DR. CARY MEETS AN OLD COLLEGE MATE AND LEARNS THAT THE ATHENIANS ALSO
PRACTISE HOSPITALITY
The Ku Klux raid, as it was called, created a great commotion, not only
in our county but in other quarters as well. There had been in other
sections growlings and threatenings, altercations, collisions, and
outbreaks of more or less magnitude, but no outbreak so systematic, so
extensive, and so threatening as this had hitherto occurred, and it
caused a sensation. It was talked about as “a new rebellion,” calling
for the suspension of the writs of privilege and the exercise of the
strongest powers of the Government.
When therefore Leech and Still appeared at the national capital, as
suitors appealing for aid to maintain the laws and even to secure their
lives, they found open ears and ready sympathizers. They were met by
Mr. Bolter, who mainly had taken the bonds of their new railway, which
was not yet built, and who was known as a wealthy capitalist. Thus they
appeared as men of substance and standing, well introduced, and as they
spoke with doubtful endorsement of the Governor they were even regarded
as more than commonly conservative, and their tale was given unbounded
credit.
When they returned home it was with the conviction that their mission
had been completely successful; they had not only secured the immediate
object of their visit, and obtained the promise of the strongest
backing that could be given against their enemies, but they had gained
even a more important victory. They had instilled doubts as to both
the sincerity and the wisdom of the Governor; had, as Still said,
“loosed a lynch-pin for him,” and had established themselves as the
true and proper persons to be consulted and supported. Thus they had
secured, as they hoped, the future control of the State. They were in
an ecstasy, and when a little later the new judge was appointed, and
proved to be Hurlbut Bail, the man Bolter had recommended against one
the Governor had backed, they felt themselves to be masters of the
situation.
When the mission of Leech and Still became known in the old county it
created grave concern. A meeting was held and Dr. Cary and General
Legaie, with one or two others of the highest standing, were appointed
a committee to go on and lay their side of the case before the
authorities and see what they could do to counteract the effect of the
work of Leech and his associates.
It was the first time Dr. Cary and General Legaie had been to the
national capital or, indeed, out of the State, since the war, and they
were astonished to see what progress had been made in that brief period.
They found themselves, on merely crossing a river, suddenly landed in
a city as wholly different from anything they had seen since the war
as if it had been a foreign capital. The handsome streets and busy
thoroughfares filled with well-dressed throngs; gay with flashing
equipages, and all the insignia of wealth, appeared all the more
brilliant from the sudden contrast. As the party walked through the
city they appeared to themselves to be almost the poorest persons they
saw, at least among the whites. The city was full of negroes at this
time. These seemed to represent mainly the two extremes of prosperity
and poverty. The gentlemen could not walk on the street without being
applied to by some old man or woman who was in want, and who, as long
as the visitors had anything to give, needed only to ask to be assisted.
“We are like lost souls on the banks of the Styx,” said Dr. Cary. “I
feel as much a stranger as if I were on another planet. And to think
that our grandfathers helped to make this nation!”
“To think that we ever surrendered!” exclaimed General Legaie, with a
flash in his eye.
They took lodgings at a little boarding-house, and called next day in
a body on the Head of the Nation, but were unable to see him; then
they waited on one after another of several high officers of the
Government whom they believed to be dominant in the national councils.
Some they failed to get access to; others heard them civilly, but with
undisguised coldness. At one place they were treated rudely by a negro
door-keeper, whose manner was so insolent that the General turned on
him sharply with a word and a gesture that sent him bouncing inside
the door. After this interview, as Dr. Cary was making his way back
to his boarding-house, he met one of his old servants. The negro was
undisguisedly glad to see him. He wrung his hand again and again.
“You’s de fust frien’, master, I’s seen since I been heah!” he said.
“You are the first friend, John, I have seen,” said the Doctor,
smiling. He put his hand in his pocket and gave the old man a bank-note.
As the Doctor was engaged in this colloquy he was observed with kindly
interest or amusement by many passers-by—among them, by an elderly and
handsomely dressed couple, accompanied by a very pretty girl, who were
strolling along, and loitered for a moment within earshot to observe
the two strangers.
“What a picturesque figure!” said the lady as they passed on.
“Which one?”
“Well, both. I almost thought of them as one. I wish, Alice, you could
have got a sketch of them as they stood.”
“He is a Southerner—from his voice,” said her husband, who was Judge
Rockfield, one of the ablest and most noted men at that time in public
life; one of the wisest in council, and who, though his conservatism
in that period of fierce passion kept him from being as prominent as
some who were more violent and more radical, yet was esteemed one of
the ablest and soundest men in the country. He was a Senator from his
State, and the owner of one of the leading and most powerful journals
in the country.
Dr. Cary, having given the old negro his address, took a street-car to
try to overhaul his friends. It was quite full, and the Doctor secured
the last vacant seat. A few blocks farther on, several persons boarded
the car, among them the elderly gentleman and his wife and daughter,
already mentioned, and another lady. The Doctor rose instantly.
“Will you take my seat, madam?” he said to the nearest lady, with a
bow. The other ladies were still left standing, though there were many
men seated; but the next second a young fellow farther down the car
rose, and gave up his seat. As he took his stand the Doctor caught his
eye.
“‘The Athenians praise hospitality, the Lacedemonians practise it,’” he
said in a distinct voice that went through the car, and with a bow to
the young fellow which brought a blush of pride to his pleasant face.
The next moment the gentleman who had entered with his wife touched the
Doctor on his arm.
“I beg your pardon: is your name Cary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can this be John Cary of Birdwood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you remember Anson Rockfield?”
“Why, Rockfield, my old college-mate!” exclaimed the Doctor. The two
men grasped each other’s hands with a warmth which drew to them the
attention and interest of the whole car. “Rockfield, you see I am still
quoting Plutarch,” said the Doctor.
“And still practising his principles,” said the Senator, smiling, as he
presented him to his wife.
“My dear, this is the man to whom you are indebted for whatever is good
in me. But for him I should have gone to the d—l years before you knew
me.”
“He gives me far too much credit, madam, and himself far too little,”
said the Doctor. “I am sure that ever to have been able to win the
prizes he has won he must have been always worthy, as worthy as a man
can be of a woman.” He bowed low to Mrs. Rockfield.
Senator Rockfield urged the Doctor to come at once to his house and
be his guest while in the city, an invitation which his wife promptly
seconded with much graciousness.
“Let us show you that some of the Athenians practise as well as praise
hospitality,” she said, smiling.
Thanking them, the Doctor excused himself from accepting the
invitation, but said that with Mrs. Rockfield’s permission he would
call and pay his respects, and he did so that evening.
As a result of this meeting an audience was arranged for him and
his friends next day with the President, who heard them with great
civility, though he gave them no assurance that he would accept their
views, and furnished no clew to lead them to think they had made any
impression at all. They came away, therefore, somewhat downcast.
Before the Southerners left for home, Senator Rockfield called on
Dr. Cary and, taking him aside, had a long talk with him, explaining
somewhat the situation and the part he had felt himself compelled to
take. He wound up, however, with an appeal that Dr. Cary would not
permit political differences to divide them and would allow him to
render him personally any assistance that his situation might call for.
“I am rich now, Cary,” he said; “while you have suffered reverses and
may have found your means impaired and yourself at times even cramped.
(The Doctor thought how little he knew of the real facts.) “It is the
fortune of war, and I want you to allow me to help you. I suppose you
must have lost a good deal?” he said, interrogatively.
A change passed over the old Doctor’s face. Reminiscence, pain,
resolution were all at work, and the pleasant light which had been
there did not return, but in its place was rather the shade of deepened
fortitude.
“No,” he said, quietly. “‘War cannot plunder Virtue.’ I have learned
that a quiet mind is richer than a crown.”
“Still, I know that the war must have injured you some,” urged the
Senator. “We were chums in old times and I want it to be so now. I have
never forgotten what you were to me, and what I told my wife of your
influence on me was less than the fact. Why, Cary, I even learnt my
politics from you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
Dr. Cary thanked him, but was firm. He could think of nothing he could
do for him.
“Except this: think of us as men. Come down and see for yourself.”
“Still practising Plutarch,” said the Senator. “Well, the time may
come, even if it has not come yet, and I want you to promise me that
when it does, you will call on me—either for yourself or any friend
of yours. It will be a favor to me, Cary,” he added, with a new tone
in his voice, seeing the look on the Doctor’s face. “Somehow, you have
turned back the dial, and taken me back to the time when we were young
and fresh, and full of high hopes and—yes—aspirations, and I had not
found out how d—d mean and sordid the world is. It will be a favor to
me.”
“All right, I will,” said the Doctor, “if my friends need it.” And the
two friends shook hands.
So the Commission from the old county returned home.
Captain Allen of late spent more and more of his time at Dr. Cary’s.
His attitude toward Blair was one of gallantry mingled with protection
and homage; but that was his attitude toward every girl; so Blair was
under no delusion about it, and between them was always waged a warfare
that was half pleasantry. To Mammy Krenda, however, the young man’s
relation to her mistress meant much more. No one ever looked at Blair
that the old mammy did not instantly interpret it as a confession
and a declaration, and having done this she instantly formed her
judgment, and took her stand. She had divined the ambition of Dr.
Still long before that aspiring young man dispatched to Miss Blair
that tinted note which was the real if not the immediate cause of the
Carys’ removal from Birdwood to the Bellows cottage. And during those
preliminary visits which the young physician had made to the old one,
the old woman had with her sharp eyes penetrated his assumed disguise
and made him shiver. Dr. Still knew that though Dr. Cary was taking him
at his word and believed he really came so often to talk of medicine
and seek advice, yet the old mammy discerned his real object, and
despised him.
In Captain Allen’s case it was different. Though the old woman and
he were ostensibly always at war and never were together without his
teasing her and her firing a shot in return at him, yet, at heart, she
adored him. His distinguished appearance and his leading position,
taken with his cordial and real friendliness toward herself, made him
a favorite with her—and the speech he had made to Middleton on her
account and his hostility to Leech made her his slave.
Her manner to him was always capricious and fault-finding, as became
the jealous guardian of Miss Blair; but “old Argos,” as Captain
Allen called her, was his warm ally and he knew it. She took too
many occasions to promote his and Blair’s wishes, as she understood
them, for him to doubt it, and, possibly, it was as much due to her
misapprehension as to anything else, that Steve was drawn on to do
what, but for Blair’s good sense, might have imperilled both his
happiness and hers.
Since the stir created by the Ku Klux raid, Captain Allen had exercised
more precaution than he was accustomed to do. All sorts of rumors
were afloat as to what the Government had promised on the instigation
of Leech and Still. Captain Allen’s name was mentioned in all of
them. Steve, in consequence, had of late been at the court-house less
continuously than usual. And from equally natural causes, he had been
much more at Dr. Cary’s. To Mammy Krenda’s innuendoes, he laughingly
replied that it was healthier near the mountains—to which the old
woman retorted that she knew what mountains he was trying to climb.
One afternoon he rode up to Dr. Cary’s a little earlier than usual,
and, finding the family absent, turned his horse out in the yard and
lounged on the porch, awaiting their arrival. He had not been there
long when Mammy Krenda appeared. Steve watched her for a moment with
amusement. He knew she had come out to talk to him.
“What are you prowling about here for, you old Ku Klux witch, you?” he
asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
Mammy Krenda gave a sniff.
“Ku Klux! Ku Klux!! If prowlin’ mecks Ku Klux, I wonder what you wuz
doin’ last night? An’ what you doin’ now?”
“Jerry’s been around, the drunken rascal!” thought Steve to himself. He
knew Jerry was courting a granddaughter of old Krenda’s.
“How’s Jerry coming on with his courting?” he asked, irrelevantly.
“N’em mind about Jerry,” said the old mammy. “Jerry know mo’ ’bout
co’tin’ than some other folks.”
This was interesting, and Steve, seeing that she had something on
her mind, gave her a lead. He learned that the old woman thought her
“chile” was not well—that she was “pesterin’ herself mightily” about
something, and, what was more astonishing, that Mammy Krenda held that
he himself was in a measure responsible for it.
A little deft handling and a delicate cross-examination soon satisfied
Steve that Jacquelin stood no chance. He hinted as to Middleton. Mammy
Krenda threw up her head. “She ain’ gwine marry no Yankee come pokin’
in folks’ kitchen.”
That disposed of it so far as Middleton was concerned.
“How about McRaffle? He’s always hanging around?” laughed Steve.
Krenda gave a sniff and started on.
“Dat man what been in a coffin! Jes’ soon marry a lizard! You know she
ain’ go’ marry dat man! She wouldn’ look at him!”
“Well, who is it?” demanded Steve.
The old woman turned and faced him; gave him a penetrating glance, and,
with a toss of her turbaned-head, walked into the house.
Steve sat on the porch for some time in deep reflection, and then
rising, walked across the grass, saddled his horse and rode quietly
away. All the past came before him and all the present too. Could it
be possible that he had been the cause of Middleton’s repulse and
of Jacquelin’s failure? It had never occurred to him. Yet, this was
undoubtedly the old mammy’s theory. She had as good as told him that
he was the cause of Blair’s disquietude, and in the light of her
revelation it all seemed reasonable enough. This was the secret of her
attitude toward Jacquelin. If she cared for him, it was his duty to
marry her. And where could he ever find her superior? Who was so good
and fine? Such were his reflections.
So one evening when he was with Blair, he suddenly began to speak to
her as he had never done before. Blair was not looking at him, and she
answered lightly. But Steve did not respond so. He had grown serious.
Blair looked at him quickly; her smile died out, and the color flushed
her face. Could Steve be in earnest? She gazed at him curiously; but
unhesitatingly; only a look almost of sorrow came into her eyes. Steve
went on and said all he had planned. When he had finished, Blair
suddenly sat down by him and put her hand over his. She was perfectly
composed and her eyes looked frankly into his.
“No, Steve—you are mistaken,” she said, quietly. “You have
misunderstood your feelings. You do not love me—at least, you are not
in love with me. You love me I believe, devotedly, and I thank God for
it every day of my life; as I love you as a sister—but you are not
in love with me. You would help me, relieve me, spare me trouble and
anxiety, save me from Captain—M—Middleton—and you see no reason why
we should not marry. But there is one reason. You are not in love with
me and I am not in love with you.” She was speaking so gravely and her
eyes were looking into his so frankly and with such true friendliness
that Steve, though feeling somewhat flat at his repulse, could not deny
what she said.
“I know the difference,” she went on, quietly. She paused and reflected
and, to Steve’s surprise, suddenly changed and choked up. “I have had
men in love with me—and—” Her voice faltered. She looked down, put
her hand to her eyes and with a cry of, “Oh! Steve!” buried her face
against his shoulder; “I seem to curse everyone that loves me.”
In an instant Steve’s strong arm was around her and he was comforting
her like an older brother. His sympathy opened the girl’s heart,
and drew out the secret of her unhappiness as nothing else could
have done. Blair had revealed her feelings to him as she had hardly
before revealed them even to herself. It was the old story of
misunderstanding, and high spirit; stung pride, hot words, and vain
regret—regret not for herself; but only for others. Her unhappiness
was that she had brought sorrow to others. It was because of her that
Jacquelin had left home, and that his mother was dying of a broken
heart. Steve tried to comfort her. She was all wrong, he assured
her—she took a wholly erroneous view of the matter. But it was not
a success. Jacquelin, she knew, had incurred Leech’s personal hatred
on her account, and that was the primary cause of his exile. All the
other trouble had flowed from it; his mother’s decline was owing to
her repining for Jacquelin and her anxiety about Rupert, who, cut off
from his mother’s care and influence, was beginning to show symptoms of
wildness. All these Blair traced back to her folly.
Steve, having failed in his effort to comfort her by argument, took
another method and boldly assailed her whole idea as unreasonable and
morbid. He threatened to write to Jacquelin and fetch him home, and he
would have Rupert back at once, and keep him straight too, and if Leech
molested him, he would have him to settle with.
The effect of this was just what Steve had anticipated. Blair suddenly
took the opposite tack; but in the battle that ensued she showed that
she had recovered at least a part of her spirit.
Steve that evening sent Jacquelin a letter intended to meet him on the
arrival of his vessel, telling him of his mother’s declining health
and urging him to hasten home. He also wrote to the head of the school
where Rupert was.