distressed tone in his voice, “surely you are not teaching that child
to think of marriage--yet?”
“No, no, no!” answered Aunt Polly. “I’m only trying to train her to
submissiveness of mind, so that when the time comes for her to make the
marriage that is already arranged for her, she will interpose no foolish
objections. It’s a hard task. The girl has a wilful way of thinking for
herself. I can’t cure her of it, do what I will.”
“Why should you try?” asked Arthur, almost with excitement in his tone.
“Why should you try to spoil nature’s fine handiwork? That child’s
intellectual attitude is the very best I ever saw in one so young, so
simple and so childlike. For heaven’s sake, let her alone! Let her live
her own life and think in her own honest, candid and fearless way, and
she will develop into a womanhood as noble as any that the world has
seen since Eve persuaded Adam to eat of the tree of knowledge and quit
being a fool.”
“Arthur, you shock me!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Polly, but I shall shock you far worse than that, if
you persist in your effort to warp and pervert that child’s nature to
fit it to some preconceived purpose of conventionality.”
“I don’t know just what you mean, Arthur,” responded the old lady, “but
I know my duty, and I’m going to do it. The one thing necessary in
Dorothy’s case, is to stop her from thinking, and train her to settle
down, when the time comes, into the life of a Virginia matron. It is her
only salvation.”
“Salvation from what?” asked Arthur, almost angrily.
“I can’t tell you,” the old lady answered. “But the girl will never
settle into her proper place if she goes on thinking, as she does now.
So I’m going to stop it.”
“And I,” the young man thought, though he did not say it, “am going to
teach her to think more than ever. I’ll educate that child so long as I
am condemned to lead this idle life. I’ll make it my business to see
that her mind shall not be put into a corset, that her extraordinary
truthfulness shall not be taught to tell lies by indirection, that she
shall not be restrained of her natural and healthful development. It
will be worth while to play the part of idle plantation owner for a year
or two, to accomplish a task like that. I can never learn to feel any
profound interest in the growing of tobacco, wheat and corn--but the
cultivation of that child into what she should be is a nobler work than
that of all the agriculturists of the south side put together. I’ll make
it my task while I am kept here away from my life’s chosen work.”
That day Arthur Brent sent a letter to New York. In it he ordered his
library and the contents of his laboratory sent to him at Wyanoke. He
ordered also a good many books that were not already in his library. He
sent for a carpenter on that same day, and set him at work in a hurry,
constructing a building of his own designing upon a spot selected
especially with reference to drainage, light and other requirements of a
laboratory. He even sent to Richmond for a plumber to put in chemical
sinks, drain pipes and other laboratory fittings.
VI
“NOW YOU MAY CALL ME DOROTHY”
_A_rthur Brent had now come to understand, in some degree at least, who
Dorothy South was. He remembered that the Pocahontas plantation which
immediately adjoined Wyanoke on the east, was the property of a Dr.
South, whom he had never seen. At the time of his own boyhood’s year at
Wyanoke he had understood, in a vague way that Dr. South was absent
somewhere on his travels. Somehow the people whom he had met at Wyanoke
and elsewhere, had seemed to be sorry for Dr. South but they never said
why. Apparently they held him in very high esteem, as Arthur remembered,
and seemed deeply to regret the necessity--whatever it was--which
detained him away, and to all intents and purposes made of Pocahontas a
closed house. For while the owner of that plantation insisted that the
doors of his mansion should always remain open to his friends, and that
dinner should be served there at the accustomed hour of four o’clock
every day during his absence, so that any friend who pleased might avail
himself of a hospitality which had never failed,--there was no white
person on the plantation except the overseer. Gentlemen passing that way
near the dinner hour used sometimes to stop and occupy places at the
table, an event which the negro major-domo always welcomed as a pleasing
interruption in the loneliness of the house. The hospitality of
Pocahontas had been notable for generations past, and the old servant
recalled a time when the laughter of young men and maidens had made the
great rooms of the mansion vocal with merriment. Arthur himself had once
taken dinner there with his uncle, and had been curiously impressed with
the rule of the master that dinner should be served, whether there were
anybody there to partake of it or not. He recalled all these things now,
and argued that Dr. South’s long absence could not have been caused by
anything that discredited him among the neighbors. For had not those
neighbors always regretted his absence, and expressed a wish for his
return? Arthur remembered in what terms of respect and even of
affection, everybody had spoken of the absent man. He remembered too
that about the time of his own departure from Wyanoke, there had been a
stir of pleased expectation, over the news that Dr. South was soon to
return and reopen the hospitable house.
He discovered now that Dr. South had in fact returned at that time and
had resumed the old life at Pocahontas, dispensing a graceful
hospitality during the seven or eight years that had elapsed between his
return and his death. This latter event, Arthur had incidentally
learned, had occurred three years or so before his own accession to the
Wyanoke estate. Since that time Dorothy had lived with Aunt Polly, the
late master of Wyanoke having been her guardian.
So much and no more, Arthur knew. It did not satisfy a curiosity which
he would not satisfy by asking questions. It did not tell him why Aunt
Polly spoke of the girl with pity, calling her “poor Dorothy.” It did
not explain to him why there should be a special effort made to secure
the girl’s marriage into a “good family.” What could be more probable
than that that would happen in due course without any managing whatever?
The girl was the daughter of as good a family as any in Virginia. She
was the sole heir of a fine estate. Finally, she promised to become a
particularly beautiful young woman, and one of unusual attractiveness
of mind.
Yet everywhere Arthur heard her spoken of as “poor Dorothy,” and he
observed particularly that the universal kindness of the gentlewomen to
the child was always marked by a tone or manner suggestive of
compassion. The fact irritated the young man, as facts which he could
not explain were apt to do with one of his scientific mental habit.
There were other puzzling aspects of the matter, too. Why was the girl
forbidden to sing, to learn music, or even to enjoy it? Where had she
got her curious conceptions of life? And above all, what did Aunt Polly
mean by saying that this mere child’s future marriage had been “already
arranged?”
“The whole thing is a riddle,” he said to himself. “I shall make no
effort to solve it, but I have a mind to interfere somewhat with the
execution of any plans that a stupid conventionality may have formed to
sacrifice this rarely gifted child to some Moloch of social propriety.
Of course I shall not try in any way to control her life or direct her
future. But at any rate I shall see to it that she shall be compelled to
nothing without her own consent. Meanwhile, as they won’t let her learn
music, I’ll teach her science. I see clearly that it will take me three
or four years to do what I have planned to do at Wyanoke--to pay off the
debts, and set the negroes up as small farmers on their own account in
the west. During that time I shall have ample opportunity to train the
child’s mind in a way worthy of it, and when I have done that I fancy
she will order her own life with very little regard to the plans of
those who are arranging to make of her a mere pawn upon the chess board.
Thank heaven, this thing gives me a new interest. It will prevent my
mind from vegetating and my character from becoming mildewed. It opens
to me a duty and an occupation--a duty untouched with selfish
indulgence, an occupation which I can pursue without a thought of any
other reward than the joy of worthy achievement.”
“Miss Dorothy,” he said to the girl that evening, “I observe that you
are an early riser.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “You see I must be up soon in the morning”--that
use of “soon” for “early” was invariable in Virginia--“to see that the
maids begin their work right. You see I carry the keys.”
“Yes, I know, you are housekeeper, and a very conscientious one I think.
But I wonder if your duties in the early morning are too exacting to
permit you to ride with me before breakfast. You see I want to make a
tour of inspection over the plantation and I’d like to have you for my
guide. The days are so warm that I have a fancy to ride in the cool of
the morning. Would it please you to accompany me and tell me about
things?”
“I’ll like that very much. I’m always down stairs by five o’clock, so if
you like we can ride at six any morning you please. That will give us
three hours before breakfast.”
“Thank you very much,” Arthur replied. “If you please, then, we’ll ride
tomorrow morning.”
When Arthur came down stairs the next morning he found the maids busily
polishing the snow-white floors with pine needles and great log and husk
rubbers, while their young mistress was giving her final instructions to
Johnny, the dining room servant. Hearing Arthur’s step on the stair she
commanded the negro to bring the coffee urn and in answer to the young
master’s cheery good morning, she handed him a cup of steaming coffee.
“This is a very pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed. “I had not expected
coffee until breakfast time.”
“Oh, you must never ride soon in the morning without taking coffee
first,” she replied. “That’s the way to keep well. We always have a big
kettle of coffee for the field hands before they go to work. Their
breakfast isn’t ready till ten o’clock, and the coffee keeps the chill
off.”
“Why is their breakfast served so late?”
“Oh, they like it that way. They don’t want anything but coffee soon in
the morning. They breakfast at ten, and then the time isn’t so long
before their noonday dinner.”
“I should think that an excellent plan,” answered the doctor. “As a
hygienist I highly approve of it. After all it isn’t very different from
the custom of the French peasants. But come, Miss Dorothy, Ben has the
horses at the gate.”
The girl, fresh-faced, lithe-limbed and joyous, hastily donned her long
riding skirt which made her look, Arthur thought, like a little child
masquerading in some grown woman’s garments, and nimbly tripped down the
walk to the gate way. There she quickly but searchingly looked the
horses over, felt of the girths, and, taking from her belt a fine white
cambric handkerchief, proceeded to rub it vigorously on the animals’
rumps. Finding soil upon the dainty cambric, she held it up before
Ben’s face, and silently looked at him for the space of thirty seconds.
Then she tossed the handkerchief to him and commanded:--“Go to the house
and fetch me another handkerchief.”
There was something almost tragic in the negro’s humiliation as he
walked away on his mission. Arthur had watched the little scene with
amused interest. When it was over the girl, without waiting for him to
offer her a hand as a step, seized the pommel and sprang into the
saddle.
“Why did you do that, Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked as the horses,
feeling the thrill of morning in their veins, began their journey with a
waltz.
“What? rub the horses?”
“No. Why did you look at Ben in that way? And why did it seem such a
punishment to him?”
“I wanted him to remember. He knows I never permit him to bring me a
horse that isn’t perfectly clean.”
“And will he remember now?”
“Certainly. You saw how severely he was punished this time. He doesn’t
want that kind of thing to happen again.”
“But I don’t understand. You did nothing to him. You didn’t even scold
him.”
“Of course I didn’t. Scolding is foolish. Only weak-minded people
scold.”
“But I shouldn’t have thought Ben fine enough or sensitive enough to
feel the sort of punishment you gave him. Why should he mind it?”
“Oh, everybody minds being looked at in that way--everybody who has been
doing wrong. You see one always knows when one has done wrong. Ben knew,
and when I looked at him he saw that I knew too. So it hurt him. You’ll
see now that he’ll never bring you or me a horse on which we can soil
our handkerchiefs.”
“Where did you learn all that?” asked Arthur, full of curiosity and
interest.
“I suppose my father taught me. He taught me everything I know. I
remember that whenever I was naughty, he would look at me over his
spectacles and make me ever so sorry. You see even if I knew I had done
wrong I didn’t think much about it, till father looked at me. After that
I would think about it all day and all night, and be, oh, so sorry! Then
I would try not to displease my father again.”
“Your father must have been a very wise as well as a very good man!”
“He was,” and two tears slipped from the girl’s eyes as she recalled the
father who had been everything to her from her very infancy. “That is
why I always try, now that he is gone, never to do anything that he
would have disliked. I always think ‘I won’t do that, for if I do father
will look at me.’ You see I must be a great deal more careful than other
girls.”
“Why? I see no reason for that.”
“That’s because you don’t know about--about things. I was born bad, and
if I’m not more careful than other girls have to be, I shall be very bad
when I grow up.”
“Will you forgive me if I say I don’t believe that?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, but it’s true,” answered the girl, looking him straight in the
face, with an expression of astonishment at his incredulity.
Arthur saw fit to change the conversation. So he returned to Ben’s case.
“Most women would have sent Ben to the overseer for punishment, wouldn’t
they?”
“Some would, but I never find that necessary. Besides I hate _your_
overseer.”
“Why? What has he done to incur your displeasure, Miss Dorothy?”
“Now you’re mocking me for minding things that are none of my business,”
said the girl with a touch of contrition in her voice.
“Indeed I am not,” answered the young man with earnestness. “And you
have not been doing anything of the kind. I asked you to tell me about
things here at Wyanoke, because it is necessary that I should know them.
So when you tell me that you hate the overseer here, I want to know why.
It is very necessary for me to know what sort of man he is, so that I
may govern myself accordingly. I have great confidence in your judgment,
young as you are. I am very sure you would not hate the overseer without
good cause. So you will do me a favor if you’ll tell me why you hate
him.”
“It is because he is cruel and a coward.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it for myself. He strikes the field hands for nothing. He has
even cruelly whipped some of the women servants with the black snake
whip he carries. I told him only a little while ago that if I ever
caught him doing that again, I’d set my dogs on him. No Virginia
gentleman would permit such a thing. Uncle Robert--that’s the name I
always called your uncle by--would have shot the fellow for that, I
think.”
“But why did Uncle Robert employ such a man for overseer?”
“He never did. Uncle Robert never kept any overseer. He used to say that
the authority of the master of a plantation was too great to be
delegated to any person who didn’t care for the black people and didn’t
feel his responsibility.”
“But how did the fellow come to be here then? Who employed him?”
“Mr. Peyton did--Mr. Madison Peyton. When your uncle was ill, Mr. Peyton
looked after things for him, and he kept it up after Uncle Robert died.
He hired this overseer. He said he was too busy on his own plantation to
take care of things here in person.”
“Uncle Robert was quite right,” said Arthur meditatively. “And now that
I am charged with the responsibility for these black people, I will not
delegate my power to any overseer, least of all to one whom you have
found out to be a cruel coward. Where do you suppose we could find him
now?”
“Down in the tobacco new grounds,” the girl answered. “I was going there
to-day to set my dogs on him, but I remembered that you were master
now.”
“What was the special occasion for your anger this time?” Arthur asked
in a certain quiet, seemingly half indifferent tone which Dorothy found
inscrutable.
“He whipped poor old Michael, the gardener last night,” answered the
girl with a glint as of fire in her eyes. “He had no right to do that.
Michael isn’t a field hand, and he isn’t under the overseer’s control.”
“Do you mean the shambling old man I saw in the garden yesterday? Surely
he didn’t whip that poor decrepit old man!”
“Yes, he did. I told you he was a cruel coward.”
“Let’s ride to the tobacco new grounds at once,” said Arthur quite as he
might have suggested the most indifferent thing. But Dorothy observed
that on the way to the new grounds Arthur Brent spoke no word. Twice she
addressed him, but he made no response.
Arrived at the new grounds Arthur called the overseer to him and without
preface asked him:
“Did you strike old Michael with your whip last night?”
“Yes, and there wan’t a lick amiss unless I made a lick at him and
missed him.”
The man laughed at his own clumsy witticism, but the humor of it seemed
not to impress the new master of the plantation. For reply he said:
“Go to your house at once and pack up your belongings. Come to me after
I have had my breakfast, and we’ll have a settlement. You are to leave
my plantation to-day and never set foot upon it again. Come, Miss
Dorothy, let’s continue our ride!”
With that the two wheeled about, the girl saying:
“Let’s run our horses for a stretch.” Instantly she set off at breakneck
speed across the fields and over two stiff fences before regaining the
main plantation road. There she drew rein and turning full upon her
companion she said:
“Now you may call me Dorothy.”
VII
SHRUB HILL CHURCH
_T_he following day was Sunday, and to Arthur’s satisfaction it was one
of the two Sundays in the month, on which services were held at Shrub
Hill Church. For Arthur remembered the little old church there in the
woods, with the ancient cemetery, in which all the Brents who had lived
before him were buried, and in which rested also all the past
generations of all the other good families of the region round about.
Shrub Hill Church represented one of the most attractive of Virginia
traditions. Early in his career as statesman, Thomas Jefferson had
rendered Virginia a most notable service. He had secured the complete
separation of church from state, the dissolution of that unholy alliance
between religion and government, with which despotism and class
privilege have always buttressed the fabric of oppression. But church
and family remained, and in the course of generations that relation had
assumed characteristics of a most wholesome, ameliorating and
liberalizing character.
Thus at Shrub Hill all the people of character and repute in the region
round about, found themselves at home. They were in large degree
Baptists and Presbyterians in their personal church relations, but all
of them deemed themselves members of Shrub Hill--the Episcopal church
which had survived from that earlier time when to be a gentleman carried
with it the presumption of adherence to the established religion. All of
them attended service there. All contributed to the cost of keeping the
edifice and the graveyard grounds in repair. All of them shared in the
payment of the old rector’s salary and he in his turn preached
scrupulously innocuous sermons to them--sermons ten minutes in length
which might have been repeated with entire propriety and acceptance in
any Baptist or Presbyterian pulpit.
When the Easter elections came, all the gentlemen of the neighborhood
felt themselves entitled to vote for the wardens and vestrymen already
in office, or for the acceptable person selected by common consent to
take the place of any warden or vestryman who might have been laid to
rest beneath the sod of the Shrub Hill churchyard during the year. And
the wardens and vestrymen were Baptists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians or
gentlemen professing no faith, quite indifferently.
These people were hot debaters of politics and religion--especially
religion. When the question of immersion or pedo-baptism was up, each
was ready and eager to maintain the creed of his own church with all the
arguments that had been formulated for that purpose generations before
and worn smooth to the tongue by oft-repeated use. But this fervor made
no difference whatever in the loyalty of their allegiance to their old
family church at Shrub Hill. There they found common ground of tradition
and affection. There they were all alike in right of inheritance. There
all of them expected to be buried by the side of their forefathers.
It has been said already that services were held at Shrub Hill on two
Sundays of the month. As the old rector lived within a few minutes’ walk
of the church, and had no other duty than its ministry, there might have
been services there every Sunday in the year, except that such a
practice would have interfered with the desire of those who constituted
its congregation to attend their own particular Baptist or Presbyterian
churches, which held services on the other Sundays. It was no part of
the spirit or mission of the family church thus to interfere with the
religious preferences of its members, and so, from time immemorial,
there had been services at Shrub Hill only upon two Sundays of the
month.
Everybody attended those services--every gentleman and every gentlewoman
at least. That is to say, all went to the church and the women with a
few of the older men went in. The rest of the gentlemen gathered in
groups under the trees outside--for the church stood in the midst of an
unbroken woodland--and chatted in low tones while the service was in
progress. Thus they fulfilled their gentlemanly obligations of church
going, without the fatigue of personal participation in the services.
The gentlemen rode to church on horseback. The ladies, old and young
alike, went thither in their family carriages. Many of these, especially
the younger ones, were accustomed to go everywhere else in the saddle,
but to church, propriety and tradition required them to go decorously in
the great lumbering vehicles of family state.
The gentlemen arrived first and took their places at the church door to
greet the gentlewomen and give them a hand in alighting from the
high-hung carriages.
As soon as the service was over the social clearing-house held its
session. It was not known by that name, but that in fact was what it
amounted to. Every young woman present invited every other young woman
present to go home with her to dinner and to stay for a few days or for
a week. There was a babel of insistent tongues out of which nothing less
sagacious than feminine intelligence could have extracted a resultant
understanding. But after a few minutes all was as orderly as the
domestic arrangements over which these young women were accustomed to
preside. Two or three of them had won all the others to their will, and
the company, including all there was of young and rich voiced femininity
in the region round about, was divided into squads and assigned to two
or three hospitable mansions, whither trunks would follow in the early
morning of the Monday.
The young men accommodated themselves at once to these arrangements,
each accepting at least a dinner invitation to the house, to which the
young woman most attractive to himself had elected to go. As there was
no afternoon or evening service, the religious duties of the day were at
an end before one of the clock.