother's
religious convictions. Indeed, it often seemed to Mistress Amanda,
whose ambition and passionately maternal nature would have fitted her
to be the mother of heroes, that her daughter belonged more to old lady
Powell than to herself.
A dear, sweet old lady, with a heart full to overflowing with the
milk of human kindness, and yet she had unconsciously become a moral
stumbling-block to the one person whose happiness she was in every way
most desirous of serving.
Poor Mistress Amanda had never found any aid from nature in carrying
out her plans, but she was not the woman to relinquish one on that
account. She relied upon the aid of chance to bring that proof to
Nellie of Peter Weaver's worth, which would make her tolerant of his
rationalism.
A poet and a skeptic! Only in the degree which made it necessary
for the solitary man, thinking out all things for himself, and
philosophizing upon life with the sky and woods for counselors, to
reach conclusions that he could connect with the way things had of
turning out. Calvinism did not seem to him to connect with the law of
duty to your neighbor as it presented itself to his conception; and his
theology took this simple formula: bear and forbear as long as you can,
and then strike good blows; leaving alone the consequences.
And Nellie was a very mimosa for sensitiveness, as to the sin of
differing from one's spiritual advisers. Mistress Amanda looked at
her daughter, a translucent opal set between those gilded spurs, her
cousins, and reflected upon the pains nature takes to bring about
disharmony in families.
As the carriage approached the gates of Benvenew two little darkies
raced out and held them wide open, with a special grin and duck for
the gentleman on horseback, whose dimes rolled in the dust, sped by
the careless, free hand of one who remembered himself an Armstrong,
forgetting the preacher. But the set of the preacher was strong in the
man. It was apparent at dinner; that excellent dinner where the golden
brown turkey at one end of the table was rivaled by the noble ham at
the other end, and where corn-pudding, sweet potatoes, and tomatoes
in firm, rose-red slices, were reflected in crystal-clear goblets of
cut-glass, standing sentinel-like upon napkins of double-wove Barnsley
damask, white as sunbleach and rain water could make them.
Armstrong sat at Mistress Amanda's right hand, with Nellie opposite,
her hands constantly busy playing over the jellies and _entrées_ set in
front of her to serve. Drooping curls half-hid her face, but his eyes
dived keenly into the cool, sweet depths of hers when by chance she
looked up. And she had the pleasantly fluttered sense of being watched
by one curiously sympathetic with her.
"You are like your father," Mistress Amanda was saying. "Like what
he was at your age. I met him once at a tournament held over at
Purcellville. A pleasant part of the country, and a pleasant time we
young people had that day."
"And you was crowned queen o' love and beauty, Mandy," cooed old Mrs.
Powell. "I see by your face though, sir, that you don't hold to these
fashions?"
"Should I hold to any customs that encourage vanity and display, and
un-Christian rivalry?" returned the young preacher. "I understand
there is to be a tournament held here in the fall, at Rocky Point. I
shall feel it my duty to warn all our young people who have felt the
strivings of the Spirit, not to yield to the temptation."
"I am so glad!" the fleeting cry came from Nellie involuntarily,
and when Armstrong covered her flushing face with a soft look of
encouragement, she continued sedately:
"I think such things take us too far away from our serious duties in
life."
"Nellie is passing through one of those phases peculiar to youth,"
observed her mother. "Attacks of acute religious fanaticism are a sort
of moral measles."
"Madam!" uttered Armstrong in a shocked tone, but meeting that calm
glance of the elder woman, secure in the dignity of her deeper life
experiences, he softened his tone apologetically:
"I beg you will not construe my criticism of the custom of tournaments
into a criticism of yourself. Doubtless there was formerly a greater
license in the Church concerning these things. Even dancing picnics
were tolerated----"
"Why not?" asked the bold lady. "We must have amusements, we
southerners. We are not Puritans."
"Shall the Puritans hold their faith more purely than ourselves? I see
no reason why the very enthusiasm and eagerness for amusements natural
to southerners should not be turned into the channels of a deeper
Christianity."
Quite an argument ensued, in which it was notable that the forces
were drawn up three to a side; old Mrs. Powell, Nellie, and Armstrong
against Mistress Amanda and her two cousins, city-bred girls, desirous
of shining in conversation.
Mistress Amanda carried on the battle with one hand behind her, so to
speak. She disdained to put forth her full intellectual strength to
rout a stripling. And half her mind was wandering abroad in a flight
after her hero, pursuing his angry way homeward. Could her imagination
have given her a true picture of Peter's adventures on the road, she
might have dropped the feint of interest in the dinner-table topics to
enjoy the thrill of real feeling, in a more singular and vigorous turn
of events than was promised by the mild social elements gathered at
Benvenew.
Peter had met his enemy on the lane turning off toward The Oaks,
Funkhausen's place. He was driving along at a leisurely pace in his
carryall alone, enjoying his meditations, when a fierce-browed horseman
reined up beside him and caught the relaxed reins from his hands.
"Git out o' that, Thed Funkhausen," commanded Peter. "I've a word or
two with you."
"Hadn't it better keep till another time?" suggested Funkhausen in a
tone meant to be pacific.
"No, it won't keep!" thundered Peter, who had no mind to let his
present wrath cool into his habitual, easy-going tolerance. And there
was a force of circumstances in his having possession of the road and
the reins, which compelled Funkhausen to step out; Peter dismounting at
the same minute.
"What'd you shut my cow up for and starve her to death?"
A smile of sly enjoyment overspread Funkhausen's face. He did not deny
the charge, seeming rather to take pride in an achievement so original.
Funkhausen feared his huge antagonist, but beside being a burly man
himself, he believed that he was near enough to home for his negroes to
be within call; and there was a small army of farm-hands in his service.
So, charges were met by defiance, and Peter's temper ran no risk
of dying away without finding vent. It came to blows before many
expletives had made the air hot, and, as might have been expected,
Funkhausen was tendered to the care of mother earth, with dust for his
pillow. But although with that issue Peter began to find forgiveness
sprouting in his soul, new complications arose. The farm-hands were
within call, taking their ease before their cabin doors, and enjoying
the smell of their dinners cooking. At Funkhausen's lusty cries they
came pouring down the lane, realizing the duty of obedience to the man
who supplied their bread.
"Surround him! Surround the low-lived coon!" yelled Funkhausen,
sputtering and winking, wiping the blood from his nose with his best
Sunday pocket-handkerchief.
And the negroes closed around the tall figure, standing firm and solid,
with nothing but his fists to oppose to the force of numbers.
The negroes numbered fifteen men.
III.
THE sunshine of a perfect October day lay full upon Peter Weaver's
great front porch, as he sat in his red armchair, smoking his
after-dinner pipe, two months after his encounter with Funkhausen.
Behind the porch lay the house; a minor affair, yet comfortable in its
way. So long as weather permitted Peter lived upon his porches, the
back one, fronting east, in the mornings, and the front one with the
western exposure in the afternoon. From it he could see the goose-pond
where his flock disported, and the road, not very lively, but with
passing features of interest to a society loving mind.
His bachelor housekeeping was simple, his farm small, and the good
grandparents had brought with them from Holland a store of Dutch
guelders which had been converted into mining stock in due course, and,
passing down to Peter, made his living a comfortable one. Had he chosen
to loaf all day long upon his porches his income would have enabled
him to do so. And old Aunt Vina and her two sons would not have lost
their wages, nor the church its annual liberal check. But Peter had
an industrious streak in him, and worked with all his might when he
did work. Afterwards he indulged himself in spells of meditation and
verse-writing.
How he had first gained courage to put himself before the public as a
poet is a mystery. Possibly he had hopes of making his name illustrious
in little Nellie's eyes. It is certain that a copy of the _Purcellville
Banner_ with heavy lines in red ink drawn around a sonnet addressed
to "A Sweetbriar Rose," and signed "Heinrichs," had reached Benvenew
the day after being issued. Since then the poet had branched out in
other directions and the _Banner's_ columns were enriched with an
amount of original matter that led the editor seriously to contemplate
the possibility of abandoning a "patent outside," and depending upon
home talent to fill his space. Eventually, the disguise maintained
by "Heinrichs" was penetrated by his neighbors and Peter was made
the recipient of attentions varying from invitations to dine and
display his talent for versification at the Gordons, all the way down
to lampoons in chalk upon his barn-door, and hootings from the six
red-haired little Clapsaddles.
Pendleton Haywood, riding by one morning, espied the sturdy poet
with his sleeves rolled up, deep in molasses-making; and thought it
opportune to call out:
"Peter, make me a rhyme!"
With extraordinary quickness this rejoinder was thundered back:
"I'm busy just now,
Stirring my molasses,
I've no time
To make a rhyme
For every fool that passes."
And Pendleton went on his way a sadder man; for the six red-haired
little Clapsaddles were as usual hanging about the goose-pond, and
had made themselves masters of this colloquy; which, consequently,
spread with the rapidity of a Virginia creeper, from Rocky Point to
Purcellville.
There is no doubt that Peter's gift was a great comfort to him, and,
modest as he was, he accepted the inevitable fame growing out of his
contributions to the _Banner_ with a certain degree of complacency. The
power of looking at the events of life with a view to turning them into
poetry invests even common subjects with interest, and when any really
exciting thing happens the gifted mind is conscious of a wonderfully
uplifting feeling, such as the admiral of a fleet may experience when
an enemy's ironclad opens fire. Opportunity is the spur that starts
genius into a canter.
Peter sat smoking, and thinking how to turn the fight between himself
and Funkhausen into a poem which should arouse the enthusiastic
admiration of all readers of the _Banner_; including Mistress Amanda
and perhaps Nellie.
When Funkhausen had set his hirelings upon the stalwart Peter he had
not taken into account two things: one was that there was not a darkey
in the county without a feeling of personal liking for the kind-hearted
poet, and the other, that negroes are cowardly except under the
influence of excitement. The foremost man in the group happened to be
one to whose family Peter had rendered many kindnesses. When the blue
eyes of his master's victim looked steadily into his own, Jake felt a
curious tremor of mingled superstition and perplexity, which caused
him to fall back on his comrades instead of advancing to the attack
Funkhausen was doing his best to urge on. Peter's raised fist conveyed
reminder as well as menace. That hand had been ready to extend help to
those in need, but it was equally ready to strike down an offender. And
the negroes did not like the looks of the strong, resolute white man
standing upon the defensive, alone, but with right upon his side. They
began to mutter and to fall back, until the whole mass had melted away;
in some way bearing Funkhausen along with them. Whereupon Peter mounted
his horse and quietly rode home.
But the county rang with the affair. As much to vindicate himself
as for vengeance, Funkhausen had Peter up before the church for
discipline. But to his disgust, and to the delight of everybody else,
Deacon Greene declared that Peter had done nothing to be disciplined
for; but that "if he hadn't fought Funkhausen the church would have
turned him out!"