mind. I was speaking of Judy. She doesn't abuse her political power. In
many elections she doesn't use it at all. She says to her subjects: 'I
ain't choosed 'twixt them two candidates. Choose for yourselves.' But
when she does choose and intimates her choice the men of the mountain
all vote her way, and their vote makes an end of all uncertainty as to
the result of that election. But it isn't only in politics that she
rules. A Baptist preacher went up that way once and became pastor of a
church. For a while he 'cut a wide swath,' as Judy said. But he made
the mistake of offending her majesty by some indiscreet criticism of
her. She manifested no displeasure, but on the next Sunday and the next
he found a meeting house full of empty benches to preach to. Then he
quit, as Judy afterwards explained, 'because his usefulness was at its
end.' It's the same way with everything else. Ordinarily she does not
interfere, but when she does her interference is instantly effective.
It's a common saying up there that 'ef you want to stay in the
mountings comfortable like, you don't want to git yourself into Judy
Peters's bad books.'"
"On what does her extraordinary influence rest?"
"It would be hard to say. Partly I should say upon her extraordinary
sagacity, especially in her judgment of men and her penetration of
their motives. My father used to say she had second sight of the
Scottish sort. It is certain that no man ever deceives her for long, no
false pretense ever endures her scrutiny, and she never falters in her
judgments. She is as relentless as Fate itself and as merciless in her
dealings with what she adjudges to be wrong. As she doesn't know what
fear means, she is equally resolute in her active support of all causes
that enlist her sympathy. She is ignorant, as we reckon such things,
but her sagacity is well nigh supernatural, and she keeps herself
informed on all matters that interest her, with an accuracy that a
detective bureau might envy. She is kindly, but not courteous. She
hates shams with an elemental intensity. If you are a guest in her
house she fulfils every obligation of hospitality, but she tells you no
lies either in word or deed. She will lay herself out to serve you with
sublime fried chicken and glorified waffles, but if she catches you in
a falsehood she'll tell you you are a liar even while she presses the
apple butter or the maple syrup upon your acceptance. In brief, Judy
Peters is altogether a natural human being, whose elemental passions
have never been curbed by convention, whose courage is of the kind that
never shrinks from the recognition of truth or from its telling in
plain words. If she likes you she will say so. If she dislikes you she
will tell you the fact in equally plain words. If she is in doubt about
you, she will tell you she 'ain't choosed yit' as to you. That's Judy.
Still my description utterly lacks something, I don't know
what--personality perhaps. You must know Judy personally if you would
understand her. Her malignity, in cases that seem to her to call for
it, is well nigh beyond conception in its devilish ingenuity and
persistence; her loyalty, on the other hand, stops at nothing that may
serve its fortunate beneficiary. She was my father's friend, in her odd
way, and she is mine. My father once rendered her a service; I don't
know what it was, and she won't tell me. He always said it was a trifle
of no consequence; she always answers my inquiries about it by saying:
"''Tain't none o' your business, Boyd, what he done for me, but ef I
could 'a' turned these here mountings upside down an' he'd 'a' give the
word as how he wanted it done, over the mountings would 'a' gone, you
kin bet your bottom dollar on that proposition.'
"She is my friend on my father's account and nothing can change that.
If I should try to deceive her she'd denounce me to my face as a liar,
but she'd make the mountains too hot to hold anybody else who should
suggest such a thing, and she'd go on doing her mightiest in my
interest, in spite of my fault. In her way she is a wholesome sort of
person for me to meet just now, and I'm going to spend a few days with
her, just for the bracing up she'll give me. After that I'll go on up
into the high mountains."
So ended the dinner and the conversation. Next morning Westover set out
for Wanalah, where he intended to spend a few days giving necessary
directions and equipping himself with supplies for his sojourn in the
mountains. These consisted of books, mainly, with a bag of corn meal, a
ham or two, a few sides of bacon, guns, ammunition, fishing tackle and
rough clothing, all of which were loaded into an ox cart, which a negro
boy was to drive in leisurely fashion to Judy Peters's. Beyond that, in
the climb up the mountainside, oxen would be of less use than bother,
and Westover depended upon the long legs and strong arms of
mountaineers to manage the further transportation.
XIII
"AUNT BETSY" TAKES THE HELM
It would have been a dangerous thing for any man to accuse Colonel
Conway of cowardice. Personal courage was his in full measure. Three
times during the Mexican war he had been promoted--rising from
lieutenant to colonel--and each time in special recognition of
"conspicuous gallantry in action." He was afraid of no man and no
company of men. He did and dared throughout his life with absolute
disregard of danger.
But Colonel Conway was mightily afraid of his sister Betsy, as his
daughter had said. Why, he could not have told, but the fact remained
that he was afraid of that elderly little woman, encased as she was in
an armor of conventionalities, gentle but resolute, and mercilessly
insistent upon what she decreed to be "proper" conduct.
When the negro boy who daily brought the letter bag from the post
office to The Oaks reported that Mr. Boyd Westover had come up from
Richmond and was to stay only for a day or two at Wanalah, Colonel
Conway promptly announced his purpose to ride over and congratulate
him. The family were at the breakfast table at the time and the Colonel
observed that his daughter paled at the mention of his purpose, though
she said nothing in reply to his declaration. His sister, "Aunt Betsy,"
also said nothing. It was her habit to say nothing till the time was
ripe.
Immediately after breakfast Margaret sought speech with her father.
"You are right, father, and what you purpose is the part of an
honorable man. You ought to go to Boyd and take his hand, and make him
feel that men of your kind and his kind understand. But--" She paused
uncertainly.
"'But' what, daughter?" asked the Colonel, eagerly scanning her face.
"Nothing. I was only going to say that perhaps it will be just as well
not to mention me--unless he does so first."
There was that in her hesitating utterance which awakened the Colonel's
attention and curiosity.
"But why not, Margaret?" he questioned. "Surely it is about you he will
be most eager to hear."
"If so he will ask. If he doesn't, I beg of you--"
"Why, surely you've heard from him frequently during this trouble--and
you've written to him?"
"I've written to him, yes."
"And he has written to you, of course?"
The girl stood silent, while she plucked honeysuckles from the vines
that shrouded the porch in which they stood, and nervously pulled them
to pieces.
"Answer me, child," the Colonel said in a tone of command. "Hasn't Boyd
Westover written to you during all this trouble?"
"I have received no letter from him," she answered hesitatingly.
"Do you mean that he hasn't written to you of his arrest, trial and all
the rest of it, of his vindication and--"
"I have had no letter from him," she repeated.
"Hasn't he even offered you a release from your engagement?"
"I have had no letter from him," she said again, but this time she lost
her self control and blurted out the thought that had troubled her for
many days.
"Oh Father," she said, seizing his arm as if to detain him, "there has
been some cruel mistake, some miscarriage, something, I don't know
what. I only know that Boyd Westover is a gentleman and would never
have neglected such a duty."
"As he _has_ neglected it, he is unworthy of a gentleman's recognition,
Margaret. I shall not go near him."
"You are judging him unheard," she promptly and passionately answered;
"and oh, Father, that isn't like you, because it is unworthy, and
nothing unworthy or unjust is like you. I beg of you, give him a
chance. You need do nothing but make a call. The explanation will
follow--if there is an explanation. If there isn't--well, we shall
know."
"I'll go, daughter, of course. It is my duty. But I'll force the
explanation. I have a right to ask him why, being engaged to marry my
daughter, he has sent her no release, in view of the circumstances.
That will bring out all there is to say on the subject."
At that point in their conversation the father and daughter were
interrupted by the advent of "Aunt Betsy," who passed from the house
into the porch quite casually, and said to Margaret:
"When you have leisure, dear, you'd better see Janet. She has come to
say that Diana is much worse this morning and that the doctor, who was
in a hurry, left some important written directions out at the quarters."
Quick to respond to duty, especially where the sick of the plantation
were concerned, Margaret was in the saddle a minute later and galloping
toward the "quarters," as the negro village was called in plantation
nomenclature.
No sooner had her sorrel palfry's white tail flashed its signal of
departure through the outer grove, than "Aunt Betsy" turned to her
brother, saying:
"Of course you forgot yourself, brother, when you impulsively declared
your purpose to visit Mr. Boyd Westover to-day. The one serious fault
in your nature is impulsiveness. You are too chivalric, too trusting,
too confident of others, too apt to think of them as men like yourself."
"What is it you want to say, Betsy?" asked the Colonel as he sank
limply into one of the porch chairs.
"Only that upon reflection you must see that it won't do for you to
call upon Mr. Westover."
"But why not?"
"There are a dozen reasons. He's a man under a cloud you know. He has
been regularly convicted of a crime, and sentenced for it, and--"
"But he has been fully vindicated and pardoned," interrupted the
Colonel.
"Yes, of course. Fully vindicated by the confession of a demented man
who may or may not know what he is saying. It may be--well, anything
may be, you know, and opinions in this community are likely to be
divided as to the matter of Mr. Boyd Westover's guilt. So long as that
remains unsettled the Master of The Oaks cannot afford to take sides by
visiting Wanalah."
"You mean that I, Colonel Robert Conway, of The Oaks, am not free to do
as I damn please just because a lot of pestilent old gossips think to
say me nay?"
"You misunderstand me, Robert, and you grieve me to the heart by the
violence of your language."
"Did I swear? If so I beg pardon, but sometimes oaths will slip out.
It's a bad habit I acquired in the army."
"You utterly fail to understand me," said "Aunt Betsy." "I am not
concerned about myself or you, or the family name, though that is
dearer to me than all else in the world. I'm concerned for Margaret.
You are a man, of course, but even a man ought to see that for
Margaret's father to visit Westover of Wanalah, under existing
circumstances, would be everywhere interpreted as throwing Margaret at
his head, challenging him to fulfil his engagement with her. In brief
it would be almost the equivalent of that vulgar impossibility in
Virginia, a breach of promise suit."
"Aunt Betsy" saw in Colonel Conway's face that she had carried her
point, and she did not imperil the result by further speech. She
suddenly applied her handkerchief to her eyes instead, and hastily
retreated to her room, confident that on that day at least her brother
would not ride over to Wanalah.
XIV
WESTOVER AT WANALAH
But if Colonel Conway did not visit Westover during his brief stay at
Wanalah, some others did. In the main they were elderly men of his own
social class, whose purpose was sincere to express their pleasure in
his escape from an embarrassing perplexity. But their very sincerity
proved to be the undoing of their purpose. They hardly knew how to
approach the subject of his trouble without offence and yet it seemed
necessary to speak of it. It isn't easy to tell a man of high place in
the world that you are pleased with his accidental escape from a term
of penal servitude in the penitentiary. As a result of this
embarrassment the congratulations of these gentlemen, which were meant
to be cordial, seemed to Westover to be coldly commiserative instead.
Meant to be comradely, they seemed to him condescending almost to the
point of offensiveness. To make matters worse, Westover's visitors were
as sorely embarrassed as he was, and by way of escape, every one of
them, upon one pretext or another, declined his invitation to stay to
dinner which, under ordinary circumstances, every one of them would
have accepted quite as a matter of course. To him this suggested
avoidance of intimacy.
Perhaps all this was emphasized to his mind by his experience with the
earliest of his visitors on that day. This was William Wilberforce
Webb, a young lawyer who as representative of the county in the House
of Delegates--the legislature of Virginia--regarded himself as "a
rising young statesman, in the direct line of promotion."
Mr. Webb was not a man in Westover's class, and in visiting Wanalah at
all he was guilty of something approaching presumption, under the rules
of the social régime of that time and country. Still, as the
representative of the county in the legislature, he had a right perhaps
to regard himself as privileged to that extent.
However that might be, Westover welcomed him cordially as the first of
his neighbors to call. He extended the customary hospitalities of the
house, which the other accepted. Then the two fell into conversation
upon general topics, drifting into more personal themes by natural
processes. Lacking the tact that comes of good breeding, the voluble
and self appreciative lawyer presently sought to exalt his own
condescension in promptly calling upon Westover.
"You see I have no hidebound prejudices, Westover, and in my position,
as the representative of the people, the promptitude of my visit may
encourage others to recognize you, in spite of what has happened."
Pale to the lips with passion, Westover rose as the man spoke, moved to
the edge of the porch in which they had been sitting, and, calling to a
negro boy, said:
"Bring this gentleman's horse to the door at once; do you hear? He has
imperative business elsewhere than at Wanalah."
There was no mistaking the meaning of this, and Webb was quick to
comprehend it. Rising angrily he asked:
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You heard my instruction to the boy," answered Westover in an even,
unexcited voice. "You can infer my meaning from that. By the way, the
boy has obeyed promptly and your horse is waiting for you."
The man was unaccustomed to such deliberation and self control in the
speech of an angry person, but he sought to imitate it as he had sought
before to copy the manners of those whose social position he envied. He
suppressed the impulse of intemperate speech and, assuming the dignity
that he thought belonged to him in right of his "position," said:
"You will hear from me, promptly, Mr. Westover."
"At your pleasure, sir," answered Westover. "I shall remain at Wanalah
for four days, after to-day. After that I shall be absent for a time,
but should your message to me be delayed so long, which I can hardly
conceive to be possible, you can communicate with me later through my
overseer, with whom I shall leave an address to be used only in
emergencies. Should you leave any message with him he will have
instructions to forward it to me by a special courier who will lose no
time in its delivery."
This was a crowning affront to a man of Webb's extraction, and perhaps
Westover meant it to be such. The overseer class in Virginia was the
most inferior of all, and the very suggestion of one gentleman that he
would communicate with another through his overseer would have implied
insult. If Westover had been speaking to one whom he regarded as an
equal he would have said:
"My address for a time will be uncertain, but my overseer will have it
and I'll instruct him to keep my lawyer informed of it from time to
time."
To make matters worse, it was the bitterest drop of gall in Webb's cup
that he was himself descended from a race of overseers. His father,
indeed, had never served in that capacity, for the reason that the
grandfather had left him enough money to buy a little plantation of his
own and struggle for recognition as a member of the planter class. But
Webb had learned by experience that there was vitality in the Virginian
dogma that "it takes three generations to make a gentleman."
The suggestion, therefore, that he might, if necessary, communicate
with Westover through the Wanalah overseer, was peculiarly offensive to
Webb. Whether Westover had intended it to be so or not, there is no
means of finding out. He was angry enough to intend anything.
But this encounter spoiled Westover's capacity to enjoy the visits of
his later coming friends. It set his sensitiveness on edge, as it were,
and prompted his mind to misinterpretation, so that when he was left to
dine alone at Wanalah that day the very spaciousness of the dining room
seemed to mock his solitude, while the polished furniture that had
witnessed so much of joyous festivity in that great banquet hall seemed
to have put on mourning for its master.
About sunset, however, relief came to Westover's spirit in the person
of Dr. Carley Farnsworth. His real name was Don Carlos Farnsworth, and
he was a physician, but to Westover as to every other friend he had
ever had, he was known as "Carley." Carley was in many ways peculiar.
He was cynical at times and always disposed to take a whimsical view of
things. His sense of humor was alert and keen, though he never in his
life made a joke and very rarely laughed. His most whimsical
interpretations of events and situations were delivered in solemn,
philosophical fervor, and with a seriousness that well nigh undid the
humor of them.
He arrived at Wanalah about sunset, and greeted his old friend
cordially, and quite as if his visit had been an ordinary one with no
"circumstances" of any kind behind it. Carley Farnsworth was a
gentleman, that was all. He had tact and _nous_, and above all a
sympathy so abounding that trespass upon another's sensibilities was
impossible to him. Even in examining patients, it was said of him that
he asked all his questions in a way that made them seem a matter of
course.
After the first greetings were over he said:
"I've been rather impatiently waiting for your return to Wanalah, Boyd,
because I've been wanting to floor you with half a dozen authorities
that agree with me as to the construction of _ut_ with the subjunctive
in that passage we came so near fighting about. I've devoted all my
time lately to the task of accumulating ammunition and after supper I'm
going to blow you clear out of the arena. But supper first, of course.
I'm a hungry hygienist and I know the flavor of the Wanalah hams. By
the way, you and I are alone; why shouldn't we be dissolute? If you'll
tell your cook to serve us some roasted black-eyed peas, such as you
and I ate here a year ago,--roasted in the pod you know, and served
with the hot ashes on them,--I'll promise to be happy for a whole year
to come. Of course there'll be broiled tomatoes as an adjunct to the
cold ham, and paper thin wafer biscuit to keep our digestions in order,
and after supper we'll discuss '_ut_ with the subjunctive' as far into
the night as you please."
"Thank you," said Westover, smiling for the first time that day. "I'm
ready for the contest, though really I don't think either of us is
Latin scholar enough to be entitled to 'views' on the subject."
"There you annoyingly agree with the authorities," answered Dr.
Farnsworth. "You see I wrote to Professor Anthon on the subject,
submitting my contentions, and he replied most courteously, suggesting
that if I would supplement my obviously rudimentary Latin studies with
a more considerable reading of Latin texts,--he mentioned fifteen
hundred or so that he thought I might profitably run through in my
leisure moments,--I would gain some slight insight into the grammatical
problem I had undertaken to settle out of my own inner consciousness
and Bullion's Latin Grammar. The thing put me on my mettle, so I wrote
to our own University professor, Dr. Gessner Harrison. What do you
think? He replied: 'My dear Dr. Farnsworth: You're a sublimated idiot
and a good many different kinds of a donkey.' Those weren't his exact
words, you understand, but the paraphrase fairly interprets the spirit
of his reply. However, we'll leave all that till after supper."
So he chattered on, after his habit, and he succeeded not only in
preventing talk of depressing things, but in amusing his host so far as
to awaken something like jollity in him.
But an occurrence during supper threatened to spoil all. A missive
arrived from Webb, borne not by a friend commissioned to "act for him,"
but by a negro servant.
Westover tore the envelope open and read the few lines written upon the
sheet within. They ran as follows:
"Mr. Webb intimated to Mr. Westover today that he would presently send
him a hostile note. Upon reflection Mr. Webb has decided that he cannot
afford to send anything of the kind. It seems to him and to such
friends as he has had time to consult that recent events affecting Mr.
Westover's status in society--events which need not be specified in
detail--have rendered it unnecessary and unbecoming for any gentleman
to pay attention to anything that Mr. Westover may say or do."
Having read the insolent message with no sign of anger that would have
been observed by anybody, Westover turned to his dining-room servant
and said, quite indifferently:
"Send the boy who brought that note to me. I wish to speak to him."
When the negro messenger entered, Westover asked:
"Do you belong to Mr. Webb?"
"No, sir. Laws a Massy, Mas' Boyd, he don't own no folks er nothin'
else. He jes' hires me to fetch and carry for him sometimes."
"I thought so. How much did he pay you to bring this note to me?"
"Eighteen pence, sir."
"Well, now I want you to carry it back to him and I'll give you two and
threepence for the service. I'll make it half a dollar, if you'll tell
him just what I say."
In old Virginia "eighteen pence" meant a quarter of a dollar, and "two
and threepence" meant thirty-seven and a half cents, the shilling then
being sixteen and two-thirds cents, as the result of some ancient
debasement of coin in England.
"Suttenly, sir. Ef what you wants me to say is so superfluous like as
to make him mad, I reckon I kin run faster'n he kin."
"Very well then. I want you to hand him back his letter and say:
"'Mas' Boyd Westover says he hasn't time just now to ride seven miles
to the Court House to pull your nose or slap your jaws, but he'll
attend to the matter at the first convenient opportunity.' Can you say
that?"
"No," interrupted Carley Farnsworth. "Why should you want him to? It
wouldn't add a cubit to the stature of your dignity and it wouldn't be
any worse affront to Webb than you can put upon him by sending his note
back without a word. He would rejoice in a quarrel with you--a safe one
at arm's length I mean. It would exalt him in the eyes of others, and
as he's a member of the legislature sure of his reelection, you can't
challenge him or he you. You may hold any view you please as to '_ut_'
with the subjunctive, but on this matter you simply mustn't obey the
impulses of temporary anger. Send the letter back without a word, and
to-morrow you'll thank me for bringing philosophy and common sense to
the restraint of an impulse that has its root in the dormant but still
potential savagery of your nature."
Westover laughed at the solemn ponderousness of his friend's utterance,
and the laughter was good for him.
"You're right, of course," he said. "Here, Sam, just take this letter
back to Mr. Webb and tell him I sent no message of any kind. And here's
your half dollar."
Then, as the negro left the room the young man said: