charge of the late Mr. Robert Brent, a gentleman in every possible way
worthy of the trust. Thus far, therefore, this Court has had no occasion
to take action of any kind in your behalf or for your protection.
Unhappily, however, your guardian, the late Robert Brent, has passed
away, and it becomes now the duty of this Court to appoint some fit
person in his stead as guardian of your estate. The Court has full
authority in the matter. It may appoint whomsoever it chooses for this
position of high responsibility. But it is the immemorial custom of the
Court in cases where the ward in chancery has passed his or her
sixteenth year--an age which you have attained--to permit the ward to
make choice of a guardian for himself or herself, as the case may be. If
the ward is badly advised, and selects a person whom the Court deems for
any reason unfit, the Court declines to make the appointment asked, and
itself selects some other. But if the person selected by the ward is
deemed fit, the Court is pleased to confirm the choice. It is now my
duty to ask you, Miss Dorothy, what person you prefer to have for
guardian of your estate.”
“May I really choose for myself?” asked the girl in a clear and
perfectly calm voice, to the astonishment of everybody.
“Certainly, Miss Dorothy. Whom do you choose?”
“Did my father say in his will that I must choose some particular
person?” she continued, interrogating the Court as placidly as she might
have put questions to Aunt Polly.
“No, my dear young lady. Your father’s will lays no injunction whatever
upon you respecting this matter.”
“Then, if you please, I choose Dr. Arthur Brent for my guardian. May we
go now?”
No attention was given to the naive question with which the girl asked
permission to withdraw. Her choice of guardian was a complete surprise.
There was astonishment on every face except that of the judge, who
officially preserved an expression of perfect self-possession. Even Aunt
Polly was astounded, and she showed it. It had been understood by
everybody that Madison Peyton was to succeed to Dorothy’s guardianship,
and the submission of the choice to her had been regarded as a matter of
mere form. Even to Aunt Polly the girl had given no slightest intimation
of her purpose to defeat the prearranged program, and so Aunt Polly
shared the general surprise. But Aunt Polly was distinctly pleased with
the substitution as soon at least as she had given it a moment’s
thought. She had come to like Arthur Brent even more in his robust
manhood than she had done during his boyish sojourn at Wyanoke. She had
learned also to respect his judgment, and she saw clearly, now that it
was suggested, that he was obviously the best person possible to assume
the office of guardian. She was pleased, too, with Madison Peyton’s
discomfiture. “He needed to have his comb cut,” she reflected in homely
metaphor. “It may teach him better manners.”
As for Peyton, who was present in Court, having come for the purpose of
accepting the guardianship, his rage exceeded even his astonishment. He
had in his youth gone through what was then the easy process of securing
admission to the bar, and so, although he had never pretended to
practise law, he was entitled to address the Court as an attorney. He
had never done so before, but on this occasion he rose, almost choking
for utterance and plunged at once into a passionate protest, in which
the judge, who was calm, presently checked him, saying:
“Your utterance seems to the Court to be uncalled for, while its manner
is distinctly such as the Court must disapprove. The person named by the
ward as her choice for the guardianship, bears a high reputation for
integrity, intelligence and character. Unless it can be shown to the
Court that this reputation is undeserved, the ward’s choice will be
confirmed. At present the Court is aware of nothing whatever in Dr.
Brent’s character, circumstances or position that can cast doubt upon
his fitness. If you have any information that should change the Court’s
estimate of his character you will be heard.”
“He is unfit in every way,” responded the almost raving man. “He has
deliberately undermined my fatherly influence over the girl. He has
taken a mean advantage of me. He has overpersuaded the girl to set aside
an arrangement made for her good and--”
“Oh, no, Mr. Peyton,” broke in Dorothy, utterly heedless of court
formalities, “he has done nothing of the kind. He knows nothing about
this. I don’t think he will even like it.”
“Pardon me, Miss Dorothy,” interrupted the judge. “Please address the
Court--me--and not Mr. Peyton. Tell me, have you made your choice of
your own free will?”
“Why, certainly, Judge, else I wouldn’t have made it.”
“Has anybody said anything to you on the subject?”
“No, sir. Nobody has ever mentioned the matter to me except Col. Majors,
and he told me I was to choose Mr. Peyton, but you told me I could
choose for myself, you know. I suppose Col. Majors didn’t know you’d let
me do that.”
A little laugh went up in the bar, and even the judge smiled. Presently
he said:
“The Court knows of no reason why it should not confirm the choice made
by the ward. Accordingly it is ordered that Dr. Arthur Brent of Wyanoke
be appointed guardian of the property and estate of Dorothy South, with
full authority, subject only to such instructions as this Court may from
time to time see fit to give for his guidance. Mr. Clerk, make the
proper record, and call the next case. This proceeding is at an end.
You are at liberty now to withdraw, Miss Dorothy, you and Miss Polly.”
Aunt Polly rose and bowed her acknowledgments in silence. Dorothy bowed
with equal grace, but added: “Thank you, Judge. I am anxious to get back
to my sick people. So I will bid you good morning. You have been
extremely nice to me.”
With that she bowed again and swept out of the court room, quite
unconscious of the fact that even by her courteous adieu she had
offended against all the traditions of etiquette in a court of Justice.
The judge bowed and smiled, and every lawyer at the bar instinctively
arose, turned his face respectfully toward the withdrawing pair, and
remained standing till they had passed through the outer door, Col.
Majors escorting them.
XVI
UNDER THE CODE
_I_t was Madison Peyton’s habit to have his own way, and he greatly
prided himself upon getting it, in other people’s affairs as well as in
those that concerned himself. He loved to dominate others, to trample
upon their wills and to impose his own upon them. In a large degree he
accomplished this, so that he regarded himself and was regarded by
others as a man of far more than ordinary influence. He was so, in a
certain way, but it was not a way that tended to make men like him. On
the contrary, the aggressive self assertion by which he secured
influence, secured for him also the very general dislike of his
neighbors, especially of those who most submissively bowed to his will.
They hated him because they felt themselves obliged to submit their
wills to his.
There was, therefore, a very general chuckle of pleasure among the crowd
gathered at the Court House--a crowd which included nearly every
able-bodied white man in the county--as the news of his discomfiture and
of his outbreak of anger over it, was discussed. There were few who
would have cared to twit him with it, and if he had himself maintained a
discreet and dignified silence concerning the matter, he would have
heard little or nothing about it. But he knew that everybody was in fact
talking of it, out of his hearing. He interpreted aright the all
pervading atmosphere of amused interest, and the fact that every group
of men he approached became silent and seemed embarrassed when he joined
it. After his aggressive manner, therefore, he refused to remain silent.
He thrust the subject upon others’ attention at every turn. He
protested, he declaimed, at times he very nearly raved over what he
called the outrage. He even went further in some cases and demanded
sympathy and acquiescence in his complainings. For the most part he got
something quite different. His neighbors were men not accustomed to
fear, and while they were politely disposed to refrain from voluntary
expressions of opinion on this matter, at least in his presence, they
were ready enough with answers unwelcome to him when he demanded their
opinions.
“Isn’t it an outrage,” he asked of John Meaux, “that Arthur Brent has
undermined me in this way?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Meaux with a drawl which always affected
his speech when he was most earnest, “I cannot see it in that light.
Dorothy declares that he knew nothing of her intentions, and we all know
that Dorothy South never tells anything but the truth. Besides, I don’t
see why he isn’t entitled to serve as her guardian if she wants him to
do so. He is a man of character and brains, and I happen to know that he
has a good head for business.”
“Yes,” snarled Peyton, “I know you’ve been cultivating him--”
“I’ll trouble you to leave me out of your remarks, Mr. Peyton,”
interrupted Meaux. “If you don’t you may have a quarrel on your hands.”
“Oh, you know me, Meaux; you know I didn’t mean any harm so far as you
are concerned. You know my way--”
“Yes, I know your way, and I don’t like it. In fact I won’t tolerate
it.”
“Oh, come now, come now, John, don’t fly off the handle like that. You
see I’m not angry with you, but how you can like this interloper--”
“His family is as old in Virginia as your own is,” answered Meaux, “and
he is the master of the very oldest plantation in this county. Besides
he was born in Virginia and--but never mind that. I’m not counsel for
his defence. I only interrupted to tell you that I am accustomed to
choose my own friends, and that I fully intend to adhere to that
custom.”
In another group Peyton used even less temperate terms than “interloper”
in characterizing Arthur, and added:
“He didn’t even dare come to court and brazen out his treachery. He left
the job, like a sneak, to the little girl whose mind he has poisoned.”
Archer Bannister was standing near, and heard the offensive words. He
interrupted:
“Mr. Peyton, I earnestly advise you to retract what you have just said,
and to put your retraction into writing, giving it to me to deliver to
my friend Dr. Brent; who is absent today, as you very well know, simply
because he has imperative duties of humanity elsewhere. I assure you
that I shall report your offensive utterance to him, and it will be well
for you if your retraction and apology can be delivered to him at the
same time. Arthur Brent is rapidly falling into Virginia ways--adopting
the customs of the country, he calls it--and there is one of those
customs which might subject you to a deal of inconvenience, should he
see fit to adopt it.”
“What have you to do with my affairs?” asked Peyton in a tone of
offence.
“Nothing whatever--_at present_,” answered the young man, turning upon
his heel.
But the warning sobered Peyton’s anger. It had not before occurred to
him that Arthur might have become so far indoctrinated with Virginia
ways of thinking as to call him to account for his words, in the hostile
fashion usual at that time. Indeed, relying upon the fixed habit of
Virginians never to gossip, he had not expected that Arthur would ever
hear of his offensive accusations. Bannister’s notification that he
would exercise the privilege accorded by custom to the personal friend
of a man maligned when not present to defend himself, suggested grave
possibilities. He knew that custom fully warranted Bannister in doing
what he had threatened to do, and he had not the smallest doubt that the
young man would do it.
It was in a mood of depression, therefore, that Peyton ordered his horse
and rode homeward. His plantation lay within two or three miles of the
Court House, but by the time that he had arrived there he had thought
out a plan of procedure. He knew that Bannister would remain at the
village inn over night, having jury service to perform the next morning.
There was time, therefore, in which to reach him with a placative
message, and Peyton set himself at once to work upon the preparation of
such a message.
“I hope you will forgive me,” he wrote, “for the rudeness with which I
spoke to you today. I was extremely angry at the time, and I had reasons
for being so, of which you know nothing, and of which I must not tell
you anything. Perhaps in my extreme irritation, I used expressions with
regard to Dr. Brent, which I should not have used had I been calmer. For
my discourtesy to you personally, I offer very sincere apologies, which
I am sure your generous mind will accept as an atonement. For the rest I
must trust your good feeling not to repeat the words I used in a moment
of extreme excitement.”
Archer Bannister wrote in reply:
“The apology you have made to me was quite unnecessary. I had not
demanded it. As for the rest, I shall do my duty as a friend unless you
make apology where it is due, namely to Dr. Arthur Brent whom you have
falsely accused, and to whom you have applied epithets of a very
offensive character. If you choose to make me the bearer of your apology
to him, I will gladly act for you. I prefer peace to war, at all times.”
This curt note gave Peyton a very bad quarter hour. He was not a coward;
or, to put the matter more accurately, he was not that kind of a coward
that cannot face physical danger. But he was a man of middle age or a
trifle more. He was the father of a family and an elder in the
Presbyterian church. Conscience did not largely influence him in any
case, but he was keenly sensitive to public opinion. He knew that should
he fight a duel, all the terrors of religious condemnation would fall
upon him. Worse still, he would be laughed at for having so entangled
himself in a matter his real relation to which he was not free to
explain. Madison Peyton dreaded and feared nothing in the world so much
as being laughed at. Added to this, he knew that the entire community
would hold him to be altogether in the wrong. Arthur Brent’s reputation
achieved by his heroic devotion under fearful danger at Norfolk, had
been recalled and emphasized by his conduct in the present fever
outbreak on his own plantation. It was everywhere the subject of
admiring comment, and Peyton very well knew that nobody in that
community would for a moment believe that Arthur Brent was guilty of any
meanness or cowardly treachery. His own accusations, unless supported by
some sort of proof, would certainly recoil upon himself with crushing
force. He could in no way explain the anger that had betrayed him into
the error of making such accusations. He could not make it appear to
anybody that he had been wronged by the fact that Dorothy South had
chosen another than himself for her guardian. His anger, upon such an
occasion, would be regarded as simply ridiculous, and should he permit
the matter to come to a crisis he must at once become the butt of
contemptuous jesting.
There was but one course open to him, as he clearly saw. He wrote again
to Archer Bannister, withdrawing his offensive words respecting Arthur,
apologizing for them on the ground of momentary excitement, asking
Archer to convey this his apology to Dr. Brent, and authorizing the
latter to make any other use of the letter which he might deem proper.
This apology satisfied all the requirements of “the code.”
XVII
A REVELATION
_I_t was Dorothy who gave Arthur the first news of his appointment as
her guardian. On her return from court to the fever camp she went first
to see Sally and the two or three others whose condition was
particularly serious. Then she went to Arthur, and told him what had
happened.
“The judge was very nice to me, Cousin Arthur, and told me I might
choose anybody I pleased for my guardian, and of course I chose you.”
“You did?” asked the young man in a by no means pleased astonishment.
“Why on earth did you do that, Dorothy?”
“Why, because I wanted you to be my guardian, of course. Don’t you want
to be my guardian, Cousin Arthur?”
“I hardly know, child. It involves a great responsibility and a great
deal of hard work.”
“Won’t you take the responsibility and undertake the work for my sake,
Cousin Arthur?”
“Certainly I will, my child. I wasn’t thinking of that exactly--but of
some other things. But tell me, how did you come to do this? Who
suggested it to you?”
“Why, nobody. That’s what I told the judge, and when Mr. Peyton got
angry and said you had persuaded me to do it, I told him he was wrong.
Then the judge stopped him from speaking and asked me about the matter
and I told him. Then he said very nice things about you, and said you
were to be my guardian, and then he told me I might go home and I
thanked him and said good day, and Col. Majors escorted us to the
carriage. I wonder why Mr. Peyton was so angry about it. He seems to
have been very anxious to be my guardian. I wonder why?”
“I wonder, too,” said Arthur, to whom of course the secret of Peyton’s
concern with Dorothy’s affairs was a mystery. He had not been present on
the occasion when Peyton entered his protest against the girl’s reading,
nor had any one told him of the occurrence. Neither had he heard of
Peyton’s visit to Aunt Polly on the occasion of the outbreak of fever.
He therefore knew of no reason for Peyton’s desire to intermeddle in
Dorothy’s affairs, beyond his well known disposition to do the like with
everybody’s concerns. But Arthur had grown used to the thought of
mystery in everything that related to Dorothy.
Presently the girl said, “I’m going to write a note to Mr. Peyton, now,
and send it over by Dick.”
“What for, Dorothy?”
“Oh, I want to tell him how wrong and wicked he is when he says you
persuaded me to do this.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, I told you so before, but you weren’t paying attention. Perhaps
you were thinking about the poor sick people, so I’ll forgive you and
you needn’t apologize. I must run away now and write my note.”
“Please don’t, Dorothy.”
“But why not?”
“He will say I persuaded you to do that, too. It would embarrass me very
seriously if you should send him any note now.”
Dorothy was quick to see this aspect of the matter, though without
suggestion it would never have occurred to her extraordinarily simple
and candid mind.
It was not long after Dorothy left him when Edmonia Bannister made her
daily visit to the fever camp, accompanied by her maid and bearing
delicacies for the sick. After her visit to Dorothy’s quarters Arthur
engaged her in conversation. He told her of what had happened, and
expressed his repugnance to the task thus laid upon him.
“I cannot sympathize with you in the least,” said the young woman. “I am
glad it has happened--glad on more accounts than one.”
“Yes, I suppose you are,” he answered, meditatively, “but that’s because
you do not understand. I wish I could have a good, long talk with you,
Edmonia, about this thing--and some other things.”
He added the last clause after a pause, and in a tone which suggested
that perhaps the “other things” were weightier in his mind than this
one.
“Why can’t you?” the girl asked.
“Why, I can’t leave my sick people long enough for a visit to Branton.
It will be many weeks yet before I shall feel free to leave this
plantation.”
The girl thought a moment, and then said, with unusual deliberation:
“I can spare an hour now; surely you might give a like time. Why can’t
we sit in Dorothy’s little porch and have our talk now? Dorothy has
gone to the big tent, and is busy with the sick, and if you should be
needed you will be here to respond to any call. I see how worried you
are, and perhaps I may be able to help you with advice--or at the least
with sympathy.”
Arthur gladly assented and the two repaired to the little shaded
verandah which Dick had built out of brushwood and boughs across the
front of Dorothy’s temporary dwelling.
“This thing troubles me greatly, Edmonia,” Arthur began, “and it
depresses me as pretty nearly everything else does nowadays. It
completely upsets my plans and defeats all my ambitions. It adds another
to the ties of obligation that compel me to remain here and neglect my
work.”
“Is it not possible, Arthur”--their friendship had passed the
“cousining” stage and they used each other’s names now without
prefix--“Is it not possible, Arthur, for you to find work enough here to
occupy your life and employ your abilities worthily? There is no doubt
that you have already saved many lives by the skill and energy with
which you have met this fever outbreak, and your work will bear still
better fruit. You have taught all of us how to save lives in such a
case, how to deal with the epidemics that are common enough on
plantations. You may be sure that nobody in this region will ever again
let a dozen or twenty negroes perish in unwholesome quarters after they
have seen how easily and surely you have met and conquered the fever.
Dorothy tells me you have had only two deaths out of forty-two cases,
and that no new cases are appearing. Surely your conscience should
acquit you of neglecting your work, or burying your talents.”
“Oh, if there were such work for me to do all the time,” the young man
answered, “I should feel easy on that score. But this is an
extraordinary occasion. It will pass in a few weeks, and then--”
“Well, and then--what?”
“Why, then a life of idleness and ease, with no duties save such as any
man of ordinary intelligence could do as well as I, or better--a life
delightful enough in its graceful repose, but one which must condemn me
to rust in all my faculties, to stand still or retrograde, to leave
undone all that I have spent my youth and early manhood in fitting
myself to do. Please understand me, Edmonia. I love Virginia, its
people, and all its traditions of honor and manliness. But I am not fit
for the life I must lead here. All the education, all the experience I
have had have tended to unfit me for it in precisely that degree in
which they have helped to equip me for something quite different. Then
again the work I had marked out for myself in the world needs me far
more than you can easily understand. There are not many men so
circumstanced that they could do it in my stead. Other men as well or
better equipped with scientific acquirements, and all that, are not free
as I am--or was before this inheritance in Virginia came to blight my
life. They have their livings to make and must work only in fields that
promise a harvest of gain. I was free to go anywhere where I might be
needed, and to minister to humanity in ways that make no money return.
My annuities secured me quite all the money I needed for my support so
that I need never take thought for the morrow. I have never yet received
a fee for my ministry--for I regard my work as a ministry, for which I
am set apart. Other men have families too, and owe a first duty to them,
while I--well, I decided at the outset that I would never marry.”
Arthur did not end that sentence as he would have ended it a year or
even half a year before. He was growing doubtful of himself. Presently
he continued: