If Mr. Barbo had not been constitutionally unlucky, he might have

perceived Mr. Hopper, before dark that evening, in conversation with Mr.

Hood about a certain customer who lived up town, and presently leave the

store by the side entrance. He walked as rapidly as his legs would carry

him, for they were a trifle short for his body; and in due time, as the

lamps were flickering, he arrived near Colonel Carvel's large double

residence, on Tenth and Locust streets. Then he walked slowly along

Tenth, his eyes lifted to the tall, curtained windows. Now and anon they

scanned passers-by for a chance acquaintance.

Mr. Hopper walked around the block, arriving again opposite the Carvel

house, and beside Mr. Renault's, which was across from it. Eliphalet had

inherited the principle of mathematical chances. It is a fact that the

discreet sometimes take chances. Towards the back of Mr. Renault's

residence, a wide area was sunk to the depth of a tall man, which was

apparently used for the purpose of getting coal and wood into the cellar.

Mr. Hopper swept the neighborhood with a glance. The coast was clear, and

he dropped into the area.

Although the evening was chill, at first Mr. Hopper perspired very

freely. He crouched in the area while the steps of pedestrians beat above

his head, and took no thought but of escape. At last, however, he grew

cooler, removed his hat, and peeped over the stone coping. Colonel

Carvel's house--her house--was now ablaze with lights, and the shades not

yet drawn. There was the dining room, where the negro butler was moving

about the table; and the pantry, where the butler went occasionally; and

the kitchen, with black figures moving about. But upstairs on the two

streets was the sitting room. The straight figure of the Colonel passed

across the light. He held a newspaper in his hand. Suddenly, full in the

window, he stopped and flung away the paper. A graceful shadow slipped

across the wall. Virginia laid her hands on his shoulders, and he stooped

to kiss her. Now they sat between the curtains, she on the arm of his

chair and leaning on him, together looking out of the window.

How long this lasted Mr. Hopper could not say. Even the wise forget

themselves. But all at once a wagon backed and bumped against the curb in

front of him, and Eliphalet's head dropped as if it had been struck by

the wheel. Above him a sash screamed as it opened, and he heard Mr.

Renault's voice say, to some person below:

"Is that you, Capitaine Grant?"

"The same," was the brief reply.

"I am charmed that you have brought the wood. I thought that you had

forgotten me."

"I try to do what I say, Mr. Renault."

"Attendez--wait!" cried Mr. Renault, and closed the window.

Now was Eliphalet's chance to bolt. The perspiration had come again, and

it was cold. But directly the excitable little man, Renault, had appeared

on the pavement above him. He had been running.

"It is a long voyage from Gravois with a load of wood, Capitaine--I am

very grateful."

"Business is business, Mr. Renault," was the self-contained reply.

"Alphonse!" cried Mr. Renault, "Alphonse!" A door opened in the back

wall. "Du vin pour Monsieur le Capitaine."

"Oui, M'sieu."

Eliphalet was too frightened to wonder why this taciturn handler of wood

was called Captain, and treated with such respect.

"Guess I won't take any wine to-night, Mr. Renault," said he. "You go

inside, or you'll take cold."

Mr. Renault protested, asked about all the residents of Gravois way, and

finally obeyed. Eliphalet's heart was in his mouth. A bolder spirit would

have dashed for liberty. Eliphalet did not possess that kind of bravery.

He was waiting for the Captain to turn toward his wagon.

He looked down the area instead, with the light from the street lamp on

his face. Fear etched an ineffaceable portrait of him on Mr. Hopper's

mind, so that he knew him instantly when he saw him years afterward.

Little did he reckon that the fourth time he was to see him this man was

to be President of the United States. He wore a close-cropped beard, an

old blue army overcoat, and his trousers were tucked into a pair of muddy

cowhide boots.

Swiftly but silently the man reached down and hauled Eliphalet to the

sidewalk by the nape of the neck.

"What were you doing there?" demanded he of the blue overcoat, sternly.

Eliphalet did not answer. With one frantic wrench he freed himself, and

ran down Locust Street. At the corner, turning fearfully, he perceived

the man in the overcoat calmly preparing to unload his wood.

CHAPTER III

THE UNATTAINABLE SIMPLICITY

To Mr. Hopper the being caught was the unpardonable crime. And indeed,

with many of us, it is humiliation and not conscience which makes the

sting. He walked out to the end of the city's growth westward, where the

new houses were going up. He had reflected coolly on consequences, and

found there were none to speak of. Many a moralist, Mr. Davitt included,

would have shaken his head at this. Miss Crane's whole Puritan household

would have raised their hands in horror at such a doctrine.

Some novelists I know of, who are in reality celebrated surgeons in

disguise, would have shown a good part of Mr. Eliphalet Hopper's mental

insides in as many words as I have taken to chronicle his arrival in St.

Louis. They invite us to attend a clinic, and the horrible skill with

which they wield the scalpel holds us spellbound. For God has made all of

us, rogue and saint, burglar and burgomaster, marvellously alike. We read

a patent medicine circular and shudder with seven diseases. We peruse one

of Mr. So and So's intellectual tonics and are sure we are complicated

scandals, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Alas, I have neither the skill nor the scalpel to show the diseases of

Mr. Hopper's mind; if, indeed, he had any. Conscience, when contracted,

is just as troublesome as croup. Mr. Hopper was thoroughly healthy. He

had ambition, as I have said. But he was not morbidly sensitive. He was

calm enough when he got back to the boarding-house, which he found in as

high a pitch of excitement as New Englanders ever reach.

And over what?

Over the prospective arrival that evening of the Brices, mother and son,

from Boston. Miss Crane had received the message in the morning.

Palpitating with the news; she had hurried rustling to Mrs. Abner Reed,

with the paper in her hand.

"I guess you don't mean Mrs. Appleton Brice," said Mrs. Reed.

"That's just who I mean," answered Miss Crane, triumphantly,--nay,

aggressively.

Mrs. Abner shook her curls in a way that made people overwhelm her with

proofs.

"Mirandy, you're cracked," said she. "Ain't you never been to Boston?"

Miss Crane bridled. This was an uncalled-for insult.

"I guess I visited down Boston-way oftener than you, Eliza Reed. You

never had any clothes."

Mrs. Reed's strength was her imperturbability.

"And you never set eyes on the Brice house, opposite the Common, with the

swelled front? I'd like to find out where you were a-visitin'. And you've

never heard tell of the Brice homestead, at Westbury, that was Colonel

Wilton Brice's, who fought in the Revolution? I'm astonished at you,

Mirandy. When I used to be at the Dales', in Mount Vernon Street, in

thirty-seven, Mrs. Charles Atterbury Brice used to come there in her

carriage, a-callin'. She was Appleton's mother. Severe! Save us,"

exclaimed Mrs. Reed, "but she was stiff as starched crepe. His father was

minister to France. The Brices were in the India trade, and they had

money enough to buy the whole of St. Louis."

Miss Crane rattled the letter in her hand. She brought forth her

reserves.

"Yes, and Appleton Brice lost it all, in the panic. And then he died, and

left the widow and son without a cent."

Mrs. Reed took off her spectacles.

"I want to know!" she exclaimed. "The durned fool! Well, Appleton Brice

didn't have the family brains, ands he was kind of soft-hearted. I've

heard Mehitabel Dale say that." She paused to reflect. "So they're coming

here?" she added. "I wonder why."

Miss Crane's triumph was not over.

"Because Silas Whipple was some kin to Appleton Brice, and he has offered

the boy a place in his law office."

Miss Reed laid down her knitting.

"Save us!" she said. "This is a day of wonders, Mirandy. Now Lord help

the boy if he's gain' to work for the Judge."

"The Judge has a soft heart, if he is crabbed," declared the spinster.

"I've heard say of a good bit of charity he's done. He's a soft heart."

"Soft as a green quince!" said Mrs. Abner, scornfully. "How many friends

has he?"

"Those he has are warm enough," Miss Crane retorted. "Look at Colonel

Carvel, who has him to dinner every Sunday."

"That's plain as your nose, Mirandy Crane. They both like quarrellin'

better than anything in this world."

"Well," said Miss Crane, "I must go make ready for the Brices."

Such was the importance of the occasion, however, that she could not

resist calling at Mrs. Merrill's room, and she knocked at Mrs. Chandler's

door to tell that lady and her daughter.

No Burke has as yet arisen in this country of ours to write a Peerage.

Fame awaits him. Indeed, it was even then awaiting him, at the time of

the panic of 1857. With what infinite pains were the pedigree and

possessions of the Brice family pieced together that day by the scattered

residents from Puritan-land in the City of St. Louis. And few buildings

would have borne the wear and tear of many house-cleanings of the kind

Miss Crane indulged in throughout the morning and afternoon.

Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, on his return from business, was met on the steps

and requested to wear his Sunday clothes. Like the good republican that

he was, Mr. Hopper refused. He had ascertained that the golden charm

which made the Brices worthy of tribute had been lost. Commercial

supremacy,--that was Mr. Hopper's creed. Family is a good thing, but of

what use is a crest without the panels on which to paint it? Can a

diamond brooch shine on a calico gown? Mr. Hopper deemed church the place

for worship. He likewise had his own idol in his closet.

Eliphalet at Willesden had heard a great deal of Boston airs and graces

and intellectuality, of the favored few of that city who lived in

mysterious houses, and who crossed the sea in ships. He pictured Mrs.

Brice asking for a spoon, and young Stephen sniffing at Mrs. Crane's

boarding-house. And he resolved with democratic spirit that he would

teach Stephen a lesson, if opportunity offered. His own discrepancy

between the real and the imagined was no greater than that of the rest of

his fellow-boarders.

Barring Eliphalet, there was a dress parade that evening,--silks and

bombazines and broadcloths, and Miss Crane's special preserves on the

tea-table. Alas, that most of the deserved honors of this world should

fall upon barren ground!

The quality which baffled Mr. Hopper, and some other boarders, was

simplicity. None save the truly great possess it (but this is not

generally known). Mrs. Brice was so natural, that first evening at tea,

that all were disappointed. The hero upon the reviewing stand with the

halo of the Unknown behind his head is one thing; the lady of Family who

sits beside you at a boarding-house and discusses the weather and the

journey is quite another. They were prepared to hear Mrs. Brice rail at

the dirt of St. Louis and the crudity of the West. They pictured her

referring with sighs to her Connections, and bewailing that Stephen could

not have finished his course at Harvard.

She did nothing of the sort.

The first shock was so great that Mrs. Abner Reed cried in the privacy of

her chamber, and the Widow Crane confessed her disappointment to the

confiding ear of her bosom friend, Mrs. Merrill. Not many years later a

man named Grant was to be in Springfield, with a carpet bag, despised as

a vagabond. A very homely man named Lincoln went to Cincinnati to try a

case before the Supreme Court, and was snubbed by a man named Stanton.

When we meet the truly great, several things may happen. In the first

place, we begin to believe in their luck, or fate, or whatever we choose

to call it, and to curse our own. We begin to respect ourselves the more,

and to realize that they are merely clay like us, that we are great men

without Opportunity. Sometimes, if we live long enough near the Great, we

begin to have misgivings. Then there is hope for us.

Mrs. Brice, with her simple black gowns, quiet manner, and serene face,

with her interest in others and none in herself, had a wonderful effect

upon the boarders. They were nearly all prepared to be humble. They grew

arrogant and pretentious. They asked Mrs. Brice if she knew this and that

person of consequence in Boston, with whom they claimed relationship or

intimacy. Her answers were amiable and self-contained.

But what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it is

he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. It would be

so easy to paint Stephen in shining colors, and to make him a first-class

prig (the horror of all novelists), that we must begin with the

drawbacks. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had at that

time what has been called "the Boston manner." This was not Stephen's

fault, but Boston's. Young Mr. Brice possessed that wonderful power of

expressing distance in other terms besides ells and furlongs,--and yet

he was simple enough with it all.

Many a furtive stare he drew from the table that evening. There were one

or two of discernment present, and they noted that his were the generous

features of a marked man,--if he chose to become marked. He inherited his

mother's look; hers was the face of a strong woman, wide of sympathy,

broad of experience, showing peace of mind amid troubles--the touch of

femininity was there to soften it.

Her son had the air of the college-bred. In these surroundings he escaped

arrogance by the wonderful kindliness of his eye, which lighted when his

mother spoke to him. But he was not at home at Miss Crane's table, and he

made no attempt to appear at his ease.

This was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Let it not be

thought that he was the only one at that table to indulge in a little

secret rejoicing. But it was a peculiar satisfaction to him to reflect

that these people, who had held up their heads for so many generations,

were humbled at last. To be humbled meant, in Mr. Hopper's philosophy, to

lose one's money. It was thus he gauged the importance of his

acquaintances; it was thus he hoped some day to be gauged. And he trusted

and believed that the time would come when he could give his fillip to

the upper rim of fortune's wheel, and send it spinning downward.

Mr. Hopper was drinking his tea and silently forming an estimate. He

concluded that young Brice was not the type to acquire the money which

his father had lost. And he reflected that Stephen must feel as strange

in St. Louis as a cod might amongst the cat-fish in the Mississippi. So

the assistant manager of Carvel & Company resolved to indulge in the

pleasure of patronizing the Bostonian.

"Callatin' to go to work?" he asked him, as the boarders walked into the

best room.

"Yes," replied Stephen, taken aback. And it may be said here that, if Mr.

Hopper underestimated him, certainly he underestimated Mr. Hopper.

"It ain't easy to get a job this Fall," said Eliphalet, "St. Louis houses

have felt the panic."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"What business was you callatin' to grapple with?"

"Law," said Stephen.

"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Hopper, "I want to know." In reality he was a bit

chagrined, having pictured with some pleasure the Boston aristocrat going

from store to store for a situation. "You didn't come here figurin' on

makin' a pile, I guess."

"A what?"

"A pile."

Stephen looked down and over Mr. Hopper attentively. He took in the

blocky shoulders and the square head, and he pictured the little eyes at

a vanishing-point in lines of a bargain. Then humor blessed humor--came

to his rescue. He had entered the race in the West, where all start

equal. He had come here, like this man who was succeeding, to make his

living. Would he succeed?

Mr. Hopper drew something out of his pocket, eyed Miss Crane, and bit off

a corner.

"What office was you going into?" he asked genially. Mr. Brice decided to

answer that.

"Judge Whipple's--unless he has changed his mind." Eliphalet gave him a

look more eloquent than words.

"Know the Judge?"

Silent laughter.

"If all the Fourth of Julys we've had was piled into one," said Mr.

Hopper, slowly and with conviction, "they wouldn't be a circumstance to

Silas Whipple when he gets mad. My boss, Colonel Carvel, is the only man

in town who'll stand up to him. I've seen 'em begin a quarrel in the

store and carry it all the way up the street. I callate you won't stay

with him a great while."

CHAPTER IV

BLACK CATTLE

Later that evening Stephen Brice was sitting by the open windows in his

mother's room, looking on the street-lights below.

"Well, my dear," asked the lady, at length, "what do you think of it

all?"

"They are kind people," he said.

"Yes, they are kind," she assented, with a sigh. "But they are not--they

are not from among our friends, Stephen."

"I thought that one of our reasons for coming West, mother," answered

Stephen.

His mother looked pained.

"Stephen, how can you! We came West in order that you might have more

chance for the career to which you are entitled. Our friends in Boston

were more than good."

He left the window and came and stood behind her chair, his hands clasped

playfully beneath her chin.

"Have you the exact date about you, mother?"

"What date, Stephen?"

"When I shall leave St. Louis for the United States Senate. And you must

not forget that there is a youth limit in our Constitution for senators."

Then the widow smiled,--a little sadly, perhaps. But still a wonderfully

sweet smile. And it made her strong face akin to all that was human and

helpful.

"I believe that you have the subject of my first speech in that august

assembly. And, by the way, what was it?"

"It was on 'The Status of the Emigrant,'" she responded instantly,

thereby proving that she was his mother.

"And it touched the Rights of Privacy," he added, laughing, "which do not

seem to exist in St. Louis boarding-houses."

"In the eyes of your misguided profession, statesmen and authors and

emigrants and other public charges have no Rights of Privacy," said she.

"Mr. Longfellow told me once that they were to name a brand of flour for

him, and that he had no redress."

"Have you, too, been up before Miss Crane's Commission?" he asked, with

amused interest.

His mother laughed.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"They have some expert members," he continued. "This Mrs. Abner Reed

could be a shining light in any bar. I overheard a part of her

cross-examination. She--she had evidently studied our case--"

"My dear," answered Mrs. Brice, "I suppose they know all about us." She

was silent a moment, I had so hoped that they wouldn't. They lead the

same narrow life in this house that they did in their little New England

towns. They--they pity us, Stephen."

"Mother!"

"I did not expect to find so many New Englanders here--I wish that Mr.

Whipple had directed us elsewhere-"

"He probably thought that we should feel at home among New Englanders. I

hope the Southerners will be more considerate. I believe they will," he

added.

"They are very proud," said his mother. "A wonderful people,--born

aristocrats. You don't remember those Randolphs with whom we travelled

through England. They were with us at Hollingdean, Lord Northwell's

place. You were too small at the time. There was a young girl, Eleanor

Randolph, a beauty. I shall never forget the way she entered those

English drawing-rooms. They visited us once in Beacon Street, afterwards.

And I have heard that there are a great many good Southern families here

in St. Louis."

"You did not glean that from Judge Whipple's letter, mother," said

Stephen, mischievously.

"He was very frank in his letter," sighed Mrs. Brice.

"I imagine he is always frank, to put it delicately."

"Your father always spoke in praise of Silas Whipple, my dear. I have

heard him call him one of the ablest lawyers in the country. He won a

remarkable case for Appleton here, and he once said that the Judge would

have sat on the Supreme Bench if he had not been pursued with such

relentlessness by rascally politicians."

"The Judge indulges in a little relentlessness now and then, himself. He

is not precisely what might be termed a mild man, if what we hear is

correct."

Mrs. Brice started.

"What have you heard?" she asked.

"Well, there was a gentleman on the steamboat who said that it took more

courage to enter the Judge's private office than to fight a Border

Ruffian. And another, a young lawyer, who declared that he would rather

face a wild cat than ask Whipple a question on the new code. And yet he

said that the Judge knew more law than any man in the West. And lastly,

there is a polished gentleman named Hopper here from Massachusetts who

enlightened me a little more."

Stephen paused and bit his tongue. He saw that she was distressed by

these things. Heaven knows that she had borne enough trouble in the last

few months.

"Come, mother," he said gently, "you should know how to take my jokes by

this time. I didn't mean it. I am sure the Judge is a good man,--one of

those aggressive good men who make enemies. I have but a single piece of

guilt to accuse him of."

"And what is that?" asked the widow.

"The cunning forethought which he is showing in wishing to have it said

that a certain Senator and Judge Brice was trained in his office."

"Stephen--you goose!" she said.

Her eye wandered around the room,--Widow Crane's best bedroom. It was

dimly lighted by an extremely ugly lamp. The hideous stuffy bed curtains

and the more hideous imitation marble mantel were the two objects that

held her glance. There was no change in her calm demeanor. But Stephen,

who knew his mother, felt that her little elation over her arrival had

ebbed, Neither would confess dejection to the other.

"I--even I--" said Stephen, tapping his chest, "have at least made the

acquaintance of one prominent citizen, Mr. Eliphalet D. Hopper. According

to Mr. Dickens, he is a true American gentleman, for he chews tobacco. He

has been in St. Louis five years, is now assistant manager of the largest

dry goods house, and still lives in one of Miss Crane's four-dollar

rooms. I think we may safely say that he will be a millionaire before I

am a senator."

He paused.

"And mother?"

"Yes, dear."

He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window.

"I think that it would be better if I did the same thing."

"What do you mean, my son--"

"If I went to work,--started sweeping out a store, I mean. See here,

mother, you've sacrificed enough for me already. After paying father's

debts, we've come out here with only a few thousand dollars, and the nine

hundred I saved out of this year's Law School allowance. What shall we do

when that is gone? The honorable legal profession, as my friend reminded

me to-night, is not the swiftest road to millions."

With a mother's discernment she guessed the agitation, he was striving to

hide; she knew that he had been gathering courage for this moment for

months. And she knew that he was renouncing thus lightly, for her sake an

ambition he had had from his school days.

Widow passed her hand over her brow. It was a space before she answered

him.

"My son," she said, let us never speak of this again:

"It was your father's dearest wish that you should become a lawyer and

--and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us."

She rose and kissed him good-night.

"Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning, remember

his kindness, and--."

"And keep my temper. I shall, mother."

A while later he stole gently back into her room again. She was on her

knees by the walnut bedstead.

At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane's, girded for the

struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple. He was not afraid, but a

poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to be

bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of his

father. Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and

believe in others having a hard time.

To a young man, who as his father's heir in Boston had been the subject

of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly

distasteful. But it had to be gone through. So presently, after inquiry,

he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome of

which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be

completed. Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle

of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty

stairway.

Here was a sign, "Law office of Silas Whipple."

Stephen climbed the stairs, and arrived at a ground glass door, on which

the sign was repeated. Behind that door was the future: so he opened it

fearfully, with an impulse to throw his arm above his head. But he was

struck dumb on beholding, instead of a dragon, a good-natured young man

who smiled a broad welcome. The reaction was as great as though one

entered a dragon's den, armed to the teeth, to find a St. Bernard doing

the honors.

Stephen's heart went out to this young man,--after that organ had jumped

back into its place. This keeper of the dragon looked the part. Even the

long black coat which custom then decreed could not hide the bone and

sinew under it. The young man had a broad forehead, placid Dresden-blue

eyes, flaxen hair, and the German coloring. Across one of his high

cheek-bones was a great jagged scar which seemed to add distinction to

his appearance. That caught Stephen's eye, and held it. He wondered

whether it were the result of an encounter with the Judge.

"You wish to see Mr. Whipple?" he asked, in the accents of an educated

German.

"Yes," said Stephen, "if he isn't busy."

"He is out," said the other, with just a suspicion of a 'd' in the word.

"You know he is much occupied now, fighting election frauds. You read the

papers?"

"I am a stranger here," said Stephen.

"Ach!" exclaimed the German, "now I know you, Mr. Brice. The young one

from Boston the Judge spoke of. But you did not tell him of your

arrival."

"I did not wish to bother him," Stephen replied, smiling.

"My name is Richter--Carl Richter, sir."

The pressure of Mr. Richter's big hands warmed Stephen as nothing else

had since he had come West. He was moved to return it with a little more

fervor than he usually showed. And he felt, whatever the Judge might be,

that he had a powerful friend near at hand--Mr. Richter's welcome came

near being an embrace.

"Sit down, Mr. Brice," he said; "mild weather for November, eh? The Judge

will be here in an hour."

Stephen looked around him: at the dusty books on the shelves, and the

still dustier books heaped on Mr. Richter's big table; at the cuspidors;

at the engravings of Washington and Webster; at the window in the jog

which looked out on the court-house square; and finally at another

ground-glass door on which was printed:

SILAS WHIPPLE

PRIVATE

This, then, was the den,--the arena in which was to take place a

memorable interview. But the thought of waiting an hour for the dragon to

appear was disquieting. Stephen remembered that he had something over

nine hundred dollars in his pocket (which he had saved out of his last

year's allowance at the Law School). So he asked Mr. Richter, who was

dusting off a chair, to direct him to the nearest bank.

"Why, certainly," said he; "Mr. Brinsmade's bank on Chestnut Street." He

took Stephen to the window and pointed across the square. "I am sorry I

cannot go with you," he added, "but the Judge's negro, Shadrach, is out,

and I must stay in the office. I will give you a note to Mr. Brinsmade."

"His negro!" exclaimed Stephen. "Why, I thought that Mr. Whipple was an

Abolitionist."

Mr. Richter laughed.

"The man is free," said he. "The Judge pays him wages."

Stephen thanked his new friend for the note to the bank president, and

went slowly down the stairs. To be keyed up to a battle-pitch, and then

to have the battle deferred, is a trial of flesh and spirit.

As he reached the pavement, he saw people gathering in front of the wide

entrance of the Court House opposite, and perched on the copings. He

hesitated, curious. Then he walked slowly toward the place, and buttoning

his coat, pushed through the loafers and passers-by dallying on the

outskirts of the crowd. There, in the bright November sunlight, a sight

met his eyes which turned him sick and dizzy.

Against the walls and pillars of the building, already grimy with soot,

crouched a score of miserable human beings waiting to be sold at auction.

Mr. Lynch's slave pen had been disgorged that morning. Old and young,

husband and wife,--the moment was come for all and each. How hard the

stones and what more pitiless than the gaze of their fellow-creatures in

the crowd below! O friends, we who live in peace and plenty amongst our

families, how little do we realize the terror and the misery and the dumb

heart-aches of those days! Stephen thought with agony of seeing his own

mother sold before his eyes, and the building in front of him was lifted

from its foundation and rocked even as shall the temples on the judgment

day.

The oily auctioneer was inviting the people to pinch the wares. Men came

forward to feel the creatures and look into their mouths, and one brute,

unshaven and with filthy linen, snatched a child from its mother's lap

Stephen shuddered with the sharpest pain he had ever known. An ocean-wide

tempest arose in his breast, Samson's strength to break the pillars of

the temple to slay these men with his bare hands. Seven generations of

stern life and thought had their focus here in him,--from Oliver Cromwell

to John Brown.

Stephen was far from prepared for the storm that raged within him. He had

not been brought up an Abolitionist--far from it. Nor had his father's

friends--who were deemed at that time the best people in Boston--been

Abolitionists. Only three years before, when Boston had been aflame over

the delivery of the fugitive Anthony Burns, Stephen had gone out of

curiosity to the meeting at Faneuil Hall. How well he remembered his

father's indignation when he confessed it, and in his anger Mr. Brice had

called Phillips and Parker "agitators." But his father, nor his father's

friends in Boston had never been brought face to face with this hideous

traffic.

Hark! Was that the sing-song voice of the auctioneer He was selling the

cattle. High and low, caressing an menacing, he teased and exhorted them

to buy. The were bidding, yes, for the possession of souls, bidding in

the currency of the Great Republic. And between the eager shouts came a

moan of sheer despair. What was the attendant doing now? He was tearing

two of then: from a last embrace.

Three--four were sold while Stephen was in a dream

Then came a lull, a hitch, and the crowd began to chatter gayly. But the

misery in front of him held Stephen in a spell. Figures stood out from

the group. A white-haired patriarch, with eyes raised to the sky; a

flat-breasted woman whose child was gone, whose weakness made her

valueless. Then two girls were pushed forth, one a quadroon of great

beauty, to be fingered. Stephen turned his face away,--to behold Mr.

Eliphalet Hopper looking calmly on.

"Wal, Mr. Brice, this is an interesting show now, ain't it? Something we

don't have. I generally stop here to take a look when I'm passing." And

he spat tobacco juice on the coping.

Stephen came to his senses.

"And you are from New England?" he said.

Mr. Hopper laughed.

"Tarnation!" said he, "you get used to it. When I came here, I was a sort

of an Abolitionist. But after you've lived here awhile you get to know

that niggers ain't fit for freedom."

Silence from Stephen.

"Likely gal, that beauty," Eliphalet continued unrepressed. "There's a

well-known New Orleans dealer named Jenkins after her. I callate she'll

go down river."

"I reckon you're right, Mistah," a man with a matted beard chimed in, and

added with a wink: "She'll find it pleasant enough--fer a while. Some of

those other niggers will go too, and they'd rather go to hell. They do

treat 'em nefarious down thah on the wholesale plantations. Household

niggers! there ain't none better off than them. But seven years in a

cotton swamp,--seven years it takes, that's all, Mistah."

Stephen moved away. He felt that to stay near the man was to be tempted

to murder. He moved away, and just then the auctioneer yelled,

"Attention!"

"Gentlemen," he cried, "I have heah two sisters, the prope'ty of the late

Mistah Robe't Benbow, of St. Louis, as fine a pair of wenches as was ever

offe'd to the public from these heah steps--"

"Speak for the handsome gal," cried a wag.

"Sell off the cart hoss fust," said another.

The auctioneer turned to the darker sister:

"Sal ain't much on looks, gentlemen," he said, "but she's the best nigger

for work Mistah Benbow had." He seized her arm and squeezed it, while the

girl flinched and drew back. "She's solid, gentlemen, and sound as a

dollar, and she kin sew and cook. Twenty-two years old. What am I bid?"

Much to the auctioneer's disgust, Sal was bought in for four hundred

dollars, the interest in the beautiful sister having made the crowd

impatient. Stephen, sick at heart, turned to leave. Halfway to the corner

he met a little elderly man who was the color of a dried gourd. And just

as Stephen passed him, this man was overtaken by an old negress, with

tears streaming down her face, who seized the threadbare hem of his coat.

Stephen paused involuntarily.

"Well, Nancy," said the little man, "we had marvellous luck. I was able

to buy your daughter for you with less than the amount of your savings."

"T'ank you, Mistah Cantah," wailed the poor woman, "t'ank you, suh.

Praised be de name ob de Lawd. He gib me Sal again. Oh, Mistah Cantah"

(the agony in that cry), "is you gwineter stan' heah an' see her sister

Hester sol' to--to--oh, ma little Chile! De little Chile dat I nussed,

dat I raised up in God's 'ligion. Mistah Cantah, save her, suh, f'om dat

wicked life o' sin. De Lawd Jesus'll rewa'd you, suh. Dis ole woman'll

wuk fo' you twell de flesh drops off'n her fingers, suh."

And had he not held her, she would have gone down on her knees on the

stone flagging before him. Her suffering was stamped on the little man's

face--and it seemed to Stephen that this was but one trial more which

adversity had brought to Mr. Canter.

"Nancy," he answered (how often, and to how many, must he have had to say

the same thing), "I haven't the money, Nancy. Would to God that I had,

Nancy!"

She had sunk down on the bricks. But she had not fainted. It was not so

merciful as that. It was Stephen who lifted her, and helped her to the

coping, where she sat with her bandanna awry.

Stephen was not of a descent to do things upon impulse. But the tale was

told in after days that one of his first actions in St. Louis was of this

nature. The waters stored for ages in the four great lakes, given the

opportunity, rush over Niagara Falls into Ontario.

"Take the woman away," said Stephen, in a low voice, "and I will buy the

girl,--if I can."

The little man looked up, dazed.

"Give me your card,--your address. I will buy the girl, if I can, and set

her free."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a dirty piece of pasteboard. It

read: "R. Canter, Second Hand Furniture, 20 Second Street." And still he

stared at Stephen, as one who gazes upon a mystery. A few curious

pedestrians had stopped in front of them.

"Get her away, if you can, for God's sake," said Stephen again. And he

strode off toward the people at the auction. He was trembling. In his

eagerness to reach a place of vantage before the girl was sold, he pushed

roughly into the crowd.

But suddenly he was brought up short by the blocky body of Mr. Hopper,

who grunted with the force of the impact.

"Gosh," said that gentleman, "but you are inters'ted. They ain't begun to

sell her yet--he's waitin' for somebody. Callatin' to buy her?" asked Mr.

Hopper, with genial humor.

Stephen took a deep breath. If he knocked Mr. Hopper down, he certainly

could not buy her. And it was a relief to know that the sale had not

begun.

As for Eliphalet, he was beginning to like young Brice. He approved of

any man from Boston who was not too squeamish to take pleasure in a

little affair of this kind.

As for Stephen, Mr. Hopper brought him back to earth. He ceased

trembling, and began to think.

"Tarnation!" said Eliphalet. "There's my boss, Colonel Carvel across the

street. Guess I'd better move on. But what d'ye think of him for a real

Southern gentleman?"

"The young dandy is his nephew, Clarence Colfax. He callates to own this

town." Eliphalet was speaking leisurely, as usual, while preparing to

move. "That's Virginia Carvel, in red. Any gals down Boston-way to beat

her? Guess you won't find many as proud."

He departed. And Stephen glanced absently at the group. They were picking

their way over the muddy crossing toward him. Was it possible that these

people were coming to a slave auction? Surely not. And yet here they were

on the pavement at his very side.

She wore a long Talma of crimson cashmere, and her face was in that most

seductive of frames, a scoop bonnet of dark green velvet, For a fleeting

second her eyes met his, and then her lashes fell. But he was aware, when

he had turned away, that she was looking at him again. He grew uneasy. He

wondered whether his appearance betrayed his purpose, or made a question

of his sanity.

Sanity! Yes, probably he was insane from her point of view. A sudden

anger shook him that she should be there calmly watching such a scene.

Just then there was a hush among the crowd. The beautiful slave-girl was

seized roughly by the man in charge and thrust forward, half fainting,

into view. Stephen winced. But unconsciously he turned, to see the effect

upon Virginia Carvel.

Thank God! There were tears upon her lashes.

Here was the rasp of the auctioneer's voice:-- "Gentlemen, I reckon there

ain't never been offered to bidders such an opportunity as this heah.

Look at her well, gentlemen. I ask you, ain't she a splendid creature?"

Colonel Carvel, in annoyance, started to move on. "Come Jinny," he said,

"I had no business to bring you aver."

But Virginia caught his arm. "Pa," she cried, "it's Mr. Benbow's Hester.

Don't go, dear. Buy her for me You know that I always wanted her.

Please!"

The Colonel halted, irresolute, and pulled his goatee Young Colfax

stepped in between them.

"I'll buy her for you, Jinny. Mother promised you a present, you know,

and you shall have her."

Virginia had calmed.

"Do buy her, one of you," was all she said

"You may do the bidding, Clarence," said the Colonel, "and we'll settle

the ownership afterward." Taking Virginia's arm, he escorted her across

the street.

Stephen was left in a quandary. Here was a home for the girl, and a good

one. Why should me spend the money which meant so much to him. He saw the

man Jenkin elbowing to the front. And yet--suppose Mr. Colfax did not get

her? He had promised to buy her if he could, and to set her free:

Stephen had made up his mind: He shouldered his way after Jenkins.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST SPARK PASSES

"Now, gentlemen," shouted the auctioneer when he had finished his oration

upon the girl's attractions, "what 'tin I bid? Eight hundred?"

Stephen caught his breath. There was a long pause no one cared to start

the bidding.

"Come, gentlemen, come! There's my friend Alf Jenkins. He knows what

she's worth to a cent. What'll you give, Alf? Is it eight hundred?"

Mr. Jenkins winked at the auction joined in the laugh.

"Three hundred!" he said.

The auctioneer was mortally offended. Then some one cried:--"Three

hundred and fifty!"

It was young Colfax. He was recognized at once, by name, evidently as a

person of importance.

"Thank you, Mistah Colfax, suh," said the auctioneer, with a servile wave

of the hand in his direction, while the crowd twisted their necks to see

him. He stood very straight, very haughty, as if entirely oblivious to

his conspicuous position.

"Three seventy-five!"

"That's better, Mistah Jenkins," said the auctioneer, sarcastically. He

turned to the girl, who might have stood to a sculptor for a figure of

despair. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head bowed down. The

auctioneer put his hand under her chin and raised it roughly. "Cheer up,

my gal," he said, "you ain't got nothing to blubber about now."

Hester's breast heaved and from her black eyes there shot a magnificent

look of defiance. He laughed. That was the white blood.

The white blood!

Clarence Colfax had his bid taken from his lips. Above the heads of the

people he had a quick vision of a young man with a determined face, whose

voice rang clear and strong,-- "Four hundred!"

Even the auctioneer, braced two ways, was thrown off his balance by the

sudden appearance of this new force. Stephen grew red over the sensation

he made. Apparently the others present had deemed competition with such

as Jenkins and young Colfax the grossest folly. He was treated to much

liberal staring before the oily salesman arranged his wits to grapple

with the third factor.

Four hundred from--from--from that gentleman. And the chubby index seemed

the finger of scorn.

"Four hundred and fifty!" said Mr. Colfax, defiantly.

Whereupon Mr. Jenkins, the New Orleans dealer, lighted a very long cigar

and sat down on the coping. The auctioneer paid no attention to this

manoeuvre. But Mr. Brice and Mr. Colfax, being very young, fondly

imagined that they had the field to themselves, to fight to a finish.

Here wisdom suggested in a mild whisper to Stephen that there was a last

chance to pull out. And let Colfax have the girl? Never. That was pride,

and most reprehensible. But second he thought of Mr. Canter and of Nancy,

and that was not pride.

"Four seventy-five!" he cried.

"Thank you, suh."

"Now fur it, young uns!" said the wag, and the crowd howled with

merriment.

"Five hundred!" snapped Mr. Colfax.

He was growing angry. But Stephen was from New England, and poor, and he

thought of the size of his purse. A glance at his adversary showed that

his blood was up. Money was plainly no consideration to him, and young

Colfax did not seem to be the kind who would relish returning to a young

lady and acknowledge a defeat.

Stephen raised the bid by ten dollars. The Southerner shot up fifty.

Again Stephen raised it ten. He was in full possession of himself now,

and proof against the thinly veiled irony of the oily man's remarks in

favor of Mr. Colfax. In an incredibly short time the latter's impetuosity

had brought them to eight hundred and ten dollars.

Then several things happened very quickly.

Mr. Jenkins got up from the curb and said, "Eight hundred and

twenty-five," with his cigar in his mouth. Scarcely had the hum of

excitement died when Stephen, glancing at Colfax for the next move, saw

that young gentleman seized from the rear by his uncle, the tall Colonel.

And across the street was bliss Virginia Carvel, tapping her foot on the

pavement.

"What are you about, sir?" the Colonel cried. "The wench isn't worth it."

"Mr. Colfax shook himself free.

"I've got to buy her now, sir," he cried.

"I reckon not," said the Colonel. "You come along with me."

Naturally Mr. Colfax was very angry. He struggled but he went. And so,

protesting, he passed Stephen, at whom he did not deign to glance. The

humiliation of it must have been great for Mr. Colfax. "Jinny wants her;

sir," he said, "and I have a right to buy her."

"Jinny wants everything," was the Colonel's reply. And in a single look

of curiosity and amusement his own gray eyes met Stephen's. They seemed

to regret that this young man, too, had not a guardian. Then uncle and

nephew recrossed the street, and as they walked off the Colonel was seen

to laugh. Virginia had her chin in the air, and Clarence's was in his

collar.

The crowd, of course, indulged in roars of laughter, and even Stephen

could not repress a smile, a smile not without bitterness. Then he

wheeled to face Mr. Jerkins. Out of respect for the personages involved,

the auctioneer had been considerately silent daring the event. It was Mr.

Brice who was now the centre of observation.

Come, gentlemen, come, this here's a joke--eight twenty-five. She's worth

two thousand. I've been in the business twenty yea's, and I neve' seen

her equal. Give me a bid, Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me, suh."

"Eight hundred and thirty-five!" said Stephen.

"Now, Mr. Jerkins, now, suh! we've got twenty me' to sell."

"Eight fifty!" said Mr. Jerkins.

"Eight sixty!" said Stephen, and they cheered him.

Mr. Jenkins took his cigar out of his teeth, and stared.

"Eight seventy-five!" said he.

"Eight eighty-five!" said Stephen.

There was a breathless pause.

"Nine hundred!" said the trader.

"Nine hundred and ten!" cried Stephen.

At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen a

derisive bow.

"She's youahs, suh," he said. "These here are panic times. I've struck my

limit. I can do bettah in Louisville fo' less. Congratulate you, suh

--reckon you want her wuss'n I do."

At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.

"What!" yelled the auctioneer. "Why, gentlemen, this heah's a joke. Nine

hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten. We've just begun,

gents. Come, Mr. Jerkins, that's giving her away."

The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.

"Well," cried the oily man, "this is a slaughter. Going at nine hundred

an' ten--nine ten--going--going--" down came the hammer--"gone at nine

hundred and ten to Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me, suh."

An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and

was dragging her back. Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust

forward regardless of stares.

"Handle her gently, you blackguard," he cried.

The man took his hands off.

"Suttinly, sah," he said.

Hester lifted her eyes, and they were filled with such gratitude and

trust that suddenly he was overcome with embarrassment.

"Can you walk?" he demanded, somewhat harshly.

"Yes, massa."

"Then get up," he said, "and follow me."

She rose obediently. Then a fat man came out of the Court House, with a

quill in his hand, and a merry twinkle in his eye that Stephen resented.

"This way, please, sah," and he led him to a desk, from the drawer of

which he drew forth a blank deed.

"Name, please!"

"Stephen Atterbury Brice."

"Residence, Mr. Brice!"

Stephen gave the number. But instead of writing it clown, the man merely

stared at him, while the fat creases in his face deepened and deepened.

Finally he put down his quill, and indulged in a gale of laughter, hugely

to Mr. Brice's discomfiture.

"Shucks!" said the fat man, as soon as he could.

"What are you givin' us? That the's a Yankee boa'din' house."

"And I suppose that that is part of your business, too," said Stephen,

acidly.

The fat man looked at him, pressed his lips, wrote down the number,

shaken all the while with a disturbance which promised to lead to another

explosion. Finally, after a deal of pantomime, and whispering and

laughter with the notary behind the wire screen, the deed was made out,

signed, attested, and delivered. Stephen counted out the money grimly, in

gold and Boston drafts.

Out in the sunlight on Chestnut Street, with the girl by his side, it all

seemed a nightmare. The son of Appleton Brice of Boston the owner of a

beautiful quadroon girl! And he had bought hex with his last cent.

Miss Crane herself opened the door in answer to his ring. Her keen eyes

instantly darted over his shoulder and dilated, But Stephen, summoning

all his courage, pushed past her to the stairs, and beckoned Hester to

follow.

"I have brought this--this person to see my mother," he said

The spinster bowed from the back of her neck. She stood transfixed on a

great rose in the hall carpet until she heard Mrs. Brice's door open and

slam, and then she strode up the stairs and into the apartment of Mrs.

Abner Reed. As she passed the first landing, the quadroon girl was

waiting in the hall.

CHAPTER VI

SILAS WHIPPLE

The trouble with many narratives is that they tell too much. Stephen's

interview with his mother was a quiet affair, and not historic. Miss

Crane's boarding-house is not an interesting place, and the tempest in

that teapot is better imagined than described. Out of consideration for

Mr. Stephen Brice, we shall skip likewise a most affecting scene at Mr.

Canter's second-hand furniture store.

That afternoon Stephen came again to the dirty flight of steps which led

to Judge Whipple's office. He paused a moment to gather courage, and

then, gripping the rail, he ascended. The ascent required courage now,

certainly. He halted again before the door at the top. But even as he

stood there came to him, in low, rich tones, the notes of a German song.

He entered And Mr. Richter rose in shirt-sleeves from his desk to greet

him, all smiling.

"Ach, my friend!" said he, "but you are late. The Judge has been awaiting

you."

"Has he?" inquired Stephen, with ill-concealed anxiety.

The big young German patted him on the shoulder.

Suddenly a voice roared from out the open transom of the private office,

like a cyclone through a gap.

"Mr. Richter!"

"Sir!"

"Who is that?"

"Mr. Brice, sir."

"Then why in thunder doesn't he come in?"

Mr. Richter opened the private door, and in Stephen walked. The door

closed again, and there he was in the dragon's dens face to face with the

dragon, who was staring him through and through. The first objects that

caught Stephen's attention were the grizzly gray eye brows, which seemed

as so much brush to mark the fire of the deep-set battery of the eyes.

And that battery, when in action, must have been truly terrible.

The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his

chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.

Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple's

glance. But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent. Nor

was it fear entirely.

"So you are Appleton Brice's son," said the Judge, at last. His tone was

not quite so gruff as it might have been.

"Yes, sir," said Stephen.

"Humph!" said the Judge, with a look that scarcely expressed approval. "I

guess you've been patted on the back too much by your father's friends."

He leaned back in his wooden chair. "How I used to detest people who

patted boys on the back and said with a smirk, 'I know your father.' I

never had a father whom people could say that about. But, sir," cried the

Judge, bringing down his fist on the litter of papers that covered his

desk, "I made up my mind that one day people should know me. That was my

spur. And you'll start fair here, Mr. Brice. They won't know your father

here--"

If Stephen thought the Judge brutal, he did not say so. He glanced around

the little room,--at the bed in the corner, in which the Judge slept, and

which during the day did not escape the flood of books and papers; at the

washstand, with a roll of legal cap beside the pitcher.

"I guess you think this town pretty crude after Boston, Mr. Brice," Mr.

Whipple continued. "From time immemorial it has been the pleasant habit

of old communities to be shocked at newer settlements, built by their own

countrymen. Are you shocked, sir?"

Stephen flushed. Fortunately the Judge did not give him time to answer.

"Why didn't your mother let me know that she was coming?"

"She didn't wish to put you to any trouble, sir."

"Wasn't I a good friend of your father's? Didn't I ask you to come here

and go into my office?"

"But there was a chance, Mr. Whipple--"

"A chance of what?"

"That you would not like me. And there is still a chance of it," added

Stephen, smiling.

For a second it looked as if the Judge might smile, too. He rubbed his

nose with a fearful violence.

"Mr. Richter tells me you were looking for a bank," said he, presently.

Stephen quaked.

"Yes, sir, I was, but--"

But Mr. Whipple merely picked up the 'Counterfeit Bank Note Detector'.

"Beware of Western State Currency as you would the devil," said he.

"That's one thing we don't equal the East in--yet. And so you want to

become a lawyer?"

"I intend to become a lawyer, sir."

"And so you shall, sir," cried the Judge, bringing down his yellow fist

upon the 'Bank Note Detector'. "I'll make you a lawyer, sir. But my

methods ain't Harvard methods, sir."

"I am ready to do anything, Mr. Whipple."

The Judge merely grunted. He scratched among his papers, and produced

some legal cap and a bunch of notes.

"Go out there," he said, "and take off your coat and copy this brief. Mr.

Richter will help you to-day. And tell your mother I shall do myself the

honor to call upon her this evening."

Stephen did as he was told, without a word. But Mr. Richter was not in

the outer office when he returned to it. He tried to compose himself to

write, although the recollection of each act of the morning hung like a

cloud over the back of his head. Therefore the first sheet of legal cap

was spoiled utterly. But Stephen had a deep sense of failure. He had gone

through the ground glass door with the firm intention of making a clean

breast of the ownership of Hester. Now, as he sat still, the trouble grew

upon him. He started a new sheet, and ruined that: Once he got as far as

his feet, and sat down again. But at length he had quieted to the extent

of deciphering ten lines of Mr. Whipple's handwriting when the creak of a

door shattered his nerves completely.

He glanced up from his work to behold--none other than Colonel Comyn

Carvel.

Glancing at Mr. Richter's chair, and seeing it empty, the Colonel's eye

roved about the room until it found Stephen. There it remained, and the

Colonel remained in the middle of the floor, his soft hat on the back of

his head, one hand planted firmly on the gold head of his stick, and the

other tugging at his goatee, pulling down his chin to the quizzical

angle.

"Whoopee!" he cried.

The effect of this was to make one perspire freely. Stephen perspired.

And as there seemed no logical answer, he made none.

Suddenly Mr. Carvel turned, shaking with a laughter he could not control,

and strode into the private office the door slammed behind him. Mr.

Brice's impulse was flight. But he controlled himself.

First of all there was an eloquent silence. Then a ripple of guffaws.

Then the scratch-scratch of a quill pen, and finally the Judge's voice.

"Carvel, what the devil's the matter with you, sir?"

A squall of guffaws blew through the transom, and the Colonel was heard

slapping his knee.

"Judge Whipple," said he, his voice vibrating from suppressed explosions,

"I am happy to see that you have overcome some of your ridiculous

prejudices, sir."

"What prejudices, sir?" the Judge was heard to shout.

"Toward slavery, Judge," said Mr. Carvel, seeming to recover his gravity.

"You are a broader man than I thought, sir."

An unintelligible gurgle came from the Judge. Then he said.

"Carvel, haven't you and I quarrelled enough on that subject?"

"You didn't happen to attend the nigger auction this morning when you

were at the court?" asked the Colonel, blandly.

"Colonel," said the Judge, "I've warned you a hundred times against the

stuff you lay out on your counter for customers."

"You weren't at the auction, then," continued the Colonel, undisturbed.

"You missed it, sir. You missed seeing this young man you've just

employed buy the prettiest quadroon wench I ever set eyes on."

Now indeed was poor Stephen on his feet. But whether to fly in at the one

entrance or out at the other, he was undecided.

"Colonel," said Mr. Whipple, "is that true?"

"Sir!"

"MR. BRICE!"

It did not seem to Stephen as if he was walking when he went toward the

ground glass door. He opened it. There was Colonel Carvel seated on the

bed, his goatee in his hand. And there was the Judge leaning forward from

his hips, straight as a ramrod. Fire was darting from beneath his bushy

eyebrows. "Mr. Brice," said he, "there is one question I always ask of

those whom I employ. I omitted it in your case because I have known your

father and your grandfather before you. What is your opinion, sir, on the

subject of holding human beings in bondage?"

The answer was immediate,--likewise simple.

"I do not believe in it, Mr. Whipple."

The Judge shot out of his chair like a long jack-in-the box, and towered

to his full height.

"Mr. Brice, did you, or did you not, buy a woman at auction to-day?"

"I did, sir."

Mr. Whipple literally staggered. But Stephen caught a glimpse of the

Colonel's hand slipping from his chin cover his mouth.

"Good God, sir!" cried the Judge, and he sat down heavily. "You say that

you are an Abolitionist?"

"No, sir, I do not say that. But it does not need an Abolitionist to

condemn what I saw this morning."

"Are you a slave-owner, sir?" said Mr. Whipple.

"Yes, sir."

"Then get your coat and hat and leave my office, Mr. Brice."

Stephen's coat was on his arm. He slipped it on, and turned to go. He

was, if the truth were told, more amused than angry. It was Colonel

Carvel's voice that stopped him.

"Hold on, Judge," he drawled, "I reckon you haven't got all the packing

out of that case."

Mr. Whipple locked at him in a sort of stupefaction. Then he glanced at

Stephen.

"Come back here, sir," he cried. "I'll give you hearing. No man shall say

that I am not just."

Stephen looked gratefully at the Colonel.

"I did not expect one, sir," he said..

"And you don't deserve one, sir," cried the Judge.

"I think I do," replied Stephen, quietly.

The Judge suppressed something.

"What did you do with this person?" he demanded

"I took her to Miss Crane's boarding-house," said Stephen.

It was the Colonel's turn to explode. The guffaw which came from hire

drowned every other sound.

"Good God!" said the Judge, helplessly. Again he looked at the Colonel,

and this time something very like mirth shivered his lean frame. "And

what do you intend to do with her?" he asked in strange tones.

"To give her freedom, sir, as soon as I can find somebody to go on her

bond."

Again silence. Mr. Whipple rubbed his nose with more than customary

violence, and looked very hard at Mr. Carvel, whose face was inscrutable.

It was a solemn moment.

"Mr. Brice," said the Judge, at length, "take off your coat, sir I will

go her bond."

It was Stephen's turn to be taken aback. He stood regarding the Judge

curiously, wondering what manner of man he was. He did not know that this

question had puzzled many before him.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

His hand was on the knob of the door, when Mr. Whipple called him back

abruptly. His voice had lost some of its gruffness.

"What were your father's ideas about slavery, Mr. Brice?"

The young man thought a moment, as if seeking to be exact.

"I suppose he would have put slavery among the necessary evils, sir," he

said, at length. "But he never could bear to have the liberator mentioned

in his presence. He was not at all in sympathy with Phillips, or Parker,

or Summer. And such was the general feeling among his friends."

"Then," said the Judge, "contrary to popular opinion in the West and

South, Boston is not all Abolition."

Stephen smiled.

"The conservative classes are not at all Abolitionists, sir."

"The conservative classes!" growled the Judge, "the conservative classes!

I am tired of hearing about the conservative classes. Why not come out

with it, sir, and say the moneyed classes, who would rather see souls

held in bondage than risk their worldly goods in an attempt to liberate

them?"

Stephen flushed. It was not at all clear to him then how he was to get

along with Judge Whipple. But he kept his temper.

"I am sure that you do them an injustice, sir," he said, with more

feeling them he had yet shown. "I am not speaking of the rich alone, and

I think that if you knew Boston you would not say that the conservative

class there is wholly composed of wealthy people. Many of may father's

friends were by no means wealthy. And I know that if he had been poor he

would have held the same views."

Stephen did not mark the quick look of approval which Colonel Carvel gave

him. Judge Whipple merely rubbed his nose.

"Well, sir," he said, "what were his views, then?"

"My father regarded slaves as property, sir. And conservative people"

(Stephen stuck to the word) "respect property the world over. My father's

argument was this: If men are deprived by violence of one kind of

property which they hold under the law, all other kinds of property will

be endangered. The result will be anarchy. Furthermore, he recognized

that the economic conditions in the South make slavery necessary to

prosperity. And he regarded the covenant made between the states of the

two sections as sacred."

There was a brief silence, during which the uncompromising expression of

the Judge did not change.

"And do you, sir?" he demanded.

"I am not sure, sir, after what I saw yesterday. I--I must have time to

see more of it."

"Good Lord," said Colonel Carvel, "if the conservative people of the

North act this way when they see a slave sale, what will the

Abolitionists do? Whipple," he added slowly, but with conviction, "this

means war."

Then the Colonel got to his feet, and bowed to Stephen with ceremony.

"Whatever you believe, sir," he said, "permit me to shake your hand. You

are a brave man, sir. And although my own belief is that the black race

is held in subjection by a divine decree, I can admire what you have

done, Mr. Brice. It was a noble act, sir,--a right noble act. And I have

more respect for the people of Boston, now, sir, than I ever had before,

sir."

Having delivered himself of this somewhat dubious compliment (which he

meant well), the Colonel departed.

Judge Whipple said nothing.

CHAPTER VII

CALLERS

If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was as

nothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane's boarding-house.

during the second afternoon of their stay. Twenty times was Miss Crane on

the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by the

advice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted. The culmination came when the

news leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman in

order to give her freedom. Like those who have done noble acts since the

world began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool. The cream

from which heroes is made is very apt to turn.

"Phew!" cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea,

"wasn't that meal a fearful experience? Let's find a hovel, mother, and

go and live in it. We can't stand it here any longer."

"Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,"

answered the widow, smiling.

"It was beastly hard luck," said he, "that I should have been shouldered

with that experience the first day. But I have tried to think it over

calmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done." He paused in his

pacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look. "It was

quite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn't it?"

"The family has never been called impetuous," replied his mother. "It

must be the Western air."

He began his pacing again. His mother had not said one word about the

money. Neither had he. Once more he stopped before her.

"We are at least a year nearer the poor-house," he said; "you haven't

scolded me for that. I should feel so much better if you would."

"Oh, Stephen, don't say that!" she exclaimed. "God has given me no

greater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of that

poor creature, Nancy. I shall never forget the old woman's joy at the

sight of her daughter. It made a palace out of that dingy furniture shop.

Hand me my handkerchief, dear."

Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn at

the corner.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.

Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.

"Evenin', Mis' Brice. De good Lawd bless you, lady, an' Miste' Brice,"

said the old negress.

"Well, Nancy?"

Nancy pressed into the room. "Mis' Brice!"

"Yes?"

"Ain' you gwineter' low Hester an' me to wuk fo' you?"

"Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy. But we are boarding."

"Yassm, yassm," said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence. Then

again, "Mis' Brice!"

"Yes, Nancy?"

"Ef you 'lows us t' come heah an' straighten out you' close, an' mend 'em

--you dunno how happy you mek me an' Hester--des to do dat much, Mis'

Brice."

The note of appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked the

trunks.

"You may unpack them, Nancy," she said.

With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet and shawl!

"Whaffor you stannin' dere, Hester?" she cried.

"Hester is tired," said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came to

her eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through that

day.

"Tired!" said Nancy, holding up her hands. "No'm, she ain' tired. She des

kinder stupefied by you' goodness, Mis' Brice."

A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane's hired girl.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum," she said.

If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane's

best parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room.

Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greeting

does not tally with the limpness of their grasp. He was attempting, when

Stephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them, as

a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor. The gentleman had red

chop-whiskers,--to continue to put his worst side foremost, which

demanded a ruddy face. He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborly

effusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs.

Brice.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Cluyme, "I used often to go to Boston in the

forties. In fact--ahem--I may claim to be a New Englander. Alas, no, I

never met your father. But when I heard of the sad circumstances of his

death, I felt as if I had lost a personal friend. His probity, sir, and

his religious principles were an honor to the Athens of America. I have

listened to my friend, Mr. Atterbury,--Mr. Samuel Atterbury,--eulogize

him by the hour."

Stephen was surprised.

"Why, yes," said he, "Mr. Atterbury was a friend."

"Of course," said Mr. Cluyme, "I knew it. Four years ago, the last

business trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street. Absence

makes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter. They

never change. Atterbury nearly took me in his arms. 'My dear fellow,' he

cried, 'how long are you to be in town?' I was going the next day. 'Sorry

I can't ask you to dinner,' says he, but step into the Tremont House and

have a bite.'--Wasn't that like Atterbury?"

Stephen thought it was. But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting no answer.

"Well," said he, "what I was going to say was that we heard you were in

town; 'Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,' I said to my wife. We are

neighbors, Mr. Brace. You must know the girls. You must come to supper.

We live very plainly, sir, very simply. I am afraid that you will miss

the luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen. I hope I may

call you so, my boy. We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, but all

are not so. I miss the atmosphere. I seemed to live again when I got to

Boston. But business, sir,--the making of money is a sordid occupation.

You will come to supper?"

"I scarcely think that my mother will go out," said Stephen.

"Oh, be friends! It will cheer her. Not a dinner-party, my boy, only a

plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat. Of course she will. Of

course she will. Not a Boston social function, you understand. Boston,

Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe. Our

universe, I mean. America for Americans is a motto of mine. Oh, no," he

added quickly, "I don't mean a Know Nothing. Religious freedom, my boy,

is part of our great Constitution. By the way, Stephen--Atterbury always

had such a respect for your father's opinions--"

"My father was not an Abolitionist, sir," said Stephen, smiling.

"Quite right, quite right," said Mr. Cluyme.

"But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not some sympathy

and respect for the Abolitionists."

Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start. He glanced at the heavy hangings on

the windows and then out of the open door into the hall. For a space his

wife's chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.

"My dear Stephen," said the gentleman, dropping his voice, "that is all

very well in Boston. But take a little advice from one who is old enough

to counsel you. You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself to

the tone of the place which you have made your home. St. Louis is full of

excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists. We are

gathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation.

But our New England population here is small yet compared to the

Southerners. And they are very violent, sir."

Stephen could not resist saying, "Judge Whipple does not seem to have

tempered himself, sir."

"Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir," cried Mr. Cluyme.

"His hand is against every man's. He denounces Douglas on the slightest

excuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight with

Stephens and Toombs and Davis. But what good does it do him? He might

have been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred up

so much hatred. And yet I can't help liking Whipple. Do you know him?"

A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen's reply, and Mrs.

Cluyme's small talk to Mrs. Brice. In the hall rumbled a familiar voice,

and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself. Without noticing

the other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked at

her for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his large

hand.

"Pray, ma'am," he said, "what have you done with your slave?"

Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightened in

a dream. Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair. But Stephen

smiled. And his mother smiled a little, too.

"Are you Mr. Whipple?" she asked.

"I am, madam," was the reply.

"My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks," said Mrs. Brice.

Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation. Then Mrs. Cluyme

sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused to hold

her.

"Well, well, ma'am!" The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleam of

mirth lighted the severity of his face. He was plainly pleased with her

--this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of women who

are well born and whose manner was so self-contained. To speak truth, the

Judge was prepared to dislike her. He had never laid eyes upon her, and

as he walked hither from his house he seemed to foresee a helpless little

woman who, once he had called, would fling her Boston pride to the winds

and dump her woes upon him. He looked again, and decidedly approved of

Mrs. Brice, and was unaware that his glance embarrassed her.

"Mr. Whipple," she said,--"do you know Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme?"

The Judge looked behind him abruptly, nodded ferociously at Mr. Cluyme,

and took the hand that fluttered out to him from Mrs. Cluyme.

"Know the Judge!" exclaimed that lady, "I reckon we do. And my Belle is

so fond of him. She thinks there is no one equal to Mr. Whipple. Judge,

you must come round to a family supper. Belle will surpass herself."

"Umph!" said the Judge, "I think I like Edith best of your girls, ma'am."

"Edith is a good daughter, if I do say it myself," said Mrs. Cluyme. "I

have tried to do right by my children." She was still greatly flustered,

and curiosity about the matter of the slave burned upon her face. Neither

the Judge nor Mrs. Brice were people one could catechise. Stephen,

scanning the Judge, was wondering how far he regarded the matter as a

joke.

"Well, madam," said Mr. Whipple, as he seated himself on the other end of

the horsehair sofa, "I'll warrant when you left Boston that you did not

expect to own a slave the day after you arrived in St. Louis."

"But I do not own her," said Mrs. Brice. "It is my son who owns her."

This was too much for Mr. Cluyme.

"What!" he cried to Stephen. "You own a slave? You, a mere boy, have

bought a negress?"

"And what is more, sir, I approve of it," the Judge put in, severely. "I

am going to take the young man into my office."

Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking at Mr.

Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the window

curtains. But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.

"Pardon me, Judge," said he, "but I trust that I may be allowed to

congratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I have

considered a clog to your career. They did you honor, sir, but they were

Quixotic. I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost. And we

have no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their very

means of livelihood."

The Judge grinned diabolically. Mrs. Cluyme was as yet too stunned to

speak. Only Stephen's mother sniffed gunpowder in the air.

"This, Mr. Cluyme," said the Judge, mildly, "is an age of shifting winds.

It was not long ago," he added reflectively, "when you and I met in the

Planters' House, and you declared that every drop of Northern blood

spilled in Kansas was in a holy cause. Do you remember it, sir?"

Mr. Cluyme and Mr. Cluyme's wife alone knew whether he trembled.

"And I repeat that, sir," he cried, with far too much zeal. "I repeat it

here and now. And yet I was for the Omnibus Bill, and I am with Mr.

Douglas in his local sovereignty. I am willing to bury my abhorrence of a

relic of barbarism, for the sake of union and peace."

"Well, sir, I am not," retorted the Judge, like lightning. He rubbed the

red spat on his nose, and pointed a bony finger at Mr. Cluyme. Many a

criminal had grovelled before that finger. "I, too, am for the Union. And

the Union will never be safe until the greatest crime of modern times is

wiped out in blood. Mind what I say, Mr. Cluyme, in blood, sir," he

thundered.

Poor Mrs. Cluyme gasped.

"But the slave, sir? Did I not understand you to approve of Mr. Brice's

ownership?"

"As I never approved of any other. Good night, sir. Good night, madam."

But to Mrs. Brice he crossed over and took her hand. It has been further

claimed that he bowed. This is not certain.

"Good night, madam," he said. "I shall call again to pay my respects when

you are not occupied."

THE CRISIS

By Winston Churchill

Volume 2.

CHAPTER VIII

BELLEGARDE

Miss Virginia Carvel came down the steps in her riding-habit. And Ned,

who had been waiting in the street with the horses, obsequiously held his

hand while his young mistress leaped into Vixen's saddle. Leaving the

darkey to follow upon black Calhoun, she cantered off up the street,

greatly to the admiration of the neighbor. They threw open their windows

to wave at her, but Virginia pressed her lips and stared straight ahead.

She was going out to see the Russell girls at their father's country

place on Bellefontaine Road, especially to proclaim her detestation for a

certain young Yankee upstart. She had unbosomed herself to Anne Brinsmade

and timid Eugenie Renault the day before.

It was Indian summer, the gold and purple season of the year. Frost had

come and gone. Wasps were buzzing confusedly about the eaves again,

marvelling at the balmy air, and the two Misses Russell, Puss and Emily,

were seated within the wide doorway at needlework when Virginia

dismounted at the horseblock.

"Oh, Jinny, I'm so glad to see you," said Miss Russell. "Here's Elise

Saint Simon from New Orleans. You must stay all day and to-night."

"I can't, Puss," said Virginia, submitting impatiently to Miss Russell's

warm embrace. She was disappointed at finding the stranger. "I only came

--to say that I am going to have a birthday party in a few weeks. You must

be sure to come, and bring your guest."

Virginia took her bridle from Ned, and Miss Russell's hospitable face

fell.

"You're not going?" she said.

"To Bellegarde for dinner," answered Virginia.

"But it's only ten o'clock," said Puss. "And, Jinny?"

"Yes."

"There's a new young man in town, and they do say his appearance is very

striking--not exactly handsome, you know, but strong-looking."

"He's horrid!" said Virginia. "He's a Yankee."

"How do you know?" demanded Puss and Emily in chorus.

"And he's no gentleman," said Virginia.

"But how do you know, Jinny?"

"He's an upstart."

"Oh. But he belongs to a very good Boston family, they say."

"There are no good Boston families," replied Virginia, with conviction,

as she separated her reins. "He has proved that. Who ever heard of a good

Yankee family?"

"What has he done to you, Virginia?" asked Puss, who had brains.

Virginia glanced at the guest. But her grievance was too hot within her

for suppression.

Do you remember Mr. Benbow's Hester, girls? The one I always said I

wanted. She was sold at auction yesterday. Pa and I were passing the

Court House, with Clarence, when she was put up for sale. We crossed the

street to see what was going on, and there was your strong-looking Yankee

standing at the edge of the crowd. I am quite sure that he saw me as

plainly as I see you, Puss Russell."

"How could he help it?" said Puss, slyly.

Virginia took no notice of the remark.

"He heard me ask Pa to buy her. He heard Clarence say that he would bid

her in for me. I know he did. And yet he goes in and outbids Clarence,

and buys her himself. Do you think any gentleman would do that, Puss

Russell?"

"He bought her himself!" cried the astonished Miss Russell. "Why I

thought that all Bostonians were Abolitionists."

"Then he set her free," said Miss Carvel, contemptuously Judge Whipple

went on her bond to-day."

"Oh, I'm just crazy to see him now," said Miss Russell.

"Ask him to your party, Virginia," she added mischievously.

"Do you think I would have him in my house?" cried Virginia.

Miss Russell was likewise courageous--"I don't see why not. You have

Judge Whipple every Sunday dinner, and he's an Abolitionist."

Virginia drew herself up.

"Judge Whipple has never insulted me," she said, with dignity.

Puss gave way to laughter. Whereupon, despite her protests and prayers

for forgiveness, Virginia took to her mare again and galloped off. They

saw her turn northward on the Bellefontaine Road.

Presently the woodland hid from her sight the noble river shining far

below, and Virginia pulled Vixen between the gateposts which marked the

entrance to her aunt's place, Bellegarde. Half a mile through the cool

forest, the black dirt of the driveway flying from Vixen's hoofs, and

there was the Colfax house on the edge of the, gentle slope; and beyond

it the orchard, and the blue grapes withering on the vines,--and beyond

that fields and fields of yellow stubble. The silver smoke of a steamboat

hung in wisps above the water. A young negro was busily washing the broad

veranda, but he stopped and straightened at sight of the young

horsewoman.

"Sambo, where's your mistress?"

"Clar t' goodness, Miss Jinny, she was heah leetle while ago."

"Yo' git atter Miss Lilly, yo' good-fo'-nuthin' niggah," said Ned,

warmly. "Ain't yo' be'n raised better'n to stan' theh wif yo'mouf open?"

Sambo was taking the hint, when Miss Virginia called him back.

"Where's Mr. Clarence?

"Young Masr? I'll fotch him, Miss Jinny. He jes come home f'um seein'

that thar trottin' hose he's gwine to race nex' week."

Ned, who had tied Calhoun and was holding his mistress's bridle, sniffed.

He had been Colonel Carvel's jockey in his younger days.

"Shucks!" he said contemptuously. "I hoped to die befo' the day a

gemman'd own er trottah, Jinny. On'y runnin' hosses is fit fo' gemmen."

"Ned," said Virginia, "I shall be eighteen in two weeks and a young lady.

On that day you must call me Miss Jinny."

Ned's face showed both astonishment and inquiry.

"Jinny, ain't I nussed you always? Ain't I come upstairs to quiet you

when yo' mammy ain't had no power ovah yo'? Ain't I cooked fo' yo', and

ain't I followed you everywheres since I quit ridin' yo' pa's bosses to

vict'ry? Ain't I one of de fambly? An' yit yo' ax me to call yo' Miss

Jinny?"

"Then you've had privileges enough," Virginia answered. "One week from

to-morrow you are to say 'Miss Jinny.'"

"I'se tell you what, Jinny," he answered mischievously, with an emphasis

on the word, "I'se call you Miss Jinny ef you'll call me Mistah Johnson.

Mistah Johnson. You aint gwinter forget? Mistah Johnson."

"I'll remember," she said. "Ned," she demanded suddenly, "would you like

to be free?"

The negro started.

"Why you ax me dat, Jinny?"

"Mr. Benbow's Hester is free," she said.

"Who done freed her?"

Miss Virginia flushed. "A detestable young Yankee, who has come out here

to meddle with what doesn't concern him. I wanted Hester, Ned. And you

should have married her, if you behaved yourself."

Ned laughed uneasily.

"I reckon I'se too ol' fo' Heste'." And added with privileged impudence,

"There ain't no cause why I can't marry her now."

Virginia suddenly leaped to the ground without his assistance.

"That's enough, Ned," she said, and started toward the house.

"Jinny! Miss Jinny!" The call was plaintive.

"Well, what?"

"Miss Jinny, I seed that than young gemman. Lan' sakes, he ain' look like

er Yankee."

"Ned," said Virginia, sternly, "do you want to go back to cooking?"

He quailed. "Oh, no'm--Lan' sakes, no'm. I didn't mean nuthin'."

She turned, frowned, and bit her lip. Around the corner of the veranda

she ran into her cousin. He, too, was booted and spurred. He reached

out, boyishly, to catch her in his arms. But she drew back from his

grasp.

"Why, Jinny," he cried, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing, Max." She often called him so, his middle name being Maxwell.

"But you have no right to do that."

"To do what?" said Clarence, making a face.

"You know," answered Virginia, curtly. "Where's Aunt Lillian?"

"Why haven't I the right?" he asked, ignoring the inquiry.

"Because you have not, unless I choose. And I don't choose."

"Are you angry with me still? It wasn't my fault. Uncle Comyn made me

come away. You should have had the girl, Jinny, if it took my fortune."

"You have been drinking this morning, Max," said Virginia.

"Only a julep or so," he replied apologetically. "I rode over to the race

track to see the new trotter. I've called him Halcyon, Jinny," he

continued, with enthusiasm. "And he'll win the handicap sure."

She sat down on the veranda steps, with her knees crossed and her chin

resting on her hands. The air was heavy with the perfume of the grapes

and the smell of late flowers from the sunken garden near by. A blue haze

hung over the Illinois shore.

"Max, you promised me you wouldn't drink so much."

"And I haven't been, Jinny, 'pon my word," he replied. "But I met old

Sparks at the Tavern, and he started to talk about the horses, and--and

he insisted."

"And you hadn't the strength of character," she said, scornfully, "to

refuse."

"Pshaw, Jinny, a gentleman must be a gentleman. I'm no Yankee."

For a space Virginia answered nothing. Then she said, without changing

her position:

"If you were, you might be worth something."

"Virginia!"

She did not reply, but sat gazing toward the water. He began to pace the

veranda, fiercely.

"Look here, Jinny," he cried, pausing in front of her. "There are some

things you can't say to me, even in jest."

Virginia rose, flicked her riding-whip, and started down the steps.

"Don't be a fool, Max," she said.

He followed her, bewildered. She skirted the garden, passed the orchard,

and finally reached a summer house perched on a knoll at the edge of the

wood. Then she seated herself on a bench, silently. He took a place on

the opposite side, with his feet stretched out, dejectedly.

"I'm tired trying to please you," he said. "I have been a fool. You don't

care that for me. It was all right when I was younger, when there was no

one else to take you riding, and jump off the barn for your amusement,

Miss. Now you have Tom Catherwood and Jack Brinsmade and the Russell boys

running after you, it's different. I reckon I'll go to Kansas. There are

Yankees to shoot in Kansas."

He did not see her smile as he sat staring at his feet.

"Max," said she, all at once, "why don't you settle down to something?

Why don't you work?"

Young Mr. Colfax's arm swept around in a circle.

There are twelve hundred acres to look after here, and a few niggers.

That's enough for a gentleman."

"Pooh!" exclaimed his cousin, "this isn't a cotton plantation. Aunt

Lillian doesn't farm for money. If she did, you would have to check your

extravagances mighty quick, sir."

"I look after Pompey's reports, I do as much work as my ancestors,"

answered Clarence, hotly.

"Ah, that is the trouble," said Virginia.

"What do you mean?" her cousin demanded.

"We have been gentlemen too long," said Virginia.

The boy straightened up and rose. The pride and wilfulness of generations

was indeed in his handsome face. And something else went with it. Around

the mouth a grave tinge of indulgence.

"What has your life been?" she went on, speaking rapidly. "A mixture of

gamecocks and ponies and race horses and billiards, and idleness at the

Virginia Springs, and fighting with other boys. What do you know? You

wouldn't go to college. You wouldn't study law. You can't write a decent

letter. You don't know anything about the history of your country. What

can you do--?"

"I can ride and fight," he said. "I can go to New Orleans to-morrow to

join Walker's Nicaragua expedition. We've got to beat the Yankees,

--they'll have Kansas away from us before we know it."

Virginia's eye flashed appreciation.

"Do you remember, Jinny," he cried, "one day long ago when those Dutch

ruffians were teasing you and Anne on the road, and Bert Russell and Jack

and I came along? We whipped 'em, Jinny. And my eye was closed. And you

were bathing it here, and one of my buttons was gone. And you counted the

rest."

"Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,"

she recited, laughing. She crossed over and sat beside him, and her tone

changed. "Max, can't you understand? It isn't that. Max, if you would

only work at something. That is why the Yankees beat us. If you would

learn to weld iron, or to build bridges, or railroads. Or if you would

learn business, and go to work in Pa's store."

"You do not care for me as I am?"

"I knew that you did not understand," she answered passionately. "It is

because I care for you that I wish to make you great. You care too much

for a good time, for horses, Max. You love the South, but you think too

little how she is to be saved. If war is to come, we shall want men like

that Captain Robert Lee who was here. A man who can turn the forces of

the earth to his own purposes."

For a moment Clarence was moodily silent.

"I have always intended to go into politics, after Pa's example," he said

at length.

"Then--" began Virginia, and paused.

"Then--?" he said.

"Then--you must study law."

He gave her the one keen look. And she met it, with her lips tightly

pressed together. Then he smiled.

"Virginia, you will never forgive that Yankee, Brice."

"I shall never forgive any Yankee," she retorted quickly. "But we are not

talking about him. I am thinking of the South, and of you."

He stooped toward her face, but she avoided him and went back to the

bench.

"Why not?" he said.

"You must prove first that you are a man," she said.

For years he remembered the scene. The vineyard, the yellow stubble; and

the river rushing on and on with tranquil power, and the slow panting of

the steamboat. A doe ran out of the forest, and paused, her head raised,

not twenty feet away.

"And then you will marry me, Jinny?" he asked finally.

"Before you may hope to control another, we shall see whether you can

control yourself, sir."

"But it has all been arranged," he exclaimed, "since we played here

together years ago!"

"No one shall arrange that for me," replied Virginia promptly. "And I

should think that you would wish to have some of the credit for

yourself."

"Jinny!"

Again she avoided him by leaping the low railing. The doe fled into the

forest, whistling fearfully. Virginia waved her hand to him and started

toward the house. At the corner of the porch she ran into her aunt Mrs.

Colfax was a beautiful woman. Beautiful when Addison Colfax married her

in Kentucky at nineteen, beautiful still at three and forty. This, I am

aware, is a bald statement. "Prove it," you say. "We do not believe it.

It was told you by some old beau who lives upon the memory of the past."

Ladies, a score of different daguerrotypes of Lillian Colfax are in

existence. And whatever may be said of portraits, daguerrotypes do not

flatter. All the town admitted that she was beautiful. All the town knew

that she was the daughter of old Judge Colfax's overseer at Halcyondale.

If she had not been beautiful, Addison Colfax would not have run away

with her. That is certain. He left her a rich widow at five and twenty,

mistress of the country place he had bought on the Bellefontaine Road,

near St. Louis. And when Mrs. Colfax was not dancing off to the Virginia

watering-places, Bellegarde was a gay house.

"Jinny," exclaimed her aunt, "how you scared me! What on earth is the

matter?"

"Nothing," said Virginia

"She refused to kiss me," put in Clarence, half in play, half in

resentment.

Mrs. Colfax laughed musically. She put one of her white hands on each of

her niece's cheeks, kissed her, and then gazed into her face until

Virginia reddened.

"Law, Jinny, you're quite pretty," said her aunt

"I hadn't realized it--but you must take care of your complexion. You're

horribly sunburned, and you let your hair blow all over your face. It's

barbarous not to wear a mask when you ride. Your Pa doesn't look after

you properly. I would ask you to stay to the dance to-night if your skin

were only white, instead of red. You're old enough to know better,

Virginia. Mr. Vance was to have driven out for dinner. Have you seen him,

Clarence?"

"No, mother."

"He is so amusing," Mrs. Colfax continued, "and he generally brings

candy. I shall die of the blues before supper." She sat down with a grand

air at the head of the table, while Alfred took the lid from the silver

soup-tureen in front of her. "Jinny, can't you say something bright? Do I

have to listen to Clarence's horse talk for another hour? Tell me some

gossip. Will you have some gumbo soup?"

"Why do you listen to Clarence's horse talk?" said Virginia. "Why don't

you make him go to work!"

"Mercy!" said Mrs. Colfax, laughing, "what could he do?"

"That's just it," said Virginia. "He hasn't a serious interest in life."

Clarence looked sullen. And his mother, as usual, took his side.

"What put that into your head, Jinny," she said. "He has the place here

to look after, a very gentlemanly occupation. That's what they do in

Virginia."

"Yes," said Virginia, scornfully, "we're all gentlemen in the South. What

do we know about business and developing the resources of the country?

Not THAT."

"You make my head ache, my dear," was her aunt's reply. "Where did you

get all this?"

"You ask me because I am a girl," said Virginia. "You believe that women

were made to look at, and to play with,--not to think. But if we are

going to get ahead of the Yankees, we shall have to think. It was all

very well to be a gentleman in the days of my great-grandfather. But now

we have railroads and steamboats. And who builds them? The Yankees. We of

the South think of our ancestors, and drift deeper and deeper into debt.

We know how to fight, and we know how to command. But we have been ruined

by--" here she glanced at the retreating form of Alfred, and lowered her

voice, "by niggers."

Mrs. Colfax's gaze rested languidly on her niece's faces which glowed

with indignation.

"You get this terrible habit of argument from Comyn," she said. "He ought

to send you to boarding-school. How mean of Mr. Vance not to come! You've

been talking with that old reprobate Whipple. Why does Comyn put up with

him?"

"He isn't an old reprobate," said Virginia, warmly.

"You really ought to go to school," said her aunt. "Don't be eccentric.

It isn't fashionable. I suppose you wish Clarence to go into a factory."

"If I were a man," said Virginia, "and going into a factory would teach

me how to make a locomotive or a cotton press, or to build a bridge, I

should go into a factory. We shall never beat the Yankees until we meet

them on their own ground."

"There is Mr. Vance now," said Mrs. Colfax, and added fervently, "Thank

the Lord!"

CHAPTER IX

A QUIET SUNDAY IN LOCUST STREET

IF the truth were known where Virginia got the opinions which she

expressed so freely to her aunt and cousin, it was from Colonel Carvel

himself. The Colonel would rather have denounced the Dred Scott decision

than admit to Judge Whipple that one of the greatest weaknesses of the

South lay in her lack of mechanical and manufacturing ability. But he had

confessed as much in private to Captain Elijah Brent. The Colonel would

often sit for an hour or more, after supper, with his feet tucked up on

the mantel and his hat on the back of his head, buried in thought. Then

he would saunter slowly down to the Planters' House bar, which served the

purposes of a club in those days, in search of an argument with other

prominent citizens. The Colonel had his own particular chair in his own

particular corner, which was always vacated when he came in at the door.

And then he always had three fingers of the best Bourbon whiskey, no more

and no less, every evening.

He never met his bosom friend and pet antagonist at the Planters' House

bar. Judge Whipple, indeed, took his meals upstairs, but he never

descended,--it was generally supposed because of the strong slavery

atmosphere there. However, the Judge went periodically to his friend's

for a quiet Sunday dinner (so called in derision by St. Louisans), on

which occasions Virginia sat at the end of the table and endeavored to

pour water on the flames when they flared up too fiercely.

The Sunday following her ride to Bellegarde was the Judge's Sunday,

Certain tastes which she had inherited had hitherto provided her with

pleasurable sensations while these battles were in progress. More than

once had she scored a fair hit on the Judge for her father,--to the

mutual delight of both gentlemen. But to-day she dreaded being present at

the argument. Just why she dreaded it is a matter of feminine psychology

best left to the reader for solution.

The argument began, as usual, with the tearing apart limb by limb of the

unfortunate Franklin Pierce, by Judge Whipple.

"What a miserable exhibition in the eyes of the world," said the Judge.

"Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire" (he pronounced this name with infinite

scorn) "managed by Jefferson Davis of Mississippi!"

"And he was well managed, sir," said the Colonel.

"What a pliant tool of your Southern slaveholders! I hear that you are to

give him a plantation as a reward."

"No such thing, sir."

"He deserves it," continued the Judge, with conviction. "See the

magnificent forts he permitted Davis to build up in the South, the

arsenals he let him stock. The country does not realize this. But the day

will, come when they will execrate Pierce before Benedict Arnold, sir.

And look at the infamous Kansas-Nebraska act! That is the greatest crime,

and Douglas and Pierce the greatest criminals, of the century."

"Do have some more of that fried chicken, Judge," said Virginia.

Mr. Whipple helped himself fiercely, and the Colonel smiled.

"You should be satisfied now," said he. "Another Northern man is in the

White House."

"Buchanan!" roared the Judge, with his mouth full.

"Another traitor, sir. Another traitor worse than the first. He swallows

the Dred Scott decision, and smirks. What a blot on the history of this

Republic! O Lord!" cried Mr. Whipple, "what are we coming to? A Northern

man, he could gag and bind Kansas and force her into slavery against the

will of her citizens. He packs his Cabinet to support the ruffians you

send over the borders. The very governors he ships out there, his

henchmen, have their stomachs turned. Look at Walker, whom they are

plotting against in Washington. He can't stand the smell of this

Lecompton Constitution Buchanan is trying to jam down their throats.

Jefferson Davis would have troops there, to be sure that it goes through,

if he had his way. Can't you see how one sin leads to another, Carvel?

How slavery is rapidly demoralizing a free people?"

"It is because you won't let it alone where it belongs, sir," retorted

the Colonel. It was seldom that he showed any heat in his replies. He

talked slowly, and he had a way of stretching forth his hand to prevent

the more eager Judge from interrupting him.

"The welfare of the whole South, as matters now stand, sir, depends upon

slavery. Our plantations could not exist a day without slave labor. If

you abolished that institution, Judge Whipple, you would ruin millions of

your fellow-countrymen,--you would reduce sovereign states to a situation

of disgraceful dependence. And all, sir," now he raised his voice lest

the Judge break in, "all, sir, for the sake of a low breed that ain't fit

for freedom. You and I, who have the Magna Charta and the Declaration of

Independence behind us, who are descended from a race that has done

nothing but rule for ten centuries and more, may well establish a

Republic where the basis of stability is the self-control of the

individual--as long as men such as you and I form its citizens. Look at

the South Americans. How do Republics go there? And the minute you and I

let in niggers, who haven't any more self-control than dogs, on an equal

basis, with as much of a vote as you have,--niggers, sir, that have lived

like wild beasts in the depths of the jungle since the days of Ham,

--what's going to become of our Republic?"

"Education," cried the Judge.

But the word was snatched out of his mouth.

"Education isn't a matter of one generation. No, sir, nor two, nor three,

nor four. But of centuries."

"Sir," said the Judge, "I can point out negroes of intelligence and

learning."

"And I reckon you could teach some monkeys to talk English, and recite

the catechism, and sing emotional hymns, if you brought over a couple of

million from Africa," answered the Colonel, dryly, as he rose to put on

his hat and light a cigar.

It was his custom to offer a cigar to the Judge, who invariably refused,

and rubbed his nose with scornful violence.

Virginia, on the verge of leaving, stayed on, fascinated by the turn the

argument had taken.

"Your prejudice is hide-bound, sir," said Mr. Whipple.

"No, Whipple," said the Colonel, "when God washed off this wicked earth,

and started new, He saw fit to put the sons of Ham in subjection. They're

slaves of each other in Africa, and I reckon they're treated no better

than they are here. Abuses can't be helped in any system, sir, though we

are bettering them. Were the poor in London in the days of the Edwards as

well off as our niggers are to-day?"

The Judge snorted.

"A divine institution!" he shouted. "A black curse! Because the world has

been a wicked place of oppression since Noah's day, is that any reason

why it should so continue until the day of Judgment?"

The Colonel smiled, which was a sign that he was pleased with his

argument.

"Now, see here, Whipple," said he. "If we had any guarantee that you

would let us alone where we are, to manage our slaves and to cultivate

our plantations, there wouldn't be any trouble. But the country keeps on

growing and growing, and you're not content with half. You want

everything,--all the new states must abolish slavery. And after a while

you will overwhelm us, and ruin us, and make us paupers. Do you wonder

that we contend for our rights, tooth and nail? They are our rights."

"If it had not been for Virginia and Maryland and the South, this nation

would not be in existence."

The Colonel laughed.

"First rate, Jinny," he cried. "That's so."

But the Judge was in a revery. He probably had not heard her.

"The nation is going to the dogs," he said, mumbling rather to himself

than to the others. "We shall never prosper until the curse is shaken

off, or wiped out in blood. It clogs our progress. Our merchant marine,

of which we were so proud, has been annihilated by these continued

disturbances. But, sir," he cried, hammering his fist upon the table

until the glasses rang, "the party that is to save us was born at

Pittsburgh last year on Washington's birthday. The Republican Party,

sir."

"Shucks!" exclaimed Mr. Carvel, with amusement, "The Black Republican

Party, made up of old fools and young Anarchists, of Dutchmen and

nigger-worshippers. Why, Whipple, that party's a joke. Where's your

leader?"

"In Illinois," was the quick response.

"What's his name?"

"Abraham Lincoln, sir," thundered Mr. Whipple. "And to my way of thinking

he has uttered a more significant phrase on the situation than any of

your Washington statesmen. 'This government,' said he to a friend of

mine, 'cannot exist half slave and half free.'"

So impressively did Mr. Whipple pronounce these words that Mr. Carvel

stirred uneasily, and in spite of himself, as though he were listening to

an oracle. He recovered instantly.

"He's a demagogue, seeking for striking phrases, sir. You're too

intelligent a man to be taken in by such as he."

"I tell you he is not, sir."

"I know him, sir," cried the Colonel, taking down his feet. "He's an

obscure lawyer. Poor white trash! Torn down poor! My friend Mr.

Richardson of Springfield tells me he is low down. He was born in a log

cabin, and spends most of his time in a drug-store telling stories that

you would not listen to, Judge Whipple."

"I would listen to anything he said," replied the Judge. "Poor white

trash, sir! The greatest men rise from the people. A demagogue!" Mr.

Whipple fairly shook with rage. "The nation doesn't know him yet. But

mark my words, the day will come when it will. He was ballotted for

Vice-President in the Philadelphia convention last year. Nobody paid any

attention to that. If the convention had heard him speak at Bloomington,

he would have been nominated instead of Fremont. If the nation could have

heard him, he would be President to-day instead of that miserable

Buchanan. I happened to be at Bloomington. And while the idiots on the

platform were drivelling, the people kept calling for Lincoln. I had

never heard of him then. I've never forgot him since. He came ambling out

of the back of the hall, a lanky, gawky looking man, ridiculously ugly,

sir. But the moment he opened his mouth he had us spellbound. The

language which your low-down lawyer used was that of a God-sent prophet,

sir. He had those Illinois bumpkins all worked up,--the women crying,

and some of the men, too. And mad! Good Lord, they were mad--'We will say

to the Southern disunionists,' he cried,--'we will say to the Southern

disunionists, we won't go out of the Union, and you shan't.'"

There was a silence when the Judge finished. But presently Mr. Carvel

took a match. And he stood over the Judge in his favorite attitude,

--with his feet apart,--as he lighted another cigar.