Colonel Conway's daughter with unchivalrous disrespect--that you had
put some unforgivable slight upon her--nobody suggests what. In fact
the thing is so vague and shadowy and unsubstantial that it is
difficult even to define it. But Colonel Conway's refusal to join with
us in nominating you has lent a sort of color to it, and this thing,
utterly unsubstantial as it is, has done more than all else to
embarrass our campaign. In your absence it has been impossible to meet
it and throttle it, for nobody but you could have a shadow of authority
to question Colonel Conway on such a subject."
"I understand," answered Boyd; "I'll deal with that matter in a way
that will satisfy myself at any rate, and possibly my friends also.
Thank you for all. I know the situation now, and knowing it, I think I
know how to meet it."
As he said this the pair were entering the Court House village, and
their road took them within a few feet of the house and law office of
Sam Butler, the Democratic candidate for Senator. As they passed,
Butler stepped out into the porch accompanied by Edgar Coffey, and
engaged in the earnest end of a conversation. They could not avoid
hearing Coffey say:
"Well, that's what Judy tole me to tell you, an' ef you do as she says,
she'll take keer o' the rest."
Neither Westover nor Farnsworth said a word until they had passed well
beyond hearing. Then Westover exclaimed:
"I wonder what on earth that means! Surely Judy Peters isn't going to
throw the mountain vote for him."
"Very certainly not," answered Farnsworth, but he said nothing of his
visit to the Queen of the Mountains or of her initiative in Boyd
Westover's nomination.
"No," answered Westover, recalling Judy's last message to himself,
"that isn't even one of the possibilities." But he did not explain the
grounds of his confidence.
After a little, as the two rode into the stable yard of the hotel to
put up their horses, Westover said:
"Nevertheless I'd give something handsome to know what that meant."
"So would I," answered Farnsworth.
They were destined to find out, before the campaign ended, but not yet.
XXIII
COURT DAY
Court Day in old Virginia was an institution. It happened once a month
and it served all the purposes of club, exchange, political assemblage,
muster, and social meeting time. Pretty nearly the whole adult male
population of the county was sure to be present at the county seat on
that day, so that the Virginian who wanted to see anybody, whether to
collect a note or give one, to make a contract or to cancel one, to
arrange a religious meeting or a barbecue, to trade horses or to
exchange views concerning the latest philosophy, to make speeches or to
listen to them, was sure to find present the people who were in any way
related to the matter he had in hand. Those leisurely folk never
thought of bothering themselves to visit anybody on business. Whatever
the business was, it could wait until Court Day, and it did.
Sometimes there was political speaking or the like on Court Day, but
not always. The orators had need of an audience, and if there was
anything of interest going on in Court, everybody was sure to be there
and the orators had nobody to address.
It was so on this occasion. It was a quarterly Court--a grand jury term
of the County Court--and there was a murder trial of sensational
character in progress. As a result everybody who could find a square
foot of space within the Court room, in which to bestow his person,
sought place there the moment the Court opened, and held it tenaciously
throughout the session. The struggle for place was all the greater
because Jack Towns, just returned from his Rocky Mountain trip, was
present as attorney and counsellor for the accused man, and Jack
Towns's eloquence was something that everybody wanted to hear. Besides
that, his skill in confusing a witness and reducing him to pulp was
something that nobody wanted to miss. Jack was a lawyer whose equipment
lacked little of perfection. His learning was adequate, his sagacity
almost preternatural, and when he had a case to conduct the
Commonwealth's Attorney was in a tremor of blue funk from the
beginning, the Judge was alertly mindful lest his judgment should be
unduly swayed by persuasive eloquence, and the populace was in the
humor that possesses an audience when a great star and a great company
are to present a great drama or tragedy or comedy as the case may be.
Jack was too deeply engaged with "the work of saving a human life," as
he said, to talk for more than half a minute with Westover, when the
two met at the stables of the inn.
"I'm going to Wanalah for the night," he said. "Then and there we can
talk. At present I have only time to tell you that you are, three times
over, the richest man in Virginia and that your wealth includes a
practically limitless supply of ready money. I haven't time now to tell
you more, but I tell you this in the interest of your campaign. Give
all the jamborees you think of; let the money flow like water, and I'll
take care of the results."
"But, Jack, I'm not buying my election, and--"
"Of course not. I understand all that. I only want you to know that for
legitimate expense your bank account is ample. Now I must go. I've a
human life in my hands. I'll be with you at Wanalah to-night. Go home
when you get ready. I'll be there when I can. So long."[1]
[Footnote 1: The expression "so long," as here used, is not an
anachronism. It was in use in Virginia, and in well nigh universal use
in South Carolina before the war. Its adoption at the North came much
later, I believe. Mr. James Russell Lowell once suggested to me that it
might be a corruption of "salaam."--Author.]
In Virginia in those old, sunny days, hospitality was taken for granted
in that confident fashion, and the welcome always justified the
assumption.
But before the court was opened, and during its noon recess, which was
shortened to three-quarters of an hour because of the importance of the
case at bar, Boyd Westover found it difficult to move about, because of
the besetting eagerness of his friends to greet him. In answer to
questions he frequently repeated a little impromptu speech.
"I was in utter ignorance of my nomination until I saw placards this
morning. I haven't even yet found out what it means, and I really care
nothing for the place. I'd far rather stay at Wanalah and look after my
affairs. But as my friends have nominated me I'm a candidate and I
shall stay in the race till the polls close on election day. I learn
that some persons--I don't know who--have been suggesting things to my
detriment. I am here to ask about that, to challenge every insinuation
against my character and every criticism of my conduct. I stand ready
to answer. I ask only that those who seek to injure me shall come out
into the open, make themselves known and put their accusations into
definite form so that they may be met and either refuted or
established. I don't relish attacks in the dark or from behind masks,
and I am going to make known my opinion of the sneaks and cowards who
make such attacks. I'm going to attend every gathering of my fellow
citizens between now and election day, and at every one of them I'm
going to challenge any and every body as I do now, who has aught to say
against my character or my conduct to say it openly like a man. If any
one does that, I shall reply in such fashion as I think appropriate in
each case. I stand before the community as Westover of Wanalah, a man
conscious of his own rectitude and prepared to vindicate the honor of
the name he bears at all times, against all comers and at all hazards.
That is all I have to say, and it ought to be enough to satisfy
honorable men and to silence sneaks and slanderers."
So far as the men of honest mind who were gathered together that day
were concerned, this challenge seemed abundantly satisfying. Many who
had entertained doubts because of the candidate's absence, abandoned
their doubts and frankly declared their purpose to support Westover at
the election. As for Webb and his friends, they found themselves sorely
embarrassed. Their opportunity had lain in Westover's unexplained
absence. His appearance now, and his frank and manly challenge, robbed
them of their weapons and their ammunition. They dared not say aught
that might be construed into an accusation, and if any of them
insinuated aught to Westover's discredit he was sure of a peremptory
challenge to say just what he meant.
It was obvious to Webb and his supporters that something must be done
to meet and neutralize the effect of Boyd Westover's presence and
defiance. They still had "regularity" behind them. Webb was the
regularly nominated candidate of the Whig party, strongly dominant in
that region, and presumably he would receive the regular party vote.
Then, too, as he explained to his partisans, most of the Democrats, who
would of course support their own party candidate, were men friendly to
Westover, whose votes were so many subtracted from the support that
would otherwise be his.
"I regard Sam Butler's candidacy as a thing altogether in my interest,"
he said confidently, "and then," he jubilantly added, "I have
satisfactory assurance that the whole mountain vote will be mine, and
so I regard my election as a foregone conclusion, a triumphant
assurance of a future that holds human affairs securely within its
grasp."
That was a phrase dear to Webb's soul. He had spent half a night in
concocting it and committing it to memory. "You know I've been up in
the mountains, and I've been royally entertained by Her Majesty the
Queen."
"Has she definitely promised you the mountain vote?" asked one who had
a passion for exactitude.
"Practically, yes. You know Judy Peters talks in parables and never
commits herself; but a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, and
her parting words to me left nothing of assurance to be desired. Now
what I want to say is this: My election is secure, but I want my
constituency to include as large a proportion of the planters, men of
my own class, as possible, and so I have accepted Sam Butler's
challenge to meet him and divide time at the Barbecue he's going to
give over at Fighting Creek, the day after to-morrow. I suppose
Westover will be there by Sam's invitation, and between Sam and me he
won't be left a leg to stand on."
"Well, may be so," muttered Foggy, whose experience in politics had
bred chronic scepticism in his mind; "but Boyd Westover has been
talkin' right out in meetin' to-day, an' besides--"
"What is it, Foggy?"
"Well, Jack Towns is here, you know, an' if he happens to make a speech
over there he'll tangle you up like a fish-line after you've caught an
eel on it."
"I'm not afraid of him," answered Webb, confidently.
"So much the worse," muttered Foggy. "Maybe he wouldn't do you up so
badly if you were properly afraid of him. However, we must take things
as we find 'em, and candidates likewise, and I'll be over at Fighting
Creek with a lot o' fellows to shout for you, Webb."
When Court opened and everybody made a rush for places in the court
house, Boyd strolled over to the inn whose proprietor insisted upon
calling it a hotel, and, going to the room he had taken there for the
day, threw himself upon the bed for a sleep of two or three hours. At
the end of that time he arose refreshed, took a cold sponge bath, and
proceeded to change his rough mountain costume for the more
conventional garments his body servant had sent him from Wanalah. After
the fashion of the time and country, these consisted of a "pleated
bosom" shirt, a damask silk vest, a long tailed broadcloth coat, a pair
of "doe-skin" trousers, white socks with silken clocks, and a pair of
"low quarter" shoes with broad silken ties. It was certain that before
mounting his horse again for the journey to Wanalah, Boyd Westover
would shed the shoes at any rate and don his high-topped boots instead,
but for the present he felt a social obligation upon him to dress
conventionally; for he had found at the hotel a note from Major
Magister, the leader of the bar, saying:
"Of course you'll dine with me at four o'clock, Westover. The Judge
will be present, and I hope Jack Towns and the Commonwealth's Attorney
also, prepared to reconcile the differences created by this trial, and
become friends again. But none of these is what I mean when I say 'of
course' you'll dine with me. The 'of course' takes the much more
pleasing form of a charming young gentlewoman from Boston,--Miss
Millicent Danvers,--to whom we all want to show every possible
attention, and especially to introduce you as a typical young gentleman
of Virginia. She is with us only for the day. So don't send any
excuses, but come in your own proper person."
Remembering that Boyd Westover was a gallant, hot-blooded young
Virginian, and that it had been many moons since he had enjoyed
association with young women of his class and caste, it is easy to
understand the eagerness with which he welcomed this opportunity to
"get himself civilized again," as he framed the thought in his mind.
"From Boston?" he reflected. "I suppose she'll have gold-rimmed
spectacles and talk philosophy. I never met a Boston girl, so this will
be a new experience. After all, I suppose women are very much alike, no
matter where they come from. Doubtless this one has pulses, just as
other girls have, and perhaps I shall be able to put my finger on them.
At any rate it will interest me to try. My opportunities promise to be
good. Major Magister and the Judge and Jack Towns and the
Commonwealth's Attorney are sure to fall foul of each other over
abstruse law points that the rest of us know nothing about, and that
will leave mine hostess and the Boston maid to me."
It was in this mood of pleasurable but by no means enthusiastic
anticipation that Westover entered the home of his host, half an hour
after the jury had returned a verdict of "not guilty," in the case of
Jack Towns's client--a verdict that was based rather upon the absence
of evidence that Jack Towns had succeeded in excluding than upon the
evidence actually presented at the trial.
XXIV
A PERFECT WOMAN--AND A MAN
When his hostess presented him to Millicent Danvers, Westover could
scarcely believe that this was the young woman he had been invited to
meet. He had constructed a portrait of her in his imagination and she
did not satisfy any of the details of the picture. He had expected to
find her tall, bony, Roman-nosed, and sallow. She was instead of
moderate height, plump, with delicately moulded Grecian features, and a
complexion of pink and white that had no suggestion of sallowness in
it. He had expected spectacles; instead he found a pair of gray-blue
eyes that looked into his own with candor and fearless trustfulness,
like those of a child of four or five years of age, and yet with the
confidence and courage that come only of good breeding allied to
perfect innocence. He had prepared himself to meet an aggressive, self
assertive manner; instead he found all the shyness of young girlhood,
all the modesty of maiden inexperience, allied with a frank,
self-respecting truthfulness that was fearless because of its
confidence of right intent.
They talked, of course, about the young woman's impressions of Virginia.
"It is lovely," she said. "You know it is all a surprise, an
astonishment to me."
"How so? Would you mind explaining that?"
"I cannot exactly explain it. You see it's like a pleasant dream. You
know it made you happy while you were dreaming it, and you know it
makes you happy after you're awake, but you can't tell just what it was
you dreamed or just why it made you happy. It is so elusive that you
can't grasp it and put it into words. I'm still dreaming Virginia, and
I know I shall never be able to tell anybody why the dream is so
delicious. I try to think it out sometimes, but I can't. Whenever I
make up my mind that it is because of this thing or that, I say 'No,
that isn't it.' I suppose it's a thousand little things put together.
But tell me about this election of yours. I'm talking too much about
myself and my thoughts."
"No, you are not. The election doesn't interest me, and what you've
been saying does. Go on, please. You had more in your mind."
"How can you know that?" she asked in genuine surprise.
"Because you spoke of 'a thousand little things.' I wish you would tell
me about a dozen of them, or even half a dozen."
With a world of childlike seriousness in her wide open eyes the girl
responded:
"I suppose I ought not to have said a thousand. That was an
exaggeration, and exaggeration is as bad as any other kind of fibbing,
isn't it?"
"In some cases, yes--in some, no. Certainly it was not so in this case.
Your phrase carried to my mind precisely the thought you had in your
own, and so it was perfectly truthful."
"I'm glad you think so. I try always to tell the truth."
"So I should imagine. Now will you not go on and tell me some of the
things that please you in our Virginia life? Is it so different from
your life up North? You see I have never been North."
"Oh, yes, so different! I think most of us up North are good people,
just as I suppose most people are everywhere. But there's a
difference--a something, I don't know just what. Yes, I do, too, in
part at least, though I'm not sure I can put it into words. We live
within ourselves, and you don't. We love our friends and are kind to
them, but we aren't close to them, as people down here are. It is
because we are shy, I suppose. Our attitude toward money values is
different. I don't know that our people care more about money than you
do, but--well, we take it into account as you do not. But that isn't
what I mean. There is a certain graciousness in your ways of living, a
warmth, a color--I don't know what to call it--that fascinates me. We
are scrupulously polite to each other; you are cordially courteous
instead. I suppose that too is because we are shyer than you are. We
shrink from self revelation as you do not. I think we are really as
warm-hearted as you Virginians are, but we are more reserved."
"You are doubtless right. I've observed that temperamental peculiarity
in the Northern men I've met. At the University there was a young man
from Boston who became my chum under rather peculiar circumstances, and
I studied him closely. Because of a certain delicacy of constitution
which rendered your Boston winters dangerous to his health, he was sent
to the University of Virginia instead of Harvard. He didn't know our
ways, and as a 'Yankee'--you know how unjustly that word has come to
have evil significance with us--he was a good deal shunned, and things
were said, and--well, it so came about that he and I became chums and
occupied a room together on the lawn."
"Yes, I know," she answered dreamily, as if recalling a story. "But you
are suppressing the truth, Mr. Westover."
In an astonishment that well nigh made him spring from his chair, he
asked:
"How do you know that?"
"Our hostess is rising," she replied with a calm dignity that was
fascinating to the young man. "We ladies must leave you gentlemen to
your wine and cigars."
"I do not take wine," he replied, "and as for cigars I shall gladly
give them up in favor of a further conversation with you. If you
permit, I will quit the table with you."
"There!" she exclaimed. "That's one of the 'thousand' things I spoke
of. In Virginia you gentlemen manifest a certain deference toward women
that I have seen nowhere else. It is gallantly protective,
respectfully, not servilely submissive, a tribute of strength to
weakness which carries with it no reflection upon the weakness, and to
women it is the most fascinating thing imaginable. I've expressed it
lamely, but--" and with that she took a handful of cigars from the
passing box and added:
"At any rate your courtesy to me shall not cost you your smoke. We
won't go into the drawing room, but into the porch. The day is mild,
and I want to tell you that story."
"Tell me first," he said as they passed into the porch, "how you happen
to know anything about it."
"It is simple enough. I've heard my brother tell the story with
enthusiasm many, many times."
"Your brother?"
"Yes. Holmes Wentworth is my elder brother. My mother was married
twice, you know."
"I see. I didn't know. If I had known--"
"If you had known you wouldn't have spoken of the matter at all. And as
it was, you were suppressing all the interesting facts. Now I'm going
to relate them according to the gospel of Holmes Wentworth. In a
debating society one night he expressed some opinions that gave offence
to certain of the students, and some proposal of censure was made and
hotly advocated. You opposed it, declaring that debate without absolute
free speech must be a mockery. Your impassioned utterance won approval,
and the resolution was voted down with only three or four men voting
for it. They were not Virginians and--"
"They were the sons of negro traders, every man of them," interrupted
Westover; "and for the negro trader and his belongings Virginia
gentlemen have neither recognition nor tolerance. They are the vilest--"
He paused in search of a more effective epithet, and she spoke.
"I know all about that," she said, "and you needn't bite an inch off
your next cigar by way of expressing yourself. Let me go on with the
story. Those 'lewd fellows of the baser sort' went down into
Charlottesville and organized a crew of ruffians to drive Holmes
Wentworth out of the University and out of Virginia. You heard of the
thing, and arming yourself with all the Colt's revolvers you could
borrow, you hurried into the town. There you found Holmes sorely beset
by a dozen armed ruffians and a crowd of other jeering dissolutes. You
pushed him up into a corner, thrust a pair of the pistols into his
hands, and took your place beside him, saying: 'If they rush us, shoot
with both hands, and _shoot to kill_; there's no good in wasting
ammunition.' Then you called out to the mob: 'Now do your worst, you
cowards! But the first man that crosses that curbstone dies the death
of the dog that he is, and we'll send some others to--' really you used
some dreadful language, Mr. Westover, which I can't repeat, though I
know it all by heart. And a little later, after the mob had quailed
before you, you swore worse than ever, ordering them to disperse or
you'd fire into them and send some of them to the place you had already
mentioned. Oh, it was glorious! But the sheriff came and drove the
crowd away. You see I know the whole story. Do you wonder that I find
things to like in Virginia? Then you took Holmes to live in the same
room with you, and after you learned to understand him as well as he
already understood you, he and you became bosom friends."
"Thank you," he replied, throwing away a cigar that he had forgotten to
light; "but really Holmes's imagination is creative and he has made too
much of a trifle."
"He hasn't any imagination at all," she replied; "he's the most
prosaic, literal, realistic fact mongerer imaginable, as you very well
know. But now I'm going to turn woman again and talk about myself."
Westover thought that about the most tactful turning of a conversation
that he had ever known. But she gave him no time to wonder over it.
"I'm staying at The Oaks, you know, with Margaret Conway. She's the
very sweetest, truest, loveliest girl I ever knew. She's fit to be the
wife of the noblest man in Virginia."
Westover winced, and the girl observed the fact without recognizing it
in any way. Instead she went on:
"You see she was my guest for six weeks a year ago, and I'm returning
her visit and incidentally enjoying life better than I ever dreamed
that one could do. By the way, there's to be a dance at Dr. Carver's
over at Fighting Creek, wherever that is, to-morrow night--no, it's the
next night, and as there is to be some sort of public meeting near
there that day, I suppose I shall see you at the party."
At that moment there was a double irruption from the dining room on the
one side and the drawing room on the other, into the porch to see an
autumn sunset of peculiar gorgeousness. A little later Boyd Westover
took his leave, and bidding Jack Towns follow at his convenience, set
out for Wanalah.