STEVE ALLEN LEARNS MISS THOMASIA’S SECRET AND FORSWEARS CARDS
The roughness of the treatment Jacquelin had received at Leech’s hands
caused his wound to break out afresh, and for a time he was seriously
ill. But he had some compensations. Every girl in the neighborhood
deemed him her especial favorite and charge. And from time to time, in
the door walked, floated, or entered somehow, a goddess; and with her
came heaven. Her entrance was always a miracle; she lit up the room,
radiance took the place of gloom; the racked nerves found a sudden
anodyne, and in the mere joy of her presence, Jacquelin forgot that
he was crippled. She read to him, sat by him, soothed him, talked
with him, sympathized with him, turned darkness into light, and pain,
at least, into fortitude. How divinely tender her eyes could grow as
some sudden paroxysm wrung his nerves, and brought a flush to his wan
cheek! How solicitous was her voice! How soft her touch! And how much
she knew! As much as Aunt Thomasia! How could a young girl have read so
much! It stimulated Jacquelin, and he began to emulate her, as in old
days, until reading became a habit.
Under these influences Jacquelin actually began to get well.
Middleton passed by one evening and saw the young girl sitting on
the rose-bowered veranda, by Jacquelin’s lounge, reading to him. The
soft cadences of a charming voice were borne to him murmurously. A
strange pang of loneliness shot through him. That far-away visit
in the past seemed to rise up before him, and the long years were
suddenly obliterated. He was back, a visitor at a beautiful old
country-place, where joy and hospitality reigned. Jacquelin was a
handsome, bright-faced boy again, and Blair was a little girl, with
those wonderful eyes and confiding ways. Middleton wondered if he
should suddenly turn and walk in on them, with a reminder of that old
time, how they would receive him. He was half-minded to do it, and
actually paused. He would go in and say, “Here, the war is over—let’s
be friends.” But suddenly a man passed him and glanced up in his face
and saluted. It was Leech, and Middleton saw him look across to where
the invalid and his fair young nurse sat on the shaded veranda, and
knew what his thoughts were. The spell was broken. Middleton stepped
down from romance to the hard ground of reality, and passed on to give
his orders for the evening.
Jacquelin’s arrest and illness had come near breaking up the
entertainment (a name which had been substituted for ball, to meet
the scruples of Miss Thomasia and some other pious ladies). But this
Jacquelin would on no account hear of. Besides, after the order
forbidding public gatherings at night, it would look like truckling.
As, however, in the family’s absence, the assembly could not be held at
Red Rock, it was decided to have it at the court-house, where Jacquelin
now was. This concession was made; the largest and best building
there for such an entertainment was one used as a Masonic hall, and
occasionally as a place for religious services. This hall was selected.
Who was responsible for its selection was not actually known. Thurston
told Middleton that when he said he ought to have been a bishop, he
placed his abilities far too low—that really he ought to have been a
pope. But he did not appear in the matter at all except to meet the
objections raised by Leech, and to silence that official by an allusion
to his recent pious ministrations in that building. Steve Allen was
the chief advocate of the hall, and took the lead in its selection and
also in its defence; for some objection was made by others than Leech
to having a party in this building, and on very different grounds.
Miss Thomasia and some others who were not entirely satisfied anyhow
about dancing, thought that it was certainly more likely to be wrong
in a room which had been sometimes used, however rarely, for religious
services, and it took some skill to overrule their objections. Thurston
said to Mrs. Dockett that it had never been consecrated. “So far from
it,” said Mrs. Dockett, “it has been desecrated.” (The last service
held in it had been held by a Union chaplain, who had come up from town
and preached in it to the soldiers, with Leech on the front bench.)
Miss Thomasia, being for once in accord with both Thurston and Steve,
gave in, and actually lent her aid and counsel, at least so far as
related to the embellishment of the hall, and of some who were to
attend there. She ventured her advice to Steve in only one matter
relating to the outside. Having found him at work one evening, making a
short rustic bench to be placed under one of the trees in the yard, she
said she hoped he did not intend that for two people, and that young
man scandalously replied that he was making it short on purpose for her
and the General; and, in the face of her offended dignity, impudently
added that the General had engaged him to do it, and had given him the
measurements.
“Steve Allen, I am too old for you to talk to me so,” said Miss
Thomasia.
“‘Taint me, Cousin Thomasia; ’tis the General,” persisted Steve, and
then, as the little faded lady still remained grave and dignified, he
straightened up and glanced at her. Stepping to her side, he slipped
his arm round her, like a big stalwart son, and, looking down in her
face with kindly eyes, said, tenderly:
“Cousin Thomasia, there aren’t any of ’em like you nowadays. They don’t
make ’em so any more. The mould’s broken.” He seated the little lady
gently on the bench, pleased and mollified, and flung himself on the
grass at her feet, and the two had a long, confidential talk, from
which both derived much comfort, and Steve much profit (he said). At
least, he learned something new, and when as the dew began to fall
Miss Thomasia rose, it was with a better insight into the nature of
the reckless young fellow; and Steve, on his part, had a new feeling
for Miss Thomasia, and led her in with a new tenderness. For Miss
Thomasia had told the young man, what she had never admitted to a soul
in all her life—that the reason the General, or anyone else, had never
won her was that long ago her heart had been given to another—“the
handsomest, most brilliant man I ever saw,” she said—who had loved
her, she believed, with all his soul, but had not been strong enough to
resist, even for her sake, the temptation of two besetting sins—drink
and gambling—and she had obeyed her father, and given him up.
Steve was lying full length on his back at her feet, his face turned to
her, and his clasped hands under his head.
“Cousin Thomasia, who was he, and what became of him?” he asked, gently.
“He was your father, Steve, and you might have been—” The voice was so
low that the young man did not catch the last word. He unclasped his
hands, and placed one forearm quickly across his face, and lay quite
still for a minute or two. Then he moved it. Miss Thomasia was sitting
quite motionless, her eyes in her lap, and with the fading light of the
evening sky slanting under the trees and resting on her face and soft,
silvered hair. She sighed so softly it might have been only breathing.
“I never knew it,” said Steve, gently; “but I might have known.”
He rose slowly, and leaning over her, kissed her tenderly, and she laid
her head on his shoulder.
“Yes, Steve, now you know.”
And Steve said, yes, and kissed her again like a son.
“Cousin Thomasia,” he said, presently, “I will not say I will never
drink again; but I will promise you not to gamble again, and I will not
drink to excess any more.”
“Oh! Steve, if you knew how I have prayed for you!” said the little
lady, softly.
“Well, maybe, Cousin Thomasia, this is in answer to it,” said Steve,
half seriously.
There was as much preparation for the entertainment as there had ever
been in the old times for the greatest ball given at Red Rock or
Birdwood. Some of the guests from distant neighborhoods came several
days before-hand to be in time, or to help superintend, and stayed at
the houses of their friends near the county seat. Even the General’s
bachelor establishment was transformed for the occasion into a nest of
doves, who, it was said, put up more little knick-knacks than he had
ever seen, and made the old fellow more comfortable than he had ever
been before in all his life.
Thus the little village, which for some time had been hardly more than
a camp, over-run with negro camp-followers, suddenly took on a new air
and freshened up, with young girls in cool dresses and big hats on the
streets, or making pleasant groups under the trees in the yards on the
slopes outside the hamlet, from which laughter and singing to the music
of guitars floated down to the village below. The negroes themselves
joined in, and readily fell into old habits, putting themselves in
the way of the visitors, whom they overwhelmed with compliments, and
claims, and offers of service.
Amid this, Middleton and Thurston went in and out quietly, attending
to their duties, drilling and inspecting and keeping their eyes open,
less for treason than for the pretty girls who had come suddenly upon
them like flowers after a spring rain. They met a few of them casually,
either through Steve Allen or Mrs. Dockett, whose house was filled with
them; but the new-comers treated them with such undeniable coolness
that there was little encouragement to prosecute the acquaintance.
Even plump Miss Dockett stiffened perceptibly, and treated Lieutenant
Thurston with more severity than she had ever exhibited since he had
made those wonderful bargains.
Only one man in the whole village appeared absolutely out of humor
over the stir and preparations, and that was Leech. The plan which he
and Still had laid down to prevent the assembly having failed, Leech
determined to break it up, at all hazards. Still was in constant, if
secret, conference with him. They had told Sherwood and Moses that they
could prevent it. If it were held in spite of them, it would prove that
they were less powerful than they pretended to be.
Leech would go to town and obtain a peremptory order forbidding this
very meeting.
“Have it made out so you can give it, yourself,” counselled Still.
“Wait till the last minute and then spring it on ’em. We’ll show ’em
we’re not to be treated as they please. They don’t know me yet, but
they soon will. I’ve got that as will make some of ’em wince. I’ll show
’em who Hiram Still is.” He tapped his pocket significantly.
So it was decided, and Leech went off to the city to use his influence
with Colonel Krafton, while Still was to prepare a foundation for his
interference, through the negro leaders, Sherwood, Moses, and Nicholas
Ash.
That evening there was a little more stir among the negroes about
the court-house than had been observed before. Sherwood and Moses
were there, sent down by Still, and that night they held a meeting—a
religious meeting it was called—at which there was some singing and
praying, and much speaking or preaching—the two preachers being
Sherwood and Moses. They could be heard all over the village, and at
length their shouting and excitement reached such a pitch and attracted
so much attention that some of the residents walked down to the place
where they were congregated, to look into the matter. Moses was
speaking at the moment, mounted on an impromptu platform, swaying his
body back and forth, and pouring forth a doctrine as voluble in words
as it was violent in sound and gesture, whilst his audience surged
around him, swaying and shouting, and exciting themselves into a sort
of wild frenzy. The white men who had gathered, listened silently and
sullenly to the sounds rising in unison with the speaker’s voice. Some
were of the opinion that he ought to be stopped at once and the meeting
broken up, and there were plenty of offers to do it. A more prudent
head, however, had adopted another course. Dr. Cary, who happened to
be in the village that night, hearing what was going on, and knowing
what might occur at any moment, called on the officer in command, and
stated to him the danger of a collision. Captain Middleton walked
down to the meeting with him to make his own observation. Only a few
moments sufficed. The violence of the speaker, who was now dancing
back and forth; the excitement of the dusky crowd pressing about him;
the gathering of white men on the edge of the throng, speaking in low,
earnest tones, their eyes turned to the speaker, suggested prompt
measures.
“Don’t de Book say, as we shall inherit the nth?” cried the speaker,
and his audience moaned and swayed and shouted in assent.
“An’ ain’t de harvest white fur de laborer?”
“Yas-yas,” shouted the audience. “White fur de laborer!”
“Unless you stop them, Captain, we shall; for we know that it is
necessary and that it will be a kindness to them,” said the Doctor,
quietly; and the officer recognizing the necessity, though he little
understood the Doctor’s full meaning, assented promptly. He pushed
his way through the throng, followed by the Doctor. He stopped the
speaker and mounted the platform, and in a few words forbade any
further speaking and ordered the crowd to disperse, which it did almost
immediately, dissolving like magic before the officer’s order. Then
he turned to the speaker, and with a sharp reprimand for his action
commanded him to leave the village. The trick-doctor cringed, and with
a whine of acquiescence bowed himself off.