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diff --git a/5396-0.txt b/5396-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..041f3ce --- /dev/null +++ b/5396-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20415 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Crisis, Complete, by Winston Churchill +[Author is the American Winston Churchill not the British] + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Crisis, Complete + +Author: Winston Churchill + +Release Date: October 6, 2006 [EBook #5396] +Last Updated: February 26, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRISIS, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE CRISIS + +By Winston Churchill + + + +CONTENTS + + BOOK I + + Volume 1. + I. Which Deals With Origins + II. The Mole + III. The Unattainable Simplicity + IV. Black Cattle + V. The First Spark Passes + VI. Silas Whipple + VII. Callers + + Volume 2. + VIII. Bellegarde + IX. A Quiet Sunday in Locust Street + X. The Little House + XI. The Invitation + XII. “Miss Jinny” + XIII. The Party + + + BOOK II. + + Volume 3. + I. Raw Material. + II. Abraham Lincoln + III. In Which Stephen Learns Something + IV. The Question + V. The Crisis + VI. Glencoe + + Volume 4. + VII. An Excursion + VIII. The Colonel is Warned + IX. Signs of the Times + X. Richter's Scar + XI. How a Prince Came + XII. Into Which a Potentate Comes + XIII. At Mr. Brinsmade's Gate + XIV. The Breach becomes Too Wide + XV. Mutterings + + Volume 5. + XVI. The Guns of Sumter + XVII. Camp Jackson + XVIII. The Stone that is Rejected + XIX. The Tenth of May. + XX. In the Arsenal + XXI. The Stampede + XXII. The Straining of Another Friendship + XXIII. Of Clarence + + + BOOK III + + Volume 6. + I. Introducing a Capitalist + II. News from Clarence + III. The Scourge of War, + IV. The List of Sixty + V. The Auction + VI. Eliphalet Plays his Trumps + + Volume 7. + VII. With the Armies of the West + VIII. A Strange Meeting + IX. Bellegarde Once More + X. In Judge Whipple's Office + XI. Lead, Kindly Light + + Volume 8. + XII. The Last Card + XIII. From the Letters of Major Stephen Brice + XIV. The Same, Continued + XV. The Man of Sorrows + XVI. Annapolis + + + + +THE CRISIS + + + + +BOOK I. + + +CHAPTER I. WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINS + +Faithfully to relate how Eliphalet Hopper came try St. Louis is to +betray no secret. Mr. Hopper is wont to tell the story now, when his +daughter-in-law is not by; and sometimes he tells it in her presence, +for he is a shameless and determined old party who denies the divine +right of Boston, and has taken again to chewing tobacco. + +When Eliphalet came to town, his son's wife, Mrs. Samuel D. (or S. +Dwyer as she is beginning to call herself), was not born. Gentlemen +of Cavalier and Puritan descent had not yet begun to arrive at the +Planters' House, to buy hunting shirts and broad rims, belts and +bowies, and depart quietly for Kansas, there to indulge in that; most +pleasurable of Anglo-Saxon pastimes, a free fight. Mr. Douglas had not +thrown his bone of Local Sovereignty to the sleeping dogs of war. + +To return to Eliphalet's arrival,--a picture which has much that is +interesting in it. Behold the friendless boy he stands in the prow of +the great steamboat 'Louisiana' of a scorching summer morning, and looks +with something of a nameless disquiet on the chocolate waters of the +Mississippi. There have been other sights, since passing Louisville, +which might have disgusted a Massachusetts lad more. A certain deck +on the 'Paducah', which took him as far as Cairo, was devoted to +cattle--black cattle. Eliphalet possessed a fortunate temperament. The +deck was dark, and the smell of the wretches confined there was worse +than it should have been. And the incessant weeping of some of the women +was annoying, inasmuch as it drowned many of the profane communications +of the overseer who was showing Eliphalet the sights. Then a +fine-linened planter from down river had come in during the +conversation, and paying no attention to the overseer's salute cursed +them all into silence, and left. + +Eliphalet had ambition, which is not a wholly undesirable quality. +He began to wonder how it would feel to own a few of these valuable +fellow-creatures. He reached out and touched lightly a young mulatto +woman who sat beside him with an infant in her arms. The peculiar dumb +expression on her face was lost on Eliphalet. The overseer had laughed +coarsely. + +“What, skeered on 'em?” said he. And seizing the girl by the cheek, gave +it a cruel twinge that brought a cry out of her. + +Eliphalet had reflected upon this incident after he had bid the overseer +good-by at Cairo, and had seen that pitiful coffle piled aboard a +steamer for New Orleans. And the result of his reflections was, that +some day he would like to own slaves. + +A dome of smoke like a mushroom hung over the city, visible from +far down the river, motionless in the summer air. A long line of +steamboats--white, patient animals--was tethered along the levee, and +the Louisiana presently swung in her bow toward a gap in this line, +where a mass of people was awaiting her arrival. Some invisible force +lifted Eliphalet's eyes to the upper deck, where they rested, as if +by appointment, on the trim figure of the young man in command of the +Louisiana. He was very young for the captain of a large New Orleans +packet. When his lips moved, something happened. Once he raised his +voice, and a negro stevedore rushed frantically aft, as if he had +received the end of a lightning-bolt. Admiration burst from the +passengers, and one man cried out Captain Brent's age--it was +thirty-two. + +Eliphalet snapped his teeth together. He was twenty-seven, and his +ambition actually hurt him at such times. After the boat was fast to the +landing stage he remained watching the captain, who was speaking a few +parting words to some passengers of fashion. The body-servants were +taking their luggage to the carriages. Mr. Hopper envied the captain his +free and vigorous speech, his ready jokes, and his hearty laugh. All the +rest he knew for his own--in times to come. The carriages, the trained +servants, the obsequiousness of the humbler passengers. For of such is +the Republic. + +Then Eliphalet picked his way across the hot stones of the levee, +pushing hither and thither in the rough crowd of river men; dodging the +mules on the heavy drays, or making way for the carriages of the few +people of importance who arrived on the boat. If any recollections of +a cool, white farmhouse amongst barren New England hills disturbed his +thoughts, this is not recorded. He gained the mouth of a street between +the low houses which crowded on the broad river front. The black mud was +thick under his feet from an overnight shower, and already steaming in +the sun. The brick pavement was lumpy from much travel and near as dirty +as the street. Here, too, were drays blocking the way, and sweaty negro +teamsters swinging cowhides over the mules. The smell of many wares +poured through the open doors, mingling with the perspiration of the +porters. On every side of him were busy clerks, with their suspenders +much in evidence, and Eliphalet paused once or twice to listen to +their talk. It was tinged with that dialect he had heard, since leaving +Cincinnati. + +Turning a corner, Eliphalet came abruptly upon a prophecy. A great drove +of mules was charging down the gorge of the street, and straight at him. +He dived into an entrance, and stood looking at the animals in startled +wonder as they thundered by, flinging the mud over the pavements. A +cursing lot of drovers on ragged horses made the rear guard. + +Eliphalet mopped his brow. The mules seemed to have aroused in him some +sense of his atomity, where the sight of the pillar of smoke and of the +black cattle had failed. The feeling of a stranger in a strange land +was upon him at last. A strange land, indeed! Could it be one with his +native New England? Did Congress assemble from the Antipodes? Wasn't the +great, ugly river and dirty city at the end of the earth, to be written +about in Boston journals? + +Turning in the doorway, he saw to his astonishment a great store, with +high ceilings supported by columns. The door was stacked high with +bales of dry goods. Beside him was a sign in gold lettering, “Carvel and +Company, Wholesale Dry Goods.” And lastly, looking down upon him with +a quizzical expression, was a gentleman. There was no mistaking the +gentleman. He was cool, which Eliphalet was not. And the fact is the +more remarkable because the gentleman was attired according to the +fashion of the day for men of his age, in a black coat with a teal of +ruffled shirt showing, and a heavy black stock around his collar. He had +a white mustache, and a goatee, and white hair under his black felt hat. +His face was long, his nose straight, and the sweetness of its smile had +a strange effect upon Eliphalet, who stood on one foot. + +“Well, sonny, scared of mules, are you?” The speech is a stately drawl +very different from the nasal twang of Eliphalet's bringing up. “Reckon +you don't come from anywhere round here?” + +“No, sir,” said Eliphalet. “From Willesden, Massachusetts.” + +“Come in on the 'Louisiana'?” + +“Yes, sir.” But why this politeness? + +The elderly gentleman lighted a cigar. The noise of the rushing mules +had now become a distant roar, like a whirlwind which has swept by. But +Eliphalet did not stir. + +“Friends in town?” inquired the gentleman at length. + +“No, sir,” sighed Mr. Hopper. + +At this point of the conversation a crisp step sounded from behind and +wonderful smile came again on the surface. + +“Mornin', Colonel,” said a voice which made Eliphalet jump. And he swung +around to perceive the young captain of the Louisiana. + +“Why, Captain Lige,” cried the Colonel, without ceremony, “and how do +you find yourself to-day, suh? A good trip from Orleans? We did not look +for you so soon.” + +“Tolluble, Colonel, tolluble,” said the young man, grasping the +Colonel's hand. “Well, Colonel, I just called to say that I got the +seventy bales of goods you wanted.” + +“Ephum” cried the Colonel, diving toward a counter where glasses +were set out,--a custom new to Eliphalet,--“Ephum, some of that very +particular Colonel Crittenden sent me over from Kentucky last week.” + +An old darkey, with hair as white as the Colonel's, appeared from behind +the partition. + +“I 'lowed you'd want it, Marse Comyn, when I seed de Cap'n comin',” said +he, with the privilege of an old servant. Indeed, the bottle was beneath +his arm. + +The Colonel smiled. + +“Hope you'se well, Cap'n,” said Ephum, as he drew the cork. + +“Tolluble, Ephum,” replied the Captain. “But, Ephum--say, Ephum!” + +“Yes, sah.” + +“How's my little sweetheart, Ephum?” + +“Bress your soul, sah,” said Ephum, his face falling perceptibly, “bress +your soul, sah, Miss Jinny's done gone to Halcyondale, in Kaintuck, to +see her grandma. Ole Ephum ain't de same nigger when she's away.” + +The young Captain's face showed as much disappointment as the darkey's. + +“Cuss it!” said he, strongly, “if that ain't too bad! I brought her a +Creole doll from New Orleans, which Madame Claire said was dressed finer +than any one she'd ever seen. All lace and French gewgaws, Colonel. But +you'll send it to her?” + +“That I will, Lige,” said the Colonel, heartily. “And she shall write +you the prettiest note of thanks you ever got.” + +“Bless her pretty face,” cried the Captain. “Her health, Colonel! Here's +a long life to Miss Virginia Carvel, and may she rule forever! How old +did you say this was?” he asked, looking into the glass. + +“Over half a century,” said Colonel Carvel. + +“If it came from the ruins of Pompeii,” cried Captain Brent, “it might +be worthy of her!” + +“What an idiot you are about that child, Lige,” said the Colonel, who +was not hiding his pleasure. The Colonel could hide nothing. “You ruin +her!” + +The bluff young Captain put down his glass to laugh. + +“Ruin her!” he exclaimed. “Her pa don't ruin her I eh, Ephum? Her pa +don't ruin her!” + +“Lawsy, Marse Lige, I reckon he's wuss'n any.” + +“Ephum,” said the Colonel, pulling his goatee thoughtfully, “you're a +damned impertinent nigger. I vow I'll sell you South one of these days. +Have you taken that letter to Mr. Renault?” He winked at his friend as +the old darkey faded into the darkness of the store, and continued: “Did +I ever tell you about Wilson Peale's portrait of my grandmother, Dorothy +Carvel, that I saw this summer at my brother Daniel's, in Pennsylvania? +Jinny's going to look something like her, sir. Um! She was a fine woman. +Black hair, though. Jinny's is brown, like her Ma's.” The Colonel handed +a cigar to Captain Brent, and lit one himself. “Daniel has a book my +grandfather wrote, mostly about her. Lord, I remember her! She was +the queen-bee of the family while she lived. I wish some of us had her +spirit.” + +“Colonel,” remarked Captain Lige, “what's this I heard on the levee just +now about your shootin' at a man named Babcock on the steps here?” + +The Colonel became very grave. His face seemed to grow longer as he +pulled his goatee. + +“He was standing right where you are, sir,” he replied (Captain Lige +moved), “and he proposed that I should buy his influence.” + +“What did you do?” + +Colonel Carvel laughed quietly at the recollection + +“Shucks,” said he, “I just pushed him into the streets gave him a little +start, and put a bullet past his ear, just to let the trash know the +sound of it. Then Russell went down and bailed me out.” + +The Captain shook with laughter. But Mr. Eliphalet Hopper's eyes were +glued to the mild-mannered man who told the story, and his hair rose +under his hat. + +“By the way, Lige, how's that boy, Tato? Somehow after I let you have +him on the 'Louisiana', I thought I'd made a mistake to let him run the +river. Easter's afraid he'll lose the little religion she taught him.” + +It was the Captain's turn to be grave. + +“I tell you what, Colonel,” said he; “we have to have hands, of course. +But somehow I wish this business of slavery had never been started!” + +“Sir,” said the Colonel, with some force, “God made the sons of Ham the +servants of Japheth's sons forever and forever.” + +“Well, well, we won't quarrel about that, sir,” said Brent, quickly. +“If they all treated slaves as you do, there wouldn't be any cry +from Boston-way. And as for me, I need hands. I shall see you again, +Colonel.” + +“Take supper with me to-night, Lige,” said Mr. Carvel. “I reckon you'll +find it rather lonesome without Jinny.” + +“Awful lonesome,” said the Captain. “But you'll show me her letters, +won't you?” + +He started out, and ran against Eliphalet. + +“Hello!” he cried. “Who's this?” + +“A young Yankee you landed here this morning, Lige,” said the Colonel. +“What do you think of him?” + +“Humph!” exclaimed the Captain. + +“He has no friends in town, and he is looking for employment. Isn't that +so, sonny?” asked the Colonels kindly. + +“Yes.” + +“Come, Lige, would you take him?” said Mr. Carvel. + +The young Captain looked into Eliphalet's face. The dart that shot +from his eyes was of an aggressive honesty; and Mr. Hopper's, after an +attempt at defiance, were dropped. + +“No,” said the Captain. + +“Why not, Lige?” + +“Well, for one thing, he's been listening,” said Captain Lige, as he +departed. + +Colonel Carvel began to hum softly to himself:-- + + “'One said it was an owl, and the other he said nay, + One said it was a church with the steeple torn away, + Look a' there now!' + +“I reckon you're a rank abolitionist,” said he to Eliphalet, abruptly. + +“I don't see any particular harm in keepin' slaves,” Mr. Hopper replied, +shifting to the other foot. + +Whereupon the Colonel stretched his legs apart, seized his goatee, +pulled his head down, and gazed at him for some time from under his +eyebrows, so searchingly that the blood flew to Mr. Hopper's fleshy +face. He mopped it with a dark-red handkerchief, stared at everything +in the place save the gentleman in front of him, and wondered whether he +had ever in his life been so uncomfortable. Then he smiled sheepishly, +hated himself, and began to hate the Colonel. + +“Ever hear of the Liberator?” + +“No, sir,” said Mr. Hopper. + +“Where do you come from?” This was downright directness, from which +there was no escape. + +“Willesden, Massachusetts.” + +“Umph! And never heard of Mr. Garrison?” + +“I've had to work all my life.” + +“What can you do, sonny?” + +“I cal'late to sweep out a store. I have kept books,” Mr. Hopper +vouchsafed. + +“Would you like work here?” asked the Colonel, kindly. The green eyes +looked up swiftly, and down again. + +“What'll you give me?” + +The good man was surprised. “Well,” said he, “seven dollars a week.” + +Many a time in after life had the Colonel reason to think over this +scene. He was a man the singleness of whose motives could not be +questioned. The one and sufficient reason for giving work to a homeless +boy, from the hated state of the Liberator, was charity. The Colonel had +his moods, like many another worthy man. + +The small specks on the horizon sometimes grow into the hugest of +thunder clouds. And an act of charity, out of the wisdom of God, may +produce on this earth either good or evil. + +Eliphalet closed with the bargain. Ephum was called and told to lead +the recruit to the presence of Mr. Hood, the manager. And he spent the +remainder of a hot day checking invoices in the shipping entrance on +Second Street. + +It is not our place here to chronicle Eliphalet's faults. Whatever he +may have been, he was not lazy. But he was an anomaly to the rest of the +young men in the store, for those were days when political sentiments +decided fervent loves or hatreds. In two days was Eliphalet's reputation +for wisdom made. During that period he opened his mouth to speak but +twice. The first was in answer to a pointless question of Mr. Barbo's +(aetat 25), to the effect that he, Eliphalet Hopper, was a Pierce +Democrat, who looked with complacency on the extension of slavery. +This was wholly satisfactory, and saved the owner of these sentiments +a broken head. The other time Eliphalet spoke was to ask Mr. Barbo to +direct him to a boardinghouse. + +“I reckon,” Mr. Barbo reflected, “that you'll want one of them +Congregational boarding-houses. We've got a heap of Yankees in the town, +and they all flock together and pray together. I reckon you'd ruther go +to Miss Crane's nor anywhere.” + +Forthwith to Miss Crane's Eliphalet went. And that lady, being a Greek +herself, knew a Greek when she saw one. The kind-hearted Barbo lingered +in the gathering darkness to witness the game which ensued, a game dear +to all New Englanders, comical to Barbo. The two contestants calculated. +Barbo reckoned, and put his money on his new-found fellow-clerk. +Eliphalet, indeed, never showed to better advantage. The shyness he +had used with the Colonel, and the taciturnity practised on his +fellow-clerks, he slipped off like coat and waistcoat for the battle. +The scene was in the front yard of the third house in Dorcas Row. +Everybody knows where Dorcas Row was. Miss Crane, tall, with all the +severity of side curls and bombazine, stood like a stone lioness at the +gate. In the background, by the steps, the boarders sat, an interested +group. Eliphalet girded up his loins, and sharpened his nasal twang to +cope with hers. The preliminary sparring was an exchange of compliments, +and deceived neither party. It seemed rather to heighten mutual respect. + +“You be from Willesden, eh?” said Crane. “I calculate you know the +Salters.” + +If the truth were known, this evidence of an apparent omniscience rather +staggered Eliphalet. But training stood by him, and he showed no dismay. +Yes, he knew the Salters, and had drawed many a load out of Hiram +Salters' wood-lot to help pay for his schooling. + +“Let me see,” said Miss Crane, innocently; “who was it one of them +Salters girls married, and lived across the way from the meetin'-house?” + +“Spauldin',” was the prompt reply. + +“Wal, I want t' know!” cried the spinster: “not Ezra Spauldin'?” + +Eliphalet nodded. That nod was one of infinite shrewdness which +commended itself to Miss Crane. These courtesies, far from making +awkward the material discussion which followed; did not affect it in the +least. + +“So you want me to board you?” said she, as if in consternation. + +Eliphalet calculated, if they could come to terms. And Mr. Barbo keyed +himself to enjoyment. + +“Single gentlemen,” said she, “pay as high as twelve dollars.” And she +added that they had no cause to complain of her table. + +Eliphalet said he guessed he'd have to go somewhere else. Upon this the +lady vouchsafed the explanation that those gentlemen had high positions +and rented her large rooms. Since Mr. Hopper was from Willesden and knew +the Salters, she would be willing to take him for less. Eliphalet said +bluntly he would give three and a half. Barbo gasped. This particular +kind of courage was wholly beyond him. + +Half an hour later Eliphalet carried his carpet-bag up three flights and +put it down in a tiny bedroom under the eaves, still pulsing with +heat waves. Here he was to live, and eat at Miss Crane's table for the +consideration of four dollars a week. + +Such is the story of the humble beginning of one substantial prop of the +American Nation. And what a hackneyed story it is! How many other young +men from the East have travelled across the mountains and floated down +the rivers to enter those strange cities of the West, the growth of +which was like Jonah's gourd. + +Two centuries before, when Charles Stuart walked out of a window in +Whitehall Palace to die; when the great English race was in the throes +of a Civil War; when the Stern and the Gay slew each other at Naseby and +Marston Moor, two currents flowed across the Atlantic to the New World. +Then the Stern men found the stern climate, and the Gay found the +smiling climate. + +After many years the streams began to move again, westward, ever +westward. Over the ever blue mountains from the wonderland of Virginia +into the greater wonderland of Kentucky. And through the marvels of the +Inland Seas, and by white conestogas threading flat forests and floating +over wide prairies, until the two tides met in a maelstrom as fierce as +any in the great tawny torrent of the strange Father of Waters. A city +founded by Pierre Laclede, a certain adventurous subject of Louis who +dealt in furs, and who knew not Marly or Versailles, was to be the place +of the mingling of the tides. After cycles of separation, Puritan and +Cavalier united on this clay-bank in the Louisiana Purchase, and swept +westward together--like the struggle of two great rivers when they meet +the waters for a while were dangerous. + +So Eliphalet was established, among the Puritans, at Miss Crane's. The +dishes were to his taste. Brown bread and beans and pies were plentiful, +for it was a land of plenty. All kinds of Puritans were there, and they +attended Mr. Davitt's Congregational Church. And may it be added in +justice to Mr. Hopper, that he became not the least devout of the +boarders. + + + + +CHAPTER. II. THE MOLE + +For some years, while Stephen A. Douglas and Franklin Pierce and other +gentlemen of prominence were playing at bowls on the United States of +America; while Kansas was furnishing excitement free of charge to any +citizen who loved sport, Mr. Eliphalet Hopper was at work like the +industrious mole, underground. It is safe to affirm that Colonel Carvel +forgot his new hand as soon as he had turned him over to Mr. Hood, the +manager. As for Mr. Hopper, he was content. We can ill afford to dissect +motives. Genius is willing to lay the foundations of her structure +unobserved. + +At first it was Mr. Barbo alone who perceived Eliphalet's +greatness,--Mr. Barbo, whose opinions were so easily had that they +counted for nothing. The other clerks, to say the least, found the +newcomer uncompanionable. He had no time for skylarking, the heat of the +day meant nothing to him, and he was never sleepy. He learned the stock +as if by intuition, and such was his strict attention to business that +Mr. Hood was heard is say, privately, he did not like the looks of it. +A young man should have other interests. And then, although he would not +hold it against him, he had heard that Mr. Hopper was a teacher in Mr. +Davitt's Sunday School. + +Because he did not discuss his ambitions at dinner with the other clerks +in the side entry, it must not be thought that Eliphalet was without +other interests. He was likewise too shrewd to be dragged into political +discussions at the boarding-house table. He listened imperturbably to +the outbursts against the Border Ruffian, and smiled when Mr. Abner +Reed, in an angry passion, asked him to declare whether or not he was +a friend of the Divine Institution. After a while they forgot about him +(all save Miss Crane), which was what Mr. Hopper of all things desired. + +One other friend besides Miss Crane did Eliphalet take unto himself, +wherein he showed much discrimination. This friend was none other than +Mr. Davitt, minister for many years of the Congregational Church. For +Mr. Davitt was a good man, zealous in his work, unpretentious, and +kindly. More than once Eliphalet went to his home to tea, and was +pressed to talk about himself and his home life. The minister and his +wife ware invariably astonished, after their guest was gone, at the +meagre result of their inquiries. + +If Love had ever entered such a discreet soul as that into which we are +prying, he used a back entrance. Even Mr. Barbo's inquiries failed in +the discovery of any young person with whom Eliphalet “kept company.” + Whatever the notions abroad concerning him, he was admittedly a model. +There are many kinds of models. With some young ladies at the Sunday +School, indeed, he had a distant bowing acquaintance. They spoke of him +as the young man who knew the Bible as thoroughly as Mr. Davitt himself. +The only time that Mr. Hopper was discovered showing embarrassment was +when Mr. Davitt held his hand before them longer than necessary on the +church steps. Mr. Hopper was not sentimental. + +However fascinating the subject, I do not propose to make a whole book +about Eliphalet. Yet sidelights on the life of every great man are +interesting. And there are a few incidents in his early career which +have not gotten into the subscription biographical Encyclopaedias. In +several of these volumes, to be sure, we may see steel engravings of +him, true likenesses all. His was the type of face which is the glory of +the steel engraving,--square and solid, as a corner-stone should be. The +very clothes he wore were made for the steel engraving, stiff and wiry +in texture, with sharp angles at the shoulders, and sombre in hue, as +befit such grave creations. + +Let us go back to a certain fine morning in the September of the year +1857, when Mr. Hopper had arrived, all unnoticed, at the age of two and +thirty. Industry had told. He was now the manager's assistant; and, be +it said in passing, knew more about the stock than Mr. Hood himself. On +this particular morning, about nine o'clock, he was stacking bolts of +woollen goods near that delectable counter where the Colonel was wont +to regale his principal customers, when a vision appeared in the door. +Visions were rare at Carvel & Company's. This one was followed by an +old negress with leathery wrinkles, whose smile was joy incarnate. +They entered the store, paused at the entrance to the Colonel's private +office, and surveyed it with dismay. + +“Clar t' goodness, Miss Jinny, yo' pa ain't heah! An' whah's Ephum, dat +black good-fo'-nuthin'!” + +Miracle number one,--Mr. Hopper stopped work and stared. The vision was +searching the store with her eyes, and pouting. + +“How mean of Pa!” she exclaimed, “when I took all this trouble to +surprise him, not to be here! Where are they all? Where's Ephum? Where's +Mr. Hood?” + +The eyes lighted on Eliphalet. His blood was sluggish, but it could be +made to beat faster. The ladies he had met at Miss Crane's were not of +this description. As he came forward, embarrassment made him shamble, +and for the first time in his life he was angrily conscious of a poor +figure. Her first question dashed out the spark of his zeal. + +“Oh,” said she, “are you employed here?” + +Thoughtless Virginia! You little know the man you have insulted by your +haughty drawl. + +“Yes.” + +“Then find Mr. Carvel, won't you, please? And tell him that his daughter +has come from Kentucky, and is waiting for him.” + +“I callate Mr. Carvel won't be here this morning,” said Eliphalet. He +went back to the pile of dry goods, and began to work. But he was unable +to meet the displeasure in her face. + +“What is your name?” Miss Carvel demanded. + +“Hopper.” + +“Then, Mr. Hopper, please find Ephum, or Mr. Hood.” + +Two more bolts were taken off the truck. Out of the corner of his eye he +watched her, and she seemed very tall, like her father. She was taller +than he, in fact. + +“I ain't a servant, Miss Carvel,” he said, with a meaning glance at the +negress. + +“Laws, Miss Jinny,” cried she, “I may's 'ell find Ephum. I knows he's +loafin' somewhar hereabouts. An' I ain't seed him dese five month.” And +she started for the back of the store. + +“Mammy!” + +The old woman stopped short. Eliphalet, electrified, looked up and +instantly down again. + +“You say you are employed by Mr. Carvel, and refuse to do what I ask?” + +“I ain't a servant,” Mr. Hopper repeated doggedly. He felt that he was +in the right,--and perhaps he was. + +It was at this critical juncture in the proceedings that a young man +stepped lightly into the store behind Miss Jinny. Mr. Hopper's eye was +on him, and had taken in the details of his costume before realizing +the import of his presence. He was perhaps twenty, and wore a coat that +sprung in at the waist, and trousers of a light buff-color that gathered +at the ankle and were very copious above. His features were of the +straight type which has been called from time immemorial patrician. He +had dark hair which escaped in waves from under his hat, and black eyes +that snapped when they perceived Miss Virginia Carvel. At sight of her, +indeed, the gold-headed cane stopped in its gyrations in midair. + +“Why, Jinny!” he cried--“Jinny!” + +Mr. Hopper would have sold his soul to have been in the young man's +polished boots, to have worn his clothes, and to have been able to cry +out to the young lady, “Why, Jinny!” + +To Mr. Hopper's surprise, the young lady did not turn around. She stood +perfectly still. But a red flush stole upon her cheek, and laughter +was dancing in her eyes yet she did not move. The young man took a step +forward, and then stood staring at her with such a comical expression +of injury on his face as was too much for Miss Jinny's serenity. +She laughed. That laugh also struck minor chords upon Mr. Hopper's +heart-strings. + +But the young gentleman very properly grew angry. + +“You've no right to treat me the way you do, Virginia,” he cried. “Why +didn't you let me know that you were coming home?” His tone was one of +authority. “You didn't come from Kentucky alone!” + +“I had plenty of attendance, I assure you,” said Miss Carvel. “A +governor, and a senator, and two charming young gentlemen from New +Orleans as far as Cairo, where I found Captain Lige's boat. And Mr. +Brinsmade brought me here to the store. I wanted to surprise Pa,” she +continued rapidly, to head off the young gentleman's expostulations. +“How mean of him not to be here!” + +“Allow me to escort you home,” said he, with ceremony: + +“Allow me to decline the honah, Mr. Colfax,” she cried, imitating him. +“I intend to wait here until Pa comes in.” + +Then Eliphalet knew that the young gentleman was Miss Virginia's first +cousin. And it seemed to him that he had heard a rumor, amongst the +clerks in the store; that she was to marry him one day. + +“Where is Uncle Comyn?” demanded Mr. Colfax, swinging his cane with +impatience. + +Virgina looked hard at Mr. Hopper. + +“I don't know,” she said. + +“Ephum!” shouted Mr. Colfax. “Ephum! Easters where the deuce is that +good-for-nothing husband of yours?” + +“I dunno, Marse Clarence. 'Spec he whah he oughtn't ter be.” + +Mr. Colfax spied the stooping figure of Eliphalet. + +“Do you work here?” he demanded. + +“I callate.” + +“What?” + +“I callate to,” responded Mr. Hopper again, without rising. + +“Please find Mr. Hood,” directed Mr. Colfax, with a wave of his cane, +“and say that Miss Carvel is here--” + +Whereupon Miss Carvel seated herself upon the edge of a bale and +giggled, which did not have a soothing effect upon either of the young +men. How abominably you were wont to behave in those days, Virginia. + +“Just say that Mr. Colfax sent you,” Clarence continued, with a note of +irritation. “There's a good fellow.” + +Virginia laughed outright. Her cousin did not deign to look at her. His +temper was slipping its leash. + +“I wonder whether you hear me,” he remarked. + +No answer. + +“Colonel Carvel hires you, doesn't he? He pays you wages, and the +first time his daughter comes in here you refuse to do her a favor. By +thunder, I'll see that you are dismissed.” + +Still Eliphalet gave him no manner of attention, but began marking the +tags at the bottom of the pile. + +It was at this unpropitious moment that Colonel Carvel walked into the +store, and his daughter flew into his arms. + +“Well, well,” he said, kissing her, “thought you'd surprise me, eh, +Jinny?” + +“Oh, Pa,” she cried, looking reproachfully up at his Face. “You +knew--how mean of you!” + +“I've been down on the Louisiana, where some inconsiderate man told me, +or I should not have seen you today. I was off to Alton. But what are +these goings-on?” said the Colonel, staring at young Mr. Colfax, rigid +as one of his own gamecocks. He was standing defiantly over the stooping +figure of the assistant manager. + +“Oh,” said Virginia, indifferently, “it's only Clarence. He's so +tiresome. He's always wanting to fight with somebody.” + +“What's the matter, Clarence?” asked the Colonel, with the mild +unconcern which deceived so many of the undiscerning. + +“This person, sir, refused to do a favor for your daughter. She told +him, and I told him, to notify Mr. Hood that Miss Carvel was here, and +he refused.” + +Mr. Hopper continued his occupation, which was absorbing. But he was +listening. + +Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee, and smiled. + +“Clarence,” said he, “I reckon I can run this establishment without any +help from you and Jinny. I've been at it now for a good many years.” + +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.” + + + + +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. + +“I reckon we're going to have war, Silas,” said he, slowly; “but don't +you think that your Mr. Lincoln scares me into that belief. I don't +count his bluster worth a cent. No sirree! It's this youngster who comes +out here from Boston and buys a nigger with all the money he's got in +the world. And if he's an impetuous young fool; I'm no judge of men.” + +“Appleton Brice wasn't precisely impetuous,” remarked Mr. Whipple. And +he smiled a little bitterly, as though the word had stirred a memory. + +“I like that young fellow,” Mr. Carvel continued. “It seems to be a kind +of fatality with me to get along with Yankees. I reckon there's a screw +loose somewhere, but Brice acted the man all the way through. He goa +a fall out of you, Silas, in your room, after the show. Where are you +going, Jinny?” + +Virginia had risen, and she was standing very erects with a flush on her +face, waiting for her father to finish. + +“To see Anne Brinsmade,” she said. “Good-by, Uncle Silas.” + +She had called him so from childhood. Hers was the one voice that seemed +to soften him--it never failed. He turned to her now with a movement +that was almost gentle. “Virginia, I should like you to know my young +Yankee,” said he. + +“Thank you, Uncle Silas,” said the girl, with dignity, “but I scarcely +think that he would care to know me. He feels so strongly.” + +“He feels no stronger than I do,” replied the Judge. + +“You have gotten used to me in eighteen years, and besides,” she +flashed, “you never spent all the money you had in the world for a +principle.” + +Mr. Whipple smiled as she went out of the door. + +“I have spent pretty near all,” he said. But more to himself than to the +Colonel. + +That evening, some young people came in to tea, two of the four big +Catherwood boys, Anne Brinsmade and her brother Jack, Puss Russell and +Bert, and Eugenie Renault. But Virginia lost her temper. In an evil +moment Puss Russell started the subject of the young Yankee who had +deprived her of Hester. Puss was ably seconded by Jack Brinsmade, whose +reputation as a tormentor extended far back into his boyhood. In vain; +did Anne, the peacemaker, try to quench him, while the big Catherwoods +and Bert Russell laughed incessantly. No wonder that Virginia was angry. +She would not speak to Puss as that young lady bade her good night. And +the Colonel, coming home from an evening with Mr. Brinsmade, found his +daughter in an armchair, staring into the sitting-room fire. There was +no other light in the room Her chin was in her hand, and her lips were +pursed. + +“Heigho!” said the Colonel, “what's the trouble now?” + +“Nothing,” said Virginia. + +“Come,” he insisted, “what have they been doing to my girl?” + +“Pa!” + +“Yes, honey.” + +“I don't want to go to balls all my life. I want to go to +boarding-school, and learn something. Emily is going to Monticello after +Christmas. Pa, will you let me?” + +Mr. Carvel winced. He put an arm around her. He, thought of his lonely +widowerhood, of her whose place Virginia had taken. + +“And what shall I do?” he said, trying to smile. + +“It will only be for a little while. And Monticello isn't very far, Pa.” + +“Well, well, there is plenty of time to think it over between now and +January,” he said. “And now I have a little favor to ask of you, honey.” + +“Yes?” she said. + +The Colonel took the other armchair, stretched his feet toward the +blaze, and stroked his goatee. He glanced covertly at his daughter's +profile. Twice he cleared hip throat. + +“Jinny?” + +“Yes, Pa” (without turning her head). + +“Jinny, I was going to speak of this young. Brice. He's a stranger here, +and he comes of a good family, and--and I like him.” + +“And you wish me to invite him to my party,” finished Virginia. + +The Colonel started. “I reckon you guessed it,” he said. + +Virginia remained immovable. She did not answer at once. Then she said: + +“Do you think, in bidding against me, that he behaved, like a +gentleman?” + +The Colonel blundered. + +“Lord, Virginia,” he said, “I thought you told the judge this afternoon +teat it was done out of principle.” + +Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip + +“He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman. +He knew I wanted Hester.” + +“What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?” asked +her father, mildly, “He does not know you.” + +This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia. + +“He overheard our conversation,” she answered. + +“I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was +trying to save Hester from Jennings.” + +“I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa,” said Virginia, +irrelevantly. + +The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh. + +“Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?” she asked. + +“So you won't have him?” said the Colonel. + +“I didn't say that I wouldn't have him,” she answered. + +The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat. + +“By Gum!” he said. “Women beat me.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE HOUSE + +When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's +bond, he merely said, “Tut, tut.” + +The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his +breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat, +and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen +and Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great +part of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like +a great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a +time. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate +between age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short, +Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the +end of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into +the private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait +their turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main +office. There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressed +gentleman of middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours after +Shadrach had taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had been +admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of a +big railroad man from the East. The transom let out the true state of +affairs. + +“See here, Callender,” the Judge was heard to say, “you fellows don't +like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your +road gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of +my friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait.” + +Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, “Money!” roared the Judge, +“take your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case.” + +Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this +vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a +defence. + +Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar +on his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar. +Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown +meerschaum, and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'. +Often he sang quietly to himself: + + “Deutschlands Sohne + Laut ertone + Euer Vaterlandgesang. + Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes, + Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes + Hutern, uns and unser Schwert.” + +There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's +voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not +understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes +on his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out +that they were inspired. + +The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had +gone out together, the ice was broken. + +“You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice,” remarked +Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. “You do not show your feelings. You +are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he would +scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since +then I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice? No? +Then you must come with me, now.” + +It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by +the side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled. +But inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and +purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give +Mr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced +to Stephen. + +“We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany,” said Richter. + +“You were all what?” asked Stephen, interested. + +“Strivers, you might call it in English. In the Vaterland those who +seek for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid of +oppression--are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. And +that is why we came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never be +the great lawyer--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once more +to be rid of the black monster that sucks the blood of freedom--vampire. +Is it not so in English?” + +Stephen was astonished at this outburst. + +“You think it will come to war?” + +“I fear,--yes, I fear,” said the German, shaking his head. “We fear. We +are already preparing.” + +“Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?” + +“A foreigner!” cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes +that died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. “Call me not a +foreigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when +the time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your +ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine +might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is +German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come +with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you +will perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign +swill, but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it. +You must come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the +time when the Union shall have need of us.” + +“You are drilling now?” exclaimed Stephen, in still greater +astonishment. The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had +the songs. + +“Prosit deine Blume!” answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass +of beer. “You will come to a 'commerce', and see. + +“This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may +have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber,” + he added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, “we +Americans are rich.” + +As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed +greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not +Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the +young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled +their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to +answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to +his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised +him to buy Whittlesey's “Missouri Form Book,” and warned him of Mr. +Whipple's hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a +fearful hour of judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple +descended out of a clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to +rattle in Stephen's head like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Style +of Pleading this time, without a knowledge of which the Judge declared +with vehemence that a lawyer was not fit to put pen to legal cap. + +“Now, sir, the pleadings?” he cried. + +“First,” said Stephen, “was the Declaration. The answer to that was the +Plea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder, +then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But they +rarely got that far,” he added unwisely. + +“A good principle in Law, sir,” said the Judge, “is not to volunteer +information.” + +Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturday +evening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. He +had been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafed +even to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thing +it is with young lawyers to feel that they are of no use in the world. +Besides, the rain continued. This was the fifth day. + +His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him +with her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorous +account of his catechism of the morning, but failed. + +“I am quite sure that he doesn't like me,” said Stephen. + +His mother continued to smile. + +“If he did, he would not show it,” she answered. + +“I can feel it,” said Stephen, dejectedly. + +“The Judge was here this afternoon,” said his mother. + +“What?” cried Stephen. “Again this week? They say that he never calls in +the daytime, and rarely in the evening. What did he say?” + +“He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,” + answered Mrs. Brice, laughing. “He said that you were too stiff. That +you needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West. +Who were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation +of thirteen states. And Stephen,” she added more earnestly, “I am not +sure but what he is right.” + +Then Stephen laughed. And for a long time he sat staring into the fire. + +“What else did he say?” he asked, after a while. + +“He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply. +Too cheaply, it seems. The house is on this street, next door to Mr. +Brinsmade, to whom it belongs. And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that we +might inspect it to-morrow.” + +“But a servant,” objected Stephen, “I suppose that we must have a +servant.” + +His mother's voice fell. + +“That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day. Old Nancy +does washing. But Hester has no work and she is a burden to Judge +Whipple. Oh, no,” she continued, in response to Stephen's glance, “the +Judge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nester +might come. And I am sure that she would.” + +Sunday dawned brightly. After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked down +Olive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, two +large ones with scrolled fronts. Sad memories of Beacon Street filled +them both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other. As +Stephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentleman +came out of the larger house next door. He was past the middle age, +somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coat +and black stock. Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the large +nose that looked like Washington's, and benevolence fairly sparkled in +the blue eyes. He smiled at them as though he had known them always, +and the world seemed brighter that very instant. They smiled in return, +whereupon the gentleman lifted his hat. And the kindliness and the +courtliness of that bow made them very happy. “Did you wish to look at +the house, madam?” he asked “Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Brice. + +“Allow me to open it for you,” he said, graciously taking the key from +her. “I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma'am. +I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant.” + +He fitted the key in the door, while Stephen and his mother smiled at +each other at the thought of the rent. The gentleman opened the door, +and stood aside to let them enter, very much as if he were showing them +a palace for which he was the humble agent. + +They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahogany +and horsehair. And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with a +little porch overlooking the back yard. Mrs. Brice thought of the dark +and stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her married +days: of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colony +had eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since. Thank God, she +had not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the high +sideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it. The widow's eyes +filled with tears. She had not hoped again to have a home for these +things, nor the father's armchair, nor the few family treasures that +were to come over the mountains. + +The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way through +the rooms. There were not many of them. At the door of the kitchen he +stopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen's shoulder:-- “Here we may +not enter. This is your department, ma'am,” said he. + +Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insisted +upon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurrying +up the street. As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon the +large house next door. But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caught +sight of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief. She flung open +the gate, and stood before him. + +“Oh, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried, “mother is dying. You have done so much +for us, sir,--couldn't you come to her for a little while? She thought +if she might see you once more, she would die happy.” The voice was +choked by a sob. + +Mr. Brinsmade took the girl's hand in his own, and turned to the lady +with as little haste, with as much politeness, as he had shown before. + +“You will excuse me, ma'am,” he said, with his hat in his hand. + +The widow had no words to answer him. But she and her son watched him +as he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl's, until they +were out of sight. And then they walked home silently. + +Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of the +Brinsmade charity? + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE INVITATION + +Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday-best broadcloth was a marvel of +propriety. It seemed to Stephen that his face wore a graver expression +on Sunday when he met him standing on Miss Crane's doorstep, picking +the lint from his coat. Stephen's intention was not to speak. But he +remembered what the Judge had said to his mother, and nodded. Why, +indeed, should he put on airs with this man who had come to St. Louis +unknown and unrecommended and poor, who by sheer industry had made +himself of importance in the large business of Carvel &, Company? As +for Stephen Brice, he was not yet earning his salt, but existing by the +charity of Judge Silas Whipple. + +“Howdy, Mr. Brice,” said Mr. Hopper, his glance caught by the +indefinable in Stephen's costume. This would have puzzled Mr. Hopper's +tailor more. + +“Very well, thanks.” + +“A fine day after the rain.” + +Stephen nodded, and Mr. Hopper entered the hours after him. + +“Be you asked to Virginia Carvel's party?” he asked abruptly. + +“I do not know Miss Carvel,” said Stephen, wondering how well the other +did. And if the truth be told, he was a little annoyed at Mr. Hopper's +free use of her name. + +“That shouldn't make no difference,” said Eliphalet with just a shade +of bitterness in his tone. “They keep open house, like all Southerners,” + Mr. Hopper hesitated,--“for such as come well recommended. I 'most +forgot,” said he. “I callate you're not any too well recommended. I +'most forgot that little transaction down to the Court House. They do +say that she wanted that gal almighty bad,--she was most awful cut up +not to get her. Served her right, though. I'm glad you did. Show her she +can't have everything her own way. And say,” he added, with laughter, +“how you did fix that there stuckup Colfax boy! He'll never forgive +you no more than she. But,” said Mr. Hopper, meditatively, “it was a +durned-fool trick.” + +I think Stephen's critics will admit that he had a good right to be +angry, and that they will admire him just a little bit because he kept +his temper. But Mr. Hopper evidently thought he had gone too far. + +“She ain't got no use for me, neither,” he said. + +“She shows poor judgment,” answered Stephen. + +“She's not long sighted, that's sure,” replied Eliphalet, with emphasis. + +At dinner Stephen was tried still further. And it was then he made the +determination to write for the newspapers in order to pay the rent on +Mr. Brinsmade's house. Miss Carvel's coming-out party was the chief +topic. + +“They do say the Colonel is to spend a sight of money on that ball,” + said Mrs. Abner Reed. “I guess it won't bankrupt him.” And she looked +hard at Mr. Hopper. + +“I callate he ain't pushed for money,” that gentleman vouchsafed. + +“He's a good man, and done well by you, Mr. Hopper.” + +“So--so,” answered Eliphalet. “But I will say that I done something for +the Colonel. I've saved him a hundred times my pay since I showed old +Hood the leaks. And I got a thousand dollar order from Wright & Company +this week for him.” + +“I dare say you'd keep a tight hand enough on expenses,” said Miss +Crane, half in sarcasm, half in approval. + +“If Colonel Carvel was doin' business in New England,” said Eliphalet, +“he'd been bankrupt long ago.” + +“That young Clarence Colfax,” Mrs. Abner Reed broke in, “he'll get a +right smart mint o' money when he marries Virginia. They do say her +mother left her independent. How now, Mr. Hopper?” + +Eliphalet looked mysterious and knowing. He did not reply. + +“And young Colfax ain't precisely a pauper,” said Miss Crane. + +“I'll risk a good deal that she don't marry Colfax,” said Mr. Hopper. + +“What on earth do you mean?” cried Mrs. Abner. “It ain't broke off?” + +“No,” he answered, “it ain't broke off. But I callate she won't have him +when the time comes. She's got too much sense.” + +Heavy at heart, Stephen climbed the stairs, thanking heaven that he +had not been drawn into the controversy. A partial comprehension of +Mr. Hopper was dawning upon him. He suspected that gentleman of an +aggressive determination to achieve wealth, and the power which comes +with it, for the purpose of using that power upon those beneath +him. Nay, when he thought over his conversation, he suspected him of +more,--of the intention to marry Virginia Carvel. + +It will be seen whether Stephen was right or wrong. + +He took a walk that afternoon, as far out as a place called Lindell's +Grove, which afterward became historic. And when he returned to the +house, his mother handed him a little white envelope. + +“It came while you were out,” she said. + +He turned it over, and stared at his name written across the front in a +feminine hand In those days young ladies did not write in the bold and +masculine manner now deemed proper. Stephen stared at the note, manlike, +and pondered. + +“Who brought it, mother?” + +“Why don't you open it, and see?” asked his mother with a smile. + +He took the suggestion. What a funny formal little note we should think +it now! It was not funny to Stephen--then. He read it, and he read it +again, and finally he walked over to the window, still holding it in his +hand. + +Some mothers would have shown their curiosity. Mrs. Brice did not, +wherein she proved herself their superiors in the knowledge of mankind. + +Stephen stood for a long while looking out into the gathering dusk. Then +he went over to the fireplace and began tearing the note into little +bits. Only once did he pause, to look again at his name on the envelope. + +“It is an invitation to Miss Carvel's party,” he said. + +By Thursday of that week the Brices, with thanksgiving in their hearts, +had taken possession of Mr. Brinsmade's little house. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. “MISS JINNY” + +The years have sped indeed since that gray December when Miss Virginia +Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant +Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site +of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's +thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to +a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among +the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime. +Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he +felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his +dead wife became an angel's face, far--so far away. + +He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded +his business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child +came, and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her +sons to the service of the Republic. + +Five simple, happy years--then war. A black war of conquest which, +like many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory +beckoned, honor called--or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the +profession of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice +farewell and steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri +regiment. The young wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn +Carvel been selfish? + +Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange +sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress. +Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime +service of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, +the Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet. + +Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his +chair, while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye +on his master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by +the swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants +itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the +door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains +her to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into +her face. + +“Honey,” he said, “I was thinking of your mother.” + +Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble +mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and +gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed +a prophecy. + +The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head. + +“You are not like her, honey,” he said: “You may see for yourself. You +are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she--” + +“I know,” said Virginia, “she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy +Manners, who married my great-grandfather.” + +“Yes, Jinny,” replied the Colonel, smiling. “That is so. You are +somewhat like your great-grandmother.” + +“Somewhat!” cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, “I like +that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need +not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you +took me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember +the picture by, by--” + +“Sir Joshua Reynolds.” + +“Yes, Sir Joshua.” + +“You were only eleven,” says the Colonel. + +“She is not a difficult person to remember.” + +“No,” said Mr. Carvel, laughing, “especially if you have lived with +her.” + +“Not that I wish to be that kind,” said Virginia, meditatively,--“to +take London by storm, and keep a man dangling for years.” + +“But he got her in the end,” said the Colonel. “Where did you hear all +this?” he asked. + +“Uncle Daniel told me. He has Richard Carvel's diary.” + +“And a very honorable record it is,” exclaimed the Colonel. “Jinny, +we shall read it together when we go a-visiting to Culvert House. I +remember the old gentleman as well as if I had seen him yesterday.” + +Virginia appeared thoughtful. + +“Pa,” she began, “Pa, did you ever see the pearls Dorothy Carvel wore on +her wedding day? What makes you jump like that? Did you ever see them?” + +“Well, I reckon I did,” replied the Colonel, gazing at her steadfastly. + +“Pa, Uncle Daniel told me that I was to have that necklace when I was +old enough.” + +“Law!” said the Colonel, fidgeting, “your Uncle Daniel was just fooling +you.” + +“He's a bachelor,” said Virginia; “what use has he got for it?” + +“Why,” says the Colonel, “he's a young man yet, your uncle, only +fifty-three. I've known older fools than he to go and do it. Eh, Ned?” + +“Yes, marsa. Yes, suh. I've seed 'em at seventy, an' shufflin' about +peart as Marse Clarence's gamecocks. Why, dar was old Marse Ludlow--” + +“Now, Mister Johnson,” Virginia put in severely, “no more about old +Ludlow.” + +Ned grinned from ear to ear, and in the ecstasy of his delight dropped +the Colonel's clothes-brush. “Lan' sakes!” he cried, “ef she ain't +recommembered.” Recovering his gravity and the brush simultaneously, he +made Virginia a low bow. “Mornin', Miss Jinny. I sholy is gwinter s'lute +you dis day. May de good Lawd make you happy, Miss Jinny, an' give you a +good husban'--” + +“Thank you, Mister Johnson, thank you,” said Virginia, blushing. + +“How come she recommembered, Marse Comyn? Dat's de quality. Dat's why. +Doan't you talk to Ned 'bout de quality, Marsa.” + +“And when did I ever talk to you about the quality, you scalawag?” asks +the Colonel, laughing. + +“Th' ain't none 'cept de bes' quality keep they word dat-a-way,” said +Ned, as he went off to tell Uncle Ben in the kitchen. + +Was there ever, in all this wide country, a good cook who was not a +tyrant? Uncle Ben Carvel was a veritable emperor in his own domain; and +the Colonel himself, had he desired to enter the kitchen, would have +been obliged to come with humble and submissive spirit. As for Virginia, +she had had since childhood more than one passage at arms with Uncle +Ben. And the question of who had come off victorious had been the +subject of many a debate below stairs. + +There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted +the sanctity of his territory to be violated. One was the seventh of +December. On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair +beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty +years). There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an +undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other +young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped. But +woe to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect! +Woe to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold +from the hall beyond! Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was +wont to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute +contempt for Ben's commands. + +“So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?” Virginia would say mischievously. + +“Order me out! Hugh! think I'se skeered o' him, honey? Reckon I'd frail +'em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands. Jes' let him try +to come upstairs once, honey, an' see what I say to 'm.” + +Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered +Mammy Easter out, and she had gone. And now, as she was working the beat +biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben's eye rested on her with +suspicion. + +What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which +were prepared in Uncle's kitchen that morning? No need in those days of +cooking schools. What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook +from the cradle? Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia's scorn for +pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches +of spices and flavors which she used. And he did Miss Eugenie the honor +to eat one of her praleens. + +That night came Captain Lige Brent, the figure of an eager and +determined man swinging up the street, and pulling out his watch under +every lamp-post. And in his haste, in the darkness of a midblock, he +ran into another solid body clad in high boots and an old army overcoat, +beside a wood wagon. + +“Howdy, Captain,” said he of the high boots. + +“Well, I just thought as much,” was the energetic reply; “minute I seen +the rig I knew Captain Grant was behind it.” + +He held out a big hand, which Captain Grant clasped, just looking at +his own with a smile. The stranger was Captain Elijah Brent of the +'Louisiana'. + +“Now,” said Brent, “I'll just bet a full cargo that you're off to the +Planters' House, and smoke an El Sol with the boys.” + +Mr. Grant nodded. “You're keen, Captain,” said he. + +“I've got something here that'll outlast an El Sol a whole day,” + continued Captain Breast, tugging at his pocket and pulling out a +six-inch cigar as black as the night. “Just you try that.” + +The Captain instantly struck a match on his boot and was puffing in a +silent enjoyment which delighted his friend. + +“Reckon he don't bring out cigars when you make him a call,” said the +steamboat captain, jerking his thumb up at the house. It was Mr. Jacob +Cluyme's. + +Captain Grant did not reply to that, nor did Captain Lige expect him to, +as it was the custom of this strange and silent man to speak ill of no +one. He turned rather to put the stakes back into his wagon. + +“Where are you off to, Lige?” he asked. + +“Lord bless my soul,” said Captain Lige, “to think that I could forget!” + He tucked a bundle tighter under his arm. “Grant, did you ever see my +little sweetheart, Jinny Carvel?” The Captain sighed. “She ain't little +any more, and she eighteen to-day.” + +Captain Grant clapped his hand to his forehead. + +“Say, Lige,” said he, “that reminds me. A month or so ago I pulled a +fellow out of Renault's area across from there. First I thought he was +a thief. After he got away I saw the Colonel and his daughter in the +window.” + +Instantly Captain Lige became excited, and seized Captain Grant by the +cape of his overcoat. + +“Say, Grant, what kind of appearing fellow was he?” + +“Short, thick-set, blocky face.” + +“I reckon I know,” said Breast, bringing down his fist on the wagon +board; “I've had my eye on him for some little time.” + +He walked around the block twice after Captain Grant had driven down the +muddy street, before he composed himself to enter the Carvel mansion. He +paid no attention to the salutations of Jackson, the butler, who saw him +coming and opened the door, but climbed the stairs to the sitting-room. + +“Why, Captain Lige, you must have put wings on the Louisiana,” said +Virginia, rising joyfully from the arm of her father's chair to meet +him. “We had given you up.” + +“What?” cried the Captain. “Give me up? Don't you know better than that? +What, give me up when I never missed a birthday,--and this the best of +all of 'em. + +“If your pa had got sight of me shovin' in wood and cussin' the pilot +for slowin' at the crossin's, he'd never let you ride in my boat again. +Bill Jenks said: 'Are you plum crazy, Brent? Look at them cressets.' +'Five dollars' says I; 'wouldn't go in for five hundred. To-morrow's +Jinny Carvel's birthday, and I've just got to be there.' I reckon the +time's come when I've got to say Miss Jinny,” he added ruefully. + +The Colonel rose, laughing, and hit the Captain on the back. + +“Drat you, Lige, why don't you kiss the girl? Can't you see she's +waiting?” + +The honest Captain stole one glance at Virginia, and turned red copper +color. + +“Shucks, Colonel, I can't be kissing her always. What'll her husband +say?” + +For an instant Mr. Carvel's brow clouded. + +“We'll not talk of husbands yet awhile, Lige.” + +Virginia went up to Captain Lige, deftly twisted into shape his black +tie, and kissed him on the check. How his face burned when she touched +him. + +“There!” said she, “and don't you ever dare to treat me as a young lady. +Why, Pa, he's blushing like a girl. I know. He's ashamed to kiss me now. +He's going to be married at last to that Creole girl in New Orleans.” + +The Colonel slapped his knee, winked slyly at Lige, while Virginia began +to sing: + + “I built me a house on the mountain so high, + To gaze at my true love as she do go by.” + +“There's only one I'd ever marry, Jinny,” protested the Captain, +soberly, “and I'm a heap too old for her. But I've seen a youngster +that might mate with her, Colonel,” he added mischievously. “If he just +wasn't a Yankee. Jinny, what's the story I hear about Judge Whipple's +young man buying Hester?” + +Mr. Carvel looked uneasy. It was Virginia's turn to blush, and she grew +red as a peony. + +“He's a tall, hateful, Black Republican Yankee!” she said. + +“Phee-ew!” whistled the Captain. “Any more epithets?” + +“He's a nasty Abolitionist!” + +“There you do him wrong, honey,” the Colonel put in. + +“I hear he took Hester to Miss Crane's,” the Captain continued, filling +the room with his hearty laughter. “That boy has sand enough, Jinny; I'd +like to know him.” + +“You'll have that priceless opportunity to-night,” retorted Miss +Virginia, as she flung herself out of the room. “Pa has made me invite +him to my party.” + +“Here, Jinny! Hold on!” cried the Captain, running after her. “I've got +something for you.” + +She stopped on the stairs, hesitating. Whereupon the Captain hastily +ripped open the bundle under his arm and produced a very handsome India +shawl. With a cry of delight Virginia threw it over her shoulders and +ran to the long glass between the high windows. + +“Who spoils her, Lige?” asked the Colonel, fondly. + +“Her father, I reckon,” was the prompt reply. + +“Who spoils you, Jinny?” + +“Captain Lige,” said she, turning to him. “If you had only kept the +presents you have brought me from New Orleans, you might sell out your +steamboat and be a rich man.” + +“He is a rich man,” said the Colonel, promptly. “Did you ever miss +bringing her a present, Lige?” he asked. + +“When the Cora Anderson burnt,” answered the Captain. + +“Why,” cried Virginia, “you brought me a piece of her wheel, with the +char on it. You swam ashore with it.” + +“So I did,” said Captain Brent. “I had forgotten that. It was when the +French dress, with the furbelows, which Madame Pitou had gotten me from +Paris for you, was lost.” + +“And I think I liked the piece of wheel better,” says Virginia. “It was +brought me by a brave man, the last to leave his boat.” + +“And who should be the last to leave, but the captain? I saw the thing +in the water; and I just thought we ought to have a relic.” + +“Lige,” said the Colonel, putting up his feet, “do you remember the +French toys you used to bring up here from New Orleans?” + +“Colonel,” replied Brent, “do you recall the rough and uncouth young +citizen who came over here from Cincinnati, as clerk on the Vicksburg?” + +“I remember, sir, that he was so promising that they made him +provisional captain the next trip, and he was not yet twenty-four years +of age.” + +“And do you remember buying the Vicksburg at the sheriff's sale for +twenty thousand dollars, and handing her over to young Brent, and +saying, 'There, my son, she's your boat, and you can pay for her when +you like'?” + +“Shucks, Brent!” said Mr. Carvel, sternly, “your memory's too good. But +I proved myself a good business man, Jinny; he paid for her in a year.” + +“You don't mean that you made him pay you for the boat?” cried Jinny. +“Why, Pa, I didn't think you were that mean!” + +The two men laughed heartily. + +“I was a heap meaner,” said her father. “I made him pay interest.” + +Virginia drew in her breath, and looked at the Colonel in amazement. + +“He's the meanest man I know,” said Captain Lige. “He made me pay +interest, and a mint julep.” + +“Upon my word, Pa,” said Miss Virginia, soberly, “I shouldn't have +believed it of you.” + +Just then Jackson, in his white jacket; came to announce that supper was +ready, and they met Ned at the dining-room door, fairly staggering under +a load of roses. + +“Marse Clarence done send 'em in, des picked out'n de hothouse dis +afternoon, Miss Jinny. Jackson, fotch a bowl!” + +“No,” said Virginia. She took the flowers from Ned, one by one, and to +the wonderment of Captain Lige and her--father strewed them hither and +thither upon the table until the white cloth was hid by the red flowers. +The Colonel stroked his goatee and nudged Captain Lige. + +“Look-a-there, now,” said he. “Any other woman would have spent two +mortal hours stickin' 'em in china.” + +Virginia, having critically surveyed her work, amid exclamations from +Ned and Jackson, had gone around to her place. And there upon her plate +lay a pearl necklace. For an instant she clapped her palms together, +staring at it in bewilderment. And once more the little childish cry of +delight, long sweet to the Colonel's ears, escaped her. + +“Pa,” she said, “is it--?” And there she stopped, for fear that it might +not be. But he nodded encouragingly. + +“Dorothy Carvel's necklace! No, it can't be.” + +“Yes, honey,” said the Colonel. “Your Uncle Daniel sent it, as he +promised. And when you go upstairs, if Easter has done as I told her, +you will see a primrose dress with blue coin-flowers on your bed. Daniel +thought you might like that, too, for a keepsake. Dorothy Manners wore +it in London, when she was a girl.” + +And so Virginia ran and threw her arms about her father's neck, and +kissed him again and again. And lest the Captain feel badly, she laid +his India shawl beside her; and the necklace upon it. + +What a joyful supper they had,--just the three of them! And as the fresh +roses filled the room with fragrance, Virginia filled it with youth and +spirits, and Mr. Carvel and the Captain with honest, manly merriment. +And Jackson plied Captain Brent (who was a prime favorite in that house) +with broiled chicken and hot beat biscuits and with waffles, until at +length he lay back in his chair and heaved a sigh of content, lighting a +cigar. And then Virginia, with a little curtsey to both of them, ran off +to dress for the party. + +“Well,” said Captain Brent, “I reckon there'll be gay goings-on here +to-night. I wouldn't miss the sight of 'em, Colonel, for all the cargoes +on the Mississippi. Ain't there anything I can do?” + +“No, thank you, Lige,” Mr. Carvel answered. “Do you remember, one +morning some five years ago, when I took in at the store a Yankee named +Hopper? You didn't like him, I believe.” + +Captain Brent jumped, and the ashes of his cigar fell on his coat. He +had forgotten his conversation with Captain Grant. + +“I reckon I do,” he said dryly. + +For a moment he was on the point of telling the affair. Then he +desisted. He could not be sure of Eliphalet from Grant's description. So +he decided to await a better time. Captain Brent was one to make sure of +his channel before going ahead. + +“Well,” continued the Colonel, “I have been rather pushed the last week, +and Hopper managed things for this dance. He got the music, and saw the +confectioner. But he made such a close bargain with both of 'em that +they came around to me afterward,” he added, laughing. + +“Is he coming here to-night?” demanded the Captain, looking disgusted. + +“Lige,” replied the Colonel, “you never do get over a prejudice. Yes, +he's coming, just to oversee things. He seems to have mighty little +pleasure, and he's got the best business head I ever did see. A Yankee,” + said Mr. Carvel, meditatively, as he put on his hat, “a Yankee, when he +will work, works like all possessed. Hood don't like him any more than +you do, but he allows Hopper is a natural-born business man. Last month +Samuels got tight, and Wright & Company were going to place the largest +order in years. I called in Hood. 'Go yourself, Colonel,' says he. I I'm +too old to solicit business, Hood,' said I. 'Then there's only one man +to send,' says he, 'young Hopper. He'll get the order, or I'll give up +this place I've had for twenty years.' Hopper 'callated' to get it, and +another small one pitched in. And you'd die laughing, Lige, to hear how +he did it.” + +“Some slickness, I'll gamble,” grunted Captain Lige. + +“Well, I reckon 'twas slick,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully. “You know +old man Wright hates a solicitor like poison. He has his notions. And +maybe you've noticed signs stuck up all over his store, 'No Solicitors +nor Travelling Men Allowed Here'.” + +The Captain nodded. + +“But Hopper--Hopper walks in, sir, bold as you please, right past the +signs till he comes to the old man's cage. 'I want to see Mr. Wright,' +says he to the clerk. And the clerk begins to grin. 'Name, please,' says +he. Mr. Hopper whips out his business card. 'What!' shouts old Wright, +flying 'round in his chair, 'what the devil does this mean? Can't you +read, sir?' 'callate to,' says Mr. Hopper. 'And you dare to come in +here? + +“'Business is business,' says Hopper. 'You “callate”!' bellowed the +old man; 'I reckon you're a damned Yankee. I reckon I'll upset your +“callations” for once. And if I catch you in here again, I'll wring your +neck like a roostah's. Git!'” + +“Who told you this?” asked Captain Brent. + +“Wright himself,--afterward,” replied Mr. Carvel, laughing. “But listen, +Lige. The old man lives at the Planters' House, you know. What does Mr. +Hopper do but go 'round there that very night and give a nigger two bits +to put him at the old man's table. When Wright comes and sees him, he +nearly has one of his apoplectic fits. But in marches Hopper the next +morning with twice the order. The good Lord knows how he did it.” + +There was a silence. Then the door-bell rang. + +“He's dangerous,” said the Captain, emphatically. “That's what I call +him.” + +“The Yankees are changing business in this town,” was the Colonel's +answer. “We've got to keep the pace, Lige.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. THE PARTY + +To gentle Miss Anne Brinsmade, to Puss Russell of the mischievous eyes, +and even to timid Eugenie Renault, the question that burned was: Would +he come, or would he not? And, secondarily, how would Virginia treat him +if he came? Put our friend Stephen for the subjective, and Miss Carvers +party for the objective in the above, and we have the clew. For very +young girls are given to making much out of a very little in such +matters. If Virginia had not gotten angry when she had been teased a +fortnight before, all would have been well. + +Even Puss, who walked where angels feared to tread, did not dare to go +too far with Virginia. She had taken care before the day of the party to +beg forgiveness with considerable humility. It had been granted with a +queenly generosity. And after that none of the bevy had dared to broach +the subject to Virginia. Jack Brinsmade had. He told Puss afterward that +when Virginia got through with him, he felt as if he had taken a rapid +trip through the wheel-house of a large steamer. Puss tried, by +various ingenious devices, to learn whether Mr. Brice had accepted his +invitation. She failed. + +These things added a zest to a party long looked forward to amongst +Virginia's intimates. In those days young ladies did not “come out” so +frankly as they do now. Mothers did not announce to the world that they +possessed marriageable daughters. The world was supposed to know +that. And then the matrimonial market was feverishly active. Young +men proposed as naturally as they now ask a young girl to go for a +walk,--and were refused quite as naturally. An offer of marriage was not +the fearful and wonderful thing--to be dealt with gingerly--which it has +since become. Seventeen was often the age at which they began. And one +of the big Catherwood boys had a habit of laying his heart and hand at +Virginia's feet once a month. Nor did his vanity suffer greatly when she +laughed at him. + +It was with a flutter of excitement, therefore, that Miss Carvel's +guests flitted past Jackson, who held the door open obsequiously. The +boldest of them took a rapid survey of the big parlor, before they put +foot on the stairs to see whether Mr. Brice had yet arrived. And if +their curiosity held them too long, they were usually kissed by the +Colonel. + +Mr. Carvel shook hands heartily with the young mean and called them by +their first names, for he knew most of their fathers and grandfathers. +And if an older gentleman arrived, perhaps the two might be seen going +down the hall together, arm in arm. So came his beloved enemy, Judge +Whipple, who did not make an excursion to the rear regions of the house +with the Colonel; but they stood and discussed Mr. President Buchanan's +responsibility for the recent panic, until the band, which Mr. Hopper +had stationed under the stairs, drowned their voices. + +As we enter the room, there stands Virginia under the rainbowed prisms +of the great chandelier, receiving. But here was suddenly a woman of +twenty-eight, where only this evening we knew a slip of a girl. It was +a trick she had, to become majestic in a ball-gown. She held her head +high, as a woman should, and at her slender throat glowed the pearls of +Dorothy Manners. + +The result of all this was to strike a little awe into the souls of many +of her playmates. Little Eugenie nearly dropped a curtsey. Belle Cluyme +was so impressed that she forgot for a whole hour to be spiteful. But +Puss Russell kissed her on both cheeks, and asked her if she really +wasn't nervous. + +“Nervous!” exclaimed Jinny, “why?” + +Miss Russell glanced significantly towards the doorway. But she said +nothing to her hostess, for fear of marring an otherwise happy occasion. +She retired with Jack Brim made to a corner, where she recited:-- + + “Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the East; + Of millions of Yankees I love him the least.” + +“What a joke if he should come!” cried Jack. + +Miss Russell gasped. + +Just as Mr. Clarence Colfax, resplendent in new evening clothes just +arrived from New York, was pressing his claim for the first dance with +his cousin in opposition to numerous other claims, the chatter of the +guests died away. Virginia turned her head, and for an instant the +pearls trembled on her neck. There was a young man cordially and +unconcernedly shaking hands with her father and Captain Lige. Her memory +of that moment is, strangely, not of his face (she did not deign to +look at that), but of the muscle of his shoulder half revealed as he +stretched forth his arm. + +Young Mr. Colfax bent over to her ear. + +“Virginia,” he whispered earnestly, almost fiercely, “Virginia, who +invited him here?” + +“I did,” said Virginia, calmly, “of course. Who invites any one here?” + +“But!” cried Clarence, “do you know who he is?” + +“Yes,” she answered, “I know. And is that any reason why he should not +come here as a guest? Would you bar any gentleman from your house on +account of his convictions?” + +Ah, Virginia, who had thought to hear that argument from your lips? What +would frank Captain Lige say of the consistency of women, if he heard +you now? And how give an account of yourself to Anne Brinsmade? What +contrariness has set you so intense against your own argument? + +Before one can answer this, before Mr. Clarence can recover from his +astonishment and remind her of her vehement words on the subject at +Bellegarde, Mr. Stephen is making thither with the air of one who +conquers. Again the natural contrariness of women. What bare-faced +impudence! Has he no shame that he should hold his head so high? +She feels her color mounting, even as her resentment rises at his +self-possession, and yet she would have despised him had he shown +self-consciousness in gait or manner in the sight of her assembled +guests. Nearly as tall as the Colonel himself, he is plainly seen, and +Miss Puss in her corner does not have to stand on tiptoe. Mr. Carvel +does the honors of the introduction. + +But a daughter of the Carvels was not to fail before such a paltry +situation as this. Shall it be confessed that curiosity stepped into the +breach? As she gave him her hand she was wondering how he would act. + +As a matter of fact he acted detestably. He said nothing whatever, but +stood regarding her with a clear eye and a face by far too severe. +The thought that he was meditating on the incident of the auction sale +crossed through her mind, and made her blood simmer. How dared he behave +so! The occasion called for a little small talk. An evil spirit took +possession of Virginia. She turned. + +“Mr. Brice, do you know my cousin, Mr. Colfax?” she said. + +Mr. Brice bowed. “I know Mr. Colfax by sight,” he replied. + +Then Mr. Colfax made a stiff bow. To this new phase his sense of humor +did not rise. Mr. Brice was a Yankee and no gentleman, inasmuch as he +had overbid a lady for Hester. + +“Have you come here to live, Mr. Brice?” he asked. + +The Colonel eyed his nephew sharply. But Stephen smiled. + +“Yes,” he said, “if I can presently make enough to keep me alive.” Then +turning to Virginia, he said, “Will you dance, Miss Carvel?” + +The effrontery of this demand quite drew the breath from the impatient +young gentlemen who had been waiting their turn. Several of them spoke +up in remonstrance. And for the moment (let one confess it who knows), +Virginia was almost tempted to lay her arm in his. Then she made a bow +that would have been quite as effective the length of the room. + +“Thank you, Mr. Brice,” she said, “but I am engaged to Mr. Colfax.” + +Abstractedly he watched her glide away in her cousin's arms. Stephen had +a way of being preoccupied at such times. When he grew older he +would walk the length of Olive Street, look into face after face +of acquaintances, not a quiver of recognition in his eyes. But most +probably the next week he would win a brilliant case in the Supreme +Court. And so now, indifferent to the amusement of some about him, he +stood staring after Virginia and Clarence. Where had he seen Colfax's +face before he came West? Ah, he knew. Many, many years before he +had stood with his father in the mellow light of the long gallery at +Hollingdean, Kent, before a portrait of the Stuarts' time. The face was +that of one of Lord Northwell's ancestors, a sporting nobleman of the +time of the second Charles. It was a head which compelled one to pause +before it. Strangely enough,--it was the head likewise of Clarence +Colfax. + +The image of it Stephen had carried undimmed in the eye of his memory. +White-haired Northwell's story, also. It was not a story that Mr. Brice +had expected his small son to grasp. As a matter of fact Stephen had not +grasped it then--but years afterward. It was not a pleasant story,--and +yet there was much of credit in it to the young rake its subject,--of +dash and courage and princely generosity beside the profligacy and +incontinence. + +The face had impressed him, with its story. He had often dreamed of it, +and of the lace collar over the dull-gold velvet that became it so well. +And here it was at last, in a city west of the Mississippi River. Here +were the same delicately chiselled features, with their pallor, and +satiety engraved there at one and twenty. Here was the same lazy scorn +in the eyes, and the look which sleeplessness gives to the lids: the +hair, straight and fine and black; the wilful indulgence--not of one +life, but of generations--about the mouth; the pointed chin. And yet it +was a fact to dare anything, and to do anything. + +One thing more ere we have done with that which no man may explain. Had +he dreamed, too, of the girl? Of Virginia? Stephen might not tell, but +thrice had the Colonel spoken to him before he answered. + +“You must meet some of these young ladies, sir.” + +It was little wonder that Puss Russell thought him dull on that first +occasion. Out of whom condescension is to flow is a matter of which +Heaven takes no cognizance. To use her own words, Puss thought him +“stuck up,” when he should have been grateful. We know that Stephen +was not stuck up, and later Miss Russell learned that likewise. Very +naturally she took preoccupation for indifference. It is a matter worth +recording, however, that she did not tease him, because she did not +dare. He did not ask her to dance, which was rude. So she passed him +back to Mr. Carvel, who introduced him to Miss Renault and Miss Saint +Cyr, and other young ladies of the best French families. And finally, +drifting hither and thither with his eyes on Virginia, in an evil moment +he was presented to Mrs. Colfax. Perhaps it has been guessed that Mrs. +Colfax was a very great lady indeed, albeit the daughter of an overseer. +She bore Addison Colfax's name, spent his fortune, and retained her good +looks. On this particular occasion she was enjoying herself quite as +much as any young girl in the room, and, while resting from a waltz, was +regaling a number of gentlemen with a humorous account of a scandal at +the Virginia Spring's. + +None but a great lady could have meted out the punishment administered +to poor Stephen. None but a great lady could have concerned it. And he, +who had never been snubbed before, fell headlong into her trap. How +was the boy to know that there was no heart in the smile with which she +greeted him? It was all over in an instant. She continued to talk about +Virginia Springs, “Oh, Mr. Brice, of course you have been there. Of +course you know the Edmunds. No? You haven't been there? You don't know +the Edmunds? I thought every body had been there. Charles, you look +as if you were just dying to waltz. Let's have a turn before the music +stops.” + +And so she whirled away, leaving Stephen forlorn, a little too angry to +be amused just then. In that state he spied a gentleman coming towards +him--a gentleman the sight of whom he soon came to associate with all +that is good and kindly in this world, Mr. Brinsmade. And now he put his +hand on Stephen's shoulder. Whether he had seen the incident just past, +who can tell? + +“My son,” said he, “I am delighted to see you here. Now that we are such +near neighbors, we must be nearer friends. You must know my wife, and my +son Jack, and my daughter Anne.” + +Mrs. Brinsmade was a pleasant little body, but plainly not a fit mate +for her husband. Jack gave Stephen a warm grasp of the hand, and +an amused look. As for Anne, she was more like her father; she was +Stephen's friend from that hour. + +“I have seen you quite often, going in at your gate, Mr. Brice. And +I have seen your mother, too. I like her,” said Anne. “She has such a +wonderful face.” And the girl raised her truthful blue eyes to his. + +“My mother would be delighted to know you,” he ventured, not knowing +what else to say. It was an effort for him to reflect upon their new +situation as poor tenants to a wealthy family. + +“Oh, do you think so?” cried Anne. “I shall call on her to-morrow, with +mother. Do you know, Mr. Brice,” she continued, “do you know that your +mother is just the person I should go to if I were in trouble, whether I +knew her or not?” + +“I have found her a good person in trouble,” said Stephen, simply. He +might have said the same of Anne. + +Anne was enchanted. She had thought him cold, but these words belied +that. She had wrapped him in that diaphanous substance with which young +ladies (and sometimes older ones) are wont to deck their heroes. She had +approached a mystery--to find it human, as are many mysteries. But thank +heaven that she found a dignity, a seriousness,--and these more than +satisfied her. Likewise, she discovered something she had not looked +for, an occasional way of saying things that made her laugh. She danced +with him, and passed him back to Miss Puss Russell, who was better +pleased this time; she passed him on to her sister, who also danced with +him, and sent him upstairs for her handkerchief. + +Nevertheless, Stephen was troubled. As the evening wore on, he was more +and more aware of an uncompromising attitude in his young hostess, whom +he had seen whispering to various young ladies from behind her fan as +they passed her. He had not felt equal to asking her to dance a second +time. Honest Captain Lige Breast, who seemed to have taken a fancy to +him, bandied him on his lack of courage with humor that was a little +rough. And, to Stephen's amazement, even Judge Whipple had pricked him +on. + +It was on his way upstairs after Emily Russell's handkerchief that +he ran across another acquaintance. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in Sunday +broadcloth, was seated on the landing, his head lowered to the level of +the top of the high door of the parlor. Stephen caught a glimpse of the +picture whereon his eyes were fixed. Perhaps it is needless to add that +Miss Virginia Carvel formed the central figure of it. + +“Enjoy in' yourself?” asked Mr. Hopper. + +Stephen countered. + +“Are you?” he asked. + +“So so,” said Mr. Hopper, and added darkly: “I ain't in no hurry. Just +now they callate I'm about good enough to manage the business end of +an affair like this here. I guess I can wait. But some day,” said he, +suddenly barring Stephen's way, “some day I'll give a party. And hark to +me when I tell you that these here aristocrats 'll be glad enough to get +invitations.” + +Stephen pushed past coldly. This time the man made him shiver. The +incident was all that was needed to dishearten and disgust him. Kindly +as he had been treated by others, far back in his soul was a thing that +rankled. Shall it be told crudely why he went that night? Stephen +Brice, who would not lie to others, lied to himself. And when he came +downstairs again and presented Miss Emily with her handkerchief, +his next move was in his mind. And that was to say good-night to the +Colonel, and more frigidly to Miss Carvel herself. But music has upset +many a man's calculations. + +The strains of the Jenny Lind waltz were beginning to float through the +rooms. There was Miss Virginia in a corner of the big parlor, for the +moment alone with her cousin. And thither Stephen sternly strode. Not a +sign did she give of being aware of his presence until he stood before +her. Even then she did not lift her eyes. But she said: “So you have +come at last to try again, Mr. Brice?” + +And Mr. Brice said: “If you will do me the honor, Miss Carvel.” + +She did not reply at once. Clarence Colfax got to his feet. Then she +looked up at the two men as they stood side by side, and perhaps swept +them both in an instant's comparison. + +The New Englander's face must have reminded her more of her own father, +Colonel Carvel. It possessed, from generations known, the power to +control itself. She afterwards admitted that she accepted him to tease +Clarence. Miss Russell, whose intuitions are usually correct, does not +believe this. + +“I will dance with you,” said Virginia. + +But, once in his arms, she seemed like a wild thing, resisting. Although +her gown brushed his coat, the space between them was infinite, and her +hand lay limp in his, unresponsive of his own pressure. Not so her feet; +they caught the step and moved with the rhythm of the music, and round +the room they swung. More than one pair paused in the dance to watch +them. Then, as they glided past the door, Stephen was disagreeably +conscious of some one gazing down from above, and he recalled Eliphalet +Hopper and his position. The sneer from Eliphalet's seemed to penetrate +like a chilly draught. + +All at once, Virginia felt her partner gathering up his strength, and +by some compelling force, more of wild than of muscle, draw her nearer. +Unwillingly her hand tightened under his, and her blood beat faster +and her color came and went as they two moved as one. Anger--helpless +anger--took possession of her as she saw the smiles on the faces of her +friends, and Puss Russell mockingly throwing a kiss as she passed her. +And then, strange in the telling, a thrill as of power rose within her +which she strove against in vain. A knowledge of him who guided her so +swiftly, so unerringly, which she had felt with no other man. Faster and +faster they stepped, each forgetful of self and place, until the waltz +came suddenly to a stop. + +“By gum!” said Captain Lige to Judge Whipple, “you can whollop me on my +own forecastle if they ain't the handsomest couple I ever did see.” + + + + +BOOK II. + + + + +Volume 3. + + + + +CHAPTER I. RAW MATERIAL + +Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last. The families of +its richest citizens had fled. Even at that early day some braved the +long railroad journey to the Atlantic coast. Amongst these were our +friends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history. Some went +to the Virginia Springs. But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells, +the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, retired to the local paradise of +their country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights +above the river. Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was +often invited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his +own buggy. Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell. But Miss Virginia +Carvel he had never seen since the night he had danced with her. +This was because, after her return from the young ladies' school at +Monticello, she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched high +on wooded highlands. And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran +lightly on sand and pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the +Father of Waters. + +To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which +(it was fondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean. You +generally spied one of the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their +tall sister Maude. The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the +summer. And on some Saturday afternoons a grim figure in a linen duster +and a silk skull-cap took a seat in the forward car. That was Judge +Whipple, on his way to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel. + +To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formed +another habit. At least once a week he would drop in at the little house +on Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade's big one, which was shut up, and +take tea with Mrs. Brice. Afterward he would sit on the little porch +over the garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and watch the +bob-tailed horse-cars go by. His conversation was chiefly addressed to +the widow. Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer +had in no wise abated. + +Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outer +office, straining at the law. Had it not been for the fact that Mr. +Whipple went to his mother's house, despair would have seized him long +since. Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only by +Mr. Richter. Truly the Judge's methods were not Harvard methods. And if +there were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew the +cure for it. + +It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days. He +would often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with the +quiet German. Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a +red letter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself. Stephen's +eyes were opened. Richter took him across the Rhine. The Rhine was +Market Street, and south of that street was a country of which polite +American society took no cognizance. + +Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great sod +uprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity in +the warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley. Here lager beer took the +place of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and fried +chicken. Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of wide +streets; Lutheran churches, square and uncompromising, and bulky Turner +Halls, where German children were taught the German tongue. Here, in a +shady grove of mulberry and locust, two hundred families were spread out +at their ease. + +For a while Richter sat in silence, puffing at a meerschaum with a huge +brown bowl. A trick of the mind opened for Stephen one of the histories +in his father's library in Beacon Street, across the pages of which had +flitted the ancestors of this blue-eyed and great-chested Saxon. He saw +them in cathedral forests, with the red hair long upon their bodies. +He saw terrifying battles with the Roman Empire surging back and forth +through the low countries. He saw a lad of twenty at the head of rugged +legions clad in wild skins, sweeping Rome out of Gaul. Back in the dim +ages Richter's fathers must have defended grim Eresburg. And it seemed +to him that in the end the new Republic must profit by this rugged +stock, which had good women for wives and mothers, and for fathers men +in whose blood dwelt a fierce patriotism and contempt for cowardice. + +This fancy of ancestry pleased Stephen. He thought of the forefathers of +those whom he knew, who dwelt north of Market Street. Many, though this +generation of the French might know it not, had bled at Calais and at +Agincourt, had followed the court of France in clumsy coaches to Blois +and Amboise, or lived in hovels under the castle walls. Others had +charged after the Black Prince at Poitiers, and fought as serf or noble. +in the war of the Roses; had been hatters or tailors in Cromwell's +armies, or else had sacrificed lands and fortunes for Charles Stuart. +These English had toiled, slow but resistless, over the misty Blue +Ridge after Boone and Harrod to this old St. Louis of the French, their +enemies, whose fur traders and missionaries had long followed the veins +of the vast western wilderness. And now, on to the structure builded by +these two, comes Germany to be welded, to strengthen or to weaken. + +Richter put down his pipe on the table. + +“Stephen,” he said suddenly, “you do not share the prejudice against us +here?” + +Stephen flushed. He thought of some vigorous words that Miss Puss +Russell had used on the subject of the Dutch. + +“No,” said he, emphatically. + +“I am glad,” answered Richter, with a note of sadness, in his voice. +“Do not despise us before you know more of us. We are still feudal in +Germany--of the Middle Ages. The peasant is a serf. He is compelled to +serve the lord of the land every year with so much labor of his hands. +The small farmers, the 'Gross' and 'Mittel Bauern', we call them, are +also mortgaged to the nobles who tyrannize our Vaterland. Our merchants +are little merchants--shopkeepers, you would say. My poor father, an +educated man, was such. They fought our revolution.” + +“And now,” said Stephen, “why do they not keep their hold?” + +Richter sighed. + +“We were unused to ruling,” he answered. “We knew not how to act--what +to do. You must remember that we were not trained to govern ourselves, +as are you of the English race, from children. Those who have been for +centuries ground under heel do not make practical parliamentarians. No; +your heritage is liberty--you Americans and English; and we Germans must +desert our native land to partake of it.” + +“And was it not hard to leave?” asked Stephen, gently. + +The eyes of the German filled at the recollection, nor did he seem +ashamed of his tears. + +“I had a poor old father whose life was broken to save the Vaterland, +but not his spirit,” he cried, “no, not that. My father was born +in 1797. God directed my grandfather to send him to the Kolnisches +gymnasium, where the great Jahn taught. Jahn was our Washington, the +father of Germany that is to be. + +“Then our Fatherland was French. Our women wore Parisian clothes, and +spoke the language; French immorality and atheism had spread like a +plague among us Napoleon the vile had taken the sword of our Frederick +from Berlin. It was Father Jahn (so we love to call him), it was Father +Jahn who founded the 'Turnschulen', that the generations to come might +return to simple German ways,--plain fare, high principles, our native +tongue; and the development of the body. The downfall of the fiend +Napoleon and the Vaterland united--these two his scholars must have +written in their hearts. All summer long, in their black caps and linen +pantaloons, they would trudge after him, begging a crust here and a +cheese there, to spread his teachings far and wide under the thatched +roofs. + +“Then came 1811. I have heard my father tell how in the heat of that +year a great red comet burned in the sky, even as that we now see, my +friend. God forbid that this portends blood. But in the coming spring +the French conscripts filled our sacred land like a swarm of locusts, +devouring as they went. And at their head, with the pomp of Darius, rode +that destroyer of nations and homes, Napoleon. What was Germany then? +Ashes. But the red embers were beneath, fanned by Father Jahn. Napoleon +at Dresden made our princes weep. Never, even in the days of the +Frankish kings, had we been so humbled. He dragged our young men with +him to Russia, and left them to die moaning on the frozen wastes, while +he drove off in his sledge. + +“It was the next year that Germany rose. High and low, rich and poor, +Jaeger and Landwehr, came flocking into the army, and even the old men, +the Landsturm. Russia was an ally, and later, Austria. My father, a last +of sixteen, was in the Landwehr, under the noble Blucher in Silesia, +when they drove the French into the Katzbach and the Neisse, swollen by +the rains into torrents. It had rained until the forests were marshes. +Powder would not burn. But Blucher, ah, there was a man! He whipped his +great sabre from under his cloak, crying 'Vorwarts! Vorwarts!' And the +Landwehr with one great shout slew their enemies with the butts of their +muskets until their arms were weary and the bodies were tossed like logs +in the foaming waters. They called Blucher Marachall Vorwarts! + +“Then Napoleon was sent to Elba. But the victors quarrelled amongst +themselves, while Talleyrand and Metternich tore our Vaterland into +strips, and set brother against brother. And our blood, and the grief +for the widows and the fatherless, went for nothing.” + +Richter paused to light his pipe. + +“After a while,” he continued presently, “came the German Confederation, +with Austria at the head. Rid of Napoleon, we had another despot in +Metternich. But the tree which Jahn had planted grew, and its branches +spread. The great master was surrounded by spies. My father had gone to +Jena University, when he joined the Burschenschaft, or Students' League, +of which I will tell you later. It was pledged to the rescue of the +Vaterland. He was sent to prison for dipping his handkerchief in the +blood of Sand, beheaded for liberty at Mannheim. Afterwards he was +liberated, and went to Berlin and married my mother, who died when I +was young. Twice again he was in prison because the societies met at his +house. We were very poor, my friend. You in America know not the meaning +of that word. His health broke, and when '48 came, he was an old man. +His hair was white, and he walked the streets with a crutch. But he had +saved a little money to send me to Jena. + +“He was proud of me. I was big-boned and fair, like my mother. And when +I came home at the end of a Semester I can see him now, as he +would hobble to the door, wearing the red and black and gold of the +Burschenschaft. And he would keep me up half the night-telling him of +our 'Schlager' fights with the aristocrats. My father had been a noted +swordsman in his day.” + +He stopped abruptly, and colored. For Stephen was staring at the jagged +scar, He had never summoned the courage to ask Richter how he came by +it. + +“Schlager fights?” he exclaimed. + +“Broadswords,” answered the German, hastily. “Some day I will tell you +of them, and of the struggle with the troops in the 'Breite Strasse' in +March. We lost, as I told you because we knew not how to hold what we +had gained. + +“I left Germany, hoping to make a home here for my poor father. How sad +his face as he kissed me farewell! And he said to me: 'Carl, if ever +your new Vaterland, the good Republic, be in danger, sacrifice all. +I have spent my years in bondage, and I say to you that life without +liberty is not worth the living.' Three months I was gone, and he was +dead, without that for which he had striven so bravely. He never knew +what it is to have an abundance of meat. He never knew from one day to +the other when he would have to embrace me, all he owned, and march away +to prison, because he was a patriot.” Richter's voice had fallen low, +but now he raised it. “Do you think, my friend,” he cried, “do you think +that I would not die willingly for this new country if the time should +come. Yes, and there are a million like me, once German, now American, +who will give their lives to preserve this Union. For without it the +world is not fit to live in.” + +Stephen had food for thought as he walked northward through the strange +streets on that summer evening. Here indeed was a force not to be +reckoned, and which few had taken into account. + + + + +CHAPTER II. ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +It is sometimes instructive to look back and see hour Destiny gave us a +kick here, and Fate a shove there, that sent us in the right direction +at the proper time. And when Stephen Brice looks backward now, he laughs +to think that he did not suspect the Judge of being an ally of the +two who are mentioned above. The sum total of Mr. Whipple's words and +advices to him that summer had been these. Stephen was dressed more +carefully than usual, in view of a visit to Bellefontaine Road. +Whereupon the Judge demanded whether he were contemplating marriage. +Without waiting for a reply he pointed to a rope and a slab of limestone +on the pavement below, and waved his hand unmistakably toward the +Mississippi. + +Miss Russell was of the opinion that Mr. Whipple had once been crossed +in love. + +But we are to speak more particularly of a put-up job, although Stephen +did not know this at the time. + +Towards five o'clock of a certain afternoon in August of that year, +1858, Mr. Whipple emerged from his den. Instead of turning to the right, +he strode straight to Stephen's table. His communications were always a +trifle startling. This was no exception. + +“Mr. Brice,” said he, “you are to take the six forty-five train on the +St. Louis, Alton, and Chicago road tomorrow morning for Springfield, +Illinois.” + +“Yes sir.” + +“Arriving at Springfield, you are to deliver this envelope into the +hands of Mr. Abraham Lincoln, of the law firm of Lincoln & Herndon.” + +“Abraham Lincoln!” cried Stephen, rising and straddling his chair. “But, +sir--” + +“Abraham Lincoln,” interrupted the Judge, forcibly “I try to speak +plainly, sir. You are to deliver it into Mr. Lincoln's hands. If he +is not in Springfield, find out where he is and follow him up. +Your expenses will be paid by me. The papers are important. Do you +understand, sir?” + +Stephen did. And he knew better than to argue the matter with Mr. +Whipple. He had read in the Missouri Democrat of this man Lincoln, +a country lawyer who had once been to Congress, and who was even now +disputing the senatorship of his state with the renowned Douglas. In +spite of their complacent amusement, he had won a little admiration +from conservative citizens who did not believe in the efficacy of Judge +Douglas's Squatter Sovereignty. Likewise this Mr. Lincoln, who had once +been a rail-sputter, was uproariously derided by Northern Democrats +because he had challenged Mr. Douglas to seven debates, to be held at +different towns in the state of Illinois. David with his sling and +his smooth round pebble must have had much of the same sympathy and +ridicule. + +For Mr. Douglas, Senator and Judge, was a national character, mighty in +politics, invulnerable in the armor of his oratory. And he was known +far and wide as the Little Giant. Those whom he did not conquer with his +logic were impressed by his person. + +Stephen remembered with a thrill that these debates were going on now. +One, indeed, had been held, and had appeared in fine print in a corner +of the Democrat. Perhaps this Lincoln might not be in; Springfield; +perhaps he, Stephen Brice, might, by chance, hit upon a debate, and see +and hear the tower of the Democracy, the Honorable Stephen A. Douglas. + +But it is greatly to be feared that our friend Stephen was bored +with his errand before he arrived at the little wooden station of the +Illinois capital. Standing on the platform after the train pulled out, +he summoned up courage to ask a citizen with no mustache and a beard, +which he swept away when he spat, where was the office of Lincoln & +Herndon. The stranger spat twice, regarded Mr. Brice pityingly, +and finally led him in silence past the picket fence and the New +England-looking meeting-house opposite until they came to the great +square on which the State House squatted. The State House was a building +with much pretension to beauty, built in the classical style, of a +yellow stone, with sold white blinds in the high windows and mighty +columns capped at the gently slanting roof. But on top of it was reared +a crude wooden dome, like a clay head on a marble statue. + +“That there,” said the stranger, “is whar we watches for the County +Delegations when they come in to a meetin'.” And with this remark, +pointing with a stubby thumb up a well-worn stair, he departed before +Stephen could thank him. Stephen paused under the awning, of which there +were many shading the brick pavement, to regard the straggling line of +stores and houses which surrounded and did homage to the yellow pile. +The brick house in which Mr. Lincoln's office was had decorations above +the windows. Mounting the stair, Stephen found a room bare enough, save +for a few chairs and law books, and not a soul in attendance. After +sitting awhile by the window, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he +went out on the landing to make inquiries. There he met another citizen +in shirt sleeves, like unto the first, in the very act of sweeping his +beard out of the way of a dexterous expectoration. + +“Wal, young man,” said he, “who be you lookin' for here?” + +“For Mr. Lincoln,” said Stephen. + +At this the gentleman sat down on the dirty top step; and gave vent to +quiet but annoying laughter. + +“I reckon you come to the wrong place.” + +“I was told this was his office,” said Stephen, with some heat. + +“Whar be you from?” said the citizen, with interest. + +“I don't see what that has to do with it,” answered our friend. + +“Wal,” said the citizen, critically, “if you was from Philadelphy or +Boston, you might stand acquitted.” + +Stephen was on the point of claiming Boston, but wisely hesitated. + +“I'm from St. Louis, with a message for Mr. Lincoln,” he replied. + +“Ye talk like y e was from down East,” said the citizens who seemed in +the humor for conversation. “I reckon old Abe's' too busy to see you. +Say, young man, did you ever hear of Stephen Arnold Douglas, alias the +Little Giant, alias the Idol of our State, sir?” + +This was too much for Stephen, who left the citizen without the +compliment of a farewell. Continuing around the square, inquiring for +Mr. Lincoln's house, he presently got beyond the stores and burning +pavements on to a plank walk, under great shade trees, and past old +brick mansions set well back from the street. At length he paused in +front of a wooden house of a dirty grayish brown, too high for its +length and breadth, with tall shutters of the same color, and a picket +fence on top of the retaining wall which lifted the yard above the plank +walk. It was an ugly house, surely. But an ugly house may look beautiful +when surrounded by such heavy trees as this was. Their shade was +the most inviting thing Stephen had seen. A boy of sixteen or so was +swinging on the gate, plainly a very mischievous boy, with a round, +laughing, sunburned face and bright eyes. In front of the gate was a +shabby carriage with top and side curtains, hitched to a big bay horse. + +“Can you tell me where Mr. Lincoln lives?” inquired Stephen. + +“Well, I guess,” said the boy. “I'm his son, and he lives right here +when he's at home. But that hasn't been often lately.” + +“Where is he?” asked Stephen, beginning to realize the purport of his +conversations with citizens. + +Young Mr. Lincoln mentioned the name of a small town in the northern +part of the state, where he said his father would stop that night. He +told Stephen that he looked wilted, invited him into the house to have +a glass of lemonade, and to join him and another boy in a fishing +excursion with the big bay horse. Stephen told young Mr. Lincoln that he +should have to take the first train after his father. + +“Jimmy!” exclaimed the other, enviously, “then you'll hear the Freeport +debate.” + +Now it has been said that the day was scorching hot. And when Stephen +had got back to the wooden station, and had waited an hour for the +Bloomington express, his anxiety to hear the Freeport debate was not +as keen as it might have been. Late in the afternoon he changed at +Bloomington to the Illinois Central Railroad: The sun fell down behind +the cardboard edge of the prairie, the train rattled on into the north, +wrapped in its dust and Smoke, and presently became a long comet, +roaring red, to match that other comet which flashed in the sky. + +By this time it may be said that our friend was heartily sick of his +mission, He tried to doze; but two men, a farmer and a clerk, got in +at a way station, and sat behind him. They began to talk about this man +Lincoln. + +“Shucks,” said the clerk, “think of him opposing the Little Giant.” + +“He's right smart, Sam,” said the farmer. “He's got a way of sayin' +things that's clear. We boys can foller him. But Steve Douglas, he only +mixes you up.” + +His companion guffawed. + +“Because why?” he shouted. “Because you ain't had no education: What +does a rail-sputter like Abe know about this government? Judge Douglas +has worked it all out. He's smart. Let the territories take care of +themselves. Besides, Abe ain't got no dignity. The fust of this week I +seen him side-tracked down the road here in a caboose, while Doug went +by in a special.” + +“Abe is a plain man, Sam,” the farmer answered solemnly. “But you watch +out for him.” + +It was ten o'clock when Stephen descended at his destination. Merciful +night hid from his view the forlorn station and the ragged town. The +baggage man told him that Mr. Lincoln was at the tavern. + +That tavern! Will words describe the impression it made on a certain +young man from Boston! It was long and low and ramshackly and hot that +night as the inside of a brick-kiln. As he drew near it on the single +plant walk over the black prairie-mud, he saw countrymen and politicians +swarming its narrow porch and narrower hall. Discussions in all keys +were in progress, and it, was with vast difficulty that our distracted +young man pushed through and found the landlord, This personage was the +coolest of the lot. Confusion was but food for his smiles, importunity +but increased his suavity. And of the seeming hundreds that pressed him, +he knew and utilized the Christian name of all. From behind a corner of +the bar he held them all at bay, and sent them to quarters like the old +campaigner he was. + +“Now, Ben, tain't no use gettin' mad. You, and Josh way, an' Will, an' +Sam, an' the Cap'n, an' the four Beaver brothers, will all sleep in +number ten. What's that, Franklin? No, sirree, the Honerable Abe, and +Mister Hill, and Jedge Oglesby is sleepin' in seven.” The smell of +perspiration was stifling as Stephen pushed up to the master of the +situation. “What's that? Supper, young man? Ain't you had no supper? +Gosh, I reckon if you can fight your way to the dinin' room, the gals'll +give you some pork and a cup of coffee.” + +After a preliminary scuffle with a drunken countryman in mud-caked +boots, Mr. Brice presently reached the long table in the dining-room. +A sense of humor not quite extinct made him smile as he devoured pork +chops and greasy potatoes and heavy apple pie. As he was finishing the +pie, he became aware of the tavern keeper standing over him. + +“Are you one of them flip Chicagy reporters?” asked that worthy, with a +suspicious eye on Stephen's clothes. + +Our friend denied this. + +“You didn't talk jest like 'em. Guess you'll be here, tonight--” + +“Yes,” said Stephen, wearily. And he added, outs of force of habit, “Can +you give me a room?” + +“I reckon,” was the cheerful reply. “Number ten, There ain't nobody in +there but Ben Billings, and the four Beaver brothers, an' three more. +I'll have a shake-down for ye next the north window.” + +Stephen's thanks for the hospitality perhaps lacked heartiness. But +perceiving his host still contemplating him, he was emboldened to say: + +“Has Mr. Lincoln gone to bed?” + +“Who? Old Abe, at half-past ten? Wal I reckon you don't know him.” + +Stephen's reflections here on the dignity of the Senatorial candidate of +the Republican Party in Illinois were novel, at any rate. He thought of +certain senators he had seen in Massachusetts. + +“The only reason he ain't down here swappin' yarns with the boys, is +because he's havin' some sort of confab with the Jedge and Joe Medill of +the 'Chicagy Press' and 'Tribune'.” + +“Do you think he would see me?” asked Stephen, eagerly. He was +emboldened by the apparent lack of ceremony of the candidate. The +landlord looked at him in some surprise. + +“Wal, I reckon. Jest go up an' knock at the door number seven, and say +Tom Wright sent ye.” + +“How shall I know Mr. Lincoln?” asked Stephen. + +“Pick out the ugliest man in the room. There ain't nobody I kin think of +uglier than Abe.” + +Bearing in mind this succinct description of the candidate, Stephen +climbed the rickety stairs to the low second story. All the bedroom +doors were flung open except one, on which the number 7 was inscribed. +From within came bursts of uproarious laughter, and a summons to enter. + +He pushed open the door, and as soon as his eyes became, accustomed to +the tobacco smoke, he surveyed the room. There was a bowl on the +floor, the chair where it belonged being occupied. There was a very +inhospitable looking bed, two shake-downs, and four Windsor chairs in +more or less state of dilapidation--all occupied likewise. A country +glass lamp was balanced on a rough shelf, and under it a young man sat +absorbed in making notes, and apparently oblivious to the noise around +him. Every gentleman in the room was collarless, coatless, tieless, +and vestless. Some were engaged in fighting gnats and June bugs, while +others battled with mosquitoes--all save the young man who wrote, he +being wholly indifferent. + +Stephen picked out the homeliest man in the room. There was no mistaking +him. And, instead of a discussion of the campaign with the other +gentlemen, Mr. Lincoln was defending what do you think? Mr. Lincoln was +defending an occasional and judicious use of swear words. + +“Judge,” said he, “you do an almighty lot of cussing in your speeches, +and perhaps it ain't a bad way to keep things stirred up.” + +“Well,” said the Judge, “a fellow will rip out something once in a while +before he has time to shut it off.” + +Mr. Lincoln passed his fingers through his tousled hair. His thick +lower lip crept over in front of the upper one, A gleam stirred in the +deep-set gray eyes. + +“Boys,” he asked, “did I ever tell you about Sam'l, the old Quaker's +apprentice?” + +There was a chorus of “No's” and “Go ahead, Abe?” The young man who was +writing dropped his pencil. As for Stephen, this long, uncouth man +of the plains was beginning to puzzle him. The face, with its crude +features and deep furrows, relaxed into intense soberness. And +Mr. Lincoln began his story with a slow earnestness that was truly +startling, considering the subject. + +“This apprentice, Judge, was just such an incurable as you.” (Laughter.) +“And Sam'l, when he wanted to, could get out as many cusses in a second +as his anvil shot sparks. And the old man used to wrastle with him +nights and speak about punishment, and pray for him in meeting. But it +didn't do any good. When anything went wrong, Sam'l had an appropriate +word for the occasion. One day the old man got an inspiration when he +was scratching around in the dirt for an odd-sized iron. + +“'Sam'l,' says he, 'I want thee.' + +“Sam'l went, and found the old man standing over a big rat hole, where +the rats came out to feed on the scraps. + +“'Sam'l,' says he, 'fetch the tongs.' + +“Sam'l fetched the tongs. + +“'Now, Sam'l,' says the old man, 'thou wilt sit here until thou hast +a rat. Never mind thy dinner. And when thou hast him, if I hear thee +swear, thou wilt sit here until thou hast another. Dost thou mind?'” + +Here Mr. Lincoln seized two cotton umbrellas, rasped his chair over the +bare boor into a corner of the room, and sat hunched over an imaginary +rat hole, for all the world like a gawky Quaker apprentice. And this was +a candidate for the Senate of the United States, who on the morrow was +to meet in debate the renowned and polished Douglas! + +“Well,” Mr. Lincoln continued, “that was on a Monday, I reckon, and the +boys a-shouting to have their horses shod. Maybe you think they didn't +have some fun with Sam'l. But Sam'l sat there, and sat there, and sat +there, and after a while the old man pulled out his dinner-pail. Sam'l +never opened his mouth. First thing you know, snip went the tongs.” Mr. +Lincoln turned gravely around. “What do you reckon Sam'l said, Judge?” + +The Judge, at random, summoned up a good one, to the delight of the +audience. + +“Judge,” said Mr. Lincoln, with solemnity, “I reckon that's what you'd +have said. Sam'l never said a word, and the old man kept on eating his +dinner. One o'clock came, and the folks began to drop in again, but +Sam'l, he sat there. 'Long towards night the boys collected 'round the +door. They were getting kind of interested. Sam'l, he never looked up.” + Here Mr. Lincoln bent forward a little, and his voice fell to a loud, +drawling whisper. “First thing you know, here come the whiskers peeping +up, then the pink eyes a--blinking at the forge, then--!” + +“Suddenly he brought the umbrellas together with whack. + +“'By God,' yells Sam'l, 'I have thee at last!'” + +Amid the shouts, Mr. Lincoln stood up, his long body swaying to and fro +as he lifted high the improvised tongs. They heard a terrified squeal, +and there was the rat squirming and wriggling,--it seemed before +their very eyes. And Stephen forgot the country tavern, the country +politician, and was transported straightway into the Quaker's smithy. + + + + +CHAPTER III. IN WHICH STEPHEN LEARNS SOMETHING + +It was Mr. Lincoln who brought him back. The astonishing candidate for +the Senate had sunk into his chair, his face relaxed into sadness save +for the sparkle lurking in the eyes. So he sat, immobile, until the +laughter had died down to silence. Then he turned to Stephen. + +“Sonny,” he said, “did you want to see me?” + +Stephen was determined to be affable and kind, and (shall we say it?) +he would not make Mr. Lincoln uncomfortable either by a superiority of +English or the certain frigidity of manner which people in the West said +he had. But he tried to imagine a Massachusetts senator, Mr. Sumner, +for instance, going through the rat story, and couldn't. Somehow, +Massachusetts senators hadn't this gift. And yet he was not quite sure +that it wasn't a fetching gift. Stephen did not quite like to be +called “Sonny.” But he looked into two gray eyes, and at the face, and +something curious happened to him. How was he to know that thousands of +his countrymen were to experience the same sensation? + +“Sonny,” said Mr. Lincoln again, “did you want to see me?” + +“Yes, sir.” Stephen wondered at the “sir.” It had been involuntary. He +drew from his inner pocket the envelope which the Judge had given him. + +Mr. Lincoln ripped it open. A document fell out, and a letter. He put +the document in his tall hat, which was upside down on the floor. As he +got deeper into the letter, he pursed his mouth, and the lines of his +face deepened in a smile. Then he looked up, grave again. + +“Judge Whipple told you to run till you found me, did he, Mr. Brice?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Is the Judge the same old criss-cross, contrary, violent fool that he +always was?” + +Providence put an answer in Stephen's mouth. + +“He's been very good to me, Mr. Lincoln.” + +Mr. Lincoln broke into laughter. + +“Why, he's the biggest-hearted man I know. You know him, Oglesby,--Silas +Whipple. But a man has to be a Daniel or a General Putnam to venture +into that den of his. There's only one man in the world who can beard +Silas, and he's the finest states-right Southern gentleman you ever saw. +I mean Colonel Carvel. You've heard of him, Oglesby. Don't they quarrel +once in a while, Mr. Brice?” + +“They do have occasional arguments,” said Stephen, amused. + +“Arguments!” cried Mr. Lincoln; “well, I couldn't come as near to +fighting every day and stand it. If my dog and Bill's dog across the +street walked around each other and growled for half a day, and then +lay down together, as Carvel and Whipple do, by Jing, I'd put pepper on +their noses--” + +“I reckon Colonel Carvel isn't a fighting man,” said some one, at +random. + +Strangely enough, Stephen was seized with a desire to vindicate the +Colonel's courage. Both Mr. Lincoln and Judge Oglesby forestalled him. + +“Not a fighting man!” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, the other day--” + +“Now, Oglesby,” put in Mr. Lincoln, “I wanted to tell that story.” + +Stephen had heard it, and so have we. But Mr. Lincoln's imitation of the +Colonel's drawl brought him a pang like homesickness. + +“'No, suh, I didn't intend to shoot. Not if he had gone off straight. +But he wriggled and twisted like a rattlesnake, and I just couldn't +resist, suh. Then I sent m'nigger Ephum to tell him not to let me catch +sight of him 'round the Planters' House. Yes, suh, that's what he was. +One of these damned Yankees who come South and go into nigger-deals and +politics.”' + +Mr. Lincoln glanced at Stephen, and then again at the Judge's letter. He +took up his silk hat and thrust that, too, into the worn lining, which +was already filled with papers. He clapped the hat on his head, and +buttoned on his collar. + +“I reckon I'll go for a walk, boys,” he said, “and clear my head, so as +to be ready for the Little Giant to-morrow at Freeport. Mr. Brice, do +you feel like walking?” + +Stephen, taken aback, said that he did. + +“Now, Abe, this is just durned foolishness,” one of the gentlemen +expostulated. “We want to know if you're going to ask Douglas that +question.” + +“If you do, you kill yourself, Lincoln,” said another, who Stephen +afterwards learned was Mr. Medill, proprietor of the great 'Press and +Tribune'. + +“I guess I'll risk it, Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. Suddenly comes +the quiver about the corners of his mouth and the gray eyes respond. +“Boys,” said he, “did you ever hear the story of farmer Bell, down in +Egypt? I'll tell it to you, boys, and then perhaps you'll know why I'll +ask Judge Douglas that question. Farmer Bell had the prize Bartlett pear +tree, and the prettiest gal in that section. And he thought about the +same of each of 'em. All the boys were after Sue Bell. But there +was only one who had any chance of getting her, and his name was Jim +Rickets. Jim was the handsomest man in that section. He's been hung +since. But Jim had a good deal out of life,--all the appetites, and some +of the gratifications. He liked Sue, and he liked a luscious Bartlett. +And he intended to have both. And it just so happened that that prize +pear tree had a whopper on that year, and old man Bell couldn't talk of +anything else. + +“Now there was an ugly galoot whose name isn't worth mentioning. He knew +he wasn't in any way fit for Sue, and he liked pears about as well as +Jim Rickets. Well, one night here comes Jim along the road, whistling; +to court Susan, and there was the ugly galoot a-yearning on the bank +under the pear tree. Jim was all fixed up, and he says to the galoot, +'Let's have a throw.' Now the galoot knew old Bell was looking over +the fence So he says, 'All right,' and he gives Jim the first shot--Jim +fetched down the big pear, got his teeth in it, and strolled off to the +house, kind of pitiful of the galoot for a, half-witted ass. When he got +to the door, there was the old man. 'What are you here for?' says +he. 'Why,' says Rickets, in his off-hand way, for he always had great +confidence, 'to fetch Sue.'” + +“The old man used to wear brass toes to keep his boots from wearing +out,” said Mr. Lincoln, dreamily. + +“You see,” continued Mr. Lincoln, “you see the galoot knew that Jim +Rickets wasn't to be trusted with Susan Bell.” + +Some of the gentlemen appeared to see the point of this political +parable, for they laughed uproariously. The others laughed, too. Then +they slapped their knees, looked at Mr. Lincoln's face, which was +perfectly sober, and laughed again, a little fainter. Then the Judge +looked as solemn as his title. + +“It won't do, Abe,” said he. “You commit suicide.” + +“You'd better stick to the pear, Abe,” said Mr. Medill, “and fight +Stephen A. Douglas here and now. This isn't any picnic. Do you know who +he is?” + +“Why, yes, Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, amiably. “He's a man with tens of +thousands of blind followers. It's my business to make some of those +blind followers see.” + +By this time Stephen was burning to know the question that Mr. Lincoln +wished to ask the Little Giant, and why the other gentlemen were against +it. But Mr. Lincoln surprised him still further in taking him by the +arm. Turning to the young reporter, Mr. Hill, who had finished his +writing, he said: + +“Bob, a little air will do you good. I've had enough of the old boys for +a while, and I'm going to talk to somebody any own age.” + +Stephen was halfway down the corridor when he discovered that he had +forgotten his hat. As he returned he heard somebody say: + +“If that ain't just like Abe. He stopped to pull a flea out of his +stocking when he was going to fight that duel with Shields, and now he's +walking with boys before a debate with the smartest man in this country. +And there's heaps of things he ought to discuss with us.” + +“Reckon we haven't got much to do with it,” said another, half laughing, +half rueful. “There's some things Abe won't stand.” + +From the stairs Stephen saw Mr. Lincoln threading his way through the +crowd below, laughing at one, pausing to lay his hand on the shoulder +of another, and replying to a rough sally of a third to make the place a +tumult of guffaws. But none had the temerity to follow him. When +Stephen caught up with him in the little country street, he was talking +earnestly to Mr. Hill, the young reporter of the Press and Tribune. And +what do you think was the subject? The red comet in the sky that night. +Stephen kept pace in silence with Mr. Lincoln's strides, another +shock in store for him. This rail-splitter, this postmaster, this +flat-boatman, whom he had not credited with a knowledge of the New Code, +was talking Astronomy. And strange to say, Mr. Brice was learning. + +“Bob,” said Mr. Lincoln, “can you elucidate the problem of the three +bodies?” + +To Stephen's surprise, Mr. Hill elucidated. + +The talk then fell upon novels and stories, a few of which Mr. Lincoln +seemed to have read. He spoke, among others, of the “Gold Bug.” “The +story is grand,” said he, “but it might as well have been written of +Robinson Crusoe's island. What a fellow wants in a book is to know where +he is. There are not many novels, or ancient works for that matter, that +put you down anywhere.” + +“There is that genuine fragment which Cicero has preserved from a last +work of Aristotle,” said Mr. Hill, slyly. “'If there were beings who +lived in the depths of the earth, and could emerge through the open +fissures, and could suddenly behold the earth, the sea, and the--vault +of heaven--'” + +“But you--you impostor,” cried Mr. Lincoln, interrupting, “you're giving +us Humboldt's Cosmos.” + +Mr. Hill owned up, laughing. + +It is remarkable how soon we accustom ourselves to a strange situation. +And to Stephen it was no less strange to be walking over a muddy road of +the prairie with this most singular man and a newspaper correspondent, +than it might have been to the sub-terrestrial inhabitant to emerge on +the earth's surface. Stephen's mind was in the process of a chemical +change: Suddenly it seemed to him as if he had known this tall +Illinoisan always. The whim of the senatorial candidate in choosing him +for a companion he did not then try to account for. + +“Come, Mr. Stephen,” said Mr. Lincoln, presently, “where do you hail +from?” + +“Boston,” said Stephen. + +“No!” said Mr. Lincoln, incredulously. “And how does it happen that you +come to me with a message from a rank Abolitionist lawyer in St. Louis?” + +“Is the Judge a friend of yours, sir?” Stephen asked. + +“What!” exclaimed Mr. Lincoln, “didn't he tell you he was?” + +“He said nothing at all, sir, except to tell me to travel until I found +you.” + +“I call the Judge a friend of mine,” said Mr. Lincoln. “He may not claim +me because I do not believe in putting all slave-owners to the sword.” + +“I do not think that Judge Whipple is precisely an Abolitionist, sir.” + +“What! And how do you feel, Mr. Stephen?” + +Stephen replied in figures. It was rare with him, and he must have +caught it from Mr. Lincoln. + +“I am not for ripping out the dam suddenly, sir, that would drown the +nation. I believe that the water can be drained off in some other way.” + +Mr. Lincoln's direct answer to this was to give Stephen stinging slap +between the shoulder-blades. + +“God bless the boy!” he cried. “He has thought it out. Bob, take that +down for the Press and Tribune as coming from a rising young politician +of St. Louis.” + +“Why,” Stephen blurted out, “I--I thought you were an Abolitionist, Mr. +Lincoln.” + +“Mr. Brice,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I have as much use for the Boston +Liberator as I have for the Charleston Courier. You may guess how much +that is. The question is not whether we shall or shall not have slavery, +but whether slavery shall stay where it is, or be extended according to +Judge Douglas's ingenious plan. The Judge is for breeding worms. I am +for cauterizing the sore so that it shall not spread. But I tell you, +Mr. Brice, that this nation cannot exist half slave and half free.” + +Was it the slap on the back that opened Stephen's eyes? It was certain +that as they returned to the tavern the man at his side was changed. He +need not have felt chagrined. Men in high places underestimated Lincoln, +or did not estimate him at all. Affection came first. The great warm +heart had claimed Stephen as it claimed all who came near it. + +The tavern was deserted save for a few stragglers. Under the dim light +at the bar Mr. Lincoln took off his hat and drew the Judge's letter from +the lining. + +“Mr. Stephen,” said he, “would you like to come to Freeport with me +to-morrow and hear the debate?” + +An hour earlier he would have declined with thanks. But now! Now his +face lighted at the prospect, and suddenly fell again. Mr. Lincoln +guessed the cause. He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and +laughed. + +“I reckon you're thinking of what the Judge will say.” + +Stephen smiled. + +“I'll take care of the Judge,” said Mr. Lincoln. “I'm not afraid of +him.” He drew forth from the inexhaustible hat a slip of paper, and +began to write. + +“There,” said he, when he had finished, “a friend of mine is going to +Springfield in the morning, and he'll send that to the Judge.” + +And this is what he had written:-- + + “I have borrowed Steve for a day or two, and guarantee + to return him a good Republican. + A. LINCOLN.” + +It is worth remarking that this was the first time Mr. Brice had been +called “Steve” and had not resented it. + +Stephen was embarrassed. He tried to thank Mr. Lincoln, but that +gentleman's quizzical look cut him short. And the next remark made him +gasp. + +“Look here, Steve,” said he, “you know a parlor from a drawing-room. +What did you think of me when you saw me to-night?” + +Stephen blushed furiously, and his tongue clave to the roof of his +mouth. + +“I'll tell you,” said Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic smile, “you +thought that you wouldn't pick me out of a bunch of horses to race with +the Senator.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE QUESTION + +Many times since Abraham Lincoln has been called to that mansion which +God has reserved for the patriots who have served Him also, Stephen +Brice has thought of that steaming night in the low-ceiled room of the +country tavern, reeking with the smell of coarse food and hot humanity. +He remembers vividly how at first his gorge rose, and recalls how +gradually there crept over him a forgetfulness of the squalidity and +discomfort. Then came a space gray with puzzling wonder. Then the +dawning of a worship for a very ugly man in a rumpled and ill-made coat. + +You will perceive that there was hope for Stephen. On his shake-down +that night, oblivious to the snores of his companions and the droning of +the insects, he lay awake. And before his eyes was that strange, marked +face, with its deep lines that blended both humor and sadness there. It +was homely, and yet Stephen found himself reflecting that honesty was +just as homely, and plain truth. And yet both were beautiful to those +who had learned to love them. Just so this Mr. Lincoln. + +He fell asleep wondering why Judge Whipple had sent him. + +It was in accord with nature that reaction came with the morning. Such a +morning, and such a place! + +He was awakened, shivering, by the beat of rain on the roof, and +stumbling over the prostrate forms of the four Beaver brothers, reached +the window. Clouds filled the sky, and Joshway, whose pallet was under +the sill, was in a blessed state of moisture. + +No wonder some of his enthusiasm had trickled away! + +He made his toilet in the wet under the pump outside; where he had to +wait his turn. And he rather wished he were going back to St. Louis. +He had an early breakfast of fried eggs and underdone bacon, and coffee +which made him pine for Hester's. The dishes were neither too clean nor +too plentiful, being doused in water as soon as ever they were out of +use. + +But after breakfast the sun came out, and a crowd collected around the +tavern, although the air was chill and the muck deep in the street. +Stephen caught glimpses of Mr. Lincoln towering above the knots of +country politicians who surrounded him, and every once in a while a knot +would double up with laughter. There was no sign that the senatorial +aspirant took the situation seriously; that the coming struggle with +his skilful antagonist was weighing him down in the least. Stephen held +aloof from the groups, thinking that Mr. Lincoln had forgotten him. +He decided to leave for St. Louis on the morning train, and was even +pushing toward the tavern entrance with his bag in his hand, when he was +met by Mr. Hill. + +“I had about given you up, Mr. Brice,” he said. “Mr. Lincoln asked me to +get hold of you, and bring you to him alive or dead.” + +Accordingly Stephen was led to the station, where a long train of twelve +cars was pulled up, covered with flags and bunting. On entering one of +these, he perceived Mr. Lincoln sprawled (he could think of no other +word to fit the attitude) on a seat next the window, and next him was +Mr. Medill of the Press and Tribune. The seat just in front was reserved +for Mr. Hill, who was to make any notes necessary. Mr. Lincoln looked +up. His appearance was even less attractive than the night before, as he +had on a dirty gray linen duster. + +“I thought you'd got loose, Steve,” he said, holding out his hand. “Glad +to see you. Just you sit down there next to Bob, where I can talk to +you.” + +Stephen sat down, diffident, for he knew that there were others in that +train who would give ten years of their lives for that seat. + +“I've taken a shine to this Bostonian, Joe,” said Mr Lincoln to Mr. +Medill. “We've got to catch 'em young to do anything with 'em, you know. +Now, Steve, just give me a notion how politics are over in St. Louis. +What do they think of our new Republican party? Too bran new for old St. +Louis, eh?” + +Stephen saw expostulation in Mr. Medill's eyes, and hesitated. And Mr. +Lincoln seemed to feel Medill's objections, as by mental telepathy. But +he said:-- “We'll come to that little matter later, Joe, when the cars +start.” + +Naturally, Stephen began uneasily. But under the influence of that +kindly eye he thawed, and forgot himself. He felt that this man was +not one to feign an interest. The shouts of the people on the little +platform interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its +load. + +“I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats,” Mr. Lincoln +remarked, “and not much opposition.” + +“There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir,” ventured Stephen, smiling. + +“Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, “did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an +Old Line Whig?” + +Mr. Medill had not. + +“A man who takes his toddy regularly, and votes the Democratic ticket +occasionally, and who wears ruffled shirts.” + +Both of these gentlemen laughed, and two more in the seat behind, who +had an ear to the conversation. + +“But, sir,” said Stephen, seeing that he was expected to go on, “I think +that the Republican party will gather a considerable strength there in +another year or two. We have the material for powerful leaders in Mr. +Blair and others” (Mr. Lincoln nodded at the name). “We are getting an +ever increasing population from New England, mostly of young men who +will take kindly to the new party.” And then he added, thinking of +his pilgrimage the Sunday before: “South St. Louis is a solid mass of +Germans, who are all antislavery. But they are very foreign still, and +have all their German institutions.” + +“The Turner Halls?” Mr. Lincoln surprised him by inquiring. + +“Yes. And I believe that they drill there.” + +“Then they will the more easily be turned into soldiers if the time +should come,” said Mr. Lincoln. And he added quickly, “I pray that it +may not.” + +Stephen had cause to remember that observation, and the acumen it +showed, long afterward. + +The train made several stops, and at each of them shoals of country +people filled the aisles, and paused for a most familiar chat with the +senatorial candidate. Many called him Abe. His appearance was the equal +in roughness to theirs, his manner if anything was more democratic,--yet +in spite of all this Stephen in them detected a deference which might +almost be termed a homage. There were many women among them. Had our +friend been older, he might have known that the presence of good women +in a political crowd portends something. As it was, he was surprised. He +was destined to be still more surprised that day. + +When they had left behind them the shouts of the little down of Dixon, +Mr. Lincoln took off his hat, and produced a crumpled and not too +immaculate scrap of paper from the multitude therein. + +“Now, Joe,” said he, “here are the four questions I intend to ask Judge +Douglas. I am ready for you. Fire away.” + +“We don't care anything about the others,” answered Mr. Medill. “But I +tell you this. If you ask that second one, you'll never see the United +States Senate.” + +“And the Republican party in this state will have had a blow from which +it can scarcely recover,” added Mr. Judd, chairman of the committee. + +Mr. Lincoln did not appear to hear them. His eyes were far away over the +wet prairie. + +Stephen held his breath. But neither he, nor Medill, nor Judd, nor Hill +guessed at the pregnancy of that moment. How were they to know that +the fate of the United States of America was concealed in that +Question,--was to be decided on a rough wooden platform that day in the +town of Freeport, Illinois? + +But Abraham Lincoln, the uncouth man in the linen duster with the +tousled hair, knew it. And the stone that was rejected of the builders +was to become the corner-stone of the temple. + +Suddenly Mr. Lincoln recalled himself, glanced at the paper, and cleared +his throat. In measured tones, plainly heard above the rush and roar of +the train, he read the Question: + + “Can the people of a United States Territory, in any lawful way, + against the wish of any citizen of the United States, exclude + slavery from its limits prior to the formation of a State + Constitution?” + +Mr. Medill listened intently. + +“Abe,” said he, solemnly, “Douglas will answer yes, or equivocate, and +that is all the assurance these Northern Democrats want to put Steve +Douglas in the Senate. They'll snow you under.” + +“All right,” answered Mr. Lincoln, quietly. + +“All right?” asked Mr. Medill, reflecting the sheer astonishment of the +others; “then why the devil are you wearing yourself out? And why are we +spending our time and money on you?” + +Mr. Lincoln laid his hand on Medill's sleeve. + +“Joe,” said he, “a rat in the larder is easier to catch than a rat +that has the run of the cellar. You know, where to set your trap in the +larder. I'll tell you why I'm in this campaign: to catch Douglas now, +and keep him out of the White House in 1860. To save this country of +ours, Joe. She's sick.” + +There was a silence, broken by two exclamations. + +“But see here, Abe,” said Mr. Medill, as soon as ever he got his breath, +“what have we got to show for it? Where do you come in?” + +Mr. Lincoln smiled wearily. + +“Nowhere, I reckon,” he answered simply. + +“Good Lord!” said Mr. Judd. + +Mr. Medill gulped. + +“You mean to say, as the candidate of the Republican party, you don't +care whether you get to the Senate?” + +“Not if I can send Steve Douglas there with his wings broken,” was the +calm reply. + +“Suppose he does answer yes, that slavery can be excluded?” said Mr. +Judd. + +“Then,” said Mr. Lincoln, “then Douglas loses the vote of the great +slave-holders, the vote of the solid South, that he has been fostering +ever since he has had the itch to be President. Without the solid South +the Little Giant will never live in the White House. And unless I'm +mightily mistaken, Steve Douglas has had his aye as far ahead as 1860 +for some time.” + +Another silence followed these words. There was a stout man standing in +the aisle, and he spat deftly out of the open window. + +“You may wing Steve Douglas, Abe,” said he, gloomily, “but the gun will +kick you over the bluff.” + +“Don't worry about me, Ed,” said Mr. Lincoln. “I'm not worth it.” + +In a wave of comprehension the significance of all this was revealed to +Stephen Brice, The grim humor, the sagacious statesmanship, and (best of +all)--the superb self sacrifice of it, struck him suddenly. I think it +was in that hour that he realized the full extent of the wisdom he was +near, which was like unto Solomon's. + +Shame surged in Stephen's face that he should have misjudged him. He had +come to patronize. He had remained to worship. And in after years, when +he thought of this new vital force which became part of him that day, +it was in the terms of Emerson: “Pythagoras was misunderstood, and +Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and +Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great +is to be misunderstood.” + +How many have conversed with Lincoln before and since, and knew him not! + +If an outward and visible sign of Mr. Lincoln's greatness were +needed,--he had chosen to speak to them in homely parables. The story of +Farmer Bell was plain as day. Jim Rickets, who had life all his own way, +was none other than Stephen A. Douglas, the easily successful. The ugly +galoot, who dared to raise his eyes only to the pear, was Mr. Lincoln +himself. And the pear was the Senatorship, which the galoot had denied +himself to save Susan from being Mr. Rickets' bride. + +Stephen could understand likewise the vehemence of the Republican +leaders who crowded around their candidate and tried to get him to +retract that Question. He listened quietly, he answered with a patient +smile. Now and then he threw a story into the midst of this discussion +which made them laugh in spite of themselves. The hopelessness of the +case was quite plain to Mr. Hill, who smiled, and whispered in Stephen's +ear: “He has made up his mind. They will not budge him an inch, and they +know it.” + +Finally Mr. Lincoln took the scrap of paper, which was even more dirty +and finger-marked by this time, and handed it to Mr. Hill. The train +was slowing down for Freeport. In the distance, bands could be heard +playing, and along the track, line upon line of men and women were +cheering and waving. It was ten o'clock, raw and cold for that time of +the year, and the sun was trying to come out. + +“Bob,” said Mr. Lincoln, “be sure you get that right in your notes. And, +Steve, you stick close to me, and you'll see the show. Why, boys,” he +added, smiling, “there's the great man's private car, cannon and all.” + +All that Stephen saw was a regular day-car on a sidetrack. A brass +cannon was on the tender hitched behind it. + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE CRISIS + +Stephen A. Douglas, called the Little Giant on account of his intellect, +was a type of man of which our race has had some notable examples, +although they are not characteristic. Capable of sacrifice to their +country, personal ambition is, nevertheless, the mainspring of their +actions. They must either be before the public, or else unhappy. This +trait gives them a large theatrical strain, and sometimes brands them as +adventurers. Their ability saves them from being demagogues. + +In the case of Douglas, he had deliberately renewed some years before +the agitation on the spread of slavery, by setting forth a doctrine of +extreme cleverness. This doctrine, like many others of its kind, seemed +at first sight to be the balm it pretended, instead of an irritant, as +it really was. It was calculated to deceive all except thinking men, and +to silence all save a merciless logician. And this merciless logician, +who was heaven-sent in time of need, was Abraham Lincoln. + +Mr. Douglas was a juggler, a political prestidigitateur. He did things +before the eyes of the Senate and the nation. His balm for the healing +of the nation's wounds was a patent medicine so cleverly concocted that +experts alone could show what was in it. So abstruse and twisted were +some of Mr. Douglas's doctrines that a genius alone might put them into +simple words, for the common people. + +The great panacea for the slavery trouble put forth by Mr. Douglas +at that time was briefly this: that the people of the new territories +should decide for themselves, subject to the Constitution, whether they +should have slavery or not, and also decide for themselves all other +questions under the Constitution. Unhappily for Mr. Douglas, there was +the famous Dred Scott decision, which had set the South wild with joy +the year before, and had cast a gloom over the North. The Chief Justice +of the United States had declared that under the Constitution slaves +were property,--and as such every American citizen owning slaves could +carry them about with him wherever he went. Therefore the territorial +legislatures might pass laws until they were dumb, and yet their +settlers might bring with them all the slaves they pleased. + +And yet we must love the Judge. He was a gentleman, a strong man, and a +patriot. He was magnanimous, and to his immortal honor be it said that +he, in the end, won the greatest of all struggles. He conquered himself. +He put down that mightiest thing that was in him,--his ambition for +himself. And he set up, instead, his ambition for his country. He bore +no ill-will toward the man whose fate was so strangely linked to his, +and who finally came to that high seat of honor and of martyrdom which +he coveted. We shall love the Judge, and speak of him with reverence, +for that sublime act of kindness before the Capitol in 1861. + +Abraham Lincoln might have prayed on that day of the Freeport debate: + +“Forgive him, Lord. He knows not what he does.” Lincoln descried the +danger afar, and threw his body into the breach. + +That which passed before Stephen's eyes, and to which his ears listened +at Freeport, was the Great Republic pressing westward to the Pacific. He +wondered whether some of his Eastern friends who pursed their lips when +the Wrest was mentioned would have sneered or prayed. A young English +nobleman who was there that day did not sneer. He was filled instead +with something like awe at the vigor of this nation which was sprung +from the loins of his own. Crudeness he saw, vulgarity he heard, but +Force he felt, and marvelled. + +America was in Freeport that day, the rush of her people and the +surprise of her climate. The rain had ceased, and quickly was come out +of the northwest a boisterous wind, chilled by the lakes and scented by +the hemlocks of the Minnesota forests. The sun smiled and frowned Clouds +hurried in the sky, mocking the human hubbub below. Cheering thousands +pressed about the station as Mr. Lincoln's train arrived. They hemmed +him in his triumphal passage under the great arching trees to the new +Brewster House. The Chief Marshal and his aides, great men before, +were suddenly immortal. The county delegations fell into their proper +precedence like ministers at a state dinner. “We have faith in Abraham, +Yet another County for the Rail-sputter, Abe the Giant-killer,”--so the +banners read. Here, much bedecked, was the Galena Lincoln Club, part of +Joe Davies's shipment. Fifes skirled, and drums throbbed, and the stars +and stripes snapped in the breeze. And here was a delegation headed +by fifty sturdy ladies on horseback, at whom Stephen gaped like a +countryman. Then came carryalls of all ages and degrees, wagons from +this county and that county, giddily draped, drawn by horses from one +to six, or by mules, their inscriptions addressing their senatorial +candidate in all degrees of familiarity, but not contempt. What they +seemed proudest of was that he had been a rail-splitter, for nearly all +bore a fence-rail. + +But stay, what is this wagon with the high sapling flagstaff in the +middle, and the leaves still on it? + + “Westward the Star of Empire takes its way. + The girls link on to Lincoln; their mothers were for Clay.” + +Here was glory to blind you,--two and thirty maids in red sashes and +blue liberty caps with white stars. Each was a state of the Union, +and every one of them was for Abraham, who called them his “Basket of +Flowers.” Behind them, most touching of all, sat a thirty-third shackled +in chains. That was Kansas. Alas, the men of Kansas was far from being +as sorrowful as the part demanded,--in spite of her instructions she +would smile at the boys. But the appealing inscription she bore, “Set me +free” was greeted with storms of laughter, the boldest of the young men +shouting that she was too beautiful to be free, and some of the old +men, to their shame be it said likewise shouted. No false embarrassment +troubled Kansas. She was openly pleased. But the young men who had +brought their sweethearts to town, and were standing hand in hand with +them, for obvious reasons saw nothing: They scarcely dared to look at +Kansas, and those who did were so loudly rebuked that they turned down +the side streets. + +During this part of the day these loving couples, whose devotion was so +patent to the whole world, were by far the most absorbing to Stephen. +He watched them having their fortunes told, the young women blushing and +crying, “Say!” and “Ain't he wicked?” and the young men getting their +ears boxed for certain remarks. He watched them standing open-mouthed +at the booths and side shows with hands still locked, or again they were +chewing cream candy in unison. Or he glanced sidewise at them, seated in +the open places with the world so far below them that even the insistent +sound of the fifes and drums rose but faintly to their ears. + +And perhaps,--we shall not say positively,--perhaps Mr. Brice's thoughts +went something like this, “O that love were so simple a matter to all!” + But graven on his face was what is called the “Boston scorn.” And no +scorn has been known like unto it since the days of Athens. + +So Stephen made the best of his way to the Brewster House, the elegance +and newness of which the citizens of Freeport openly boasted. Mr. +Lincoln had preceded him, and was even then listening to a few remarks +of burning praise by an honorable gentleman. Mr. Lincoln himself made a +few remarks, which seemed so simple and rang so true, and were so free +from political rococo and decoration generally, that even the young +men forgot their sweethearts to listen. Then Mr. Lincoln went into the +hotel, and the sun slipped under a black cloud. + +The lobby was full, and rather dirty, since the supply of spittoons was +so far behind the demand. Like the firmament, it was divided into little +bodies which revolved about larger bodies. But there lacked not here +supporters of the Little Giant, and discreet farmers of influence in +their own counties who waited to hear the afternoon's debate before +deciding. These and others did not hesitate to tell of the magnificence +of the Little Giant's torchlight procession the previous evening. Every +Dred-Scottite had carried a torch, and many transparencies, so that +the very glory of it had turned night into day. The Chief Lictor had +distributed these torches with an unheard-of liberality. But there +lacked not detractors who swore that John Dibble and other Lincolnites +had applied for torches for the mere pleasure of carrying them. Since +dawn the delegations had been heralded from the house-tops, and wagered +on while they were yet as worms far out or the prairie. All the morning +these continued to came in, and form in line to march past their +particular candidate. The second great event of the day was the event +of the special over the Galena roar, of sixteen cars and more than a +thousand pairs of sovereign lungs. With military precision they repaired +to the Brewster House, and ahead of then a banner was flung: “Winnebago +County for the Tall Sucker.” And the Tall Sucker was on the steps to +receive them. + +But Mr. Douglas, who had arrived the evening before to the booming +of two and thirty guns, had his banners end his bunting, too. The +neighborhood of Freeport was stronghold of Northern Democrats, ardent +supporters of the Little Giant if once they could believe that he did +not intend to betray them. + +Stephen felt in his bones the coming of a struggle, and was +thrilled. Once he smiled at the thought that he had become an active +partisan--nay, a worshipper--of the uncouth Lincoln. Terrible suspicion +for a Bostonian,--had he been carried away? Was his hero, after all, a +homespun demagogue? Had he been wise in deciding before he had taught +a glimpse of the accomplished Douglas, whose name end fame filled the +land? Stephen did not waver in his allegiance. But in his heart there +lurked a fear of the sophisticated Judge and Senator and man of the +world whom he had not yet seen. In his notebook he had made a copy of +the Question, and young Mr. Hill discovered him pondering in a corner +of the lobby at dinnertime. After dinner they went together to their +candidate's room. They found the doors open and the place packed, and +there was Mr. Lincoln's very tall hat towering above those of the +other politicians pressed around him. Mr. Lincoln took three strides in +Stephen's direction and seized him by the shoulder. + +“Why, Steve,” said he, “I thought you had got away again.” Turning to a +big burly man with a good-natures face, who was standing by, he added. +“Jim, I want you to look out for this young man. Get him a seat on the +stands where he can hear.” + +Stephen stuck close to Jim. He never knew what the gentleman's last name +was, or whether he had any. It was but a few minutes' walk to the grove +where the speaking was to be. And as they made their way thither Mr. +Lincoln passed them in a Conestoga wagon drawn by six milk-white horses. +Jim informed Stephen that the Little Giant had had a six-horse coach. +The grove was black with people. Hovering about the hem of the crowd +were the sunburned young men in their Sunday best, still clinging fast +to the hands of the young women. Bands blared “Columbia, Gem of the +Ocean.” Fakirs planted their stands in the way, selling pain-killers +and ague cures, watermelons and lemonade, Jugglers juggled, and beggars +begged. Jim said that there were sixteen thousand people in that grove. +And he told the truth. + +Stephen now trembled for his champion. He tried to think of himself as +fifty years old, with the courage to address sixteen thousand people on +such a day, and quailed. What a man of affairs it must take to do +that! Sixteen thousand people, into each of whose breasts God had put +different emotions and convictions. He had never even imagined such a +crowd as this assembles merely to listen to a political debate. But then +he remembered, as they dodged from in front of the horses, what it was +not merely a political debate: The pulse of nation was here, a great +nation stricken with approaching fever. It was not now a case of excise, +but of existence. + +This son of toil who had driven his family thirty miles across the +prairie, blanketed his tired horses and slept on the ground the night +before, who was willing to stand all through the afternoon and listen +with pathetic eagerness to this debate, must be moved by a patriotism +divine. In the breast of that farmer, in the breast of his tired wife +who held her child by the hand, had been instilled from birth that +sublime fervor which is part of their life who inherit the Declaration +of Independence. Instinctively these men who had fought and won the West +had scented the danger. With the spirit of their ancestors who had left +their farms to die on the bridge at Concord, or follow Ethan Allen into +Ticonderoga, these had come to Freeport. What were three days of bodily +discomfort! What even the loss of part of a cherished crop, if the +nation's existence were at stake and their votes might save it! + +In the midst of that heaving human sea rose the bulwarks of a wooden +stand. But how to reach it? Jim was evidently a personage. The rough +farmers commonly squeezed a way for him. And when they did not, he made +it with his big body. As they drew near their haven, a great surging as +of a tidal wave swept them off their feet. There was a deafening shout, +and the stand rocked on its foundations. Before Stephen could collect +his wits, a fierce battle was raging about him. Abolitionist and +Democrat, Free Soiler and Squatter Sov, defaced one another in a rush +for the platform. The committeemen and reporters on top of it rose to +its defence. Well for Stephen that his companion was along. Jim was +recognized and hauled bodily into the fort, and Stephen after him. The +populace were driven off, and when the excitement died down again, he +found himself in the row behind the reporters. Young Mr. Hill paused +while sharpening his pencil to wave him a friendly greeting. + +Stephen, craning in his seat, caught sight of Mr. Lincoln slouched into +one of his favorite attitudes, his chin resting in his hand. + +But who is this, erect, compact, aggressive, searching with a confident +eye the wilderness of upturned faces? A personage, truly, to be +questioned timidly, to be approached advisedly. Here indeed was a lion, +by the very look of him, master of himself and of others. By reason of +its regularity and masculine strength, a handsome face. A man of the +world to the cut of the coat across the broad shoulders. Here was one +to lift a youngster into the realm of emulation, like a character in a +play, to arouse dreams of Washington and its senators and great men. For +this was one to be consulted by the great alone. A figure of dignity and +power, with magnetism to compel moods. Since, when he smiled, you warmed +in spite of yourself, and when he frowned the world looked grave. + +The inevitable comparison was come, and Stephen's hero was shrunk once +more. He drew a deep breath, searched for the word, and gulped. There +was but the one word. How country Abraham Lincoln looked beside Stephen +Arnold Douglas! + +Had the Lord ever before made and set over against each other two such +different men? Yes, for such are the ways of the Lord. + + ........................ + +The preliminary speaking was in progress, but Stephen neither heard nor +saw until he felt the heavy hand of his companion on his knee. + +“There's something mighty strange, like fate, between them two,” he was +saying. “I recklect twenty-five years ago when they was first in the +Legislatur' together. A man told me that they was both admitted to +practice in the S'preme Court in '39, on the same day, sir. Then you +know they was nip an' tuck after the same young lady. Abe got her. +They've been in Congress together, the Little Giant in the Senate, and +now, here they be in the greatest set of debates the people of this +state ever heard; Young man, the hand of fate is in this here, mark my +words--” + +There was a hush, and the waves of that vast human sea were stilled. A +man, lean, angular, with coat-tail: flapping-unfolded like a grotesque +figure at a side-show. + +No confidence was there. Stooping forward, Abraham Lincoln began to +speak, and Stephen Brice hung his head and shuddered. Could this shrill +falsetto be the same voice to which he had listened only that morning? +Could this awkward, yellow man with his hands behind his back be he whom +he had worshipped? Ripples of derisive laughter rose here and there, on +the stand and from the crowd. Thrice distilled was the agony of those +moments! + +But what was this feeling that gradually crept over him? Surprise? +Cautiously he raised his eyes. The hands were coming around to the +front. Suddenly one of them was thrown sharply back, with a determined +gesture, the head was raised,--and--and his shame was for gotten. In +its stead wonder was come. But soon he lost even that, for his mind was +gone on a journey. And when again he came to himself and looked upon +Abraham Lincoln, this was a man transformed. The voice was no longer +shrill. Nay, it was now a powerful instrument which played strangely on +those who heard. Now it rose, and again it fell into tones so low as to +start a stir which spread and spread, like a ripple in a pond, until it +broke on the very edge of that vast audience. + + “Can the people of a United States Territory, in any lawful way, + against the wish of any citizen of the United States, exclude + slavery from its limits prior to the formation of a State + Constitution?” + +It was out, at last, irrevocably writ in the recording book of History, +for better, for worse. Beyond the reach of politician, committee, or +caucus. But what man amongst those who heard and stirred might say that +these minutes even now basting into eternity held the Crisis of a nation +that is the hope of the world? Not you, Judge Douglas who sit there +smiling. Consternation is a stranger in your heart,--but answer the +question if you can. Yes, your nimble wit has helped you out of many a +tight corner. You do not feel the noose--as yet. You do not guess that +your reply will make or mar the fortunes of your country. It is not +you who can look ahead two short years and see the ship of Democracy +splitting on the rocks at Charleston and at Baltimore, when the power of +your name might have steered her safely. + +But see! what is this man about whom you despise? One by one he is +taking the screws out of the engine which you have invented to run your +ship. Look, he holds them in his hands without mixing them, and shows +the false construction of its secret parts. + +For Abraham Lincoln dealt with abstruse questions in language so limpid +that many a farmer, dulled by toil, heard and understood and marvelled. +The simplicity of the Bible dwells in those speeches, and they are now +classics in our literature. And the wonder in Stephen's mind was that +this man who could be a buffoon, whose speech was coarse and whose +person unkempt, could prove himself a tower of morality and truth. That +has troubled many another, before and since the debate at Freeport. + +That short hour came all too quickly to an end. And as the Moderator +gave the signal for Mr. Lincoln, it was Stephen's big companion who +snapped the strain, and voiced the sentiment of those about him. + +“By Gosh!” he cried, “he baffles Steve. I didn't think Abe had it in +him.” + +The Honorable Stephen A. Douglas, however, seemed anything but baffled +as he rose to reply. As he waited for the cheers which greeted him to +die out, his attitude was easy and indifferent, as a public man's should +be. The question seemed not to trouble him in the least. But for Stephen +Brice the Judge stood there stripped of the glamour that made him, even +as Abraham Lincoln had stripped his doctrine of its paint and colors, +and left it punily naked. + +Standing up, the very person of the Little Giant was contradictory, as +was the man himself. His height was insignificant. But he had the head +and shoulders of a lion, and even the lion's roar. What at contrast the +ring of his deep bass to the tentative falsetto of Mr. Lincoln's +opening words. If Stephen expected the Judge to tremble, he was greatly +disappointed. Mr. Douglas was far from dismay. As if to show the people +how lightly he held his opponent's warnings, he made them gape by +putting things down Mr. Lincoln's shirt-front and taking them out of his +mouth: But it appeared to Stephen, listening with all his might, that +the Judge was a trifle more on the defensive than his attitude might +lead one to expect. Was he not among his own Northern Democrats at +Freeport? And yet it seemed to give him a keen pleasure to call his +hearers “Black Republicans.” “Not black,” came from the crowd again +and again, and once a man: shouted, “Couldn't you modify it and call +it brown?” “Not a whit!” cried the Judge, and dubbed them “Yankees,” + although himself a Vermonter by birth. He implied that most of these +Black Republicans desired negro wives. + +But quick,--to the Question, How was the Little Giant, artful in debate +as he was, to get over that without offence to the great South? Very +skillfully the judge disposed of the first of the interrogations. And +then, save for the gusts of wind rustling the trees, the grove might +have been empty of its thousands, such was the silence that fell. But +tighter and tighter they pressed against the stand, until it trembled. + +Oh, Judge, the time of all artful men will come at length. How were you +to foresee a certain day under the White Dome of the Capitol? Had your +sight been long, you would have paused before your answer. Had your +sight been long, you would have seen this ugly Lincoln bareheaded before +the Nation, and you are holding his hat. Judge Douglas, this act alone +has redeemed your faults. It has given you a nobility of which we did +not suspect you. At the end God gave you strength to be humble, and so +you left the name of a patriot. + +Judge, you thought there was a passage between Scylla and Charybdis +which your craftiness might overcome. + +“It matters not,” you cried when you answered the Question, “it matters +not which way the Supreme Court may hereafter decide as to the abstract +question whether slavery may or may not go into a territory under +the Constitution. The people have the lawful means to introduce or to +exclude it as they please, for the reason that slavery cannot exist +a day or an hour anywhere unless it is supported by local police +regulations.” + +Judge Douglas, uneasy will you lie to-night, for you have uttered the +Freeport Heresy. + +It only remains to be told how Stephen Brice, coming to the Brewster +House after the debate, found Mr. Lincoln. On his knee, in transports +of delight, was a small boy, and Mr. Lincoln was serenely playing on +the child's Jew's-harp. Standing beside him was a proud father who had +dragged his son across two counties in a farm wagon, and who was to +return on the morrow to enter this event in the family Bible. In a +corner of the room were several impatient gentlemen of influence who +wished to talk about the Question. + +But when he saw Stephen, Mr. Lincoln looked up with a smile of welcome +that is still, and ever will be, remembered and cherished. + +“Tell Judge Whipple that I have attended to that little matter, Steve,” + he said. + +“Why, Mr. Lincoln,” he exclaimed, “you have had no time.” + +“I have taken the time,” Mr. Lincoln replied, “and I think that I am +well repaid. Steve,” said he, “unless I'm mightily mistaken, you know a +little more than you did yesterday.” + +“Yes, sir! I do,” said Stephen. + +“Come, Steve,” said Mr. Lincoln, “be honest. Didn't you feel sorry for +me last night?” + +Stephen flushed scarlet. + +“I never shall again, sir,” he said. + +The wonderful smile, so ready to come and go, flickered and went out. In +its stead on the strange face was ineffable sadness,--the sadness of the +world's tragedies, of Stephen stoned, of Christ crucified. + +“Pray God that you may feel sorry for me again,” he said. + +Awed, the child on his lap was still. The politician had left the room. +Mr. Lincoln had kept Stephen's hand in his own. + +“I have hopes of you, Stephen,” he said. “Do not forget me.” + +Stephen Brice never has. Why was it that he walked to the station with a +heavy heart? It was a sense of the man he had left, who had been and was +to be. This Lincoln of the black loam, who built his neighbor's cabin +and hoed his neighbor's corn, who had been storekeeper and postmaster +and flat-boatman. Who had followed a rough judge dealing a rough justice +around a rough circuit; who had rolled a local bully in the dirt; +rescued women from insult; tended the bedside of many a sick coward who +feared the Judgment; told coarse stories on barrels by candlelight (but +these are pure beside the vice of great cities); who addressed political +mobs in the raw, swooping down from the stump and flinging embroilers +east and west. This physician who was one day to tend the sickbed of the +Nation in her agony; whose large hand was to be on her feeble pulse, and +whose knowledge almost divine was to perform the miracle of her healing. +So was it that, the Physician Himself performed His cures, and when work +was done, died a martyr. + +Abraham Lincoln died in His name + + + + +CHAPTER VI. GLENCOE + +It was nearly noon when Stephen walked into the office the next day, +dusty and travel-worn and perspiring. He had come straight from the +ferry, without going home. And he had visions of a quiet dinner with +Richter under the trees at the beer-garden, where he could talk about +Abraham Lincoln. Had Richter ever heard of Lincoln? + +But the young German met him at the top of the stair--and his face was +more serious than usual, although he showed his magnificent teeth in a +smile of welcome. + +“You are a little behind your time, my friend,” said he, “What has +happened you?” + +“Didn't the Judge get Mr. Lincoln's message?” asked Stephen, with +anxiety. + +The German shrugged his shoulders. + +“Ah, I know not,” he answered, “He has gone is Glencoe. The Judge is +ill, Stephen. Doctor Polk says that he has worked all his life too hard. +The Doctor and Colonel Carvel tried to get him to go to Glencoe. But +he would not budge until Miss Carvel herself comes all the way from the +country yesterday, and orders him. Ach!” exclaimed Richter, impulsively, +“what wonderful women you have in America! I could lose my head when I +think of Miss Carvel.” + +“Miss Carvel was here, you say?” Stephen repeated, in a tone of inquiry. + +“Donner!” said Richter, disgusted, “you don't care.” + +Stephen laughed, in spite of himself. + +“Why should I?” he answered. And becoming grave again, added: “Except on +Judge Whipple's account. Have you heard from him to-day, Carl?” + +“This morning one of Colonel Carvel's servants came for his letters. He +must be feeling better. I--I pray that he is better,” said Richter, his +voice breaking. “He has been very good to me.” + +Stephen said nothing. But he had been conscious all at once of an +affection for the Judge of which he had not suspected himself. That +afternoon, on his way home, he stopped at Carvel & Company's to inquire. +Mr. Whipple was better, so Mr. Hopper said, and added that he “presumed +likely the Colonel would not be in for a week.” It was then Saturday. +Eliphalet was actually in the Colonel's sanctum behind the partition, +giving orders to several clerks at the time. He was so prosperous and +important that he could scarce spare a moment to answer Stephen, who +went away wondering whether he had been wise to choose the law. + +On Monday, when Stephen called at Carvel & Company's, Eliphalet was too +busy to see him. But Ephum, who went out to Glencoe every night with +orders, told him that the “Jedge was wuss, suh.” On Wednesday, there +being little change, Mrs. Brice ventured to despatch a jelly by Ephum. +On Friday afternoon, when Stephen was deep in Whittlesey and the New +Code, he became aware of Ephum standing beside him. In reply to his +anxious question Ephum answered: + +“I reckon he better, suh. He an' de Colonel done commence wrastlin' +'bout a man name o' Linkum. De Colonel done wrote you dis note, suh.” + +It was a very polite note, containing the Colonel's compliments, asking +Mr. Brice to Glencoe that afternoon with whatever papers or letters the +Judge might wish to see. And since there was no convenient train in the +evening, Colonel Carvel would feel honored if Mr. Brice would spend the +night. The Colonel mentioned the train on which Mr. Brice was expected. + +The Missouri side of the Mississippi is a very different country from +the hot and treeless prairies of Illinois. As Stephen alighted at the +little station at Glencoe and was driven away by Ned in the Colonel's +buggy, he drew in deep breaths of the sweet air of the Meramec Valley. + +There had been a shower, and the sun glistened on the drops on grass and +flowers, and the great trees hung heavy over the clay road. At last they +came to a white gate in the picket fence, in sight of a rambling wooden +house with a veranda in front covered with honeysuckle. And then he saw +the Colonel, in white marseilles, smoking a cigar. This, indeed, was +real country. + +As Stephen trod the rough flags between the high grass which led toward +the house, Colonel Carvel rose to his full height and greeted him. + +“You are very welcome, sir,” he said gravely. “The Judge is asleep now,” + he added. “I regret to say that we had a little argument this morning, +and my daughter tells me it will be well not to excite him again to-day. +Jinny is reading to him now, or she would be here to entertain you, Mr. +Brice. Jackson!” cried Mr. Carvel, “show Mr. Brice to his room.” + +Jackson appeared hurriedly, seized Stephen's bag, and led the way +upstairs through the cool and darkened house to a pretty little room on +the south side, with matting, and roses on the simple dressing-table. +After he had sat awhile staring at these, and at the wet flower-garden +from between the slats of his shutters, he removed the signs of the +railroad upon him, and descended. The Colonel was still on the porch, in +his easy-chair. He had lighted another, cigar, and on the stand beside +him stood two tall glasses, green with the fresh mint. Colonel Carvel +rose, and with his own hand offered one to Stephen. + +“Your health, Mr. Brice,” he said, “and I hope you will feel at home +here, sir. Jackson will bring you anything you desire, and should you +wish to drive, I shall be delighted to show you the country.” + +Stephen drank that julep with reverence, and then the Colonel gave him +a cigar. He was quite overcome by this treatment of a penniless young +Yankee. The Colonel did not talk politics--such was not his notion of +hospitality to a stranger. He talked horse, and no great discernment on +Stephen's part was needed to perceive that this was Mr. Carvel's hobby. + +“I used to have a stable, Mr. Brice, before they ruined gentleman's +sport with these trotters ten years ago. Yes sir, we used to be at +Lexington one week, and Louisville the next, and over here on the Ames +track after that. Did you ever hear of Water Witch and Netty Boone?” + +Yes, Stephen had, from Mr. Jack Brinsmade. + +The Colonel's face beamed. + +“Why, sir,” he cried, “that very nigger, Ned, who drove you here from +the cars-he used to ride Netty Boone. Would you believe that, Mr. Brice? +He was the best jockey ever strode a horse on the Elleardsville track +here. He wore my yellow and green, sir, until he got to weigh one +hundred and a quarter. And I kept him down to that weight a whole year, +Mr. Brice. Yes, sirree, a whole year.” + +“Kept him down!” said Stephen. + +“Why, yes, sir. I had him wrapped in blankets and set in a chair with +holes bored in the seat. Then we lighted a spirit lamp under him. Many +a time I took off ten pounds that way. It needs fire to get flesh off a +nigger, sir.” + +He didn't notice his guest's amazement. + +“Then, sir,” he continued, “they introduced these damned trotting races; +trotting races are for white trash, Mr. Brice.” + +“Pa!” + +The Colonel stopped short. Stephen was already on his feet. I wish you +could have seen Miss Virginia Carvel as he saw her then. She wore a +white lawn dress. A tea-tray was in her hand, and her head was tilted +back, as women are apt to do when they carry a burden. It was so that +these Southern families, who were so bitter against Abolitionists and +Yankees, entertained them when they were poor, and nursed them when they +were ill. + +Stephen, for his life, could not utter a word. But Virginia turned to +him with perfect self-possession. + +“He has been boring you with his horses, Mr. Brice,” she said. “Has he +told you what a jockey Ned used to be before he weighed one hundred and +a quarter?” (A laugh.) “Has he given you the points of Water Witch and +Netty Boone?” (More laughter, increasing embarrassment for Stephen.) +“Pa, I tell you once more that you will drive every guest from this +house. Your jockey talk is intolerable.” + +O that you might have a notion of the way in which Virginia pronounced +intolerable. + +Mr. Carvel reached for another cigar asked, “My dear,” he asked, “how is +the Judge?” + +“My dear,” said Virginia, smiling, “he is asleep. Mammy Easter is with +him, trying to make out what he is saying. He talks in his sleep, just +as you do--” + +“And what is he saying?” demanded the Colonel, interested. + +Virginia set down the tray. + +“'A house divided against itself,'” said Miss Carvel, with a sweep of +her arm, “'cannot stand. I believe that this Government cannot endure +permanently, half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to +dissolve--I do not expect the house to fall--but I do expect it will +cease to be divided.' Would you like any more?” added Miss Virginia. + +“No,” cried the Colonel, and banged his fist down on the table. “Why,” + said he, thoughtfully, stroking the white goatee on his chin, “cuss me +if that ain't from the speech that country bumpkin, Lincoln, made in +June last before the Black Republican convention in Illinois.” + +Virginia broke again into laughter. And Stephen was very near it, for +he loved the Colonel. That gentleman suddenly checked himself in his +tirade, and turned to him. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “I reckon that you have the same +political sentiments as the Judge. Believe me, sir, I would not +willingly offend a guest.” + +Stephen smiled. “I am not offended, sir,” he said. A speech which caused +Mr. Carvel to bestow a quick glance upon him. But Stephen did not see +it. He was looking at Virginia. + +The Colonel rose. + +“You will pardon my absence for a while, sir,” he said. + +“My daughter will entertain you.” + +In silence they watched him as he strode off under the trees through +tall grass, a yellow setter at his heels. A strange peace was over +Stephen. The shadows of the walnuts and hickories were growing long, and +a rich country was giving up its scent to the evening air. From a cabin +behind the house was wafted the melody of a plantation song. To +the young man, after the burnt city, this was paradise. And then he +remembered his mother as she must be sitting on the tiny porch in +town, and sighed. Only two years ago she had been at their own place at +Westbury. + +He looked up, and saw the girl watching him. He dared not think that the +expression he caught was one of sympathy, for it changed instantly. + +“I am afraid you are the silent kind, Mr. Brice,” said she; “I believe +it is a Yankee trait.” + +Stephen laughed. + +“I have known a great many who were not,” said he, “When they are +garrulous, they are very much so.” + +“I should prefer a garrulous one,” said Virginia. + +“I should think a Yankee were bad enough, but a noisy Yankee not to be +put up with,” he ventured. + +Virginia did not deign a direct reply to this, save by the corners of +her mouth. + +“I wonder,” said she, thoughtfully, “whether it is strength of mind or a +lack of ideas that makes them silent.” + +“It is mostly prudence,” said Mr. Brice. “Prudence is our dominant +trait.” + +Virginia fidgeted. Usually she had an easier time. + +“You have not always shown it,” she said, with an innocence which in +women is often charged with meaning. + +Stephen started. Her antagonism was still there. He would have liked +greatly to know whether she referred to his hasty purchase of Hester, or +to his rashness in dancing with her at her party the winter before. + +“We have something left to be thankful for,” he answered. “We are still +capable of action.” + +“On occasions it is violence,” said Virginia, desperately. This man must +not get ahead of her. + +“It is just as violent,” said he, “as the repressed feeling which +prompts it.” + +This was a new kind of conversation to Virginia. Of all the young men +she knew, not one had ever ventured into anything of the sort. They were +either flippant, or sentimental, or both. She was at once flattered +and annoyed, flattered, because, as a woman, Stephen had conceded her +a mind. Many of the young men she knew had minds, but deemed that these +were wasted on women, whose language was generally supposed to be a kind +of childish twaddle. Even Jack Brinsmade rarely risked his dignity +and reputation at an intellectual tilt. This was one of Virginia's +grievances. She often argued with her father, and, if the truth were +told, had had more than one victory over Judge Whipple. + +Virginia's annoyance came from the fact that she perceived in Stephen +a natural and merciless logic,--a faculty for getting at the bottom +of things. His brain did not seem to be thrown out of gear by local +magnetic influences,--by beauty, for instance. He did not lose his head, +as did some others she knew, at the approach of feminine charms. Here +was a grand subject, then, to try the mettle of any woman. One with +less mettle would have given it up. But Virginia thought it would be +delightful to bring this particular Yankee to his knees; and--and leave +him there. + +“Mr. Brice,” she said, “I have not spoken to you since the night of my +party. I believe we danced together.” + +“Yes, we did,” said he, “and I called, but was unfortunate.” + +“You called?” + +Ah, Virginia! + +“They did not tell you!” cried Stephen. + +Now Miss Carvel was complacency itself. + +“Jackson is so careless with cards,” said she, “and very often I do not +take the trouble to read them.” + +“I am sorry,” said he, “as I wished for the opportunity to tell you how +much I enjoyed myself. I have found everybody in St. Louis very kind to +strangers.” + +Virginia was nearly disarmed. She remembered how, she had opposed his +coning. But honesty as well as something else prompted her to say: “It +was my father who invited you.” + +Stephen did not reveal the shock his vanity had received. + +“At least you were good enough to dance with me.” + +“I could scarcely refuse a guest,” she replied. + +He held up his head. + +“Had I thought it would have given you annoyance,” he said quietly, “I +should not have asked you.” + +“Which would have been a lack of good manners,” said Virginia, biting +her lips. + +Stephen answered nothing, but wished himself in St. Louis. He could not +comprehend her cruelty. But, just then, the bell rang for supper, and +the Colonel appeared around the end of the house. + +It was one of those suppers for which the South is renowned. And when +at length he could induce Stephen to eat no more, Colonel Carvel reached +for his broad-brimmed felt hat, and sat smoking, with his feet against +the mantle. Virginia, who had talked but little, disappeared with a tray +on which she had placed with her own hands some dainties to tempt the +Judge. + +The Colonel regaled Stephen, when she was gone, with the pedigree and +performance of every horse he had had in his stable. And this was a +relief, as it gave him an opportunity to think without interruption upon +Virginia's pronounced attitude of dislike. To him it was inconceivable +that a young woman of such qualities as she appeared to have, should +assail him so persistently for freeing a negress, and so depriving her +of a maid she had set her heart upon. There were other New England young +men in society. Mr. Weston and Mr. Carpenter, and more. They were not +her particular friends, to be sure. But they called on her and danced +with her, and she had shown them not the least antipathy. But it was to +Stephen's credit that he did not analyze her further. + +He was reflecting on these things when he got to his room, when there +came a knock at the door. It was Mammy Easter, in bright turban and +apron,--was hospitality and comfort in the flesh. + +“Is you got all you need, suh?” she inquired. + +Stephen replied that he had. But Mammy showed no inclination to go, and +he was too polite to shut the door: + +“How you like Glencoe, Mistah Bride?” + +He was charmed with it. + +“We has some of de fust fam'lies out heah in de summer,” said she. “But +de Colonel, he a'n't much on a gran' place laik in Kaintuck. Shucks, no, +suh, dis ain't much of a 'stablishment! Young Massa won't have no lawns, +no greenhouses, no nothin'. He say he laik it wil' and simple. He on'y +come out fo' two months, mebbe. But Miss Jinny, she make it lively. Las' +week, until the Jedge come we hab dis house chuck full, two-three young +ladies in a room, an' five young gemmen on trunnle beds.” + +“Until the Judge came?” echoed Stephen. + +“Yassuh. Den Miss Jinny low dey all hatter go. She say she a'n't +gwineter have 'em noun' 'sturbin' a sick man. De Colonel 'monstrated. He +done give the Judge his big room, and he say he and de young men gwine +ober to Mista, Catherwood's. You a'n't never seen Miss Jinny rise up, +suh! She des swep' 'em all out” (Mammy emphasized this by rolling her +hands) “an' declah she gwine ten' to the Jedge herself. She a'n't never +let me bring up one of his meals, suh.” And so she left Stephen with +some food for reflection. + +Virginia was very gay at breakfast, and said that the Judge would see +Stephen; so he and the Colonel, that gentleman with his hat on, went +up to his room. The shutters were thrown open, and the morning sunlight +filtered through the leaves and fell on the four-poster where the Judge +sat up, gaunt and grizzled as ever. He smiled at his host, and then +tried to destroy immediately the effect of the smile. + +“Well, Judge,” cried the Colonel, taking his hand, “I reckon we talked +too much.” + +“No such thing, Carvel,” said the Judge, forcibly, “if you hadn't +left the room, your popular sovereignty would have been in rags in two +minutes.” + +Stephen sat down in a corner, unobserved, in expectation of a renewal. +But at this moment Miss Virginia swept into the room, very cool in a +pink muslin. + +“Colonel Carvel,” said she, sternly, “I am the doctor's deputy here. I +was told to keep the peace at any cost. And if you answer back, out you +go, like that!” and she snapped her fingers. + +The Colonel laughed. But the Judge, whose mind was on the argument, +continued to mutter defiantly until his eye fell upon Stephen. + +“Well, sir, well, sir,” he said, “you've turned up at last, have you? +I send you off with papers for a man, and I get back a piece of yellow +paper saying that he's borrowed you. What did he do with you, Mr. +Brice?” + +“He took me to Freeport, sir, where I listened to the most remarkable +speech I ever expect to hear.” + +“What!” cried the Judge, “so far from Boston?” + +Stephen hesitated, uncertain whether to laugh, until he chanced to look +at Virginia. She had pursed her lips. + +“I was very much surprised, sir,” he said. + +“Humph!” grunted Mr. Whipple, “and what did you chink of that ruffian, +Lincoln?” + +“He is the most remarkable man that I have ever met, sir,” answered +Stephen, with emphasis. + +“Humph!” + +It seemed as if the grunt this time had in it something of approval. +Stephen had doubt as to the propriety of discussing Mr. Lincoln there, +and he reddened. Virginia's expression bore a trace of defiance, and Mr. +Carvel stood with his feet apart, thoughtfully stroking his goatee. But +Mr. Whipple seemed to have no scruples. + +“So you admired Lincoln, Mr. Brice?” he went on. “You must agree with +that laudatory estimation of him which I read in the Missouri Democrat.” + +Stephen fidgeted. + +“I do, sir, most decidedly,” he answered. + +“I should hardly expect a conservative Bostonian, of the class which +respects property, to have said that. It might possibly be a good thing +if more from your town could hear those debates.” + +“They will read them, sir; I feel confident of it.” + +At this point the Colonel could contain himself no longer. + +“I reckon I might tell the man who wrote that Democrat article a few +things, if I could find out who he is,” said he. + +“Pa!” said Virginia, warningly. + +But Stephen had turned a fiery red, “I wrote it, Colonel Carvel,” he +said. + +For a dubious instant of silence Colonel Carvel stared. Then--then he +slapped his knees, broke into a storm of laughter, and went out of the +room. He left Stephen in a moist state of discomfiture. + +The Judge had bolted upright from the pillows. + +“You have been neglecting your law, sir,” he cried. + +“I wrote the article at night,” said Stephen, indignantly. + +“Then it must have been Sunday night, Mr. Brice.” + +At this point Virginia hid her face in her handkerchief which trembled +visibly. Being a woman, whose ways are unaccountable, the older man took +no notice of her. But being a young woman, and a pretty one, Stephen was +angry. + +“I don't see what right you have to ask me that sir,” he said. + +“The question is withdrawn, Mr. Brice,” said the Judge, “Virginia, you +may strike it from the records. And now, sir, tell me something about +your trip.” + +Virginia departed. + +An hour later Stephen descended to the veranda, and it was with +apprehension that he discerned Mr. Carvel seated under the vines at the +far end. Virginia was perched on the railing. + +To Stephen's surprise the Colonel rose, and, coming toward him, laid a +kindly hand on his shoulder. + +“Stephen,” said he, “there will be no law until Monday you must stay +with us until then. A little rest will do you good.” + +Stephen was greatly touched. + +“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I should like to very much. But I can't.” + +“Nonsense,” said the Colonel. “I won't let the Judge interfere.” + +“It isn't that, sir. I shall have to go by the two o'clock train, I +fear.” + +The Colonel turned to Virginia, who, meanwhile, had sat silently by. + +“Jinny,” he said, “we must contrive to keep him.” + +She slid off the railing. + +“I'm afraid he is determined, Pa,” she answered. “But perhaps Mr. Brice +would like to see a little of the place before he goes. It is very +primitive,” she explained, “not much like yours in the East.” + +Stephen thanked her, and bowed to the Colonel. And so she led him past +the low, crooked outbuildings at the back, where he saw old Uncle +Ben busy over the preparation of his dinner, and frisky Rosetta, his +daughter, playing with one of the Colonel's setters. Then Virginia took +a well-worn path, on each side of which the high grass bent with its +load of seed, which entered the wood. Oaks and hickories and walnuts +and persimmons spread out in a glade, and the wild grape twisted +fantastically around the trunks. All this beauty seemed but a fit +setting to the strong girlish figure in the pink frock before him. +So absorbed was he in contemplation of this, and in wondering whether +indeed she were to marry her cousin, Clarence Colfax, that he did not +see the wonders of view unrolling in front of him. She stopped at length +beside a great patch of wild race bushes. They were on the edge of the +bluff, and in front of them a little rustic summer-house, with seats on +its five sides. Here Virginia sat down. But Stephen, going to the edge, +stood and marvelled. Far, far below him, down the wooded steep, shot +the crystal Meramec, chafing over the shallow gravel beds and tearing +headlong at the deep passes. + +Beyond, the dimpled green hills rose and fell, and the stream ran indigo +and silver. A hawk soared over the water, the only living creature in +all that wilderness. + +The glory of the place stirred his blood. And when at length he turned, +he saw that the girl was watching him. + +“It is very beautiful,” he said. + +Virginia had taken other young men here, and they had looked only upon +her. And yet she was not offended. This sincerity now was as new to her +as that with which he had surprised her in the Judge's room. + +And she was not quite at her ease. A reply to those simple words of his +was impossible. At honest Tom Catherwood in the same situation she would +have laughed, Clarence never so much as glanced at scenery. Her replies +to him were either flippant, or else maternal, as to a child. + +A breeze laden with the sweet abundance of that valley stirred her hair. +And with that womanly gesture which has been the same through the ages +she put up her hand; deftly tucking in the stray wisp behind. + +She glanced at the New Englander, against whom she had been in strange +rebellion since she had first seen him. His face, thinned by the summer +in town, was of the sternness of the Puritan. Stephen's features were +sharply marked for his age. The will to conquer was there. Yet justice +was in the mouth, and greatness of heart. Conscience was graven on the +broad forehead. The eyes were the blue gray of the flint, kindly yet +imperishable. The face was not handsome. + +Struggling, then yielding to the impulse, Virginia let herself be led on +into the years. Sanity was the word that best described him. She saw him +trusted of men, honored of women, feared by the false. She saw him in +high places, simple, reserved, poised evenly as he was now. + +“Why do you go in this afternoon?” she asked abruptly. + +He started at the change in her tone. + +“I wish that I might stay,” he said regretfully. “But I cannot, Miss +Carvel.” + +He gave no reason. And she was too proud to ask it. Never before had she +stooped to urge young men to stay. The difficulty had always been to get +them to go. It was natural, perhaps, that her vanity was wounded. But it +hurt her to think that she had made the overture, had tried to conquer +whatever it was that set her against him, and had failed through him. + +“You must find the city attractive. Perhaps,” she added, with a little +laugh, “perhaps it is Bellefontaine Road.” + +“No,” he answered, smiling. + +“Then” (with a touch of derision), “then it is because you cannot miss +an afternoon's work. You are that kind.” + +“I was not always that kind,” he answered. “I did not work at Harvard. +But now I have to or--or starve,” he said. + +For the second time his complete simplicity had disarmed her. He had not +appealed to her sympathy, nor had he hinted at the luxury in which he +was brought up. She would have liked to question Stephen on this former +life. But she changed the subject suddenly. + +“What did you really think of Mr. Lincoln?” she asked. + +“I thought him the ugliest man I ever saw, and the handsomest as well.” + +“But you admired him?” + +“Yes,” said Stephen, gravely. + +“You believe with him that this government cannot exist half slave and +half free. Then a day will come, Mr. Brice, when you and I shall be +foreigners one to the other.” + +“You have forgotten,” he said eagerly, “you have forgotten the rest +of the quotation. 'I do not expect the Union to be dissolved--I do not +expect the house to fall--but cease to be divided.' It will become all +one thing or all the other.” + +Virginia laughed. “That seemed to me very equivocal,” said she. “Your +rail-sputter is well named.” + +“Will you read the rest of that speech?” he asked + +“Judge Whipple is very clever. He has made a convert of you,” she +answered. + +“The Judge has had nothing to do with it,” cried Stephen. “He is not +given to discussion with me, and until I went to Springfield had never +mentioned Lincoln's name to me.” + +Glancing at her, he surprised a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. Then +she laughed openly. + +“Why do you suppose that you were sent to Springfield?” she asked. + +“With an important communication for Mr. Lincoln,” he answered. + +“And that most important communication was--your self. There, now, I +have told you,” said Virginia. + +“Was myself? I don't understand.” + +Virginia puckered her lips. + +“Then you haven't the sense I thought you had,” she replied impatiently. +“Do you know what was in that note? No? Well, a year ago last June this +Black Republican lawyer whom you are all talking of made a speech before +a convention in Illinois. Judge Whipple has been crazy on the subject +ever since--he talks of Lincoln in his sleep; he went to Springfield and +spent two days with him, and now he can't rest until you have seen and +known and heard him. So he writes a note to Lincoln and asks him to take +you to the debate--” + +She paused again to laugh at his amazement. + +“But he told me to go to Springfield!” he exclaimed. + +“He told you to find Lincoln. He knew that you would obey his orders, I +suppose.” + +“But I didn't know--” Stephen began, trying to come pass within an +instant the memory of his year's experience with Mr. Whipple. + +“You didn't know that he thought anything about you,” said Virginia. +“That is his way, Mr. Brice. He has more private charities on his list +than any man in the city except Mr. Brinsmade. Very few know it. He +thinks a great deal of you. But there,” she added, suddenly blushing +crimson, “I am sorry I told you.” + +“Why?” he asked. + +She did not answer, but sat tapping the seat with her fingers. And when +she ventured to look at him, he had fallen into thought. + +“I think it must be time for dinner,” said Virginia, “if you really wish +to catch the train.” + +The coldness in her voice, rather than her words, aroused him. He rose, +took one lingering look at the river, and followed her to the house. + +At dinner, when not talking about his mare, the Colonel was trying +to persuade Stephen to remain. Virginia did not join in this, and +her father thought the young man's refusal sprang from her lack of +cordiality. Colonel Carvel himself drove to the station. + +When he returned, he found his daughter sitting idly on the porch. + +“I like that young man, if he is a Yankee,” he declared. + +“I don't,” said Virginia, promptly. + +“My dear,” said her father, voicing the hospitality of the Carvels, +“I am surprised at you. One should never show one's feelings toward a +guest. As mistress of this house it was your duty to press him to stay.” + +“He did not want to stay.” + +“Do you know why he went, my dear,” asked the Colonel. + +“No,” said Virginia. + +“I asked him,” said the Colonel. + +“Pa! I did not think it of you!” she cried. And then, “What was it?” she +demanded. + +“He said that his mother was alone in town, and needed him.” + +Virginia got up without a word, and went into Judge Whipple's room. +And there the Colonel found her some hours later, reading aloud from a +scrap-book certain speeches of Mr. Lincoln's which Judge Whipple had cut +from newspapers. And the Judge, lying back with his eyes half closed, +was listening in pure delight. Little did he guess at Virginia's +penance! + + + + +Volume 4. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. AN EXCURSION + +I am going ahead two years. Two years during which a nation struggled +in agony with sickness, and even the great strength with which she was +endowed at birth was not equal to the task of throwing it off. In 1620 +a Dutch ship had brought from Guinea to his Majesty's Colony of Virginia +the germs of that disease for which the Nation's blood was to be let +so freely. During these years signs of dissolution, of death, were not +wanting. + +In the city by the Father of Waters where the races met, men and women +were born into the world, who were to die in ancient Cuba, who were to +be left fatherless in the struggle soon to come, who were to live to +see new monsters rise to gnaw at the vitals of the Republic, and to +hear again the cynical laugh of Europe. But they were also to see their +country a power in the world, perchance the greatest power. While Europe +had wrangled, the child of the West had grown into manhood and taken +a seat among the highest, to share with them the responsibilities of +manhood. + +Meanwhile, Stephen Brice had been given permission to practise law +in the sovereign state of Missouri. Stephen understood Judge Whipple +better. It cannot be said that he was intimate with that rather +formidable personage, although the Judge, being a man of habits, had +formed that of taking tea at least once a week with Mrs. Brice. Stephen +had learned to love the Judge, and he had never ceased to be grateful to +him for a knowledge of that man who had had the most influence upon his +life,--Abraham Lincoln. + +For the seed, sowed in wisdom and self-denial, was bearing fruit. The +sound of gathering conventions was in the land, and the Freeport Heresy +was not for gotten. + +We shall not mention the number of clients thronging to Mr. Whipple's +office to consult Mr. Brice. These things are humiliating. Some of +Stephen's income came from articles in the newspapers of that day. +What funny newspapers they were, the size of a blanket! No startling +headlines such as we see now, but a continued novel among the +advertisements on the front page and verses from some gifted lady of +the town, signed Electra. And often a story of pure love, but more +frequently of ghosts or other eerie phenomena taken from a magazine, or +an anecdote of a cat or a chicken. There were letters from citizens who +had the mania of print, bulletins of different ages from all parts of +the Union, clippings out of day-before-yesterday's newspaper of Chicago +or Cincinnati to three-weeks letters from San Francisco, come by the +pony post to Lexington and then down the swift Missouri. Of course, +there was news by telegraph, but that was precious as fine gold,--not to +be lightly read and cast aside. + +In the autumn of '59, through the kindness of Mr. Brinsmade, Stephen had +gone on a steamboat up the river to a great convention in Iowa. On this +excursion was much of St. Louis's bluest blood. He widened his circle +of acquaintances, and spent much of his time walking the guards between +Miss Anne Brinsmade and Miss Puss Russell. Perhaps it is unfair to these +young ladies to repeat what they said about Stephen in the privacy of +their staterooms, gentle Anne remonstrating that they should not gossip, +and listening eagerly the while, and laughing at Miss Puss, whose +mimicry of Stephen's severe ways brought tears to her eyes. + +Mr. Clarence Colfax was likewise on the boat, and passing Stephen on the +guards, bowed distantly. But once, on the return trip, when Stephen had +a writing pad on his knee, the young Southerner came up to him in his +frankest manner and with an expression of the gray eyes which was not to +be withstood. + +“Making a case, Brice?” he said. “I hear you are the kind that cannot be +idle even on a holiday.” + +“Not as bad as all that,” replied Stephen, smiling at him. + +“Reckon you keep a diary, then,” said Clarence, leaning against the +rail. He made a remarkably graceful figure, Stephen thought. He was +tall, and his movements had what might be called a commanding indolence. +Stephen, while he smiled, could not but admire the tone and gesture with +which Colfax bade a passing negro to get him a handkerchief from his +cabin. The alacrity of the black to do the errand was amusing enough. +Stephen well knew it had not been such if he wanted a handkerchief. + +Stephen said it was not a diary. Mr. Colfax was too well bred to inquire +further; so he never found out that Mr. Brice was writing an account of +the Convention and the speechmaking for the Missouri Democrat. + +“Brice,” said the Southerner, “I want to apologize for things I've done +to you and said about you. I hated you for a long time after you beat me +out of Hester, and--” he hesitated. + +Stephen looked up. For the first time he actually liked Colfax. He had +been long enough among Colfax's people to understand how difficult it +was for him to say the thing he wished. + +“You may remember a night at my uncle's, Colonel Carvel's, on the +occasion of my cousin's birthday?” + +“Yes,” said Stephen, in surprise. + +“Well,” blurted Clarence, boyishly, “I was rude to you in my uncle's +house, and I have since been sorry.” + +“He held out his hand, and Stephen took it warmly. + +“I was younger then, Mr. Colfax,” he said, “and I didn't understand your +point of view as well as I do now. Not that I have changed my ideas,” he +added quickly, “but the notion of the girl's going South angered me. I +was bidding against the dealer rather than against you. Had I then known +Miss Carvel--” he stopped abruptly. + +The winning expression died from the face of the other. + +He turned away, and leaning across the rail, stared at the high bluffs, +red-bronzed by the autumn sun. A score of miles beyond that precipice +was a long low building of stone, surrounded by spreading trees,--the +school for young ladies, celebrated throughout the West, where our +mothers and grandmothers were taught,--Monticello. Hither Miss Virginia +Carvel had gone, some thirty days since, for her second winter. + +Perhaps Stephen guessed the thought in the mind of his companion, for +he stared also. The music in the cabin came to an abrupt pause, and only +the tumbling of waters through the planks of the great wheels broke the +silence. They were both startled by laughter at their shoulders. There +stood Miss Russell, the picture of merriment, her arm locked in Anne +Brinsmade's. + +“It is the hour when all devout worshippers turn towards the East,” she +said. “The goddess is enshrined at Monticello.” + +Both young men, as they got to their feet, were crimson. Whereupon Miss +Russell laughed again. Anne, however, blushed for them. But this was not +the first time Miss Russell had gone too far. Young Mr. Colfax, with the +excess of manner which was his at such times, excused himself and left +abruptly. This to the further embarrassment of Stephen and Anne, and the +keener enjoyment of Miss Russell. + +“Was I not right, Mr. Brice?” she demanded. “Why, you are even writing +verses to her!” + +“I scarcely know Miss Carvel,” he said, recovering. “And as for writing +verse--” + +“You never did such a thing in your life! I can well believe it.” + +Miss Russell made a face in the direction Colfax had taken. + +“He always acts like that when you mention her,” she said. + +“But you are so cruel, Puss,” said Anne. “You can't blame him.” + +“Hairpins!” said Miss Russell. + +“Isn't she to marry him?” said Stephen, in his natural voice. + +He remembered his pronouns too late. + +“That has been the way of the world ever since Adam and Eve,” remarked +Puss. “I suppose you meant to ask: Mr. Brice, whether Clarence is to +marry Virginia Carvel.” + +Anne nudged her. + +“My dear, what will Mr. Brice think of us?” + +“Listen, Mr. Brice,” Puss continued, undaunted. “I shall tell you some +gossip. Virginia was sent to Monticello, and went with her father to +Kentucky and Pennsylvania this summer, that she might be away from +Clarence. Colfax.” + +“Oh, Puss!” cried Anne. + +Miss Russell paid not the slightest heed. + +“Colonel Carvel is right,” she went on. “I should do the same thing. +They are first cousins, and the Colonel doesn't like that. I am fond +of Clarence. But he isn't good for anything in the world except horse +racing and--and fighting. He wanted to help drive the Black Republican +emigrants out of Kansas, and his mother had to put a collar and chain on +him. He wanted to go filibustering with Walker, and she had to get down +on her knees. And yet,” she cried, “if you Yankees push us as far as +war, Mr. Brice, just look out for him.” + +“But--” Anne interposed. + +“Oh, I know what you are going to say,--that Clarence has money.” + +“Puss!” cried Anne, outraged. “How dare you!” + +Miss Russell slipped an arm around her waist. + +“Come, Anne,” she said, “we mustn't interrupt the Senator any longer. He +is preparing his maiden speech.” + +That was the way in which Stephen got his nickname. It is scarcely +necessary to add that he wrote no more until he reached his little room +in the house on Olive Street. + +They had passed Alton, and the black cloud that hung in the still autumn +air over the city was in sight. It was dusk when the 'Jackson' pushed +her nose into the levee, and the song of the negro stevedores rose from +below as they pulled the gang-plank on to the landing-stage. Stephen +stood apart on the hurricane deck, gazing at the dark line of sooty +warehouses. How many young men with their way to make have felt the same +as he did after some pleasant excursion. The presence of a tall form +beside him shook him from his revery, and he looked up to recognize the +benevolent face of Mr. Brinsmade. + +“Mrs. Brice may be anxious, Stephen, at the late hour,” said he. “My +carriage is here, and it will give me great pleasure to convey you to +your door.” + +Dear Mr. Brinsmade! He is in heaven now, and knows at last the good +he wrought upon earth. Of the many thoughtful charities which Stephen +received from him, this one sticks firmest in his remembrance: A +stranger, tired and lonely, and apart from the gay young men and women +who stepped from the boat, he had been sought out by this gentleman, to +whom had been given the divine gift of forgetting none. + +“Oh, Puss,” cried Anne, that evening, for Miss Russell had come to spend +the night, “how could you have talked to him so? He scarcely spoke on +the way up in the carriage. You have offended him.” + +“Why should I set him upon a pedestal?” said Puss, with a thread in +her mouth; “why should you all set him upon a pedestal? He is only a +Yankee,” said Puss, tossing her head, “and not so very wonderful.” + +“I did not say he was wonderful,” replied Anne, with dignity. + +“But you girls think him so. Emily and Eugenie and Maude. He had better +marry Belle Cluyme. A great man, he may give some decision to that +family. Anne!” + +“Yes.” + +“Shall I tell you a secret?” + +“Yes,” said Anne. She was human, and she was feminine. + +“Then--Virginia Carvel is in love with him.” + +“With Mr. Brice!” cried astonished Anne. “She hates him!” + +“She thinks she hates him,” said Miss Russell, calmly. + +Anne looked up at her companion admiringly. Her two heroines were Puss +and Virginia. Both had the same kind of daring, but in Puss the trait +had developed into a somewhat disagreeable outspokenness which made many +people dislike her. Her judgments were usually well founded, and her +prophecies had so often come to pass that Anne often believed in them +for no other reason. + +“How do you know?” said Anne, incredulously. + +“Do you remember that September, a year ago, when we were all out at +Glencoe, and Judge Whipple was ill, and Virginia sent us all away and +nursed him herself?” + +“Yes,” said Anne. + +“And did you know that Mr. Brice had gone out, with letters, when the +Judge was better?” + +“Yes,” said Anne, breathless. + +“It was a Saturday afternoon that he left, although they had begged him +to stay over Sunday. Virginia had written for me to come back, and I +arrived in the evening. I asked Easter where Jinny was, and I found +her--” + +“You found her--?” said Anne. + +Sitting alone in the summer-house over the river. Easter said she +had been there for two hours. And I have never known Jinny to be such +miserable company as she was that night. + +“Did she mention Stephen?” asked Anne. + +“No.” + +“But you did,” said Anne, with conviction. + +Miss Russell's reply was not as direct as usual. + +“You know Virginia never confides unless she wants to,” she said. + +Anne considered. + +“Virginia has scarcely seen him since then,” she said. “You know that +I was her room-mate at Monticello last year, and I think I should have +discovered it.” + +“Did she speak of him?” demanded Miss Russell. + +“Only when the subject was mentioned. I heard her repeat once what Judge +Whipple told her father of him; that he had a fine legal mind. He was +often in my letters from home, because they have taken Pa's house next +door, and because Pa likes them. I used to read those letters to Jinny,” + said Anne, “but she never expressed any desire to hear them.” + +“I, too, used to write Jinny about him,” confessed Puss. + +“Did she answer your letter?” + +“No,” replied Miss Puss,--“but that was just before the holidays, you +remember. And then the Colonel hurried her off to see her Pennsylvania +relatives, and I believe they went to Annapolis, too, where the Carvels +come from.” + +Stephen, sitting in the next house, writing out his account, little +dreamed that he was the subject of a conference in the third story front +of the Brinsmades'. Later, when the young ladies were asleep, he carried +his manuscript to the Democrat office, and delivered it into the hands +of his friend, the night editor, who was awaiting it. + +Toward the end of that week, Miss Virginia Carvel was sitting with her +back to one of the great trees at Monticello reading a letter. Every +once in a while she tucked it under her cloak and glanced hastily +around. It was from Miss Anne Brinsmade. + +“I have told you all about the excursion, my dear, and how we missed +you. You may remember” (ah, Anne, the guile there is in the best of us), +“you may remember Mr. Stephen Brice, whom we used to speak of. Pa and Ma +take a great interest in him, and Pa had him invited on the excursion. +He is more serious than ever, since he has become a full-fledged lawyer. +But he has a dry humor which comes out when you know him well, of which +I did not suspect him. His mother is the dearest lady I have ever known, +so quiet, so dignified, and so well bred. They come in to supper very +often. And the other night Mr. Brice told Pa so many things about the +people south of Market Street, the Germans, which he did not know; that +Pa was astonished. He told all about German history, and how they were +persecuted at home, and why they came here. Pa was surprised to hear +that many of them were University men, and that they were already +organizing to defend the Union. I heard Pa say, 'That is what Mr. Blair +meant when he assured me that we need not fear for the city.' + +“Jinny dear, I ought not to have written you this, because you are for +Secession, and in your heart you think Pa a traitor, because he comes +from a slave state and has slaves of his own. But I shall not tear it +up. + +“It is sad to think how rich Mrs. Brice lived in Boston, and what she +has had to come to. One servant and a little house, and no place to go +to in the summer, when they used to have such a large one. I often go in +to sew with her, but she has never once mentioned her past to me. + +“Your father has no doubt sent you the Democrat with the account of the +Convention. It is the fullest published, by far, and was so much admired +that Pa asked the editor who wrote it. Who do you think, but Stephen +Brice! So now Pa knows why Mr. Brice hesitated when Pa asked him to go +up the river, and then consented. This is not the end. Yesterday, when I +went in to see Mrs. Brice, a new black silk was on her bed, and as long +as I live I shall never forget how sweet was her voice when she said, +'It is a surprise from my son, my dear. I did not expect ever to have +another.' Jinny, I just know he bought it with the money he got for the +article. That was what he was writing on the boat when Clarence Colfax +interrupted him. Puss accused him of writing verses to you.” + +At this point Miss Virginia Carvel stopped reading. Whether she had read +that part before, who shall say? But she took Anne's letter between her +fingers and tore it into bits and flung the bits into the wind, so that +they were tossed about and lost among the dead leaves under the great +trees. And when she reached her room, there was the hated Missouri +Democrat lying, still open, on her table. A little later a great black +piece of it came tossing out of the chimney above, to the affright +of little Miss Brown, teacher of Literature, who was walking in the +grounds, and who ran to the principal's room with the story that the +chimney was afire. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE COLONEL IS WARNED + +It is difficult to refrain from mention of the leave-taking of Miss +Virginia Carvel from the Monticello “Female Seminary,” so called in the +'Democrat'. Most young ladies did not graduate in those days. There +were exercises. Stephen chanced to read in the 'Republican' about these +ceremonies, which mentioned that Miss Virginia Carvel, “Daughter of +Colonel Comyn Carvel, was without doubt the beauty of the day. She +wore--” but why destroy the picture? I have the costumes under my hand. +The words are meaningless to all males, and young women might laugh at +a critical time. Miss Emily Russell performed upon “that most superb of +all musical instruments the human voice.” Was it 'Auld Robin Gray' that +she sang? I am sure it was Miss Maude Catherwood who recited 'To My +Mother', with such effect. Miss Carvel, so Stephen learned with alarm, +was to read a poem by Mrs. Browning, but was “unavoidably prevented.” + The truth was, as he heard afterward from Miss Puss Russell, that +Miss Jinny had refused point blank. So the Lady Principal, to save her +reputation for discipline, had been forced to deceive the press. + +There was another who read the account of the exercises with intense +interest, a gentleman of whom we have lately forborne to speak. This is +Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Eliphalet has prospered. It is to be doubted if +that somewhat easy-going gentleman, Colonel Carvel, realized the +full importance of Eliphalet to Carvel & Company. Mr. Hood had been +superseded. Ephum still opened the store in the mornings, but Mr. +Hopper was within the ground-glass office before the place was warm, and +through warerooms and shipping rooms, rubbing his hands, to see if any +were late. Many of the old force were missed, and a new and greater +force were come in. These feared Eliphalet as they did the devil, and +worked the harder to please him, because Eliphalet had hired that kind. +To them the Colonel was lifted high above the sordid affairs of the +world. He was at the store every day in the winter, and Mr. Hopper +always followed him obsequiously into the ground-glass office, called in +the book-keeper, and showed him the books and the increased earnings. + +The Colonel thought of Mr. Hood and his slovenly management, and sighed, +in spite of his doubled income. Mr. Hopper had added to the Company's +list of customers whole districts in the growing Southwest, and yet the +honest Colonel did not like him. Mr. Hopper, by a gradual process, +had taken upon his own shoulders, and consequently off the Colonel's, +responsibility after responsibility. There were some painful scenes, +of course, such as the departure of Mr. Hood, which never would have +occurred had not Eliphalet proved without question the incapacity of +the ancient manager. Mr. Hopper only narrowed his lids when the Colonel +pensioned Mr. Hood. But the Colonel had a will before which, when +roused, even Mr. Hopper trembled. So that Eliphalet was always polite +to Ephum, and careful never to say anything in the darkey's presence +against incompetent clerks or favorite customers, who, by the charity of +the Colonel, remained on his books. + +One spring day, after the sober home-coming of Colonel Carvel from the +Democratic Convention at Charleston, Ephum accosted his master as +he came into the store of a morning. Ephum's face was working with +excitement. + +“What's the matter with you, Ephum?” asked the Colonel, kindly. “You +haven't been yourself lately.” + +“No, Marsa, I ain't 'zactly.” + +Ephum put down the duster, peered out of the door of the private office, +and closed it softly. + +“Marse Comyn?” + +“Yes?” + +“Marse Comyn, I ain't got no use fo' dat Misteh Hoppa', Ise kinder +sup'stitious 'bout him, Marsa.” + +The Colonel put down his newspaper. + +“Has he treated you badly, Ephum?” he asked quietly. + +The faithful negro saw another question in his master's face. He well +knew that Colonel Carvel would not descend to ask an inferior concerning +the conduct of a superior. + +“Oh no, suh. And I ain't sayin' nuthin' gin his honesty. He straight, +but he powerful sharp, Marse Comyn. An' he jus' mussiless down to a +cent.” + +The Colonel sighed. He realized that which was beyond the grasp of the +negro's mind. New and thriftier methods of trade from New England were +fast replacing the old open-handedness of the large houses. Competition +had begun, and competition is cruel. Edwards, James, & Company had taken +a Yankee into the firm. They were now Edwards, James, & Doddington, and +Mr. Edwards's coolness towards the Colonel was manifest since the rise +of Eliphalet. They were rivals now instead of friends. But Colonel +Carvel did not know until after years that Mr. Hopper had been offered +the place which Mr. Doddington filled later. + +As for Mr. Hopper, increase of salary had not changed him. He still +lived in the same humble way, in a single room in Miss Crane's +boarding-house, and he paid very little more for his board than he had +that first week in which he swept out Colonel Carvel's store. He +was superintendent, now, of Mr. Davitt's Sunday School, and a church +officer. At night, when he came home from business, he would read the +widow's evening paper, and the Colonel's morning paper at the office. Of +true Puritan abstemiousness, his only indulgence was chewing tobacco. +It was as early as 1859 that the teller of the Boatman's Bank began to +point out Mr. Hopper's back to casual customers, and he was more than +once seen to enter the president's room, which had carpet on the floor. + +Eliphalet's suavity with certain delinquent customers from the Southwest +was A wording to Scripture. When they were profane, and invited him +into the street, he reminded them that the city had a police force and a +jail. While still a young man, he had a manner of folding his hands +and smiling which is peculiar to capitalists, and he knew the laws +concerning mortgages in several different states. + +But Eliphalet was content still to remain in the sphere in which +Providence had placed him, and so to be an example for many of us. +He did not buy, or even hire, an evening suit. He was pleased to +superintend some of the details for a dance at Christmas-time before +Virginia left Monticello, but he sat as usual on the stair-landing. +There Mr. Jacob Cluyme (who had been that day in conversation with +the teller of the Boatman's Bank) chanced upon him. Mr. Cluyme was so +charmed at the facility with which Eliphalet recounted the rise and fall +of sugar and cotton and wheat that he invited Mr. Hopper to dinner. And +from this meal may be reckoned the first appearance of the family of +which Eliphalet Hopper was the head into polite society. If the Cluyme +household was not polite, it was nothing. Eliphalet sat next to Miss +Belle, and heard the private history of many old families, which he +cherished for future use. Mrs. Cluyme apologized for the dinner, which +(if the truth were told) needed an apology. All of which is significant, +but sordid and uninteresting. Jacob Cluyme usually bought stocks before +a rise. + +There was only one person who really bothered Eliphalet as he rose into +prominence, and that person was Captain Elijah Brent. If, upon entering +the ground-glass office, he found Eliphalet without the Colonel, +Captain Lige would walk out again just as if the office were empty. The +inquiries he made were addressed always to Ephum. Once, when Mr. Hopper +had bidden him good morning and pushed a chair toward him, the honest +Captain had turned his back and marched straight to the house or Tenth +Street, where he found the Colonel alone at breakfast. The Captain sat +down opposite. + +“Colonel,” said he, without an introduction. “I don't like this here +business of letting Hopper run your store. He's a fish, I tell you.” + +The Colonel drank his coffee in silence. + +“Lige,” he said gently, “he's nearly doubled my income. It isn't the old +times, when we all went our own way and kept our old customers year in +and year out. You know that.” + +The Captain took a deep draught of the coffee which Jackson had laid +before him. + +“Colonel Carvel,” he said emphatically, “the fellow's a damned rascal, +and will ruin you yet if you don't take advice.” + +The Colonel shifted uneasily. + +“The books show that he's honest, Lige.” + +“Yes,” cried Lige, with his fist on the table. “Honest to a mill. But +if that fellow ever gets on top of you, or any one else, he'll grind you +into dust.” + +“He isn't likely to get on top of me, Lige. I know the business, and +keep watch. And now that Jinny's coming home from Monticello, I feel +that I can pay more attention to her--kind of take her mother's place,” + said the Colonel, putting on his felt hat and tipping his chair. “Lige, +I want that girl to have every advantage. She ought to go to Europe and +see the world. That trip East last summer did her a heap of good. When +we were at Calvert House, Dan read her something that my grandfather had +written about London, and she was regularly fired. First I must take +her to the Eastern Shore to see Carvel Hall. Dan still owns it. Now it's +London and Paris.” + +The Captain walked over to the window, and said nothing. He did not see +the searching gray eyes of his old friend upon him. + +“Lige!” said the Colonel. + +The Captain turned. + +“Lige, why don't you give up steamboating and come along to Europe? +You're not forty yet, and you have a heap of money laid by.” + +The Captain shook his head with the vigor that characterized him. + +“This ain't no time for me to leave,” he said. “Colonel; I tell you +there's a storm comin'.” + +The Colonel pulled his goatee uneasily. Here, at last, was a man in whom +there was no guile. + +“Lige,” he said, “isn't it about time you got married?” + +Upon which the Captain shook his head again, even with more vigor. He +could not trust himself to speak. After the Christmas holidays he had +driven Virginia across the frozen river, all the way to Monticello, in a +sleigh. It was night when they had reached the school, the light of its +many windows casting long streaks on the snow under the trees. He had +helped her out, and had taken her hand as she stood on the step. + +“Be good, Jinny,” he had said. “Remember what a short time it will be +until June. And your Pa will come over to see you.” + +She had seized him by the buttons of his great coat, and said tearfully: +“O Captain Lige! I shall be so lonely when you are away. Aren't you +going to kiss me?” + +He had put his lips to her forehead, driven madly back to Alton, and +spent the night. The first thing he did the next day when he reached +St. Louis was to go straight to the Colonel and tell him bluntly of the +circumstance. + +“Lige, I'd hate to give her up,” Mr. Carvel said; “but I'd rather you'd +marry her than any man I can think of.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. SIGNS OF THE TIMES + +In that spring of 1860 the time was come for the South to make her +final stand. And as the noise of gathering conventions shook the ground, +Stephen Brice was not the only one who thought of the Question at +Freeport. The hour was now at hand for it to bear fruit. + +Meanwhile, his hero, the hewer of rails and forger of homely speech, +Abraham Lincoln, had made a little tour eastward the year before, and +had startled Cooper Union with a new logic and a new eloquence. They +were the same logic and the same eloquence which had startled Stephen. + +Even as he predicted who had given it birth, the Question destroyed the +great Democratic Party. Colonel Carvel travelled to the convention in +historic Charleston soberly and fearing God, as many another Southern +gentleman. In old Saint Michael's they knelt to pray for harmony, for +peace; for a front bold and undismayed toward those who wronged them. +All through the week chosen orators wrestled in vain. Judge Douglas, +you flattered yourself that you had evaded the Question. Do you see +the Southern delegates rising in their seats? Alabama leaves the hall, +followed by her sister stakes. The South has not forgotten your Freeport +Heresy. Once she loved you now she will have none of you. + +Gloomily, indeed, did Colonel Carvel return home. He loved the Union and +the flag for which his grandfather Richard had fought so bravely. That +flag was his inheritance. So the Judge, laying his hand upon the knee +of his friend, reminded him gravely. But the Colonel shook his head. The +very calmness of their argument had been portentous. + +“No, Whipple,” said he. “You are a straightforward man. You can't +disguise it. You of the North are bent upon taking away from us the +rights we had when our fathers framed the Constitution. However the +nigger got to this country, sir, in your Bristol and Newport traders, as +well as in our Virginia and Maryland ships, he is here, and he was here +when the Constitution was written. He is happier in slavery than are +your factory hands in New England; and he is no more fit to exercise the +solemn rights of citizenship, I say, than the halfbreeds in the South +American states.” + +The Judge attempted to interrupt, but Mr. Carvel stopped him. + +“Suppose you deprive me of my few slaves, you do not ruin me. Yet you +do me as great a wrong as you do my friend Samuels, of Louisiana, who +depends on the labor of five hundred. Shall I stand by selfishly and see +him ruined, and thousands of others like him?” + +Profoundly depressed, Colonel Carvel did not attend the adjourned +Convention at Baltimore, which split once more on Mason and Dixon's +line. The Democrats of the young Northwest stood for Douglas and +Johnson, and the solid South, in another hall, nominated Breckenridge +and Lane. This, of course, became the Colonel's ticket. + +What a Babel of voices was raised that summer! Each with its cure +for existing ills. Between the extremes of the Black Republican +Negro Worshippers and the Southern Rights party of Breckenridge, your +conservative had the choice of two candidates,--of Judge Douglas +or Senator Bell. A most respectable but practically extinct body of +gentlemen in ruffled shirts, the Old Line Whigs, had likewise met +in Baltimore. A new name being necessary, they called themselves +Constitutional Unionists Senator Bell was their candidate, and they +proposed to give the Nation soothing-syrup. So said Judge Whipple, +with a grunt of contempt, to Mr. Cluyme, who was then a prominent +Constitutional Unionist. Other and most estimable gentlemen were also +Constitutional Unionists, notably Mr. Calvin Brinsmade. Far be it from +any one to cast disrespect upon the reputable members of this party, +whose broad wings sheltered likewise so many weak brethren. + +One Sunday evening in May, the Judge was taking tea with Mrs. Brice. +The occasion was memorable for more than one event--which was that he +addressed Stephen by his first name for the first time. + +“You're an admirer of Abraham Lincoln,” he had said. + +Stephen, used to Mr. Whipple's ways, smiled quietly at his mother. +He had never dared mention to the Judge his suspicions concerning his +journey to Springfield and Freeport. + +“Stephen,” said the Judge (here the surprise came in), “Stephen, what do +you think of Mr. Lincoln's chances for the Republican nomination?” + +“We hear of no name but Seward's, sir,” said Stephen, When he had +recovered. + +The Judge grunted. + +“Do you think that Lincoln would make a good President?” he added. + +“I have thought so, sir, ever since you were good enough to give me the +opportunity of knowing him.” + +It was a bold speech--the Judge drew his great eyebrows together, but he +spoke to Mrs. Brice. + +“I'm not as strong as I was once, ma'am,” said he. “And yet I am going +to that Chicago convention.” + +Mrs. Brice remonstrated mildly, to the effect that he had done his share +of political work. He scarcely waited for her to finish. + +“I shall take a younger man with me, in case anything happens. In fact, +ma'am, I had thought of taking your son, if you can spare him.” + +And so it was that Stephen went to that most dramatic of political +gatherings,--in the historic Wigwam. It was so that his eyes were +opened to the view of the monster which maims the vitality of the +Republic,--the political machine. Mr. Seward had brought his machine +from New York,--a legion prepared to fill the Wigwam with their bodies, +and to drown with their cries all names save that of their master. + +Stephen indeed had his eyes opened. Through the kindness of Judge +Whipple he heard many quiet talks between that gentleman and delegates +from other states--Pennsylvania and Illinois and Indiana and elsewhere. +He perceived that the Judge was no nonentity in this new party. +Mr. Whipple sat in his own room, and the delegates came and ranged +themselves along the bed. Late one night, when the delegates were gone, +Stephen ventured to speak what was in his mind. + +“Mr. Lincoln did not strike me as the kind of man, sir; who would permit +a bargain.” + +“Mr. Lincoln's at home playing barn-ball,” said the Judge, curtly. “He +doesn't expect the nomination.” + +“Then,” said Stephen, rather hotly, “I think you are unfair to him.” + +You are expecting the Judge to thunder. Sometimes he liked this kind of +speech. + +“Stephen, I hope that politics may be a little cleaner when you become +a delegate,” he answered, with just the suspicion of a smile. “Supposing +you are convinced that Abraham Lincoln is the only man who can save the +Union, and supposing that the one way to get him nominated is to meet +Seward's gang with their own methods, what would you do, sir? I want +a practical proposition, sir,” said Mr. Whipple, “one that we can use +to-night. It is now one 'clock.” + +As Stephen was silent, the Judge advised him to go to bed. And the next +morning, while Mr. Seward's henchmen, confident and uproarious, were +parading the streets of Chicago with their bands and their bunting, the +vast Wigwam was quietly filling up with bony Westerners whose ally was +none other than the state of Pennsylvania. These gentlemen possessed +wind which they had not wasted in processions. And the Lord delivered +Seward and all that was his into their hands. + +How the light of Mr. Seward's hope went out after the first ballot, +and how some of the gentlemen attached to his person wept; and how the +voices shook the Wigwam, and the thunder of the guns rolled over the +tossing water of the lake, many now living remember. That day a name was +delivered to the world through the mouths political schemers which was +destined to enter history that of the saviour of the Nation. + +Down in little Springfield, on a vacant lot near the station, a tall +man in his shirt sleeves was playing barn-ball with some boys. The game +finished, he had put on his black coat and was starting homeward under +the tree--when a fleet youngster darted after him with a telegram. The +tall man read it, and continued on his walk his head bent and his feet +taking long strides, Later in the day he was met by a friend. + +“Abe,” said the friend, “I'm almighty glad there somebody in this town's +got notorious at last.” + +In the early morning of their return from Chicago Judge Whipple +and Stephen were standing in the front of a ferry-boat crossing the +Mississippi. The sun was behind them. The Judge had taken off his hat, +and his gray hair was stirred by the river breeze. Illness had set +a yellow seal on the face, but the younger man remarked it not. For +Stephen, staring at the black blur of the city outline, was filled +with a strange exaltation which might have belonged to his Puritan +forefathers. Now at length was come his chance to be of use in life,--to +dedicate the labor of his hands and of his brains to Abraham Lincoln +uncouth prophet of the West. With all his might he would work to save +the city for the man who was the hope of the Union. + +The bell rang. The great paddles scattered the brow waters with white +foam, and the Judge voiced his thoughts. + +“Stephen,” said he, “I guess we'll have to put on shoulders to the wheel +this summer. If Lincoln is not elected I have lived my sixty-five years +for nothing.” + +As he descended the plank, he laid a hand on Stephen's arm, and +tottered. The big Louisiana, Captain Brent's boat, just in from New +Orleans, was blowing off her steam as with slow steps they climbed the +levee and the steep pitch of the street beyond it. The clatter of hooves +and the crack of whips reached their ears, and, like many others before +them and since, they stepped into Carvel & Company's. On the inside of +the glass partition of the private office, a voice of great suavity was +heard. It was Eliphalet Hopper's. + +“If you will give me the numbers of the bales, Captain Brent, I'll send +a dray down to your boat and get them.” + +It was a very decisive voice that answered. + +“No, sir, I prefer to do business with my friend, Colonel Carvel. I +guess I can wait.” + +“I could sell the goods to Texas buyers who are here in the store right +now.” + +“Until I get instructions from one of the concern,” vowed Captain Lige, +“I shall do as I always have done, sir. What is your position here, Mr. +Hopper?” + +“I am manager, I callate.” + +The Captain's fist was heard to come down on the desk. + +“You don't manage me,” he said, “and I reckon you don't manage the +Colonel.” + +Mr. Hopper's face was not pleasant to see as he emerged. But at sight of +Judge Whipple on the steps his suavity returned. + +“The Colonel will be in any minute, sir,” said he. + +But the Judge walked past him without reply, and into the office. +Captain Brent, seeing him; sprang to his feet. + +“Well, well, Judge,” said he, heartily, “you fellows have done it now, +sure. I'll say this for you, you've picked a smart man.” + +“Better vote for him, Lige,” said the Judge, setting down. + +The Captain smiled at Stephen. + +“A man's got a lot of choice this year;” said he. “Two governments, +thirty-three governments, one government patched up for a year ox two.” + +“Or no government,” finished the Judge. “Lige, you're not such a fool as +to vote against the Union?” + +“Judge,” said the Captain, instantly, “I'm not the only one in this town +who will have to decide whether my sympathies are wrong. My sympathies +are with the South.” + +“It's not a question of sympathy, Captain,” answered the Judge, dryly. +“Abraham Lincoln himself was born in Kentucky.” + +They had not heard a step without. + +“Gentlemen, mark my words. If Abraham Lincoln is elected, the South +leaves this Union.” + +The Judge started, and looked up. The speaker was Colonel Carvel +himself. + +“Then, sir,” Mr. Whipple cried hotly, “then you will be chastised +and brought back. For at last we have chosen a man who is strong +enough,--who does not fear your fire-eaters,--whose electors depend on +Northern votes alone.” + +Stephen rose apprehensively, So did Captain Lige The Colonel had taken a +step forward, and a fire was quick to kindle in his gray eyes. It was +as quick to die. Judge Whipple, deathly pale, staggered and fell into +Stephen' arms. But it was the Colonel who laid him on the horsehair +sofa. + +“Silas!” he said, “Silas!” + +Nor could the two who listened sound the depth of the pathos the Colonel +put into those two words. + +But the Judge had not fainted. And the brusqueness in his weakened voice +was even more pathetic-- “Tut, tut,” said he. “A little heat, and no +breakfast.” + +The Colonel already had a bottle of the famous Bourbon day his hand, +and Captain Lige brought a glass of muddy iced water. Mr. Carvel made an +injudicious mixture of the two, and held it to the lips of his friend. +He was pushed away. + +“Come, Silas,” he said. + +“No!” cried the Judge, and with this effort he slipped back again. Those +who stood there thought that the stamp of death was already on Judge +Whipple's face. + +But the lips were firmly closed, bidding defiance, as ever, to the +world. The Colonel, stroking his goatee, regarded him curiously. + +“Silas,” he said slowly, “if you won't drink it for me, perhaps you will +drink it--for--Abraham--Lincoln.” + +The two who watched that scene have never forgotten it. Outside, in the +great cool store, the rattle of the trucks was heard, and Mr. Hopper +giving commands. Within was silence. The straight figure of the Colonel +towered above the sofa while he waited. A full minute passed. Once Judge +Whipple's bony hand opened and shut, and once his features worked. Then, +without warning, he sat up. + +“Colonel,” said he, “I reckon I wouldn't be much use to Abe if I took +that. But if you'll send Ephum after, cup of coffee--” + +Mr. Carvel set the glass down. In two strides he had reached the door +and given the order. Then he came hack and seated himself on the sofa. + +Stephen found his mother at breakfast. He had forgotten the convention +He told her what had happened at Mr. Carvel's store, and how the Colonel +had tried to persuade Judge Whipple to take the Glencoe house while he +was in Europe, and how the Judge had refused. Tears were in the widow's +eyes when Stephen finished. + +“And he means to stay here in the heat and go through, the campaign?” + she asked. + +“He says that he will not stir.” + +“It will kill him, Stephen,” Mrs. Brice faltered. + +“So the Colonel told him. And he said that he would die willingly--after +Abraham Lincoln was elected. He had nothing to live for but to fight for +that. He had never understood the world, and had quarrelled with at all +his life.” + +“He said that to Colonel Carvel?” + +“Yes.” + +“Stephen!” + +He didn't dare to look at his mother, nor she at him. And when he +reached the office, half an hour later, Mr. Whipple was seated in his +chair, defiant and unapproachable. Stephen sighed as he settled down to +his work. The thought of one who might have accomplished what her father +could not was in his head. She was at Monticello. + +Some three weeks later Mr. Brinsmade's buggy drew up at Mrs. Brice's +door. The Brinsmade family had been for some time in the country. And +frequently, when that gentleman was detained in town by business, he +would stop at the little home for tea. The secret of the good man's +visit came out as he sat with them on the front steps afterward. + +“I fear that it will be a hot summer, ma'am,” he had said to Mrs. Brice. +“You should go to the country.” + +“The heat agrees with me remarkably, Mr. Brinsmade,” said the lady, +smiling. + +“I have heard that Colonel Carvel wishes to rent his house at Glencoe,” + Mr. Brinsmade continued, “The figure is not high.” He mentioned it. And +it was, indeed nominal. “It struck me that a change of air would do you +good, Mrs. Brice, and Stephen. Knowing that you shared in our uneasiness +concerning Judge Whipple, I thought--” + +He stopped, and looked at her. It was a hard task even for that best +and roost tactful of gentlemen, Mr. Brinsmade. He too had misjudged this +calm woman. + +“I understand you, Mr. Brinsmade,” she said. She saw, as did Stephen, +the kindness behind the offer--Colonel Carvel's kindness and his own. +The gentleman's benevolent face brightened: + +“And, my dear Madam, do not let the thought of this little house trouble +you. It was never my expectation to have it occupied in the summer. If +we could induce the Judge to go to Glencoe with you for the summer; I am +sure it would be a relief for us all.” + +He did not press the matter; but begged Stephen to call on him in a day +or two, at the bank. + +“What do you think, Stephen,” asked his mother, when Mr. Brinsmade was +gone, Stephen did not reply at once. What, indeed, could he say? The +vision of that proud figure of Miss Virginia was before him, and he +revolted. What was kindness from Colonel Carvel and Mr. Brinsmade was +charity from her. He could not bear the thought of living in a house +haunted by her. And yet why should he let his pride and his feelings +stand in the way of the health--perhaps of the life--of Judge Whipple? + +It was characteristic of his mothers strength of mind not to mention the +subject again that evening. Stephen did not sleep in the hot night. But +when he rose in the morning he had made up his mind. After breakfast he +went straight to the Colonel's store, and fortunately found. Mr. Carvel +at his desk, winding up his affairs. + +The next morning, when the train for the East pulled out of +Illinoistown, Miss Jinny Carvel stood on the plat form tearfully waving +good-by to a knot of friends. She was leaving for Europe. Presently she +went into the sleeping-car to join the Colonel, who wore a gray liners +duster. For a long time she sat gazing at the young, corn waving on +the prairie, fingering the bunch of June roses on her lap. Clarence had +picked them only a few hours ago, in the dew at Bellegarde. She saw her +cousin standing disconsolate under the train sheds, just as she had left +him. She pictured him riding out the Bellefontaine Road that afternoon, +alone. Now that the ocean was to be between them, was it love that she +felt for Clarence at last? She glanced at her father. Once or twice she +had suspected him of wishing to separate them. Her Aunt Lillian, indeed, +had said as much, and Virginia had silenced her. But when she had asked +the Colonel to take Clarence to Europe, he had refused. And yet she knew +that he had begged Captain Lige to go. + +Virginia had been at home but a week. She had seen the change in +Clarence and exulted. The very first day she had surprised him on the +porch at Bellegarde with “Hardee's tactics”. From a boy Clarence had +suddenly become a man with a Purpose,--and that was the Purpose of the +South. + +“They have dared to nominate that dirty Lincoln,” he said.--“Do you +think that we will submit to nigger equality rule? Never! never!” he +cried. “If they elect him, I will stand and fight them until my legs +are shot from under me, and then I will shoot down the Yankees from the +ground.” + +Virginia's heart had leaped within her at the words, and into her eyes +had flashed once more the look for which the boy had waited and hoped in +vain. He had the carriage of a soldier, the animation and endurance +of the thoroughbred when roused. He was of the stuff that made the +resistance of the South the marvel of the world. And well we know, +whatever the sound of it, that his speech was not heroics. Nor was it +love for his cousin that inspired it, save in this: he had apotheosized +Virginia. To him she was the inspired goddess of the South--his country. +His admiration and affection had of late been laid upon an altar. Her +ambition for him he felt was likewise the South's ambition for him. + +His mother, Virginia's aunt, felt this too, and strove against it with +her feeble might. She never had had power over her son; nor over any +man, save the temporal power of beauty. And to her mortification she +found herself actually in fear of this girl who might have been her +daughter. So in Virginia's presence she became more trivial and petty +than ever. It was her one defence. + +It had of course been a foregone conclusion that Clarence should join +Company A. Few young men of family did not. And now he ran to his room +to don for Virginia that glorious but useless full dress,--the high +bearskin rat, the red pigeon-tailed coat, the light blue trousers, and +the gorgeous, priceless shackle. Indeed, the boy looked stunning. He +held his big rifle like a veteran, and his face was set with a high +resolve there was no mistaking. The high color of her pride was on the +cheek of the girl as he brought his piece to the salute of her, his +mistress. And yet, when he was gone, and she sat alone amid the roses +awaiting him, came wilfully before her another face that was relentless +determination,--the face of Stephen Brice, as he had stood before her +in the summer house at Glencoe. Strive as she might against the thought, +deny it to herself and others, to Virginia Carvel his way become the +face of the North. Her patriotism and all that was in her of race +rebelled. To conquer that face she would have given her own soul, and +Clarence's. Angrily she had arisen and paced the garden walks, and cried +out aloud that it was not inflexible. + +And now, by the car window, looking out over the endless roll of the +prairie, the memory of this was bitter within her. + +Suddenly she turned to her father. + +“Did you rent our house at Glencoe?” she asked. + +“No, Jinny.” + +“I suppose Mr. Brice was too proud to accept it at your charitable rent, +even to save Mr. Whipple's life.” + +The Colonel turned to his daughter in mild surprise. She was leaning +back on the seat, her eyes half closed. + +“Once you dislike a person, Jinny, you never get over it. I always had +a fancy for the young man, and now I have a better opinion of him than +ever before. It was I who insulted them by naming that rent.” + +“What did he do?” Virginia demanded. + +“He came to my office yesterday morning. 'Colonel Carvel,' said he, +'I hear you wish to rent your house.' I said yes. 'You rented it once +before, sir,' said he. 'Yes,' said I. 'May I ask you what price you got +for it?' said he.” + +“And what did you say?” she asked, leaning forward. + +“I told him,” said the Colonel, smiling. “But I explained that I could +not expect to command that price now on short notice. He replied that +they would pay it, or not consider the place.” + +Virginia turned her head away and stared out over the fields. + +“How could they afford it!” she murmured. + +“Mr. Brinsmade tells me that young Brice won rather a remarkable case +last winter, and since then has had some practice. And that he writes +for the newspapers. I believe he declined some sort of an editorial +position, preferring to remain at the law.” + +“And so they are going into the house?” she asked presently. + +“No,” said the Colonel. “Whipple refused point-blank to go to the +country. He said that he would be shirking the only work of his life +likely to be worth anything. So the Brices remain in town.” + +Colonel Carvel sighed. But Virginia said nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER X. RICHTER'S SCAR + +This was the summer when Mr. Stephen Brice began to make his appearance +in public. The very first was rather encouraging than otherwise, +although they were not all so. It was at a little town on the outskirts +of the city where those who had come to scoff and jeer remained to +listen. + +In writing that speech Stephen had striven to bear in mind a piece of +advice which Mr. Lincoln had given him. “Speak so that the lowest may +understand, and the rest will have no trouble.” And it had worked. At +the halting lameness of the beginning an egg was thrown,--fortunately +wide of the mark. After this incident Stephen fairly astonished his +audience,--especially an elderly gentleman who sat on a cracker-box in +the rear, out of sight of the stand. This may have been Judge Whipple, +although we have no proof of the fact. + +Stephen himself would not have claimed originality for that speech. He +laughs now when it is spoken of, and calls it a boyish effort, which it +was. I have no doubt that many of the master's phrases slipped in, as +young Mr. Brice could repeat most of the Debates, and the Cooper Union +speech by heart. He had caught more than the phrasing, however. So +imbued was he with the spirit of Abraham Lincoln that his hearers caught +it; and that was the end of the rotten eggs and the cabbages. The event +is to be especially noted because they crowded around him afterward to +ask questions. For one thing, he had not mentioned abolition. Wasn't it +true, then, that this Lincoln wished to tear the negro from his master, +give him a vote and a subsidy, and set him up as the equal of the man +that owned him? “Slavery may stay where it is,” cried the young orator. +“If it is content there, so are we content. What we say is that it shall +not go one step farther. No, not one inch into a northern territory.” + +On the next occasion Mr. Brice was one of the orators at a much larger +meeting in a garden in South St. Louis. The audience was mostly German. +And this was even a happier event, inasmuch as Mr. Brice was able to +trace with some skill the history of the Fatherland from the Napoleonic +wars to its Revolution. Incidentally he told them why they had emigrated +to this great and free country. And when in an inspired moment he +coupled the names of Abraham Lincoln and Father Jahn, the very leaves of +the trees above them trembled at their cheers. + +And afterwards there was a long-remembered supper in the moonlit grove +with Richter and a party of his college friends from Jena. There was +Herr Tiefel with the little Dresden-blue eyes, red and round and jolly; +and Hauptmann, long and thin and sallow; and Korner, redbearded and +ponderous; and Konig, a little clean-cut man with a blond mustache +that pointed upward. They clattered their steins on the table and sang +wonderful Jena songs, while Stephen was lifted up and his soul carried +off to far-away Saxony,--to the clean little University town with +its towers and crooked streets. And when they sang the Trolksmelodie, +“Bemooster Bursche zieh' ich aus,--Ade!” a big tear rolled down the scar +on Richter's cheek. + + “Fahrt wohl, ihr Strassen grad and krumm + Ich zieh' nicht mehr in euch herum, + Durchton euch nicht mehr mit Gesang, + Mit Larm nicht mehr and Sporenklang.” + +As the deep tones died away, the soft night was steeped in the sadness +of that farewell song. It was Richter who brought the full force of it +home to Stephen. + +“Do you recall the day you left your Harvard, and your Boston, my +friend?” he asked. + +Stephen only nodded. He had never spoken of the bitterness of that, even +to his mother. And here was the difference between the Saxon and the +Anglo-Saxon. + +Richter smoked his pipe 'mid dreamy silence, the tear still wet upon his +face. + +“Tiefel and I were at the University together,” he said at length. “He +remembers the day I left Jena for good and all. Ah, Stephen, that is +the most pathetic thing in life, next to leaving the Fatherland. We +dine with our student club for the last time at the Burg Keller, a dingy +little tavern under a grim old house, but very dear to us. We swear for +the last time to be clean and honorable and patriotic, and to die for +the Fatherland, if God so wills. And then we march at the head of a slow +procession out of the old West Gate, two and two, old members first, +then the fox major and the foxes.” + +“The foxes?” Stephen interrupted. + +“The youngsters--the freshmen, you call them,” answered Richter, +smiling. + +“And after the foxes,” said Herr Tiefel, taking up the story, “after the +foxes comes the empty carriage, with its gay postilion and four. It is +like a long funeral. And every man is chanting that song. And so we go +slowly until we; come to the Oil Mill Tavern, where we have had many +a schlager-bout with the aristocrats. And the president of our society +makes his farewell speech under the vines, and we drink to you with all +the honors. And we drank to you, Carl, renowned swordsman!” And Herr +Tiefel, carried away by the recollection, rose to his feet. + +The others caught fire, and stood up with their mugs high in the air, +shouting: + +“Lebe wohl, Carl! Lebe wohl! Salamander, salamander, salamander! Ein ist +ein, zwei ist zwei, drei ist drei! Lebe wohl!” + +And so they toasted every man present, even Stephen himself, whom they +complimented on his speech. And he soon learned to cry Salamander, +and to rub his mug on the table, German fashion. He was not long in +discovering that Richter was not merely a prime favorite with his +companions, but likewise a person of some political importance in South +St. Louis. In the very midst of their merriment an elderly man whom +Stephen recognized as one of the German leaders (he afterwards became a +United States general) came and stood smiling by the table and joined in +the singing. But presently he carried Richter away with him. + +“What a patriot he would have made, had our country been spared to us!” + exclaimed Herr Konig. “I think he was the best man with the Schlager +that Jena ever saw. Even Korner likes not to stand against him in mask +and fencing hat, all padded. Eh, Rudolph?” + +Herr Korner gave a good-natured growl of assent. + +“I have still a welt that he gave me a month since,” he said. “He has +left his mark on many an aristocrat.” + +“And why did you always fight the aristocrats?” Stephen asked. + +They all tried to tell him at once, but Tiefel prevailed. + +“Because they were for making our country Austrian, my friend,” he +cried. “Because they were overbearing, and ground the poor. Because the +most of them were immoral like the French, and we knew that it must be +by morality and pure living that our 'Vaterland' was to be rescued. And +so we formed our guilds in opposition to theirs. We swore to live by the +standards of the great Jahn, of whom you spoke. We swore to strive for +the freedom of Germany with manly courage. And when we were not duelling +with the nobles, we had Schlager-bouts among ourselves.” + +“Broadswords?” exclaimed Stephen, in amazement. + +“Ja wohl,” answered Korner, puffing heavily. The slit in his nose was +plain even in the moonlight. “To keep our hands in, as you would say. +You Americans are a brave people--without the Schlager. But we fought +that we might not become effete.” + +It was then that Stephen ventured to ask a question that, had been long +burning within him. + +“See here, Mr. Korner,” said he, “how did Richter come by that scar? He +always gets red when I mention it. He will never tell me.” + +“Ah, I can well believe that,” answered Korner. “I will recount that +matter,--if you do not tell Carl, lieber Freund. He would not forgive +me. I was there in Berlin at the time. It was a famous time. Tiefel will +bear me out.” + +“Ja, ja!” said Tiefel, eagerly. + +“Mr. Brice,” Herr Korner continued, “has never heard of the Count von +Kalbach. No, of course. We at Jena had, and all Germany. Many of us of +the Burschenschaft will bear to the grave the marks of his Schlager. Von +Kalbach went to Bonn, that university of the aristocrats, where he was +worshipped. When he came to Berlin with his sister, crowds would gather +to look at them. They were like Wodan and Freya. 'Donner'!” exclaimed +Herr Korner, “there is something in blood, when all is said. He was as +straight and strong as an oak of the Black Forest, and she as fair as a +poplar. It is so with the Pomeranians. + +“It was in the year '47, when Carl Richter was gone home to Berlin +before his last semester, to see his father: One fine morning von +Kalbach rode in at the Brandenburg gate on a great black stallion. He +boasted openly that day that none of the despised 'Burschenschaft' dare +stand before him. And Carl Richter took up the challenge. Before night +all Berlin had heard of the temerity of the young Liberal of the Jena +'Burschenschaft'. To our shame be it said, we who knew and loved Carl +likewise feared for him. + +“Carl chose for his second Ebhardt, a man of our own Germanian Club at +Jena, since killed in the Breite Strasse. And if you will believe me, +my friend. I tell you that Richter came to the glade at daybreak +smoking his pipe. The place was filled, the nobles on one side and +the Burschenschaft on the other, and the sun coming up over the trees. +Richter would not listen to any of us, not even the surgeon. He would +not have the silk wound on his arm, nor the padded breeches, nor the +neck covering--Nothing! So Ebhardt put on his gauntlets and peaked cap, +and his apron with the device of the Germanians. + +“There stood the Count in his white shirt in the pose of a statue. And +when it was seen that Richter likewise had no protection, but was calmly +smoking the little short pipe, with a charred bowl, a hush fell upon +all. At the sight of the pipe von Kalbach ground his heel in the turf, +and when the word was given he rushed at Richter like a wild beast. You, +my friend, who have never heard the whistle of sharp Schlager cannot +know the song which a skilled arm draws from the blade. It was music +that morning: You should have seen the noble's mighty strokes--'Prim und +Second und Terz und Quart'. You would have marked how Richter met him +at every blow. Von Kalbach never once took his eyes from the blue smoke +from the bowl. He was terrible in his fury, and I shiver now to think +how we of the Burschenschaft trembled when we saw that our champion was +driven back a step, and then another. You must know that it is a lasting +disgrace to be forced over one's own line. It seemed as if we could not +bear the agony. And then, while we counted out the last seconds of the +half, came a snap like that of a whip's lash, and the bowl of Richter's +pipe lay smouldering on the grass. The noble had cut the stem as clean +as it were sapling twig, and there stood Richter with the piece still +clenched in his teeth, his eyes ablaze, and his cheek running blood. He +pushed the surgeon away when he came forward with his needles. The Count +was smiling as he put up his sword, his friends crowding around +him, when Ebhardt cried out that his man could fight the second +mensur,--though the wound was three needles long. Then Kalbach cried +aloud that he would kill him. But he had not seen Carl's eyes. Something +was in them that made us think as we washed the cut. But when we spoke +to him he said nothing. Nor could we force the pipe stems from his +teeth. + +“Donner Schock!” exclaimed Herr Korner, but reverently, “if I live to a +hundred I never hope to see such a sight as that 'Mensur'. The word was +given. The Schlager flew so fast that we only saw the light and heard +the ring alone. Before we of the Burschenschaft knew what had happened +the Count von Kalbach was over his line and had flung his Schlager into +a great tree, and was striding from the place with his head hung and the +tears streamin down his face.” + +Amid a silence, Herr Korner lifted his great mug and emptied it slowly. +A wind was rising, bearing with it song and laughter from distant +groups,--Teutonic song and, laughter. The moonlight trembled through the +shifting leaves. And Stephen was filled with a sense of the marvelous. +It was as if this fierce duel, so full of national significance to a +German, had been fought in another existence, It was incredible to him +that the unassuming lawyer he knew, so wholly Americanized, had been the +hero of it. Strange, indeed, that the striving life of these leaders of +European Revolution had been suddenly cut off in its vigor. There +came to Stephen a flash of that world-comprehension which marks great +statesmen. Was it not with a divine purpose that this measureless force +of patriotism and high ideal had been given to this youngest of the +nations, that its high mission might be fulfilled? + +Miss Russell heard of Stephen's speeches. She and her brothers and Jack +Brinsmade used to banter him when he came a-visiting in Bellefontaine +Road. The time was not yet come when neighbor stared coldly upon +neighbor, when friends of long standing passed each other with averted +looks. It was not even a wild dream that white-trash Lincoln would be +elected. And so Mr. Jack, who made speeches for Breckenridge in the face +of Mr. Brinsmade's Union leanings, laughed at Stephen when he came to +spend the night. He joined forces with Puss in making clever fun of the +booby Dutch, which Stephen was wise enough to take good-naturedly. But +once or twice when he met Clarence Colfax at these houses he was aware +of a decided change in the attitude of that young gentleman. This +troubled him more than he cared to admit. For he liked Clarence, who +reminded him of Virginia--at once a pleasure and a pain. + +It is no harm to admit (for the benefit of the Society for Psychical +Research) that Stephen still dreamed of her. He would go about his work +absently all the morning with the dream still in his head, and the girl +so vividly near him that he could not believe her to be travelling in +England, as Miss Russell said. Puss and Anne were careful to keep him +informed as to her whereabouts. Stephen set this down as a most natural +supposition on their part that all young men must have an interest in +Virginia Carvel. + +How needless to add that Virginia in her correspondence never mentioned +Stephen, although Puss in her letters took pains to record the fact +every time that he addressed a Black Republican meeting: Miss Carvel +paid no attention to this part of the communications. Her concern for +Judge Whipple Virginia did not hide. Anne wrote of him. How he stood the +rigors of that campaign were a mystery to friend and foe alike. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. HOW A PRINCE CAME + +Who has not heard of the St. Louis Agricultural Fair. And what memories +of its October days the mere mention of at brings back to us who knew +that hallowed place as children. There was the vast wooden amphitheatre +where mad trotting races were run; where stolid cattle walked past the +Chinese pagoda in the middle circle, and shook the blue ribbons on their +horns. But it was underneath the tiers of seats (the whole way around +the ring) that the chief attractions lay hid. These were the church +booths, where fried oysters and sandwiches and cake and whit candy and +ice-cream were sold by your mothers and sister for charity. These ladies +wore white aprons as they waited on the burly farmers. And toward the +close of the day for which they had volunteered they became distracted. +Christ Church had a booth, and St. George's; and Dr. Thayer's, +Unitarian, where Mrs. Brice might be found and Mr. Davitt's, conducted +by Mr. Eliphalet Hopper on strictly business principles, and the Roman +Catholic Cathedral, where Miss Renault and other young ladies of French +descent presided: and Dr. Posthelwaite's, Presbyterian, which we shall +come to presently. And others, the whole way around the ring. + +There is one Fair which old St. Louisans still delight to recall,--that +of the autumn of 1860--Think for a minute. You will remember that +Virginia Carvel came back from Europe; and made quite a stir in a +town where all who were worth knowing were intimates. Stephen caught a +glimpse of her an the street, received a distant bow, and dreamed of her +that night. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday suit, was at the ferry +to pay his respects to the Colonel, to offer his services, and to +tell him how the business fared. His was the first St. Louis face that +Virginia saw (Captain Lige being in New Orleans), and if she conversed +with Eliphalet on the ferry with more warmth than ever before, there is +nothing strange in that. Mr. Hopper rode home with them in the carriage, +and walked to Miss Crane's with his heart thumping against his breast, +and wild thoughts whirling in his head. + +The next morning, in Virginia's sunny front room tears and laughter +mingled. There was a present for Eugenie and Anne and Emily and Puss +and Maude, and a hear kiss from the Colonel for each. And more tears +and laughter and sighs as Mammy Easter and Rosetta unpacked the English +trunks, and with trembling hands and rolling eyes laid each Parisian +gown upon the bed. + +But the Fair, the Fair! + +At the thought of that glorious year my pen fails me. Why mention the +dread possibility of the negro-worshiper Lincoln being elected the +very next month? Why listen, to the rumblings in the South? Pompeii had +chariot-races to the mutterings of Vesuvius. St. Louis was in gala garb +to greet a Prince. + +That was the year that Miss Virginia Carvel was given charge of the +booth in Dr. Posthelwaite's church,--the booth next one of the great +arches through which prancing horses and lowing cattle came. + +Now who do you think stopped at the booth for a chat with Miss Jinny? +Who made her blush as pink as her Paris gown? Who slipped into her hand +the contribution for the church, and refused to take the cream candy she +laughingly offered him as an equivalent? + +None other than Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Saxony, Duke of +Cornwall and Rothesay, Earl of Chester and Carrick, Baron Renfrew, and +Lord of the Isles. Out of compliment to the Republic which he visited, +he bore the simple title of Lord Renfrew. + +Bitter tears of envy, so it was said, were shed in the other booths. +Belle Cluyme made a remark which is best suppressed. Eliphalet Hopper, +in Mr. Davitt's booths, stared until his eyes watered. A great throng +peered into the covered way, kept clear for his Royal Highness and +suite, and for the prominent gentlemen who accompanied them. And when +the Prince was seen to turn to His Grace, the Duke of Newcastle, and the +subscription was forthcoming, a great cheer shook the building, while +Virginia and the young ladies with her bowed and blushed and smiled. +Colonel Carvel, who was a Director, laid his hand paternally on the +blue coat of the young Prince. Reversing all precedent, he presented +his Royal Highness to his daughter and to the other young ladies. It was +done with the easy grace of a Southern gentleman. Whereupon Lord Renfrew +bowed and smiled too, and stroked his mustache, which was a habit he +had, and so fell naturally into the ways of Democracy. + +Miss Puss Russell, who has another name, and whose hair is now white, +will tell you how Virginia carried off the occasion with credit to her +country. + +It is safe to say that the Prince forgot “Silver Heels” and “Royal Oak,” + although they had been trotted past the Pagoda only that morning for his +delectation. He had forgotten his Honor the Mayor, who had held fast to +the young man's arm as the four coal-black horses had pranced through +the crowds all the way from Barnum's Hotel to the Fair Grounds. His +Royal Highness forgot himself still further, and had at length withdrawn +his hands from the pockets of his ample pantaloons and thrust his thumbs +into his yellow waistcoat. And who shall blame him if Miss Virginia's +replies to his sallies enchained him? + +Not the least impressive of those who stood by, smiling, was the figure +of the tall Colonel, his hat off for once, and pride written on his +face. Oh, that his dear wife might have lived to see this! + +What was said in that historic interview with a future Sovereign of +England, far from his royal palaces, on Democratic sawdust, with an +American Beauty across a board counter, was immediately recorded by the +Colonel, together with an exact description of his Royal Highness's blue +coat, and light, flowing pantaloons, and yellow waist-coat, and colored +kids; even the Prince's habit of stroking his mustache did not escape +the watchful eye. It is said that his Grace of Newcastle smiled twice at +Miss Virginia's retorts, and Lord Lyons, the British Minister, has more +than two to his credit. But suddenly a strange thing happened. Miss +Virginia in the very midst of a sentence paused, and then stopped. Her +eyes had strayed from the Royal Countenance, and were fixed upon a +point in the row of heads outside the promenade. Her sentence was +completed--with some confusion. Perhaps it is no wonder that my Lord +Renfrew, whose intuitions are quick, remarked that he had already +remained too long, thus depriving the booth of the custom it otherwise +should have had. This was a graceful speech, and a kingly. Followed by +his retinue and the prominent citizens, he moved on. And it was remarked +by keen observers that his Honor the Mayor had taken hold once more of +the Prince's elbow, who divided his talk with Colonel Carver. + +Dear Colonel Carvel! What a true American of the old type you were. You, +nor the Mayor, nor the rest of the grave and elderly gentlemen were not +blinded by the light of a royal Presence. You saw in him only an amiable +and lovable young man, who was to succeed the most virtuous and lovable +of sovereigns, Victoria. You, Colonel Carvel, were not one to cringe to +royalty. Out of respect for the just and lenient Sovereign, his mother, +you did honor to the Prince. But you did not remind him, as you might +have, that your ancestors fought for the King at Marston Moor, and that +your grandfather was once an intimate of Charles James Fox. But what +shall we say of Mr. Cluyme, and of a few others whose wealth alone +enabled them to be Directors of the Fair? Miss Isabel Cluyme was duly +presented, in proper form, to his Royal Highness. Her father owned a +“peerage,” and had been abroad likewise. He made no such bull as the +Colonel. And while the celebrated conversation of which we have spoken +was in progress, Mr. Cluyme stood back and blushed for his countryman, +and smiled apologetically at the few gentlemen of the royal suite who +glanced his way. + +His Royal Highness then proceeded to luncheon, which is described by a +most amiable Canadian correspondent who sent to his newspaper an account +of it that I cannot forbear to copy. You may believe what he says, or +not, just as you choose: “So interested was his Royal Highness in the +proceedings that he stayed in the ring three and a half hours witnessing +these trotting matches. He was invited to take lunch in a little wooden +shanty prepared for the Directors, to which he accordingly repaired, but +whether he got anything to eat or not, I cannot tell. After much trouble +he forced his way to the table, which he found surrounded by a lot of +ravenous animals. And upon some half dozen huge dishes were piled slices +of beef, mutton, and buffalo tongue; beside them were great jugs of +lager beer, rolls of bread, and plates of a sort of cabbage cut into +thin shreds, raw, and mixed with vinegar. There were neither salt spoons +nor mustard spoons, the knives the gentlemen were eating with serving in +their stead; and, by the aid of nature's forks, the slices of beef and +mutton were transferred to the plates of those who desired to eat. While +your correspondent stood looking at the spectacle, the Duke of Newcastle +came in, and he sat looking too. He was evidently trying to look +democratic, but could not manage it. By his side stood a man urging him +to try the lager beer, and cabbage also, I suppose. Henceforth, let the +New York Aldermen who gave to the Turkish Ambassador ham sandwiches and +bad sherry rest in peace.” + +Even that great man whose memory we love and revere, Charles Dickens, +was not overkind to us, and saw our faults rather than our virtues. We +were a nation of grasshoppers, and spat tobacco from early morning until +late at night. This some of us undoubtedly did, to our shame be it +said. And when Mr. Dickens went down the Ohio, early in the '40's, he +complained of the men and women he met; who, bent with care, bolted +through silent meals, and retired within their cabins. Mr. Dickens +saw our ancestors bowed in a task that had been too great for other +blood,--the task of bringing into civilization in the compass of a +century a wilderness three thousand miles it breadth. And when his Royal +Highness came to St. Louis and beheld one hundred thousand people at the +Fair, we are sure that he knew how recently the ground he stood upon had +been conquered from the forest. + +A strange thing had happened, indeed. For, while the Prince lingered +in front of the booth of Dr. Posthelwaite's church and chatted with +Virginia, a crowd had gathered without. They stood peering over the +barricade into the covered way, proud of the self-possession of their +young countrywoman. And here, by a twist of fate, Mr. Stephen Brice +found himself perched on a barrel beside his friend Richter. It was +Richter who discovered her first. + +“Himmel! It is Miss Carvel herself, Stephen,” he cried, impatient at the +impassive face of his companion. “Look, Stephen, look there.” + +“Yes,” said Stephen, “I see.” + +“Ach!” exclaimed the disgusted German, “will nothing move you? I have +seen German princesses that are peasant women beside her. How she +carries it off! See, the Prince is laughing!” + +Stephen saw, and horror held him in a tremor. His one thought was of +escape. What if she should raise her eyes, and amid those vulgar stares +discern his own? And yet that was within him which told him that she +would look up. It was only a question of moments, and then,--and then +she would in truth despise him! Wedged tightly between the people, to +move was to be betrayed. He groaned. + +Suddenly he rallied, ashamed of his own false shame. This was because +of one whom he had known for the short, space of a day--whom he was +to remember for a lifetime. The man he worshipped, and she detested. +Abraham Lincoln would not have blushed between honest clerks and farmers +Why should Stephen Brice? And what, after all, was this girl to him? He +could not tell. Almost the first day he had come to St. Louis the wires +of their lives had crossed, and since then had crossed many times again, +always with a spark. By the might of generations she was one thing, and +he another. They were separated by a vast and ever-widening breach only +to be closed by the blood and bodies of a million of their countrymen. +And yet he dreamed of her. + +Gradually, charmed like the simple people about him, Stephen became lost +in the fascination of the scene. Suddenly confronted at a booth in a +public fair with the heir to the English throne, who but one of her own +kind might have carried it off so well, have been so complete a mistress +of herself? Since, save for a heightened color, Virginia gave no sign of +excitement. Undismayed, forgetful of the admiring crowd, unconscious of +their stares until--until the very strength of his gaze had compelled +her own. Such had been the prophecy within him. Nor did he wonder +because, in that multitude of faces, her eyes had flown so straightly +homeward to his. + +With a rough effort that made an angry stir, Stephen flung the people +aside and escaped, the astonished Richter following in his wake. Nor +could the honest German dissuade him from going back to the office for +the rest of the day, or discover what had happened. + +But all through the afternoon that scene was painted on the pages of +Stephen's books. The crude booth in the darkened way. The free pose +of the girl standing in front of her companions, a blue wisp of autumn +sunlight falling at her feet. The young Prince laughing at her sallies, +and the elderly gentleman smiling with benevolence upon the pair. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. INTO WHICH A POTENTATE COMES + +Virginia danced with the Prince, “by Special Appointment,” at the ball +that evening. So did her aunt, Mrs. Addison Colfax. So likewise was Miss +Belle Cluyme among those honored and approved. But Virginia wore the +most beautiful of her Paris gowns, and seemed a princess to one watching +from the gallery. Stephen was sure that his Royal Highness made that +particular dance longer than the others. It was decidedly longer than +the one he had with Miss Cluyme, although that young lady had declared +she was in heaven. + +Alas, that princes cannot abide with us forever! His Royal Highness bade +farewell to St. Louis, and presently that same 'City of Alton' which +bore him northward came back again in like royal state, and this time it +was in honor of a Democrat potentate. He is an old friend now, Senator +and Judge and Presidential Candidate,--Stephen Arnold Douglas,--father +of the doctrine of Local Sovereignty, which he has come to preach. So +goes the world. We are no sooner rid of one hero than we are ready for +another. + +Blow, you bandsmen on the hurricane deck, let the shores echo with your +national airs! Let the gay bunting wave in the river breeze! Uniforms +flash upon the guards, for no campaign is complete without the military. +Here are brave companies of the Douglas Guards, the Hickory Sprouts, and +the Little Giants to do honor to the person of their hero. Cannon are +booming as he steps into his open carriage that evening on the levee, +where the piles of river freight are covered with people. Transparencies +are dodging in the darkness. A fresh band strikes up “Hail Columbia,” + and the four horses prance away, followed closely by the “Independent +Broom Rangers.” “The shouts for Douglas,” remarked a keen observer who +was present, “must have penetrated Abraham's bosom at Springfield.” + +Mr. Jacob Cluyme, who had been a Bell and Everett man until that day, +was not the only person of prominence converted. After the speech he +assured the Judge that he was now undergoing the greatest pleasure of +his life in meeting the popular orator, the true representative man of +the Great West, the matured statesman, and the able advocate of national +principles. And although Mr. Douglas looked as if he had heard something +of the kind before, he pressed Mr. Cluyme's hand warmly. + +So was the author of Popular Sovereignty, “the great Bulwark of American +Independence,” escorted to the Court House steps, past houses of his +stanch supporters; which were illuminated in his honor. Stephen, +wedged among the people, remarked that the Judge had lost none of his +self-confidence since that day at Freeport. Who, seeing the Democratic +candidate smiling and bowing to the audience that blocked the wide +square, would guess that the Question troubled him at all, or that he +missed the votes of the solid South? How gravely the Judge listened to +the eulogy of the prominent citizen, who reminded him that his work was +not yet finished, and that he still was harnessed to the cause of the +people! And how happy was the choice of that word harnessed! + +The Judge had heard (so he said) with deep emotion the remarks of the +chairman. Then followed one of those masterful speeches which wove a +spell about those who listened,--which, like the most popular of novels, +moved to laughter and to tears, to anger and to pity. Mr. Brice and +Mr Richter were not the only Black Republicans who were depressed that +night. And they trudged homeward with the wild enthusiasm still ringing +in their ears, heavy with the thought that the long, hot campaign of +their own Wide-Awakes might be in vain. + +They had a grim reproof from Judge Whipple in the morning. + +“So you too, gentlemen, took opium last night,” was all he said. + +The dreaded possibility of Mr. Lincoln's election did not interfere with +the gayeties. The week after the Fair Mr. Clarence Colfax gave a great +dance at Bellegarde, in honor of his cousin, Virginia, to which Mr. +Stephen Brice was not invited. A majority of Company A was there. +Virginia would have liked to have had them in uniform. + +It was at this time that Anne Brinsmade took the notion of having a ball +in costume. Virginia, on hearing the news, rode over from Bellegarde, +and flinging her reins to Nicodemus ran up to Anne's little +dressing-room. + +“Whom have you invited, Anne?” she demanded. + +Anne ran over the long list of their acquaintance, but there was one +name she omitted. + +“Are you sure that that is all?” asked Virginia, searchingly, when she +had finished. + +Anne looked mystified. + +“I have invited Stephen Brice, Jinny,” she said. “But!--” + +“But!” cried Virginia. “I knew it. Am I to be confronted with that +Yankee everywhere I go? It is always 'Stephen Brice', and he is ushered +in with a but.” + +Anne was quite overcome by this outburst. She had dignity, however, and +plenty of it. And she was a loyal friend. + +“You have no right to criticise my guests, Virginia.” + +Virginia, seated on the arm of a chair, tapped her foot on the floor. + +“Why couldn't things remain as they were?” she said. “We were so happy +before these Yankees came. And they are not content in trying to deprive +us of our rights. They must spoil our pleasure, too.” + +“Stephen Brice is a gentleman,” answered Anne. “He spoils no one's +pleasure, and goes no place that he is not asked.” + +“He has not behaved according to my idea of a gentleman, the few +times that I have been unfortunate enough to encounter him,” Virginia +retorted. + +“You are the only one who says so, then.” Here the feminine got the +better of Anne's prudence, and she added. “I saw you waltz with him +once, Jinny Carvel, and I am sure you never enjoyed a dance as much in +your life.” + +Virginia blushed purple. + +“Anne Brinsmade!” she cried. “You may have your ball, and your Yankees, +all of them you want. But I shan't come. How I wish I had never seen +that horrid Stephen Brice! Then you would never have insulted me.” + +Virginia rose and snatched her riding-whip. This was too much for Anne. +She threw her arms around her friend without more ado. + +“Don't quarrel with me, Jinny,” she said tearfully. “I couldn't bear it. +He--Mr. Brice is not coming, I am sure.” + +Virginia disengaged herself. + +“He is not coming?” + +“No,” said Anne. “You asked me if he was invited. And I was going on to +tell you that he could not come.” + +She stopped, and stared at Virginia in bewilderment. That young lady, +instead of beaming, had turned her back. She stood flicking her whip at +the window, gazing out over the trees, down the slope to the river. Miss +Russell might have interpreted these things. Simple Anne! + +“Why isn't he coming?” said Virginia, at last. + +“Because he is to be one of the speakers at a big meeting that night. +Have you seen him since you got home, Jinny? He is thinner than he +was. We are much worried about him, because he has worked so hard this +summer.” + +“A Black Republican meeting!” exclaimed Virginia, scornfully ignoring +the rest of what was said. “Then I'll come, Anne dear,” she cried, +tripping the length of the room. “I'll come as Titania. Who will you +be?” + +She cantered off down the drive and out of the gate, leaving a very +puzzled young woman watching her from the window. But when Virginia +reached the forest at the bend of the road, she pulled her horse down to +a walk. + +She bethought herself of the gown which her Uncle Daniel had sent her +from Calvert House, and of the pearls. And she determined to go as her +great-grandmother, Dorothy Carvel. + +Shades of romance! How many readers will smile before the rest of this +true incident is told? + +What had happened was this. Miss Anne Brinsmade had driven to town in +her mother's Jenny Lind a day or two before, and had stopped (as she +often did) to pay a call on Mrs. Brice. This lady, as may be guessed, +was not given to discussion of her husband's ancestors, nor of her +own. But on the walls of the little dining-room hung a Copley and two +Stuarts. One of the Stuarts was a full length of an officer in the buff +and blue of the Continental Army. And it was this picture which caught +Anne's eye that day. + +“How like Stephen!” she exclaimed. And added. “Only the face is much +older. Who is it, Mrs. Brice?” + +“Colonel Wilton Brice, Stephen's grandfather. There is a marked +look about all the Brices. He was only twenty years of age when the +Revolution began. That picture was painted much later in life, after +Stuart came back to America, when the Colonel was nearly forty. He had +kept his uniform, and his wife persuaded him to be painted in it.” + +“If Stephen would only come as Colonel Wilton Brice!” she cried. “Do you +think he would, Mrs. Brice?” + +Mrs. Brice laughed, and shook her head. + +“I am afraid not, Anne,” she said. “I have a part of the uniform +upstairs, but I could never induce him even to try it on.” + +As she drove from shop to shop that day, Anne reflected that it +certainly would not be like Stephen to wear his grandfather's uniform to +a ball. But she meant to ask him, at any rate. And she had driven home +immediately to write her invitations. It was with keen disappointment +that she read his note of regret. + +However, on the very day of the ball, Anne chanced to be in town again, +and caught sight of Stephen pushing his way among the people on Fourth +Street. She waved her hand to him, and called to Nicodemus to pull up at +the sidewalk. + +“We are all so sorry that you are not coming,” said she, impulsively. +And there she stopped short. For Anne was a sincere person, and +remembered Virginia. “That is, I am so sorry,” she added, a little +hastily. “Stephen, I saw the portrait of your grandfather, and I wanted +you to come in his costume.” + +Stephen, smiling down on her, said nothing. And poor Anne, in her fear +that he had perceived the shade in her meaning, made another unfortunate +remark. + +“If you were not a--a Republican--” she said. + +“A Black Republican,” he answered, and laughed at her discomfiture. +“What then?” + +Anne was very red. + +“I only meant that if you were not a Republican, there would be no +meeting to address that night.” + +“It does not make any difference to you what my politics are, does it?” + he asked, a little earnestly. + +“Oh, Stephen!” she exclaimed, in gentle reproof. + +“Some people have discarded me,” he said, striving to smile. + +She wondered whether he meant Virginia, and whether he cared. Still +further embarrassed, she said something which she regretted immediately. + +“Couldn't you contrive to come?” + +He considered. + +“I will come, after the meeting, if it is not too late,” he said at +length. “But you must not tell any one.” + +He lifted his hat, and hurried on, leaving Anne in a quandary. She +wanted him. But what was she to say to Virginia? Virginia was coming on +the condition that he was not to be there. And Anne was scrupulous. + +Stephen, too, was almost instantly sorry that he had promised. The +little costumer's shop (the only one in the city at that time) had been +ransacked for the occasion, and nothing was left to fit him. But when he +reached home there was a strong smell of camphor in his mother's room. +Colonel Brice's cocked hat and sword and spurs lay on the bed, and +presently Hester brought in the blue coat and buff waistcoat from the +kitchen, where she had been pressing them. Stephen must needs yield to +his mother's persuasions and try them on--they were more than a passable +fit. But there were the breeches and cavalry boots to be thought of, and +the ruffled shirt and the powdered wig. So before tea he hurried down +to the costumer's again, not quite sure that he was not making a fool +of himself, and yet at last sufficiently entered into the spirit of the +thing. The coat was mended and freshened. And when after tea he dressed +in the character, his appearance was so striking that his mother could +not refrain from some little admiration. As for Hester, she was in +transports. Stephen was human, and young. But still the frivolity of +it all troubled him. He had inherited from Colonel Wilton Brice, the +Puritan, other things beside clothes. And he felt in his heart as he +walked soberly to the hall that this was no time for fancy dress balls. +All intention of going was banished by the time his turn had come to +speak. + +But mark how certain matters are beyond us. Not caring to sit out the +meeting on the platform, he made his way down the side of the crowded +hall, and ran into (of all people) big Tom Catherwood. As the Southern +Rights politics of the Catherwood family were a matter of note in the +city, Stephen did not attempt to conceal his astonishment. Tom himself +was visibly embarrassed. He congratulated Stephen on his speech, and +volunteered the news that he had come in a spirit of fairness to hear +what the intelligent leaders of the Republican party, such as Judge +Whipple, had to say. After that he fidgeted. But the sight of him +started in Stephen a train of thought that closed his ears for once +to the Judge's words. He had had before a huge liking for Tom. Now he +admired him, for it was no light courage that took one of his position +there. And Stephen remembered that Tom was not risking merely the +displeasure of his family and his friends, but likewise something of +greater value than, either. From childhood Tom had been the devoted +slave of Virginia Carvel, with as little chance of marrying her as a man +ever had. And now he was endangering even that little alliance. + +And so Stephen began to think of Virginia, and to wonder what she would +wear at Anne's party; and to speculate how she would have treated him if +had gone. To speak truth, this last matter had no little weight in his +decision to stay away. But we had best leave motives to those whose +business and equipment it is to weigh to a grain. Since that agonizing +moment when her eyes had met his own among the curiously vulgar at the +Fair, Stephen's fear of meeting Virginia had grown to the proportions of +a terror. And yet there she was in his mind, to take possession of it on +the slightest occasion. + +When Judge Whipple had finished, Tom rose. He awoke Mr. Brice from a +trance. + +“Stephen,” said he, “of course you're going to the Brinsmade's.” + +Stephen shook his head. + +“Why not?” said Tom, in surprise. “Haven't you a costume?” + +“Yes,” he answered dubiously. + +“Why, then, you've got to come with me,” says Tom, heartily. “It isn't +too late, and they'll want you. I've a buggy, and I'm going to the +Russells' to change my clothes. Come along!” + +Steven went. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. AT MR. BRINSMADE'S GATE + +The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by the +big drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball. From the windows +might be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Waters +below. But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coat +of soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossoms +still fall thinly in the spring. The huge black town has coiled about +the place the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forest +are dying and dead. Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive of +fashion, is no more. Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow its +once rural windings, and gone forever are those comely wooded hills and +green pastures,--save in the memory of those who have been spared to +dream. + +Still the old house stands, begrimed but stately, rebuking the sordid +life around it. Still come into it the Brinsmades to marriage and to +death. Five and sixty years are gone since Mr. Calvin Brinsmade took his +bride there. They sat on the porch in the morning light, harking to +the whistle of the quail in the corn, and watching the frightened deer +scamper across the open. Do you see the bride in her high-waisted gown, +and Mr. Calvin in his stock and his blue tail-coat and brass buttons? + +Old people will tell you of the royal hospitality then, of the famous +men and women who promenaded under those chandeliers, and sat down to +the game-laden table. In 1835 General Atkinson and his officers thought +nothing of the twenty miles from Jefferson Barracks below, nor of +dancing all night with the Louisville belles, who were Mrs. Brinsmade's +guests. Thither came Miss Todd of Kentucky, long before she thought +of taking for a husband that rude man of the people, Abraham Lincoln. +Foreigners of distinction fell in love with the place, with its +open-hearted master and mistress, and wrote of it in their journals. +Would that many of our countrymen, who think of the West as rough, might +have known the quality of the Brinsmades and their neighbors! + +An era of charity, of golden simplicity, was passing on that October +night of Anne Brinsmade's ball. Those who made merry there were soon +to be driven and scattered before the winds of war; to die at Wilson's +Creek, or Shiloh, or to be spared for heroes of the Wilderness. Some +were to eke out a life of widowhood in poverty. All were to live +soberly, chastened by what they had seen. A fear knocked at Colonel +Carvel's heart as he stood watching the bright figures. + +“Brinsmade,” he said, “do you remember this room in May, '46?” + +Mr. Brinsmade, startled, turned upon him quickly. + +“Why, Colonel, you have read my very thoughts,” he said. “Some of those +who were here then are--are still in Mexico.” + +“And some who came home, Brinsmade, blamed God because they had not +fallen,” said the Colonel. + +“Hush, Comyn, His will be done,” he answered; “He has left a daughter to +comfort you.” + +Unconsciously their eyes sought Virginia. In her gown of faded primrose +and blue with its quaint stays and short sleeves, she seemed to have +caught the very air of the decorous century to which it belonged. She +was standing against one of the pilasters at the side of the +room, laughing demurely at the antics of Becky Sharp and Sir John +Falstaff,--Miss Puss Russell and Mr. Jack Brinsmade, respectively. + +Mr. Tennyson's “Idylls” having appeared but the year before, Anne was +dressed as Elaine, a part which suited her very well. It was strange +indeed to see her waltzing with Daniel Boone (Mr. Clarence Colfax) +in his Indian buckskins. Eugenie went as Marie Antoinette. Tall Maude +Catherwood was most imposing as Rebecca; and her brother George made a +towering Friar Tuck, Even little fifteen-year-old Spencer Catherwood, +the contradiction of the family, was there. He went as the lieutenant +Napoleon, walking about with his hands behind his back and his brows +thoughtfully contracted. + +The Indian summer night was mild. It was at tine very height of the +festivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making their +way together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of Kenilworth +Castle came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing his +club in their faces. Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gave +back a step. + +“Tom Catherwood! How dare you? You frightened me nearly to death.” + +“I'm sorry, Jinny, indeed I am,” said the giant, repentant, and holding +her hand in his. + +“Where have you been?” demanded Virginia, a little mollified. “What +makes you so late?” + +“I've been to a Lincoln meeting,” said honest Tom; “where I heard a very +fine speech from a friend of yours.” + +Virginia tossed her head. + +“You might have been better employed,” said she, and added, with +dignity, “I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings.” + +“How about Judge Whipple?” said Tom. + +She stopped. “Did you mean the Judge?” she asked, over her shoulder. + +“No,” said Tom, “I meant--” + +He got no further. Virginia slipped her arm through Clarence's, and they +went off together to the end of the veranda. Poor Tom! He passed on into +the gay drawing-room, but the zest had been taken out of his antics for +that night. + +“Whom did he mean, Jinny?” said Clarence, when they were on the seat +under the vines. + +“He meant that Yankee, Stephen Brice,” answered Virginia, languidly. “I +am so tired of hearing about him.” + +“So am I,” said Clarence, with a fervor by no means false. “By George, +I think he will make a Black Republican out of Tom, if he keeps on. +Puss and Jack have been talking about him all summer, until I am out +of patience. I reckon he has brains. But suppose he has addressed fifty +Lincoln meetings, as they say, is that any reason for making much +of him? I should not have him at Bellegarde. I am surprised that Mr. +Russell allows him in his house. I can see why Anne likes him.” + +“Why?” + +“He is on the Brinsmade charity list.” + +“He is not on their charity list, nor on any other,” said Virginia, +quickly. “Stephen Brice is the last person who would submit to charity.” + +“And you are the last person who I supposed would stand up for him,” + cried her cousin, surprised and nettled. + +There was an instant's silence. + +“I want to be fair, Max,” she said quietly. “Pa offered them our Glencoe +House last summer at a low price, and they insisted on paying what +Mr. Edwards gave five years ago,--or nothing. You know that I detest +a Yankee as much as you do,” she continued, indignation growing in her +voice. “I did not come out here with you to be insulted.” + +With her hand on the rail, she made as if to rise. Clarence was perforce +mollified. + +“Don't go, Jinny,” he said beseechingly. “I didn't mean to make you +angry--” + +“I can't see why you should always be dragging in this Mr. Brice,” she +said, almost tearfully. (It will not do to pause now and inquire into +Virginia's logic.) “I came out to hear what you had to tell me.” + +“Jinny, I have been made second lieutenant of Company A.” + +“Oh, Max, I am so glad! I am so proud of you!” + +“I suppose that you have heard the result of the October elections, +Jinny.” + +“Pa said something about them to-night,” she answered; “why?” + +“It looks now as if there were a chance of the Republicans winning,” he +answered. But it was elation that caught his voice, not gloom. + +“You mean that this white trash Lincoln may be President?” she +exclaimed, seizing his arm. + +“Never!” he cried. “The South will not submit to that until every man +who can bear arms is shot down.” He paused. The strains of a waltz +mingled with talk and laughter floated out of the open window. His voice +dropped to a low intensity. “We are getting ready in Company A,” he +said; “the traitors will be dropped. We are getting ready to fight for +Missouri and for the South.” + +The girl felt his excitement, his exaltation. + +“And if you were not, Max, I should disown you,” she whispered. + +He leaned forward until his face was close to hers. + +“And now?” he said. + +“I am ready to work, to starve, to go to prison, to help--” + +He sank back heavily into the corner. + +“Is that all, Jinny?” + +“All?” she repeated. “Oh, if a woman could only do more!” + +“And is there nothing--for me?” + +Virginia straightened. + +“Are you doing this for a reward?” she demanded. + +“No,” he answered passionately. “You know that I am not. Do you remember +when you told me that I was good for nothing, that I lacked purpose?” + +“Yes, Max.” + +“I have thought it over since,” he went on rapidly; “you were right. I +cannot work--it is not in me. But I have always felt that I could make a +name for myself--for you--in the army. I am sure that I could command a +regiment. And now the time is coming.” + +She did not answer him, but absently twisted the fringe of his buckskins +in her fingers. + +“Ever since I have known what love is I have loved you, Jinny. It was so +when we climbed the cherry trees at Bellegarde. And you loved me then--I +know you did. You loved me when I went East to school at the Military +Institute. But it has not been the same of late,” he faltered. +“Something has happened. I felt it first on that day you rode out to +Bellegarde when you said that my life was of no use. Jinny, I don't ask +much. I am content to prove myself. War is coming, and we shall have +to free ourselves from Yankee insolence. It is what we have both wished +for. When I am a general, will you marry me?” + +For a wavering instant she might have thrown herself into his +outstretched arms. Why not, and have done with sickening doubts? Perhaps +her hesitation hung on the very boyishness of his proposal. Perhaps the +revelation that she did not then fathom was that he had not developed +since those childish days. But even while she held back, came the beat +of hoofs on the gravel below them, and one of the Bellegarde servants +rode into the light pouring through the open door. He called for his +master. + +Clarence muttered his dismay as he followed his cousin to the steps. + +“What is it?” asked Virginia, alarmed. + +“Nothing; I forgot to sign the deed to the Elleardsville property, +and Worington wants it to-night.” Cutting short Sambo's explanations, +Clarence vaulted on the horse. Virginia was at his stirrup. Leaning over +in the saddle, he whispered: “I'll be back in a quarter of an hour Will +you wait?” + +“Yes,” she said, so that he barely heard. + +“Here?” + +She nodded. + +He was away at a gallop, leaving Virginia standing bareheaded to the +night, alone. A spring of pity, of affection for Clarence suddenly +welled up within her. There came again something of her old admiration +for a boy, impetuous and lovable, who had tormented and defended her +with the same hand. + +Patriotism, stronger in Virginia than many of us now can conceive, was +on Clarence's side. Ambition was strong in her likewise. Now was she all +afire with the thought that she, a woman, might by a single word +give the South a leader. That word would steady him, for there was no +question of her influence. She trembled at the reckless lengths he might +go in his dejection, and a memory returned to her of a day at Glencoe, +before he had gone off to school, when she had refused to drive with +him. Colonel Carvel had been away from home. She had pretended not to +care. In spite of Ned's beseechings Clarence had ridden off on a wild +thoroughbred colt and had left her to an afternoon of agony. Vividly +she recalled his home-coming in the twilight, his coat torn and muddy, a +bleeding cut on his forehead, and the colt quivering tame. + +In those days she had thought of herself unreservedly as meant for +him. Dash and courage and generosity had been the beacon lights on her +horizon. But now? Were there not other qualities? Yes, and Clarence +should have these, too. She would put them into him. She also had been +at fault, and perhaps it was because of her wavering loyalty to him that +he had not gained them. + +Her name spoken within the hall startled Virginia from her reverie, and +she began to walk rapidly down the winding drive. A fragment of the air +to which they were dancing brought her to a stop. It was the Jenny Lind +waltz. And with it came clear and persistent the image she had sought to +shut out and failed. As if to escape it now, she fairly ran all the way +to the light at the entrance and hid in the magnolias clustered beside +the gateway. It was her cousin's name she whispered over and over to +herself as she waited, vibrant with a strange excitement. It was as +though the very elements might thwart her wail. Clarence would be +delayed, or they would miss her at the house, and search. It seemed an +eternity before she heard the muffled thud of a horse cantering in the +clay road. + +Virginia stood out in the light fairly between the gate posts. Too late +she saw the horse rear as the rider flew back in his seat, for she had +seized the bridle. The beams from the lamp fell upon a Revolutionary +horseman, with cooked hat and sword and high riding-boots. For her his +profile was in silhouette, and the bold nose and chin belonged to but +one man she knew. He was Stephen Brice. She gave a cry of astonishment +and dropped the rein in dismay. Hot shame was surging in her face. Her +impulse was to fly, nor could she tell what force that stayed her feet. + +As for Stephen, he stood high in his stirrups and stared down at the +girl. She was standing full in the light,--her lashes fallen, her face +crimson. But no sound of surprise escaped him because it was she, nor +did he wonder at her gown of a gone-by century. Her words came first, +and they were low. She did not address him by name. + +“I--I thought that you were my cousin,” she said. “What must you think +of me!” + +Stephen was calm. + +“I expected it,” he answered. + +She gave a step backward, and raised her frightened eyes to his. + +“You expected it?” she faltered. + +“I can't say why,” he said quickly, “but it seems to me as if this had +happened before. I know that I am talking nonsense--” + +Virginia was trembling now. And her answer was not of her own choosing. + +“It has happened before,” she cried. “But where? And when?” + +“It may have been in a dream,” he answered her, “that I saw you as you +stand there by my bridle. I even know the gown you wear.” + +She put her hand to her forehead. Had it been a dream? And what mystery +was it that sent him here this night of all nights? She could not even +have said that it was her own voice making reply. + +“And I--I have seen you, with the sword, and the powdered hair, and the +blue coat and the buff waistcoat. It is a buff waistcoat like that my +great-grandfather wears in his pictures.” + +“It is a buff waistcoat,” he said, all sense of strangeness gone. + +The roses she held dropped on the gravel, and she put out her hand +against his horse's flank. In an instant he had leaped from his saddle, +and his arm was holding her. She did not resist, marvelling rather at +his own steadiness, nor did she then resent a tenderness in his voice. + +“I hope you will forgive me--Virginia,” he said. “I should not have +mentioned this. And yet I could not help it.” + +She looked up at him rather wildly. + +“It was I who stopped you,” she said; “I was waiting for--” + +“For whom?” + +The interruption brought remembrance. + +“For my cousin, Mr. Colfax,” she answered, in another tone. And as she +spoke she drew away from him, up the driveway. But she had scarcely +taken five steps whey she turned again, her face burning defiance. “They +told me you were not coming,” she said almost fiercely. “Why did you +come?” + +It was a mad joy that Stephen felt. + +“You did not wish me to come?” he demanded. + +“Oh, why do you ask that?” she cried. “You know I would not have been +here had I thought you were coming. Anne promised me that you would not +come.” + +What would she not have given for those words back again + +Stephen took astride toward her, and to the girl that stride betokened a +thousand things that went to the man's character. Within its compass the +comparison in her mind was all complete. He was master of himself when +he spoke. + +“You dislike me, Miss Carvel,” he said steadily. “I do not blame you. +Nor do I flatter myself that it is only because you believe one thing, +and I another. But I assure you that it is my misfortune rather than my +fault that I have not pleased you,--that I have met you only to anger +you.” + +He paused, for she did not seem to hear him. She was gazing at the +distant lights moving on the river. Had he come one step farther?--but +he did not. Presently she knew that he was speaking again, in the same +measured tone. + +“Had Miss Brinsmade told me that my presence here would cause you +annoyance, I should have stayed away. I hope that you will think nothing +of the--the mistake at the gate. You may be sure that I shall not +mention it. Good night, Miss Carvel.” + +He lifted his hat, mounted his horse, and was gone. She had not even +known that he could ride--that was strangely the first thought. The +second discovered herself intent upon the rhythm of his canter as it +died southward upon the road. There was shame in this, mingled with a +thankfulness that he would not meet Clarence. She hurried a few steps +toward the house, and stopped again. What should she say to Clarence +now? What could she say to him? + +But Clarence was not in her head. Ringing there was her talk with +Stephen Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on. His questions +and her replies--over and over again. Each trivial incident of an +encounter real and yet unreal! His transformation in the uniform, which +had seemed so natural. Though she strove to make it so, nothing of all +this was unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of his +arm about her nor yet again his calling her by her name. + +Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on, +forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at +her side,--then dread. + +“I thought I should never get back,” he cried breathlessly, as he threw +his reins to Sambo. “I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Did +it seem long, Jinny?” + +She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. To +lead her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a +sudden fear came into his voice. + +“Jinny!” + +“Yes.” + +She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how he +stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black +figure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her own +response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless. + +“Jinny,” he said, “what is the matter?” + +“Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you.” + +“Then--then you won't marry me?” + +“Oh, Max,” she cried, “it is no time to talk of that now. I feel +to-night as if something dreadful were to happen.” + +“Do you mean war?” he asked. + +“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” + +“But war is what we want,” he cried, “what we have prayed for, what we +have both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us our +rights--” + +He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he saw +her shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewilderment +and anxiety. + +“You are not well, Jinny,” he said. + +“I am not well,” she answered. “Take me into the house.” + +But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry. + +Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit of +staying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks +(nay, not always whispered) until early morning. And of late breakfasts. +Miss Russell had not been the only one who remarked Virginia's long +absence with her cousin; but Puss found her friend in one of those moods +which even she dared not disturb. Accordingly Miss Russell stayed all +night with Anne. + +And the two spent most of the dark hours remaining in unprofitable +discussion as to whether Virginia were at last engaged to her cousin, +and in vain queried over another unsolved mystery. This mystery was +taken up at the breakfast table the next morning, when Miss Carvel +surprised Mrs. Brinsmade and the male household by appearing at +half-past seven. + +“Why, Jinny,” cried Mr. Brinsmade, “what does this mean? I always +thought that young ladies did not get up after a ball until noon.” + +Virginia smiled a little nervously. + +“I am going to ask you to take me to town when you go, Mr. Brinsmade.” + +“Why, certainly, my dear,” he said. “But I under stood that your aunt +was to send for you this afternoon from Bellegarde.” + +Virginia shook her head. “There is something I wish to do in town.” + +“I'll drive her in, Pa,” said Jack. “You're too old. Will you go with +me, Jinny?” + +“Of course, Jack.” + +“But you must eat some breakfast, Jinny,” said Mrs Brinsmade, glancing +anxiously at the girl. + +Mr. Brinsmade put down his newspaper. + +“Where was Stephen Brice last night, Jack?” he asked. “I understood Anne +to say that he had spoke; of coming late.” + +“Why, sir,” said Jack, “that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood, +who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republican +meeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggy +to the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over. +Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never got +here. At least I can find no one who saw him. Did you, Jinny?” + +But Virginia did not raise her eyes from her plate. A miraculous +intervention came through Mrs. Brinsmade. + +“There might have been an accident, Jack,” said that lady, with concern. +“Send Nicodemus over to Mrs. Russell's at once to inquire. You know that +Mr. Brice is a Northerner, and may not be able to ride.” + +Jack laughed. + +“He rides like a dragoon, mother,” said he. “I don't know where he +picked it up.” + +“The reason I mentioned him,” said Mr. Brinsmade, lifting the blanket +sheet and adjusting his spectacles, “was because his name caught my eye +in this paper. His speech last night at the Library Hall is one of the +few sensible Republican speeches I have read. I think it very remarkable +for a man as young as he.” Mr. Brinsmade began to read: “'While waiting +for the speaker of the evening, who was half an hour late, Mr. Tiefel +rose in the audience and called loudly for Mr. Brice. Many citizens in +the hall were astonished at the cheering which followed the mention +of this name. Mr. Brice is a young lawyer with a quiet manner and a +determined face, who has sacrificed much to the Party's cause this +summer. He was introduced by Judge Whipple, in whose office he is. +He had hardly begun to speak before he had the ear of everyone in the +house. Mr. Brice's personality is prepossessing, his words are spoken +sharply, and he has a singular emphasis at times which seems to drive +his arguments into the minds of his hearers. We venture to say that if +party orators here and elsewhere were as logical and temperate as Mr. +Brice; if, like him, they appealed to reason rather than to passion, +those bitter and lamentable differences which threaten our country's +peace might be amicably adjusted.' Let me read what he said.” + +But he was interrupted by the rising of Virginia. A high color was on +the girl's face as she said: + +“Please excuse me, Mrs. Brinsmade, I must go and get ready.” + +“But you've eaten nothing, my dear.” + +Virginia did not reply. She was already on the stairs. + +“You ought not have read that, Pa,” Mr. Jack remonstrated; “you know +that she detests Yankees.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE BREACH BECOMES TOO WIDE ABRAHAM LINCOLN! + +At the foot of Breed's Hill in Charlestown an American had been born +into the world, by the might of whose genius that fateful name was +sped to the uttermost parts of the nation. Abraham Lincoln was elected +President of the United States. And the moan of the storm gathering in +the South grew suddenly loud and louder. + +Stephen Brice read the news in the black headlines and laid down the +newspaper, a sense of the miraculous upon him. There again was the +angled, low-celled room of the country tavern, reeking with food and +lamps and perspiration; for a central figure the man of surpassing +homeliness,--coatless, tieless, and vestless,--telling a story in +the vernacular. He reflected that it might well seem strange yea, and +intolerable--to many that this comedian of the country store, this crude +lawyer and politician, should inherit the seat dignified by Washington +and the Adamses. + +And yet Stephen believed. For to him had been vouchsafed the glimpse +beyond. + +That was a dark winter that followed, the darkest in our history. Gloom +and despondency came fast upon the heels of Republican exultation. Men +rose early for tidings from Charleston, the storm centre. The Union +was cracking here and there. Would it crumble in pieces before Abraham +Lincoln got to Washington? + +One smoky morning early in December Stephen arrived late at the office +to find Richter sitting idle on his stool, concern graven on his face. + +“The Judge has had no breakfast, Stephen,” he whispered. “Listen! +Shadrach tells me he has been doing that since six this morning, when he +got his newspaper.” + +Stephen listened, and he heard the Judge pacing and pacing in his room. +Presently the door was flung open, And they saw Mr. Whipple standing in +the threshold, stern and dishevelled. Astonishment did not pause here. +He came out and sat down in Stephen's chair, striking the newspaper in +his hand, and they feared at first that his Mind had wandered. + +“Propitiate!” he cried, “propitiate, propitiate, and again propitiate. +How long, O Lord?” Suddenly he turned upon Stephen, who was frightened. +But now his voice was natural, and he thrust the paper into the young +man's lap. “Have you read the President's message to Congress, sir? God +help me that I am spared to call that wobbling Buchanan President. Read +it. Read it, sir. You have a legal brain. Perhaps you can tell me why, +if a man admits that it is wrong for a state to abandon this Union, he +cannot call upon Congress for men and money to bring her back. No, this +weakling lets Floyd stock the Southern arsenals. He pays tribute to +Barbary. He is for bribing them not to be angry. Take Cuba from Spain, +says he, and steal the rest of Mexico that the maw of slavery may be +filled, and the demon propitiated.” + +They dared not answer him. And so he went back into his room, shutting +the door. That day no clients saw him, even those poor ones dependent +on his charity whom had never before denied. Richter and Stephen took +counsel together, and sent Shadrach out for his dinner. + +Three weeks passed. There arrived a sparkling Sunday, brought down the +valley of the Missouri from the frozen northwest. The Saturday had been +soggy and warm. + +Thursday had seen South Carolina leave that Union into which she was +born, amid prayers and the ringing of bells. Tuesday was to be +Christmas day. A young lady, who had listened to a solemn sermon of Dr. +Posthelwaite's, slipped out of Church before the prayers were ended, +and hurried into that deserted portion of the town about the Court House +where on week days business held its sway. + +She stopped once at the bottom of the grimy flight of steps leading to +Judge Whipple's office. At the top she paused again, and for a short +space stood alert, her glance resting on the little table in the corner, +on top of which a few thumbed law books lay neatly piled. Once she made +a hesitating step in this direction. Then, as if by a resolution quickly +taken, she turned her back and softly opened the door of the Judge's +room. He was sitting upright in his chair. A book was open in his lap, +but it did not seem to Virginia that he was reading it. + +“Uncle Silas,” she said, “aren't you coming to dinner any more?” + +He looked up swiftly from under his shaggy brows. The book fell to the +floor. + +“Uncle Silas,” said Virginia, bravely, “I came to get you to-day.” + +Never before had she known him to turn away from man or woman, but now +Judge Whipple drew his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose +violently. A woman's intuition told her that locked tight in his heart +was what he longed to say, and could not. The shiny black overcoat he +wore was on the bed. Virginia picked it up and held it out to him, an +appeal in her eyes. + +He got into it. Then she handed him his hat. Many people walking home +from church that morning marvelled as they saw these two on Locust +Street together, the young girl supporting the elderly man over the +slippery places at the crossings. For neighbor had begun to look coldly +upon neighbor. + +Colonel Carvel beheld them from his armchair by the sitting-room window, +and leaned forward with a start. His lips moved as he closed his Bible +reverently and marked his place. At the foot of the stairs he surprised +Jackson by waving him aside, for the Colonel himself flung open the door +and held out his hand to his friend. The Judge released Virginia's arm, +and his own trembled as he gave it. + +“Silas,” said the Colonel, “Silas, we've missed you.” + +Virginia stood by, smiling, but her breath came deeply. Had she done +right? Could any good come of it all? Judge Whipple did not go in at the +door--He stood uncompromisingly planted on the threshold, his head flung +back, and actual fierceness in his stare. + +“Do you guess we can keep off the subject, Comyn?” he demanded. + +Even Mr. Carvel, so used to the Judge's ways, was a bit taken aback by +this question. It set him tugging at his goatee, and his voice was not +quite steady as he answered: + +“God knows, Silas. We are human, and we can only try.” + +Then Mr. Whipple marched in. It lacked a quarter of an hour of +dinner,--a crucial period to tax the resources of any woman. Virginia +led the talk, but oh, the pathetic lameness of it. Her own mind was +wandering when it should not, and recollections she had tried to +strangle had sprung up once more. Only that morning in church she had +lived over again the scene by Mr. Brinsmade's gate, and it was then that +a wayward but resistless impulse to go to the Judge's office had seized +her. The thought of the old man lonely and bitter in his room decided +her. On her knees she prayed that she might save the bond between him +and her father. For the Colonel had been morose on Sundays, and had +taken to reading the Bible, a custom he had not had since she was a +child. + +In the dining-room Jackson, bowing and smiling, pulled out the Judge's +chair, and got his customary curt nod as a reward. Virginia carved. + +“Oh, Uncle Silas,” she cried, “I am so glad that we have a wild turkey. +And you shall have your side-bone.” The girl carved deftly, feverishly, +talking the while, aided by that most kind and accomplished of hosts, +her father. In the corner the dreaded skeleton of the subject grinned +sardonically. Were they going to be able to keep it off? There was to be +no help from Judge Whipple, who sat in grim silence. A man who feels +his soul burning is not given to small talk. Virginia alone had ever +possessed the power to make him forget. + +“Uncle Silas, I am sure there are some things about our trip that we +never told you. How we saw Napoleon and his beautiful Empress driving +in the Bois, and how Eugenie smiled and bowed at the people. I never +saw such enthusiasm in my life. And oh, I learned such a lot of French +history. All about Francis the First, and Pa took me to see his chateaus +along the Loire. Very few tourists go there. You really ought to have +gone with us.” + +Take care, Virginia! + +“I had other work to do, Jinny,” said the Judge. + +Virginia rattled on. + +“I told you that we stayed with a real lord in England, didn't I?” said +she. “He wasn't half as nice as the Prince. But he had a beautiful house +in Surrey, all windows, which was built in Elizabeth's time. They called +the architecture Tudor, didn't they, Pa?” + +“Yes, dear,” said the Colonel, smiling. + +“The Countess was nice to me,” continued the girl, “and took me to +garden parties. But Lord Jermyn was always talking politics.” + +The Colonel was stroking his goatee. + +“Tell Silas about the house, Jinny--Jackson, help the Judge again.” + +“No,” said Virginia, drawing a breath. “I'm going to tell him about that +queer club where my great-grand-father used to bet with Charles Fox. We +saw a great many places where Richard Carvel had been in England. That +was before the Revolution. Uncle Daniel read me some of his memoirs when +we were at Calvert House. I know that you would be interested in them, +Uncle Silas. He sailed under Paul Jones.” + +“And fought for his country and for his flag, Virginia,” said the Judge, +who had scarcely spoken until then. “No, I could not bear to read them +now, when those who should love that country are leaving it in passion.” + +There was a heavy silence. Virginia did not dare to look at her father. +But the Colonel said, gently: + +“Not in passion, Silas, but in sorrow.” + +The Judge tightened his lips. But the effort was beyond him, and the +flood within him broke loose. + +“Colonel Carvel,” he cried, “South Carolina is mad--She is departing in +sin, in order that a fiendish practice may be perpetuated. If her people +stopped to think they would know that slavery cannot exist except by +means of this Union. But let this milksop of a President do his worst. +We have chosen a man who has the strength to say, 'You shall not go!'” + +It was an awful moment. The saving grace of it was that respect and love +for her father filled Virginia's heart. In his just anger Colonel +Carvel remembered that he was the host, and strove to think only of his +affection for his old friend. + +“To invade a sovereign state, sir, is a crime against the sacred spirit +of this government,” he said. + +“There is no such thing as a sovereign state, sir,” exclaimed the Judge, +hotly. “I am an American, and not a Missourian.” + +“When the time comes, sir,” said the Colonel, with dignity, “Missouri +will join with her sister sovereign states against oppression.” + +“Missouri will not secede, sir.” + +“Why not, sir!” demanded the Colonel. + +“Because, sir, when the worst comes, the Soothing Syrup men will rally +for the Union. And there are enough loyal people here to keep her +straight.” + +“Dutchmen, sir! Hessians? Foreign Republican hirelings, sir,” exclaimed +the Colonel, standing up. “We shall drive them like sheep if they oppose +us. You are drilling them now that they may murder your own blood when +you think the time is ripe.” + +The Colonel did not hear Virginia leave the room, so softly had she +gone, He made a grand figure of a man as he stood up, straight and tall, +those gray eyes a-kindle at last. But the fire died as quickly as it had +flared. Pity had come and quenched it,--pity that an unselfish life +of suffering and loneliness should be crowned with these. The Colonel +longed then to clasp his friend in his arms. Quarrels they had had +by the hundred, never yet a misunderstanding. God had given to Silas +Whipple a nature stern and harsh that repelled all save the charitable +few whose gift it was to see below the surface, and Colonel Carvel had +been the chief of them. But now the Judge's vision was clouded. + +Steadying himself by his chair, he had risen glaring, the loose skin +twitching on his sallow face. He began firmly but his voice shook ere he +had finished. + +“Colonel Carvel,” said he, “I expect that the day has come when you +go your way and I go mine. It will be better if--we do not meet again, +sir.” + +And so he turned from the man whose friendship had stayed him for the +score of years he had battled with his enemies, from that house which +had been for so long his only home. For the last time Jackson came +forward to help him with his coat. The Judge did not see him, nor did he +see the tearful face of a young girl leaning over the banisters above. +Ice was on the stones. And Mr. Whipple, blinded by a moisture strange to +his eyes, clung to the iron railing as he felt his way down the steps. +Before he reached the bottom a stronger arm had seize his own, and was +helping him. + +The Judge brushed his eyes with his sleeve, and turned a defiant face +upon Captain Elijah Brent--then his voice broke. His anger was +suddenly gone, and his thought had flown back to the Colonel's thousand +charities. + +“Lige,” he said, “Lige, it has come.” + +In answer the Captain pressed the Judge's hand, nodding vigorously to +hide his rising emotion. There was a pause. + +“And you, Lige?” said Mr. Whipple, presently. + +“My God!” cried the Captain, “I wish I knew.” + +“Lige,” said the Judge, gravely, “you're too good a man to be for +Soothing Syrup.” + +The Captain choked. + +“You're too smart to be fooled, Lige,” he said, with a note near to +pleading. “The time has come when you Bell people and the Douglas people +have got to decide. Never in my life did I know it to do good to dodge +a question. We've got to be white or black, Lige. Nobody's got much +use for the grays. And don't let yourself be fooled with Constitutional +Union Meetings, and compromises. The time is almost here, Lige, when it +will take a rascal to steer a middle course.” + +Captain Lige listened, and he shifted from one foot to the other, and +rubbed his hands, which were red. Some odd trick of the mind had put +into his head two people--Eliphalet Hopper and Jacob Cluyme. Was he like +them? + +“Lige, you've got to decide. Do you love your country, sir? Can you look +on while our own states defy us, and not lift a hand? Can you sit still +while the Governor and all the secessionists in this state are plotting +to take Missouri, too, out of the Union? The militia is riddled with +rebels, and the rest are forming companies of minute men.” + +“And you Black Republicans,” the Captain cried “have organized your +Dutch Wideawakes, and are arming them to resist Americans born.” + +“They are Americans by our Constitution, sir, which the South pretends +to revere,” cried the Judge. “And they are showing themselves better +Americans than many who have been on the soil for generations.” + +“My sympathies are with the South,” said the Captain, doggedly, “and my +love is for the South.” + +“And your conscience?” said the Judge. + +There was no answer. Both men raised their eyes to the house of him +whose loving hospitality had been a light in the lives of both. When at +last the Captain spoke, his voice was rent with feeling. + +“Judge,” he began, “when I was a poor young man on the old 'Vicksburg', +second officer under old Stetson, Colonel Carvel used to take me up to +his house on Fourth Street to dinner. And he gave me the clothes on +my back, so that I might not be ashamed before the fashion which came +there. He treated me like a son, sir. One day the sheriff sold the +Vicksburg. You remember it. That left me high and dry in the mud. +Who bought her, sir? Colonel Carvel. And he says to me, 'Lige, you're +captain now, the youngest captain on the river. And she's your boat. You +can pay me principal and interest when you get ready.' + +“Judge Whipple, I never had any other home than right in, this house. I +never had any other pleasure than bringing Jinny presents, and tryin' to +show 'em gratitude. He took me into his house and cared for me at a time +when I wanted to go to the devil along with the stevedores when I was +a wanderer he kept me out of the streets, and out of temptation. Judge, +I'd a heap rather go down and jump off the stern of my boat than step in +here and tell him I'd fight for the North.” + +The Judge steadied himself on his hickory stick and walked off without +a word. For a while Captain Lige stood staring after him. Then he slowly +climbed the steps and disappeared. + + + + +CHAPTER, XV. MUTTERINGS + +Early in the next year, 1861,--that red year in the Calendar of our +history,--several gentlemen met secretly in the dingy counting-room of +a prominent citizen to consider how the state of Missouri might be saved +to the Union. One of these gentlemen was Judge Whipple, another, Mr. +Brinsmade; and another a masterly and fearless lawyer who afterward +became a general, and who shall be mentioned in these pages as the +Leader. By his dash and boldness and statesmanlike grasp of a black +situation St. Louis was snatched from the very bosom of secession. + +Alas, that chronicles may not stretch so as to embrace all great men of +a time. There is Captain Nathaniel Lyon,--name with the fateful ring. +Nathaniel Lyon, with the wild red hair and blue eye, born and bred a +soldier, ordered to St. Louis, and become subordinate to a wavering +officer of ordnance. Lyon was one who brooked no trifling. He had the +face of a man who knows his mind and intention; the quick speech and +action which go with this. Red tape made by the reel to bind him, he +broke. Courts-martial had no terrors for him. He proved the ablest of +lieutenants to the strong civilian who was the Leader. Both were the +men of the occasion. If God had willed that the South should win, there +would have been no occasion. + +Even as Judge Whipple had said, the time was come for all men to decide. +Out of the way, all hopes of compromises that benumbed Washington. No +Constitutional Unionists, no Douglas Democrats, no Republicans now. + +All must work to save the ship. The speech-making was not done with yet. +Partisanship must be overcome, and patriotism instilled in its place. +One day Stephen Brice saw the Leader go into Judge Whipple's room, +and presently he was sent for. After that he was heard of in various +out-of-the-way neighborhoods, exhorting all men to forget their quarrels +and uphold the flag. + +The Leader himself knew not night from day in his toil,--in organizing, +conciliating, compelling when necessary. Letters passed between him +and Springfield. And, after that solemn inauguration, between him and +Washington. It was an open secret that the Governor of Missouri held out +his arms to Jefferson Davis, just elected President of the new Southern +Confederacy. It soon became plain to the feeblest brain what the Leader +and his friends had perceived long before, that the Governor intended +to use the militia (purged of Yankee sympathizers) to save the state for +the South. + +The Government Arsenal, with its stores of arms and ammunition, was +the prize. This building and its grounds lay to the south of the +City, overlooking the river. It was in command of a doubting major +of ordnance; the corps of officers of Jefferson Barracks hard by was +mottled with secession. Trade was still. The Mississippi below was +practically closed. In all the South, Pickens and Sumter alone stood +stanch to the flag. A general, wearing the uniform of the army of the +United States, surrendered the whole state of Texas. + +The St. Louis Arsenal was next in succession, and the little band of +regulars at the Barracks was powerless to save it. What could the Leader +and Captain Lyon do without troops? That was the question that rang +in Stephen's head, and in the heads of many others. For, if President +Lincoln sent troops to St. Louis, that would precipitate the trouble. +And the President had other uses for the handful in the army. + +There came a rain-sodden night when a mysterious message arrived at +the little house in Olive Street. Both anxiety and pride were in Mrs. +Brice's eyes as they followed her son out of the door. At Twelfth +Street two men were lounging on the corners, each of whom glanced at +him listessly as he passed. He went up a dark and narrow stair into a +lighted hall with shrouded windows. Men with sober faces were forming +line on the sawdust of the floors. The Leader was there giving military +orders in a low voice. That marked the beginning of the aggressive Union +movement. + +Stephen, standing apart at the entrance, remarked that many of the men +were Germans. Indeed, he spied his friend Tiefel there, and presently +Richter came from the ranks to greet him. + +“My friend,” he said, “you are made second lieutenant of our company, +the Black Jaegers.” + +“But I have never drilled in my life,” said Stephen. + +“Never mind. Come and see the Leader.” + +The Leader, smiling a little, put a vigorous stop to his protestations, +and told him to buy a tactics. The next man Stephen saw was big Tom +Catherwood, who blushed to the line of his hair as he returned Stephen's +grip. + +“Tom, what does this mean?” He asked. + +“Well,” said Tom, embarrassed, “a fellow has got to do what he think's +right.” + +“And your family?” asked Stephen. + +A spasm crossed Tom's face. + +“I reckon they'll disown me, Stephen, when they find it out.” + +Richter walked home as far as Stephen's house. He was to take the Fifth +Street car for South St. Louis. And they talked of Tom's courage, and of +the broad and secret military organization the Leader had planned that +night. But Stephen did not sleep till the dawn. Was he doing right? +Could he afford to risk his life in the war that was coming, and leave +his mother dependent upon charity? + +It was shortly after this that Stephen paid his last visit for many a +long day upon Miss Puss Russell. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Puss was +entertaining, as usual, a whole parlor-full of young men, whose leanings +and sympathies Stephen divined while taking off his coat in the hall. +Then he heard Miss Russell cry: + +“I believe that they are drilling those nasty Dutch hirelings in +secret.” + +“I am sure they are,” said George Catherwood. “One of the halls is on +Twelfth Street, and they have sentries posted out so that you can't get +near them. Pa has an idea that Tom goes there. And he told him that if +he ever got evidence of it, he'd show him the door.” + +“Do you really think that Tom is with the Yankees?” asked Jack +Brinsmade. + +“Tom's a fool,” said George, with emphasis, “but he isn't a coward. +He'd just as soon tell Pa to-morrow that he was drilling if the Yankee +leaders wished it known.” + +“Virginia will never speak to him again,” said Eugenie, in an awed +voice. + +“Pooh!” said Puss, “Tom never had a chance with Jinny. Did he, George? +Clarence is in high favor now. Did you ever know any one to change so, +since this military business has begun? He acts like a colonel. I hear +that they are thinking of making him captain of a company of dragoons.” + +“They are,” George answered. “And that is the company I intend to join.” + +“Well,” began Puss, with her usual recklessness, “it's a good thing for +Clarence that all this is happening. I know somebody else--” + +Poor Stephen in the hall knew not whether to stay or fly. An accident +decided the question. Emily Russell came down the stairs at that instant +and spoke to him. As the two entered the parlor, there was a hush +pregnant with many things unsaid. Puss's face was scarlet, but her hand +was cold as she held it out to him. For the first time in that house +he felt like an intruder. Jack Brinsmade bowed with great ceremony, +and took his departure. There was scarcely a distant cordiality in +the greeting of the other young men. And Puss, whose tongue was loosed +again, talked rapidly of entertainments to which Stephen either had not +been invited, or from which he had stayed away. The rest of the company +were almost moodily silent. + +Profoundly depressed, Stephen sat straight in the velvet chair, awaiting +a seasonable time to bring his visit to a close. + +This was to be the last, then, of his intercourse with a warmhearted +and lovable people. This was to be the end of his friendship with this +impetuous and generous girl who had done so much to brighten his life +since he had come to St: Louis. Henceforth this house would be shut to +him, and all others save Mr. Brinsmade's. + +Presently, in one of the intervals of Miss Russell's feverish talk, +he rose to go. Dusk was gathering, and a deep and ominous silence +penetrated like the shadows into the tall room. No words came to him. +Impulsively, almost tearfully, Puss put her hand in his. Then she +pressed it unexpectedly, so that he had to gulp down a lump that was in +his throat. Just then a loud cry was heard from without, the men jumped +from their chairs, and something heavy dropped on the carpet. + +Some ran to the window, others to the door. Directly across the street +was the house of Mr. Harmsworth, a noted Union man. One of the third +story windows was open, and out of it was pouring a mass of gray wood +smoke. George Catherwood was the first to speak. + +“I hope it will burn down,” he cried. + +Stephen picked up the object on the floor, which had dropped from his +pocket, and handed it to him. + +It was a revolver. + + + + +Volume 5. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. THE GUNS OF SUMTER + +Winter had vanished. Spring was come with a hush. Toward a little island +set in the blue waters of Charleston harbor anxious eyes were strained. + +Was the flag still there? + +God alone may count the wives and mothers who listened in the still +hours of the night for the guns of Sumter. One sultry night in April +Stephen's mother awoke with fear in her heart, for she had heard them. +Hark! that is the roar now, faint but sullen. That is the red flash +far across the black Southern sky. For in our beds are the terrors and +cruelties of life revealed to us. There is a demon to be faced, and +nought alone. + +Mrs. Brice was a brave woman. She walked that night with God. + +Stephen, too, awoke. The lightning revealed her as she bent over him. +On the wings of memory be flew back to his childhood in the great Boston +house with the rounded front, and he saw the nursery with its high +windows looking out across the Common. Often in the dark had she come to +him thus, her gentle hand passing over aim to feel if he were covered. + +“What is it, mother?” he said. + +She said: “Stephen, I am afraid that the war has come.” + +He sat up, blindly. Even he did not guess the agony in her heart. + +“You will have to go, Stephen.” + +It was long before his answer came. + +“You know that I cannot, mother. We have nothing left but the little I +earn. And if I were--” He did not finish the sentence, for he felt her +trembling. But she said again, with that courage which seems woman's +alone: + +“Remember Wilton Brice. Stephen--I can get along. I can sew.” + +It was the hour he had dreaded, stolen suddenly upon him out of the +night. How many times had he rehearsed this scene to himself! He, +Stephen Brice, who had preached and slaved and drilled for the Union, +a renegade to be shunned by friend and foe alike! He had talked for his +country, but he would not risk his life for it. He heard them repeating +the charge. He saw them passing him silently on the street. Shamefully +he remembered the time, five months agone, when he had worn the very +uniform of his Revolutionary ancestor. And high above the tier of his +accusers he saw one face, and the look of it stung to the very quick of +his soul. + +Before the storm he had fallen asleep in sheer weariness of the +struggle, that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. If +he were to march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!) +she would respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed at +home, she would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. And +yet he knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready to +follow with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South. + +The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in the +blackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters she +listened for his voice. + +“I will not go, mother,” he said. “If at length every man is needed, +that will be different.” + +“It is for you to decide, my son,” she answered. “There are many ways in +which you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have to +face hard things.” + +“I have had to do that before, mother,” he replied calmly. “I cannot +leave you dependent upon charity.” + +She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his +ambition at her feet. + +It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All through +the Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked +on. No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness which +precedes action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business, +to sit idle. A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. South +Carolina had shot to bits the flag she had once revered. + +On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers. +Missouri was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governor +went back,--never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states. +Little did Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of +all the Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was credited +in the end even more men than stanch Massachusetts. + +The noise of preparation was in the city--in the land. On the Monday +morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter +at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his +face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own. + +“We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It +is the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down +rebellion.” Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What would +he think,--this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native +land for his convictions? Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to die +for them? How was he to confess to Richter, of all men? + +“Carl,” he said at length, “I--I cannot go.” + +“You--you cannot go? You who have done so much already! And why?” + +Stephen did not answer. But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his hands +impulsively on Stephen's shoulders. + +“Ach, I see,” he said. “Stephen, I have saved some money. It shall be +for your mother while you are away.” + +At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite of +his feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his +character. Then he could merely shake his head. + +“Is it not for the Union?” implored Richter, “I would give a fortune, if +I had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need the +money now. I 'have--nobody.” + +Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across +the river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears of +intense agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching, +and the flag flying at its head. + +“It is my duty to stay here, Carl,” he said brokenly. + +Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized that +with this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. In +all his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With the +demonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knew +not how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to be +broken down. + +At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared. + +“Mr. Brice!” he said sharply. + +Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glass +door, scarce knowing what to expect,--and scarce caring, as on that +first day he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, and +then the transom. Stephen felt those keen eyes searching him from their +hiding-place. + +“Mr. Brice,” he said at last, “the President has called for seventy-five +thousand volunteers to crush this rebellion. They will go, and be +swallowed up, and more will go to fill their places. Mr. Brice, people +will tell you that the war will be over in ninety days. But I tell you, +sir, that it will not be over in seven times ninety days.” He brought +down his fist heavily upon the table. “This, sir, will be a war to the +death. One side or the other will fight until their blood is all let, +and until their homes are all ruins.” He darted at Stephen one look from +under those fierce eyebrows. “Do you intend to go sir?” + +Stephen met the look squarely. “No, sir,” he answered, steadily, “not +now.” + +“Humph,” said the Judge. Then he began what seemed a never-ending search +among the papers on his desk. At length he drew out a letter, put on his +spectacles and read it, and finally put it down again. + +“Stephen,” said Mr. Whipple, “you are doing a courageous thing. But if +we elect to follow our conscience in this world, we must not expect to +escape persecution, sir. Two weeks ago,” he continued slowly, “two weeks +ago I had a letter from Mr. Lincoln about matters here. He mentions +you.” + +“He remembers me!” cried Stephen + +The Judge smiled a little. “Mr. Lincoln never forgets any one,” said +he. “He wishes me to extend to you his thanks for your services to the +Republican party, and sends you his kindest regards.” + +This was the first and only time that Mr. Whipple spoke to him of his +labors. Stephen has often laughed at this since, and said that he +would not have heard of them at all had not the Judge's sense of duty +compelled him to convey the message. And it was with a lighter heart +than he had felt for many a day that he went out of the door. + +Some weeks later, five regiments were mustered into the service of the +United States. The Leader was in command of one. And in response to his +appeals, despite the presence of officers of higher rank, the President +had given Captain Nathaniel Lyon supreme command in Missouri. + +Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets as +the regiments marched past. Here were the 'Black Jaegers.' No wonder the +crowd laughed. Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straight +as Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant. +And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenant +that Stephen himself should have filled. Here was another company, +and at the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood. His father +had disowned him the day before, His two brothers, George and little +Spencer, were in a house not far away--a house from which a strange flag +drooped. + +Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen +threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his +very soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung against +its staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The house +was thrown wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of +honored families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee +cowardice they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to +the strange banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the open +doorway, the mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardians +were the Minute Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the +state of Missouri. + +Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people, +and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on the +steps, and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, and +a careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the +street. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame, +as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire of +the war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,--and yet +he stopped. + +What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before +that house? + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. CAMP JACKSON + +What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861! +Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred +feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is +gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to +Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction. + +Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the +strange flag leaps wildly in the wind this day. + +On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands +are playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited +chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in +line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies +often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests +out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are +the aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington +Guards and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and +Davis Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors +are the Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed. + +What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a +cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves +the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come +at last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing +quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons. +Maude Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect +and firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and +white, and red again,--true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was +of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true +calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of +armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still +northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She +saw his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday. + +Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his +long neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and +four. The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose +horse is built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie +gives a cry and points to the rear where Maurice is riding. + +Whose will be the Arsenal now? Can the Yankee regiments with their +slouchy Dutchmen hope to capture it! If there are any Yankees in Twelfth +Street that day, they are silent. Yes, there are some. And there are +some, even in the ranks of this Militia--who will fight for the Union. +These are sad indeed. + +There is another wait, the companies standing at ease. Some of the +dragoons dismount, but not the handsome young captain, who rides +straight to the bright group which has caught his eye, Colonel Carvel +wrings his gauntleted hand. + +“Clarence, we are proud of you, sir,” he says. + +And Virginia, repeats his words, her eyes sparkling, her fingers +caressing the silken curve of Jefferson's neck. + +“Clarence, you will drive Captain Lyon and his Hessians into the river.” + +“Hush, Jinny,” he answered, “we are merely going into camp to learn to +drill, that we may be ready to defend the state when the time comes.” + +Virginia laughed. “I had forgotten,” she said. + +“You will have your cousin court-martialed, my dear,” said the Colonel. + +Just then the call is sounded. But he must needs press Virginia's hand +first, and allow admiring Maude and Eugenie to press his. Then he goes +off at a slow canter to join his dragoons, waving his glove at them, and +turning to give the sharp order, “Attention”! to his squadron. + +Virginia is deliriously happy. Once more she has swept from her heart +every vestige of doubt. Now is Clarence the man she can admire. Chosen +unanimously captain of the Squadron but a few days since, Clarence had +taken command like a veteran. George Catherwood and Maurice had told the +story. + +And now at last the city is to shake off the dust of the North. “On to +Camp Jackson!” was the cry. The bands are started, the general and +staff begin to move, and the column swings into the Olive Street road, +followed by a concourse of citizens awheel and afoot, the horse cars +crowded. Virginia and Maude and the Colonel in the Carvel carriage, and +behind Ned, on the box, is their luncheon in a hamper Standing up, the +girls can just see the nodding plumes of the dragoons far to the front. + +Olive Street, now paved with hot granite and disfigured by trolley +wires, was a country road then. Green trees took the place of crowded +rows of houses and stores, and little “bob-tail” yellow cars were drawn +by plodding mules to an inclosure in a timbered valley, surrounded by +a board fence, known as Lindell Grove. It was then a resort, a picnic +ground, what is now covered by close residences which have long shown +the wear of time. + +Into Lindell Grove flocked the crowd, the rich and the poor, the +proprietor and the salesmen, to watch the soldiers pitch their tents +under the spreading trees. The gallant dragoons were off to the west, +across a little stream which trickled through the grounds. By the side +of it Virginia and Maude, enchanted, beheld Captain Colfax shouting +his orders while his troopers dragged the canvas from the wagons, and +staggered under it to the line. Alas! that the girls were there! The +Captain lost his temper, his troopers, perspiring over Gordian knots in +the ropes, uttered strange soldier oaths, while the mad wind which blew +that day played a hundred pranks. + +To the discomfiture of the young ladies, Colonel Carvel pulled his +goatee and guffawed. Virginia was for moving away. + +“How mean, Pa,” she said indignantly. “How car, you expect them to do it +right the first day, and in this wind?” + +“Oh! Jinny, look at Maurice!” exclaimed Maude, giggling. “He is pulled +over on his head.” + +The Colonel roared. And the gentlemen and ladies who were standing by +laughed, too. Virginia did not laugh. It was all too serious for her. + +“You will see that they can fight,” she said. “They can beat the Yankees +and Dutch.” + +This speech made the Colonel glance around him: Then he smiled,--in +response to other smiles. + +“My dear,” he said, “you must remember that this is a peaceable camp of +instruction of the state militia. There fly the Stars and Stripes from +the general's tent. Do you see that they are above the state flag? +Jinny; you forget yourself.” + +Jinny stamped her foot + +“Oh, I hate dissimulation,” she cried, “Why can't we, say outright that +we are going to run that detestable Captain Lyon and his Yankees and +Hessians out of the Arsenal.” + +“Why not, Colonel Carvel?” cried Maude. She had forgotten that one of +her brothers was with the Yankees and Hessians. + +“Why aren't women made generals and governors?” said the Colonel. + +“If we were,” answered Virginia, “something might be accomplished.” + +“Isn't Clarence enough of a fire-eater to suit you?” asked her father. + +But the tents were pitched, and at that moment the young Captain was +seen to hand over his horse to an orderly, and to come toward them. He +was followed by George Catherwood. + +“Come, Jinny,” cried her cousin, “let us go over to the main camp.” + +“And walk on Davis Avenue,” said Virginia, flushing with pride. “Isn't +there a Davis Avenue?” + +“Yes, and a Lee Avenue, and a Beauregard Avenue,” said George, taking +his sister's arm. + +“We shall walk in them all,” said Virginia. + +What a scene of animation it was. The rustling trees and the young grass +of early May, and the two hundred and forty tents in lines of military +precision. Up and down the grassy streets flowed the promenade, proud +fathers and mothers, and sweethearts and sisters and wives in gala +dress. Wear your bright gowns now, you devoted women. The day is coming +when you will make them over and over again, or tear them to lint, to +stanch the blood of these young men who wear their new gray so well. + +Every afternoon Virginia drove with her father and her aunt to Camp +Jackson. All the fashion and beauty of the city were there. The bands +played, the black coachmen flecked the backs of their shining horses, +and walking in the avenues or seated under the trees were natty young +gentlemen in white trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. All was not +soldier fare at the regimental messes. Cakes and jellies and even ices +and more substantial dainties were laid beneath those tents. Dress +parade was one long sigh of delight: Better not to have been born than +to have been a young man in St. Louis, early in Camp Jackson week, and +not be a militiaman. + +One young man whom we know, however, had little of pomp and vanity +about him,--none other than the young manager (some whispered “silent +partner”) of Carvel & Company. If Mr. Eliphalet had had political +ambition, or political leanings, during the half-year which had just +passed, he had not shown them. Mr. Cluyme (no mean business man himself) +had pronounced Eliphalet a conservative young gentleman who attended +to his own affairs and let the mad country take care of itself. This +is precisely the wise course Mr. Hopper chose. Seeing a regiment of +Missouri Volunteers slouching down Fifth street in citizens' clothes he +had been remarked to smile cynically. But he kept his opinions so close +that he was supposed not to have any. + +On Thursday of Camp Jackson week, an event occurred in Mr. Carvel's +store which excited a buzz of comment. Mr. Hopper announced to Mr. +Barbo, the book-keeper, that he should not be there after four o'clock. +To be sure, times were more than dull. The Colonel that morning had read +over some two dozen letters from Texas and the Southwest, telling of the +impossibility of meeting certain obligations in the present state of the +country. The Colonel had gone home to dinner with his brow furrowed. +On the other hand, Mr. Hopper's equanimity was spoken of at the widow's +table. + +At four o'clock, Mr. Hopper took an Olive Street car, tucking himself +into the far corner where he would not be disturbed by any ladies who +might enter. In the course of an hour or so, he alighted at the western +gate of the camp on the Olive Street road. Refreshing himself with a +little tobacco, he let himself be carried leisurely by the crowd between +the rows of tents. A philosophy of his own (which many men before and +since have adopted) permitted him to stare with a superior good nature +at the open love-making around him. He imagined his own figure,--which +was already growing a little stout,--in a light gray jacket and duck +trousers, and laughed. Eliphalet was not burdened with illusions of that +kind. These heroes might have their hero-worship. Life held something +dearer for him. + +As he was sauntering toward a deserted seat at the foot of a tree, it so +chanced that he was overtaken by Mr. Cluyme and his daughter Belle. Only +that morning, this gentleman, in glancing through the real estate column +of his newspaper, had fallen upon a deed of sale which made him wink. He +reminded his wife that Mr. Hopper had not been to supper of late. So now +Mr. Cluyme held out his hand with more than common cordiality. When Mr. +Hopper took it, the fingers did not close any too tightly over his own. +But it may be well to remark that Mr. Hopper himself did not do any +squeezing. He took off his hat grudgingly to Miss Belle. He had never +liked the custom. + +“I hope you will take pot luck with us soon again, Mr. Hopper,” said +the elder gentleman. “We only have plain and simple things, but they are +wholesome, sir. Dainties are poor things to work on. I told that to his +Royal Highness when he was here last fall. He was speaking to me on the +merits of roast beef--” + +“It's a fine day,” said Mr. Hopper. + +“So it is,” Mr. Cluyme assented. Letting his gaze wander over the camp, +he added casually, “I see that they have got a few mortars and howitzers +since yesterday. I suppose that is the stuff we heard so much about, +which came on the 'Swon' marked 'marble.' They say Jeff Davis sent the +stuff to 'em from the Government arsenal the Secesh captured at Baton +Rouge. They're pretty near ready to move on our arsenal now.” + +Mr. Hopper listened with composure. He was not greatly interested in +this matter which had stirred the city to the quick. Neither had Mr. +Cluyme spoken as one who was deeply moved. Just then, as if to spare the +pains of a reply, a “Jenny Lind” passed them. Miss Belle recognized the +carriage immediately as belonging to an elderly lady who was well known +in St. Louis. Every day she drove out, dressed in black bombazine, and +heavily veiled. But she was blind. As the mother-in-law of the stalwart +Union leader of the city, Miss Belle's comment about her appearance in +Camp Jackson was not out of place. + +“Well!” she exclaimed, “I'd like to know what she's doing here!” + +Mr. Hopper's answer revealed a keenness which, in the course of a few +days, engendered in Mr. Cluyme as lusty a respect as he was capable of. + +“I don't know,” said Eliphalet; “but I cal'late she's got stouter.” + +“What do you mean by that?” Miss Belle demanded. + +“That Union principles must be healthy,” said he, and laughed. + +Miss Cluyme was prevented from following up this enigma. The appearance +of two people on Davis Avenue drove the veiled lady from her mind. +Eliphalet, too, had seen them. One was the tall young Captain of +Dragoons, in cavalry boots, and the other a young lady with dark brown +hair, in a lawn dress. + +“Just look at them!” cried Miss Belle. “They think they are alone in the +garden of Eden. Virginia didn't use to care for him. But since he's +a captain, and has got a uniform, she's come round pretty quick. I'm +thankful I never had any silly notions about uniforms.” + +She glanced at Eliphalet, to find that his eyes were fixed on the +approaching couple. + +“Clarence is handsome, but worthless,” she continued in her sprightly +way. “I believe Jinny will be fool enough to marry him. Do you think +she's so very pretty, Mr. Hopper?” + +Mr. Hopper lied. + +“Neither do I,” Miss Belle assented. And upon that, greatly to +the astonishment of Eliphalet, she left him and ran towards them. +“Virginia!” she cried; “Jinny, I have something so interesting to tell +you!” + +Virginia turned impatiently. The look she bestowed upon Miss Cluyme was +not one of welcome, but Belle was not sensitive. Putting her arm through +Virginia's, she sauntered off with the pair toward the parade grounds, +Clarence maintaining now a distance of three feet, and not caring to +hide his annoyance. + +Eliphalet's eyes smouldered, following the three until they were lost +in the crowd. That expression of Virginia's had reminded him of a +time, years gone, when she had come into the store on her return from +Kentucky, and had ordered him to tell her father of her arrival. He had +smarted then. And Eliphalet was not the sort to get over smarts. + +“A beautiful young lady,” remarked Mr. Cluyme. “And a deserving one, Mr. +Hopper. Now, she is my notion of quality. She has wealth, and manners, +and looks. And her father is a good man. Too bad he holds such views +on secession. I have always thought, sir, that you were singularly +fortunate in your connection with him.” + +There was a point of light now in each of Mr. Hopper's green eyes. But +Mr. Cluyme continued: + +“What a pity, I say, that he should run the risk of crippling himself by +his opinions. Times are getting hard.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Hopper. + +“And southwestern notes are not worth the paper they are written on--” + +But Mr. Cluyme has misjudged his man. If he had come to Eliphalet for +information of Colonel Carvel's affairs, or of any one else's affairs, +he was not likely to get it. It is not meet to repeat here the long +business conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Cluyme, +who was in dry goods himself, was as ignorant when he left Eliphalet +as when he met him. But he had a greater respect than ever for the +shrewdness of the business manager of Carvel & Company. + + ......................... + +That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering +jubilantly in each other's ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and +stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening +within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal, +far to the southward. + +The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen. Richter gone, and the +Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at +a spell the sole tenant of the office. Fortunately there was work of +Richter's and of Mr. Whipple's left undone that kept him busy. This +Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best +black coat which he wore on occasions. His manner had recently lost much +of its gruffness. + +“Stephen,” said he, “they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the +regiments at the arsenal. Would you like to go down with me?” + +“Does that mean Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen, when they had reached the +street. + +“Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the +first trick, sir,” said the Judge. + +As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen's attention was at once +attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about +him. He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation. He +had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of +military abruptness. + +“That is Major William T. Sherman,” said the Judge to Stephen. “He +used to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War. He came here two +months ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line.” + +They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major +Sherman, who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him +a vigorous nod. + +“Well, Whipple,” he said, “this nation is going to the devil; eh?” + +Stephen could not resist a smile. For it was a bold man who expressed +radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St. +Louis street car early in '61. + +The Judge shook his head. “We may pull out,” he said. + +“Pull out!” exclaimed Mr. Sherman. “Who's man enough in Washington +to shake his fist in a rebel's face? Our leniency--our timidity--has +paralyzed us, sir.” + +By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in +the conversation. Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge, +once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings. + +“I have faith in Mr. Lincoln. He is calling out volunteers.” + +“Seventy-five thousand for three months!” said the Major, vehemently, +“a bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we'll need all the +water we've got in the North.” + +The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would +draw all the water before he got through. + +“Upon my soul,” said Mr. Sherman, “I'm disgusted. Now's the time to stop +'em. The longer we let 'em rear and kick, the harder to break 'em. You +don't catch me going back to the army for three months. If they want me, +they've got to guarantee me three years. That's more like it.” Turning +to Stephen, he added: “Don't you sign any three months' contract, young +man.” + +Stephen grew red. By this time the car was full, and silent. No one had +offered to quarrel with the Major. Nor did it seem likely that any one +would. + +“I'm afraid I can't go, sir.” + +“Why not?” demanded Mr. Sherman. + +“Because, sir,” said the Judge, bluntly, “his mother's a widow, and they +have no money. He was a lieutenant in one of Blair's companies before +the call came.” + +The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed. + +“Find it pretty hard?” he asked. + +Stephen's expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more +vigorously than before. + +“Just you WAIT, Mr. Brice,” he said. “It won't hurt you any.” + +Stephen was grateful. But he hoped to fall out of the talk. Much to his +discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks. His whole +manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain +Elijah Brent. + +“Aren't you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile +Library Hall?” + +“Yes, sir,” said the Judge. “He is.” + +At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen's. + +“Well, sir,” he said, “I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except +some of Abraham Lincoln's. Brinsmade gave it to me to read. Whipple, +that speech reminded me of Lincoln. It was his style. Where did you get +it, Mr. Brice?” he demanded. + +“I heard Mr. Lincoln's debate with Judge Douglas at 'Freeport,” said +Stephen; beginning to be amused. + +The Major laughed. + +“I admire your frankness, sir,” he said. “I meant to say that its logic +rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln.” + +“I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman.” + +At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds. +Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last +in the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of +cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the +recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not +enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen +saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned. +It was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For +suddenly Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view. + +“Look at him!” cried the Major, “he's a man after my own heart. Just +look at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the +papers bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But +this isn't the time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in +Washington, our troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time. +Don't talk to me of Washington! Just look at him!” + +The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major +Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, +and from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing, +gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had +swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the +tape with which they had tied him. + +Would he be duped by the Governor's ruse of establishing a State Camp at +this time? Stephen, as he gazed at him, was sure that he would not. This +man could see to the bottom, through every specious argument. Little +matters of law and precedence did not trouble him. Nor did he believe +elderly men in authority when they told gravely that the state troops +were there for peace. + +After the ranks were broken, Major Sherman and the Judge went to talk to +Captain Lyon and the Union Leader, who was now a Colonel of one of +the Volunteer regiments. Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the +regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march. + +“To Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen. + +Richter shrugged his shoulders. + +“We are not consulted, my friend,” he said. “Will you come into my +quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?” + +Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship +was gone. To him it was as if the ties that had bound him to them were +asunder, and he was become an outcast. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE STONE THAT IS REJECTED + +That Friday morning Stephen awoke betimes with a sense that something +was to happen. For a few moments he lay still in the half comprehension +which comes after sleep when suddenly he remembered yesterday's +incidents at the Arsenal, and leaped out of bed. + +“I think that Lyon is going to attack Camp Jackson to-day,” he said to +his mother after breakfast, when Hester had left the room. + +Mrs. Brice dropped her knitting in her lap. + +“Why, Stephen?” + +“I went down to the Arsenal with the Judge yesterday and saw them +finishing the equipment of the new regiments. Something was in the wind. +Any one could see that from the way Lyon was flying about. I think he +must have proof that the Camp Jackson people have received supplies from +the South.” + +Mrs. Brice looked fixedly at her son, and then smiled in spite of the +apprehension she felt. + +“Is that why you were working over that map of the city last night?” she +asked. + +“I was trying to see how Lyon would dispose his troops. I meant to tell +you about a gentleman we met in the street car, a Major Sherman who used +to be in the army. Mr. Brinsmade knows him, and Judge Whipple, and many +other prominent men here. He came to St. Louis some months ago to take +the position of president of the Fifth Street Line. He is the keenest, +the most original man I have ever met. As long as I live I shall never +forget his description of Lyon.” + +“Is the Major going back into the army?” said Mrs. Brice, Stephen +did not remark the little falter in her voice. He laughed over the +recollection of the conversation in the street car. + +“Not unless matters in Washington change to suit him,” he said. “He +thinks that things have been very badly managed, and does not scruple +to say so anywhere. I could not have believed it possible that two men +could have talked in public as he and Judge Whipple did yesterday and +not be shot down. I thought that it was as much as a man's life is worth +to mention allegiance to the Union here in a crowd. And the way Mr. +Sherman pitched into the Rebels in that car full of people was enough to +make your hair stand on end.” + +“He must be a bold man,” murmured Mrs. Brice. + +“Does he think that the--the Rebellion can be put down?” + +“Not with seventy-five thousand men, nor with ten times that number.” + +Mrs. Brice sighed, and furtively wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. + +“I am afraid we shall see great misery, Stephen,” she said. + +He was silent. From that peaceful little room war and its horrors seemed +very far away. The morning sun poured in through the south windows and +was scattered by the silver on the sideboard. From above, on the wall, +Colonel Wilton Brice gazed soberly down. Stephen's eyes lighted on the +portrait, and his thoughts flew back to the boyhood days when he used to +ply his father with questions about it. Then the picture had suggested +only the glory and honor which illumines the page of history. Something +worthy to look back upon, to keep ones head high. The hatred and the +suffering and the tears, the heartrending, tearing apart for all time of +loving ones who have grown together,--these were not upon that canvas, +Will war ever be painted with a wart? + +The sound of feet was heard on the pavement. Stephen rose, glancing at +his mother. Her face was still upon her knitting. + +“I am going to the Arsenal,” he said. “I must see what as happening.” + +To her, as has been said, was given wisdom beyond most women. She did +not try to prevent him as he kissed her good-by. But when the door had +shut behind him, a little cry escaped her, and she ran to the window to +strain her eyes after him until he had turned the corner below. + +His steps led him irresistibly past the house of the strange flag, +ominously quiet at that early hour. At sight of it anger made him hot +again. The car for South St. Louis stood at the end of the line, fast +filling with curious people who had read in their papers that morning of +the equipment of the new troops. There was little talk among them, and +that little guarded. + +It was a May morning to rouse a sluggard; the night air tingled into +life at the touch of the sunshine, the trees in the flitting glory +of their first green. Stephen found the shaded street in front of the +Arsenal already filled with an expectant crowd. Sharp commands broke the +silence, and he saw the blue regiments forming on the lawn inside the +wall. Truly, events were in the air,--great events in which he had no +part. + +As he stood leaning against a tree-box by the curb, dragged down once +more by that dreaded feeling of detachment, he heard familiar voices +close beside him. Leaning forward, he saw Eliphalet Hopper and Mr. +Cluyme. It was Mr. Cluyme who was speaking. + +“Well, Mr. Hopper,” he said, “in spite of what you say, I expect you +are dust as eager as I am to see what is going on. You've taken an early +start this morning for sightseeing.” + +Eliphalet's equanimity was far from shaken. + +“I don't cal'late to take a great deal of stock in the military,” he +answered. “But business is business. And a man must keep an eye on what +is moving.” + +Mr. Cluyme ran his hand through his chop whiskers, and lowered his +voice. + +“You're right, Hopper,” he assented. “And if this city is going to be +Union, we ought to know it right away.” + +Stephen, listening with growing indignation to this talk, was unaware of +a man who stood on the other side of the tree, and who now came forward +before Mr. Hopper. He presented a somewhat uncompromising front. Mr. +Cluyme instantly melted away. + +“My friend,” said the stranger, quietly, “I think we have met before, +when your actions were not greatly to your credit. I do not forget a +face, even when I see it in the dark. Now I hear you utter words which +are a disgrace to a citizen of the United States. I have some respect +for a rebel. I have none for you, sir.” + +As soon as Stephen recovered from the shock of his surprise, he saw that +Eliphalet had changed countenance. The manner of an important man of +affairs, which he hay so assiduously cultivated, fell away from him. He +took a step backward, and his eyes made an ugly shift. Stephen rejoiced +to see the stranger turn his back on the manager of Carvel & Company +before that dignitary had time to depart, and stand unconcernedly there +as if nothing had occurred. + +Then Stephen stared at him. + +He was not a man you would look at twice, ordinarily, he was smoking a +great El Sol cigar. He wore clothes that were anything but new, a slouch +hat, and coarse grained, square-toed boots. His trousers were creased at +the knees. His head fell forward a little from his square shoulders, and +leaned a bit to one side, as if meditatively. He had a light brown beard +that was reddish in the sun, and he was rather short than otherwise. + +This was all that Stephen saw. And yet the very plainness of the man's +appearance only added to his curiosity. Who was this stranger? His +words, his action, too, had been remarkable. The art of administering +a rebuke like that was not given to many men. It was perfectly quiet, +perfectly final. And then, when it was over, he had turned his back and +dismissed it. + +Next Stephen began to wonder what he could know about Hopper. Stephen +had suspected Eliphalet of subordinating principles to business gain, +and hence the conversation with Mr. Cluyme had given him no shock in +the way of a revelation, But if Hopper were a rogue, ought not Colonel +Carvel to hear it? Ought not he, Stephen Brice, to ask this man with the +cigar what he knew, and tell Judge Whipple? The sudden rattle of drums +gave him a start, and cruelly reminded him of the gulf of prejudice and +hatred fast widening between the friends. + +All this time the stranger stood impassively chewing his cigar, his hand +against the tree-box. A regiment in column came out of the Arsenal gate, +the Union leader in his colonel's uniform, on horseback at its head. +He pulled up in the street opposite to Stephen, and sat in his saddle, +chatting with other officers around him. + +Then the stranger stepped across the limestone gutter and walked up +to the Colonel's horse, He was still smoking. This move, too, was +surprising enough, It argued even more assurance. Stephen listened +intently. + +“Colonel Blair, my name is Grant,” he said briefly. + +The Colonel faced quickly about, and held out his gloved hand cordially, +“Captain Ulysses Grant,” said he; “of the old army?” + +Mr. Grant nodded. + +“I wanted to wish you luck,” he said. + +“Thank you, Grant,” answered the Colonel. “But you? Where are you living +now?” + +“I moved to Illinois after I left here,” replied Mr. Grant, as quietly +as before, “and have been in Galena, in the Leather business there. I +went down to Springfield with the company they organized in Galena, to +be of any help I could. They made me a clerk in the adjutant general's +office of the state I ruled blanks, and made out forms for a while.” He +paused, as if to let the humble character of this position sink into +the Colonel's comprehension. “Then they found out that I'd been +quartermaster and commissary, and knew something about military orders +Now I'm a state mustering officer. I came down to Belleville to muster +in a regiment, which wasn't ready. And so I ran over here to see what +you fellows were doing.” + +If this humble account had been delivered volubly, and in another tone, +it is probable that the citizen-colonel would not have listened, since +the events of that day were to crown his work of a winter. But Mr. Grant +possessed a manner of holding attention.. It was very evident, however; +that Colonel Blair had other things to think of. Nevertheless he said +kindly: + +“Aren't you going in, Grant?” + +“I can't afford to go in as a captain of volunteers,” was the calm +reply: “I served nine years in the regular army and I think I can +command a regiment.” + +The Colonel, whose attention was called away at that moment, did not +reply. Mr. Grant moved off up the street. Some of the younger officers +who were there, laughed as they followed his retreating figure. + +“Command a regiment!” cried one, a lieutenant whom Stephen recognized +as having been a bookkeeper at Edwards, James, & Doddington's, and whose +stiff blue uniform coat creased awkwardly. “I guess I'm about as fit to +command a regiment as Grant is.” + +“That man's forty years old, if he's a day,” put in another. “I remember +when he came here to St. Louis in '54, played out. He'd resigned from +the army on the Pacific Coast. He put up a log cabin down on the Gravois +Road, and there he lived in the hardest luck of any man I ever saw until +last year. You remember him, Joe.” + +“Yep,” said Joe. “I spotted him by the El Sol cigar. He used to bring a +load of wood to the city once in a while, and then he'd go over to the +Planters' House, or somewhere else, and smoke one of these long fellows, +and sit against the wall as silent as a wooden Indian. After that he +came up to the city without his family and went into real estate one +winter. But he didn't make it go. Curious, it is just a year ago this +month than he went over to Illinois. He's an honest fellow, and hard +working enough, but he don't know how. He's just a dead failure.” + +“Command a regiment!” laughed the first, again, as of this in particular +had struck his sense of humor. “I guess he won't get a regiment in a +hurry, There's lots of those military carpet-baggers hanging around for +good jobs now.” + +“He might fool you fellows yet,” said the one caller, though his tone +was not one of conviction. “I understand he had a first-rate record an +the Mexican War.” + +Just then an aide rode up, and the Colonel gave a sharp command which +put an end to this desultory talk. As the First Regiment took up +the march, the words “Camp Jackson” ran from mouth to mouth on the +sidewalks. Catching fire, Stephen ran with the crowd, and leaping on +passing street car, was borne cityward with the drums of the coming +hosts beating in his ears. + +In the city, shutters were going up on the stores. The streets were +filled with, restless citizens seeking news, and drays were halted here +and there on the corners, the white eyes and frenzied calls of the negro +drivers betraying their excitement. While Stephen related to his mother +the events of the morning, Hester burned the dinner. It lay; still +untouched, on the table when the throbbing of drums sent them to the +front steps. Sigel's regiment had swung into the street, drawing in its +wake a seething crowd. + +Three persons came out of the big house next door. One was Anna +Brinsmade; and there was her father, his white hairs uncovered. The +third was Jack. His sister was cringing to him appealingly, and he +struggling in her grasp. Out of his coat pocket hung the curved butt of +a pepperbox revolver. + +“Let me go, Anne!” he cried. “Do you think I can stay here while my +people are shot down by a lot of damned Dutchman?” + +“John,” said Mr. Brinsmade, sternly, “I cannot let you join a mob. I +cannot let you shoot at men who carry the Union flag.” + +“You cannot prevent me, sir,” shouted the young man, in a frenzy. “When +foreigners take our flag for them own, it is time for us to shoot them +down.” + +Wrenching himself free, he ran down the steps and up the street ahead of +the regiment. Then the soldiers and the noisy crowd were upon them and +while these were passing the two stood there as in a dream. After that +silence fell upon the street, and Mr. Brinsmade turned and went back +into the house, his head bowed as in prayer. Stephen and his mother drew +back, but Anne saw them. + +“He is a rebel,” she faltered. “It will break my father's heart.” + +She looked at Stephen appealingly, unashamed of the tears in her eyes. +Then she, too went in. + +“I cannot stay here mother,” he said. + +As he slammed the gate, Anne ran down the steps calling his name. He +paused, and she caught his sleeve. + +“I knew you would go,” she said, “I knew you would go. Oh, Stephen, you +have a cool head. Try to keep Jack--out of mischief.” + +He left her standing on the pavement. But when he reached the corner and +looked back he saw that she had gone in at his own little gate to +meet his mother. Then he walked rapidly westward. Now and again he was +stopped by feverish questions, but at length he reached the top of the +second ridge from the river, along which crowded Eighteenth Street now +runs. There stood the new double mansion Mr. Spencer Catherwood had +built two years before on the outskirts of the town, with the wall at +the side, and the brick stable and stable yard. As Stephen approached +it, the thought came to him how little this world's goods avail in times +of trouble. One of the big Catherwood boys was in the blue marching +regiment that day, and had been told by his father never again to darken +his doors. Another was in Clarence Colfax's company of dragoons, and +still another had fled southward the night after Sumter. + +Stephen stopped at the crest of the hill, in the white dust of the +new-turned street, to gaze westward. Clouds were gathering in the sky, +but the sun still shone brightly, Half way up the rise two blue lines +had crawled, followed by black splotches, and at the southwest was the +glint of the sun on rifle barrels. Directed by a genius in the art of +war, the regiments were closing about Camp Jackson. + +As he stood there meditating and paying no attention to those who +hurried past, a few familiar notes were struck on a piano. They came +through the wide-shuttered window above his head. Then a girl's voice +rose above the notes, in tones that were exultant:-- + + “Away down South in de fields of cotton, + Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom, + Look away, look away, Look away, look away. + Den I wish I was in Dixie's Land, + Oh, oh! oh, oh! + In Dixie's Land I'll take my stand, + And live and die in Dixie's Land. + Away, away, away. + Away down South in Dixie.” + +The song ceased amid peals of girlish laughter. Stephen was rooted to +the spot. + +“Jinny! Jinny Carvel, how dare you!” came through the shutters. “We +shall have a whole regiment of Hessians in here.” + +Old Uncle Ben, the Catherwoods' coachman, came out of the stable yard. +The whites of his eyes were rolling, half in amusement, half in terror. +Seeing Stephen standing there, he exclaimed: + +“Mistah Brice, if de Dutch take Camp Jackson, is we niggers gwinter be +free?” + +Stephen did not answer, for the piano had started again, + + “If ever I consent to be married, + And who could refuse a good mate? + The man whom I give my hand to, + Must believe in the Rights of the State.” + +More laughter. Then the blinds were flung aside, and a young lady in +a dress of white trimmed with crimson stood in the window, smiling. +Suddenly she perceived Stephen in the road. Her smile faded. For an +instant she stared at him, and then turned to the girls crowding behind +her. What she said, he did not wait to hear. He was striding down the +hill. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE TENTH OF MAY + +Would the sons of the first families surrender, “Never!” cried a young +lady who sat behind the blinds in Mrs. Catherwood's parlor. It seemed to +her when she stopped to listen for the first guns of the coming battle +that the tumult in her heart would drown their roar. + +“But, Jinny,” ventured that Miss Puss Russell who never feared to speak +her mind, “it would be folly for them to fight. The Dutch and Yankees +outnumber them ten to one, and they haven't any powder and bullets.” + +“And Camp Jackson is down in a hollow,” said Maude Catherwood, +dejectedly. And yet hopefully, too, for at the thought of bloodshed she +was near to fainting. + +“Oh,” exclaimed Virginia, passionately, “I believe you want them to +surrender. I should rather see Clarence dead than giving his sword to a +Yankee.” + +At that the other two were silent again, and sat on through an endless +afternoon of uncertainty and hope and dread in the darkened room. Now +and anon Mr. Catherwood's heavy step was heard as he paced the hall. +From time to time they glanced at Virginia, as if to fathom her +thought. She and Puss Russell had come that day to dine with Maude. Mr. +Catherwood's Ben, reeking of the stable, had brought the rumor of the +marching on the camp into the dining-room, and close upon the heels of +this the rumble of the drums and the passing of Sigel's regiment. It was +Virginia who had the presence of mind to slam the blinds in the faces of +the troops, and the crowd had cheered her. It was Virginia who flew to +the piano to play Dixie ere they could get by, to the awe and admiration +of the girls and the delight of Mr. Catherwood who applauded her spirit +despite the trouble which weighed upon him. Once more the crowd had +cheered,--and hesitated. But the Dutch regiment slouched on, impassive, +and the people followed. + +Virginia remained at the piano, her mood exalted patriotism, uplifted +in spirit by that grand song. At first she had played it with all her +might. Then she sang it. She laughed in very scorn of the booby soldiers +she had seen. A million of these, with all the firearms in the world, +could not prevail against the flower of the South. Then she had begun +whimsically to sing a verse of a song she had heard the week before, and +suddenly her exaltation was fled, and her fingers left the keys. Gaining +the window, trembling, half-expectant, she flung open a blind. +The troops, the people, were gone, and there alone in the road +stood--Stephen Brice. The others close behind her saw him, too, and Puss +cried out in her surprise. The impression, when the room was dark once +more, was of sternness and sadness,--and of strength. Effaced was the +picture of the plodding recruits with their coarse and ill-fitting +uniforms of blue. + +Virginia shut the blinds. Not a word escaped her, nor could they tell +why--they did not dare to question her then. An hour passed, perhaps +two, before the shrill voice of a boy was heard in the street below. + +“Camp Jackson has surrendered!” + +They heard the patter of his bare feet on the pavement, and the cry +repeated. + +“Camp Jackson has surrendered!” + +And so the war began for Virginia. Bitter before, now was she on fire. +Close her lips as tightly as she might, the tears forced themselves to +her eyes. The ignominy of it! + +How hard it is for us of this age to understand that feeling. + +“I do not believe it!” she cried. “I cannot believe it!” + +The girls gathered around her, pale and frightened and anxious. Suddenly +courage returned to her, the courage which made Spartans of Southern +women. She ran to the front door. Mr. Catherwood was on the sidewalk, +talking to a breathless man. That man was Mr. Barbo, Colonel Carvel's +book-keeper. + +“Yes,” he was saying, “they--they surrendered. There was nothing else +for them to do. They were surrounded and overpowered.” + +Mr. Catherwood uttered an oath. But it did not shock Virginia. + +“And not a shot fired?” he said. + +“And not a shot fired?” Virginia repeated, mechanically. Both men +turned. Mr. Barbo took off his hat. + +“No, ma'am.” + +“Oh, how could they!” exclaimed Virginia. + +Her words seemed to arouse Mr. Catherwood from a kind of stupor. He +turned, and took her hand. + +“Virginia, we shall make them smart for this yet, My God!” he cried, +“what have I done that my son should be a traitor, in arms against his +own brother fighting for his people? To think that a Catherwood should +be with the Yankees! You, Ben,” he shouted, suddenly perceiving an +object for his anger. “What do you mean by coming out of the yard? By +G-d, I'll have you whipped. I'll show you niggers whether you're to be +free or not.” + +And Mr. Catherwood was a good man, who treated his servants well. +Suddenly he dropped Virginia's hand and ran westward down the hill. Well +that she could not see beyond the second rise. + +Let us go there--to the camp. Let us stand on the little mound at +the northeast of it, on the Olive Street Road, whence Captain Lyon's +artillery commands it. What a change from yesterday! Davis Avenue is +no longer a fashionable promenade, flashing with bright dresses. Those +quiet men in blue, who are standing beside the arms of the state troops, +stacked and surrendered, are United States regulars. They have been in +Kansas, and are used to scenes of this sort. + +The five Hessian regiments have surrounded the camp. Each commander +has obeyed the master mind of his chief, who has calculated the time +of marching with precision. Here, at the western gate, Colonel Blair's +regiment is in open order. See the prisoners taking their places between +the ranks, some smiling, as if to say all is not over yet; some with +heads hung down, in sulky shame. Still others, who are true to the +Union, openly relieved. But who is this officer breaking his sword to +bits against the fence, rather than surrender it to a Yankee? Listen to +the crowd as they cheer him. Listen to the epithets and vile names which +they hurl at the stolid blue line of the victors, “Mudsills!” “Negro +Worshippers.” + +Yes, the crowd is there, seething with conflicting passions. Men with +brows bent and fists clenched, yelling excitedly. Others pushing, and +eager to see,--there in curiosity only. And, alas, women and children +by the score, as if what they looked upon were not war, but a parade, +a spectacle. As the gray uniforms file out of the gate, the crowd has +become a mob, now flowing back into the fields on each side of the road, +now pressing forward vindictively until stopped by the sergeants and +corporals. Listen to them calling to sons, and brothers, and husbands in +gray! See, there is a woman who spits in a soldier's face! + +Throughout it all, the officers sit their horses, unmoved. A man on the +bank above draws a pistol and aims at a captain. A German private steps +from the ranks, forgetful of discipline, and points at the man, who is +cursing the captain's name. The captain, imperturbable, orders his man +back to his place. And the man does not shoot--yet. + +Now are the prisoners of that regiment all in place between the two +files of it. A band (one of those which played lightsome music on the +birthday of the camp) is marched around to the head of the column. The +regiment with its freight moves on to make place for a battalion of +regulars, amid imprecations and cries of “Hurrah for Jeff Davis!” and +“Damn the Dutch! Kill the Hessians!” + +Stephen Brice stood among the people in Lindell's Grove, looking up at +the troops on the road, which was on an embankment. Through the rows of +faces he had searched in vain for one. His motive he did not attempt +to fathom--in truth, he was not conscious at the time of any motive. He +heard the name shouted at the gate. + +“Here they are,--the dragoons! Three cheers for Colfax! Down with the +Yankees!” + +A storm of cheers and hisses followed. Dismounted, at the head of his +small following, the young Captain walked erect. He did not seem to hear +the cheers. His face was set, and he held his gloved hand over the place +where his sword had been, as if over a wound. On his features, in his +attitude, was stamped the undying determination of the South. How those +thoroughbreds of the Cavaliers showed it! Pain they took lightly. The +fire of humiliation burned, but could not destroy their indomitable +spirit. They were the first of their people in the field, and the last +to leave it. Historians may say that the classes of the South caused the +war; they cannot say that they did not take upon themselves the greatest +burden of the suffering. + +Twice that day was the future revealed to Stephen. Once as he stood +on the hill-crest, when he had seen a girl in crimson and white in +a window,--in her face. And now again he read it in the face of her +cousin. It was as if he had seen unrolled the years of suffering that +were to come. + +In that moment of deep bitterness his reason wavered. What if the South +should win? Surely there was no such feeling in the North as these +people betrayed. That most dangerous of gifts, the seeing of two +sides of a quarrel, had been given him. He saw the Southern view. He +sympathized with the Southern people. They had befriended him in his +poverty. Why had he not been born, like Clarence Colfax, the owner of a +large plantation, the believer in the divine right of his race to rule? + +Then this girl who haunted his thoughts! Would that his path had been as +straight, his duty as easy, as that of the handsome young Captain. + +Presently these thoughts were distracted by the sight of a back +strangely familiar. The back belonged to a gentleman who was +energetically climbing the embankment in front of him, on the top +of which Major Sexton, a regular, army officer, sat his horse. The +gentleman was pulling a small boy after him by one hand, and held a +newspaper tightly rolled in the other. Stephen smiled to himself when it +came over him that this gentleman was none other than that Mr. William +T. Sherman he had met in the street car the day before. Somehow Stephen +was fascinated by the decision and energy of Mr. Sherman's slightest +movements. He gave Major Saxton a salute, quick and genial. Then, almost +with one motion he unrolled the newspaper, pointed to a paragraph, and +handed it to the officer. Major Saxton was still reading when a drunken +ruffian clambered up the bank behind them and attempted to pass through +the lines. The column began to move forward. Mr. Sherman slid down the +bank with his boy into the grove beside Stephen. Suddenly there was a +struggle. A corporal pitched the drunkard backwards over the bank, and +he rolled at Mr. Sherman's feet. With a curse, he picked himself up, +fumbling in his pocket. There was a flash, and as the smoke rolled from +before his eyes, Stephen saw a man of a German regiment stagger and +fall. + +It was the signal for a rattle of shots. Stones and bricks filled the +air, and were heard striking steel and flesh in the ranks. The regiment +quivered,--then halted at the loud command of the officers, and the +ranks faced out with level guns, Stephen reached for Mr. Sherman's boy, +but a gentleman had already thrown him and was covering his body. +He contrived to throw down a woman standing beside him before the +mini-balls swished over their heads, and the leaves and branches began +to fall. Between the popping of the shots sounded the shrieks of wounded +women and children, the groans and curses of men, and the stampeding of +hundreds. + +“Lie down, Brice! For God's sake lie down!” Mr. Sherman cried. + +He was about to obey when a young; man, small and agile, ran past him +from behind, heedless of the panic. Stopping at the foot of the bank he +dropped on one knee, resting his revolver in the hollow of his left +arm. It, was Jack Brinsmade. At the same time two of the soldiers above +lowered their barrels to cover him. Then smoke hid the scene. When it +rolled away, Brinsmade lay on the ground. He staggered to his feet with +an oath, and confronted a young man who was hatless, and upon whose +forehead was burned a black powder mark. + +“Curse you!” he cried, reaching out wildly, “curse you, you d--d Yankee. +I'll teach you to fight!” + +Maddened, he made a rush at Stephen's throat. But Stephen seized his +hands and bent them down, and held them firmly while he kicked and +struggled. + +“Curse you!” he panted; “curse you, you let me go and I'll kill +you,--you Yankee upstart!” + +But Stephen held on. Brinsmade became more and more frantic. One of the +officers, seeing the struggle, started down the bank, was reviled, and +hesitated. At that moment Major Sherman came between them. + +“Let him go, Brice,” he said, in a tone of command. Stephen did as he +was bid. Whereupon Brinsmade made a dash for his pistol on the ground. +Mr. Sherman was before him. + +“Now see here, Jack,” he said, picking it up, “I don't want to shoot +you, but I may have to. That young man saved your life at the risk of +his own. If that fool Dutchman had had a ball in his gun instead of a +wad, Mr. Brice would have been killed.” + +A strange thing happened. Brinsmade took one long look at Stephen, +turned on his heel, and walked off rapidly through the grove. And it may +be added that for some years after he was not seen in St. Louis. + +For a moment the other two stood staring after him. Then Mr. Sherman +took his boy by the hand. + +“Mr. Brice,” he said, “I've seen a few things done in my life, but +nothing better than this. Perhaps the day may come when you and I may +meet in the army. They don't seem to think much of us now,” he added, +smiling, “but we may be of use to 'em later. If ever I can serve you, +Mr. Brice, I beg you to call on me.” + +Stephen stammered his acknowledgments. And Mr. Sherman, nodding his head +vigorously, went away southward through the grove, toward Market Street. + +The column was moving on. The dead were being laid in carriages, and the +wounded tended by such physicians as chanced to be on the spot. Stephen, +dazed at what had happened, took up the march to town. He strode faster +than the regiments with their load of prisoners, and presently he found +himself abreast the little file of dragoons who were guarded by some of +Blair's men. It was then that he discovered that the prisoners' band in +front was playing “Dixie.” + +They are climbing the second hill, and are coming now to the fringe +of new residences which the rich citizens have built. Some of them are +closed and dark. In the windows and on the steps of others women are +crying or waving handkerchiefs and calling out to the prisoners, some +of whom are gay, and others sullen. A distracted father tries to break +through the ranks and rescue his son. Ah, here is the Catherwood house. +That is open. Mrs. Catherwood, with her hand on her husband's arm, with +red eyes, is scanning those faces for the sight of George. + +Will he ever come back to her? Will the Yankees murder him for treason, +or send him North to languish the rest of his life? No, she will not +go inside. She must see him. She will not faint, though Mrs. James has, +across the street, and is even now being carried into the house. Few +of us can see into the hearts of those women that day, and speak of the +suffering there. + +Near the head of Mr. Blair's regiment is Tom. His face is cast down as +he passes the house from which he is banished. Nor do father, or mother, +or sister in their agony make any sound or sign. George is coming. The +welcome and the mourning and the tears are all for him. + +The band is playing “Dixie” once more. George is coming, and some one +else. The girls are standing in a knot bend the old people, dry-eyed, +their handkerchiefs in their hands. Some of the prisoners take off their +hats and smile at the young lady with the chiselled features and brown +hair, who wears the red and white of the South as if she were born to +them. Her eyes are searching. Ah, at last she sees him, walking erect +at the head of his dragoons. He gives her one look of entreaty, and that +smile which should have won her heart long ago. As if by common consent +the heads of the troopers are uncovered before her. How bravely she +waves at them until they are gone down the street! Then only do her eyes +fill with tears, and she passes into the house. + +Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the line +of march and striding across to Pine Street. + +That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood was +washed from the grass in Lindell Grove. The rain descended in floods +on the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush from +Minnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee. Down in the long +barracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long, +went supperless to their hard pallets. + +Government fare was hard. Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbed +himself to sleep in the darkness. All were prisoners alike, prisoners +of war. Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that were +here within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless to +go. Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holding +out arms to them. + +Is war a thing to stir the blood? Ay, while the day lasts. But what of +the long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side? What of +the children who ask piteously where their father is going, and who are +gathered by a sobbing mother to her breast? Where is the picture of that +last breakfast at home? So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest in +life comes the thought that, just one year ago, he who is the staff +of the house was wont to sit down just so merrily to his morning meal, +before going to work in the office. Why had they not thanked God on +their knees for peace while they had it? + +See the brave little wife waiting on the porch of her home for him to go +by. The sun shines, and the grass is green on the little plot, and the +geraniums red. Last spring she was sewing here with a song on her lips, +watching for him to turn the corner as he came back to dinner. But +now! Hark! Was that the beat of the drums? Or was it thunder? Her good +neighbors, the doctor and his wife, come in at the little gate to cheer +her. She does not hear them. Why does God mock her with sunlight and +with friends? + +Tramp, tramp, tramp! They are here. Now the band is blaring. That is his +company. And that is his dear face, the second from the end. Will she +ever see it again? Look, he is smiling bravely, as if to say a thousand +tender things. “Will, are the flannels in your knapsack? You have not +forgotten that medicine for your cough?” What courage sublime is that +which lets her wave at him? Well for you, little woman, that you cannot +see the faces of the good doctor and his wife behind you. Oh, those guns +of Sumter, how they roar in your head! Ay, and will roar again, through +forty years of widowhood! + +Mrs. Brice was in the little parlor that Friday night, listening to the +cry of the rain outside. Some thoughts such as these distracted her. Why +should she be happy, and other mothers miserable? The day of reckoning +for her happiness must surely come, when she must kiss Stephen a brave +farewell and give him to his country. For the sins of the fathers are +visited on the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them +that hate Him who is the Ruler of all things. + +The bell rang, and Stephen went to the door. He was startled to see Mr. +Brinsmade. That gentleman was suddenly aged, and his clothes were wet +and spattered with mud. He sank into a chair, but refused the spirits +and water which Mrs. Brice offered him in her alarm. + +“Stephen,” he said, “I have been searching the city for John. Did you +see him at Camp Jackson--was he hurt?” + +“I think not, sir,” Stephen answered, with clear eyes. + +“I saw him walking southward after the firing was all over.” + +“Thank God,” exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, fervently. “If you will excuse me, +madam, I shall hurry to tell my wife and daughter. I have been able to +find no one who saw him.” + +As he went out he glanced at Stephen's forehead. But for once in his +life, Mr. Brinsmade was too much agitated to inquire about the pain of +another. + +“Stephen, you did not tell me that you saw John,” said his mother, when +the door was closed. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. IN THE ARSENAL + +There was a dismal tea at Colonel Carvel's house in Locust Street that +evening Virginia did not touch a mouthful, and the Colonel merely made a +pretence of eating. About six o'clock Mrs. Addison Colfax had driven in +from Bellegarde, nor could it rain fast enough or hard enough to wash +the foam from her panting horses. She did not wait for Jackson to come +out with an umbrella, but rushed through the wet from the carriage +to the door in her haste to urge the Colonel to go to the Arsenal and +demand Clarence's release. It was in vain that Mr. Carvel assured her +it would do no good, in vain that he told her of a more important matter +that claimed him. Could there be a more important matter than his +own nephew kept in durance, and in danger of being murdered by Dutch +butchers in the frenzy of their victory? Mrs. Colfax shut herself up in +her room, and through the door Virginia heard her sobs as she went down +to tea. + +The Colonel made no secret of his uneasiness. With his hat on his head, +and his hands in his pockets, he paced up and down the room. He let his +cigar go out,--a more serious sign still. Finally he stood with his face +to the black window, against which the big drops were beating in a fury. + +Virginia sat expressionless at the head of the table, still in that gown +of white and crimson, which she had worn in honor of the defenders of +the state. Expressionless, save for a glance of solicitation at her +father's back. If resolve were feminine, Virginia might have sat for +that portrait. There was a light in her dark blue eyes. Underneath there +were traces of the day's fatigue. When she spoke, there was little life +in her voice. + +“Aren't you going to the Planters' House, Pa The Colonel turned, and +tried to smile. + +“I reckon not to-night, Jinny. Why?” + +“To find out what they are going to do with Clarence,” she said +indignantly. + +“I reckon they don't know at the Planters' House,” he said. + +“Then--” began Virginia, and stopped. + +“Then what?” he asked, stroking her hair. + +“Then why not go to the Barracks? Order the carriage, and I will go with +you.” + +His smile faded. He stood looking down at her fixedly, as was sometimes +his habit. Grave tenderness was in his tone. + +“Jinny,” he said slowly, “Jinny, do you mean to marry Clarence?” + +The suddenness of the question took her breath. But she answered +steadily: + +“Yes.” + +“Do you love him? + +“Yes,” she answered. But her lashes fell. + +Still he stood, and it seemed to her that her father's gaze pierced to +her secret soul. + +“Come here, my dear,” he said. + +He held out his arms, and she fluttered into them. The tears were +come at last. It was not the first time she had cried out her troubles +against that great heart which had ever been her strong refuge. From +childhood she had been comforted there. Had she broken her doll, had +Mammy Easter been cross, had lessons gone wrong at school, was she +ill, or weary with that heaviness of spirit which is woman's inevitable +lot,--this was her sanctuary. But now! This burden God Himself had sent, +and none save her Heavenly Father might cure it. Through his great love +for her it was given to Colonel Carvel to divine it--only vaguely. + +Many times he strove to speak, and could not. But presently, as if +ashamed of her tears, she drew back from him and took her old seat on +the arm of his chair. + +By the light of his intuition, the Colonel chose tins words well. What +he had to speak of was another sorrow, yet a healing one. + +“You must not think of marriage now, my dear, when the bread we eat may +fail us. Jinny, we are not as rich as we used to be. Our trade was +in the South and West, and now the South and West cannot pay. I had a +conference with Mr. Hopper yesterday, and he tells me that we must be +prepared.” + +She laid her hand upon his. + +“And did you think I would care, dear?” she asked gently. “I can bear +with poverty and rags, to win this war.” + +“His own eyes were dim, but pride shone in them. Jackson came in on +tiptoe, and hesitated. At the Colonel's motion he took away the china +and the silver, and removed the white cloth, and turned low the lights +in the chandelier. He went out softly, and closed the door. + +“Pa,” said Virginia, presently, “do you trust Mr. Hopper?” + +The Colonel gave a start. + +“Why, yes, Jinny. He improved the business greatly before this trouble +came. And even now we are not in such straits as some other houses.” + +“Captain Lige doesn't like him.” + +“Lige has prejudices.” + +“So have I,” said Virginia. “Eliphalet Hopper will serve you so long as +he serves himself. No longer.” + +“I think you do him an injustice, my dear,” answered the Colonel. But +uneasiness was in his voice. “Hopper is hard working, scrupulous to a +cent. He owns two slaves now who are running the river. He keeps out of +politics, and he has none of the Yankee faults.” + +“I wish he had,” said Virginia. + +The Colonel made no answer to this. Getting up, he went over to the +bell-cord at the door and pulled it. Jackson came in hurriedly. + +“Is my bag packed?” + +“Yes, Marsa.” + +“Where are you going?” cried Virginia, in alarm. + +“To Jefferson City, dear, to see the Governor. I got word this +afternoon.” + +“In the rain?” + +He smiled, and stooped to kiss her. + +“Yes,” he answered, “in the rain as far as the depot, I can trust +you, Jinny. And Lige's boat will be back from New Orleans to-morrow or +Sunday.” + +The next morning the city awoke benumbed, her heart beating but feebly. +Her commerce had nearly ceased to flow. A long line of boats lay idle, +with noses to the levee. Men stood on the street corners in the rain, +reading of the capture of Camp Jackson, and of the riot, and thousands +lifted up their voices to execrate the Foreign City below Market Street. +A vague terror, maliciously born, subtly spread. The Dutch had broken +up the camp, a peaceable state institution, they had shot down innocent +women and children. What might they not do to the defenceless city under +their victorious hand, whose citizens were nobly loyal to the South? +Sack it? Yes, and burn, and loot it. Ladies who ventured out that day +crossed the street to avoid Union gentlemen of their acquaintance. + +It was early when Mammy Easter brought the news paper to her mistress. +Virginia read the news, and ran joyfully to her aunt's room. Three times +she knocked, and then she heard a cry within. Then the key was turned +and the bolt cautiously withdrawn, and a crack of six inches disclosed +her aunt. + +“Oh, how you frightened me, Jinny!” she cried. “I thought it was the +Dutch coming to murder us all, What have they done to Clarence?” + +“We shall see him to-day, Aunt Lillian,” was the joyful answer. “The +newspaper says that all the Camp Jackson prisoners are to be set free +to-day, on parole. Oh, I knew they would not dare to hold them. The +whole state would have risen to their rescue.” + +Mrs. Colfax did not receive these tidings with transports. She permitted +her niece to come into her room, and then: sank into a chair before the +mirror of her dressing-table, and scanned her face there. + +“I could not sleep a wink, Jinny, all night long. I look wretchedly. I +am afraid I am going to have another of my attacks. How it is raining! +What does the newspaper say?” + +“I'll get it for you,” said Virginia, used to her aunt's vagaries. + +“No, no, tell me. I am much too nervous to read it.” + +“It says that they will be paroled to-day, and that they passed a +comfortable night.” + +“It must be a Yankee lie,” said the lady. “Oh, what a night! I saw them +torturing him in a thousand ways the barbarians! I know he had to sleep +on a dirty floor with low-down trash.” + +“But we shall have him here to-night, Aunt Lillian!” cried Virginia. +“Mammy, tell Uncle Ben that Mr. Clarence will be here for tea. We must +have a feast for him. Pa said that they could not hold them.” + +“Where is Comyn?” inquired Mrs. Colfax. “Has he gone down to see +Clarence?” + +“He went to Jefferson City last night,” replied Virginia. “The Governor +sent for him.” + +Mrs. Colfax exclaimed in horror at this news. + +“Do you mean that he has deserted us?” she cried. “That he has left us +here defenceless,--at the mercy of the Dutch, that they may wreak their +vengeance upon us women? How can you sit still, Virginia? If I were your +age and able to drag myself to the street, I should be at the Arsenal +now. I should be on my knees before that detestable Captain Lyon, even +if he is a Yankee.” Virginia kept her temper. + +“I do not go on my knees to any man,” she said. “Rosetta, tell Ned I +wish the carriage at once.” + +Her aunt seized her convulsively by the arm. + +“Where are you going, Jinny?” she demanded. “Your Pa would never forgive +me if anything happened to you.” + +A smile, half pity, crossed the girl's anxious face. + +“I am afraid that I must risk adding to your misfortune, Aunt Lillian,” + she said, and left the room. + +Virginia drove to Mr. Brinsmade's. His was one of the Union houses which +she might visit and not lose her self respect. Like many Southerners, +when it became a question of go or stay, Mr. Brinsmade's unfaltering +love for the Union had kept him in. He had voted for Mr. Bell, and later +had presided at Crittenden Compromise meetings. In short, as a man of +peace, he would have been willing to sacrifice much for peace. And now +that it was to be war, and he had taken his stand uncompromisingly with +the Union, the neighbors whom he had befriended for so many years could +not bring themselves to regard him as an enemy. He never hurt their +feelings; and almost as soon as the war began he set about that work +which has been done by self-denying Christians of all ages,--the relief +of suffering. He visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, and +many a night in the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee and +Rebel alike, and wrote their last letters home. + +And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time of +perplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their own +leaders. + +Mr. Brinsmade's own carriage was drawn up at his door; and that +gentleman himself standing on the threshold. He came down his steps +bareheaded in the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage. + +Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt as +he led her into the house. However such men may try to hide their own +trials under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of a +kindred nature. With the others, who are less generous, it matters +not. Virginia was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could not +perceive that a trouble had come to this good man. Absorbed as she was +in her own affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence. The fire +left her tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even of +an enemy. Such was her state of mind, when she was led into the +drawing-room. From the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throw +her arms around her friend. + +“Jinny, it was so good of you to come. You don't, hate me?” + +“Hate you, Anne dear!” + +“Because we are Union,” said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow of +doubt. + +Virginia was touched. “Anne,” she cried, “if you were German, I believe +I should love you.” + +“How good of you to come. I should not have dared go to your house, +because I know that you feel so deeply. You--you heard?” + +“Heard what?” asked Virginia, alarmed. + +“That Jack has run away--has gone South, we think. Perhaps,” she cried, +“perhaps he may be dead.” And tears came into the girl's eyes. + +It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa and +kissed her. + +“No, he is not dead,” she said gently, but with a confidence in her +voice of rare quality. “He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have +heard.” + +Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. He +looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those +whom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that, +in the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some +kind. + +“Virginia is right, Anne,” he said. “John has gone to fight for his +principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember +that this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because +we think differently.” He paused, and came over to Virginia. “There is +something I can do for you, my dear?” said he. + +She rose. “Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried. And yet her honesty was as +great as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for other +reasons. “My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came +to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be +paroled. She thinks it is a--” Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious +tongue. “She does not believe it.” + +Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. He +understood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax. + +“I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny,” he answered. “I know +Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly.” + +“You will do nothing of the kind, sir,” said Virginia, with emphasis. +“Had I known this--about John, I should not have come.” + +He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old school +he was, with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye +kindling with charity. + +“My dear,” he answered, “Nicodemus is waiting. I was just going myself +to ask Captain Lyon about John.” Virginia's further objections were cut +short by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of a +tall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her as +Major Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth Street +Railroad. The Major bowed and shook hands. He then proceeded, as was +evidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come. + +“Mr. Brinsmade,” he said, “I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago that +you were seeking news of your son. I regret to say, sir, that the news I +have will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts. But in justice to +a young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happened +at Camp Jackson.” + +“I shall be most grateful, Major. Sit down, sir.” + +But the Major did not sit down. He stood in the middle of the room. With +some gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story, +he gave a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John's arrival at the +embankment by the grove--of his charging a whole regiment of Union +volunteers. Here was honesty again. Mr. Sherman did not believe in +mincing matters even to a father and sister. + +“And, sir,” said he, “you may thank the young man who lives next door to +you--Mr. Brice, I believe--for saving your son's life.” + +“Stephen Brice!” exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, in astonishment. + +Virginia felt Anne's hand tighten But her own was limp. A hot wave swept +over her, Was she never to hear the end of this man. + +“Yes, sir, Stephen Brice,” answered Mr. Sherman. “And I never in my life +saw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it.” + +Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited. “Are you sure that you know him?” + +“As sure as I know you,” said the Major, with excessive conviction. + +“But,” said Mr. Brinsmade, “I was in there last night, I knew the young +man had been at the camp. I asked him if he had seen Jack. He told me +that he had, by the embankment. But he never mentioned a word about +saving his life.” + +“He didn't,” cried the Major. “By glory, but he's even better than I +thought him, Did you see a black powder mark on his face?” + +“Why, yes, sir, I saw a bad burn of some kind on his forehead.” + +“Well, sir, if one of the Dutchmen who shot at Jack had known enough to +put a ball in his musket, he would have killed Mr. Brice, who was only +ten feet away, standing before your son.” + +Anne gave a little cry--Virginia was silent--Her lips were parted. +Though she realized it not, she was thirsting %a hear the whole of the +story. + +The Major told it, soldier fashion, but well. How John rushed up to the +line. How he (Mr. Sherman) had seen Brice throw the woman down and +had cried to him to lie down himself how the fire was darting down the +regiment, and how men and women were falling all about them; and how +Stephen had flung Jack and covered him with his body. + +It was all vividly before Virginia's eyes. Had she any right to treat +such a man with contempt? She remembered hour he had looked, at her when +he stood on the corner by the Catherwoods' house. And, worst of all, she +remembered many spiteful remarks she had made, even to Anne, the gist of +which had been that Mr. Brice was better at preaching than at fighting. +She knew now--and she had known in her heart before--that this was the +greatest injustice she could have done him. + +“But Jack? What did Jack do?” + +It was Anne who tremblingly asked the Major. But Mr. Sherman, +apparently, was not the man to say that Jack would have shot Stephen had +he not interfered. That was the ugly part of the story. John would have +shot the man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr. +Brinsmade nor his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne had +gone upstairs to the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major told +Virginia, who kept it in her heart. The reason he told her was because +she had guessed a part of it. + +Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday, +in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came to +him to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of his +travel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when she +thought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, she +found herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieter +young Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen's +deed was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought. +Clarence had been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy. +But--alas, that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--would +Clarence have been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade came +to him? Stephen Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmade +believed. + +As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to the +subject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of the +brave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, and +often necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers. + +“Often,” said Mr. Brinsmade, “often I have been unable to sleep, and +have seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of the +morning.” + +“Oh, Mr. Brinsmade,” cried Virginia. “Can't you tell me something bad +about him? Just once.” + +The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by his +side, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell what +he thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks after +they have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents have +once been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own brings +a part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, but +he looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently, +as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot of +gentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stopped +at his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father was +with him. + +“They have released us on parole,” said George. “Yes, we had a fearful +night of it. They could not have kept us--they had no quarters.” + +How changed he was from the gay trooper of yesterday! His bright uniform +was creased and soiled and muddy, his face unshaven, and dark rings of +weariness under his eyes. + +“Do you know if Clarence Colfax has gone home?” Mr. Brinsmade inquired. + +“Clarence is an idiot,” cried George, ill-naturedly. “Mr. Brinsmade, of +all the prisoners here, he refused to take the parole, or the oath of +allegiance. He swears he will remain a prisoner until he is exchanged.” + +“The young man is Quixotic,” declared the elder Catherwood, who was not +himself in the best of humors. + +“Sir,” said Mr. Brinsmade, with as much severity as he was ever known +to use, “sir, I honor that young man for this more than I can tell you. +Nicodemus, you may drive on.” And he slammed the door. + +Perhaps George had caught sight of a face in the depths of the carriage, +for he turned purple, and stood staring on the pavement after his +choleric parent had gone on. + +It was done. Of all the thousand and more young men who had upheld +the honor of their state that week, there was but the one who chose to +remain in durance vile within the Arsenal wall--Captain Clarence Colfax, +late of the Dragoons. + +Mr. Brinsmade was rapidly admitted to the Arsenal, and treated with the +respect which his long service to the city deserved. He and Virginia +were shown into the bare military room of the commanding officer, and +thither presently came Captain Lyon himself. Virginia tingled with +antagonism when she saw this man who had made the city tremble, who had +set an iron heel on the flaming brand of her Cause. He, too, showed the +marks of his Herculean labors, but only on his clothes and person. His +long red hair was unbrushed, his boots covered with black mud, and his +coat unbuttoned. His face was ruddy, and his eye as clear as though +he had arisen from twelve hours' sleep. He bowed to Virginia (not too +politely, to be sure). Her own nod of are recognition did not seem to +trouble him. + +“Yes, sir,” he said incisively, in response to Mr. Brinsmade's question, +“we are forced to retain Captain Colfax. He prefers to remain a prisoner +until he is exchanged. He refuses to take the oath of allegiance to the +United States. + +“And why should he be made to, Captain Lyon? In what way has he opposed +the United States troops?” + +It was Virginia who spoke. Both looked at her in astonishment. + +“You will pardon me, Miss Carvel,” said Captain Lyon, gravely, “if I +refuse to discuss that question with you.” Virginia bit her tongue. + +“I understand that Mr. Colfax is a near relative of yours, Miss Carvel,” + the Captain continued. “His friends may come here to see him during +the day. And I believe it is not out of place for me to express my +admiration of the captain's conduct. You may care to see him now--” + +“Thank you,” said Virginia, curtly. + +“Orderly, my respects to Captain Colfax, and ask him if a he will be +kind enough to come in here. Mr. Brinsmade,” said the Captain, “I +should like a few words with you, sir.” And so, thanks to the Captain's +delicacy, when Clarence arrived he found Virginia alone. She was much +agitated She ran toward him as he entered the door, calling his name. + +“Max, you are going to stay here?” + +“Yes, until I am exchanged.” + +Aglow with admiration, she threw herself into his arms. Now, indeed, was +she proud of him. Of all the thousand defenders of the state, he alone +was true to his principles--to the South. Within sight of home, he alone +had chosen privation. + +She looked up into his face, which showed marks of excitement and +fatigue. But above all, excitement. She knew that he could live on +excitement. The thought came to her--was it that which sustained him +now? She put it away as treason. Surely the touch of this experience +would transform the boy into the man. This was the weak point in the +armor which she wore so bravely for her cousin. + +He had grown up to idleness. He had known neither care nor +responsibility. His one longing from a child had been that love of +fighting and adventure which is born in the race. Until this gloomy +day in the Arsenal, Virginia had never characterized it as a love of +excitement---as any thing which contained a selfish element. She looked +up into his face, I say, and saw that which it is given to a woman only +to see. His eyes burned with a light that was far away. Even with his +arms around her he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and that she +had come all the way to the Arsenal to see him. Her hands dropped limply +from his shoulders She drew away, as he did not seem to notice. + +So it is with men. Above and beyond the sacrifice of a woman's life, the +joy of possessing her soul and affection, is something more desirable +still--fame and glory--personal fame and glory, The woman may share +them, of course, and be content with the radiance. When the Governor +in making his inauguration speech, does he always think of the help the +little wife has given him. And so, in moments of excitement, when we see +far ahead into a glorious future, we do not feel the arms about us, +or value the sweets which, in more humdrum days, we labored so hard to +attain. + +Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he did +not see. He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and she +turned from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet and +heavy with the night's storm. The day itself was dark and damp. She +thought of the supper cooking at home. It would not be eaten now. + +And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him. Such are the +ways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too. It was +but right that he should not think of her when the honor of the South +was at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those nine +hundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole. + +“Why did Uncle Comyn not come?” asked Clarence. + +“He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor..” + +“And you came alone?” + +“No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me.” + +“And mother?” + +She was waiting for that question. What a relief that should have come +among the first. + +“Aunt Lillian feels very badly. She was in her room when I left. She was +afraid,” (Virginia had to smile), “she was afraid the Yankees would kill +you.” + +“They have behaved very well for Yankees,” replied he, “No luxury, and +they will not hear of my having a servant. They are used to doing their +own work. But they have treated me much better since I refused to take +their abominable oath.” + +“And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town.” + +“Do you think so, Jinny?” Clarence asked eagerly, “I reckon they will +think me a fool!” + +“I should like to hear any one say so,” she flashed out. + +“No,” said Virginia, “our friends will force them to release you. I +do not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisoned +for.” + +Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. “I do not want to be +released.” + +“You do not want to be released,” she repeated. + +“No,” he said. “They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it will +have a greater effect--for the South.” + +She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience, +responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, long +ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and +he had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days. + +It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr. +Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even +thought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner +of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing near +the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shot +rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses. +As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginia +leaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a mass of +blue uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of +the old Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the +carriage. + +The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror to +her heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horses +galloped on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches of +mud flying in at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominous +moaning behind them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:-- +“From battle and murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privy +conspiracy, and rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us.” + +He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through the +ages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined and +laid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark, +barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew's +night, when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They had +chanted it in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New World +and the New Republic of Peace and Good Will. + +Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman had +uttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which her +people had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot it +forever from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecy +of the bitterness to come. + +Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps. +He held her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer. +Perhaps he guessed something of the trial she was to go through that +night alone with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not go +directly home. He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs. +Brice and Judge Whipple were in the parlor: What passed between them +there has not been told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade came +out together and stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless of +the rain. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. THE STAMPEDE + +Sunday dawned, and the people flocked to the churches. But even in the +house of God were dissension and strife. From the Carvel pew at Dr. +Posthelwaite's Virginia saw men and women rise from their knees and +walk out--their faces pale with anger. At St. Mark's the prayer for +the President of the United States was omitted. Mr. Russell and Mr. +Catherwood nodded approvingly over the sermon in which the South was +justified, and the sanction of Holy Writ laid upon her Institution. +With not indifferent elation these gentlemen watched the departure of +brethren with whom they had labored for many years, save only when Mr. +Brinsmade walked down the aisle never to return. So it is that war, like +a devastating flood, creeps insistent into the most sacred places, and +will not be denied. Mr. Davitt, at least, preached that day to an united +congregation,--which is to say that none of them went out. Mr. Hopper, +who now shared a pew with Miss Crane, listened as usual with a most +reverent attention. The clouds were low and the streets wet as people +walked home to dinner, to discuss, many in passion and some in sorrow, +the doings of the morning. A certain clergyman had prayed to be +delivered from the Irish, the Dutch, and the Devil. Was it he who +started the old rumor which made such havoc that afternoon? Those +barbarians of the foreign city to the south, drunk with power, were to +sack and loot the city. How it flew across street and alley, from +yard to yard, and from house to house! Privileged Ned ran into the +dining-room where Virginia and her aunt were sitting, his eyes rolling +and his face ashen with terror, crying out that the Dutch were marching +on the city, firebrands in hand and murder in their hearts. + +“De Gen'ral done gib out er procl'mation, Miss Jinny,” he cried. “De +Gen'ral done say in dat procl'mation dat he ain't got no control ober de +Dutch soldiers.” + +Mrs. Colfax fainted. + +“Oh Miss Jinny, ain't you gwineter Glencoe? Ain't you gwineter flee +away? Every fambly on dis here street's gwine away--is packin' up fo' de +country. Doan't you hear 'em, Miss Jinny? What'll your pa say to Ned of +he ain't make you clear out! Doan't you hear de carridges a-rattlin' off +to de country?” + +Virginia rose in agitation, yet trying to be calm, and to remember +that the safety of the household depended upon her alone. That was her +thought,--bred into her by generations,--the safety of the household, +of the humblest slave whose happiness and welfare depended upon her +father's bounty. How she longed in that instant for her father or +Captain Lige, for some man's strength, to depend upon. Would there be +wisdom in flight? + +“Do you want to go, Ned?” she asked. She has seen her aunt swoon before, +and her maid Susan knows well what to do. “Do you want to go, Ned?” + +“Laws Mussy, no, Miss Jinny. One nigger laik me doan't make no +difference. My Marsa he say: 'Whaffor you leave ma house to be ramsacked +by de Dutch?' + +“What I gwineter answer? Oh Miss Jinny, you an' Miss Lill an' Mammy +Easter an' Susan's gwine with Jackson, an' de othah niggahs can walk. +Ephum an' me'll jes' put up de shutters an' load de Colonel's gun.” + +By this time the room was filled with excited negroes, some crying, +and some laughing hysterically. Uncle Ben had come in from the kitchen; +Jackson was there, and the women were a wailing bunch in the corner by +the sideboard. Old Ephum, impassive, and Ned stood together. Virginia's +eye rested upon them, and the light of love and affection was in it. She +went to the window. Yes, carriages were indeed rattling outside, though +a sharp shower was falling. Across the street Alphonse, M. Renault's +butler, was depositing bags and bundles on the steps. M. Renault himself +bustled out into the rain, gesticulating excitedly. Spying her at the +window, he put his hands to his mouth, cried out something, and ran in +again. Virginia flung open the sash and listened for the dreaded sound +of drums. Then she crossed quickly over to where her aunt was lying on +the lounge. + +“O Jinny,” murmured that lady, who had revived, “can't you do something? +Haven't you done anything? They will be here any moment to burn us, to +murder us--to--oh, my poor boy! Why isn't he here to protect his mother! +Why was Comyn so senseless, so thoughtless, as to leave us at such a +time!” + +“I don't think there is any need to be frightened,” said Virginia, with +a calmness that made her aunt tremble with anger. “It is probably only a +rumor. Ned, run to Mr. Brinsmade's and ask him about it.” + +However loath to go, Ned departed at once. All honor to those old-time +negroes who are now memories, whose devotion to their masters was next +to their love of God. A great fear was in Ned's heart, but he went. +And he believed devoutly that he would never see his young mistress any +more. + +And while Ned is running to Mr. Brinsmade's, Mrs. Colfax is summoning +that courage which comes to persons of her character at such times. She +gathers her jewels into a bag, and her fine dresses into her trunk, +with trembling hands, although she is well enough now. The picture of +Clarence in the diamond frame she puts inside the waist of her gown. No, +she will not go to Bellegarde. That is too near the city. With frantic +haste she closes the trunk, which Ephum and Jackson carry downstairs and +place between the seats of the carriage. Ned had had the horses in it +since church time. It is not safe outside. But where to go? + +To Glencoe? It is three in the afternoon, and Jackson explains that, +with the load, they would not reach there until midnight, if at all. +To Kirkwood or Webster? Yes; many of the first families live there, +and would take them in for the night. Equipages of all sorts are +passing,--private carriages and public, and corner-stand hacks. The +black drivers are cracking whips over galloping horses. + +Pedestrians are hurrying by with bundles under their arms, some running +east, and some west, and some stopping to discuss excitedly the chances +of each direction. From the river comes the hoarse whistle of the boats +breaking the Sabbath stillness there. It is a panic to be remembered. + +Virginia leaned against the iron railing of the steps, watching the +scene, and waiting for Ned to return from Mr. Brinsmade's. Her face was +troubled, as well it might be. The most alarming reports were cried up +to her from the street, and she looked every moment for the black smoke +of destruction to appear to the southward. Around her were gathered the +Carvel servants, most of them crying, and imploring her not to leave +them. And when Mrs. Colfax's trunk was brought down and placed in the +carriage where three of them might have ridden to safety, a groan of +despair and entreaty rose from the faithful group that went to her +heart. + +“Miss Jinny, you ain't gwineter leave yo' ol mammy?” + +“Hush, Mammy,” she said. “No, you shall all go, if I have to stay +myself. Ephum, go to the livery stable and get another carriage.” + +She went up into her own deserted room to gather the few things she +would take with her--the little jewellery case with the necklace of +pearls which her great-grandmother had worn at her wedding. Rosetta and +Mammy Easter were of no use, and she had sent them downstairs again. +With a flutter she opened her wardrobe door, to take one last look at +the gowns there. You will pardon her. They were part of happier days +gone by. She fell down on her knees and opened the great drawer at the +bottom, and there on the top lay the dainty gown which had belonged +to Dorothy Manners. A tear fell upon one of the flowers of the stays. +Irresistibly pressed into her mind the memory of Anne's fancy dress +ball,--of the episode by the gate, upon which she had thought so often +with burning face. + +The voices below grow louder, but she does not hear. She is folding the +gown hurriedly into a little package. It was her great-grandmother's; +her chief heirloom after the pearls. Silk and satin from Paris are +left behind. With one glance at the bed in which she had slept since +childhood, and at the picture over it which had been her mother's, she +hurries downstairs. And Dorothy Manners's gown is under her arm. On the +landing she stops to brush her eyes with her handkerchief. If only her +father were here! + +Ah, here is Ned back again. Has Mr. Brinsmade come? + +What did he say? Ned simply pointed out a young man standing on the +steps behind the negroes. Crimson stains were on Virginia's cheeks, +and the package she carried under her arm was like lead. The young +man, although he showed no signs of excitement, reddened too as he came +forward and took off his hat. But the sight of him had acurious effect +upon Virginia, of which she was at first unconscious. A sense of +security came upon her as she looked at his face and listened to his +voice. + +“Mr. Brinsmade has gone to the hospital, Miss Carvel,” he said. “Mrs. +Brinsmade asked me to come here with your man in the hope that I might +persuade you to stay where you are.” + +“Then the Germans are not moving on the city?” she said. + +In spite of himself, Stephen smiled. It was that smile that angered her, +that made her rebel against the advice he had to offer; that made her +forget the insult he had risked at her hands by coming there. For she +believed him utterly, without reservation. The moment he had spoken she +was convinced that the panic was a silly scare which would be food for +merriment in future years. And yet--was not that smile in derision of +herself--of her friends who were running away? Was it not an assumption +of Northern superiority, to be resented? + +“It is only a malicious rumor, Miss Carvel,” he answered. “You have +been told so upon good authority, I suppose,” she said dryly. And at the +change in her tone she saw his face fall. + +“I have not,” he replied honestly, “but I will submit it to your own +judgment. Yesterday General Harney superseded Captain Lyon in command +in St. Louis. Some citizens of prominence begged the General to send the +troops away, to avoid further ill-feeling and perhaps--bloodshed.” (They +both winced at the word.) “Colonel Blair represented to the General that +the troops could not be sent away, as they had been enlisted to serve +only in St. Louis; whereupon the General in his proclamation states that +he has no control over these Home Guards. That sentence has been twisted +by some rascal into a confession that the Home Guards are not to be +controlled. I can assure you, Miss Carvel,” added Stephen, speaking +with a force which made her start and thrill, “I can assure you from a +personal knowledge of the German troops that they are not a riotous lot, +and that they are under perfect control. If they were not, there are +enough regulars in the city to repress them.” + +He paused. And she was silent, forgetful of the hub-bub around her. It +was then that her aunt called out to her, with distressing shrillness, +from the carriage:-- “Jinny, Jinny, how can you stand there talking to +young men when our lives are in danger?” + +She glanced hurriedly at Stephen, who said gently; “I do not wish to +delay you, Miss Carvel, if you are bent upon going.” + +She wavered. His tone was not resentful, simply quiet. Ephum turned the +corner of the street, the perspiration running on his black face. + +“Miss Jinny, dey ain't no carridges to be had in this town. No'm, not +for fifty dollars.” + +This was the occasion for another groan from the negroes, and they began +once more to beseech her not to leave them. In the midst of their cries +she heard her aunt calling from the carriage, where, beside the trunk, +there was just room for her to squeeze in. + +“Jinny,” cried that lady, frantically, “are you to go or stay? The +Hessians will be here at any moment. Oh, I cannot stay here to be +murdered!” + +Unconsciously the girl glanced again at Stephen. He had not gone, but +was still standing in the rain on the steps, the one figure of strength +and coolness she had seen this afternoon. Distracted, she blamed the +fate which had made this man an enemy. How willingly would she have +leaned upon such as he, and submitted to his guidance. Unluckily at +that moment came down the street a group which had been ludicrous on any +other day, and was, in truth, ludicrous to Stephen then. At the head +of it was a little gentleman with red mutton-chop whiskers, hatless, in +spite of the rain beginning to fall. His face was the very caricature of +terror. His clothes, usually neat, were awry, and his arms were full +of various things, not the least conspicuous of which was a magnificent +bronze clock. It was this object that caught Virginia's eye. But years +passed before she laughed over it. Behind Mr. Cluyme (for it was he) +trotted his family. Mrs. Cluyme, in a pink wrapper, carried an armful +of the family silver; then came Belle with certain articles of feminine +apparel which need not be enumerated, and the three small Cluymes of +various ages brought up the rear. + +Mr. Cluyme, at the top of his speed, was come opposite to the carriage +when the lady occupant got out of it. Clutching at his sleeve, she +demanded where he was going. The bronze clock had a narrow escape. + +“To the river,” he gasped. “To the river, madame!” His wife coming after +him had a narrower escape still. Mrs. Colfax retained a handful of lace +from the wrapper, the owner of which emitted a shriek of fright. + +“Virginia, I am going to the river,” said Mrs. Colfax. “You may go where +you choose. I shall send the carriage back for you. Ned, to the levee!” + Ned did not lift a rein. + +“What, you black rascal! You won't obey me?” + +Ned swung on his seat. “No, indeedy, Miss Lilly, I ain't a-gwine 'thout +young Miss. The Dutch kin cotch me an' hang me, but I ain't a-gwine +'thout Miss Jinny.” + +Mrs. Colfax drew her shawl about her shoulders with dignity. + +“Very well, Virginia,” she said. “Ill as I am, I shall walk. Bear +witness that I have spent a precious hour trying to save you. If I live +to see your father again, I shall tell him that you preferred to stay +here and carry on disgracefully with a Yankee, that you let your own +aunt risk her life alone in the rain. Come, Susan!” + +Virginia was very pale. She did not run down the steps, but she caught +her aunt by the arm ere that lady had taken six paces. The girl's face +frightened Mrs. Colfax into submission, and she let herself be led back +into the carriage beside the trunk. Those words of Mrs. Colfax's stung +Stephen to righteous anger and resentment--for Virginia. + +As to himself, he had looked for insult. He turned to go that he might +not look upon her confusion; and hanging on the resolution, swung on his +heel again, his eyes blazeing. He saw in hers the deep blue light of +the skies after an evening's storm. She was calm, and save for a little +quiver of the voice, mistress of herself as she spoke to the group of +cowering servants. + +“Mammy,” she said, “get up on the box with Ned. And, Ned, walk the +horses to the levee, so that the rest may follow. Ephum, you stay here +with the house, and I will send Ned back to keep you company.” + +With these words, clasping tightly the precious little bundle under her +arm, she stepped into the carriage. Heedless of the risk he ran, sheer +admiration sent Stephen to the carriage door. + +“If I can be of any service, Miss Carvel,” he said, “I shall be happy.” + +She glanced at him wildly. + +“No,” she cried, “no. Drive on, Ned!” + +And as the horses slipped and started she slammed the door in his face. + +Down on the levee wheels rattled over the white stones washed clean by +the driving rain. The drops pelted the chocolate water into froth, and a +blue veil hid the distant bluffs beyond the Illinois bottom-lands. Down +on the Levee rich and poor battled for places on the landing-stages, and +would have thrown themselves into the flood had there been no boats +to save them from the dreaded Dutch. Attila and his Huns were not +more feared. Oh, the mystery of that foreign city! What might not its +Barbarians do when roused? The rich and poor struggled together; but +money was a power that day, and many were pitilessly turned off because +they did not have the high price to carry them--who knew where? + +Boats which screamed, and boats which had a dragon's roar were backing +out of the close ranks where they had stood wheel-house to wheel-house, +and were dodging and bumping in the channel. See, their guards are black +with people! Mrs. Colfax, when they are come out of the narrow street +into the great open space, remarks this with alarm. All the boats will +be gone before they can get near one. But Virginia does not answer. She +is thinking of other things than the steamboats, and wondering whether +it had not been preferable to be killed by Hessians. + +Ned spies the 'Barbara Lane'. He knows that her captain, Mr. Vance, is +a friend of the family. What a mighty contempt did Ned and his kind have +for foot passengers! Laying about him with his whip, and shouting at the +top of his voice to make himself heard, he sent the Colonel's Kentucky +bays through the crowd down to the Barbara's landing stage, the people +scampering to the right and left, and the Carvel servants, headed by +Uncle Ben, hanging on to the carriage springs, trailing behind. + +Here was a triumph for Ned, indeed! He will tell you to this day how +Mr. Catherwood's carriage was pocketed by drays and bales, and how Mrs. +James's horses were seized by the bridles and turned back. Ned had a +head on his shoulders, and eyes in his head. He spied Captain Vance +himself on the stage, and bade Uncle Ben hold to the horses while he +shouldered his way to that gentleman. The result was that the Captain +came bowing to the carriage door, and offered his own cabin to the +ladies. But the niggers---he would take no niggers except a maid for +each; and he begged Mrs. Colfax's pardon--he could not carry her trunk. + +So Virginia chose Mammy Easter, whose red and yellow turban was awry +from fear lest she be left behind and Ned was instructed to drive the +rest with all haste to Bellegarde. Captain Vance gave Mrs. Colfax his +arm, and Virginia his eyes. He escorted the ladies to quarters in the +texas, and presently was heard swearing prodigiously as the boat was +cast off. It was said of him that he could turn an oath better than any +man on the river, which was no mean reputation. + +Mrs. Colfax was assisted to bed by Susan. Virginia stood by the little +window of the cabin, and as the Barbara paddled and floated down the +river she looked anxiously for signals of a conflagration. Nay, in that +hour she wished that the city might burn. So it is that the best of us +may at times desire misery to thousands that our own malice may be +fed. Virginia longed to see the yellow flame creep along the wet, +gray clouds. Passionate tears came to her eyes at the thought of the +humiliation she had suffered,--and before him, of all men. Could she +ever live with her aunt after what she had said? “Carrying on with that +Yankee!” The horrible injustice of it! + +Her anger, too, was still against Stephen. Once more he had been sent by +circumstances to mock her and her people. If the city would only burn, +that his cocksure judgment might for once be mistaken, his calmness for +once broken! + +The rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun turned the muddy river +to gold. The bluffs shone May-green in the western flood of light, and a +haze hung over the bottom-lands. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of +the city receding to the northward, and the rain had washed the pall +of smoke from over it. On the boat excited voices died down to natural +tones; men smoked on the guards and promenaded on the hurricane deck, +as if this were some pleasant excursion. Women waved to the other boats +flocking after. Laughter was heard, and joking. Mrs. Colfax stirred in +her berth and began to talk. + +“Virginia, where are we going?” Virginia did not move + +“Jinny!” + +She turned. In that hour she remembered that great good-natured man, her +mother's brother, and for his sake Colonel Carvel had put up with much +from his wife's sister in-law. She could pass over, but never forgive +what her aunt had said to her that afternoon. Mrs. Colfax had often been +cruel before, and inconsiderate. But as the girl thought of the speech, +staring out on the waters, it suddenly occurred to her that no lady +would have uttered it. In all her life she had never realized till now +that her aunt was not a lady. From that time forth Virginia's attitude +toward her aunt was changed. + +She controlled herself, however, and answered something, and went out +listlessly to find the Captain and inquire the destination of the boat. +Not that this mattered much to her. At the foot of the companionway +leading to the saloon deck she saw, of all people, Mr. Eliphalet Hopper +leaning on the rail, and pensively expectorating on the roof of the +wheel-house. In another mood Virginia would have laughed, for at sight +of her he straightened convulsively, thrust his quid into his cheek, and +removed his hat with more zeal than the grudging deference he usually +accorded to the sex. Clearly Eliphalet would not have chosen the +situation. + +“I cal'late we didn't get out any too soon, Miss Carvel,” he remarked, +with a sad attempt at jocoseness. “There won't be a great deal in that +town when the Dutch get through with it.” + +“I think that there are enough men left in it to save it,” said +Virginia. + +Apparently Mr. Hopper found no suitable answer to this, for he made +none. He continued to glance at her uneasily. There was an impudent +tribute in his look which she resented strongly. + +“Where is the Captain?” she demanded. + +“He's down below--ma'am,” he replied. “Can--can I do anything?” + +“Yes,” she said, with abrupt maliciousness, “you may tell me where you +are going.” + +“I cal'late, up the Cumberland River. That's where she's bound for, +if she don't stop before she gets there Guess there ain't many of 'em +inquired where she was goin', or cared much,” he added, with a ghastly +effort to be genial. + +“Do you care?” she demanded, curiously. Eliphalet grinned. + +“Not a great deal,” he said. Then he felt called upon to defend himself. +“I didn't see any use in gettin' murdered, when I couldn't do anything.” + +She left him. He stared after her up the companionway, bit off a +generous piece of tobacco, and ruminated. If to be a genius is to +possess an infinite stock of patience, Mr. Hopper was a genius. There +was patience in his smile. But it was not a pleasant smile to look upon. + +Virginia did not see it. She had told her aunt the news, and stood +in the breeze on the hurricane deck looking southward, with her hand +shading her eyes. The 'Barbara Lane' happened to be a boat with a +record, and her name was often in the papers. She had already caught up +with and distanced others which had had half an hour's start of her, and +was near the head of the procession. + +Virginia presently became aware that people were gathering around her in +knots, gazing at a boat coming toward them. Others had been met which, +on learning the dread news, turned back. But this one kept her bow +steadily up the current, although she had passed within a biscuit-toss +of the leader of the line of refugees. It was then that Captain Vance's +hairy head appeared above the deck. + +“Dang me!” he said, “if here ain't pig-headed Brent, steaming the +'Jewanita' straight to destruction.” + +“Oh, are you sure it's Captain Brent?” cried Virginia. The Captain +looked around in surprise. + +“If that there was Shreve's old Enterprise come to life again, I'd lay +cotton to sawdust that Brent had her. Danged if he wouldn't take her +right into the jaws of the Dutch.” + +The Captain's words spread, and caused considerable excitement. On board +the Barbara Lane were many gentlemen who had begun to be shamefaced over +their panic, and these went in a body to the Captain and asked him to +communicate with the 'Juanita'. Whereupon a certain number of whistles +were sounded, and the Barbara's bows headed for the other side of the +channel. + +As the Juanita drew near, Virginia saw the square figure and clean, +smooth-shaven face of Captain Lige standing in front of his wheel-house +Peace crept back into her soul, and she tingled with joy as the bells +clanged and the bucket-planks churned, and the great New Orleans packet +crept slowly to the Barbara's side. + +“You ain't goin' in, Brent?” shouted the Barbara's captain. + +“Why not?” responded Mr. Brent. At the sound of his voice Virginia could +have wept. + +“The Dutch are sacking the city,” said Vance. “Didn't they tell you?” + +“The Dutch--hell!” said Mr. Brent, calmly. “Who's afraid of the Dutch?” + +A general titter went along the guards, and Virginia blushed. Why could +not the Captain see her? + +“I'm on my reg'lar trip, of course,” said Vance. Out there on the sunlit +river the situation seemed to call for an apology. + +“Seems to be a little more loaded than common,” remarked Captain Lige, +dryly, at which there was another general laugh. + +“If you're really goin' up,” said Captain Vance, “I reckon there's a few +here would like to be massacred, if you'll take 'em.” + +“Certainly,” answered Mr. Brent; “I'm bound for the barbecue.” And he +gave a command. + +While the two great boats were manoeuvring, and slashing with one wheel +and the other, the gongs sounding, Virginia ran into the cabin. + +“Oh, Aunt Lillian,” she exclaimed, “here is Captain Lige and the +Juanita, and he is going to take us back with him. He says there is no +danger.” + +It its unnecessary here to repeat the moral persuasion which Virginia +used to get her aunt up and dressed. That lady, when she had heard the +whistle and the gongs, had let her imagination loose. Turning her face +to the wall, she was in the act of repeating her prayers as her niece +entered. + +A big stevedore carried her down two decks to where the gang-plank +was thrown across. Captain Lige himself was at the other end. His face +lighted, Pushing the people aside, he rushed across, snatched the lady +from the negro's arms, crying: + +“Jinny! Jinny Carvel! Well, if this ain't fortunate.” The stevedore's +services were required for Mammy Easter. And behind the burly shield +thus formed, a stoutish gentleman slipped over, all unnoticed, with a +carpet-bag in his hand It bore the initials E. H. + +The plank was drawn in. The great wheels began to turn and hiss, the +Barbara's passengers waved good-by to the foolhardy lunatics who had +elected to go back into the jaws of destruction. Mrs. Colfax was put +into a cabin; and Virginia, in a glow, climbed with Captain Lige to the +hurricane deck. There they stood for a while in silence, watching the +broad stern of the Barbara growing smaller. “Just to think,” Miss Carvel +remarked, with a little hysterical sigh, “just to think that some of +those people brought bronze clocks instead of tooth-brushes.” + +“And what did you bring, my girl?” asked the Captain, glancing at the +parcel she held so tightly under her arm. + +He never knew why she blushed so furiously. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. THE STRAINING OF ANOTHER FRIENDSHIP + +Captain Lige asked but two questions: where was the Colonel, and was +it true that Clarence had refused to be paroled? Though not possessing +over-fine susceptibilities, the Captain knew a mud-drum from a lady's +watch, as he himself said. In his solicitude for Virginia, he saw that +she was in no state of mind to talk of the occurrences of the last few +days. So he helped her to climb the little stair that winds to the top +of the texas,--that sanctified roof where the pilot-house squats. The +girl clung to her bonnet Will you like her any the less when you know +that it was a shovel bonnet, with long red ribbons that tied under +her chin? It became her wonderfully. “Captain Lige,” she said, almost +tearfully, as she took his arm, “how I thank heaven that you came up the +river this afternoon!” + +“Jinny,” said the Captain, “did you ever know why cabins are called +staterooms?” + +“Why, no,” answered she, puzzled. + +“There was an old fellow named Shreve who ran steamboats before Jackson +fought the redcoats at New Orleans. In Shreve's time the cabins were +curtained off, just like these new-fangled sleeping-car berths. The old +man built wooden rooms, and he named them after the different states, +Kentuck, and Illinois, and Pennsylvania. So that when a fellow came +aboard he'd say: 'What state am I in, Cap?' And from this river has the +name spread all over the world--stateroom. That's mighty interesting,” + said Captain Lige. + +“Yea,” said Virginia; “why didn't you tell me long ago.” + +“And I'll bet you can't say,” the Captain continued, “why this house +we're standing on is called the texas.” + +“Because it is annexed to the states,” she replied, quick a flash. + +“Well, you're bright,” said he. “Old Tufts got that notion, when Texas +came in. Like to see Bill Jenks?” + +“Of course,” said Virginia. + +Bill Jenks was Captain Brent's senior pilot. His skin hung on his face +in folds, like that of a rhinoceros It was very much the same color. His +grizzled hair was all lengths, like a worn-out mop; his hand reminded +one of an eagle's claw, and his teeth were a pine yellow. He greeted +only such people as he deemed worthy of notice, but he had held Virginia +in his arms. + +“William,” said the young lady, roguishly, “how is the eye, location, +and memory?” + +William abandoned himself to a laugh. When this happened it was put in +the Juanita's log. + +“So the Cap'n be still harpin' on that?” he said, “Miss Jinny, he's just +plumb crazy on a pilot's qualifications.” + +“He says that you are the best pilot on the river, but I don't believe +it,” said Virginia. + +William cackled again. He made a place for her on the leather-padded +seat at the back of the pilot house, where for a long time she sat +staring at the flag trembling on the jackstaff between the great sombre +pipes. The sun fell down, but his light lingered in the air above as the +big boat forged abreast the foreign city of South St. Louis. There +was the arsenal--grim despite its dress of green, where Clarence was +confined alone. + +Captain Lige came in from his duties below. “Well, Jinny, we'll soon be +at home,” he said. “We've made a quick trip against the rains.” + +“And--and do you think the city is safe?” + +“Safe!” he cried. “As safe as London!” He checked himself. “Jinny, would +you like to blow the whistle?” + +“I should just love to,” said Virginia. And following Mr. Jenks's +directions she put her toe on the tread, and shrank back when the +monster responded with a snort and a roar. River men along the levee +heard that signal and laughed. The joke was certainly not on sturdy +Elijah Brent. + +An hour later, Virginia and her aunt and the Captain, followed by Mammy +aster and Rosetta and Susan, were walking through the streets of the +stillest city in the Union. All that they met was a provost's guard, for +St. Louis was under Martial Law. Once in a while they saw the light of +some contemptuous citizen of the residence district who had stayed to +laugh. Out in the suburbs, at the country houses of the first families, +people of distinction slept five and six in a room--many with only a +quilt between body and matting. Little wonder that these dreamed of +Hessians and destruction. In town they slept with their doors open, +those who remained and had faith. Martial law means passes and +explanations, and walking generally in the light of day. Martial law +means that the Commander-in-chief, if he be an artist in well doing, +may use his boot freely on politicians bland or beetle-browed. No police +force ever gave the sense of security inspired by a provost's guard. + +Captain Lige sat on the steps of Colonel Carvel's house that night, long +after the ladies were gone to bed. The only sounds breaking the silence +of the city were the beat of the feet of the marching squads and the +call of the corporal's relief. But the Captain smoked in agony until the +clouds of two days slipped away from under the stars, for he was trying +to decide a Question. Then he went up to a room in the house which had +been known as his since the rafters were put down on that floor. + +The next morning, as the Captain and Virginia sit at breakfast together +with only Mammy Easter to cook and Rosetta to wait on them, the Colonel +bursts in. He is dusty and travel-stained from his night on the train, +but his gray eyes light with affection as he sees his friend beside his +daughter. + +“Jinny,” he cries as he kisses her, “Jinny, I'm proud oil you, my girl! +You didn't let the Yankees frighten you--But where is Jackson?” + +And so the whole miserable tale has to be told over again, between +laughter and tears on Virginia's part, and laughter and strong language +on Colonel Carvel's. What--blessing that Lige met them, else the +Colonel might now be starting for the Cumberland River in search of his +daughter. The Captain does not take much part in the conversation, and +he refuses the cigar which is offered him. Mr. Carvel draws back in +surprise. + +“Lige,” he says, “this is the first time to my knowledge.” + +“I smoked too many last night,” says the Captain. The Colonel sat down, +with his feet against the mantel, too full of affairs to take much +notice of Mr. Brent's apathy. + +“The Yanks have taken the first trick--that's sure,” he said. “But I +think we'll laugh last, Jinny. Jefferson City isn't precisely quiet. The +state has got more militia, or will have more militia in a day or +two. We won't miss the thousand they stole in Camp Jackson. They're +organizing up there. And I've got a few commissions right here,” and he +tapped his pocket. + +“Pa,” said Virginia, “did you volunteer?” + +The Colonel laughed. + +“The Governor wouldn't have me,” he answered. “He said I was more good +here in St. Louis. I'll go later. What's this I hear about Clarence?” + +Virginia related the occurrences of Saturday. The Colonel listened with +many exclamations, slapping his knee from time to time as she proceeded. + +“By gum!” he cried, when she had finished, “the boy has it in him, after +all! They can't hold him a day--can they, Lige?” (No answer from the +Captain, who is eating his breakfast in silence.) “All that we have to +do is to go for Worington and get a habeas corpus from the United States +District Court. Come on, Lige.” The Captain got up excitedly, his face +purple. + +“I reckon you'll have to excuse me, Colonel,” he said. “There's a cargo +on my boat which has got to come off.” And without more ado he left the +room. In consternation they heard the front door close behind him. And +yet, neither father nor daughter dared in that hour add to the trial +of the other by speaking out the dread that was in their hearts. The +Colonel smoked for a while, not a word escaping him, and then he patted +Virginia's cheek. + +“I reckon I'll run over and see Russell, Jinny,” he said, striving to +be cheerful. “We must get the boy out. I'll see a lawyer.” He stopped +abruptly in the hall and pressed his hand to his forehead. “My God,” he +whispered to himself, “if I could only go to Silas!” + +The good Colonel got Mr. Russell, and they went to Mr. Worington, Mrs. +Colfax's lawyer, of whose politics it is not necessary to speak. There +was plenty of excitement around the Government building where his Honor +issued the writ. There lacked not gentlemen of influence who went with +Mr. Russell and Colonel Carvel and the lawyer and the Commissioner to +the Arsenal. They were admitted to the presence of the indomitable Lyon, +who informed them that Captain Colfax was a prisoner of war, and, since +the arsenal was Government property, not in the state. The Commissioner +thereupon attested the affidavit to Colonel Carvel, and thus the +application for the writ was made legal. + +These things the Colonel reported to Virginia; and to Mrs. Colfax, who +received them with red eyes and a thousand queries as to whether that +Yankee ruffian would pay any attention to the Sovereign law which he +pretended to uphold; whether the Marshal would not be cast over the +Arsenal wall by the slack of his raiment when he went to serve the writ. +This was not the language, but the purport, of the lady's questions. +Colonel Carvel had made but a light breakfast: he had had no dinner, +and little rest on the train. But he answered his sister-in-law with +unfailing courtesy. He was too honest to express a hope which he did not +feel. He had returned that evening to a dreary household. During the +day the servants had straggled in from Bellegarde, and Virginia had had +prepared those dishes which her father loved. Mrs. Colfax chose to keep +her room, for which the two were silently thankful. Jackson announced +supper. The Colonel was humming a tune as he went down the stairs, but +Virginia was not deceived. He would not see the yearning in her eyes as +he took his chair; he would not glance at Captain Lige's empty seat. It +was because he did not dare. She caught her breath when she saw that the +food on his plate lay untouched. + +“Pa, are you ill?” she faltered. + +He pushed his chair away, such suffering in his look as she had never +seen. + +“Jinny,” he said, “I reckon Lige is for the Yankees.” + +“I have known it all along,” she said, but faintly. + +“Did he tell you?” her father demanded. “No.” + +“My God,” cried the Colonel, in agony, “to think that he kept it from me +I to think that Lige kept it from me!” + +“It is because he loves you, Pa,” answered the girl, gently, “it is +because he loves us.” + +He said nothing to that. Virginia got up, and went softly around the +table. She leaned over his shoulder. “Pa!” + +“Yes,” he said, his voice lifeless. + +But her courage was not to be lightly shaken. “Pa, will you forbid him +to come here--now?” + +A long while she waited for his answer, while the big clock ticked out +the slow seconds in the hall, and her heart beat wildly. + +“No,” said the Colonel. “As long as I have a roof, Lige may come under +it.” + +He rose abruptly and seized his hat. She did not ask him where he was +going, but ordered Jackson to keep the supper warm, and went into the +drawing-room. The lights were out, then, but the great piano that was +her mother's lay open. Her fingers fell upon the keys. That wondrous +hymn which Judge Whipple loved, which for years has been the comfort +of those in distress, floated softly with the night air out of the +open window. It was “Lead, Kindly Light.” Colonel Carvel heard it, and +paused. + +Shall we follow him? + +He did not stop again until he reached the narrow street at the top +of the levee bank, where the quaint stone houses of the old French +residents were being loaded with wares. He took a few steps back-up the +hill. Then he wheeled about, walked swiftly down the levee, and on to +the landing-stage beside which the big 'Juanita' loomed in the night. On +her bows was set, fantastically, a yellow street-car. + +The Colonel stopped mechanically. Its unexpected appearance there had +served to break the current of his meditations. He stood staring at it, +while the roustabouts passed and repassed, noisily carrying great logs +of wood on shoulders padded by their woollen caps. + +“That'll be the first street-car used in the city of New Orleans, if it +ever gets there, Colonel.” + +The Colonel jumped. Captain Lige was standing beside him. + +“Lige, is that you? We waited supper for you.” + +“Reckon I'll have to stay here and boss the cargo all night. Want to +get in as many trips as I can before--navigation closes,” the Captain +concluded significantly. + +Colonel Carvel shook his head. “You were never too busy to come for +supper, Lige. I reckon the cargo isn't all.” + +Captain Lige shot at him a swift look. He gulped. + +“Come over here on the levee,” said the Colonel, sternly. They walked +out together, and for some distance in silence. + +“Lige,” said the elder gentleman, striking his stick on the stones, “if +there ever was a straight goer, that's you. You've always dealt squarely +with me, and now I'm going to ask you a plain question. Are you North or +South?” + +“I'm North, I reckon,” answered the Captain, bluntly. The Colonel bowed +his head. It was a long time before he spoke again. The Captain waited +like a man who expects and deserve, the severest verdict. But there was +no anger in Mr. Carvel's voice--only reproach. + +“And you wouldn't tell me, Lige? You kept it from me.” + +“My God, Colonel,” exclaimed the other, passionately, “how could I? I +owe what I have to your charity. But for you and--and Jinny I should +have gone to the devil. If you and she are taken away, what have I left +in life? I was a coward, sir, not to tell you. You must have guessed +it. And yet,--God help me,--I can't stand by and see the nation go to +pieces. Your nation as well as mine, Colonel. Your fathers fought that +we Americans might inherit the earth--” He stopped abruptly. Then he +continued haltingly, “Colonel, I know you're a man of strong feelings +and convictions. All I ask is that you and Jinny will think of me as a +friend--” + +He choked, and turned away, not heeding the direction of his feet. The +Colonel, his stick raised, stood looking after him. He was folded in the +near darkness before he called his name. + +“Lige!” + +“Yes, Colonel.” + +He came back, wondering, across the rough stones until he stood beside +the tall figure. Below them, the lights glided along the dark water. + +“Lige, didn't I raise you? Haven't I taught you that my house was your +home? Come back, Lige. But--but never speak to me again of this night! +Jinny is waiting for us.” + +Not a word passed between them as they went up the quiet street. At the +sound of their feet in the entry the door was flung open, and Virginia, +with her hands out stretched, stood under the hall light. + +“Oh, Pa, I knew you would bring him back,” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. OF CLARENCE + +Captain Clarence Colfax, late of the State Dragoons, awoke on Sunday +morning the chief of the many topics of the conversation of a big city. +His conduct drew forth enthusiastic praise from the gentlemen and ladies +who had thronged Beauregard and Davis avenues, and honest admiration +from the party which had broken up the camp. The boy had behaved well. +There were many doting parents, like Mr. Catherwood, whose boys had +accepted the parole, whose praise was a trifle lukewarm, to be sure. +But popular opinion, when once aroused, will draw a grunt from the most +grudging. + +We are not permitted, alas, to go behind these stern walls and discover +how Captain Colfax passed that eventful Sunday of the Exodus. We know +that, in his loneliness, he hoped for a visit from his cousin, and took +to pacing his room in the afternoon, when a smarting sense of injustice +crept upon him. Clarence was young. And how was he to guess, as he +looked out in astonishment upon the frightened flock of white boats +swimming southward, that his mother and his sweetheart were there? + +On Monday, while the Colonel and many prominent citizens were busying +themselves about procuring the legal writ which was at once to release +Mr. Colfax, and so cleanse the whole body of Camp Jackson's defenders +from any, veiled intentions toward the Government, many well known +carriages drew up before the Carvel House in Locust Street to +congratulate the widow and the Colonel upon the possession of such a +son and nephew. There were some who slyly congratulated Virginia, whose +martyrdom it was to sit up with people all the day long. For Mrs. Colfax +kept her room, and admitted only a few of her bosom friends to cry with +her. When the last of the callers was gone, Virginia was admitted to her +aunt's presence. + +“Aunt Lillian, to-morrow morning Pa and I are going to the Arsenal with +a basket for Max. Pa seems to think there is a chance that he may come +back with us. You will go, of course.” + +The lady smiled wearily at the proposal, and raised her hands in +protest, the lace on the sleeves of her dressing gown falling away from +her white arms. + +“Go, my dear?” she exclaimed, “when I can't walk to my bureau after that +terrible Sunday. You are crazy, Jinny. No,” she added, with conviction, +“I never again expect to see him alive. Comyn says they may release him, +does he? Is he turning Yankee, too?” + +The girl went away, not in anger or impatience, but in sadness. Brought +up to reverence her elders, she had ignored the shallowness of her +aunt's character in happier days. But now Mrs. Colfax's conduct carried +a prophecy with it. Virginia sat down on the landing to ponder on the +years to come,--on the pain they were likely to bring with them from +this source--Clarence gone to the war; her father gone (for she felt +that he would go in the end), Virginia foresaw the lonely days of trial +in company with this vain woman whom accident made her cousin's mother. +Ay, and more, fate had made her the mother of the man she was to marry. +The girl could scarcely bear the thought--through the hurry and swing of +the events of two days she had kept it from her mind. + +But now Clarence was to be released. To-morrow he would be coming home +to her joyfully for his reward, and she did not love him. She was bound +to face that again and again. She had cheated herself again and again +with other feelings. She had set up intense love of country in the +shrine where it did not belong, and it had answered--for a while. She +saw Clarence in a hero's light--until a fatal intimate knowledge made +her shudder and draw back. And yet her resolution should not be water. +She would carry it through. + +Captain Lige's cheery voice roused her from below--and her father's +laugh. And as she went down to them she thanked God that this friend had +been spared to him. Never had the Captain's river yarns been better told +than at the table that evening. Virginia did not see him glance at the +Colonel when at last he had brought a smile to her face. + +“I'm going to leave Jinny with you, Lige,” said Mr. Carvel, presently. +“Worington has some notion that the Marshal may go to the Arsenal +to-night with the writ. I mustn't neglect the boy.” + +Virginia stood in front of him. “Won't you let me go?” she pleaded + +The Colonel was taken aback. He stood looking down at her, stroking his +goatee, and marvelling at the ways of woman. + +“The horses have been out all day, Jinny,” he said, “I am going in the +cars.” + +“I can go in the cars, too.” + +The Colonel looked at Captain Lige. + +“There is only a chance that we shall see Clarence,” he went on, +uneasily. + +“It is better than sitting still,” cried Virginia, as she ran away to +get the bonnet with the red strings. + +“Lige,--” said the Colonel, as the two stood awaiting her in the hall, +“I can't make her out. Can you?” + +The Captain did not answer. + +It was a long journey, in a bumping car with had springs that rattled +unceasingly, past the string of provost guards. The Colonel sat in the +corner, with his head bent down over his stick At length, cramped and +weary, they got out, and made their way along the Arsenal wall, past the +sentries to the entrance. The sergeant brought his rifle to a “port”. + +“Commandant's orders, sir. No one admitted,” he said. + +“Is Captain Colfax here?” asked Mr. Carver + +“Captain Colfax was taken to Illinois in a skiff, quarter of an hour +since.” + +Captain Lige gave vent to a long, low whistle. + +“A skiff!” he exclaimed, “and the river this high! A skiff!” + +Virginia clasped his arm in terror. “Is there danger?” + +Before he could answer came the noise of steps from the direction of +the river, and a number of people hurried up excitedly. Colonel Carvel +recognized Mr. Worington, the lawyer, and caught him by the sleeve. + +“Anything happened?” he demanded. + +Worington glanced at the sentry, and pulled the Colonel past the +entrance and into the street. Virginia and Captain Lige followed. + +“They have started across with him in a light skiff----four men and a +captain. The young fool! We had him rescued.” + +“Rescued!” + +“Yes. There were but five in the guard. And a lot of us, who suspected +what they were up to, were standing around. When we saw 'em come down, +we made a rush and had the guard overpowered But Colfax called out to +stand back.” + +“Well, sir.” + +“Cuss me if I understand him,” said Mr. Worington. “He told us to +disperse, and that he proposed to remain a prisoner and go where they +sent him.” + +There was a silence. Then--“Move on please, gentlemen,” said the sentry, +and they started to walk toward the car line, the lawyer and the Colonel +together. Virginia put her hand through the Captain's arm. In the +darkness he laid his big one over it. + +“Don't you be frightened, Jinny, at what I said, I reckon they'll fetch +up in Illinois all right, if I know Lyon. There, there,” said Captain +Lige, soothingly. Virginia was crying softly. She had endured more in +the past few days than often falls to the lot of one-and-twenty. + +“There, there, Jinny.” He felt like crying himself. He thought of the +many, many times he had taken her on his knee and kissed her tears. He +might do that no more, now. There was the young Captain, a prisoner on +the great black river, who had a better right, Elijah Brent wondered, as +they waited in the silent street for the lonely car, if Clarence loved +her as well as he. + +It was vary late when they reached home, and Virginia went silently up +to her room. Colonel Carvel stared grimly after her, then glanced at his +friend as he turned down the lights. The eyes of the two met, as of old, +in true understanding. + +The sun was still slanting over the tops of the houses the next morning +when Virginia, a ghostly figure, crept down the stairs and withdrew +the lock and bolt on the front door. The street was still, save for +the twittering of birds and the distant rumble of a cart in its early +rounds. The chill air of the morning made her shiver as she scanned the +entry for the newspaper. Dismayed, she turned to the clock in the hall. +Its hands were at quarter past five. + +She sat long behind the curtains in her father's little library, the +thoughts whirling in her brain as she watched the growing life of +another day. What would it bring forth? Once she stole softly back to +the entry, self-indulgent and ashamed, to rehearse again the bitter and +the sweet of that scene of the Sunday before. She summoned up the image +of the young man who had stood on these steps in front of the frightened +servants. She seemed to feel again the calm power and earnestness of his +face, to hear again the clear-cut tones of his voice as he advised +her. Then she drew back, frightened, into the sombre library, +conscience-stricken that she should have yielded to this temptation +then, when Clarence--She dared not follow the thought, but she saw the +light skiff at the mercy of the angry river and the dark night. + +This had haunted her. If he were spared, she prayed for strength to +consecrate herself to him A book lay on the table, and Virginia took +refuge in it. And her eyes glancing over the pages, rested on this +verse:-- + + “Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, + That beat to battle where he stands; + Thy face across his fancy comes, + And gives the battle to his hands.” + +The paper brought no news, nor mentioned the ruse to which Captain Lyon +had resorted to elude the writ by transporting his prisoner to Illinois. +Newspapers were not as alert then as now. Colonel Carvel was off early +to the Arsenal in search of tidings. He would not hear of Virginia's +going with him. Captain Lige, with a surer instinct, went to the river. +What a morning of suspense! Twice Virginia was summoned to her aunt, and +twice she made excuse. It was the Captain who returned first, and she +met him at the door. + +“Oh, what have you heard?” she cried. + +“He is alive,” said the Captain, tremulously, “alive and well, and +escaped South.” + +She took a step toward him, and swayed. The Captain caught her. For a +brief instant he held her in his arms and then he led her to the great +armchair that was the Colonel's. + +“Lige,” she said, “--are you sure that this is not--a kindness?” + +“No, Jinny,” he answered quickly, “but things were mighty close. I +was afraid last night. The river was roarin'. They struck out straight +across, but they drifted and drifted like log-wood. And then she began +to fill, and all five of 'em to bail. Then---then she went down. The +five soldiers came up on that bit of an island below the Arsenal. They +hunted all night, but they didn't find Clarence. And they got taken off +to the Arsenal this morning.” + +“And how do you know?” she faltered. + +“I knew that much this morning,” he continued, “and so did your pa. But +the Andrew Jackson is just in from Memphis, and the Captain tells me +that he spoke the Memphis packet off Cape Girardeau, and that Clarence +was aboard. She picked him up by a miracle, after he had just missed a +round trip through her wheel-house.” + + + + +BOOK III. + + +Volume 6. + + + + +CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING A CAPITALIST + +A cordon of blue regiments surrounded the city at first from Carondelet +to North St. Louis, like an open fan. The crowds liked best to go to +Compton Heights, where the tents of the German citizen-soldiers were +spread out like so many slices of white cake on the green beside the +city's reservoir. Thence the eye stretched across the town, catching the +dome of the Court House and the spire of St. John's. Away to the west, +on the line of the Pacific railroad that led halfway across the state, +was another camp. Then another, and another, on the circle of the fan, +until the river was reached to the northward, far above the bend. Within +was a peace that passed understanding,--the peace of martial law. + +Without the city, in the great state beyond, an irate governor had +gathered his forces from the east and from the west. Letters came and +went between Jefferson City and Jefferson Davis, their purport being +that the Governor was to work out his own salvation, for a while +at least. Young men of St. Louis, struck in a night by the fever of +militarism, arose and went to Glencoe. Prying sergeants and commissioned +officers, mostly of hated German extraction, thundered at the door +of Colonel Carvel's house, and other houses, there--for Glencoe was +a border town. They searched the place more than once from garret to +cellar, muttered guttural oaths, and smelled of beer and sauerkraut, The +haughty appearance of Miss Carvel did not awe them--they were blind +to all manly sensations. The Colonel's house, alas, was one of many in +Glencoe written down in red ink in a book at headquarters as a place +toward which the feet of the young men strayed. Good evidence was +handed in time and time again that the young men had come and gone, and +red-faced commanding officers cursed indignant subalterns, and implied +that Beauty had had a hand in it. Councils of war were held over the +advisability of seizing Mr. Carvel's house at Glencoe, but proof was +lacking until one rainy night in June a captain and ten men spurred up +the drive and swung into a big circle around the house. The Captain +took off his cavalry gauntlet and knocked at the door, more gently than +usual. Miss Virginia was home so Jackson said. The Captain was given an +audience more formal than one with the queen of Prussia could have been, +Miss Carvel was infinitely more haughty than her Majesty. Was not the +Captain hired to do a degrading service? Indeed, he thought so as he +followed her about the house and he felt like the lowest of criminals +as he opened a closet door or looked under a bed. He was a beast of the +field, of the mire. How Virginia shrank from him if he had occasion to +pass her! Her gown would have been defiled by his touch. And yet the +Captain did not smell of beer, nor of sauerkraut; nor did he swear in +any language. He did his duty apologetically, but he did it. He pulled +a man (aged seventeen) out from under a great hoop skirt in a little +closet, and the man had a pistol that refused its duty when snapped in +the Captain's face. This was little Spencer Catherwood, just home from a +military academy. + +Spencer was taken through the rain by the chagrined Captain to the +headquarters, where he caused a little embarrassment. No damning +evidence was discovered on his person, for the pistol had long since +ceased to be a firearm. And so after a stiff lecture from the Colonel +he was finally given back into the custody of his father. Despite the +pickets, the young men filtered through daily,--or rather nightly. +Presently some of them began to come back, gaunt and worn and tattered, +among the grim cargoes that were landed by the thousands and tens of +thousands on the levee. And they took them (oh, the pity of it!) they +took them to Mr. Lynch's slave pen, turned into a Union prison of +detention, where their fathers and grandfathers had been wont to send +their disorderly and insubordinate niggers. They were packed away, as +the miserable slaves had been, to taste something of the bitterness +of the negro's lot. So came Bert Russell to welter in a low room whose +walls gave out the stench of years. How you cooked for them, and schemed +for them, and cried for them, you devoted women of the South! You spent +the long hot summer in town, and every day you went with your baskets +to Gratiot Street, where the infected old house stands, until--until one +morning a lady walked out past the guard, and down the street. She was +civilly detained at the corner, because she wore army boots. After that +permits were issued. If you were a young lady of the proper principles +in those days, you climbed a steep pair of stairs in the heat, and stood +in line until it became your turn to be catechised by an indifferent +young officer in blue who sat behind a table and smoked a horrid cigar. +He had little time to be courteous. He was not to be dazzled by a bright +gown or a pretty face; he was indifferent to a smile which would have +won a savage. His duty was to look down into your heart, and extract +therefrom the nefarious scheme you had made to set free the man you +loved ere he could be sent north to Alton or Columbus. My dear, you +wish to rescue him, to disguise him, send him south by way of Colonel +Carvel's house at Glencoe. Then he will be killed. At least, he will +have died for the South. + +First politics, and then war, and then more politics, in this our +country. Your masterful politician obtains a regiment, and goes to war, +sword in hand. He fights well, but he is still the politician. It +was not a case merely of fighting for the Union, but first of getting +permission to fight. Camp Jackson taken, and the prisoners exchanged +south, Captain Lyon; who moved like a whirlwind, who loved the Union +beyond his own life, was thrust down again. A mutual agreement was +entered into between the Governor and the old Indian fighter in command +of the Western Department, to respect each other. A trick for the +Rebels. How Lyon chafed, and paced the Arsenal walks while he might have +saved the state. Then two gentlemen went to Washington, and the next +thing that happened was Brigadier General Lyon, Commander of the +Department of the West. + +Would General Lyon confer with the Governor of Missouri? Yes, the +General would give the Governor a safe-conduct into St. Louis, but +his Excellency must come to the General. His Excellency came, and the +General deigned to go with the Union leader to the Planters House. +Conference, five hours; result, a safe-conduct for the Governor back. +And this is how General Lyon ended the talk. His words, generously +preserved by a Confederate colonel who accompanied his Excellency, +deserve to be writ in gold on the National Annals. + +“Rather than concede to the state of Missouri the right to demand that +my Government shall not enlist troops within her limits, or bring troops +into the state whenever it pleases; or move its troops at its own will +into, out of, or through, the state; rather than concede to the state of +Missouri for one single instant the right to dictate to my Government in +any matter, however unimportant, I would” (rising and pointing in turn +to every one in the room) “see you, and you, and you, and you, and every +man, woman, and child in this state, dead and buried.” Then, turning +to the Governor, he continued, “This means war. In an hour one of my +officers will call for you and conduct you out of my lines.” + +And thus, without another word, without an inclination of the head, he +turned upon his heel and strode out of the room, rattling his spurs and +clanking his sabre. + +It did mean war. In less than two months that indomitable leader was +lying dead beside Wilson's Creek, among the oaks on Bloody Hill. What he +would have been to this Union, had God spared him, we shall never know. +He saved Missouri, and won respect and love from the brave men who +fought against him. + +Those first fierce battles in the state! What prayers rose to heaven, +and curses sank to hell, when the news of them came to the city by +the river! Flags were made by loving fingers, and shirts and bandages. +Trembling young ladies of Union sympathies presented colors to regiments +on the Arsenal Green, or at Jefferson Barracks, or at Camp Benton to the +northwest near the Fair Grounds. And then the regiments marched through +the streets with bands playing that march to which the words of the +Battle Hymn were set, and those bright ensigns snapping at the front; +bright now, and new, and crimson. But soon to be stained a darker red, +and rent into tatters, and finally brought back and talked over and +cried over, and tenderly laid above an inscription in a glass case, to +be revered by generations of Americans to confer What can stir the +soul more than the sight of those old flags, standing in ranks like +the veterans they are, whose duty has been nobly done? The blood of the +color-sergeant is there, black now with age. But where are the tears of +the sad women who stitched the red and the white and the blue together? + +The regiments marched through the streets and aboard the boats, and +pushed off before a levee of waving handkerchiefs and nags. Then +heart-breaking suspense. Later--much later, black headlines, and grim +lists three columns long,--three columns of a blanket sheet! “The City +of Alton has arrived with the following Union dead and wounded, and +the following Confederate wounded (prisoners).” Why does the type run +together? + +In a never-ceasing procession they steamed up the river; those calm +boats which had been wont to carry the white cargoes of Commerce now +bearing the red cargoes of war. And they bore away to new battlefields +thousands of fresh-faced boys from Wisconsin and Michigan and Minnesota, +gathered at Camp Benton. Some came back with their color gone and their +red cheeks sallow and bearded and sunken. Others came not back at all. + +Stephen Brice, with a pain over his heart and a lump in his throat, +walked on the pavement beside his old company, but his look avoided +their faces. He wrung Richter's hand on the landing-stage. Richter was +now a captain. The good German's eyes were filled as he said good-by. + +“You will come, too, my friend, when the country needs you,” he said. +“Now” (and he shrugged his shoulders), “now have we many with no cares +to go. I have not even a father--” And he turned to Judge Whipple, who +was standing by, holding out a bony hand. + +“God bless you, Carl,” said the Judge And Carl could scarce believe his +ears. He got aboard the boat, her decks already blue with troops, and as +she backed out with her whistle screaming, the last objects he saw were +the gaunt old man and the broad-shouldered young man side by side on the +edge of the landing. + +Stephen's chest heaved, and as he walked back to the office with the +Judge, he could not trust himself to speak. Back to the silent office +where the shelves mocked them. The Judge closed the ground-glass door +behind him, and Stephen sat until five o'clock over a book. No, it was +not Whittlesey, but Hardee's “Tactics.” He shut it with a slam, and went +to Verandah Hall to drill recruits on a dusty floor,--narrow-chested +citizens in suspenders, who knew not the first motion in right about +face. For Stephen was an adjutant in the Home Guards--what was left of +them. + +One we know of regarded the going of the troops and the coming of the +wounded with an equanimity truly philosophical. When the regiments +passed Carvel & Company on their way riverward to embark, Mr. Hopper did +not often take the trouble to rise from his chair, nor was he ever known +to go to the door to bid them Godspeed. This was all very well, because +they were Union regiments. But Mr. Hopper did not contribute a horse, +nor even a saddle-blanket, to the young men who went away secretly in +the night, without fathers or mothers or sisters to wave at them. Mr. +Hopper had better use for his money. + +One scorching afternoon in July Colonel Carvel came into the office, +too hurried to remark the pain in honest Ephum's face as he watched his +master. The sure signs of a harassed man were on the Colonel. Since May +he had neglected his business affairs for others which he deemed public, +and which were so mysterious that even Mr. Hopper could not get wind +of them. These matters had taken the Colonel out of town. But now the +necessity of a pass made that awkward, and he went no farther than +Glencoe, where he spent an occasional Sunday. Today Mr. Hopper rose from +his chair when Mr. Carvel entered,--a most unprecedented action. The +Colonel cleared his throat. Sitting down at his desk, he drummed upon it +uneasily. + +“Mr. Hopper!” he said at length. + +Eliphalet crossed the room quickly, and something that was very near a +smile was on his face. He sat down close to Mr. Carvel's chair with +a semi-confidential air,--one wholly new, had the Colonel given it a +thought. He did not, but began to finger some printed slips of paper +which had indorsements on their backs. His fine lips were tightly +closed, as if in pain. + +“Mr. Hopper,” he said, “these Eastern notes are due this week, are they +not?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The Colonel glanced up swiftly. + +“There is no use mincing matters, Hopper. You know as well as I that +there is no money to pay them,” said he, with a certain pompous attempt +at severity which characterized his kind nature. “You have served me +well. You have brought this business up to a modern footing, and made +it as prosperous as any in the town. I am sorry, sir, that those +contemptible Yankees should have forced us to the use of arms, and cut +short many promising business careers such as yours, sir. But we have to +face the music. We have to suffer for our principles. + +“These notes cannot be met, Mr. Hopper.” And the good gentleman looked +out of the window. He was thinking of a day, before the Mexican War, +when his young wife had sat in the very chair filled by Mr. Hopper now. +“These notes cannot be met,” he repeated, and his voice was near to +breaking. + +The flies droning in the hot office made the only sound. Outside the +partition, among the bales, was silence. + +“Colonel,” said Mr. Hopper, with a remarkable ease, “I cal'late these +notes can be met.” + +The Colonel jumped as if he had heard a shot, and one of the notes fell +to the floor. Eliphalet picked it up tenderly, and held it. + +“What do you mean, sir?” Mr. Carvel cried. “There isn't a bank in town +that will lend me money. I--I haven't a friend--a friend I may ask who +can spare it, sir.” + +Mr. Hopper lifted up his hand. It was a fat hand. Suavity was come upon +it like a new glove and changed the man. He was no longer cringing. Now +he had poise, such poise as we in these days are accustomed to see in +leather and mahogany offices. The Colonel glared at him uncomfortably. + +“I will take up those notes myself, sir.” + +“You!” cried the Colonel, incredulously, “You?” + +We must do Eliphalet justice. There was not a deal of hypocrisy in his +nature, and now he did not attempt the part of Samaritan. He did not +beam upon the Colonel and remind him of the day on which, homeless and +friendless, he had been frightened into his store by a drove of mules. +No. But his day,--the day toward which he had striven unknown and +unnoticed for so many years--the day when he would laugh at the pride of +those who had ignored and insulted him, was dawning at last. When we +are thoughtless of our words, we do not reckon with that spark in little +bosoms that may burst into flame and burn us. Not that Colonel Carvel +had ever been aught but courteous and kind to all. His station in life +had been his offence to Eliphalet, who strove now to hide an exultation +that made him tremble. + +“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the Colonel, again. + +“I cal'late that I can gather together enough to meet the notes, +Colonel. Just a little friendly transaction.” Here followed an interval +of sheer astonishment to Mr. Carvel. + +“You have this money?” he said at length. Mr. Hopper nodded. + +“And you will take my note for the amount?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The Colonel pulled his goatee, and sat back in his chair, trying to face +the new light in which he saw his manager. He knew well enough that the +man was not doing this out of charity, or even gratitude. He reviewed +his whole career, from that first morning when he had carried bales to +the shipping room, to his replacement of Mr. Hood, and there was nothing +with which to accuse him. He remembered the warnings of Captain Lige +and Virginia. He could not in honor ask a cent from the Captain now. He +would not ask his sister-in-law, Mrs. Colfax, to let him touch the money +he had so ably invested for her; that little which Virginia's mother had +left the girl was sacred. + +Night after night Mr. Carvel had lain awake with the agony of those +Eastern debts. Not to pay was to tarnish the name of a Southern +gentleman. He could not sell the business. His house would bring nothing +in these times. He rose and began to pace the floor, tugging at his +chin. Twice he paused to stare at Mr. Hopper, who sat calmly on, and the +third time stopped abruptly before him. + +“See here,” he cried. “Where the devil did you get this money, sir?” + +Mr. Hopper did not rise. + +“I haven't been extravagant, Colonel, since I've worked for you,” + he said. “It don't cost me much to live. I've been fortunate in +investments.” + +The furrows in the Colonel's brow deepened. + +“You offer to lend me five times more than I have ever paid you, Mr. +Hopper. Tell me how you have made this money before I accept it.” + +Eliphalet had never been able to meet that eye since he had known it. He +did not meet it now. But he went to his desk, and drew a long sheet of +paper from a pigeonhole. + +“These be some of my investments,” he answered, with just a tinge of +surliness. “I cal'late they'll stand inspection. I ain't forcing you to +take the money, sir,” he flared up, all at once. “I'd like to save the +business.” + +Mr. Carvel was disarmed. He went unsteadily to his desk, and none save +God knew the shock that his pride received that day. To rescue a name +which had stood untarnished since he had brought it into the world, he +drew forth some blank notes, and filled them out. But before he signed +them he spoke: + +“You are a business man, Mr. Hopper,” said he, “And as a business man +you must know that these notes will not legally hold. It is martial law. +The courts are abolished, and all transactions here in St. Louis are +invalid.” + +Eliphalet was about to speak. + +“One moment, sir,” cried the Colonel, standing up and towering to his +full height. “Law or no law, you shall have the money and interest, or +your security, which is this business. I need not tell you, sir, that my +word is sacred, and binding forever upon me and mine.” + +“I'm not afraid, Colonel,” answered Mr. Hopper, with a feeble attempt at +geniality. He was, in truth, awed at last. + +“You need not be, sir!” said the Colonel, with equal force. “If you +were--this instant you should leave this place.” He sat down, and +continued more calmly: “It will not be long before a Southern Army +marches into St. Louis, and the Yankee Government submits.” He leaned +forward. “Do you reckon we can hold the business together until then, +Mr. Hopper?” + +God forbid that we should smile at the Colonel's simple faith. And if +Eliphalet Hopper had done so, his history would have ended here. + +“Leave that to me, Colonel,” he said soberly. + +Then came the reaction. The good Colonel sighed as he signed, away that +business which had been an honor to the city where it was founded, I +thank heaven that we are not concerned with the details of their talk +that day. Why should we wish to know the rate of interest on those +notes, or the time? It was war-time. + +Mr. Hopper filled out his check, and presently departed. It was the +signal for the little force which remained to leave. Outside, in the +store; Ephum paced uneasily, wondering why his master did not come out. +Presently he crept to the door of the office, pushed it open, and beheld +Mr. Carvel with his head bowed, down in his hands. + +“Marse Comyn!” he cried, “Marse Comyn!” + +The Colonel looked up. His face was haggard. + +“Marse Comyn, you know what I done promise young MISS long time ago, +befo'--befo' she done left us?” + +“Yes, Ephum.” + +He saw the faithful old negro but dimly. Faintly he heard the pleading +voice. + +“Marse Comyn, won' you give Ephum a pass down, river, ter fotch Cap'n +Lige?” + +“Ephum,” said the Colonel, sadly, “I had a letter from the Captain +yesterday. He is at Cairo. His boat is a Federal transport, and he is in +Yankee pay.” + +Ephum took a step forward, appealingly, “But de Cap'n's yo' friend, +Marse Comyn. He ain't never fo'get what you done fo' him, Marse Comyn. +He ain't in de army, suh.” + +“And I am the Captain's friend, Ephum,” answered the Colonel, quietly. +“But I will not ask aid from any man employed by the Yankee Government. +No--not from my own brother, who is in a Pennsylvania regiments.” + +Ephum shuffled out, and his heart was lead as he closed the store that +night. + +Mr. Hopper has boarded a Fifth Street car, which jangles on with many +halts until it comes to Bremen, a German settlement in the north of the +city. At Bremen great droves of mules fill the street, and crowd the +entrances of the sale stables there. Whips are cracking like pistol +shots, Gentlemen with the yellow cavalry stripe of the United States +Army are pushing to and fro among the drivers and the owners, and +fingering the frightened animals. A herd breaks from the confusion +and is driven like a whirlwind down the street, dividing at the Market +House. They are going to board the Government transport--to die on the +battlefields of Kentucky and Missouri. + +Mr. Hopper alights from the car with complacency. He stands for a +while on a corner, against the hot building, surveying the busy scene, +unnoticed. Mules! Was it not a prophecy,--that drove which sent him into +Mr. Carvel's store? + +Presently a man with a gnawed yellow mustache and a shifty eye walks out +of one of the offices, and perceives our friend. + +“Howdy, Mr. Hopper?” says he. + +Eliphalet extends a hand to be squeezed and returned. “Got them +vouchers?” he asks. He is less careful of his English here. + +“Wal, I jest reckon,” is the answer: The fellow was interrupted by the +appearance of a smart young man in a smart uniform, who wore an air of +genteel importance. He could not have been more than two and twenty, and +his face and manners were those of a clerk. The tan of field service was +lacking on his cheek, and he was black under the eyes. + +“Hullo, Ford,” he said, jocularly. + +“Howdy, Cap,” retorted the other. “Wal, suh, that last lot was an extry, +fo' sure. As clean a lot as ever I seed. Not a lump on 'em. Gov'ment +ain't cheated much on them there at one-eighty a head, I reckon.” + +Mr. Ford said this with such an air of conviction and such a sober face +that the Captain smiled. And at the same time he glanced down nervously +at the new line of buttons on his chest. + +“I guess I know a mule from a Newfoundland dog by this time,” said he. + +“Wal, I jest reckon,” asserted Mr. Ford, with a loud laugh. “Cap'n +Wentworth, allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Hopper. Mr. Hopper, +Cap'n Wentworth.” + +The Captain squeezed Mr. Hoppers hand with fervor. “You interested in +mules, Mr. Hopper?” asked the military man. + +“I don't cal'late to be,” said. Mr. Hopper. Let us hope that our worthy +has not been presented as being wholly without a sense of humor. He +grinned as he looked upon this lamb in the uniform of Mars, and added, +“I'm just naturally patriotic, I guess. Cap'n, 'll you have a drink?” + +“And a segar,” added Mr. Ford. + +“Just one,” says the Captain. “It's d--d tiresome lookin' at mules all +day in the sun.” + +Well for Mr. Davitt that his mission work does not extend to Bremen, +that the good man's charity keeps him at the improvised hospital down +town. Mr. Hopper has resigned the superintendency of his Sunday School, +it is true, but he is still a pillar of the church. + +The young officer leans against the bar, and listens to stories by +Mr. Ford, which it behooves no church members to hear. He smokes Mr. +Hopper's cigar and drinks his whiskey. And Eliphalet understands that +the good Lord put some fools into the world in order to give the smart +people a chance to practise their talents. Mr. Hopper neither drinks nor +smokes, but he uses the spittoon with more freedom in this atmosphere. + +When at length the Captain has marched out, with a conscious but manly +air, Mr. Hopper turns to Ford--“Don't lose no time in presenting them +vouchers at headquarters,” says he. “Money is worth something now. And +there's grumbling about this Department in the Eastern papers, If we +have an investigation, we'll whistle. How much to-day?” + +“Three thousand,” says Mr. Ford. He tosses off a pony of Bourbon, but +his face is not a delight to look upon, “Hopper, you'll be a d--d rich +man some day.” + +“I cal'late to.” + +“I do the dirty work. And because I ain't got no capital, I only get +four per cent.” + +“Don't one-twenty a day suit you?” + +“You get blasted near a thousand. And you've got horse contracts, and +blanket contracts besides. I know you. What's to prevent my goin' south +when the vouchers is cashed?” he cried. “Ain't it possible?” + +“I presume likely,” said Mr. Hopper, quietly. “Then your mother'll have +to move out of her little place.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. NEWS FROM CLARENCE + +The epithet aristocrat may become odious and fatal on the banks of the +Mississippi as it was on the banks of the Seine. Let no man deceive +himself! These are fearful times. Thousands of our population, by the +sudden stoppage of business, are thrown out of employment. When gaunt +famine intrudes upon their household, it is but natural that they should +inquire the cause. Hunger began the French Revolution. + +Virginia did not read this editorial, because it appeared in that +abhorred organ of the Mudsills, the 'Missouri Democrat.' The wheels of +fortune were turning rapidly that first hot summer of the war time. Let +us be thankful that our flesh and blood are incapable of the fury of +the guillotine. But when we think calmly of those days, can we escape +without a little pity for the aristocrats? Do you think that many of +them did not know hunger and want long before that cruel war was over? + +How bravely they met the grim spectre which crept so insidiously into +their homes! + +“Virginia, child.” said Mrs. Colfax, peevishly, one morning as they +sat at breakfast, “why do you persist it wearing that old gown? It has +gotten on my nerves, my dear. You really must have something new made, +even if there are no men here to dress for.” + +“Aunt Lillian, you must not say such things. I do not think that I ever +dressed to please men.” + +“Tut, tut; my dear, we all do. I did, even after married your uncle. It +is natural. We must not go shabby in such times as these, or be out of +fashion, Did you know that Prince Napoleon was actually coming here for +a visit this autumn? We must be ready for him. I am having a fitting at +Miss Elder's to-day.” + +Virginia was learning patience. She did not reply as she poured out her +aunt's coffee. + +“Jinny,” said that lady, “come with me to Elder's, and I will give you +some gowns. If Comyn had been as careful of his own money as of mine, +you could dress decently.” + +“I think I do dress decently, Aunt Lillian,” answered the girl. “I do +not need the gowns. Give me the money you intend to pay for them, and I +can use it for a better purpose.” + +Mrs. Colfax arranged her lace pettishly. + +“I am sick and tired of this superiority, Jinny.” And in the same +breath. “What would you do with it?” + +Virginia lowered her voice. “Hodges goes through the lines to-morrow +night. I should send it to Clarence.” “But you have no idea where +Clarence is.” + +“Hodges can find him.” + +“Pshaw!” exclaimed her aunt, “I would not trust him. How do you know +that he will get through the Dutch pickets to Price's army? Wasn't +Souther captured last week, and that rash letter of Puss Russell's +to Jack Brinsmade published in the Democrat?” She laughed at the +recollection, and Virginia was fain to laugh too. “Puss hasn't been +around much since. I hope that will cure her of saying what she thinks +of people.” + +“It won't,” said Virginia. + +“I'll save my money until Price drives the Yankees from the state, and +Clarence marches into the city at the head of a regiment,” Mrs. Colfax +went on, “It won't be long now.” + +Virginia's eyes flashed. + +“Oh, you can't have read the papers. And don't you remember the letter +Maude had from George? They need the bare necessities of life, Aunt +Lillian. And half of Price's men have no arms at all.” + +“Jackson,” said Mrs. Colfax, “bring me a newspaper. Is there any news +to-day?” + +“No,” answered Virginia, quickly. “All we know is that Lyon has left +Springfield to meet our troops, and that a great battle is coming, +Perhaps--perhaps it is being fought to-day.” + +Mrs. Colfax burst into tears, “Oh, Jinny,” she cried, “how can you be so +cruel!” + +That very evening a man, tall and lean, but with the shrewd and kindly +eye of a scout, came into the sitting-room with the Colonel and handed +a letter to Mrs. Colfax. In the hall he slipped into Virginia's hand +another, in a “Jefferson Davis” envelope, and she thrust it in her +gown--the girl was on fire as he whispered in her ear that he had seen +Clarence, and that he was well. In two days an answer might be left +at Mr. Russell's house. But she must be careful what she wrote, as the +Yankee scouts were active. + +Clarence, indeed, had proven himself a man. Glory and uniform became +him well, but danger and deprivation better. The words he had written, +careless and frank and boyish, made Virginia's heart leap with pride. +Mrs. Colfax's letter began with the adventure below the Arsenal, when +the frail skiff had sunk near the island, He told how he had heard the +captain of his escort sing out to him in the darkness, and how he had +floated down the current instead, until, chilled and weary, he had +contrived to seize the branches of a huge tree floating by. And how by a +miracle the moon had risen. When the great Memphis packet bore down upon +him, he had, been seen from her guards, and rescued and made much of; +and set ashore at the next landing, for fear her captain would get into +trouble. In the morning he had walked into the country, first providing +himself with butternuts and rawhide boots and a bowie-knife. Virginia +would never have recognized her dashing captain of dragoons in this +guise. + +The letter was long for Clarence, and written under great difficulties +from date to date. For nearly a month he had tramped over mountains +and across river bottoms, waiting for news of an organized force of +resistance in Missouri. Begging his way from cabin to cabin, and living +on greasy bacon and corn pone, at length he crossed the swift Gasconade +(so named by the French settlers because of its brawling ways) where +the bridge of the Pacific railroad had been blown up by the Governor's +orders. Then he learned that the untiring Lyon had steamed up the +Missouri and had taken possession of Jefferson City without a blow, and +that the ragged rebel force had fought and lost at Booneville. Footsore, +but undaunted, he pushed on to join the army, which he heard was +retreating southward along the western tier of counties of the state. + +On the banks of the Osage he fell in with two other young amen in as bad +a plight as himself. They travelled together, until one day some rough +farmers with shotguns leaped out of a bunch of willows on the borders +of a creek and arrested all three for Union spies. And they laughed when +Mr. Clarence tried to explain that he had not long since been the dapper +captain of the State Dragoons. + +His Excellency, the Governor of Missouri (so acknowledged by all good +Southerners), likewise laughed when Mr. Colfax and the two others were +brought before him. His Excellency sat in a cabin surrounded by a camp +which had caused the dogs of war to howl for very shame. + +“Colfax!” cried the Governor. “A Colfax of St. Louis in butternuts and +rawhide boots?” + +“Give me a razor,” demanded Clarence, with indignation, “a razor and a +suit of clothes, and I will prove it.” The Governor laughed once more. + +“A razor, young man! A suit of clothes You know not what you ask.” + +“Are there any gentlemen from St. Louis here?” George Catherwood was +brought in,--or rather what had once been George. Now he was a big +frontiersman with a huge blond beard, and a bowie, knife stuck into +his trousers in place of a sword. He recognized his young captain of +dragoons the Governor apologized, and Clarence slept that night in the +cabin. The next day he was given a horse, and a bright new rifle which +the Governor's soldiers had taken from the Dutch at Cole Camp on the way +south, And presently they made a junction with three thousand more who +were their images. This was Price's army, but Price had gone ahead into +Kansas to beg the great McCulloch and his Confederates to come to their +aid and save the state. + + “Dear mother, I wish that you and Jinny and Uncle Comyn could have + seen this country rabble. How you would have laughed, and cried, + because we are just like them. In the combined army two thousand + have only bowie-knives or clubs. Some have long rifles of Daniel + Boone's time, not fired for thirty years. And the impedimenta are a + sight. Open wagons and conestogas and carryalls and buggies, and + even barouches, weighted down with frying-pans and chairs and + feather beds. But we've got spirit, and we can whip Lyon's Dutchmen + and Yankees just as we are. Spirit is what counts, and the Yankees + haven't got it, I was made to-day a Captain of Cavalry under + Colonel Rives. I ride a great, raw-boned horse like an elephant. + He jolts me until I am sore,--not quite as easy as my thoroughbred, + Jefferson. Tell Jinny to care for him, and have him ready when we + march into St. Louis.” + + “COWSKIN PRAIRIE, 9th July. + + “We have whipped Sigel on the prairie by Coon Creek and killed--we + don't know how many. Tell Maude that George distinguished himself + in the fight. We cavalry did not get a chance. + + “We have at last met McCulloch and his real soldiers. We cheered + until we cried when we saw their ranks of gray, with the gold + buttons and the gold braid and the gold stars. General McCulloch + has taken me on his staff, and promised me a uniform. But how to + clothe and feed and arm our men! We have only a few poor cattle, + and no money. But our men don't complain. We shall whip the + Yankees before we starve.” + +For many days Mrs. Colfax did not cease to bewail the hardship which +her dear boy was forced to endure. He, who was used to linen sheets and +eider down, was without rough blanket or shelter; who was used to the +best table in the state, was reduced to husks. + +“But, Aunt Lillian,” cried Virginia, “he is fighting for the South. If +he were fed and clothed like the Yankees, we should not be half so proud +of him.” + +Why set down for colder gaze the burning words that Clarence wrote to +Virginia. How she pored over that letter, and folded it so that even +the candle-droppings would not be creased and fall away! He was happy, +though wretched because he could not see her. It was the life he had +longed for. At last (and most pathetic!) he was proving his usefulness +in this world. He was no longer the mere idler whom she had chidden. + + “Jinny, do you remember saying so many years ago that our ruin would + come of our not being able to work? How I wish you could see us + felling trees to make bullet-moulds, and forging slugs for canister, + and making cartridges at night with our bayonets as candlesticks. + Jinny dear, I know that you will keep up your courage. I can see + you sewing for us, I can hear you praying for us.” + +It was, in truth, how Virginia learned to sew. She had always detested +it. Her fingers were pricked and sore weeks after she began. Sad +to relate, her bandages, shirts, and havelocks never reached the +front,--those havelocks, to withstand the heat of the tropic sun, which +were made in thousands by devoted Union women that first summer of the +war, to be ridiculed as nightcaps by the soldiers. + +“Why should not our soldiers have them, too?” said Virginia to the +Russell girls. They were never so happy as when sewing on them against +the arrival of the Army of Liberation, which never came. + +The long, long days of heat dragged slowly, with little to cheer those +families separated from their dear ones by a great army. Clarence might +die, and a month--perhaps a year--pass without news, unless he were +brought a prisoner to St. Louis. How Virginia envied Maude because the +Union lists of dead and wounded would give her tidings of her brother +Tom, at least! How she coveted the many Union families, whose sons and +brothers were at the front, this privilege! + +We were speaking of the French Revolution, when, as Balzac remarked, to +be a spy was to be a patriot. Heads are not so cheap in our Anglo-Saxon +countries; passions not so fierce and uncontrollable. Compare, with a +prominent historian, our Boston Massacre and St. Bartholomew. + +They are both massacres. Compare Camp Jackson, or Baltimore, where a +few people were shot, with some Paris street scenes after the Bastille. +Feelings in each instance never ran higher. Our own provost marshal was +hissed in the street, and called “Robespierre,” and yet he did not fear +the assassin's knife. Our own Southern aristocrats were hemmed in in +a Union city (their own city). No women were thrown into prison, it is +true. Yet one was not permitted to shout for Jeff Davis on the street +corner before the provost's guard. Once in a while a detachment of +the Home Guards, commanded by a lieutenant; would march swiftly into a +street and stop before a house, whose occupants would run to the rear, +only to encounter another detachment in the alley. + +One day, in great excitement, Eugenie Renault rang the bell of the +Carvel house, and ran past the astounded Jackson up the stairs to +Virginia's room, the door of which she burst open. + +“Oh, Jinny!” she cried, “Puss Russell's house is surrounded by Yankees, +and Puss and Emily and all the family are prisoners!” + +“Prisoners! What for?” said Virginia, dropping in her excitement her +last year's bonnet, which she was trimming with red, white, and red. + +“Because,” said Eugenie, sputtering with indignation “because they waved +at some of our poor fellows who were being taken to the slave pen. They +were being marched past Mr. Russell's house under guard--Puss had a +small--” + +“Confederate flag,” put in Virginia, smiling in spite of herself. + +“And she waved it between the shutters,” Eugenie continued. “And some +one told, the provost marshal. He has had the house surrounded, and the +family have to stay there.” + +“But if the food gives out?” + +“Then,” said Miss Renault, in a voice of awe, “then each one of the +family is to have just a common army ration. They are to be treated as +prisoners.” + +“Oh, those Yankees are detestable!” exclaimed Virginia. “But they shall +pay for it. As soon as our army is organized and equipped, they shall +pay for it ten times over.” She tried on the bonnet, conspicuous with +its red and white ribbons, before the glass. Then she ran to the closet +and drew forth the white gown with its red trimmings. “Wait for me, +Genie,” she said, “and we'll go down to Puss's house together. It may +cheer her to see us.” + +“But not in that dress,” said Eugenie, aghast. “They will arrest you.” + “Oh, how I wish they would!” cried Virginia. And her eyes flashed so +that Eugenie was frightened. “How I wish they would!” + +Miss Renault regarded her friend with something of adoration from +beneath her black lashes. It was about five in the afternoon when they +started out together under Virginia's white parasol, Eugenie's slimmer +courage upheld by her friend's bearing. We must remember that +Virginia was young, and that her feelings were akin to those our +great-grandmothers experienced when the British held New York. It was +as if she had been born to wear the red and white of the South. Elderly +gentlemen of Northern persuasion paused in their homeward walk to smile +in admiration,--some sadly, as Mr. Brinsmade. Young gentlemen found an +excuse to retrace their steps a block or two. But Virginia walked on +air, and saw nothing. She was between fierce anger and exaltation. She +did not deign to drop her eyes as low as the citizen sergeant and guard +in front of Puss Russell's house (these men were only human, after all); +she did not so much as glance at the curious people standing on the +corner, who could not resist a murmur of delight. The citizen sergeant +only smiled, and made no move to arrest the young lady in red and white. +Nor did Puss fling open the blinds and wave at her. + +“I suppose its because Mr. Russell won't let her,” said Virginia, +disconsolately, “Genie, let's go to headquarters, and show this Yankee +General Fremont that we are not afraid of him.” + +Eugenie's breath was taken away by the very boldness of this +proposition.. She looked up timidly into Virginia's face, and +hero-worship got the better of prudence. + +The house which General Fremont appropriated for his use when he came +back from Europe to assume command in the West was not a modest one. It +still stands, a large mansion of brick with a stone front, very tall and +very wide, with an elaborate cornice and plate-glass windows, both tall +and broad, and a high basement. Two stately stone porches capped by +elaborate iron railings adorn it in front and on the side. The chimneys +are generous and proportional. In short, the house is of that type built +by many wealthy gentlemen in the middle of the century, which has best +stood the test of time,--the only type which, if repeated to-day, would +not clash with the architectural education which we are receiving. A +spacious yard well above the pavement surrounds it, sustained by a wall +of dressed stones, capped by an iron fence. The whole expressed wealth, +security, solidity, conservatism. Alas, that the coal deposits under +the black mud of our Western states should, at length, have driven +the owners of these houses out of them! They are now blackened, almost +buried in soot; empty, or half-tenanted by boarders, Descendants of the +old families pass them on their way to business or to the theatre with +a sigh. The sons of those who owned them have built westward, and +west-ward again, until now they are six miles from the river. + +On that summer evening forty years ago, when Virginia and Eugenie came +in sight of the house, a scene of great animation was before them. Talk +was rife over the commanding general's pomp and circumstance. He had +just returned from Europe, where pomp and circumstance and the military +were wedded. Foreign officers should come to America to teach our +army dress and manners. A dashing Hungarian commanded the general's +body-guard, which honorable corps was even then drawn up in the street +before the house, surrounded at a respectable distance by a crowd +that feared to jest. They felt like it save when they caught the stern +military eye of the Hungarian captain. Virginia gazed at the glittering +uniforms, resplendent in the sun, and at the sleek and well-fed horses, +and scalding tears came as she thought of the half-starved rabble of +Southern patriots on the burning prairies. Just then a sharp command +escaped in broken English from the Hungarian. The people in the yard of +the mansion parted, and the General himself walked proudly out of the +gate to the curb, where his charger was pawing the gutter. As he put +foot to the stirrup, the eye of the great man (once candidate, and again +to be, for President) caught the glint of red and white on the corner. +For an instant he stood transfixed to the spot, with one leg in the air. +Then he took it down again and spoke to a young officer of his staff, +who smiled and began to walk toward them. Little Eugenie's knees +trembled. She seized Virginia's arm, and whispered in agony. + +“Oh, Jinny, you are to be arrested, after all. Oh, I wish you hadn't +been so bold!” + +“Hush,” said Virginia, as she prepared to slay the young officer with +a look. She felt like flying at his throat, and choking him for the +insolence of that smile. How dare he march undaunted to within six paces +of those eyes? The crowd drew back, But did Miss Carvel retreat? Not a +step. “Oh, I hope he will arrest me,” she said passionately, to Eugenie. +“He will start a conflagration beyond the power of any Yankee to quell.” + +But hush! he was speaking. “You are my prisoners”? No, those were not +the words, surely. The lieutenant had taken off his cap. He bowed very +low and said: + +“Ladies, the General's compliments, and he begs that this much of the +sidewalk may be kept clear for a few moments.” + +What was left for them, after that, save a retreat? But he was not +precipitate. Miss Virginia crossed the street with a dignity and bearing +which drew even the eyes of the body-guard to one side. And there she +stood haughtily until the guard and the General had thundered away. A +crowd of black-coated civilians, and quartermasters and other officers +in uniform, poured out of the basement of the house into the yards. One +civilian, a youngish man a little inclined to stoutness, stopped at the +gate, stared, then thrust some papers in his pocket and hurried down +the side street. Three blocks thence he appeared abreast of Miss Carvel. +More remarkable still, he lifted his hat clear of his head. Virginia +drew back. Mr. Hopper, with his newly acquired equanimity and poise, +startled her. + +“May I have the pleasure,” said that gentleman, “of accompanying you +home?” + +Eugenie giggled, Virginia was more annoyed than she showed. + +“You must not come out of your way,” she said. Then she added. “I am +sure you must go back to the store. It is only six o'clock.” + +Had Virginia but known, this occasional tartness in her speech gave +Eliphalet an infinite delight, even while it hurt him. His was a nature +which liked to gloat over a goal on the horizon He cared not a whit for +sweet girls; they cloyed. But a real lady was something to attain. He +had revised his vocabulary for just such an occasion, and thrown out +some of the vernacular. + +“Business is not so pressing nowadays, Miss Carvel,” he answered, with a +shade of meaning. + +“Then existence must be rather heavy for you,” she said. She made +no attempt to introduce him to Eugenie. “If we should have any more +victories like Bull Run, prosperity will come back with a rush,” said +the son of Massachusetts. “Southern Confederacy, with Missouri one of +its stars an industrial development of the South--fortunes in cotton.” + +Virginia turned quickly, “Oh, how dare you?” she cried. “How dare you +speak flippantly of such things?” His suavity was far from overthrown. + +“Flippantly Miss Carvel?” said he. “I assure you that I want to see the +South win.” What he did not know was that words seldom convince women. +But he added something which reduced her incredulity for the time. “Do +you cal'late,” said he,--that I could work for your father, and wish +ruin to his country?” + +“But you are a Yankee born,” she exclaimed. + +“There be a few sane Yankees,” replied Mr. Hopper, dryly. A remark +which made Eugenie laugh outright, and Virginia could not refrain from a +smile. + +But much against her will he walked home with her. She was indignant by +the time she reached Locust Street. He had never dared do such a thing +before, What had got into the man? Was it because he had become +a manager, and governed the business during her father's frequent +absences? No matter what Mr. Hopper's politics, he would always be to +her a low-born Yankee, a person wholly unworthy of notice. + +At the corner of Olive Street, a young man walking with long strides +almost bumped into them. He paused looked back, and bowed as if +uncertain of an acknowledgment. Virginia barely returned his bow. He had +been very close to her, and she had had time to notice that his coat was +threadbare. When she looked again, he had covered half the block. +Why should she care if Stephen Brice had seen her in company with Mr. +Hopper? Eliphalet, too, had seen Stephen, and this had added zest to his +enjoyment. It was part of the fruits of his reward. He wished in that +short walk that he might meet Mr. Cluyme and Belle, and every man and +woman and child in the city whom he knew. From time to time he glanced +at the severe profile of the aristocrat beside him (he had to look up a +bit, likewise), and that look set him down among the beasts of prey. +For she was his rightful prey, and he meant not to lose one tittle of +enjoyment in the progress of the game. Many and many a night in the bare +little back room at Miss Crane's, Eliphalet had gloated over the very +event which was now come to pass. Not a step of the way but what he had +lived through before. + +The future is laid open to such men as he. Since he had first seen the +black cloud of war rolling up from the South, a hundred times had he +rehearsed the scene with Colonel Carvel which had actually taken place +a week before. A hundred times had he prepared his speech and manner for +this first appearance in public with Virginia after he had forced the +right to walk in her company. The words he had prepared--commonplace, to +be sure, but carefully chosen--flowed from his lips in a continual nasal +stream. The girl answered absently, her feminine instinct groping after +a reason for it all. She brightened when she saw her father at the +doors and, saying good by to Eugenie, tripped up the steps, bowing to +Eliphalet coldly. + +“Why, bless us, Jinny,” said the Colonel, “you haven't been parading the +town in that costume! You'll have us in Lynch's slave pen by to-morrow +night. My land!” laughed he, patting her under the chin, “there's no +doubt about your sentiments, anyhow.” + +“I've been over to Puss Russell's house,” said she, breathless. “They've +closed it up, you know--” (He nodded.) “And then we went--Eugenie and I, +to headquarters, just to see what the Yankees would do.” + +The Colonel's smile faded. He looked grave. “You must take care, honey,” + he said, lowering his voice. “They suspect me now of communicating with +the Governor and McCulloch. Jinny, it's all very well to be brave, and +to stand by your colors. But this sort of thing,” said he, stroking the +gown, “this sort of thing doesn't help the South, my dear, and only +sets spies upon us. Ned tells me that there was a man in plain clothes +standing in the alley last night for three hours.” + +“Pa,” cried the girl, “I'm so sorry.” Suddenly searching his face with +a swift instinct, she perceived that these months had made it yellow and +lined. “Pa, dear, you must come to Glencoe to-morrow and rest You must +not go off on any more trips.” + +The Colonel shook his head sadly. + +“It isn't the trips, Jinny There are duties, my dear, pleasant +duties--Jinny--” + +“Yes?” + +The Colonel's eye had suddenly fallen on Mr. Hopper, who was still +standing at the bottom of the steps. He checked himself abruptly as +Eliphalet pulled off his hat, + +“Howdy, Colonel?” he said. + +Virginia was motionless, with her back to the intruder, She was frozen +by a presentiment. As she saw her father start down the steps, she +yearned to throw herself in front of him--to warn him of something; she +knew not what. Then she heard the Colonel's voice, courteous and kindly +as ever. And yet it broke a little as he greeted his visitor. + +“Won't--won't you come in, Mr. Hopper?” + +Virginia started + +“I don't know but what I will, thank you, Colonel,” he answered; easily. +“I took the liberty of walking home with your daughter.” + +Virginia fairly flew into the house and up the stairs. Gaining her room, +she shut the door and turned the key, as though he might pursue her +there. The man's face had all at once become a terror. She threw herself +on the lounge and buried her face in her hands, and she saw it still +leering at her with a new confidence. Presently she grew calmer; rising, +she put on the plainest of her scanty wardrobe, and went down the +stairs, all in a strange trepidation new to her. She had never been in +fear of a man before. She hearkened over the banisters for his voice, +heard it, and summoned all her courage. How cowardly she had been to +leave her father alone with him. + +Eliphalet stayed to tea. It mattered little to him that Mrs. Colfax +ignored him as completely as if his chair had been vacant He glanced at +that lady once, and smiled, for he was tasting the sweets of victory. +It was Virginia who entertained him, and even the Colonel never guessed +what it cost her. Eliphalet himself marvelled at her change of manner, +and gloated over that likewise. Not a turn or a quiver of the victim's +pain is missed by your beast of prey. The Colonel was gravely polite, +but preoccupied. Had he wished it, he could not have been rude to a +guest. He offered Mr. Hopper a cigar with the same air that he would +have given it to a governor. + +“Thank'ee, Colonel, I don't smoke,” he said, waving the bog away. + +Mrs. Colfax flung herself out of the room. + +It was ten o'clock when Eliphalet reached Miss Crane's, and picked his +way up the front steps where the boarders were gathered. + +“The war doesn't seem to make any difference in your business, Mr. +Hopper,” his landlady remarked, “where have you been so late?” + +“I happened round at Colonel Carvel's this afternoon, and stayed for tea +with 'em,” he answered, striving to speak casually. + +Miss Crane lingered in Mrs. Abner Reed's room later than usual that +night. + + + + +CHAPTER III. THE SCOURGE OF WAR + +“Virginia,” said Mrs. Colfax, the next morning on coming downstairs, “I +am going back to Bellegarde today. I really cannot put up with such a +person as Comyn had here to tea last night.” + +“Very well, Aunt Lillian. At what time shall I order the carriage?” + +The lady was surprised. It is safe to say that she had never accurately +gauged the force which Virginia's respect for her elders, and affection +for her aunt through Clarence, held in check. Only a moment since Mrs. +Colfax had beheld her niece. Now there had arisen in front of her a tall +person of authority, before whom she deferred instinctively. It was not +what Virginia said, for she would not stoop to tirade. Mrs. Colfax sank +into a chair, seeing only the blurred lines of a newspaper the girl had +thrust into her hand. + +“What--what is it?” she gasped. “I cannot read.” + +“There has been a battle at Wilson's Creek,” said Virginia, in an +emotionless voice. “General Lyon is killed, for which I suppose we +should be thankful. More than seven hundred of the wounded are on their +way here. They are bringing them one hundred and twenty miles, from +Springfield to Rollo, in rough army wagons, with scarcely anything to +eat or drink.” + +“And--Clarence?” + +“His name is not there.” + +“Thank God!” exclaimed Mrs. Colfax. “Are the Yankees beaten?” + +“Yes,” said Virginia, coldly. “At what time shall I order the carriage +to take you to Bellegarde?” + +Mrs. Colfax leaned forward and caught the hem of her niece's gown. “Oh, +let me stay,” she cried, “let me stay. Clarence may be with them.” + +Virginia looked down at her without pity. + +“As you please, Aunt Lillian,” she answered. “You know that you may +always stay here. I only beg of you one thing, that when you have +anything to complain of, you will bring it to me, and not mention it +before Pa. He has enough to worry him.” + +“Oh, Jinny,” sobbed the lady, in tears again, “how can you be so cruel +at such a time, when my nerves are all in pieces?” + +But she did not lift her voice at dinner, which was very poor indeed for +Colonel Carvel's house. All day long Virginia, assisted by Uncle Ben and +Aunt Easter, toiled in the stifling kitchen, preparing dainties which +she had long denied herself. At evening she went to the station at +Fourteenth Street with her father, and stood amongst the people, pressed +back by the soldiers, until the trains came in. Alas, the heavy basket +which the Colonel carried on his arm was brought home again. The first +hundred to arrive, ten hours in a hot car without food or water, were +laid groaning on the bottom of great furniture vans, and carted to the +new House of Refuge Hospital, two miles to the south of the city. + +The next day many good women went there, Rebel and Union alike, to have +their hearts wrung. The new and cheap building standing in the hot sun +reeked with white wash and paint. The miserable men lay on the hard +floor, still in the matted clothes they had worn in battle. Those were +the first days of the war, when the wages of our passions first came to +appal us. Many of the wounds had not been tended since they were dressed +on the field weeks before. + +Mrs. Colfax went too, with the Colonel and her niece, although she +declared repeatedly that she could not go through with such an +ordeal. She spoke the truth, for Mr. Carvel had to assist her to the +waiting-room. Then he went back to the improvised wards to find Virginia +busy over a gaunt Arkansan of Price's army, whose pitiful, fever-glazed +eyes were following her every motion. His frontiersman's clothes, +stained with blackened blood, hung limp over his wasted body. At +Virginia's bidding the Colonel ran downstairs for a bucket of fresh +water, and she washed the caked dust from his face and hands. It was Mr. +Brinsmade who got the surgeon to dress the man's wound, and to prescribe +some of the broth from Virginia's basket. For the first time since the +war began something of happiness entered her breast. + +It was Mr. Brinsmade who was everywhere that day, answering the +questions of distracted mothers and fathers and sisters who thronged +the place; consulting with the surgeons; helping the few who knew how to +work in placing mattresses under the worst cases; or again he might have +been seen seated on the bare floor with a pad on his knee, taking down +the names of dear ones in distant states,--that he might spend his night +writing to them. + +They put a mattress under the Arkansan. Virginia did not leave him until +he had fallen asleep, and a smile of peace was come upon his sunken +face. Dismayed at the fearful sights about her, awed by the groans that +rose on every side, she was choosing her way swiftly down the room to +join her father and aunt in the carriage below. + +The panic of flight had seized her. She felt that another little while +in this heated, horrible place would drive her mad. She was almost at +the door when she came suddenly upon a sight that made her pause. + +An elderly lady in widow's black was kneeling beside a man groaning in +mortal agony, fanning away the flies already gathering about his face. +He wore the uniform of a Union sergeant,--dusty and splotched and torn. +A small Testament was clasped convulsively in the fingers of his right +band. The left sleeve was empty. Virginia lingered, whelmed in pity, +thrilled by a wonderful womanliness of her who knelt there. Her face the +girl had not even seen, for it was bent over the man. The sweetness of +her voice held Virginia as in a spell, and the sergeant stopped groaning +that he might listen: + +“You have a wife?” + +“Yes, ma'am.” + +“And a child?” + +The answer came so painfully. + +“A boy, ma'am--born the week--before I came--away.” + +“I shall write to your wife,” said the lady, so gently that Virginia +could scarce hear, “and tell her that you are cared for. Where does she +live?” + +He gave the address faintly--some little town in Minnesota. Then he +added, “God bless you, lady.” + +Just then the chief surgeon came and stood over them. The lady turned +her face up to him, and tears sparkled in her eyes. Virginia felt them +wet in her own. Her worship was not given to many. Nobility, character, +efficiency,-all were written on that face. Nobility spoke in the large +features, in the generous mouth, in the calm, gray eyes. Virginia had +seen her often before, but not until now was the woman revealed to her. + +“Doctor, could this man's life be saved if I took him to my home?” + +The surgeon got down beside her and took the man's pulse. The eyes +closed. For a while the doctor knelt there, shaking his head. “He has +fainted,” he said. + +“Do you think he can be saved?” asked the lady again. The surgeon +smiled,--such a smile as a good man gives after eighteen hours of +amputating, of bandaging, of advising,--work which requires a firm hand, +a clear eye and brain, and a good heart. + +“My dear Mrs. Brice,” he said, “I shall be glad to get you permission +to take him, but we must first make him worth the taking. Another hour +would have been too late.” He glanced hurriedly about the busy room, and +then added, “We must have one more to help us.” + +Just then some one touched Virginia's arm. It was her father. + +“I am afraid we must go, dear,” he said, “your aunt is getting +impatient.” + +“Won't you please go without me, Pa?” she asked. “Perhaps I can be of +some use.” + +The Colonel cast a wondering glance at the limp uniform, and went +away. The surgeon, who knew the Carvel family, gave Virginia a look of +astonishment. It was Mrs. Brice's searching gaze that brought the color +to the girl's, face. + +“Thank you, my dear,” she said simply. + +As soon as he could get his sister-in-law off to Locust Street in the +carriage, Colonel Carvel came back. For two reeking hours he stood +against the newly plastered wall. Even he was surprised at the fortitude +and skill Virginia showed from the very first, when she had deftly +cut away the stiffened blue cloth, and helped to take off the rough +bandages. At length the fearful operation was finished, and the weary +surgeon, gathering up his box, expressed with all the energy left to +him, his thanks to the two ladies. + +Virginia stood up, faint and dizzy. The work of her hands had sustained +her while it lasted, but now the ordeal was come. She went down the +stairs on her father's arm, and out into the air. All at once she knew +that Mrs. Brice was beside her, and had taken her by the hand. + +“My dear?” she was saying, “God will reward you for this act. You have +taught many of us to-day a lesson we should have learned in our Bibles.” + +Virginia trembled with many emotions, but she answered nothing. The +mere presence of this woman had a strange effect upon the girl,--she was +filled with a longing unutterable. It was not because Margaret Brice +was the mother of him whose life had been so strangely blended with +hers--whom she saw in her dreams. And yet now some of Stephen's traits +seemed to come to her understanding, as by a revelation. Virginia had +labored through the heat of the day by Margaret Brice's side doing His +work, which levels all feuds and makes all women sisters. One brief +second had been needful for the spell. + +The Colonel bowed with that courtesy and respect which distinguished +him, and Mrs. Brice left them to go back into the room of torment, and +watch by the sergeant's pallet. Virginia's eyes followed her up the +stairs, and then she and her father walked slowly to the carriage. With +her foot on the step Virginia paused. + +“Pa,” she said, “do you think it would be possible to get them to let us +take that Arkansan into our house?” + +“Why, honey, I'll ask Brinsmade if you like,” said the Colonel. “Here he +comes now, and Anne.” + +It was Virginia who put the question to him. + +“My dear,” replied that gentleman, patting her, “I would do anything +in the world for you. I'll see General Fremont this very afternoon. +Virginia,” he added, soberly, “it is such acts as yours to-day that give +us courage to live in these times.” + +Anne kissed her friend. + +“Oh, Jinny, I saw what you were doing for one of our men. What am I +saying?” she cried. “They are your men, too. This horrible war cannot +last. It cannot last. It was well that Virginia did not see the smile on +the face of the commanding general when Mr. Brinsmade at length got to +him with her request. This was before the days when the wounded arrived +by the thousands, when the zeal of the Southern ladies threatened to +throw out of gear the workings of a great system. But the General, had +had his eye on Mr. Carvel from the first. Therefore he smiled. + +“Colonel Carvel,” said Mr. Brinsmade, with dignity, “is a gentleman. +When he gives his word, it is sacred, sir.” + +“Even to an enemy,” the General put in, “By George, Brinsmade, unless I +knew you, I should think that you were half rebel yourself. Well, well, +he may have his Arkansan.” + +Mr. Brinsmade, when he conveyed the news to the Carvel house, did not +say that he had wasted a precious afternoon in the attempt to interview +his Excellency, the Commander in-chief. It was like obtaining an +audience with the Sultan or the Czar. Citizens who had been prominent +in affairs for twenty years, philanthropists and patriotic-spirited men +like Mr. Brinsmade, the mayor, and all the ex-mayors mopped their brows +in one of the general's anterooms of the big mansion, and wrangled with +beardless youths in bright uniforms who were part of the chain. The +General might have been a Richelieu, a Marlborough. His European notions +of uniformed inaccessibility he carried out to the letter. He was +a royal personage, seldom seen, who went abroad in the midst of a +glittering guard. It did not seem to weigh with his Excellency that +these simple and democratic gentlemen would not put up with this sort of +thing. That they who had saved the city to the Union were more or less +in communication with a simple and democratic President; that in all +their lives they had never been in the habit of sitting idly for two +hours to mop their brows. + +On the other hand, once you got beyond the gold lace and the etiquette, +you discovered a good man and a patriot. It was far from being the +General's fault that Mr. Hopper and others made money in mules and +worthless army blankets. Such things always have been, and always will +be unavoidable when this great country of ours rises from the deep sleep +of security into which her sons have lulled her, to demand her sword. We +shall never be able to realize that the maintenance of a standing army +of comfortable size will save millions in the end. So much for Democracy +when it becomes a catchword. + +The General was a good man, had he done nothing else than encourage the +Western Sanitary Commission, that glorious army of drilled men and women +who gave up all to relieve the suffering which the war was causing. +Would that a novel--a great novel--might be written setting forth with +truth its doings. The hero of it could be Calvin Brinsmade, and a nobler +hero than he was never under a man's hand. For the glory of generals +fades beside his glory. + +It was Mr. Brinsmade's carriage that brought Mrs. Brice home from +her trying day in the hospital. Stephen, just returned from drill +at Verandah hall, met her at the door. She would not listen to his +entreaties to rest, but in the evening, as usual, took her sewing to the +porch behind the house, where there was a little breeze. + +“Such a singular thing happened to-day, Stephen,” she said. “It was +while we were trying to save the life of a poor sergeant who had lost +his arm. I hope we shall be allowed to have him here. He is suffering +horribly.” + +“What happened, mother?” he asked. + +“It was soon after I had come upon this poor fellow,” she said. “I saw +the--the flies around him. And as I got down beside him to fan them away +I had such a queer sensation. I knew that some one was standing behind +me, looking at me. Then Dr. Allerdyce came, and I asked him about the +man, and he said there was a chance of saving him if we could only get +help. Then some one spoke up,--such a sweet voice. It was that Miss +Carvel my dear, with whom you had such a strange experience when you +bought Hester, and to whose party you once went. Do you remember that +they offered us their house in Glencoe when the Judge was so ill?” + +“Yes,” said Stephen. + +“She is a wonderful creature,” his mother continued. “Such personality, +such life! And wasn't it a remarkable offer for a Southern woman to +make? They feel so bitterly, and--and I do not blame them.” The good +lady put down on her lap the night-shirt she was making. “I saw how +it happened. The girl was carried away by her pity. And, my dear, her +capability astonished me. One might have thought that she had always +been a nurse. The experience was a dreadful one for me--what must +it have been for her. After the operation was over, I followed her +downstairs to where she was standing with her father in front of the +building, waiting for their carriage. I felt that I must say something +to her, for in all my life I have never seen a nobler thing done. When I +saw her there, I scarcely knew what to say. Words seemed so inadequate. +It was then three o'clock, and she had been working steadily in that +place since morning. I am sure she could not have borne it much longer. +Sheer courage carried her through it, I know, for her hand trembled so +when I took it, and she was very pale. She usually has color, I believe. +Her father, the Colonel, was with her, and he bowed to me with such +politeness. He had stood against the wall all the while we had worked, +and he brought a mattress for us. I have heard that his house is +watched, and that they have him under suspicion for communicating +with the Confederate leaders.” Mrs. Brice sighed. “He seems such a fine +character. I hope they will not get into any trouble.” + +“I hope not, mother,” said Stephen. + +It was two mornings later that Judge Whipple and Stephen drove to the +Iron Mountain depot, where they found a German company of Home Guards +drawn up. On the long wooden platform under the sheds Stephen +caught sight of Herr Korner and Herr Hauptmann amid a group of their +countrymen. Little Korner came forward to clasp his hands. The tears ran +on his cheeks, and he could not speak for emotion. Judge Whipple, grim +and silent, stood apart. But he uncovered his head with the others when +the train rolled in. Reverently they entered a car where the pine boxes +were piled one on another, and they bore out the earthly remains of +Captain Carl Richter. + +Far from the land of his birth, among those same oaks on Bloody Hill +where brave Lyon fell, he had gladly given up his life for the new +country and the new cause he had made his own. + +That afternoon in the cemetery, as the smoke of the last salute to a +hero hung in the flickering light and drifted upward through the +great trees, as the still air was yet quivering with the notes of the +bugle-call which is the soldiers requiem, a tall figure, gaunt and bent, +stepped out from behind the blue line of the troops. It was that of +Judge Whipple. He carried in his hand a wreath of white roses--the first +of many to be laid on Richter's grave. + +Poor Richter! How sad his life had been! And yet he had not filled it +with sadness. For many a month, and many a year, Stephen could not look +upon his empty place without a pang. He missed the cheery songs and the +earnest presence even more than he had thought. Carl Richter,--as his +father before him,--had lived for others. Both had sacrificed their +bodies for a cause. One of them might be pictured as he trudged with +Father Jahn from door to door through the Rhine country, or shouldering +at sixteen a heavy musket in the Landwehr's ranks to drive the tyrant +Napoleon from the beloved Fatherland Later, aged before his time, +his wife dead of misery, decrepit and prison-worn in the service of a +thankless country, his hopes lived again in Carl, the swordsman of Jena. +Then came the pitiful Revolution, the sundering of all ties, the elder +man left to drag out his few weary days before a shattered altar. In +Carl a new aspiration had sprung up, a new patriotism stirred. His, too, +had been the sacrifice. Happy in death, for he had helped perpetuate +that great Union which should be for all time the refuge of the +oppressed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE LIST OF SIXTY + +One chilling day in November, when an icy rain was falling on the black +mud of the streets, Virginia looked out of the window. Her eye was +caught by two horses which were just skeletons with the skin stretched +over them. One had a bad sore on his flank, and was lame. They were +pulling a rattle-trap farm wagon with a buckled wheel. On the seat a +man, pallid and bent and scantily clad, was holding the reins in his +feeble hands, while beside him cowered a child of ten wrapped in a +ragged blanket. In the body of the wagon, lying on a mattress pressed +down in the midst of broken, cheap furniture and filthy kitchen ware, +lay a gaunt woman in the rain. Her eyes were closed, and a hump on the +surface of the dirty quilt beside her showed that a child must be there. +From such a picture the girl fled in tears. But the sight of it, and of +others like it, haunted her for weeks. Through those last dreary days of +November, wretched families, which a year since had been in health and +prosperity, came to the city, beggars, with the wrecks of their homes. +The history of that hideous pilgrimage across a state has never been +written. Still they came by the hundred, those families. Some brought +little corpses to be buried. The father of one, hale and strong when +they started, died of pneumonia in the public lodging-house. The walls +of that house could tell many tales to wring the heart. So could Mr. +Brinsmade, did he choose to speak of his own charities. He found +time, between his labors at the big hospital newly founded, and his +correspondence, and his journeys of love,--between early morning and +midnight,--to give some hours a day to the refugees. + +Throughout December they poured in on the afflicted city, already +overtaxed. All the way to Springfield the road was lined with remains +of articles once dear--a child's doll, a little rocking-chair, a colored +print that has hung in the best room, a Bible text. + +Anne Brinsmade, driven by Nicodemus, went from house to house to solicit +old clothes, and take them to the crowded place of detention. Christmas +was drawing near--a sorry Christmas, in truth. And many of the wanderers +were unclothed and unfed. + +More battles had been fought; factions had arisen among Union men. +Another general had come to St. Louis to take charge of the Department, +and the other with his wondrous body-guard was gone. + +The most serious problem confronting the new general--was how to care +for the refugees. A council of citizens was called at headquarters, and +the verdict went forth in the never-to-be-forgotten Orders No. 24. + +“Inasmuch,” said the General, “as the Secession army had driven these +people from their homes, Secession sympathizers should be made to +support them.” He added that the city was unquestionably full of these. + +Indignation was rife the day that order was published. Sixty prominent +“disloyalists” were to be chosen and assessed to make up a sum of ten +thousand dollars. + +“They may sell my house over my head before I will pay a cent,” cried +Mr. Russell. And he meant it. This was the way the others felt. Who were +to be on this mysterious list of “Sixty”? That was the all-absorbing +question of the town. It was an easy matter to pick the conspicuous +ones. Colonel Carvel was sure to be there, and Mr. Catherwood and Mr. +Russell and Mr. James, and Mr. Worington the lawyer. Mrs. Addison Colfax +lived for days in a fermented state of excitement which she declared +would break her down; and which, despite her many cares and worries, +gave her niece not a little amusement. For Virginia was human, and one +morning she went to her aunt's room to read this editorial from the +newspaper:-- “For the relief of many palpitating hearts it may be well +to state that we understand only two ladies are on the ten thousand +dollar list.” + +“Jinny,” she cried, “how can you be so cruel as to read me that, when +you know that I am in a state of frenzy now? How does that relieve me? +It makes it an absolute certainty that Madame Jules and I will have to +pay. We are the only women of importance in the city.” + +That afternoon she made good her much-uttered threat, and drove to +Bellegarde. Only the Colonel and Virginia and Mammy Easter and Ned were +left in the big house. Rosetta and Uncle Ben and Jackson had been +hired out, and the horses sold,--all save old Dick, who was running, +long-haired, in the fields at Glencoe. + +Christmas eve was a steel-gray day, and the sleet froze as it fell. +Since morning Colonel Carvel had sat poking the sitting-room fire, or +pacing the floor restlessly. His occupation was gone. He was observed +night and day by Federal detectives. Virginia strove to amuse him, to +conceal her anxiety as she watched him. Well she knew that but for her +he would long since have fled southward, and often in the bitterness of +the night-time she blamed herself for not telling him to go. Ten years +had seemed to pass over him since the war had begun. + +All day long she had been striving to put away from her the memory of +Christmas eves past and gone of her father's early home-coming from the +store, a mysterious smile on his face; of Captain Lige stamping noisily +into the house, exchanging uproarious jests with Ned and Jackson. The +Captain had always carried under his arm a shapeless bundle which he +would confide to Ned with a knowing wink. And then the house would be +lighted from top to bottom, and Mr. Russell and Mr. Catherwood and Mr. +Brinsmade came in for a long evening with Mr. Carvel over great bowls of +apple toddy and egg-nog. And Virginia would have her own friends in the +big parlor. That parlor was shut up now, and icy cold. + +Then there was Judge Whipple, the joyous event of whose year was his +Christmas dinner at Colonel Carvel's house. Virginia pictured him this +year at Mrs. Brice's little table, and wondered whether he would miss +them as much as they missed him. War may break friendships, but it +cannot take away the sacredness of memories. + +The sombre daylight was drawing to an early close as the two stood +looking out of the sitting-room window. A man's figure muffled in +a greatcoat slanting carefully across the street caught their eyes. +Virginia started. It was the same United States deputy marshal she had +seen the day before at Mr. Russell's house. + +“Pa,” she cried, “do you think he is coming here?” + +“I reckon so, honey.” + +“The brute! Are you going to pay?” + +“No, Jinny.” + +“Then they will take away the furniture.” + +“I reckon they will.” + +“Pa, you must promise me to take down the mahogany bed in your room. +It--it was mother's. I could not bear to see them take that. Let me put +it in the garret.” + +The Colonel was distressed, but he spoke without a tremor. + +“No, Jinny. We must leave this house just as it is.” Then he added, +strangely enough for him, “God's will be done.” + +The bell rang sharply. And Ned, who was cook and housemaid, came in with +his apron on. + +“Does you want to see folks, Marse Comyn?” + +The Colonel rose, and went to the door himself. He was an imposing +figure as he stood in the windy vestibule, confronting the deputy. +Virginia's first impulse was to shrink under the stairs. Then she came +out and stood beside her father. + +“Are you Colonel Carvel?” + +“I reckon I am. Will you come in?” + +The officer took off his cap. He was a young man with a smooth face, and +a frank brown eye which paid its tribute to Virginia. He did not appear +to relish the duty thrust upon him. He fumbled in his coat and drew from +his inner pocket a paper. + +“Colonel Carvel,” said he, “by order of Major General Halleck, I serve +you with this notice to pay the sum of three hundred and fifty dollars +for the benefit of the destitute families which the Rebels have driven +from their homes. In default of payment within a reasonable time such +personal articles will be seized and sold at public auction as will +satisfy the demand against you.” + +The Colonel took the paper. “Very well, sir,” he said. “You may tell the +General that the articles may be seized. That I will not, while in my +right mind, be forced to support persons who have no claim upon me.” + +It was said in the tone in which he might have refused an invitation to +dinner. The deputy marvelled. He had gone into many houses that week; +had seen indignation, hysterics, frenzy. He had even heard men and women +whose sons and brothers were in the army of secession proclaim their +loyalty to the Union. But this dignity, and the quiet scorn of the girl +who had stood silent beside them, were new. He bowed, and casting his +eyes to the vestibule, was glad to escape from the house. + +The Colonel shut the door. Then he turned toward Virginia, thoughtfully +pulled his goatee, and laughed gently. “Lordy, we haven't got three +hundred and fifty dollars to our names,” said he. + +The climate of St. Louis is capricious. That fierce valley of the +Missouri, which belches fitful blizzards from December to March, is +sometimes quiet. Then the hot winds come up from the Gulf, and sleet +melts, and windows are opened. In those days the streets will be fetlock +deep in soft mud. It is neither summer, nor winter, nor spring, nor +anything. + +It was such a languorous afternoon in January that a furniture van, +accompanied by certain nondescript persons known as United States +Police, pulled up at the curb in front of Mr. Carvel's house. Eugenie, +watching at the window across the street, ran to tell her father, who +came out on his steps and reviled the van with all the fluency of his +French ancestors. + +Mammy Easter opened the door, and then stood with her arms akimbo, amply +filling its place. Her lips protruded, and an expression of defiance +hard to describe sat on her honest black face. + +“Is this Colonel Carvel's house?” + +“Yassir. I 'low you knows dat jes as well as me.” An embarrassed +silence, and then from Mammy, “Whaffor you laffin at?” + +“Is the Colonel at home?” + +“Now I reckon you knows dat he ain't. Ef he was, you ain't come here +'quirin' in dat honey voice.” (Raising her own voice.) “You tink I +dunno whaffor you come? You done come heah to rifle, an' to loot, an' +to steal, an' to seize what ain't your'n. You come heah when young Marse +ain't to home ter rob him.” (Still louder.) “Ned, whaffor you hidin' +yonder? Ef yo' ain't man to protect Marse Comyn's prop-ty, jes han' over +Marse Comyn's gun.” + +The marshal and his men had stood, half amused, more than half baffled +by this unexpected resistance. Mammy Easter looked so dangerous that it +was evident she was not to be passed without extreme bodily discomfort. + +“Is your mistress here?” + +This question was unfortunate in the extreme. + +“You--you white trash!” cried Mammy, bursting with indignation. “Who is +you to come heah 'quiring fo' her! I ain't agwine--” + +“Mammy!” + +“Yas'm! Yas, Miss Jinny.” Mammy backed out of the door and clutched at +her bandanna. + +“Mammy, what is all this noise about?” The torrent was loosed once more. + +“These heah men, Miss Jinny, was gwine f'r t' carry away all yo' pa's +blongin's. I jes' tol' 'em dey ain't comin' in ovah dis heah body.” + +The deputy had his foot on the threshold. He caught sight of the face of +Miss Carvel within, and stopped abruptly. + +“I have a warrant here from the Provost Marshal, ma'am, to seize +personal property to satisfy a claim against Colonel Carvel.” + +Virginia took the order, read it, and handed it back. “I do not see how +I am to prevent you,” she said. The deputy was plainly abashed. + +“I'm sorry, Miss. I--I can't tell you how sorry I am. But it's got to be +done.” + +Virginia nodded coldly. And still the man hesitated. “What are you +waiting for?” she said. + +The deputy wiped his muddy feet. He made his men do likewise. Then he +entered the chill drawing-room, threw open the blinds and glanced around +him. + +“I expect all that we want is right here,” he said. And at the sight of +the great chandelier, with its cut-glass crystals, he whistled. Then he +walked over to the big English Rothfield piano and lifted the lid. + +The man was a musician. Involuntarily he rested himself on the mahogany +stool, and ran his fingers over the keys. They seemed to Virginia, +standing motionless in the ball, to give out the very chords of agony. + +The piano, too, had been her mother's. It had once stood in the brick +house of her grandfather Colfax at Halcyondale. The songs of Beatrice +lay on the bottom shelf of the what-not near by. No more, of an evening +when they were alone, would Virginia quietly take them out and play +them over to the Colonel, as he sat dreaming in the window with his +cigar,--dreaming of a field on the borders of a wood, of a young girl +who held his hand, and sang them softly to herself as she walked by his +side. And, when they reached the house in the October twilight, she had +played them for him on this piano. Often he had told Virginia of those +days, and walked with her over those paths. + +The deputy closed the lid, and sent out to the van for a truck. Virginia +stirred. For the first time she heard the words of Mammy Easter. + +“Come along upstairs wid yo' Mammy, honey. Dis ain't no place for us, +I reckon.” Her words were the essence of endearment. And yet, while she +pronounced them, she glared unceasingly at the intruders. “Oh, de good +Lawd'll burn de wicked!” + +The men were removing the carved legs. Virginia went back into the room +and stood before the deputy. + +“Isn't there something else you could take? Some jewellery?” She +flushed. “I have a necklace--” + +“No, miss. This warrant's on your father. And there ain't nothing quite +so salable as pianos.” + +She watched them, dry-eyed, as they carried it away. It seemed like a +coffin. Only Mammy Easter guessed at the pain in Virginia's breast, and +that was because there was a pain in her own. They took the rosewood +what-not, but Virginia snatched the songs before the men could +touch them, and held them in her arms. They seized the mahogany +velvet-bottomed chairs, her uncle's wedding present to her mother; and, +last of all, they ruthlessly tore up the Brussels carpet, beginning near +the spot where Clarence had spilled ice-cream at one of her children's +parties. + +She could not bear to look into the dismantled room when they had gone. +It was the embodied wreck of her happiness. Ned closed the blinds once +more, and she herself turned the key in the lock, and went slowly up the +stairs. + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE AUCTION + +“Stephen,” said the Judge, in his abrupt way, “there isn't a great deal +doing. Let's go over to the Secesh property sales.” + +Stephen looked up in surprise. The seizures and intended sale of +secession property had stirred up immense bitterness and indignation in +the city. There were Unionists (lukewarm) who denounced the measure as +unjust and brutal. The feelings of Southerners, avowed and secret, may +only be surmised. Rigid ostracism was to be the price of bidding on any +goods displayed, and men who bought in handsome furniture on that day +because it was cheap have still, after forty years, cause to remember +it. + +It was not that Stephen feared ostracism. Anne Brinsmade was almost the +only girl left to him from among his former circle of acquaintances. +Miss Carvel's conduct is known. The Misses Russell showed him very +plainly that they disapproved of his politics. The hospitable days at +that house were over. Miss Catherwood, when they met on the street, +pretended not to see him, and Eugenie Renault gave him but a timid nod. +The loyal families to whose houses he now went were mostly Southerners, +in sentiment against forced auctions. + +However, he put on his coat, and sallied forth into the sharp air, the +Judge leaning on his arm. They walked for some distance in silence. + +“Stephen,” said he, presently, “I guess I'll do a little bidding.” + +Stephen did not reply. But he was astonished. He wondered what Mr. +Whipple wanted with fine furniture. And, if he really wished to bid, +Stephen knew likewise that no consideration would stop him. + +“You don't approve of this proceeding, sir, I suppose,” said the Judge. + +“Yes, sir, on large grounds. War makes many harsh things necessary.” + +“Then,” said the Judge, tartly, “by bidding, we help to support starving +Union families. You should not be afraid to bid, sir.” + +Stephen bit his lip. Sometimes Mr. Whipple made him very angry. + +“I am not afraid to bid, Judge Whipple.” He did not see the smile on the +Judge's face. + +“Then you will bid in certain things for me,” said Mr. Whipple. Here +he hesitated, and shook free the rest of the sentence with a wrench. +“Colonel Carvel always had a lot of stuff I wanted. Now I've got the +chance to buy it cheap.” + +There was silence again, for the space of a whole block. Finally, +Stephen managed to say:-- “You'll have to excuse me, sir. I do not care +to do that.” + +“What?” cried the Judge, stopping in the middle of a cross-street, so +that a wagon nearly ran over his toes. + +“I was once a guest in Colonel Carvel's house, sir. And--” + +“And what?” + +Neither the young man nor the old knew all it was costing the other to +say these things. The Judge took a grim pleasure in eating his heart. +And as for Stephen, he often went to his office through Locust Street, +which was out of his way, in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of +Virginia. He had guessed much of the privations she had gone through. +He knew that the Colonel had hired out most of his slaves, and he had +actually seen the United States Police drive across Eleventh Street with +the piano that she had played on. + +The Judge was laughing quietly,--not a pleasant laugh to hear,--as they +came to Morgan's great warerooms. A crowd blocked the pavement, and +hustled and shoved at the doors,--roughs, and soldiers off duty, and +ladies and gentlemen whom the Judge and Stephen knew, and some of whom +they spoke to. All of these were come out of curiosity, that they might +see for themselves any who had the temerity to bid on a neighbor's +household goods. The long hall, which ran from street to street, was +packed, the people surging backward and forward, and falling roughly +against the mahogany pieces; and apologizing, and scolding, and swearing +all in a breath. The Judge, holding tightly to Stephen, pushed his way +fiercely to the stand, vowing over and over that the commotion was a +secession trick to spoil the furniture and stampede the sale. In truth, +it was at the Judge's suggestion that a blue provost's guard was called +in later to protect the seized property. + +How many of those mahogany pieces, so ruthlessly tumbled about before +the public eye, meant a heartache! Wedding presents of long ago, dear to +many a bride with silvered hair, had been torn from the corner where the +children had played--children who now, alas, were grown and gone to war. +Yes, that was the Brussels rug that had lain before the fire, and which +the little feet had worn in the corner. Those were the chairs the little +hands had harnessed, four in a row, and fallen on its side was the +armchair--the stage coach itself. There were the books, held up to +common gaze, that a beloved parent had thumbed with affection. Yes, and +here in another part of the hall were the family horses and the family +carriage that had gone so often back and forth from church with the +happy brood of children, now scattered and gone to war. + +As Stephen reached his place beside the Judge, Mr. James's effects were +being cried. And, if glances could have killed, many a bidder would have +dropped dead. The heavy dining-room table which meant so much to the +family went for a song to a young man recently come from Yankeeland, +whose open boast it was--like Eliphalet's secret one--that he would one +day grow rich enough to snap his fingers in the face of the Southern +aristocrats. Mr. James was not there. But Mr. Catherwood, his face +haggard and drawn, watched the sideboard he had given his wife on her +silver wedding being sold to a pawnbroker. + +Stephen looked in vain for Colonel Carvel--for Virginia. He did not want +to see them there. He knew by heart the list of things which had been +taken from their house. He understood the feeling which had sent the +Judge here to bid them in. And Stephen honored him the more. + +When the auctioneer came to the Carvel list, and the well-known name was +shouted out, the crowd responded with a stir and pressed closer to the +stand. And murmurs were plainly heard in more than one direction. + +“Now, gentlemen, and ladies,” said the seller, “this here is a genuine +English Rothfield piano once belonging to Colonel Carvel, and the +celebrated Judge Colfax of Kaintucky.” He lingered fondly over the +names, that the impression might have time to sink deep. “This here +magnificent instrument's worth at the very least” (another pause) +“twelve hundred dollars. What am I bid?” + +He struck a base note of the keys, then a treble, and they vibrated +in the heated air of the big hall. Had he hit the little C of the top +octave, the tinkle of that also might have been heard. + +“Gentlemen and ladies, we have to begin somewheres. What am I bid?” + +A menacing murmur gave place to the accusing silence. Some there were +who gazed at the Rothfield with longing eyes, but who had no intention +of committing social suicide. Suddenly a voice, the rasp of which +penetrated to St. Charles Street, came out with a bid. The owner was +a seedy man with a straw-colored, drunkard's mustache. He was leaning +against the body of Mrs. Russell's barouche (seized for sale), and those +about him shrank away as from smallpox. His hundred-dollar offer was +followed by a hiss. What followed next Stephen will always remember. +When Judge Whipple drew himself up to his full six feet, that was a +warning to those that knew him. As he doubled the bid, the words came +out with the aggressive distinctness of a man who through a long life +has been used to opposition. He with the gnawed yellow mustache pushed +himself clear of the barouche, his smouldering cigar butt dropping to +the floor. But there were no hisses now. + +And this is how Judge Whipple braved public opinion once more. As he +stood there, defiant, many were the conjectures as to what he could wish +to do with the piano of his old friend. Those who knew the Judge (and +there were few who did not) pictured to themselves the dingy little +apartment where he lived, and smiled. Whatever his detractors might have +said of him, no one was ever heard to avow that he had bought or sold +anything for gain. + +A tremor ran through the people. Could it have been of admiration for +the fine old man who towered there glaring defiance at those about him? +“Give me a strong and consistent enemy,” some great personage has said, +“rather than a lukewarm friend.” Three score and five years the Judge +had lived, and now some were beginning to suspect that he had a heart. +Verily he had guarded his secret well. But it was let out to many more +that day, and they went home praising him who had once pronounced his +name with bitterness. + +This is what happened. Before he of the yellow mustache could pick up +his cigar from the floor and make another bid, the Judge had cried out +a sum which was the total of Colonel Carvel's assessment. Many recall +to this day how fiercely he frowned when the applause broke forth +of itself; and when he turned to go they made a path for him, in +admiration, the length of the hall, down which he stalked, looking +neither to the right nor left. Stephen followed him, thankful for the +day which had brought him into the service of such a man. + +And so it came about that the other articles were returned to Colonel +Carvel with the marshal's compliments, and put back into the cold parlor +where they had stood for many years. The men who brought them offered to +put down the carpet, but by Virginia's orders the rolls were stood up in +the corner, and the floor left bare. And days passed into weeks, and no +sign or message came from Judge Whipple in regard to the piano he had +bought. Virginia did not dare mention it to the Colonel. + +Where was it? It had been carried by six sweating negroes up the +narrow stairs into the Judge's office. Stephen and Shadrach had by Mr. +Whipple's orders cleared a corner of his inner office and bedroom of +papers and books and rubbish, and there the bulky instrument was finally +set up. It occupied one-third of the space. The Judge watched the +proceeding grimly, choking now and again from the dust that was raised, +yet uttering never a word. He locked the lid when the van man handed him +the key, and thrust that in his pocket. + +Stephen had of late found enough to do in St. Louis. He was the kind of +man to whom promotions came unsought, and without noise. In the autumn +he had been made a captain in the Halleck Guards of the State Militia, +as a reward for his indefatigable work in the armories and his knowledge +of tactics. Twice his company had been called out at night, and once +they made a campaign as far as the Merimec and captured a party of +recruits who were destined for Jefferson Davis. Some weeks passed before +Mr. Brinsmade heard of his promotion and this exploit, and yet scarcely +a day went by that he did not see the young man at the big hospital. For +Stephen helped in the work of the Sanitary Commission too, and so strove +to make up in zeal for the service in the field which he longed to give. + +After Christmas Mr. and Mrs. Brinsmade moved out to their place on the +Bellefontaine Road. This was to force Anne to take a rest. For the +girl was worn out with watching at the hospitals, and with tending +the destitute mothers and children from the ranks of the refugees. The +Brinsmade place was not far from the Fair Grounds,--now a receiving +camp for the crude but eager regiments of the Northern states. To Mr. +Brinsmade's, when the day's duty was done, the young Union officers +used to ride, and often there would be half a dozen of them to tea. That +house, and other great houses on the Bellefontaine Road with which this +history has no occasion to deal, were as homes to many a poor fellow who +would never see home again. Sometimes Anne would gather together such +young ladies of her acquaintance from the neighbor hood and the city as +their interests and sympathies permitted to waltz with a Union officer, +and there would be a little dance. To these dances Stephen Brice was +usually invited. + +One such occasion occurred on a Friday in January, and Mr. Brinsmade +himself called in his buggy and drove Stephen to the country early in +the afternoon. He and Anne went for a walk along the river, the surface +of which was broken by lumps of yellow ice. Gray clouds hung low in the +sky as they picked their way over the frozen furrows of the ploughed +fields. The grass was all a yellow-brown, but the north wind which +swayed the bare trees brought a touch of color to Anne's cheeks. Before +they realized where they were, they had nearly crossed the Bellegarde +estate, and the house itself was come into view, standing high on the +slope above the withered garden. They halted. + +“The shutters are up,” said Stephen. “I understood that Mrs. Colfax had +come out here not long a--” + +“She came out for a day just before Christina,” said Anne, smiling, “and +then she ran off to Kentucky. I think she was afraid that she was one of +the two women on the list of Sixty.” + +“It must have been a blow to her pride when she found that she was not,” + said Stephen, who had a keen remembrance of her conduct upon a certain +Sunday not a year gone. + +Impelled by the same inclination, they walked in silence to the house +and sat down on the edge of the porch. The only motion in the view was +the smoke from the slave quarters twisting in the wind, and the hurrying +ice in the stream. + +“Poor Jinny!” said Anne, with a sigh, “how she loved to romp! What good +times we used to have here together!” + +“Do you think that she is unhappy?” Stephen demanded, involuntarily. + +“Oh, yes,” said Anne. “How can you ask? But you could not make her show +it. The other morning when she came out to our house I found her sitting +at the piano. I am sure there were tears in her eyes, but she would not +let me see them. She made some joke about Spencer Catherwood running +away. What do you think the Judge will do with that piano, Stephen?” + +He shook his head. + +“The day after they put it in his room he came in with a great black +cloth, which he spread over it. You cannot even see the feet.” + +There was a silence. And Anne, turning to him timidly, gave him a long, +searching look. + +“It is growing late,” she said. “I think that we ought to go back.” + +They went out by the long entrance road, through the naked woods. +Stephen said little. Only a little while before he had had one of those +vivid dreams of Virginia which left their impression, but not their +substance, to haunt him. On those rare days following the dreams her +spirit had its mastery over his. He pictured her then with a glow on her +face which was neither sadness nor mirth,--a glow that ministered to +him alone. And yet, he did not dare to think that he might have won her, +even if politics and war had not divided them. + +When the merriment of the dance was at its height that evening, Stephen +stood at the door of the long room, meditatively watching the bright +gowns and the flash of gold on the uniforms as they flitted past. +Presently the opposite door opened, and he heard Mr. Brinsmade's voice +mingling with another, the excitable energy of which recalled some +familiar episode. Almost--so it seemed--at one motion, the owner of the +voice had come out of the door and had seized Stephen's hand in a warm +grasp,--a tall and spare figure in the dress of a senior officer. The +military frock, which fitted the man's character rather than the man, +was carelessly open, laying bare a gold-buttoned white waistcoat and an +expanse of shirt bosom which ended in a black stock tie. The ends of the +collar were apart the width of the red clipped beard, and the mustache +was cropped straight along the line of the upper lip. The forehead rose +high, and was brushed carelessly free of the hair. The nose was almost +straight, but combative. A fire fairly burned in the eyes. + +“The boy doesn't remember me,” said the gentleman, in quick tones, +smiling at Mr. Brinsmade. + +“Yes, sir, I do,” Stephen made haste to answer. He glanced at the star +on the shoulder strap, and said. “You are General Sherman.” + +“First rate!” laughed the General, patting him. “First rate!” + +“Now in command at Camp Benton, Stephen,” Mr. Brinsmade put in. “Won't +you sit down, General?” + +“No,” said the General, emphatically waving away the chair. “No, +rather stand.” Then his keen face suddenly lighted with amusement,--and +mischief, Stephen thought. “So you've heard of me since we met, sir?” + “Yes, General.” + +“Humph! Guess you heard I was crazy,” said the General, in his downright +way. + +Stephen was struck dumb. + +“He's been reading the lies in the newspapers too, Brinsmade,” the +General went on rapidly. “I'll make 'em eat their newspapers for saying +I was crazy. That's the Secretary of War's doings. Ever tell you what +Cameron did, Brinsmade? He and his party were in Louisville last fall, +when I was serving in Kentucky, and came to my room in the Galt House. +Well, we locked the door, and Miller sent us up a good lunch and wine, +After lunch, the Secretary lay on my bed, and we talked things over. He +asked me what I thought about things in Kentucky. I told him. I got a +map. I said, 'Now, Mr. Secretary, here is the whole Union line from the +Potomac to Kansas. Here's McClellan in the East with one hundred miles +of front. Here's Fremont in the West with one hundred miles. Here we +are in Kentucky, in the centre, with three hundred miles to defend. +McClellan has a hundred thousand men, Fremont has sixty thousand. You +give us fellows with over three hundred miles only eighteen thousand.' +'How many do you want?' says Cameron, still on the bed. 'Two hundred +thousand before we get through,' said I. Cameron pitched up his hands +in the air. 'Great God?' says he, 'where are they to come from?' 'The +northwest is chuck full of regiments you fellows at Washington won't +accept,' said I. 'Mark my words, Mr. Secretary, you'll need 'em all and +more before we get done with this Rebellion.' Well, sir, he was very +friendly before we finished, and I thought the thing was all thrashed +out. No, sir! he goes back to Washington and gives it out that I'm +crazy, and want two hundred thousand men in Kentucky. Then I am ordered +to report to Halleck in Missouri here, and he calls me back from Sedalia +because he believes the lies.” + +Stephen, who had in truth read the stories in question a month or two +before, could not conceal his embarrassment He looked at the man in +front of him,--alert, masterful intelligent, frank to any stranger who +took his fancy,--and wondered how any one who had talked to him could +believe them. + +Mr. Brinsmade smiled. “They have to print something, General,” he said. + +“I'll give 'em something to print later on,” answered the General, +grimly. Then his expression changed. “Brinsmade, you fellows did have +a session with Fremont, didn't you? Anderson sent me over here last +September, and the first man I ran across at the Planters' House was +Appleton. '--What are you in town for?' says he. 'To see Fremont,' +I said. You ought to have heard Appleton laugh. 'You don't think +Fremont'll see you, do you?' says he. 'Why not?' 'Well,' says Tom, 'go +'round to his palace at six to-morrow morning and bribe that Hungarian +prince who runs his body-guard to get you a good place in the line of +senators and governors and first citizens, and before nightfall you +may get a sight of him, since you come from Anderson. Not one man in +a hundred,' says Appleton, I not one man in a hundred, reaches his +chief-of-staff.' Next morning,” the General continued in a staccato +which was often his habit, “had breakfast before daybreak and went +'round there. Place just swarming with Californians--army contracts.” + (The General sniffed.) “Saw Fremont. Went back to hotel. More +Californians, and by gad--old Baron Steinberger with his nose hanging +over the register.” + +“Fremont was a little difficult to get at, General,” said Mr. Brinsmade. +“Things were confused and discouraged when those first contracts were +awarded. Fremont was a good man, and it wasn't his fault that the +inexperience of his quartermasters permitted some of those men to get +rich.” + +“No,” said the General. “His fault! Certainly not. Good man! To be sure +he was--didn't get along with Blair. These court-martials you're having +here now have stirred up the whole country. I guess we'll hear now how +those fortunes were made. To listen to those witnesses lie about each +other on the stand is better than the theatre.” + +Stephen laughed at the comical and vivid manner in which the General set +this matter forth. He himself had been present one day of the sittings +of the court-martial when one of the witnesses on the prices of mules +was that same seedy man with the straw-colored mustache who had bid for +Virginia's piano against the Judge. + +“Come, Stephen,” said the General, abruptly, “run and snatch one of +those pretty girls from my officers. They're having more than their +share.” + +“They deserve more, sir,” answered Stephen. Whereupon the General laid +his hand impulsively on the young man's shoulder, divining what Stephen +did not say. + +“Nonsense!” said be; “you are doing the work in this war, not we. We +do the damage--you repair it. If it were not for Mr. Brinsmade and you +gentlemen who help him, where would our Western armies be? Don't you +go to the front yet a while, young man. We need the best we have +in reserve.” He glanced critically at Stephen. “You've had military +training of some sort?” + +“He's a captain in the Halleck Guards, sir,” said Mr. Brinsmade, +generously, “and the best drillmaster we've had in this city. He's seen +service, too, General.” + +Stephen reddened furiously and started to protest, when the General +cried:-- “It's more than I have in this war. Come, come, I knew he was a +soldier. Let's see what kind of a strategist he'll make. Brinsmade, have +you got such a thing as a map?” Mr. Brinsmade had, and led the way back +into the library. The General shut the door, lighted a cigar with a +single vigorous stroke of a match, and began to smoke with quick puffs. +Stephen was puzzled how to receive the confidences the General was +giving out with such freedom. + +When the map was laid on the table, the General drew a pencil from his +pocket and pointed to the state of Kentucky. Then he drew a line from +Columbus to Bowling Green, through Forts Donelson and Henry. + +“Now, Stephen,” said he, “there's the Rebel line. Show me the proper +place to break it.” + +Stephen hesitated a while, and then pointed at the centre. + +“Good!” said the General. “Very good!” He drew a heavy line across the +first, and it ran almost in the bed of the Tennessee River. He swung on +Mr. Brinsmade. “Very question Halleck asked me the other day, and that's +how I answered it. Now, gentlemen, there's a man named Grant down in +that part of the country. Keep your eyes on him. Ever heard of him, +Brinsmade? He used to live here once, and a year ago he was less than I +was. Now he's a general.” + +The recollection of the scene in the street by the Arsenal that May +morning not a year gone came to Stephen with a shock. + +“I saw him,” he cried; “he was Captain Grant that lived on the Gravois +Road. But surely this can't be the same man who seized Paducah and was +in that affair at Belmont.” + +“By gum!” said the General, laughing. “Don't wonder you're surprised. +Grant has stuff in him. They kicked him around Springfield awhile, after +the war broke out, for a military carpet-bagger. Then they gave him for +a regiment the worst lot of ruffians you ever laid eyes on. He fixed +'em. He made 'em walk the plank. He made 'em march halfway across the +state instead of taking the cars the Governor offered. Belmont! I guess +he is the man that chased the Rebs out of Belmont. Then his boys broke +loose when they got into the town. That wasn't Grant's fault. The Rebs +came back and chased 'em out into their boats on the river. Brinsmade, +you remember hearing about that. + +“Grant did the coolest thing you ever saw. He sat on his horse at the +top of the bluff while the boys fell over each other trying to get on +the boat. Yes, sir, he sat there, disgusted, on his horse, smoking a +cigar, with the Rebs raising pandemonium all around him. And then, sir,” + cried the General, excitedly, “what do you think he did? Hanged if he +didn't force his horse right on to his haunches, slide down the whole +length of the bank and ride him across a teetering plank on to the +steamer. And the Rebs just stood on the bank and stared. They were so +astonished they didn't even shoot the man. You watch Grant,” said the +General. “And now, Stephen,” he added, “just you run off and take hold +of the prettiest girl you can find. If any of my boys object, say I sent +you.” + +The next Monday Stephen had a caller. It was little Tiefel, now a first +lieutenant with a bristly beard and tanned face, come to town on a few +days' furlough. He had been with Lyon at Wilson's Creek, and he had +a sad story to tell of how he found poor Richter, lying stark on that +bloody field, with a smile of peace upon his face. Strange that he +should at length have been killed by a sabre! + +It was a sad meeting for those two, since each reminded the other of +a dear friend they would see no more on earth. They went out to sup +together in the German style; and gradually, over his beer, Tiefel +forgot his sorrow. Stephen listened with an ache to the little man's +tales of the campaigns he had been through. So that presently Tiefel +cried out: + +“Why, my friend, you are melancholy as an owl. I will tell you a funny +story. Did you ever hear of one General Sherman? He that they say is +crazy?” + +“He is no more crazy than I am,” said Stephen, warmly-- + +“Is he not?” answered Tiefel, “then I will show you a mistake. You +recall last November he was out to Sedalia to inspect the camp there, +and he sleeps in a little country store where I am quartered. Now up +gets your General Sherman in the middle of the night,--midnight,--and +marches up and down between the counters, and waves his arms. So, says +he, 'land so,' says he, 'Sterling Price will be here, and Steele here, +and this column will take that road, and so-and-so's a damned fool. Is +not that crazy? So he walks up and down for three eternal hours. Says +he, 'Pope has no business to be at Osterville, and Steele here at +Sedalia with his regiments all over the place. They must both go into +camp at La Mine River, and form brigades and divisions, that the troops +may be handled.'” + +“If that's insanity,” cried Stephen so strongly as to surprise the +little man; “then I wish we had more insane generals. It just shows +how a malicious rumor will spread. What Sherman said about Pope's and +Steele's forces is true as Gospel, and if you ever took the trouble to +look into that situation, Tiefel, you would see it.” And Stephen brought +down his mug on the table with a crash that made the bystanders jump. + +“Himmel!” exclaimed little Tiefel. But he spoke in admiration. + +It was not a month after that that Sherman's prophecy of the quiet +general who had slid down the bluff at Belmont came true. The whole +country bummed with Grant's praises. Moving with great swiftness and +secrecy up the Tennessee, in company with the gunboats of Commodore +Foote, he had pierced the Confederate line at the very point Sherman +had indicated. Fort Henry had fallen, and Grant was even then moving to +besiege Donelson. + +Mr. Brinsmade prepared to leave at once for the battlefield, taking with +him too Paducah physicians and nurses. All day long the boat was loading +with sanitary stores and boxes of dainties for the wounded. It was muggy +and wet--characteristic of that winter--as Stephen pushed through the +drays on the slippery levee to the landing. + +He had with him a basket his mother had put up. He also bore a message +to Mr. Brinsmade from the Judge It was while he was picking his way +along the crowded decks that he ran into General Sherman. The General +seized him unceremoniously by the shoulder. + +“Good-by, Stephen,” he said. + +“Good-by, General,” said Stephen, shifting his basket to shake hands. +“Are you going away?” + +“Ordered to Paducah,” said the General. He pulled Stephen off the guards +into an empty cabin. “Brice,” said he, earnestly, “I haven't forgotten +how you saved young Brinsmade at Camp Jackson. They tell me that you are +useful here. I say, don't go in unless you have to. I don't mean force, +you understand. But when you feel that you can go in, come to me or +write me a letter. That is,” he added, seemingly inspecting Stephen's +white teeth with approbation, “if you're not afraid to serve under a +crazy man.” + +It has been said that the General liked the lack of effusiveness of +Stephen's reply. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. ELIPHALET PLAYS HIS TRUMPS + +Summer was come again. Through interminable days, the sun beat down upon +the city; and at night the tortured bricks flung back angrily the heat +with which he had filled them. Great battles had been fought, and vast +armies were drawing breath for greater ones to come. + +“Jinny,” said the Colonel one day, “as we don't seem to be much use in +town, I reckon we may as well go to Glencoe.” + +Virginia, threw her arms around her father's neck. For many months +she had seen what the Colonel himself was slow to comprehend--that his +usefulness was gone. The days melted into weeks, and Sterling Price and +his army of liberation failed to come. The vigilant Union general and +his aides had long since closed all avenues to the South. For, one fine +morning toward the end of the previous summer, when the Colonel was +contemplating a journey, he had read that none might leave the city +without a pass, whereupon he went hurriedly to the office of the Provost +Marshal. There he had found a number of gentlemen in the same plight, +each waving a pass made out by the Provost Marshal's clerks, and waiting +for that officer's signature. The Colonel also procured one of these, +and fell into line. The Marshal gazed at the crowd, pulled off his coat, +and readily put his name to the passes of several gentlemen going east. +Next came Mr. Bub Ballington, whom the Colonel knew, but pretended not +to. + +“Going to Springfield?” asked the Marshal, genially. + +“Yes,” said Bub. + +“Not very profitable to be a minute-man, eh?” in the same tone. + +The Marshal signs his name, Mr. Ballington trying not to look indignant +as he makes for the door. A small silver bell rings on the Marshal's +desk, the one word: “Spot!” breaks the intense silence, which is one way +of saying that Mr. Ballington is detained, and will probably be lodged +that night at Government expense. + +“Well, Colonel Carvel, what can I do for you this morning?” asked the +Marshal, genially. + +The Colonel pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. “I reckon I'll wait +till next week, Captain,” said Mr. Carvel. “It's pretty hot to travel +just now.” + +The Provost Marshal smiled sweetly. There were many in the office who +would have liked to laugh, but it did not pay to laugh at some people. +Colonel Carvel was one of them. + +In the proclamation of martial law was much to make life less endurable +than ever. All who were convicted by a court-martial of being rebels +were to have property confiscated, and slaves set free. Then there was +a certain oath to be taken by all citizens who did not wish to have +guardians appointed over their actions. There were many who swallowed +this oath and never felt any ill effects. Mr. Jacob Cluyme was one, and +came away feeling very virtuous. It was not unusual for Mr. Cluyme to +feel virtuous. Mr. Hopper did not have indigestion after taking it, but +Colonel Carvel would sooner have eaten, gooseberry pie, which he had +never tasted but once. + +That summer had worn away, like a monster which turns and gives hot +gasps when you think it has expired. It took the Arkansan just a month, +under Virginia's care, to become well enough to be sent to a Northern +prison He was not precisely a Southern gentleman, and he went to sleep +over the “Idylls of the King.” But he was admiring, and grateful, and +wept when he went off to the boat with the provost's guard, destined +for a Northern prison. Virginia wept too. He had taken her away from +her aunt (who would have nothing to do with him), and had given her +occupation. She nor her father never tired of hearing his rough tales of +Price's rough army. + +His departure was about the time when suspicions were growing set. The +favor had caused comment and trouble, hence there was no hope of giving +another sufferer the same comfort. The cordon was drawn tighter. One of +the mysterious gentlemen who had been seen in the vicinity of Colonel +Carvel's house was arrested on the ferry, but he had contrived to be rid +of the carpet-sack in which certain precious letters were carried. + +Throughout the winter, Mr. Hopper's visits to Locust Street had +continued at intervals of painful regularity. It is not necessary to +dwell upon his brilliant powers of conversation, nor to repeat the +platitudes which he repeated, for there was no significance in Mr. +Hopper's tales, not a particle. The Colonel had found that out, and was +thankful. His manners were better; his English decidedly better. + +It was for her father's sake, of course, that Virginia bore with +him. Such is the appointed lot of women. She tried to be just, and it +occurred to her that she had never before been just. Again and again she +repeated to herself that Eliphalet's devotion to the Colonel at this +low ebb of his fortunes had something in it of which she did not suspect +him. She had a class contempt for Mr. Hopper as an uneducated Yankee +and a person of commercial ideals. But now he was showing virtues,--if +virtues they were,--and she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. +With his great shrewdness and business ability, why did he not take +advantage of the many opportunities the war gave to make a fortune? +For Virginia had of late been going to the store with the Colonel,--who +spent his mornings turning over piles of dusty papers, and Mr. Hopper +had always been at his desk. + +After this, Virginia even strove to be kind to him, but it was uphill +work. The front door never closed after one of his visits that suspicion +was not left behind. Antipathy would assert itself. Could it be that +there was a motive under all this plotting? He struck her inevitably as +the kind who would be content to mine underground to attain an end. The +worst she could think of him was that he wished to ingratiate himself +now, in the hope that, when the war was ended, he might become a partner +in Mr. Carvel's business. She had put even this away as unworthy of her. + +Once she had felt compelled to speak to her father on the subject. + +“I believe I did him an injustice, Pa,” she said. “Not that I like him +any better now. I must be honest about that. I simply can't like him. +But I do think that if he had been as unscrupulous as I thought, he +would have deserted you long ago for something more profitable. He would +not be sitting in the office day after day making plans for the business +when the war is over.” + +She remembered how sadly he had smiled at her over the top of his paper. + +“You are a good girl, Jinny,” he said. + +Toward the end of July of that second summer riots broke out in the +city, and simultaneously a bright spot appeared on Virginia's horizon. +This took the form, for Northerners, of a guerilla scare, and an order +was promptly issued for the enrollment of all the able-bodied men in the +ten wards as militia, subject to service in the state, to exterminate +the roving bands. Whereupon her Britannic Majesty became extremely +popular,--even with some who claimed for a birthplace the Emerald Isle. +Hundreds who heretofore had valued but lightly their British citizenship +made haste to renew their allegiance; and many sought the office of the +English Consul whose claims on her Majesty's protection were vague, to +say the least. Broken heads and scandal followed. For the first time, +when Virginia walked to the store with her father, Eliphalet was not +there. It was strange indeed that Virginia defended him. + +“I don't blame him for not wanting to fight for the Yankees,” she said. + +The Colonel could not resist a retort. + +“Then why doesn't he fight for the South he asked” + +“Fight for the South!” cried the young lady, scornfully. “Mr. Hopper +fight? I reckon the South wouldn't have him.” + +“I reckon not, too,” said the Colonel, dryly. + +For the following week curiosity prompted Virginia to take that walk +with the Colonel. Mr. Hopper being still absent, she helped him to sort +the papers--those grimy reminders of a more prosperous time gone +by. Often Mr. Carvel would run across one which seemed to bring some +incident to his mind; for he would drop it absently on his desk, his +hand seeking his chin, and remain for half an hour lost in thought. +Virginia would not disturb him. + +Meanwhile there had been inquiries for Mr. Hopper. The Colonel answered +them all truthfully--generally with that dangerous suavity for which he +was noted. Twice a seedy man with a gnawed yellow mustache had come in +to ask Eliphalet's whereabouts. On the second occasion this individual +became importunate. + +“You don't know nothin' about him, you say?” he demanded. + +“No,” said the Colonel. + +The man took a shuffle forward. + +“My name's Ford,” he said. “I 'low I kin 'lighten you a little.” + +“Good day, sir,” said the Colonel. + +“I guess you'll like to hear what I've got to say.” + +“Ephum,” said Mr. Carvel in his natural voice, “show this man out.” + +Mr. Ford slunk out without Ephum's assistance. But he half turned at the +door, and shot back a look that frightened Virginia. + +“Oh, Pa,” she cried, in alarm, “what did he mean?” + +“I couldn't tell you, Jinny,” he answered. But she noticed that he was +very thoughtful as they walked home. The next morning Eliphalet had not +returned, but a corporal and guard were waiting to search the store for +him. The Colonel read the order, and invited them in with hospitality. +He even showed them the way upstairs, and presently Virginia heard them +all tramping overhead among the bales. Her eye fell upon the paper they +had brought, which lay unfolded on her father's desk. It was signed +Stephen A. Brice, Enrolling Officer. + +That very afternoon they moved to Glencoe, and Ephum was left in sole +charge of the store. At Glencoe, far from the hot city and the cruel +war, began a routine of peace. Virginia was a child again, romping +in the woods and fields beside her father. The color came back to her +cheeks once more, and the laughter into her voice. The two of them, and +Ned and Mammy, spent a rollicking hour in the pasture the freedom +of which Dick had known so long, before the old horse was caught and +brought back into bondage. After that Virginia took long drives with her +father, and coming home, they would sit in the summer house high above +the Merimec, listening to the crickets' chirp, and watching the day fade +upon the water. The Colonel, who had always detested pipes, learned to +smoke a corncob. He would sit by the hour, with his feet on the rail of +the porch and his hat tilted back, while Virginia read to him. Poe +and Wordsworth and Scott he liked, but Tennyson was his favorite. Such +happiness could not last. + +One afternoon when Virginia was sitting in the summer house alone, her +thoughts wandering back, as they sometimes did, to another afternoon +she had spent there,--it seemed so long ago,--when she saw Mammy Easter +coming toward her. + +“Honey, dey's comp'ny up to de house. Mister Hopper's done arrived. He's +on de porch, talkin' to your Pa. Lawsey, look wha he come!” + +In truth, the solid figure of Eliphalet himself was on the path some +twenty yards behind her. His hat was in his hand; his hair was plastered +down more neatly than ever, and his coat was a faultless and sober +creation of a Franklin Avenue tailor. He carried a cane, which was +unheard of. Virginia sat upright, and patted her skirts with a gesture +of annoyance--what she felt was anger, resentment. Suddenly she rose, +swept past Mammy, and met him ten paces from the summer house. + +“How-dy-do, Miss Virginia,” he cried pleasantly. “Your father had a +notion you might be here.” He said fayther. + +Virginia gave him her hand limply. Her greeting would have frozen a man +of ardent temperament. But it was not precisely ardor that Eliphalet +showed. The girl paused and examined him swiftly. There was something in +the man's air to-day. + +“So you were not caught?” she said. + +Her words seemed to relieve some tension in him. He laughed noiselessly. + +“I just guess I wahn't.” + +“How did you escape?” she asked, looking at him curiously. + +“Well, I did, first of all. You're considerable smart, Miss Jinny, but +I'll bet you can't tell me where I was, now.” + +“I do not care to know. The place might save you again.” + +He showed his disappointment. “I cal'lated it might interest you to know +how I dodged the Sovereign State of Missouri. General Halleck made an +order that released a man from enrolling on payment of ten dollars. +I paid. Then I was drafted into the Abe Lincoln Volunteers; I paid a +substitute. And so here I be, exercising life, and liberty, and the +pursuit of happiness.” + +“So you bought yourself free?” said Virginia. “If your substitute gets +killed, I suppose you will have cause for congratulation.” + +Eliphalet laughed, and pulled down his cuffs. “That's his lookout, +I cal'late,” said he. He glanced at the girl in a way that made her +vaguely uneasy. She turned from him, back toward the summer house. +Eliphalet's eyes smouldered as they rested upon her figure. He took a +step forward. + +“Miss Jinny?” he said. + +“Yes?” + +“I've heard considerable about the beauties of this place. Would you +mind showing me 'round a bit?” Virginia started. It was his tone now. +Not since that first evening in Locust Street had it taken on such +assurance, And yet she could not be impolite to a guest. + +“Certainly not,” she replied, but without looking up. Eliphalet led +the way. He came to the summer house, glanced around it with apparent +satisfaction, and put his foot on the moss-grown step. Virginia did a +surprising thing. She leaped quickly into the doorway before him, and +stood facing him, framed in the climbing roses. + +“Oh, Mr. Hopper!” she cried. “Please, not in here.” He drew back, +staring in astonishment at the crimson in her face. + +“Why not?” he asked suspiciously--almost brutally. She had been groping +wildly for excuses, and found none. + +“Because,” she said, “because I ask you not to.” With dignity: “That +should be sufficient.” + +“Well,” replied Eliphalet, with an abortive laugh, “that's funny, now. +Womenkind get queer notions, which I cal'late we've got to respect and +put up with all our lives--eh?” + +Her anger flared at his leer and at his broad way of gratifying her +whim. And she was more incensed than ever at his air of being at +home--it was nothing less. + +The man's whole manner was an insult. She strove still to hide her +resentment. + +“There is a walk along the bluff,” she said, coldly, “where the view is +just as good.” + +But she purposely drew him into the right-hand path, which led, after +a little, back to the house. Despite her pace he pressed forward to her +side. + +“Miss Jinny,” said he, precipitately, “did I ever strike you as a +marrying man?” + +Virginia stopped, and put her handkerchief to her face, the impulse +strong upon her to laugh. Eliphalet was suddenly transformed again into +the common commercial Yankee. He was in love, and had come to ask her +advice. She might have known it. + +“I never thought of you as of the marrying kind, Mr. Hopper,” she +answered, her voice quivering. + +Indeed, he was irresistibly funny as he stood hot and ill at ease. The +Sunday coat bore witness to his increasing portliness by creasing across +from the buttons; his face, fleshy and perspiring, showed purple veins, +and the little eyes receded comically, like a pig's. + +“Well, I've been thinking serious of late about getting married,” he +continued, slashing the rose bushes with his stick. “I don't cal'late +to be a sentimental critter. I'm not much on high-sounding phrases, and +such things, but I'd give you my word I'd make a good husband.” + +“Please be careful of those roses, Mr. Hopper.” + +“Beg pardon,” said Eliphalet. He began to lose track of his tenses--that +was the only sign he gave of perturbation. “When I come to St. Louis +without a cent, Miss Jinny, I made up my mind I'd be a rich man before +I left it. If I was to die now, I'd have kept that promise. I'm not +thirty-four, and I cal'late I've got as much money in a safe place as a +good many men you call rich. I'm not saying what I've got, mind you. All +in proper time. + +“I'm a pretty steady kind. I've stopped chewing--there was a time when I +done that. And I don't drink nor smoke.” + +“That is all very commendable, Mr. Hopper,” Virginia said, stifling a +rebellious titter. “But,--but why did you give up chewing?” + +“I am informed that the ladies are against it,” said Eliphalet,--“dead +against it. You wouldn't like it in a husband, now, would you?” + +This time the laugh was not to be put down. “I confess I shouldn't,” she +said. + +“Thought so,” he replied, as one versed. His tones took on a nasal +twang. “Well, as I was saying, I've about got ready to settle down, and +I've had my eye on the lady this seven years.” + +“Marvel of constancy!” said Virginia. “And the lady?” + +“The lady,” said Eliphalet, bluntly, “is you.” He glanced at her +bewildered face and went on rapidly: “You pleased me the first day I set +eyes on you in the store I said to myself, 'Hopper, there's the one for +you to marry.' I'm plain, but my folks was good people. I set to work +right then to make a fortune for you, Miss Jinny. You've just what I +need. I'm a plain business man with no frills. You'll do the frills. +You're the kind that was raised in the lap of luxury. You'll need a man +with a fortune, and a big one; you're the sort to show it off. I've got +the foundations of that fortune, and the proof of it right here. And I +tell you,”--his jaw was set,--“I tell you that some day Eliphalet Hopper +will be one of the richest men in the West.” + +He had stopped, facing her in the middle of the way, his voice strong, +his confidence supreme. At first she had stared at him in dumb wonder. +Then, as she began to grasp the meaning of his harangue, astonishment +was still dominant,--sheer astonishment. She scarcely listened. But, +as he finished, the thatch of the summer house caught her eye. A vision +arose of a man beside whom Eliphalet was not worthy to crawl. She +thought of Stephen as he had stood that evening in the sunset, and this +proposal seemed a degradation. This brute dared to tempt her with money. +Scalding words rose to her lips. But she caught the look on Eliphalet's +face, and she knew that he would not understand. This was one who +rose and fell, who lived and loved and hated and died and was buried +by--money. + +For a second she looked into his face as one who escapes a pit gazes +over the precipice, and shuddered. As for Eliphalet, let it not be +thought that he had no passion. This was the moment for which he had +lived since the day he had first seen her and been scorned in the store. +That type of face, that air,--these were the priceless things he would +buy with his money. Crazed with the very violence of his long-pent +desire, he seized her hand. She wrung it free again. + +“How--how dare you!” she cried. + +He staggered back, and stood for a moment motionless, as though stunned. +Then, slowly, a light crept into his little eyes which haunted her for +many a day. + +“You--won't--marry me?” he said. + +“Oh, how dare you ask me!” exclaimed Virginia, her face burning with +the shame of it. She was standing with her hands behind her, her back +against a great walnut trunk, the crusted branches of which hung over +the bluff. Even as he looked at her, Eliphalet lost his head, and +indiscretion entered his soul. + +“You must!” he said hoarsely. “You must! You've got no notion of my +money, I say.” + +“Oh!” she cried, “can't you understand? If you owned the whole of +California, I would not marry you.” Suddenly he became very cool. He +slipped his hand into a pocket, as one used to such a motion, and drew +out some papers. + +“I cal'late you ain't got much idea of the situation, Miss Carvel,” he +said; “the wheels have been a-turning lately. You're poor, but I guess +you don't know how poor you are,--eh? The Colonel's a man of honor, +ain't he?” + +For her life she could not have answered,--nor did she even know why she +stayed to listen. + +“Well,” he said, “after all, there ain't much use in your lookin' over +them papers. A woman wouldn't know. I'll tell you what they say: they +say that if I choose, I am Carvel & Company.” + +The little eyes receded, and he waited a moment, seemingly to prolong a +physical delight in the excitement and suffering of a splendid creature. +The girl was breathing fast and deep. + +“I cal'late you despise me, don't you?” he went on, as if that, too, +gave him pleasure. “But I tell you the Colonel's a beggar but for me. +Go and ask him if I'm lying. All you've got to do is to say you'll be my +wife, and I tear these notes in two. They go over the bluff.” (He +made the motion with his hands.) “Carvel & Company's an old firm,--a +respected firm. You wouldn't care to see it go out of the family, I +cal'late.” + +He paused again, triumphant. But she did none of the things he expected. +She said, simply:--“Will you please follow me, Mr. Hopper.” + +And he followed her,--his shrewdness gone, for once. + +Save for the rise and fall of her shoulders she seemed calm. The path +wound through a jungle of waving sunflowers and led into the shade in +front of the house. There was the Colonel sitting on the porch. His +pipe lay with its scattered ashes on the boards, and his head was bent +forward, as though listening. When he saw the two, he rose expectantly, +and went forward to meet them. Virginia stopped before him. + +“Pa,” she said, “is it true that you have borrowed money from this man?” + +Eliphalet had seen Mr. Carvel angry once, and his soul had quivered. +Terror, abject terror, seized him now, so that his knees smote together. +As well stare into the sun as into the Colonel's face. In one stride +he had a hand in the collar of Eliphalet's new coat, the other pointing +down the path. + +“It takes just a minute to walk to that fence, sir,” he said sternly. +“If you are any longer about it, I reckon you'll never get past it. +You're a cowardly hound, sir!” Mr. Hopper's gait down the flagstones was +an invention of his own. It was neither a walk, nor a trot, nor a run, +but a sort of sliding amble, such as is executed in nightmares. Singing +in his head was the famous example of the eviction of Babcock from the +store,--the only time that the Colonel's bullet had gone wide. And down +in the small of his back Eliphalet listened for the crack of a pistol, +and feared that a clean hole might be bored there any minute. Once +outside, he took to the white road, leaving a trail of dust behind him +that a wagon might have raised. Fear lent him wings, but neglected to +lift his feet. + +The Colonel passed his arm around his daughter, and pulled his goatee +thoughtfully. And Virginia, glancing shyly upward, saw a smile in the +creases about his mouth: She smiled, too, and then the tears hid him +from her. + +Strange that the face which in anger withered cowards and made men look +grave, was capable of such infinite tenderness,--tenderness and sorrow. +The Colonel took Virginia in his arms, and she sobbed against his +shoulder, as of old. + +“Jinny, did he--?” + +“Yes--” + +“Lige was right, and--and you, Jinny--I should never have trusted him. +The sneak!” + +Virginia raised her head. The sun was slanting in yellow bars through +the branches of the great trees, and a robin's note rose above the bass +chorus of the frogs. In the pauses, as she listened, it seemed as if she +could hear the silver sound of the river over the pebbles far below. + +“Honey,” said the Colonel,--“I reckon we're just as poor as white +trash.” + +Virginia smiled through her tears. + +“Honey,” he said again, after a pause, “I must keep my word and let him +have the business.” + +She did not reproach him. + +“There is a little left, a very little,” he continued slowly, painfully. +“I thank God that it is yours. It was left you by Becky--by your mother. +It is in a railroad company in New York, and safe, Jinny.” + +“Oh, Pa, you know that I do not care,” she cried. “It shall be yours and +mine together. And we shall live out here and be happy.” + +But she glanced anxiously at him nevertheless. He was in his familiar +posture of thought, his legs slightly apart, his felt hat pushed back, +stroking his goatee. But his clear gray eyes were troubled as they +sought hers, and she put her hand to her breast. + +“Virginia,” he said, “I fought for my country once, and I reckon I'm +some use yet awhile. It isn't right that I should idle here, while +the South needs me, Your Uncle Daniel is fifty-eight, and Colonel of a +Pennsylvania regiment.--Jinny, I have to go.” + +Virginia said nothing. It was in her blood as well as his. The Colonel +had left his young wife, to fight in Mexico; he had come home to lay +flowers on her grave. She knew that he thought of this; and, too, that +his heart was rent at leaving her. She put her hands on his shoulders, +and he stooped to kiss her trembling lips. + +They walked out together to the summer-house, and stood watching the +glory of the light on the western hills. “Jinn,” said the Colonel, “I +reckon you will have to go to your Aunt Lillian. It--it will be hard. +But I know that my girl can take care of herself. In case--in case I do +not come back, or occasion should arise, find Lige. Let him take you to +your Uncle Daniel. He is fond of you, and will be all alone in Calvert +House when the war is over. And I reckon that is all I have to say. I +won't pry into your heart, honey. If you love Clarence, marry him. I +like the boy, and I believe he will quiet down into a good man.” + +Virginia did not answer, but reached out for her father's hand and held +its fingers locked tight in her own. From the kitchen the sound of Ned's +voice rose in the still evening air. + + “Sposin' I was to go to N' Orleans an' take sick and die, + Laik a bird into de country ma spirit would fly.” + +And after a while down the path the red and yellow of Mammy Easter's +bandanna was seen. + +“Supper, Miss Jinny. Laws, if I ain't ramshacked de premises fo' you +bof. De co'n bread's gittin' cold.” + +That evening the Colonel and Virginia thrust a few things into her +little leather bag they had chosen together in London. Virginia had +found a cigar, which she hid until they went down to the porch, and +there she gave it to him; when he lighted the match she saw that his +hand shook. + +Half an hour later he held her in his arms at the gate, and she heard +his firm tread die in the dust of the road. The South had claimed him at +last. + + + + +Volume 7. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. WITH THE ARMIES OF THE WEST + +We are at Memphis,--for a while,--and the Christmas season is +approaching once more. And yet we must remember that war recognizes no +Christmas, nor Sunday, nor holiday. The brown river, excited by rains, +whirled seaward between his banks of yellow clay. Now the weather was +crisp and cold, now hazy and depressing, and again a downpour. Memphis +had never seen such activity. A spirit possessed the place, a restless +spirit called William T. Sherman. He prodded Memphis and laid violent +hold of her. She groaned, protested, turned over, and woke up, peopled +by a new people. When these walked, they ran, and they wore a blue +uniform. They spoke rapidly and were impatient. Rain nor heat nor +tempest kept them in. And yet they joked, and Memphis laughed (what was +left of her), and recognized a bond of fellowship. The General joked, +and the Colonels and the Commissary and the doctors, down to the sutlers +and teamsters and the salt tars under Porter, who cursed the dishwater +Mississippi, and also a man named Eads, who had built the new-fangled +iron boxes officially known as gunboats. The like of these had +never before been seen in the waters under the earth. The loyal +citizens--loyal to the South--had been given permission to leave the +city. The General told the assistant quartermaster to hire their houses +and slaves for the benefit of the Federal Government. Likewise he laid +down certain laws to the Memphis papers defining treason. He gave +out his mind freely to that other army of occupation, the army of +speculation, that flocked thither with permits to trade in cotton. The +speculators gave the Confederates gold, which they needed most, for the +bales, which they could not use at all. + +The forefathers of some of these gentlemen were in old Egypt under +Pharaoh--for whom they could have had no greater respect and fear than +their descendants had in New Egypt for Grant or Sherman. Yankees +were there likewise in abundance. And a certain acquaintance of ours +materially added to his fortune by selling in Boston the cotton which +cost him fourteen cents, at thirty cents. + +One day the shouting and the swearing and the running to and fro came +to a climax. Those floating freaks which were all top and drew nothing, +were loaded down to the guards with army stores and animals and wood and +men,--men who came from every walk in life. + +Whistles bellowed, horses neighed. The gunboats chased hither and +thither, and at length the vast processions paddled down the stream with +naval precision, under the watchful eyes of a real admiral. + +Residents of Memphis from the river's bank watched the pillar of smoke +fade to the southward and ruminated on the fate of Vicksburg. The +General paced the deck in thought. A little later he wrote to the +Commander-in-Chief at Washington, “The valley of the Mississippi is +America.” + +Vicksburg taken, this vast Confederacy would be chopped in two. + +Night fell to the music of the paddles, to the scent of the officers' +cigars, to the blood-red vomit of the tall stacks and the smoky flame of +the torches. Then Christmas Day dawned, and there was Vicksburg lifted +two hundred feet above the fever swamps, her court-house shining in +the morning sun. Vicksburg, the well-nigh impregnable key to America's +highway. When old Vick made his plantation on the Walnut Hills, he chose +a site for a fortress of the future Confederacy that Vauban would have +delighted in. + +Yes, there were the Walnut Hills, high bluffs separated from the +Mississippi by tangled streams and bayous, and on their crests the +Parrotts scowled. It was a queer Christmas Day indeed, bright and warm; +no snow, no turkeys nor mince pies, no wine, but just hardtack and bacon +and foaming brown water. + +On the morrow the ill-assorted fleet struggled up the sluggish Yazoo, +past impenetrable forests where the cypress clutched at the keels, past +long-deserted cotton fields, until it came at last to the black ruins of +a home. In due time the great army was landed. It spread out by brigade +and division and regiment and company, the men splashing and paddling +through the Chickasaw and the swamps toward the bluffs. The Parrotts +began to roar. A certain regiment, boldly led, crossed the bayou at a +narrow place and swept resistless across the sodden fields to where the +bank was steepest. The fire from the battery scorched the hair of their +heads. But there they stayed, scooping out the yellow clay with torn +hands, while the Parrotts, with lowered muzzles, ploughed the slope with +shells. There they stayed, while the blue lines quivered and fell back +through the forests on that short winter's afternoon, dragging their +wounded from the stagnant waters. But many were left to die in agony in +the solitude. + +Like a tall emblem of energy, General Sherman stood watching the attack +and repulse, his eyes ever alert. He paid no heed to the shells which +tore the limbs from the trees about him, or sent the swamp water in +thick spray over his staff. Now and again a sharp word broke from his +lips, a forceful home thrust at one of the leaders of his columns. + +“What regiment stayed under the bank?” + +“Sixth Missouri, General,” said an aide, promptly. + +The General sat late in the Admiral's gunboat that night, but when +he returned to his cabin in the Forest Queen, he called for a list of +officers of the Sixth Missouri. His finger slipping down the roll paused +at a name among the new second lieutenants. + +“Did the boys get back?” he asked. “Yes, General, when it fell dark.” + +“Let me see the casualties,--quick.” + +That night a fog rolled up from the swamps, and in the morning +jack-staff was hid from pilot-house. Before the attack could be renewed, +a political general came down the river with a letter in his pocket +from Washington, by virtue of which he took possession of the three army +core, and their chief, subpoenaed the fleet and the Admiral, and went +off to capture Arkansas Post. + +Vicksburg had a breathing spell. + +Three weeks later, when the army was resting at Napoleon, Arkansas, a +self-contained man, with a brown beard arrived from Memphis, and took +command. This way General U. S. Grant. He smoked incessantly in his +cabin. He listened. He spoke but seldom. He had look in his face that +boded ill to any that might oppose him. Time and labor be counted +as nothing, compared with the accomplishment of an object. Back to +Vicksburg paddled the fleet and transports. Across the river from the +city, on the pasty mud behind the levee's bank were dumped Sherman's +regiments, condemned to week of ditch-digging, that the gunboats might +arrive at the bend of the Mississippi below by a canal, out of reach of +the batteries. Day in and day out they labored, officer and men. Sawing +off stumps under the water, knocking poisonous snakes by scores from the +branches, while the river rose and rose and rose, and the rain crept +by inches under their tent flies, and the enemy walked the parapet of +Vicksburg and laughed. Two gunboats accomplished the feat of running the +batteries, that their smiles might be sobered. + +To the young officers who were soiling their uniform with the grease of +saws, whose only fighting was against fever and water snakes, the news +of an expedition into the Vicksburg side of the river was hailed with +caps in the air. To be sure, the saw and axe, and likewise the levee and +the snakes, were to be there, too. But there was likely to be a little +fighting. The rest of the corps that was to stay watched grimly as the +detachment put off in the little 'Diligence' and 'Silver Wave'. + +All the night the smoke-pipes were batting against the boughs of oak and +cottonwood, and snapping the trailing vines. Some other regiments +went by another route. The ironclads, followed in hot haste by General +Sherman in a navy tug, had gone ahead, and were even then shoving with +their noses great trunks of trees in their eagerness to get behind the +Rebels. The Missouri regiment spread out along the waters, and were soon +waist deep, hewing a path for the heavier transports to come. Presently +the General came back to a plantation half under water, where Black +Bayou joins Deer Creek, to hurry the work in cleaning out that Bayou. +The light transports meanwhile were bringing up more troops from a +second detachment. All through the Friday the navy great guns were +heard booming in the distance, growing quicker and quicker, until +the quivering air shook the hanging things in that vast jungle. Saws +stopped, and axes were poised over shoulders, and many times that day +the General lifted his head anxiously. As he sat down in the evening in +a slave cabin redolent with corn pone and bacon, the sound still hovered +among the trees and rolled along the still waters. + +The General slept lightly. It was three o'clock Saturday morning when +the sharp challenge of a sentry broke the silence. A negro, white eyed, +bedraggled, and muddy, stood in the candle light under the charge of a +young lieutenant. The officer saluted, and handed the General a roll of +tobacco. + +“I found this man in the swamp, sir. He has a message from the +Admiral--” + +The General tore open the roll and took from it a piece of tissue paper +which he spread out and held under the candle. He turned to a staff +officer who had jumped from his bed and was hurrying into his coat. + +“Porter's surrounded,” he said. The order came in a flash. “Kilby Smith +and all men here across creek to relief at once. I'll take canoe through +bayou to Hill's and hurry reenforcements.” + +The staff officer paused, his hand on the latch of the door. + +“But your escort, General. You're not going through that sewer in a +canoe without an escort!” + +“I guess they won't look for a needle in that haystack,” the General +answered. For a brief second he eyed the lieutenant. “Get back to your +regiment, Brice, if you want to go,” he said. + +Stephen saluted and went out. All through the painful march that +followed, though soaked in swamp water and bruised by cypress knees, he +thought of Sherman in his canoe, winding unprotected through the black +labyrinth, risking his life that more men might be brought to the rescue +of the gunboats. + +The story of that rescue has been told most graphically by Sherman +himself. How he picked up the men at work on the bayou and marched them +on a coal barge; how he hitched the barge to a navy tug; how he met the +little transport with a fresh load of troops, and Captain Elijah Brent's +reply when the General asked if he would follow him. “As long as the +boat holds together, General.” And he kept his word. The boughs hammered +at the smoke-pipes until they went by the board, and the pilothouse fell +like a pack of cards on the deck before they had gone three miles and a +half. Then the indomitable Sherman disembarked, a lighted candle in his +hand, and led a stiff march through thicket and swamp and breast-deep +backwater, where the little drummer boys carried their drums on their +heads. At length, when they were come to some Indian mounds, they found +a picket of three, companies of the force which had reached the flat the +day before, and had been sent down to prevent the enemy from obstructing +further the stream below the fleet. + +“The Admiral's in a bad way, sir,” said the Colonel who rode up to meet +the General. “He's landlocked. Those clumsy ironclads of his can't move +backward or forward, and the Rebs have been peppering him for two days.” + +Just then a fusillade broke from the thickets, nipping the branches from +the cottonwoods about them. + +“Form your line,” said the General. “Drive 'em out.” + +The force swept forward, with the three picket companies in the swamp on +the right. And presently they came in sight of the shapeless ironclads +with their funnels belching smoke, a most remarkable spectacle. How +Porter had pushed them there was one of the miracles of the war. + +Then followed one of a thousand memorable incidents in the life of a +memorable man. General Sherman, jumping on the bare back of a scrawny +horse, cantered through the fields. And the bluejackets, at sight of +that familiar figure, roared out a cheer that might have shaken the +drops from the wet boughs. The Admiral and the General stood together on +the deck, their hands clasped. And the Colonel astutely remarked, as he +rode up in answer to a summons, that if Porter was the only man whose +daring could have pushed a fleet to that position, Sherman was certainly +the only man who could have got him out of it. + +“Colonel,” said the General, “that move was well executed, sir. Admiral, +did the Rebs put a bullet through your rum casks? We're just a little +tired. And now,” he added, wheeling on the Colonel when each had a glass +in his hand, “who was in command of that company on the right, in the +swamp? He handled them like a regular.” + +“He's a second lieutenant, General, in the Sixth Missouri. Captain +wounded at Hindman, and first lieutenant fell out down below. His name +is Brice, I believe.” + +“I thought so,” said the General. + +Some few days afterward, when the troops were slopping around again at +Young's Point, opposite Vicksburg, a gentleman arrived on a boat +from St. Louis. He paused on the levee to survey with concern and +astonishment the flood of waters behind it, and then asked an officer +the way to General Sherman's headquarters. The officer, who was greatly +impressed by the gentleman's looks, led him at once to a trestle bridge +which spanned the distance from the levee bank over the flood to a house +up to its first floor in the backwaters. The orderly saluted. + +“Who shall I say, sir?” + +The officer looked inquiringly at the gentleman, who gave his name. + +The officer could not repress a smile at the next thing that happened. +Out hurried the General himself, with both hands outstretched. + +“Bless my soul!” he cried, “if it isn't Brinsmade. Come right in, come +right in and take dinner. The boys will be glad to see you. I'll send +and tell Grant you're here. Brinsmade, if it wasn't for you and your +friends on the Western Sanitary Commission, we'd all have been dead of +fever and bad food long ago.” The General sobered abruptly. “I guess a +good many of the boys are laid up now,” he added. + +“I've come down to do what I can, General,” responded Mr. Brinsmade, +gravely. “I want to go through all the hospitals to see that our nurses +are doing their duty and that the stores are properly distributed.” + +“You shall, sir, this minute,” said the General. He dropped instantly +the affairs which he had on hand, and without waiting for dinner the +two gentlemen went together through the wards where the fever raged. The +General surprised his visitor by recognizing private after private in +the cots, and he always had a brief word of cheer to brighten their +faces, to make them follow him with wistful eyes as he passed beyond +them. “That's poor Craig,” he would say, “corporal, Third Michigan. They +tell me he can't live,” and “That's Olcott, Eleventh Indiana. Good God!” + cried the General, when they were out in the air again, “how I wish +some of these cotton traders could get a taste of this fever. They keep +well--the vultures--And by the way, Brinsmade, the man who gave me no +peace at all at Memphis was from your city. Why, I had to keep a whole +corps on duty to watch him.” + +“What was his name, sir?” Mr. Brinsmade asked. + +“Hopper!” cried the General, with feeling. “Eliphalet Hopper. As long as +I live I shall never forget it. How the devil did he get a permit? What +are they about at Washington?” + +“You surprise me,” said Mr. Brinsmade. “He has always seemed +inoffensive, and I believe he is a prominent member of one of our +churches.” + +“I guess that's so,” answered the General, dryly. “I ever I set eyes on +him again, he's clapped into the guardhouse. He knows it, too.” + +“Speaking of St. Louis, General,” said Mr. Brinsmade, presently, “have +you ever heard of Stephen Brice? joined your army last autumn. You may +remember talking to him one evening at my house.” + +“He's one of my boys!” cried the General. “Remember him? Guess I do!” He +paused on the very brink of relating again the incident at Camp Jackson, +when Stephen had saved the life of Mr. Brinsmade's own son. “Brinsmade, +for three days I've had it on my mind to send for that boy. I'll have +him at headquarters now. I like him,” cried General Sherman, with tone +and gesture there was no mistaking. And good Mr. Brinsmade, who liked +Stephen, too, rejoiced at the story he would have to tell the widow. “He +has spirit, Brinsmade. I told him to let me know when he was ready to go +to war. No such thing. He never came near me. The first thing I hear of +him is that he's digging holes in the clay of Chickasaw Bluff, and his +cap is fanned off by the blast of a Parrott six feet above his head. +Next thing he turns up on that little expedition we took to get Porter +to sea again. When we got to the gunboats, there was Brice's company +on the flank. He handled those men surprisingly, sir--surprisingly. I +shouldn't have blamed the boy if one or two Rebs got by him. But no, he +swept the place clean.” By this time they had come back to the bridge +leading to headquarters, and the General beckoned quickly to an orderly. + +“My compliments to Lieutenant Stephen Brice, Sixth Missouri, and ask him +to report here at once. At once, you understand!” + +“Yes, General.” + +It so happened that Mr. Brice's company were swinging axes when the +orderly arrived, and Mr. Brice had an axe himself, and was up to his +boot tops in yellow mud. + +The orderly, who had once been an Iowa farmer, was near grinning when he +gave the General's message and saw the lieutenant gazing ruefully at his +clothes. + +Entering headquarters, Stephen paused at the doorway of the big room +where the officers of the different staffs were scattered about, +smoking, while the negro servants were removing the dishes from the +table. The sunlight, reflected from the rippling water outside, danced +on the ceiling. At the end of the room sat General Sherman, his uniform, +as always, a trifle awry. His soft felt hat with the gold braid was +tilted forward, and his feet, booted and spurred, were crossed. Small +wonder that the Englishman who sought the typical American found him in +Sherman. + +The sound that had caught Stephen's attention was the General's voice, +somewhat high-pitched, in the key that he used in telling a story. These +were his closing words. + +“Sin gives you a pretty square deal, boys, after all. Generally a man +says, 'Well, I can resist, but I'll have my fun just this once.' That's +the way it happens. They tell you that temptation comes irresistibly. +Don't believe it. Do you, Mr. Brice? Come over here, sir. Here's a +friend of yours.” + +Stephen made his way to the General, whose bright eyes wandered rapidly +over him as he added: + +“This is the condition my officers report in, Brinsmade,--mud from head +to heel.” + +Stephen had sense enough to say nothing, but the staff officers laughed, +and Mr. Brinsmade smiled as he rose and took Stephen's hand. + +“I am delighted to see that you are well, sir,” said he, with that +formal kindliness which endeared him to all. “Your mother will be +rejoiced at my news of you. You will be glad to hear that I left her +well, Stephen.” + +Stephen inquired for Mrs. Brinsmade and Anne. + +“They are well, sir, and took pleasure in adding to a little box which +your mother sent. Judge Whipple put in a box of fine cigars, although he +deplores the use of tobacco.” + +“And the Judge, Mr. Brinsmade--how is he?” + +The good gentleman's face fell. + +“He is ailing, sir, it grieves me to say. He is in bed, sir. But he is +ably looked after. Your mother desired to have him moved to her house, +but he is difficult to stir from his ways, and he would not leave his +little room. He is ably nursed. We have got old Nancy, Hester's mother, +to stay with him at night, and Mrs. Brice divides the day with Miss +Jinny Carvel, who comes in from Bellegarde every afternoon.” + +“Miss Carvel?” exclaimed Stephen, wondering if he heard aright. And at +the mention of her name he tingled. + +“None other, sir,” answered Mr. Brinsmade. “She has been much honored +for it. You may remember that the Judge was a close friend of her +father's before the war. And--well, they quarrelled, sir. The Colonel +went South, you know.” + +“When--when was the Judge taken ill, Mr. Brinsmade?” Stephen asked. The +thought of Virginia and his mother caring for him together was strangely +sweet. + +“Two days before I left, sir, Dr. Polk had warned him not to do so much. +But the Doctor tells me that he can see no dangerous symptoms.” + +Stephen inquired now of Mr. Brinsmade how long he was to be with them. + +“I am going on to the other camps this afternoon,” said he. “But I +should like a glimpse of your quarters, Stephen, if you will invite +me. Your mother would like a careful account of you, and Mr. Whipple, +and--your many friends in St. Louis.” + +“You will find my tent a little wet, air,” replied Stephen, touched. + +Here the General, who had been sitting by watching them with a very +curious expression, spoke up. + +“That's hospitality for you, Brinsmade!” + +Stephen and Mr. Brinsmade made their way across plank and bridge to +Stephen's tent, and his mess servant arrived in due time with the +package from home. But presently, while they sat talking of many things, +the canvas of the fly was thrust back with a quick movement, and who +should come stooping in but General Sherman himself. He sat down on a +cracker box. Stephen rose confusedly. + +“Well, well, Brice,” said the General, winking at Mr. Brinsmade, “I +think you might have invited me to the feast. Where are those cigars Mr. +Brinsmade was talking about?” + +Stephen opened the box with alacrity. The General chose one and lighted +it. + +“Don't smoke, eh?” he inquired. “Why, yes, sir, when I can.” + +“Then light up, sir,” said the General, “and sit down, I've been +thinking lately of court-martialing you, but I decided to come 'round +and talk it over with you first. That isn't strictly according to +the rules of the service. Look here, Mr. Brice, why did you leave St. +Louis?” + +“They began to draft, sir, and I couldn't stand it any longer.” + +“But you wouldn't have been drafted. You were in the Home Guards, if I +remember right. And Mr. Brinsmade tells me you were useful in many ways +What was your rank in the Home Guards?” + +“Lieutenant colonel, sir.” + +“And what are you here?” + +“A second lieutenant in temporary command, General.” “You have commanded +men?” + +“Not in action, sir. I felt that that was different.” + +“Couldn't they do better for you than a second-lieutenancy?” + +Stephen did not reply at once, Mr. Brinsmade spoke up, “They offered him +a lieutenant-colonelcy.” + +The General was silent a moment: Then he said “Do you remember meeting +me on the boat when I was leaving St. Louis, after the capture of Fort +Henry?” + +Stephen smiled. “Very well, General,” he replied, General Sherman leaned +forward. + +“And do you remember I said to you, 'Brice, when you get ready to come +into this war, let me know.' Why didn't you do it?” + +Stephen thought a minute. Then he said gravely, but with just a +suspicion of humor about his mouth:-- “General, if I had done that, you +wouldn't be here in my tent to-day.” + +Like lightning the General was on his feet, his hand on Stephen's +shoulder. + +“By gad, sir,” he cried, delighted, “so I wouldn't.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE MEETING + +The story of the capture of Vicksburg is the old, old story of failure +turned into success, by which man is made immortal. It involves the +history of a general who never retraced his steps, who cared neither +for mugwump murmurs nor political cabals, who took both blame and praise +with equanimity. Through month after month of discouragement, and work +gone for naught, and fever and death, his eyes never left his goal. And +by grace of the wisdom of that President who himself knew sorrow and +suffering and defeat and unjust censure, General Grant won. + +Boldness did it. The canal abandoned, one red night fleet and transports +swept around the bend and passed the city's heights, on a red river. +The Parrotts and the Dahlgrens roared, and the high bluffs flung out the +sound over the empty swamp land. + +Then there came the landing below, and the cutting loose from a +base--unheard of. Corps behind cursed corps ahead for sweeping the +country clear of forage. Battles were fought. Confederate generals in +Mississippi were bewildered. + +One night, while crossing with his regiment a pontoon bridge, Stephen +Brice heard a shout raised on the farther shore. Sitting together on +a log under a torch, two men in slouch hats were silhouetted. That one +talking with rapid gestures was General Sherman. The impassive profile +of the other, the close-cropped beard and the firmly held cigar that +seemed to go with it,--Stephen recognized as that of the strange Captain +Grant who had stood beside him in the street by the Arsenal He had not +changed a whit. Motionless, he watched corps after corps splash by, +artillery, cavalry, and infantry, nor gave any sign that he heard their +plaudits. + +At length the army came up behind the city to a place primeval, where +the face of the earth was sore and tortured, worn into deep gorges by +the rains, and flung up in great mounds. Stripped of the green magnolias +and the cane, the banks of clay stood forth in hideous yellow nakedness, +save for a lonely stunted growth, or a bare trunk that still stood +tottering on the edge of a banks its pitiful withered roots reaching out +below. The May weather was already sickly hot. + +First of all there was a murderous assault, and a still more murderous +repulse. Three times the besiegers charged, sank their color staffs +into the redoubts, and three times were driven back. Then the blue army +settled into the earth and folded into the ravines. Three days in that +narrow space between the lines lay the dead and wounded suffering untold +agonies in the moist heat. Then came a truce to bury the dead, to bring +back what was left of the living. + +The doomed city had no rest. Like clockwork from the Mississippi's banks +beyond came the boom and shriek of the coehorns on the barges. The big +shells hung for an instant in the air like birds of prey, and then could +be seen swooping down here and there, while now and anon a shaft of +smoke rose straight to the sky, the black monument of a home. + +Here was work in the trenches, digging the flying sap by night and +deepening it by day, for officers and men alike. From heaven a host of +blue ants could be seen toiling in zigzags forward, ever forward, along +the rude water-cuts and through the hills. A waiting carrion from her +vantage point on high marked one spot then another where the blue ants +disappeared, and again one by one came out of the burrow to hurry down +the trench,--each with his ball of clay. + +In due time the ring of metal and sepulchred voices rumbled in the +ground beneath the besieged. Counter mines were started, and through the +narrow walls of earth commands and curses came. Above ground the saps +were so near that a strange converse became the rule. It was “Hello, +Reb!” “Howdy, Yank!” Both sides were starving, the one for tobacco and +the other for hardtack and bacon. These necessities were tossed across, +sometimes wrapped in the Vicksburg news-sheet printed on the white +side of a homely green wall paper. At other times other amenities were +indulged in. Hand-grenades were thrown and shells with lighted fuses +rolled down on the heads of acquaintances of the night before, who +replied from wooden coehorns hooped with iron. + +The Union generals learned (common item in a siege) that the citizens +of Vicksburg were eating mule meat. Not an officer or private in the +Vicksburg armies who does not remember the 25th of June, and the hour +of three in an afternoon of pitiless heat. Silently the long blue files +wound into position behind the earth barriers which hid them from the +enemy, coiled and ready to strike when the towering redoubt on the +Jackson road should rise heavenwards. By common consent the rifle +crack of day and night was hushed, and even the Parrotts were silent. +Stillness closed around the white house of Shirley once more, but not +the stillness it had known in its peaceful homestead days. This was +the stillness of the death prayer. Eyes staring at the big redoubt were +dimmed. At last, to those near, a little wisp of blue smoke crept out. + +Then the earth opened with a quake. The sun was darkened, and a hot +blast fanned the upturned faces. In the sky, through the film of +shattered clay, little black dots scurried, poised, and fell again as +arms and legs and head less trunks and shapeless bits of wood and iron. +Scarcely had the dust settled when the sun caught the light of fifty +thousand bayonets, and a hundred shells were shrieking across the +crater's edge. Earth to earth, alas, and dust to dust! Men who ran +across that rim of a summer's after-noon died in torture under tier upon +tier of their comrades,--and so the hole was filled. + +An upright cannon marks the spot where a scrawny oak once stood on +a scarred and baked hillside, outside of the Confederate lines at +Vicksburg. Under the scanty shade of that tree, on the eve of the +Nation's birthday, stood two men who typified the future and the past. +As at Donelson, a trick of Fortune's had delivered one comrade of old +into the hands of another. Now she chose to kiss the one upon whom she +had heaped obscurity and poverty and contumely. He had ceased to think +or care about Fortune. And hence, being born a woman, she favored him. + +The two armies watched and were still. They noted the friendly greeting +of old comrades, and after that they saw the self-contained Northerner +biting his cigar, as one to whom the pleasantries of life were past and +gone. The South saw her General turn on his heel. The bitterness of his +life was come. Both sides honored him for the fight he had made. But war +does not reward a man according to his deserts. + +The next day--the day our sundered nation was born Vicksburg +surrendered: the obstinate man with the mighty force had conquered. See +the gray regiments marching silently in the tropic heat into the folds +of that blue army whose grip has choked them at last. Silently, too, the +blue coats stand, pity and admiration on the brick-red faces. The arms +are stacked and surrendered, officers and men are to be parolled when +the counting is finished. The formations melt away, and those who for +months have sought each other's lives are grouped in friendly talk. The +coarse army bread is drawn eagerly from the knapsacks of the blue, smoke +quivers above a hundred fires, and the smell of frying bacon brings a +wistful look into the gaunt faces. Tears stand in the eyes of many a man +as he eats the food his Yankee brothers have given him on the birthday +of their country. + +Within the city it is the same. Stephen Brice, now a captain in General +Lauman's brigade, sees with thanksgiving the stars and stripes flutter +from the dome of that court-house which he had so long watched from +afar. + +Later on, down a side street, he pauses before a house with its +face blown away. On the verge of one of its jagged floors is an old +four-posted bed, and beside it a child's cot is standing pitifully,--the +tiny pillow still at the head and the little sheets thrown across the +foot. So much for one of the navy's shells. + +While he was thinking of the sadness of it all, a little scene was +acted: the side door of the house opened, a weeping woman came out, and +with her was a tall Confederate Colonel of cavalry. Gallantly giving her +his arm, he escorted her as far as the little gate, where she bade him +good by with much feeling. With an impulsive movement he drew some money +from his pocket, thrust it upon her, and started hurriedly away that +he might not listen to her thanks. Such was his preoccupation that +he actually brushed into Stephen, who was standing beside a tree. He +stopped and bowed. + +“Excuse me, seh,” he said contritely. “I beg your pardon, seh.” + +“Certainly,” said Stephen, smiling; “it was my fault for getting in your +way.” + +“Not at all, seh,” said the cavalry Colonel; “my clumsiness, seh.” + He did not pass on, but stood pulling with some violence a very long +mustache. “Damn you Yankees,” he continued, in the same amiable tone, +“you've brought us a heap of misfortune. Why, seh, in another week we'd +been fo'ced to eat niggers.” + +The Colonel made such a wry face that Stephen laughed in spite of +himself. He had marked the man's charitable action, and admired his +attempt to cover it. The Colonel seemed to be all breadth, like a card. +His shoulders were incredible. The face was scant, perchance from lack +of food, the nose large, with a curved rim, and the eyes blue gray. He +wore clay-flecked cavalry boots, and was six feet five if an inch, so +that Stephen's six seemed insignificant beside him. + +“Captain,” he said, taking in Stephen's rank, “so we won't qua'l as to +who's host heah. One thing's suah,” he added, with a twinkle, “I've been +heah longest. Seems like ten yeahs since I saw the wife and children +down in the Palmetto State. I can't offer you a dinner, seh. We've +eaten all the mules and rats and sugar cane in town.” (His eye seemed to +interpolate that Stephen wouldn't be there otherwise.) “But I can offer +you something choicer than you have in the No'th.” + +Whereupon he drew from his hip a dented silver flask. The Colonel +remarked that Stephen's eyes fell on the coat of arms. + +“Prope'ty of my grandfather, seh, of Washington's Army. My name is +Jennison,--Catesby Jennison, at your service, seh,” he said. “You have +the advantage of me, Captain.” + +“My name is Brice,” said Stephen. + +The big Colonel bowed decorously, held out a great, wide hand, and +thereupon unscrewed the flask. Now Stephen had never learned to like +straight whiskey, but he took down his share without a face. The exploit +seemed to please the Colonel, who, after he likewise had done the liquor +justice, screwed on the lid with ceremony, offered Stephen his arm with +still greater ceremony, and they walked off down the street together. +Stephen drew from his pocket several of Judge Whipple's cigars, to which +his new friend gave unqualified praise. + +On every hand Vicksburg showed signs of hard usage. Houses with gaping +chasms in their sides, others mere heaps of black ruins; great trees +felled, cabins demolished, and here and there the sidewalk ploughed +across from curb to fence. + +“Lordy,” exclaimed the Colonel. “Lordy I how my ears ache since your +damned coehorns have stopped. The noise got to be silence with us, seh, +and yesterday I reckoned a hundred volcanoes had bust. Tell me,” said he +“when the redoubt over the Jackson road was blown up, they said a nigger +came down in your lines alive. Is that so?” + +“Yes,” said Stephen, smiling; “he struck near the place where my company +was stationed. His head ached a mite. That seemed to be all.” + +“I reckon he fell on it,” said Colonel Catesby Jennison, as if it were a +matter of no special note. + +“And now tell me something,” said Stephen. “How did you burn our +sap-rollers?” + +This time the Colonel stopped, and gave himself up to hearty laughter. + +“Why, that was a Yankee trick, sure enough,” he cried. “Some ingenious +cuss soaked port fire in turpentine, and shot the wad in a large-bore +musket.” + +“We thought you used explosive bullets.” + +The Colonel laughed again, still more heartily. “Explosive +bullets!--Good Lord, it was all we could do to get percussion caps. +Do you know how we got percussion caps, seh? Three of our +officers--dare-devils, seh--floated down the Mississippi on logs. One +fellow made his way back with two hundred thousand. He's the pride of +our Vicksburg army. Not afraid of hell. A chivalrous man, a forlorn-hope +man. The night you ran the batteries he and some others went across to +your side in skiffs--in skiffs, seh, I say--and set fire to the houses +in De Soto, that we might see to shoot. And then he came back in the +face of our own batteries and your guns. That man was wounded by a trick +of fate, by a cussed bit of shell from your coehorns while eating his +dinner in Vicksburg. He's pretty low, now, poor fellow,” added the +Colonel, sadly. + +“Where is he?” demanded Stephen, fired with a desire to see the man. + +“Well, he ain't a great ways from here,” said the Colonel. “Perhaps you +might be able to do something for him,” he continued thoughtfully. “I'd +hate to see him die. The doctor says he'll pull through if he can get +care and good air and good food.” He seized Stephen's arm in a fierce +grip. “You ain't fooling?” he said. + +“Indeed I am not,” said Stephen. + +“No,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully, as to himself, “you don't look +like the man to fool.” + +Whereupon he set out with great strides, in marked contrast to his +former languorous gait, and after a while they came to a sort of gorge, +where the street ran between high banks of clay. There Stephen saw the +magazines which the Confederates had dug out, and of which he had heard. +But he saw something, too, of which he had not heard, Colonel Catesby +Jennison stopped before an open doorway in the yellow bank and knocked. +A woman's voice called softly to him to enter. + +They went into a room hewn out of the solid clay. Carpet was stretched +on the floor, paper was on the walls, and even a picture. There was +a little window cut like a port in a prison cell, and under it a bed, +beside which a middle-aged lady was seated. She had a kindly face which +seemed to Stephen a little pinched as she turned to them with a gesture +of restraint. She pointed to the bed, where a sheet lay limply over the +angles of a wasted frame. The face was to the wall. + +“Hush!” said the lady,--“it is the first time in two days that he has +slept.” + +But the sleeper stirred wearily, and woke with a start. He turned over. +The face, so yellow and peaked, was of the type that grows even more +handsome in sickness, and in the great fever-stricken eyes a high spirit +burned. For an instant only the man stared at Stephen, and then he +dragged himself to the wall. + +The eyes of the other two were both fixed on the young Union Captain. + +“My God!” cried Jennison, seizing Stephen's rigid arm, “does he look as +bad as that? We've seen him every day.” + +“I--I know him,” answered Stephen. He stepped quickly to the bedside, +and bent over it. “Colfax!” he said. “Colfax!” + +“This is too much, Jennison,” came from the bed a voice that was +pitifully weak; “why do you bring Yankees in here?” + +“Captain Brice is a friend of yours, Colfax,” said the Colonel, tugging +at his mustache. + +“Brice?” repeated Clarence, “Brice? Does he come from St. Louis?” + +“Do you come from St. Louis, sir?” + +“Yes. I have met Captain Colfax--” + +“Colonel, sir.” + +“Colonel Colfax, before the war! And if he would like to go to St. +Louis, I think I can have it arranged at once.” + +In silence they waited for Clarence's answer Stephen well knew what was +passing in his mind, and guessed at his repugnance to accept a favor +from a Yankee. He wondered whether there was in this case a special +detestation. And so his mind was carried far to the northward to the +memory of that day in the summer-house on the Meramee heights. Virginia +had not loved her cousin then--of that Stephen was sure. But now,--now +that the Vicksburg army was ringing with his praise, now that he was +unfortunate--Stephen sighed. His comfort was that he would be the +instrument. + +The lady in her uneasiness smoothed the single sheen that covered the +sick man. From afar came the sound of cheering, and it was this that +seemed to rouse him. He faced them again, impatiently. + +“I have reason to remember Mr. Brice,” he said steadily. And then, with +some vehemence, “What is he doing in Vicksburg?” + +Stephen looked at Jennison, who winced. + +“The city has surrendered,” said that officer. + +They counted on a burst of anger. Colfax only groaned. + +“Then you can afford to be generous,” he said, with a bitter laugh. +“But you haven't whipped us yet, by a good deal. Jennison,” he cried, +“Jennison, why in hell did you give up?” + +“Colfax,” said Stephen, coming forward, “you're too sick a man to talk. +I'll look up the General. It may be that I can have you sent North +to-day.” + +“You can do as you please,” said Clarence, coldly, “with a--prisoner.” + +The blood rushed to Stephen's face. Bowing to the lady, he strode out of +the room. Colonel Jennison, running after him, caught him in the street. + +“You're not offended, Brice?” he said. “He's sick--and God Almighty, +he's proud--I reckon,” he added with a touch of humility that went +straight to Stephen's heart. “I reckon that some of us are too derned +proud--But we ain't cold.” + +Stephen grasped his hand. + +“Offended!” he said. “I admire the man. I'll go to the General directly. +But just let me thank you. And I hope, Colonel, that we may meet +again--as friends.” “Hold on, seh,” said Colonel Catesby Jennison; “we +may as well drink to that.” + +Fortunately, as Stephen drew near the Court House, he caught sight of +a group of officers seated on its steps, and among them he was quick to +recognize General Sherman. + +“Brice,” said the General, returning his salute, “been celebrating this +glorious Fourth with some of our Rebel friends?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered Stephen, “and I came to ask a favor for one of +them.” Seeing that the General's genial, interested expression did not +change, he was emboldened to go on. “This is one of their colonels, sir. +You may have heard of him. He is the man who floated down the river on a +log and brought back two hundred thousand percussion caps--” + +“Good Lord,” interrupted the General, “I guess we all heard of him after +that. What else has he done to endear himself?” he asked, with a smile. + +“Well, General, he rowed across the river in a skiff the night we ran +these batteries, and set fire to De Soto to make targets for their +gunners.” + +“I'd like to see that man,” said the General, in his eager way. “Where +is he?” + +“What I was going to tell you, sir. After he went through all this, he +was hit by a piece of mortar shell, while sitting at his dinner. He's +rather far gone now, General, and they say he can't live unless he can +be sent North. I--I know who he is in St. Louis. And I thought that as +long as the officers are to be paroled I might get your permission to +send him up to-day.” + +“What's his name?” + +“Colfax, sir.” + +The General laughed. “I know the breed,” said he, “I'll bet he didn't +thank you.” + +“No, sir, he didn't.” + +“I like his grit,” said the General, emphatically, “These young bloods +are the backbone of this rebellion, Brice. They were made for war. They +never did anything except horse-racing and cock-fighting. They ride like +the devil, fight like the devil, but don't care a picayune for anything. +Walker had some of 'em. Crittenden had some. And, good Lord, how +they hate a Yankee! I know this Colfax, too. He's a cousin of that +fine-looking girl Brinsmade spoke of. They say he's engaged to her. Be a +pity to disappoint her--eh?” + +“Yes, General.” + +“Why, Captain, I believe you would like to marry her yourself! Take my +advice, sir, and don't try to tame any wildcats.” + +“I'm glad to do a favor for that young man,” said the General, when +Stephen had gone off with the slip of paper he had given him. “I like to +do that kind of a favor for any officer, when I can. Did you notice how +he flared up when I mentioned the girl?” + +This is why Clarence Colfax found himself that evening on a hospital +steamer of the Sanitary Commission, bound north for St. Louis. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. BELLEGARDE ONCE MORE + +Supper at Bellegarde was not the simple meal it had been for a year past +at Colonel Carvel's house in town. Mrs. Colfax was proud of her table, +proud of her fried chickens and corn fritters and her desserts. How +Virginia chafed at those suppers, and how she despised the guests whom +her aunt was in the habit of inviting to some of them! And when none +was present, she was forced to listen to Mrs. Colfax's prattle about the +fashions, her tirades against the Yankees. + +“I'm sure he must be dead,” said that lady, one sultry evening in July. +Her tone, however, was not one of conviction. A lazy wind from the river +stirred the lawn of Virginia's gown. The girl, with her hand on the +wicker back of the chair, was watching a storm gather to the eastward, +across the Illinois prairie. + +“I don't see why you say that, Aunt Lillian,” she replied. “Bad news +travels faster than good.” + +“And not a word from Comyn. It is cruel of him not to send us a line, +telling us where his regiment is.” + +Virginia did not reply. She had long since learned that the wisdom of +silence was the best for her aunt's unreasonableness. Certainly, if +Clarence's letters could not pass the close lines of the Federal troops, +news of her father's Texas regiment could not come from Red River. + +“How was Judge Whipple to-day?” asked Mrs. Colfax presently. + +“Very weak. He doesn't seem to improve much.” + +“I can't see why Mrs. Brice,--isn't that her name?--doesn't take him to +her house. Yankee women are such prudes.” + +Virginia began to rock slowly, and her foot tapped the porch. + +“Mrs. Brice has begged the Judge to come to her. But he says he has +lived in those rooms, and that he will die there,--when the time comes.” + +“How you worship that woman, Virginia! You have become quite a Yankee +yourself, I believe, spending whole days with her, nursing that old +man.” + +“The Judge is an old friend of my father's; I think he would wish it,” + replied the girl, in a lifeless voice. + +Her speech did not reveal all the pain and resentment she felt. She +thought of the old man racked with pain and suffering in the heat, lying +patient on his narrow bed, the only light of life remaining the presence +of the two women. They came day by day, and often Margaret Brice had +taken the place of the old negress who sat with him at night. Worship +Margaret Brice! Yes, it was worship; it had been worship since the +day she and her father had gone to the little whitewashed hospital. +Providence had brought them together at the Judge's bedside. The +marvellous quiet power of the older woman had laid hold of the girl in +spite of all barriers. + +Often when the Judge's pain was eased sufficiently for him to talk, he +would speak of Stephen. The mother never spoke of her son, but a light +would come into her eyes at this praise of him which thrilled Virginia +to see. And when the good lady was gone, and the Judge had fallen into +slumber, it would still haunt her. + +Was it out of consideration for her that Mrs. Brice would turn the Judge +from this topic which he seemed to love best? Virginia could not admit +to herself that she resented this. She had heard Stephen's letters to +the Judge. They came every week. Strong and manly they were, with plenty +of praises for the Southern defenders of Vicksburg. Only yesterday +Virginia had read one of these to Mr. Whipple, her face burning. Well +that his face was turned to the window, and that Stephen's mother was +not there! + +“He says very little about himself,” Mr. Whipple complained. “Had it +not been for Brinsmade, we should never know that Sherman had his eye on +him, and had promoted him. We should never have known of that exploit +at Chickasaw Bluff. But what a glorious victory was Grant's capture of +Vicksburg, on the Fourth of July! I guess we'll make short work of the +Rebels now.” + +No, the Judge had not changed much, even in illness. He would never +change. Virginia laid the letter down, and tears started to her eyes as +she repressed a retort. It was not the first time this had happened. +At every Union victory Mr. Whipple would loose his tongue. How strange +that, with all his thought of others, he should fall short here! + +One day, after unusual forbearance, Mrs. Brice had overtaken Virginia +on the stairway. Well she knew the girl's nature, and how difficult she +must have found repression. Margaret Brice had taken her hand. + +“My dear,” she had said, “you are a wonderful woman.” That was all. But +Virginia had driven back to Bellegarde with a strange elation in her +heart. + +Some things the Judge had forborne to mention, and for this Virginia was +thankful. One was the piano. But she had overheard Shadrach telling old +Nancy how Mrs. Brice had pleaded with him to move it, that he might have +more room and air. He had been obdurate. And Colonel Carvel's name had +never once passed his lips. + +Many a night the girl had lain awake listening to the steamboats as they +toiled against the river's current, while horror held her. Horror lest +her father at that moment be in mortal agony amongst the heaps left by +the battle's surges; heaps in which, like mounds of ashes, the fire was +not yet dead. Fearful tales she had heard in the prison hospitals of +wounded men lying for days in the Southern sun between the trenches at +Vicksburg, or freezing amidst the snow and sleet at Donelson. + +Was her bitterness against the North not just? What a life had been +Colonel Carvel's! It had dawned brightly. One war had cost him his wife. +Another, and he had lost his fortune, his home, his friends, all that +was dear to him. And that daughter, whom he loved best in all the world, +he was perchance to see no more. + +Mrs. Colfax, yawning, had taken a book and gone to bed. Still Virginia +sat on the porch, while the frogs sang of rain, and the lightning +quivered across the eastern sky. She heard the crunch of wheels in the +gravel. + +A bar of light, peopled by moths, slanted out of the doorway and fell +on a closed carriage. A gentleman slowly ascended the steps. Virginia +recognized him as Mr. Brinsmade. + +“Your cousin Clarence has come home, my dear,” he said. “He was among +the captured at Vicksburg, and is paroled by General Grant.” + +Virginia gave a little cry and started forward. But he held her hands. + +“He has been wounded!” + +“Yes,” she exclaimed, “yes. Oh, tell me, Mr. Brinsmade, tell me--all--” + +“No, he is not dead, but he is very low. Mr. Russell has been kind +enough to come with me.” + +She hurried to call the servants. But they were all there in the light, +in African postures of terror,--Alfred, and Sambo, and Mammy Easter, and +Ned. They lifted the limp figure in gray, and carried it into the hall +chamber, his eyes closed, his face waxen under a beard brown and shaggy. +Heavily, Virginia climbed the stairs to break the news to her aunt. + +There is little need to dwell on the dark days which followed--Clarence +hanging between life and death. That his life was saved was due to +Virginia and to Mammy Easter, and in no particle to his mother. Mrs. +Colfax flew in the face of all the known laws of nursing, until Virginia +was driven to desperation, and held a council of war with Dr. Polk. Then +her aunt grew jealous, talked of a conspiracy, and threatened to send +for Dr. Brown--which Dr. Polk implored her to do. By spells she wept, +when they quietly pushed her from the room and locked the door. She +would creep in to him in the night during Mammy Easter's watches and +talk him into a raging fever. But Virginia slept lightly and took the +alarm. More than one scene these two had in the small hours, while Ned +was riding post haste over the black road to town for the Doctor. + +By the same trusty messenger did Virginia contrive to send a note to +Mrs. Brice, begging her to explain her absence to Judge Whipple. By day +or night Virginia did not leave Bellegarde. And once Dr. Polk, while +walking in the garden, found the girl fast asleep on a bench, her sewing +on her lap. Would that a master had painted his face as he looked down +at her! + +'Twas he who brought Virginia daily news of Judge Whipple. Bad news, +alas! for he seemed to miss her greatly. He had become more querulous +and exacting with patient Mrs. Brice, and inquired for her continually. + +She would not go. But often, when he got into his buggy the Doctor found +the seat filled with roses and fresh fruit. Well he knew where to carry +them. + +What Virginia's feelings were at this time no one will ever know. God +had mercifully given her occupation, first with the Judge, and later, +when she needed it more, with Clarence. It was she whom he recognized +first of all, whose name was on his lips in his waking moments. With +the petulance of returning reason, he pushed his mother away. Unless +Virginia was at his bedside when he awoke, his fever rose. He put his +hot hand into her cool one, and it rested there sometimes for hours. +Then, and only then, did he seem contented. + +The wonder was that her health did not fail. People who saw her during +that fearful summer, fresh and with color in her cheeks, marvelled. +Great-hearted Puss Russell, who came frequently to inquire, was quieted +before her friend, and the frank and jesting tongue was silent in that +presence. Anne Brinsmade came with her father and wondered. A miracle +had changed Virginia. Her poise, her gentleness, her dignity, were the +effects which people saw. Her force people felt. And this is why +we cannot of ourselves add one cubit to our stature. It is God who +changes,--who cleanses us of our levity with the fire of trial. Happy, +thrice happy, those whom He chasteneth. And yet how many are there who +could not bear the fire--who would cry out at the flame. + +Little by little Clarence mended, until he came to sit out on the porch +in the cool of the afternoon. Then he would watch for hours the tassels +stirring over the green fields of corn and the river running beyond, +while the two women sat by. At times, when Mrs. Colfax's headaches came +on, and Virginia was alone with him, he would talk of the war; sometimes +of their childhood, of the mad pranks they played here at Bellegarde, +of their friends. Only when Virginia read to him the Northern account of +the battles would he emerge from a calm sadness into excitement; and +he clenched his fists and tried to rise when he heard of the capture of +Jackson and the fall of Port Hudson. Of love he spoke not a word, and +now that he was better he ceased to hold her hand. But often when she +looked up from her book, she would surprise his dark eyes fixed upon +her, and a look in them of but one interpretation. She was troubled. + +The Doctor came but every other day now, in the afternoon. It was his +custom to sit for a while on the porch chatting cheerily with Virginia, +his stout frame filling the rocking-chair. Dr. Polk's indulgence was +gossip--though always of a harmless nature: how Mr. Cluyme always +managed to squirm over to the side which was in favor, and how Maude +Catherwood's love-letter to a certain dashing officer of the Confederate +army had been captured and ruthlessly published in the hateful Democrat. +It was the Doctor who gave Virginia news of the Judge, and sometimes he +would mention Mrs. Brice. Then Clarence would raise his head; and once +(she saw with trepidation) he had opened his lips to speak. + +One day the Doctor came, and Virginia looked into his face and divined +that he had something to tell her. He sat but a few moments, and when he +arose to go he took her hand. + +“I have a favor to beg of you, Jinny,” he said, “Judge has lost his +nurse. Do you think Clarence could spare you for a little while every +day? I shouldn't ask it,” Dr. Polk continued, somewhat hurriedly for +him, “but the Judge cannot bear a stranger near him, and I am afraid to +have him excited while in this condition.” + +“Mrs. Brice is ill?” she cried. And Clarence, watching, saw her color +go. + +“No,” replied Dr. Polk, “but her son Stephen has come home from the +army. He was transferred to Lauman's brigade, and then he was wounded.” + He jangled the keys in his pocket and continued “It seems that he had no +business in the battle. Johnston in his retreat had driven animals into +all the ponds and shot them, and in the hot weather the water was soon +poisoned. Mr. Brice was scarcely well enough to stand when they made +the charge, and he is now in a dreadful condition He is a fine fellow,” + added the Doctor, with a sigh, “General Sherman sent a special physician +to the boat with him. He is--” Subconsciously the Doctor's arm sought +Virginia's back, as though he felt her swaying. But he was looking at +Clarence, who had jerked himself forward in his chair, his thin hands +convulsively clutching at the arms of it. He did not appear to see +Virginia. + +“Stephen Brice, did you say?” he cried, “will he die?” + +In his astonishment the Doctor passed his palm across his brow, and for +a moment he did not answer. Virginia had taken a step from him, and was +standing motionless, almost rigid, her eyes on his face. + +“Die?” he said, repeating the word mechanically; “my God, I hope not. +The danger is over, and he is resting easily. If he were not,” he said +quickly and forcibly, “I should not be here.” + +The Doctor's mare passed more than one fleet--footed trotter on the +road to town that day. And the Doctor's black servant heard his master +utter the word “fool” twice, and with great emphasis. + +For a long time Virginia stood on the end of the porch, until the +heaving of the buggy harness died on the soft road, She felt Clarence +gaze upon her before she turned to face him. + +“Virginia!” He had called her so of late. “Yes, dear.” + +“Virginia, sit here a moment; I have something to tell you.” + +She came and took the chair beside him, her heart beating, her breast +rising and falling. She looked into his eyes, and her own lashes fell +before the hopelessness there But he put out his fingers wasted by +illness, and she took them in her own. + +He began slowly, as if every word cost him pain. + +“Virginia, we were children together here. I cannot remember the time +when I did not love you, when I did not think of you as my wife. All I +did when we played together was to try to win your applause. That was my +nature I could not help it. Do you remember the day I climbed out on the +rotten branch of the big pear tree yonder to get you that pear--when +I fell on the roof of Alfred's cabin? I did not feel the pain. It was +because you kissed it and cried over me. You are crying now,” he said +tenderly. “Don't, Jinny. It isn't to make you sad that I am saying this. + +“I have had a great deal of time to think lately, Jinny, I was not +brought up seriously,--to be a man. I have been thinking of that day +just before you were eighteen, when you rode out here. How well I +remember it. It was a purple day. The grapes were purple, and a purple +haze was over there across the river. You had been cruel to me. You were +grown a woman then, and I was still nothing but a boy. Do you remember +the doe coming out of the forest, and how she ran screaming when I tried +to kiss you? You told me I was good for nothing. Please don't interrupt +me. It was true what you said, that I was wild and utterly useless, +I had never served or pleased any but myself,--and you. I had never +studied or worked, You were right when you told me I must learn +something,--do something,--become of some account in the world. I am +just as useless to day.” + +“Clarence, after what you have done for the South?” + +He smiled with peculiar bitterness. + +“What have I done for her?” he added. “Crossed the river and burned +houses. I could not build them again. Floated down the river on a log +after a few percussion caps. That did not save Vicksburg.” + +“And how many had the courage to do that?” she exclaimed. + +“Pooh,” he said, “courage! the whole South has it, Courage! If I did not +have that, I would send Sambo to my father's room for his ebony box and +blow my brains out. No, Jinny, I am nothing but a soldier of fortune. +I never possessed any quality but a wild spirit for adventure, to +shirk work. I wanted to go with Walker, you remember. I wanted to go to +Kansas. I wanted to distinguish myself,” he added with a gesture. “But +that is all gone now, Jinny. I wanted to distinguish myself for you. Now +I see how an earnest life might have won you. No, I have not done yet.” + +She raised her head, frightened, and looked at him searchingly. + +“One day,” he said, “one day a good many years ago you and I and Uncle +Comyn were walking along Market Street in front of Judge Whipple's +office, and a slave auction was going on. A girl was being sold on whom +you had set your heart. There was some one in the crowd, a Yankee, who +bid her in and set her free. Do you remember him?” + +He saw her profile, her lips parted, her look far away, She inclined her +head. + +“Yes,” said her cousin, “so do I remember him. He has crossed my path +many times since, Virginia. And mark what I say--it was he whom you +had in mind on that birthday when you implored me to make something of +myself, It was Stephen Brice.” + +Her eyes flashed upon him quickly. + +“Oh, how dare you?” she cried. + +“I dare anything, Virginia,” he answered quietly. “I am not blaming you. +And I am sure that you did not realize that he was the ideal which you +had in mind.” + +“The impression of him has never left it. Fate is in it. Again, that +night at the Brinsmades', when we were in fancy dress, I felt that I had +lost you when I got back. He had been there when I was away, and gone +again. And--and--you never told me.” + +“It was a horrible mistake, Max,” she faltered. “I was waiting for you +down the road, and stopped his horse instead. It--it was nothing--” + +“It was fate, Jinny. In that half-hour I lost you. How I hated that +man,” he cried, “how I hated him?” + +“Hated!” exclaimed Virginia, involuntarily. “Oh, no!” + +“Yes,” he said, “hated! I would have killed him if I could. But now--” + +“But now?” + +“Now he has saved my life. I have not--I could not tell you before: He +came into the place where I was lying in Vicksburg, and they told +him that my only chance was to come North, I turned my back upon him, +insulted him. Yet he went to Sherman and had me brought home--to you, +Virginia. If he loves you,--and I have long suspected that he does--” + +“Oh, no,” she cried, hiding her face “No.” + +“I know he loves you, Jinny,” her cousin continued calmly, inexorably. +“And you know that he does. You must feel that he does. It was a brave +thing to do, and a generous. He knew that you were engaged to me. He +thought that he was saving me for you. He was giving up the hope of +marrying you himself.” + +Virginia sprang to her feet. Unless you had seen her then, you had never +known the woman in her glory. + +“Marry a Yankee!” she cried. “Clarence Colfax, have you known and loved +me all my life that you might accuse me of this? Never, never, never!” + Transformed, he looked incredulous admiration. + +“Jinny, do you mean it?” he cried. + +In answer she bent down with all that gentleness and grace that +was hers, and pressed her lips to his forehead. Long after she had +disappeared in the door he sat staring after her. + +But later, when Mammy Easter went to call her mistress for supper, she +found her with her face buried in the pillows. + + + + +CHAPTER X. IN JUDGE WHIPPLE'S OFFICE + +After this Virginia went to the Judge's bedside every day, in the +morning, when Clarence took his sleep. She read his newspapers to him +when he was well enough. She read the detested Missouri Democrat, which +I think was the greatest trial Virginia ever had to put up with. To have +her beloved South abused, to have her heroes ridiculed, was more than +she could bear. Once, when the Judge was perceptibly better, she flung +the paper out of the window, and left the room. He called her back +penitently. + +“My dear,” he said, smiling admiration, “forgive an old bear. A selfish +old bear, Jinny; my only excuse is my love for the Union. When you are +not here, I lie in agony, lest she has suffered some mortal blow unknown +to me, Jinny. And if God sees fit to spare our great country, the day +will come when you will go down on your knees and thank Him for the +inheritance which He saved for your children. You are a good woman, my +dear, and a strong one. I have hoped that you will see the right. +That you will marry a great citizen, one unwavering in his service and +devotion to our Republic.” The Judge's voice trembled with earnestness +as he spoke. And the gray eyes under the shaggy brows were alight with +the sacred fire of his life's purpose. Undaunted as her spirit was, she +could not answer him then. + +Once, only once, he said to her: “Virginia, I loved your father better +than any man I ever knew. Please God I may see him again before I die.” + +He never spoke of the piano. But sometimes at twilight his eyes would +rest on the black cloth that hid it. + +Virginia herself never touched that cloth to her it seemed the shroud +upon a life of happiness that was dead and gone. + +Virginia had not been with Judge Whipple during the critical week after +Stephen was brought home. But Anne had told her that his anxiety was +a pitiful thing to see, and that it had left him perceptibly weaker. +Certain it was that he was failing fast. So fast that on some days +Virginia, watching him, would send Ned or Shadrach in hot haste for Dr. +Polk. + +At noon Anne would relieve Virginia,--Anne or her mother,--and +frequently Mr. Brinsmade would come likewise. For it is those who have +the most to do who find the most time for charitable deeds. As the hour +for their coming drew near, the Judge would be seeking the clock, and +scarce did Anne's figure appear in the doorway before the question had +arisen to his lips--“And how is my young Captain to-day?” + +That is what he called him,--“My young Captain.” Virginia's choice of +her cousin, and her devotion to him, while seemingly natural enough, +had drawn many a sigh from Anne. She thought it strange that Virginia +herself had never once asked her about Stephen's condition and she spoke +of this one day to the Judge with as much warmth as she was capable of. + +“Jinny's heart is like steel where a Yankee is concerned. If her best +friend were a Yankee--” + +Judge Whipple checked her, smiling. + +“She has been very good to one Yankee I know of,” he said. “And as for +Mrs. Brice, I believe she worships her.” + +“But when I said that Stephen was much better to-day, she swept out of +the room as if she did not care whether he lived or died.” + +“Well, Anne,” the Judge had answered, “you women are a puzzle to me. I +guess you don't understand yourselves,” he added. + +That was a strange month in the life of Clarence Colfax,--the last +of his recovery, while he was waiting for the news of his exchange. +Bellegarde was never more beautiful, for Mrs. Colfax had no whim of +letting the place run down because a great war was in progress. Though +devoted to the South, she did not consecrate her fortune to it. Clarence +gave as much as he could. + +Whole afternoons Virginia and he would sit in the shaded arbor seat; +or at the cool of the day descend to the bench on the lower tier of +the summer garden, to steep, as it were, in the blended perfumes of the +roses and the mignonettes and the pinks. He was soberer than of old. +Often through the night he pondered on the change in her. She, too, was +grave. But he was troubled to analyze her gravity, her dignity. Was this +merely strength of character, the natural result of the trials through +which she had passed, the habit acquired of being the Helper and +comforter instead of the helped and comforted? Long years afterward the +brightly colored portrait of her remained in his eye,--the simple linen +gown of pink or white, the brown hair shining in the sunlight, the +graceful poise of the head. And the background of flowers--flowers +everywhere, far from the field of war. + +Sometimes, when she brought his breakfast on a tray in the morning, +there was laughter in her eyes. In the days gone by they had been all +laughter. + +They were engaged. She was to be his wife. He said it over to himself +many, many times in the day. He would sit for a space, feasting his eyes +upon her until she lifted her look to his, and the rich color flooded +her face. He was not a lover to sit quietly by, was Clarence. And yet, +as the winged days flew on, that is what he did, It was not that she +did not respond to his advances, he did not make them. Nor could he have +told why. Was it the chivalry inherited from a long life of Colfaxes who +were gentlemen? Not wholly. Something of awe had crept into his feeling +for her. + +As the month wore on, and the time drew near for him to go back to the +war, a state that was not quite estrangement, and yet something very +like it, set in. Poor Clarence. Doubts bothered him, and he dared not +give them voice. By night he would plan his speeches,--impassioned, +imploring. To see her in her marvellous severity was to strike him dumb. +Horrible thought! Whether she loved him, whether she did not love +him, she would not give him up. Through the long years of their lives +together, he would never know. He was not a weak man now, was Clarence +Colfax. He was merely a man possessed of a devil, enchained by the power +of self-repression come upon her whom he loved. + +And day by day that power seemed to grow more intense,--invulnerable. +Among her friends and in the little household it had raised Virginia to +heights which she herself did not seem to realize. She was become the +mistress of Bellegarde. Mrs. Colfax was under its sway, and doubly +miserable because Clarence would listen to her tirades no more. + +“When are you to be married?” she had ventured to ask him once. Nor had +she taken pains to hide the sarcasm in her voice. + +His answer, bringing with it her remembrance of her husband at certain +times when it was not safe to question him, had silenced her. Addison +Colfax had not been a quiet man. When he was quiet he was dangerous. + +“Whenever Virginia is ready, mother,” he had replied. Whenever Virginia +was ready! He knew in his heart that if he were to ask her permission +to send for Dr. Posthelwaite to-morrow that she would say yes. Tomorrow +came,--and with it a great envelope, an official, answer to Clarence's +report that he was fit for duty once more. He had been exchanged. He +was to proceed to Cairo, there to await the arrival of the transport +Indianapolis, which was to carry five hundred officers and men from +Sandusky Prison, who were going back to fight once more for the +Confederacy. O that they might have seen the North, all those brave men +who made that sacrifice. That they might have realized the numbers and +the resources and the wealth arrayed against them! + +It was a cool day for September, a perfect day, an auspicious day, and +yet it went the way of the others before it. This was the very fulness +of the year, the earth giving out the sweetness of her maturity, the +corn in martial ranks, with golden plumes nodding. The forest still +in its glory of green. They walked in silence the familiar paths, and +Alfred, clipping the late roses for the supper table, shook his +white head as they passed him. The sun, who had begun to hurry on his +southward journey, went to bed at six. The few clothes Clarence was to +take with him had been packed by Virginia in his bag, and the two were +standing in the twilight on the steps of the house, when Ned came around +the corner. He called his young mistress by name, but she did not hear +him. He called again. + +“Miss Jinny!” + +She started as from a sleep, and paused. + +“Yes, Mr. Johnson,” said she, and smiled. He wore that air of mystery so +dear to darkeys. + +“Gemmen to see you, Miss Jinny.” + +“A gentleman!” she said in surprise. “Where?” + +The negro pointed to the lilac shrubbery. + +“Thar!” + +“What's all this nonsense, Ned?” said Clarence, sharply: “If a man is +there, bring him here at once.” + +“Reckon he won't come, Marse Clarence.” said Ned, “He fearful skeered ob +de light ob day. He got suthin very pertickler fo' Miss Jinny.” + +“Do you know him?” Clarence demanded. + +“No sah--yessah--leastwise I'be seed 'um. Name's Robimson.” + +The word was hardly out of his mouth before Virginia had leaped down the +four feet from the porch to the flower-bed and was running across the +lawn toward the shrubbery. Parting the bushes after her, Clarence found +his cousin confronting a large man, whom he recognized as the carrier +who brought messages from the South. + +“What's the matter, Jinny?” he demanded. + +“Pa has got through the lines,” she said breathlessly. “He--he came up +to see me. Where is he, Robinson?” + +“He went to Judge Whipple's rooms, ma'am. They say the Judge is dying. I +reckoned you knew it, Miss Jinny,” Robinson added contritely. + +“Clarence,” she said, “I must go at once.” + +“I will go with you,” he said; “you cannot go alone.” In a twinkling Ned +and Sambo had the swift pair of horses harnessed, and the light carriage +was flying over the soft clay road toward the city. As they passed Mr. +Brinsmade's place, the moon hung like a great round lantern under +the spreading trees about the house. Clarence caught a glimpse of his +cousin's face in the light. She was leaning forward, her gaze fixed +intently on the stone posts which stood like monuments between the +bushes at the entrance. Then she drew back again into the dark corner +of the barouche. She was startled by a sharp challenge, and the carriage +stopped. Looking out, she saw the provost's guard like black card +figures on the road, and Ned fumbling for his pass. + +On they drove into the city streets until the dark bulk of the Court +House loomed in front of them, and Ned drew rein at the little stairway +which led to the Judge's rooms. Virginia, leaping out of the carriage, +flew up the steps and into the outer office, and landed in the Colonel's +arms. + +“Jinny!” + +“Oh, Pa!” she cried. “Why do you risk your life in this way? If the +Yankees catch you--” + +“They won't catch me, honey,” he answered, kissing her. Then he held her +out at arm's length and gazed earnestly into her face. Trembling, she +searched his own. “Pa, how old you look!” + +“I'm not precisely young, my dear,” he said, smiling. His hair was +nearly white, and his face scared. But he was a fine erect figure of a +man, despite the shabby clothes he wore, and the mud-bespattered boots. + +“Pa,” she whispered, “it was foolhardy to come here. Why did you come to +St. Louis at all?” + +“I came to see you, Jinny, I reckon. And when I got home to-night and +heard Silas was dying, I just couldn't resist. He's the oldest friend +I've got in St. Louis, honey and now--now--” + +“Pa, you've been in battle?” + +“Yes,” he said. + +“And you weren't hurt; I thank God for that,” she whispered. After a +while: “Is Uncle Silas dying?” + +“Yes, Jinny; Dr. Polk is in there now, and says that he can't last +through the night. Silas has been asking for you, honey, over and over. +He says you were very good to him,--that you and Mrs. Brice gave up +everything to nurse him.” + +“She did,” Virginia faltered. “She was here night and day until her son +came home. She is a noble woman--” + +“Her son?” repeated the Colonel. “Stephen Brice? Silas has done nothing +the last half-hour but call his name. He says he must see the boy before +he dies. Polk says he is not strong enough to come.” + +“Oh, no, he is not strong enough,” cried Virginia. The Colonel looked +down at her queerly. “Where is Clarence?” he asked. + +She had not thought of Clarence. She turned hurriedly, glanced around +the room, and then peered down the dark stairway. + +“Why, he came in with me. I wonder why he did not follow me up?” + +“Virginia.” + +“Yes, Pa.” + +“Virginia, are you happy?” + +“Why, yes, Pa.” + +“Are you going to marry Clarence?” he asked. + +“I have promised,” she said simply. + +Then after a long pause, seeing her father said nothing, she added, +“Perhaps he was waiting for you to see me alone. I will go down to see +if he is in the carriage.” + +The Colonel started with her, but she pulled him back in alarm. + +“You will be seen, Pa,” she cried. “How can you be so reckless?” + +He stayed at the top of the passage, holding open the door that she +might have light. When she reached the sidewalk, there was Ned standing +beside the horses, and the carriage empty. + +“Ned!” + +“Yass'm, Miss Jinny.” + +“Where's Mr. Clarence?” + +“He done gone, Miss Tinny.” + +“Gone?” + +“Yass'm. Fust I seed was a man plump out'n Willums's, Miss Jinny. He was +a-gwine shufflin' up de street when Marse Clarence put out after him, +pos' has'e. Den he run.” + +She stood for a moment on the pavement in thought, and paused on the +stairs again, wondering whether it were best to tell her father. Perhaps +Clarence had seen--she caught her breath at the thought and pushed open +the door. + +“Oh, Pa, do you think you are safe here?” she cried. “Why, yes, honey, I +reckon so,” he answered. “Where's Clarence?” + +“Ned says he ran after a man who was hiding in an entrance. Pa, I am +afraid they are watching the place.” + +“I don't think so, Jinny. I came here with Polk, in his buggy, after +dark.” + +Virginia, listening, heard footsteps on the stairs, and seized her +father's sleeve. + +“Think of the risk you are running, Pa,” she whispered. She would have +dragged him to the closet. But it was too late. The door opened, and Mr. +Brinsmade entered, and with him a lady veiled. + +At sight of Mr. Carvel Mr. Brinsmade started back in surprise. How long +he stared at his old friend Virginia could not say. It seemed to her an +eternity. But Mrs. Brice has often told since how straight the Colonel +stood, his fine head thrown back, as he returned the glance. Then Mr. +Brinsmade came forward, with his hand outstretched. + +“Comyn,” said he, his voice breaking a little, “I have known you these +many years as a man of unstained honor. You are safe with me. I ask no +questions. God will judge whether I have done my duty.” + +Mr. Carvel took his friend's hand. “Thank you, Calvin,” he said. “I give +you my word of honor as a gentleman that I came into this city for no +other reason than to see my daughter. And hearing that my old friend was +dying, I could not resist the temptation, sir--” + +Mr. Brinsmade finished for him. And his voice shook. + +“To come to his bedside. How many men do you think would risk their +lives so, Mrs. Brice?” + +“Not many, indeed, Mr. Brinsmade,” she answered. “Thank God he will now +die happy. I know it has been much on his mind.” + +The Colonel bowed over her hand. + +“And in his name, madam,--in the name of my oldest and best friend,--I +thank you for what you have done for him. I trust that you will allow me +to add that I have learned from my daughter to respect and admire you. I +hope that your son is doing well.” + +“He is, thank you, Colonel Carvel. If he but knew that the Judge were +dying, I could not have kept him at home. Dr. Polk says that he must not +leave the house, or undergo any excitement.” + +Just then the door of the inner room opened, and Dr. Polk came out. He +bowed gravely to Mrs. Brice and Mr. Brinsmade, and he patted Virginia. + +“The Judge is still asleep,” he said gently. “And--he may not wake up in +this world.” + +Silently, sadly, they went together into that little room where so +much of Judge Whipple's life had been spent. How little it was! And +how completely they filled it,--these five people and the big Rothfield +covered with the black cloth. Virginia pressed her father's arm as they +leaned against it, and brushed her eyes. The Doctor turned the wick of +the night-lamp. + +What was that upon the sleeper's face from which they drew back? A +smile? Yes, and a light. The divine light which is shed upon those +who have lived for others, who have denied themselves the lusts of the +flesh, For a long space, perhaps an hour, they stayed, silent save for +a low word now and again from the Doctor as he felt the Judge's heart. +Tableaux from the past floated before Virginia's eyes. Of the old days, +of the happy days in Locust Street, of the Judge quarrelling with her +father, and she and Captain Lige smiling nearby. And she remembered how +sometimes when the controversy was finished the Judge would rub his nose +and say: + +“It's my turn now, Lige.” + +Whereupon the Captain would open the piano, and she would play the hymn +that he liked best. It was “Lead, Kindly Light.” + +What was it in Silas Whipple's nature that courted the pain of memories? +What pleasure could it have been all through his illness to look upon +this silent and cruel reminder of days gone by forever? She had heard +that Stephen Brice had been with the Judge when he had bid it in. She +wondered that he had allowed it, for they said that he was the only +one who had ever been known to break the Judge's will. Virginia's +eyes rested on Margaret Brice, who was seated at the head of the bed, +smoothing the pillows The strength of Stephen's features were in hers, +but not the ruggedness. Her features were large, indeed, yet stanch and +softened. The widow, as if feeling Virginia's look upon her, glanced up +from the Judge's face and smiled at her. The girl colored with pleasure, +and again at the thought which she had had of the likeness between +mother and son. + +Still the Judge slept on, while they watched. And at length the thought +of Clarence crossed Virginia's mind. + +Why had he not returned? Perhaps he was in the office without. +Whispering to her father, she stole out on tiptoe. The office was empty. +Descending to the street, she was unable to gain any news of Clarence +from Ned, who was becoming alarmed likewise. + +Perplexed and troubled, she climbed the stairs again. No sound came from +the Judge's room Perhaps Clarence would be back at any moment. Perhaps +her father was in danger. She sat down to think,--her elbows on the desk +in front of her, her chin in her hand, her eyes at the level of a line +of books which stood on end.--Chitty's Pleadings, Blackstone, Greenleaf +on Evidence. Absently; as a person whose mind is in trouble, she reached +out and took one of them down and opened it. Across the flyleaf, in a +high and bold hand, was written the name, Stephen Atterbury Brice. + +It was his desk! She was sitting in his chair! + +She dropped the book, and, rising abruptly, crossed quickly to the other +side of the room. Then she turned, hesitatingly, and went back. This was +his desk--his chair, in which he had worked so faithfully for the man +who lay dying beyond the door. For him whom they all loved--whose last +hours they were were to soothe. Wars and schisms may part our bodies, +but stronger ties unite our souls. Through Silas Whipple, through his +mother, Virginia knew that she was woven of one piece with Stephen +Brice. In a thousand ways she was reminded, lest she drive it from her +belief. She might marry another, and that would not matter. + +She sank again into his chair, and gave herself over to the thoughts +crowding in her heart. How the threads of his life ran next to hers, and +crossed and recrossed them. The slave auction, her dance with him, the +Fair, the meeting at Mr. Brinsmade's gate,--she knew them all. Her love +and admiration for his mother. Her dreams of him--for she did dream +of him. And now he had saved Clarence's life that she might marry her +cousin. Was it true that she would marry Clarence? That seemed to +her only a dream. It had never seemed real. Again she glanced at the +signature in the book, as if fascinated by the very strength of it. She +turned over a few pages of the book, “Supposing the defendant's counsel +essays to prove by means of--” that was his writing again, a marginal, +note. There were marginal notes on every page--even the last was covered +with them, And then at the end, “First reading, February, 1858. Second +reading, July, 1858. Bought with some of money obtained by first article +for M. D.” That capacity for work, incomparable gift, was what she had +always coveted the most. Again she rested her elbows on the desk and her +chin on her hands, and sighed unconsciously. + +She had not heard the step on the stair. She had not seen the door +open. She did not know that any one wage in the room until she heard his +voice, and then she thought that she was dreaming. + +“Miss Carvel!” + +“Yes?” Her head did not move. He took a step toward her. + +“Miss Carvel!” + +Slowly she raised her face to his, unbelief and wonder in her +eyes,--unbelief and wonder and fright. No; it could not be he. But +when she met the quality of his look, the grave tenderness of it, she +trembled, and our rendered her own to the page where his handwriting +quivered and became a blur. + +He never knew the effort it cost her to rise and confront him. She +herself had not measured or fathomed the power which his very person +exhaled. It seemed to have come upon him suddenly. He needed not to have +spoken for her to have felt that. What it was she could not tell. She +knew alone that it was nigh irresistible, and she grasped the back of +the chair as though material support might sustain her. + +“Is he--dead?” + +She was breathing hard. + +“No,” she said. “Not--not yet, They are waiting for the end.” + +“And you?” he asked in grave surprise, glancing at the door of the +Judge's room. + +Then she remembered Clarence. + +“I am waiting for my cousin,” she said. + +Even as she spoke she was with this man again at the Brinsmade gate. +Those had been her very words! Intuition told her that he, too, was +thinking of that time. Now he had found her at his desk, and, as if that +were not humiliation enough, with one of his books taken down and laid +open at his signature. Suffused, she groped for words to carry her on. + +“I am waiting for Clarence, Mr. Brice. He was here, and is gone +somewhere.” + +He did not seem to take account of the speech. And his silence--goad +to indiscretion--pressed her to add:-- “You saved him, Mr. Brice. I--we +all--thank you so much. And that is not all I want to say. It is a poor +enough acknowledgment of what you did,--for we have not always treated +you well.” Her voice faltered almost to faintness, as he raised his hand +in pained protest. But she continued: “I shall regard it as a debt I can +never repay. It is not likely that in my life to come I can ever help +you, but I shall pray for that opportunity.” + +He interrupted her. + +“I did nothing, Miss Carvel, nothing that the most unfeeling man in our +army would not do. Nothing that I would not have done for the merest +stranger.” + +“You saved him for me,” she said. + +O fateful words that spoke of themselves! She turned away from him for +very shame, and yet she heard him saying:-- “Yes, I saved him for you.” + +His voice was in the very note of the sadness which has the strength +to suffer, to put aside the thought of self. A note to which her soul +responded with anguish when she turned to him with the natural cry of +woman. + +“Oh, you ought not to have come here to-night. Why did you come? The +Doctor forbade it. The consequences may kill you.” + +“It does not matter much,” he answered. “The Judge was dying.” + +“How did you know?” + +“I guessed it,--because my mother had left me.” + +“Oh, you ought not to have come!” she said again. + +“The Judge has been my benefactor,” he answered quietly. “I could walk, +and it was my duty to come.” + +“You did not walk!” she gasped. + +He smiled, “I had no carriage,” he said. + +With the instinct of her sex she seized the chair and placed it under +him. “You must sit down at once,” she cried. + +“But I am not tired,” he replied. + +“Oh, you must sit down, you must, Captain Brice.” He started at the +title, which came so prettily from her lips, “Won't you please!” she +said pleadingly. + +He sat down. And, as the sun peeps out of a troubled sky, she smiled. + +“It is your chair,” she said. + +He glanced at the book, and the bit of sky was crimson. But still he +said nothing. + +“It is your book,” she stammered. “I did not know that it was yours +when I took it down. I--I was looking at it while I was waiting for +Clarence.” + +“It is dry reading,” he remarked, which was not what he wished to say. + +“And yet--” + +“Yes?” + +“And yet you have read it twice.” The confession had slipped to her +lips. + +She was sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at him. Still he +did not look at her. All the will that was left him averted his head. +And the seal of honor was upon his speech. And he wondered if man were +ever more tempted. + +Then the evil spread its wings, and soared away into the night. And +the moment was past. Peace seemed to come upon them both, quieting the +tumult in their hearts, and giving them back their reason. Respect like +wise came to the girl,--respect that was akin to awe. It was he who +spoke first. + +“My mother has me how faithfully you nursed the Judge, Miss Carvel. It +was a very noble thing to do.” + +“Not noble at all,” she replied hastily, “your mother did the most of +it, And he is an old friend of my father--” + +“It was none the less noble,” said Stephen, warmly, “And he quarrelled +with Colonel Carvel.” + +“My father quarrelled with him,” she corrected. “It was well that I +should make some atonement. And yet mine was no atonement, I love Judge +Whipple. It was a--a privilege to see your mother every day--oh, how +he would talk of you! I think he loves you better than any one on this +earth.” + +“Tell me about him,” said Stephen, gently. + +Virginia told him, and into the narrative she threw the whole of her +pent-up self. How patient the Judge had been, and the joy he had derived +from Stephen's letters. “You were very good to write to him so often,” + she said. It seemed like a dream to Stephen, like one of the many dreams +of her, the mystery of which was of the inner life beyond our ken. He +could not recall a time when she had not been rebellious, antagonistic. +And now--as he listened to her voice, with its exquisite low tones and +modulations, as he sat there in this sacred intimacy, perchance to be +the last in his life, he became dazed. His eyes, softened, with supreme +eloquence cried out that she, was his, forever and forever. The magnetic +force which God uses to tie the worlds together was pulling him to her. +And yet the Puritan resisted. + +Then the door swung open, and Clarence Colfax, out of breath, ran into +the room. He stopped short when he saw them, his hand fell to his sides, +and his words died on his lips. Virginia did not stir. + +It was Stephen who rose to meet him, and with her eyes the girl followed +his motions. The broad and loosely built frame of the Northerner, his +shoulders slightly stooping, contrasted with Clarence's slighter figure, +erect, compact, springy. The Southerner's eye, for that moment, was +flint struck with the spark from the steel. Stephen's face, thinned by +illness, was grave. The eyes kindly, yet penetrating. For an instant +they stood thus regarding each other, neither offering a hand. It was +Stephen who spoke first, and if there was a trace of emotion in his +voice, one who was listening intently failed to mark it. + +“I am glad to see that you have recovered, Colonel Colfax,” he said. + +“I should indeed be without gratitude if I did not thank Captain Brice +for my life,” answered Clarence. Virginia flushed. She had detected the +undue accent on her cousin's last words, and she glanced apprehensively +at Stephen. His forceful reply surprised them both. + +“Miss Carvel has already thanked me sufficiently, sir,” he said. “I am +happy to have been able to have done you a good turn, and at the same +time to have served her so well. It was she who saved your life. It is +to her your thanks are chiefly due. I believe that I am not going too +far, Colonel Colfax,” he added, “when I congratulate you both.” + +Before her cousin could recover, Virginia slid down from the desk and +had come between them. How her eyes shone and her lip trembled as she +gazed at him, Stephen has never forgotten. What a woman she was as she +took her cousin's arm and made him a curtsey. + +“What you have done may seem a light thing to you, Captain Brice,” she +said. “That is apt to be the way with those who have big hearts. You +have put upon Colonel Colfax, and upon me, a life's obligation.” + +When she began to speak, Clarence raised his head. As he glanced, +incredulous, from her to Stephen, his look gradually softened, and +when she had finished, his manner had become again frank, boyish, +impetuous--nay, penitent. He seized Stephen's hand. + +“Forgive me, Brice,” he cried. “Forgive me. I should have known +better. I--I did you an injustice, and you, Virginia. I was a fool--a +scoundrel.” Stephen shook his head. + +“No, you were neither,” he said. Then upon his face came the smile of +one who has the strength to renounce, all that is dearest to him--that +smile of the unselfish, sweetest of all. It brought tears to Virginia. +She was to see it once again, upon the features of one who bore a +cross,--Abraham Lincoln. Clarence looked, and then he turned away toward +the door to the stairway, as one who walks blindly, in a sorrow. + +His hand was on the knob when Virginia seemed to awake. She flew after +him: + +“Wait!” she whispered. + +Then she raised her eyes, slowly, to Stephen, who was standing +motionless beside his chair. + +“Captain Brice!” + +“Yes,” he answered. + +“My father is in the Judge's room,” she said. + +“Your father!” he exclaimed. “I thought--” + +“That he was an officer in the Confederate Army. So he is.” Her head +went up as she spoke. + +Stephen stared at her, troubled. Suddenly her manner, changed. She took +a step toward him, appealingly. + +“Oh, he is not a spy,” she cried. “He has given Mr Brinsmade his word +that he came here for no other purpose than to see me. Then he heard +that the Judge was dying--” + +“He has given his word to Mr. Brinsmade? + +“Yes.” + +“Then,” said Stephen, “what Mr. Brinsmade sanctions is not for me to +question.” + +She gave him yet another look, a fleeting one which he did not see. Then +she softly opened the door and passed into the room of the dying man. +Stephen followed her. As for Clarence, he stood for a space staring +after them. Then he went noiselessly down the stairs into the street. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT + +When the Judge opened his eyes for the last time in this world, they +fell first upon the face of his old friend, Colonel Carvel. Twice he +tried to speak his name, and twice he failed. The third time he said it +faintly. + +“Comyn!” + +“Yes, Silas.” + +“Comyn, what are you doing here? + +“I reckon I came to see you, Silas,” answered the Colonel. + +“To see me die,” said the Judge, grimly. + +Colonel Carvel's face twitched, and the silence in that little room +seemed to throb. + +“Comyn,” said the Judge again, “I heard that you had gone South to fight +against your country. I see you here. Can it be that you have at last +returned in your allegiances to the flag for which your forefathers +died?” + +Poor Colonel Carvel + +“I am still of the same mind, Silas,” he said. + +The Judge turned his face away, his thin lips moving as in prayer. But +they knew that he was not praying, “Silas,” said Mr. Carvel, “we were +friends for twenty years. Let us be friends again, before--” + +“Before I die,” the Judge interrupted, “I am ready to die. Yes, I am +ready. I have had a hard life, Comyn, and few friends. It was my fault. +I--I did not know how to make them. Yet no man ever valued those few +more than! But,” he cried, the stern fire unquenched to the last, “I +would that God had spared me to see this Rebellion stamped out. For +it will be stamped out.” To those watching, his eyes seemed fixed on a +distant point, and the light of prophecy was in them. “I would that +God had spared me to see this Union supreme once more. Yes, it will +be supreme. A high destiny is reserved for this nation--! I think the +highest of all on this earth.” Amid profound silence he leaned back on +the pillows from which he had risen, his breath coming fast. None dared +look at the neighbor beside them. + +It was Stephen's mother who spoke. “Would you not like to see a +clergyman, Judge?” she asked. + +The look on his face softened as he turned to her. + +“No, madam,” he answered; “you are clergyman enough for me. You are near +enough to God--there is no one in this room who is not worthy to stand +in the presence of death. Yet I wish that a clergyman were here, that +he might listen to one thing I have to say. When I was a boy I worked my +way down the river to New York, to see the city. I met a bishop there. +He said to me, 'Sit down, my son, I want to talk to you. I know your +father in Albany. You are Senator Whipple's son.' I said to him, 'No, +sir, I am not Senator Whipple's son. I am no relation of his.' If the +bishop had wished to talk to me after that, Mrs. Brice, he might have +made my life a little easier--a little sweeter. I know that they are not +all like that. But it was by just such things that I was embittered when +I was a boy.” He stopped, and when he spoke again, it was more slowly, +more gently, than any of them had heard him speak in all his life +before. “I wish that some of the blessings which I am leaving now had +come to me then--when I was a boy. I might have done my little share in +making the world a brighter place to live in, as all of you have done. +Yes, as all of you are now doing for me. I am leaving the world with a +better opinion of it than I ever held in life. God hid the sun from me +when I was a little child. Margaret Brice,” he said, “if I had had such +a mother as you, I would have been softened then. I thank God that He +sent you when He did.” + +The widow bowed her head, and a tear fell upon his pillow. + +“I have done nothing,” she murmured, “nothing.” + +“So shall they answer at the last whom He has chosen,” said the Judge. +“I was sick, and ye visited me. He has promised to remember those who do +that. Hold up your head, my daughter. God has been good to you. He has +given you a son whom all men may look in the face, of whom you need +never be ashamed. Stephen,” said the Judge, “come here.” + +Stephen made his way to the bedside, but because of the moisture in his +eyes he saw but dimly the gaunt face. And yet he shrank back in awe at +the change in it. So must all of the martyrs have looked when the +fire of the faggots licked their feet. So must John Bunyan have stared +through his prison bars at the sky. + +“Stephen,” he said, “you have been faithful in a few things. So shall +you be made ruler over many things. The little I have I leave to you, +and the chief of this is an untarnished name. I know that you will be +true to it because I have tried your strength. Listen carefully to what +I have to say, for I have thought over it long. In the days gone by our +fathers worked for the good of the people, and they had no thought of +gain. A time is coming when we shall need that blood and that bone in +this Republic. Wealth not yet dreamed of will flow out of this land, and +the waters of it will rot all save the pure, and corrupt all save the +incorruptible. Half-tried men wilt go down before that flood. You and +those like you will remember how your fathers governed,--strongly, +sternly, justly. It was so that they governed themselves. + +“Be vigilant. Serve your city, serve your state, but above all serve +your country.” + +He paused to catch his breath, which was coming painfully now, and +reached out his bony hand to seek Stephen's. “I was harsh with you at +first, my son,” he went on. “I wished to try you. And when I had tried +you I wished your mind to open, to keep pace with the growth of this +nation. I sent you to see Abraham Lincoln that you might be born +again--in the West. You were born again. I saw it when you came back--I +saw it in your face. O God,” he cried, with sudden eloquence. “I would +that his hands--Abraham Lincoln's hands--might be laid upon all who +complain and cavil and criticise, and think of the little things in +life: I would that his spirit might possess their spirit!” + +He stopped again. They marvelled and were awed, for never in all his +days had such speech broken from this man. “Good-by, Stephen,” he said, +when they thought he was not to speak again. “Hold the image of Abraham +Lincoln in front of you. Never forget him. You--you are a man after his +own heart--and--and mine.” + +The last word was scarcely audible. They started for ward, for his eyes +were closed. But presently he stirred again, and opened them. + +“Brinsmade,” he said, “Brinsmade, take care of my orphan girls. Send +Shadrach here.” + +The negro came forth, shuffling and sobbing, from the doorway. + +“You ain't gwine away, Marse Judge?” + +“Yes, Shadrach, good-by. You have served me well, I have left you +provided for.” + +Shadrach kissed the hand of whose secret charity he knew so much. Then +the Judge withdrew it, and motioned to him to rise. He called his oldest +friend by name. And Colonel Carvel came from the corner where he had +been listening, with his face drawn. + +“Good-by, Comyn. You were my friend when there was none other. You were +true to me when the hand of every man was against me. You--you have +risked your life to come to me here, May God spare it for Virginia.” + +At the sound of her name, the girl started. She came and bent over him. +And when she kissed him on the forehead, he trembled. + +“Uncle Silas!” she faltered. + +Weakly he reached up and put his hands on her shoulders. He whispered +in her ear. The tears came and lay wet upon her lashes as she undid the +button at his throat. + +There, on a piece of cotton twine, hung a little key, She took it off, +but still his hands held her. + +“I have saved it for you, my dear,” he said. “God bless you--” why did +his eyes seek Stephen's?--“and make your life happy. Virginia--will you +play my hymn--once more--once more?” + +They lifted the night lamp from the piano, and the medicine. It was +Stephen who stripped it of the black cloth it had worn, who stood by +Virginia ready to lift the lid when she had turned the lock. The girl's +exaltation gave a trembling touch divine to the well-remembered chords, +and those who heard were lifted, lifted far above and beyond the power +of earthly spell. + + “Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom + Lead Thou me on + The night is dark, and I am far from home; + Lead Thou me on. + Keep Thou my feet! I do not ask to see + The distant scene; one step enough for me.” + +A sigh shook Silas Whipple's wasted frame, and he died. + + + + +Volume 8. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE LAST CARD + +Mr. Brinsmade and the Doctor were the first to leave the little room +where Silas Whipple had lived and worked and died, Mr. Brinsmade bent +upon one of those errands which claimed him at all times. He took +Shadrach with him. Virginia sat on, a vague fear haunting her,--a fear +for her father's safety. Where was Clarence? What had he seen? Was the +place watched? These questions, at first intruding upon her sorrow, +remained to torture her. + +Softly she stirred from the chair where she had sat before the piano, +and opened the door of the outer office. A clock in a steeple near by +was striking twelve. The Colonel did not raise his head. Only Stephen +saw her go; she felt his eyes following her, and as she slipped out +lifted hers to meet them for a brief instant through the opening of the +door. Then it closed behind her. + +First of all she knew that the light in the outer office was burning +dimly, and the discovery gave her a shock. Who had turned it down? Had +Clarence? Was he here? Fearfully searching the room for him, her gaze +was held by a figure in the recess of the window at the back of the +room. A solid, bulky figure it was, and, though uncertainly outlined +in the semi-darkness, she knew it. She took a step nearer, and a cry +escaped her. + +The man was Eliphalet Hopper. He got down from the sill with a motion +at once sheepish and stealthy. Her breath caught, and instinctively she +gave back toward the door, as if to open it again. + +“Hold on!” he said. “I've got something I want to say to you, Miss +Virginia.” + +His tones seemed strangely natural. They were not brutal. But she +shivered and paused, horrified at the thought of what she was about to +do. Her father was in that room--and Stephen. She must keep them there, +and get this man away. She must not show fright before him, and yet she +could not trust her voice to speak just then. She must not let him know +that she was afraid of him--this she kept repeating to herself. But how +to act? Suddenly an idea flashed upon her. + +Virginia never knew how she gathered the courage to pass him, even +swiftly, and turn up the gas. He started back, blinking as the +jet flared. For a moment she stood beside it, with her head high; +confronting him and striving to steady herself for speech. + +“Why have you come here?” she said. “Judge Whipple--died--to-night.” + +The dominating note in his answer was a whine, as if, in spite of +himself, he were awed. + +“I ain't here to see the Judge.” + +She was pale, and quite motionless. And she faltered now. She felt her +lips moving, but knew not whether the words had come. + +“What do you mean?” + +He gained confidence. The look in his little eyes was the filmy look of +those of an animal feasting. + +“I came here to see you,” he said, “--you.” She was staring at him now, +in horror. “And if you don't give me what I want, I cal'late to see some +one else--in there,” said Mr. Hopper. + +He smiled, for she was swaying, her lids half closed. By a supreme +effort she conquered her terror and looked at him. The look was in his +eyes still, intensified now. + +“How dare you speak to me after what has happened! she said. If Colonel +Carvel were here, he would--kill you.” + +He flinched at the name and the word, involuntarily. He wiped his +forehead, hot at the very thought. + +“I want to know!” he exclaimed, in faint-hearted irony. Then, +remembering his advantage, he stepped close to her. + +“He is here,” he said, intense now. “He is here, in that there room.” He +seized her wrists. Virginia struggled, and yet she refrained from crying +out. “He never leaves this city without I choose. I can have him hung if +I choose,” he whispered, next to her. + +“Oh!” she cried; “oh, if you choose!” + +Still his body crept closer, and his face closer. And her strength was +going. + +“There's but one price to pay,” he said hoarsely, “there's but one price +to pay, and that's you--you. I cal'late you'll marry me now.” + +Delirious at the touch of her, he did not hear the door open. Her senses +were strained for that very sound. She heard it close again, and a +footstep across the room. She knew the step--she knew the voice, and her +heart leaped at the sound of it in anger. An arm in a blue sleeve came +between them, and Eliphalet Hopper staggered and fell across the books +on the table, his hand to his face. Above him towered Stephen Brice. +Towered was the impression that came to Virginia then, and so she +thought of the scene ever afterward. Small bits, like points of tempered +steel, glittered in Stephen's eyes, and his hands following up the +mastery he had given them clutched Mr. Hopper's shoulders. Twice Stephen +shook him so that his head beat upon the table. + +“You--you beast!” he cried, but he kept his voice low. And then, as if +he expected Hopper to reply: “Shall I kill you?” + +Again he shook him violently. He felt Virginia's touch on his arm. + +“Stephen!” she cried, “your wounds! Be careful! Oh, do be careful!” + +She had called him Stephen. He turned slowly, and his hands fell from +Mr. Hopper's cowering form as his eyes met hers. Even he could not +fathom the appeal, the yearning, in their dark blue depths. And yet what +he saw there made him tremble. She turned away, trembling too. + +“Please sit down,” she entreated. “He--he won't touch me again while you +are here.” + +Eliphalet Hopper raised himself from the desk, and one of the big books +fell with a crash to the floor. Then they saw him shrink, his eyes fixed +upon some one behind them. Before the Judge's door stood Colonel Carvel, +in calm, familiar posture, his feet apart, and his head bent forward as +he pulled at his goatee. + +“What is this man doing here, Virginia?” he asked. She did not answer +him, nor did speech seem to come easily to Mr. Hopper in that instant. +Perhaps the sight of Colonel Carvel had brought before him too, vividly +the memory of that afternoon at Glencoe. + +All at once Virginia grasped the fulness of the power in this man's +hands. At a word from him her father would be shot as a spy--and Stephen +Brice, perhaps, as a traitor. But if Colonel Carvel should learn that he +had seized her,--here was the terrible danger of the situation. Well she +knew what the Colonel would do. Would. Stephen tell him? She trusted in +his coolness that he would not. + +Before a word of reply came from any of the three, a noise was heard +on the stairway. Some one was coming up. There followed four seconds +of suspense, and then Clarence came in. She saw that his face wore a +worried, dejected look. It changed instantly when he glanced about +him, and an oath broke from his lips as he singled out Eliphalet Hopper +standing in sullen aggressiveness, beside the table. + +“So you're the spy, are you?” he said in disgust. Then he turned his +back and faced his uncle. “I saw, him in Williams's entry as we drove +up. He got away from me.” + +A thought seemed to strike him. He strode to the open window at the back +of the office, and looked out, There was a roof under it. + +“The sneak got in here,” he said. “He knew I was waiting for him in the +street. So you're the spy, are you?” + +Mr. Hopper passed a heavy hand across the cheek where Stephen had struck +him. + +“No, I ain't the spy,” he said, with a meaning glance at the Colonel. + +“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Clarence, fiercely. + +“I cal'late that he knows,” Eliphalet replied, jerking his head toward +Colonel Carvel. “Where's his Confederate uniform? What's to prevent my +calling up the provost's guard below?” he continued, with a smile that +was hideous on his swelling face. + +It was the Colonel who answered him, very quickly and very clearly. + +“Nothing whatever, Mr. Hopper,” he said. “This is the way out.” He +pointed at the door. Stephen, who was watching him, could not tell +whether it were a grim smile that creased the corners of the Colonel's +mouth as he added. “You might prefer the window.” + +Mr. Hopper did not move, but his eyes shifted to Virginia's form. +Stephen deliberately thrust himself between them that he might not see +her. + +“What are you waiting for?” said the Colonel, in the mild voice that +should have been an ominous warning. Still Mr. Hopper did not move. It +was clear that he had not reckoned upon all of this; that he had waited +in the window to deal with Virginia alone. But now the very force of a +desire which had gathered strength in many years made him reckless. His +voice took on the oily quality in which he was wont to bargain. + +“Let's be calm about this business, Colonel,” he said. “We won't say +anything about the past. But I ain't set on having you shot. There's a +consideration that would stop me, and I cal'late you know what it is.” + +Then the Colonel made a motion. But before he had taken a step Virginia +had crossed the room swiftly, and flung herself upon him. + +“Oh, don't, Pa!” she cried. “Don't! Tell him that I will agree to it. +Yes, I will. I can't have you--shot.” The last word came falteringly, +faintly. + +“Let me go,--honey,” whispered the Colonel, gently. His eyes did not +leave Eliphalet. He tried to disengage himself, but her fingers were +clasped about his neck in a passion of fear and love. And then, while +she clung to him, her head was raised to listen. The sound of Stephen +Brice's voice held her as in a spell. His words were coming coldly, +deliberately, and yet so sharply that each seemed to fall like a lash. + +“Mr. Hopper, if ever I hear of your repeating what you have seen or +heard in this room, I will make this city and this state too hot for +you to live in. I know you. I know how you hide in areas, how you talk +sedition in private, how you have made money out of other men's misery. +And, what is more, I can prove that you have had traitorous dealings +with the Confederacy. General Sherman has been good enough to call +himself a friend of mine, and if he prosecutes you for your dealings +in Memphis, you will get a term in a Government prison, You ought to be +hung. Colonel Carvel has shown you the door. Now go.” + +And Mr. Hopper went. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. FROM THE LETTERS OF MAJOR STEPHEN BRICE + +Of the Staff of General Sherman on the March to the Sea, and on the +March from Savannah Northward. + +HEADQUARTERS MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSISSIPPI GOLDSBORO, N.C. MARCH +24, 1865 + +DEAR MOTHER: The South Carolina Campaign is a thing of the past. I pause +as I write these words--they seem so incredible to me. We have marched +the four hundred and twenty-five miles in fifty days, and the General +himself has said that it is the longest and most important march ever +made by an organized army in a civilized country. I know that you will +not be misled by the words “civilized country.” Not until the history of +this campaign is written will the public realize the wide rivers and +all but impassable swamps we have crossed with our baggage trains and +artillery. The roads (by courtesy so called) were a sea of molasses and +every mile of them has had to be corduroyed. For fear of worrying you I +did not write you from Savannah how they laughed at us for starting at +that season of the year. They said we would not go ten miles, and I most +solemnly believe that no one but “Uncle Billy” and an army organized and +equipped by him could have gone ten miles. Nothing seems to stop him. +You have probably remarked in the tone of my letters ever since we left +Kingston for the sea, a growing admiration for “my General.” + +It seems very strange that this wonderful tactician can be the same man +I met that day going to the Arsenal in the streetcar, and again at Camp +Jackson. I am sure that history will give him a high place among the +commanders of the world. Certainly none was ever more tireless than +he. He never fights a battle when it can be avoided, and his march into +Columbia while threatening Charleston and Augusta was certainly a master +stroke of strategy. + +I think his simplicity his most remarkable trait. You should see him as +he rides through the army, an erect figure, with his clothes all angular +and awry, and an expanse of white sock showing above his low shoes. +You can hear his name running from file to file; and some times the +new regiments can't resist cheering. He generally says to the +Colonel:--“Stop that noise, sir. Don't like it.” + +On our march to the sea, if the orders were ever given to turn +northward, “the boys” would get very much depressed. One moonlight night +I was walking my horse close to the General's over the pine needles, +when we overheard this conversation between two soldiers:-- “Say, John,” + said one, “I guess Uncle Billy don't know our corps is goin' north.” + +“I wonder if he does,'” said John. “If I could only get a sight of them +white socks, I'd know it was all right.” + +The General rode past without a word, but I heard him telling the story +to Mower the next day. + +I can find little if any change in his manner since I knew him first. +He is brusque, but kindly, and he has the same comradeship with officers +and men--and even the negroes who flock to our army. But few dare to +take advantage of it, and they never do so twice. I have been very near +to him, and have tried not to worry him or ask many foolish questions. +Sometimes on the march he will beckon me to close up to him, and we have +a conversation something on this order:-- “There's Kenesaw, Brice.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +Pointing with his arm. + +“Went beyond lines there with small party. Rebel battery on summit. Had +to git. Fired on. Next day I thought Rebels would leave in the night. +Got up before daylight, fixed telescope on stand, and waited. Watched +top of Kenesaw. No Rebel. Saw one blue man creep up, very cautious, +looked around, waved his hat. Rebels gone. Thought so.” + +This gives you but a faint idea of the vividness of his talk. When we +make a halt for any time, the general officers and their staffs flock +to headquarters to listen to his stories. When anything goes wrong, his +perception of it is like a lightning flash,--and he acts as quickly. + +By the way, I have just found the letter he wrote me, offering this +staff position. Please keep it carefully, as it is something I shall +value all my life. + + GAYLESVILLE, ALABAMA, October 25, 1864. + + MAJOR STEPHEN A. BRICE: + + Dear Sir,--The world goes on, and wicked men sound asleep. Davis + has sworn to destroy my army, and Beauregard has come to do the + work,--so if you expect to share in our calamity, come down. I + offer you this last chance for staff duty, and hope you have had + enough in the field. I do not wish to hurry you, but you can't get + aboard a ship at sea. So if you want to make the trip, come to + Chattanooga and take your chances of meeting me. + + Yours truly, + + W. T. SHERMAN, Major General. + +One night--at Cheraw, I think it was--he sent for me to talk to him. I +found him lying on a bed of Spanish moss they had made for him. He asked +me a great many questions about St. Louis, and praised Mr. Brinsmade, +especially his management of the Sanitary Commission. + +“Brice,” he said, after a while, “you remember when Grant sent me to +beat off Joe Johnston's army from Vicksburg. You were wounded then, by +the way, in that dash Lauman made. Grant thought he ought to warn me +against Johnston. + +“'He's wily, Sherman,' said he. 'He's a dangerous man.' + +“'Grant,' said I, 'you give me men enough and time enough to look over +the ground, and I'm not afraid of the devil.'” + +Nothing could sum up the man better than that. And now what a trick of +fate it is that he has Johnston before him again, in what we hope will +prove the last gasp of the war! He likes Johnston, by the way, and has +the greatest respect for him. + +I wish you could have peeped into our camp once in a while. In the rare +bursts of sunshine on this march our premises have been decorated with +gay red blankets, and sombre gray ones brought from the quartermasters, +and white Hudson's Bay blankets (not so white now), all being between +forked sticks. It is wonderful how the pitching of a few tents, and the +busy crackle of a few fires, and the sound of voices--sometimes merry, +sometimes sad, depending on the weather, will change the look of a +lonely pine knoll. You ask me how we fare. I should be heartily ashamed +if a word of complaint ever fell from my lips. But the men! Whenever I +wake up at night with my feet in a puddle between the blankets, I think +of the men. The corduroy roads which our horses stumble over through the +mud, they make as well as march on. Our flies are carried in wagons, +and our utensils and provisions. They must often bear on their backs the +little dog-tents, under which, put up by their own labor, they crawl +to sleep, wrapped in a blanket they have carried all day, perhaps waist +deep in water. The food they eat has been in their haversacks for many a +weary mile, and is cooked in the little skillet and pot which have +also been a part of their burden. Then they have their musket and +accoutrements, and the “forty rounds” at their backs. Patiently, +cheerily tramping along, going they know not where, nor care much +either, so it be not in retreat. Ready to make roads, throw up works, +tear up railroads, or hew out and build wooden bridges; or, best of all, +to go for the Johnnies under hot sun or heavy rain, through swamp and +mire and quicksand. They marched ten miles to storm Fort McAllister. And +how the cheers broke from them when the pop pop pop of the skirmish line +began after we came in sight of Savannah! No man who has seen but not +shared their life may talk of personal hardship. + +We arrived at this pretty little town yesterday, so effecting a junction +with Schofield, who got in with the 3d Corps the day before. I am +writing at General Schofield's headquarters. There was a bit of a battle +on Tuesday at Bentonville, and we have come hither in smoke, as usual. +But this time we thank Heaven that it is not the smoke of burning +homes,--only some resin the “Johnnies” set on fire before they left. + +I must close. General Sherman has just sent for me. + + ON BOARD DESPATCH BOAT “MARTIN.” + AT SEA, March 25, 1865. + +DEAR MOTHER: A most curious thing has happened. But I may as well begin +at the beginning. When I stopped writing last evening at the summons +of the General, I was about to tell you something of the battle of +Bentonville on Tuesday last. Mower charged through as bad a piece +of wood and swamp as I ever saw, and got within one hundred yards of +Johnston himself, who was at the bridge across Mill Creek. Of course we +did not know this at the time, and learned it from prisoners. + +As I have written you, I have been under fire very little since coming +to the staff. When the battle opened, however, I saw that if I stayed +with the General (who was then behind the reserves) I would see little +or nothing; I went ahead “to get information” beyond the line of battle +into the woods. I did not find these favorable to landscape views, and +just as I was turning my horse back again I caught sight of a commotion +some distance to my right. The Rebel skirmish line had fallen back just +that instant, two of our skirmishers were grappling with a third man, +who was fighting desperately. It struck me as singular that the fellow +was not in gray, but had on some sort of dark clothes. + +I could not reach them in the swamp on horseback, and was in the act of +dismounting when the man fell, and then they set out to carry him to the +rear, still farther to my right, beyond the swamp. I shouted, and one of +the skirmishers came up. I asked him what the matter was. + +“We've got a spy, sir,” he said excitedly. + +“A spy! Here?” + +“Yes, Major. He was hid in the thicket yonder, lying flat on his face. +He reckoned that our boys would run right over him and that he'd get +into our lines that way. Tim Foley stumbled on him, and he put up as +good a fight with his fists as any man I ever saw.” + +Just then a regiment swept past us. That night I told the General, who +sent over to the headquarters of the 17th Corps to inquire. The word +came back that the man's name was Addison, and he claimed to be a Union +sympathizer who owned a plantation near by. He declared that he had been +conscripted by the Rebels, wounded, sent back home, and was now about to +be pressed in again. He had taken this method of escaping to our lines. +It was a common story enough, but General Mower added in his message +that he thought the story fishy. This was because the man's appearance +was very striking, and he seemed the type of Confederate fighter who +would do and dare anything. He had a wound, which had been a bad one, +evidently got from a piece of shell. But they had been able to find +nothing on him. Sherman sent back word to keep the man until he could +see him in person. It was about nine o'clock last night when I reached +the house the General has taken. A prisoner's guard was resting outside, +and the hall was full of officers. They said that the General was +awaiting me, and pointed to the closed door of a room that had been the +dining room. I opened it. + +Two candles were burning in pewter sticks on the bare mahogany table. +There was the General sitting beside them, with his legs crossed, +holding some crumpled tissue paper very near his eyes, and reading. He +did not look up when I entered. I was aware of a man standing, tall and +straight, just out of range of the candles' rays. He wore the easy dress +of a Southern planter, with the broad felt hat. The head was flung back +so that there was just a patch of light on the chin, and the lids of the +eyes in the shadow were half closed. + +My sensations are worth noting. For the moment I felt precisely as I +had when I was hit by that bullet in Lauman's charge. I was aware of +something very like pain, yet I could not place the cause of it. But +this is what since has made me feel queer: you doubtless remember +staying at Hollingdean, when I was a boy, and hearing the story of Lord +Northwell's daredevil Royalist ancestor,--the one with the lace collar +over the dull-gold velvet, and the pointed chin, and the lazy scorn in +the eyes. Those eyes are painted with drooping lids. The first time I +saw Clarence Colfax I thought of that picture--and now I thought of the +picture first. + +The General's voice startled me. + +“Major Brice, do you know this gentleman?” he asked. + +“Yes, General.” + +“Who is he?” + +“His name is Colfax, sir--Colonel Colfax, I think” + +“Thought so,” said the General. + +I have thought much of that scene since, as I am steaming northward over +green seas and under cloudless skies, and it has seemed very unreal. I +should almost say supernatural when I reflect how I have run across this +man again and again, and always opposing him. I can recall just how he +looked at the slave auction, which seem, so long ago: very handsome, +very boyish, and yet with the air of one to be deferred to. It was +sufficiently remarkable that I should have found him in Vicksburg. But +now--to be brought face to face with him in this old dining room in +Goldsboro! And he a prisoner. He had not moved. I did not know how he +would act, but I went up to him and held out my hand, and said.--“How do +you do, Colonel Colfax?” + +I am sure that my voice was not very steady, for I cannot help liking +him And then his face lighted up and he gave me his hand. And he smiled +at me and again at the General, as much as to say that it was all over. +He has a wonderful smile. + +“We seem to run into each other, Major Brice,” said he. + +The pluck of the man was superb. I could see that the General, too, +was moved, from the way he looked at him. And he speaks a little more +abruptly at such times. + +“Guess that settles it, Colonel,” he said. + +“I reckon it does, General,” said Clarence, still smiling. The General +turned from him to the table with a kind of jerk and clapped his hand on +the tissue paper. + +“These speak for themselves, sir,” he said. “It is very plain that they +would have reached the prominent citizens for whom they were intended if +you had succeeded in your enterprise. You were captured out of uniform +You know enough of war to appreciate the risk you ran. Any statement to +make?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Call Captain Vaughan, Brice, and ask him to conduct the prisoner back.” + +“May I speak to him, General?” I asked. The General nodded. + +I asked him if I could write home for him or do anything else. That +seemed to touch him. Some day I shall tell you what he said. + +Then Vaughan took him out, and I heard the guard shoulder arms and tramp +away in the night. The General and I were left alone with the mahogany +table between us, and a family portrait of somebody looking down on +us from the shadow on the wall. A moist spring air came in at the open +windows, and the candles flickered. After a silence, I ventured to say: + +“I hope he won't be shot, General.” + +“Don't know, Brice,” he answered. “Can't tell now. Hate to shoot him, +but war is war. Magnificent class he belongs to--pity we should have to +fight those fellows.” + +He paused, and drummed on the table. “Brice,” said he, “I'm going to +send you to General Grant at City Point with despatches. I'm sorry Dunn +went back yesterday, but it can't be helped. Can you start in half an +hour?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You'll have to ride to Kinston. The railroad won't be through until +to-morrow: I'll telegraph there, and to General Easton at Morehead City. +He'll have a boat for you. Tell Grant I expect to run up there in a +day or two myself, when things are arranged here. You may wait until I +come.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +I turned to go, but Clarence Colfax was on my mind “General?” + +“Eh! what?” + +“General, could you hold Colonel Colfax until I see you again?” + +It was a bold thing to say, and I quaked. And he looked at me in his +keen way, through and through “You saved his life once before, didn't +you?” + +“You allowed me to have him sent home from Vicksburg, sir.” + +He answered with one of his jokes--apropos of something he said on the +Court House steps at Vicksburg. Perhaps I shall tell it to you sometime. + +“Well, well,” he said, “I'll see, I'll see. Thank God this war is pretty +near over. I'll let you know, Brice, before I shoot him.” + +I rode the thirty odd miles to Kinston in--little more than three hours. +A locomotive was waiting for me, and I jumped into a cab with a friendly +engineer. Soon we were roaring seaward through the vast pine forests. +It was a lonely journey, and you were much in my mind. My greatest +apprehension was that we might be derailed and the despatches captured; +for as fast as our army had advanced, the track of it had closed again, +like the wake of a ship at sea. Guerillas were roving about, tearing up +ties and destroying bridges. + +There was one five-minute interval of excitement when, far down the +tunnel through the forest, we saw a light gleaming. The engineer said +there was no house there, that it must be a fire. But we did not slacken +our speed, and gradually the leaping flames grew larger and redder until +we were upon them. + +Not one gaunt figure stood between them and us. Not one shot broke the +stillness of the night. As dawn broke I beheld the flat, gray waters of +the Sound stretching away to the eastward, and there was the boat at the +desolate wharf beside the warehouse, her steam rising white in the chill +morning air. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE SAME, CONTINUED + + HEADQUARTERS ARMIES OF THE UNITED STATES, + CITY POINT, VIRGINIA, March 28, 1865. + +DEAR MOTHER: I arrived here safely the day before yesterday, and I hope +that you will soon receive some of the letters I forwarded on that day. +It is an extraordinary place, this City Point; a military city sprung up +like a mushroom in a winter. And my breath was quite taken away when I +first caught sight of it on the high table-land. The great bay in front +of it, which the Appomattox helps to make, is a maze of rigging and +smoke-pipes, like the harbor of a prosperous seaport. There are gunboats +and supply boats, schooners and square-riggers and steamers, all huddled +together, and our captain pointed out to me the 'Malvern' flying Admiral +Porter's flag. Barges were tied up at the long wharves, and these were +piled high with wares and flanked by squat warehouses. Although it +was Sunday, a locomotive was puffing and panting along the foot of the +ragged bank. + +High above, on the flat promontory between the two rivers, is the city +of tents and wooden huts, the great trees in their fresh faint green +towering above the low roofs. At the point of the bluff a large flag +drooped against its staff, and I did not have to be told that this was +General Grant's headquarters. + +There was a fine steamboat lying at the wharf, and I had hardly stepped +ashore before they told me she was President Lincoln's. I read the name +on her--the 'River Queen'. Yes, the President is here, too, with his +wife and family. + +There are many fellows here with whom I was brought up in Boston. I am +living with Jack Hancock, whom you will remember well. He is a captain +now, and has a beard. + +But I must go on with my story. I went straight to General Grant's +headquarters,--just a plain, rough slat house such as a contractor might +build for a temporary residence. Only the high flagstaff and the Stars +and Stripes distinguish it from many others of the same kind. A group of +officers stood chatting outside of it, and they told me that the General +had walked over to get his mail. He is just as unassuming and democratic +as “my general.” General Rankin took me into the office, a rude room, +and we sat down at the long table there. Presently the door opened, +and a man came in with a slouch hat on and his coat unbuttoned. He was +smoking a cigar. We rose to our feet, and I saluted. + +It was the general-in-chief. He stared at me, but said nothing. + +“General, this is Major Brice of General Sherman's staff. He has brought +despatches from Goldsboro,” said Rankin. + +He nodded, took off his hat and laid it on the table, and reached out +for the despatches. While reading them he did not move, except to light +another cigar. I am getting hardened to unrealities,--perhaps I should +say marvels, now. Our country abounds in them. It did not seem so +strange that this silent General with the baggy trousers was the man who +had risen by leaps and bounds in four years to be general-in-chief of +our armies. His face looks older and more sunken than it did on that +day in the street near the Arsenal, in St. Louis, when he was just a +military carpet-bagger out of a job. He is not changed otherwise. But +how different the impressions made by the man in authority and the same +man out of authority! + +He made a sufficient impression upon me then, as I told you at the time. +That was because I overheard his well-merited rebuke to Hopper. But I +little dreamed that I was looking on the man who was to come out of the +West and save this country from disunion. And how quietly and simply he +has done it, without parade or pomp or vainglory. Of all those who, with +every means at their disposal, have tried to conquer Lee, he is the +only one who has in any manner succeeded. He has been able to hold him +fettered while Sherman has swept the Confederacy. And these are the two +men who were unknown when the war began. + +When the General had finished reading the despatches, he folded them +quickly and put them in his pocket. + +“Sit down and tell me about this last campaign of yours, Major,” he +said. + +I talked with him for about half an hour. I should rather say talked to +him. He is a marked contrast to Sherman in this respect. I believe that +he only opened his lips to ask two questions. You may well believe that +they were worth the asking, and they revealed an intimate knowledge of +our march from Savannah. I was interrupted many times by the arrival +of different generals, aides, etc. He sat there smoking, imperturbable. +Sometimes he said “yes” or “no,” but oftener he merely nodded his head. +Once he astounded by a brief question an excitable young lieutenant, who +floundered. The General seemed to know more than he about the matter he +had in hand. + +When I left him, he asked me where I was quartered, and said he hoped I +would be comfortable. + +Jack Hancock was waiting for me, and we walked around the city, which +even has barber shops. Everywhere were signs of preparation, for the +roads are getting dry, and the General preparing for a final campaign +against Lee. Poor Lee! What a marvellous fight he has made with his +material. I think that he will be reckoned among the greatest generals +of our race. + +Of course, I was very anxious to get a glimpse of the President, and +so we went down to the wharf, where we heard that he had gone off for +a horseback ride. They say that he rides nearly every day, over the +corduroy roads and through the swamps, and wherever the boys see that +tall hat they cheer. They know it as well as the lookout tower on the +flats of Bermuda Hundred. He lingers at the campfires and swaps stories +with the officers, and entertains the sick and wounded in the hospitals. +Isn't it like him? + +He hasn't changed, either. I believe that the great men don't change. +Away with your Napoleons and your Marlboroughs and your Stuarts. These +are the days of simple men who command by force of character, as well as +knowledge. Thank God for the American! I believe that he will change the +world, and strip it of its vainglory and hypocrisy. + +In the evening, as we were sitting around Hancock's fire, an officer +came in. + +“Is Major Brice here?” he asked. I jumped up. + +“The President sends his compliments, Major, and wants to know if you +would care to pay him a little visit.” + +If I would care to pay him a little visit! That officer had to hurry to +keep up with the as I walked to the wharf. He led me aboard the River +Queen, and stopped at the door of the after-cabin. + +Mr. Lincoln was sitting under the lamp, slouched down in his chair, +in the position I remembered so well. It was as if I had left him but +yesterday. He was whittling, and he had made some little toy for his son +Tad, who ran out as I entered. + +When he saw me, the President rose to his great height, a sombre, +towering figure in black. He wears a scraggly beard now. But the sad +smile, the kindly eyes in their dark caverns, the voice--all were just +the same. I stopped when I looked upon the face. It was sad and lined +when I had known it, but now all the agony endured by the millions, +North and South, seemed written on it. + +“Don't you remember me, Major?” he asked. + +The wonder was that he had remembered me! I took his big, bony hand, +which reminded me of Judge Whipple's. Yes, it was just as if I had been +with him always, and he were still the gaunt country lawyer. + +“Yes, sir,” I said, “indeed I do.” + +He looked at me with that queer expression of mirth he sometimes has. + +“Are these Boston ways, Steve?” he asked. “They're tenacious. I didn't +think that any man could travel so close to Sherman and keep 'em.” + +“They're unfortunate ways, sir,” I said, “if they lead you to misjudge +me.” + +He laid his hand on my shoulder, just as he had done at Freeport. + +“I know you, Steve,” he said. “I shuck an ear of corn before I buy it. +I've kept tab on you a little the last five years, and when I heard +Sherman had sent a Major Brice up here, I sent for you.” + +What I said was boyish. “I tried very hard to get a glimpse of you +to-day, Mr. Lincoln. I wanted to see you again.” + +He was plainly pleased. + +“I'm glad to hear it, Steve,” he said. “Then you haven't joined the +ranks of the grumblers? You haven't been one of those who would have +liked to try running this country for a day or two, just to show me how +to do it?” + +“No, sir,” I said, laughing. + +“Good!” he cried, slapping his knee. “I didn't think you were that kind, +Steve. Now sit down and tell me about this General of mine who wears +seven-leagued boots. What was it--four hundred and twenty miles in fifty +days? How many navigable rivers did he step across?” He began to count +on those long fingers of his. “The Edisto, the Broad, the Catawba, the +Pedee, and--?” + +“The Cape Fear,” I said. + +“Is--is the General a nice man?” asked Mr. Lincoln, his eyes twinkling. + +“Yes, sir, he is that,” I answered heartily. “And not a man in the +army wants anything when he is around. You should see that Army of the +Mississippi, sir. They arrived in Goldsboro' in splendid condition.” + +He got up and gathered his coat-tails under his arms, and began to walk +up and down the cabin. + +“What do the boys call the General?” he asked. + +I told him “Uncle Billy.” And, thinking the story of the white socks +might amuse him, I told him that. It did amuse him. + +“Well, now,” he said, “any man that has a nickname like that is all +right. That's the best recommendation you can give the General--just +say 'Uncle Billy.'” He put one lip over the other. “You've given 'Uncle +Billy' a good recommendation, Steve,” he said. “Did you ever hear the +story of Mr. Wallace's Irish gardener?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Well, when Wallace was hiring his gardener he asked him whom he had +been living with. + +“'Misther Dalton, sorr.' + +“'Have you a recommendation, Terence?' + +“'A ricommindation is it, sorr? Sure I have nothing agin Misther +Dalton, though he moightn't be knowing just the respict the likes of a +first-class garthener is entitled to.'” + +He did not laugh. He seldom does, it seems, at his own stories. But +I could not help laughing over the “ricommindation” I had given the +General. He knew that I was embarrassed, and said kindly:-- “Now tell +me something about 'Uncle Billy's Bummers.' I hear that they have a most +effectual way of tearing up railroads.” + +I told him of Poe's contrivance of the hook and chain, and how the +heaviest rails were easily overturned with it, and how the ties were +piled and fired and the rails twisted out of shape. The President +listened to every word with intense interest. + +“By Jing!” he exclaimed, “we have got a general. Caesar burnt his +bridges behind him, but Sherman burns his rails. Now tell me some more.” + +He helped me along by asking questions. Then I began to tell him how +the negroes had flocked into our camps, and how simply and plainly the +General had talked to them, advising them against violence of any kind, +and explaining to them that “Freedom” meant only the liberty to earn +their own living in their own way, and not freedom from work. + +“We have got a general, sure enough,” he cried. “He talks to them +plainly, does he, so that they understand? I say to you, Brice,” he went +on earnestly, “the importance of plain talk can't be overestimated. Any +thought, however abstruse, can be put in speech that a boy or a +negro can grasp. Any book, however deep, can be written in terms that +everybody can comprehend, if a man only tries hard enough. When I was a +boy I used to hear the neighbors talking, and it bothered me so because +I could not understand them that I used to sit up half the night +thinking things out for myself. I remember that I did not know what the +word demonstrate meant. So I stopped my studies then and there and got a +volume of Euclid. Before I got through I could demonstrate everything in +it, and I have never been bothered with demonstrate since.” + +I thought of those wonderfully limpid speeches of his: of the Freeport +debates, and of the contrast between his style and Douglas's. And I +understood the reason for it at last. I understood the supreme mind that +had conceived the Freeport Question. And as I stood before him then, at +the close of this fearful war, the words of the Gospel were in my mind. +'So the last shall be first, and the first, last; for many be called, +but few chosen.' + +How I wished that all those who have maligned and tortured him could +talk with him as I had talked with him. To know his great heart would +disarm them of all antagonism. They would feel, as I feel, that his life +is so much nobler than theirs, and his burdens so much heavier, that +they would go away ashamed of their criticism. + +He said to me once, “Brice, I hope we are in sight of the end, now. I +hope that we may get through without any more fighting. I don't want to +see any more of our countrymen killed. And then,” he said, as if talking +to himself, “and then we must show them mercy--mercy.” + +I thought it a good time to mention Colfax's case. He has been on my +mind ever since. Mr. Lincoln listened attentively. Once he sighed, and +he was winding his long fingers around each other while I talked. + +“I saw the man captured, Mr. Lincoln,” I concluded, “And if a +technicality will help him out, he was actually within his own skirmish +line at the time. The Rebel skirmishers had not fallen back on each side +of him.” + +“Brice,” he said, with that sorrowful smile, “a technicality might save +Colfax, but it won't save me. Is this man a friend of yours?” he asked. + +That was a poser. + +“I think he is, Mr. Lincoln. I should like to call him so. I admire +him.” And I went on to tell of what he had done at Vicksburg, leaving +out, however, my instrumentality in having him sent north. The President +used almost Sherman's words. + +“By Jing!” he exclaimed. (That seems to be a favorite expression of +his.) “Those fellows were born to fight. If it wasn't for them, the +South would have quit long ago.” Then he looked at me in his funny way, +and said, “See here, Steve, if this Colfax isn't exactly a friend of +yours, there must be some reason why you are pleading for him in this +way.” + +“Well, sir,” I said, at length, “I should like to get him off on account +of his cousin, Miss Virginia Carvel. And I told him something about +Miss Carvel, and how she had helped you with the Union sergeant that day +in the hot hospital. And how she had nursed Judge Whipple.” + +“She's a fine woman,” he said. “Those women have helped those men to +prolong this war about three years.” + +“And yet we must save them for the nation's sake. They are to be the +mothers of our patriots in days to come. Is she a friend of yours, too, +Steve?” + +What was I to say? + +“Not especially, sir,” I answered finally. “I have had to offend her +rather often. But I know that she likes my mother.” + +“Why!” he cried, jumping up, “she's a daughter of Colonel Carvel. I +always had an admiration for that man. An ideal Southern gentleman of +the old school,--courteous, as honorable and open as the day, and as +brave as a lion. You've heard the story of how he threw a man named +Babcock out of his store, who tried to bribe him?” + +“I heard you tell it in that tavern, sir. And I have heard it since.” It +did me good to hear the Colonel praised. + +“I always liked that story,” he said. “By the way, what's become of the +Colonel?” + +“He got away--South, sir,” I answered. “He couldn't stand it. He hasn't +been heard of since the summer of '63. They think he was killed in +Texas. But they are not positive. They probably never will be,” I added. +He was silent awhile. + +“Too bad!” he said. “Too bad. What stuff those men are made of! And so +you want me to pardon this Colfax?” + +“It would be presumptuous in me to go that far, sir,” I replied. “But I +hoped you might speak of it to the General when he comes. And I would be +glad of the opportunity to testify.” + +He took a few strides up and down the room. + +“Well, well,” he said, “that's my vice--pardoning, saying yes. It's +always one more drink with me. It--” he smiled--“it makes me sleep +better. I've pardoned enough Rebels to populate New Orleans. Why,” he +continued, with his whimsical look, “just before I left Washington, in +comes one of your Missouri senators with a list of Rebels who are shut +up in McDowell's and Alton. I said:-- “'Senator, you're not going to ask +me to turn loose all those at once?' + +“He said just what you said when you were speaking of Missouri a while +ago, that he was afraid of guerilla warfare, and that the war was nearly +over. I signed 'em. And then what does he do but pull out another batch +longer than the first! And those were worse than the first. + +“'What! you don't want me to turn these loose, too?' + +“'Yes, I do, Mr. President. I think it will pay to be merciful.' + +“'Then durned if I don't,' I said, and I signed 'em.” + + STEAMER “RIVER QUEEN.” + ON THE POTOMAC, April 9, 1865. + +DEAR MOTHER: I am glad that the telegrams I have been able to send +reached you safely. I have not had time to write, and this will be but a +short letter. + +You will be surprised to see this heading. I am on the President's boat, +in the President's party, bound with him for Washington. And this is how +it happened: The very afternoon of the day I wrote you, General Sherman +himself arrived at City Point on the steamer 'Russia'. I heard the +salutes, and was on the wharf to meet him. That same afternoon he and +General Grant and Admiral Porter went aboard the River Queen to see +the President. How I should have liked to be present at that interview! +After it was over they all came out of the cabin together General Grant +silent, and smoking, as usual; General Sherman talking vivaciously; +and Lincoln and the Admiral smiling and listening. That was historic! +I shall never expect to see such a sight again in all my days. You +can imagine my surprise when the President called me from where I was +standing at some distance with the other officers. He put his hand on my +shoulder then and there, and turned to General Sherman. + +“Major Brice is a friend of mine, General,” he said. “I knew him in +Illinois.” + +“He never told me that,” said the General. + +“I guess he's got a great many important things shut up inside of him,” + said Mr. Lincoln, banteringly. “But he gave you a good recommendation, +Sherman. He said that you wore white socks, and that the boys liked +you and called you 'Uncle Billy.' And I told him that was the best +recommendation he could give anybody.” + +I was frightened. But the General only looked at me with those eyes that +go through everything, and then he laughed. + +“Brice,” he said, “You'll have my reputation ruined.” + +“Sherman,” said Mr. Lincoln, “you don't want the Major right away, do +you? Let him stay around here for a while with me. I think he'll find it +interesting.” He looked at the general-in-chief, who was smiling just +a little bit. “I've got a sneaking notion that Grant's going to do +something.” + +Then they all laughed. + +“Certainly, Mr. Lincoln,” said my General, “you may have Brice. Be +careful he doesn't talk you to death--he's said too much already.” + +That is how I came to stay. + +I have no time now to tell you all that I have seen and heard. I have +ridden with the President, and have gone with him on errands of mercy +and errands of cheer. I have been almost within sight of what we hope is +the last struggle of this frightful war. I have listened to the guns of +Five Forks, where Sheridan and Warren bore their own colors in the front +of the charge, I was with Mr. Lincoln while the battle of Petersburg was +raging, and there were tears in his eyes. + +Then came the retreat of Lee and the instant pursuit of Grant, +and--Richmond. The quiet General did not so much as turn aside to enter +the smoking city he had besieged for so long. But I went there, with the +President. And if I had one incident in my life to live over again, I +should choose this. As we were going up the river, a disabled steamer +lay across the passage in the obstruction of piles the Confederates had +built. Mr. Lincoln would not wait. There were but a few of us in his +party, and we stepped into Admiral Porter's twelve-oared barge and were +rowed to Richmond, the smoke of the fires still darkening the sky. We +landed within a block of Libby Prison. + +With the little guard of ten sailors he marched the mile and a half +to General Weitzel's headquarters,--the presidential mansion of the +Confederacy. You can imagine our anxiety. I shall remember him always as +I saw him that day, a tall, black figure of sorrow, with the high silk +hat we have learned to love. Unafraid, his heart rent with pity, he +walked unharmed amid such tumult as I have rarely seen. The windows +filled, the streets ahead of us became choked, as the word that the +President was coming ran on like quick-fire. The mob shouted and +pushed. Drunken men reeled against him. The negroes wept aloud and cried +hosannas. They pressed upon him that they might touch the hem of his +coat, and one threw himself on his knees and kissed the President's +feet. + +Still he walked on unharmed, past the ashes and the ruins. Not as a +conqueror was he come, to march in triumph. Not to destroy, but to heal. +Though there were many times when we had to fight for a path through the +crowds, he did not seem to feel the danger. + +Was it because he knew that his hour was not yet come? + +To-day, on the boat, as we were steaming between the green shores of the +Potomac, I overheard him reading to Mr. Sumner:-- + + “Duncan is in his grave; + After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; + Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, + Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, + Can touch him further.” + + WILLARD'S HOTEL, WASHINGTON, April 10, 1865. + +I have looked up the passage, and have written it in above. It haunts +me. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. MAN OF SORROW + +The train was late--very late. It was Virginia who first caught sight +of the new dome of the Capitol through the slanting rain, but she merely +pressed her lips together and said nothing. In the dingy brick station +of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad more than one person paused to look +after them, and a kind-hearted lady who had been in the car kissed the +girl good-by. + +“You think that you can find your uncle's house, my dear?” she asked, +glancing at Virginia with concern. Through all of that long journey she +had worn a look apart. “Do you think you can find your uncle's house?” + +Virginia started. And then she smiled as she looked at the honest, +alert, and squarely built gentleman beside her. + +“Captain Brent can, Mrs. Ware,” she said. “He can find anything.” + +Whereupon the kind lady gave the Captain her hand. “You look as if you +could, Captain,” said she. “Remember, if General Carvel is out of town, +you promised to bring her to me.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Captain Lige, “and so I shall.” + +“Kerridge, kerridge! Right dis-a-way! No sah, dat ain't de kerridge +you wants. Dat's it, lady, you'se lookin at it. Kerridge, kerridge, +kerridge!” + +Virginia tried bravely to smile, but she was very near to tears as she +stood on the uneven pavement and looked at the scrawny horses standing +patiently in the steady downpour. All sorts of people were coming +and going, army officers and navy officers and citizens of states and +territories, driving up and driving away. + +And this was Washington! + +She was thinking then of the multitude who came here with aching +hearts,--with heavier hearts than was hers that day. How many of the +throng hurrying by would not flee, if they could, back to the peaceful +homes they had left? But perhaps those homes were gone now. Destroyed, +like her own, by the war. Women with children at their breasts, and +mothers bowed with sorrow, had sought this city in their agony. Young +men and old had come hither, striving to keep back the thoughts of dear +ones left behind, whom they might never see again. And by the thousands +and tens of thousands they had passed from here to the places of blood +beyond. + +“Kerridge, sah! Kerridge!” + +“Do you know where General Daniel Carvel lives?” + +“Yes, sah, reckon I does. I Street, sah. Jump right in, sah.” + +Virginia sank back on the stuffy cushions of the rattle-trap, and then +sat upright again and stared out of the window at the dismal scene. They +were splashing through a sea of mud. Ever since they had left St. Louis, +Captain Lige had done his best to cheer her, and he did not intend to +desist now. + +“This beats all,” he cried. “So this is Washington, Why, it don't +compare to St. Louis, except we haven't got the White House and the +Capitol. Jinny, it would take a scow to get across the street, and we +don't have ramshackly stores and nigger cabins bang up against fine +Houses like that. This is ragged. That's what it is, ragged. We don't +have any dirty pickaninnies dodging among the horses in our residence +streets. I declare, Jinny, if those aren't pigs!” + +Virginia laughed. She could not help it. + +“Poor Lige!” she said. “I hope Uncle Daniel has some breakfast for you. +You've had a good deal to put up with on this trip.” + +“Lordy, Jinny,” said the Captain, “I'd put up with a good deal more than +this for the sake of going anywhere with you.” + +“Even to such a doleful place as this?” she sighed. + +“This is all right, if the sun'll only come out and dry things up and +let us see the green on those trees,” he said, “Lordy, how I do love to +see the spring green in the sunlight!” + +She put out her hand over his. + +“Lige,” she said, “you know you're just trying to keep up my spirits. +You've been doing that ever since we left home.” + +“No such thing,” he replied with vehemence. “There's nothing for you to +be cast down about.” + +“Oh, but there is!” she cried. “Suppose I can't make your Black +Republican President pardon Clarence!” + +“Pooh!” said the Captain, squeezing her hand and trying to appear +unconcerned. “Your Uncle Daniel knows Mr. Lincoln. He'll have that +arranged.” + +Just then the rattletrap pulled up at the sidewalk, the wheels of the +near side in four inches of mud, and the Captain leaped out and spread +the umbrella. They were in front of a rather imposing house of brick, +flanked on one side by a house just like it, and on the other by a +series of dreary vacant lots where the rain had collected in pools. They +climbed the steps and rang the bell. In due time the door was opened by +a smiling yellow butler in black. + +“Does General Carvel live here?” + +“Yas, miss, But he ain't to home now. Done gone to New York.” + +“Oh,” faltered Virginia. “Didn't he get my telegram day before +yesterday? I sent it to the War Department.” + +“He's done gone since Saturday, miss.” And then, evidently impressed by +the young lady's looks, he added hospitably, “Kin I do anything fo' you, +miss?” + +“I'm his niece, Miss Virginia Carvel, and this is Captain Brent.” + +The yellow butler's face lighted up. + +“Come right in, Miss Jinny, Done heerd de General speak of you +often--yas'm. De General'll be to home dis a'ternoon, suah. 'Twill do +him good ter see you, Miss Jinny. He's been mighty lonesome. Walk right +in, Cap'n, and make yo'selves at home. Lizbeth--Lizbeth!” + +A yellow maid came running down the stairs. “Heah's Miss Jinny.” + +“Lan' of goodness!” cried Lizbeth. “I knows Miss Jinny. Done seed her at +Calve't House. How is you, Miss Jinny?” + +“Very well, Lizbeth,” said Virginia, listlessly sitting down on the hall +sofa. “Can you give us some breakfast?” + +“Yas'm,” said Lizbeth, “jes' reckon we kin.” She ushered them into a +walnut dining room, big and high and sombre, with plush-bottomed chairs +placed about--walnut also; for that was the fashion in those days. +But the Captain had no sooner seated himself than he shot up again and +started out. + +“Where are you going, Lige?” + +“To pay off the carriage driver,” he said. + +“Let him wait,” said Virginia. “I'm going to the White House in a little +while.” + +“What--what for?” he gasped. + +“To see your Black Republican President,” she replied, with alarming +calmness. + +“Now, Jinny,” he cried, in excited appeal, “don't go doin' any such fool +trick as that. Your Uncle Dan'l will be here this afternoon. He +knows the President. And then the thing'll be fixed all right, and no +mistake.” + +Her reply was in the same tone--almost a monotone--which she had used +for three days. It made the Captain very uneasy, for he knew when she +spoke in that way that her will was in it. + +“And to lose that time,” she answered, “may be to have him shot.” + +“But you can't get to the President without credentials,” he objected. + +“What,” she flashed, “hasn't any one a right to see the President? You +mean to say that he will not see a woman in trouble? Then all these +pretty stories I hear of him are false. They are made up by the +Yankees.” + +Poor Captain Lige! He had some notion of the multitude of calls upon Mr. +Lincoln, especially at that time. But he could not, he dared not, +remind her of the principal reason for this,--Lee's surrender and the +approaching end of the war. And then the Captain had never seen Mr. +Lincoln. In the distant valley of the Mississippi he had only heard of +the President very conflicting things. He had heard him criticised and +reviled and praised, just as is every man who goes to the White House, +be he saint or sinner. And, during an administration, no man at a +distance may come at a President's true character and worth. The Captain +had seen Lincoln caricatured vilely. And again he had read and heard the +pleasant anecdotes of which Virginia had spoken, until he did not know +what to believe. + +As for Virginia, he knew her partisanship to, and undying love for, the +South; he knew the class prejudice which was bound to assert itself, and +he had seen enough in the girl's demeanor to fear that she was going to +demand rather than implore. She did not come of a race that was wont to +bend the knee. + +“Well, well,” he said despairingly, “you must eat some breakfast first, +Jinny.” + +She waited with an ominous calmness until it was brought in, and then +she took a part of a roll and some coffee. + +“This won't do,” exclaimed the Captain. “Why, why, that won't get you +halfway to Mr. Lincoln.” + +She shook her head, half smiling. + +“You must eat enough, Lige,” she said. + +He was finished in an incredibly short time, and amid the protestations +of Lizbeth and the yellow butler they got into the carriage again, and +splashed and rattled toward the White House. Once Virginia glanced out, +and catching sight of the bedraggled flags on the houses in honor of +Lee's surrender, a look of pain crossed her face. The Captain could not +repress a note of warning. + +“Jinny,” said he, “I have an idea that you'll find the President a good +deal of a man. Now if you're allowed to see him, don't get him mad, +Jinny, whatever you do.” + +Virginia stared straight ahead. + +“If he is something of a man, Lige, he will not lose his temper with a +woman.” + +Captain Lige subsided. And just then they came in sight of the house of +the Presidents, with its beautiful portico and its broad wings. And they +turned in under the dripping trees of the grounds. A carriage with a +black coachman and footman was ahead of them, and they saw two stately +gentlemen descend from it and pass the guard at the door. Then their +turn came. The Captain helped her out in his best manner, and gave some +money to the driver. + +“I reckon he needn't wait for us this time, Jinny,” said be. She shook +her head and went in, he following, and they were directed to the +anteroom of the President's office on the second floor. There were +many people in the corridors, and one or two young officers in blue who +stared at her. She passed them with her head high. + +But her spirits sank when they came to the anteroom. It was full of all +sorts of people. Politicians, both prosperous and seedy, full faced and +keen faced, seeking office; women, officers, and a one-armed soldier +sitting in the corner. He was among the men who offered Virginia their +seats, and the only one whom she thanked. But she walked directly to the +doorkeeper at the end of the room. Captain Lige was beside her. + +“Can we see the President?” he asked. + +“Have you got an appointment?” said the old man. + +“No.” + +“Then you'll have to wait your turn, sir,” he said, shaking his head and +looking at Virginia. And he added. “It's slow work waiting your turn, +there's so many governors and generals and senators, although the +session's over. It's a busy time, miss.” + +Virginia went very close to him. + +“Oh, can't you do something?” she said. And added, with an inspiration, +“I must see him. It's a matter of life and death.” + +She saw instantly, with a woman's instinct, that these words had had +their effect. The old man glanced at her again, as if demurring. + +“You're sure, miss, it's life and death?” he said. + +“Oh, why should I say so if it were not?” she cried. + +“The orders are very strict,” he said. “But the President told me to +give precedence to cases when a life is in question. Just you wait a +minute, miss, until Governor Doddridge comes out, and I'll see what I +can do for you. Give me your name, please, miss.” + +She remained standing where she was. In a little while the heavy door +opened, and a portly, rubicund man came out with a smile on his face. +He broke into a laugh, when halfway across the room, as if the memory of +what he had heard were too much for his gravity. The doorkeeper slipped +into the room, and there was a silent, anxious interval. Then he came +out again. + +“The President will see you, miss.” + +Captain Lige started forward with her, but she restrained him. + +“Wait for me here, Lige,” she said. + +She swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her. The room was +a big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them. +She saw that much, and then--! + +Could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of the +President of the United States? She stopped, as from the shock he gave +her. The lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down, +the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard--why, he was a hundred times more +ridiculous than his caricatures. He might have stood for many of the +poor white trash farmers she had seen in Kentucky--save for the long +black coat. + +“Is--is this Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, her breath taken away. + +He bowed and smiled down at her. Somehow that smile changed his face a +little. + +“I guess I'll have to own up,” he answered. + +“My name is Virginia Carvel,” she said. “I have come all the way from +St. Louis to see you.” + +“Miss Carvel,” said the President, looking at her intently, “I have +rarely been so flattered in my life. I--I hope I have not disappointed +you.” + +Virginia was justly angry. + +“Oh, you haven't,” she cried, her eyes flashing, “because I am what you +would call a Rebel.” + +The mirth in the dark corners of his eyes disturbed her more and more. +And then she saw that the President was laughing. + +“And have you a better name for it, Miss Carvel?” he asked. “Because I +am searching for a better name--just now.” + +She was silent--sternly silent. And she tapped her foot on the carpet. +What manner of man was this? “Won't you sit down?” said the President, +kindly. “You must be tired after your journey.” And he put forth a +chair. + +“No, thank you,” said Virginia; “I think that I can say what I have come +to say better standing.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “that's not strange. I'm that way, too. The +words seem to come out better. That reminds me of a story they tell +about General Buck Tanner. Ever heard of Buck, Miss Carvel? No? Well, +Buck was a character. He got his title in the Mormon war. One day the +boys asked him over to the square to make a speech. The General was a +little uneasy. + +“'I'm all right when I get standing up, Liza,' he said to his wife. Then +the words come right along. Only trouble is they come too cussed fast. +How'm I going to stop 'em when I want to?' + +“'Well, I du declare, Buck,' said she, 'I gave you credit for some +sense. All you've got to do is to set down. That'll end it, I reckon.' + +“So the General went over to the square and talked for about an hour +and a half, and then a Chicago man shouted to him to dry up. The General +looked pained. + +“'Boys,' said he, 'it's jest every bit as bad for me as it is for you. +You'll have to hand up a chair, boys, because I'm never going to get +shet of this goldarned speech any anther way.'” + +Mr. Lincoln had told this so comically that Virginia was forced to +laugh, and she immediately hated herself. A man who could joke at such +a time certainly could not feel the cares and responsibilities of his +office. He should have been a comedian. And yet this was the President +who had conducted the war, whose generals had conquered the Confederacy. +And she was come to ask him a favor. Virginia swallowed her pride. + +“Mr. Lincoln,” she began, “I have come to talk to you about my cousin, +Colonel Clarence Colfax.” + +“I shall be happy to talk to you about your cousin, Colonel Colfax, Miss +Carvel. Is he your third or fourth cousin?” + +“He is my first cousin,” she retorted. + +“Is he in the city?” asked Mr. Lincoln, innocently. “Why didn't he come +with you?” + +“Oh, haven't you heard?” she cried. “He is Clarence Colfax, of St. +Louis, now a Colonel in the army of the Confederate States.” + +“Which army?” asked Mr. Lincoln. Virginia tossed her head in +exasperation. + +“In General Joseph Johnston's army,” she replied, trying to be patient. +“But now,” she gulped, “now he has been arrested as a spy by General +Sherman's army.” + +“That's too bad,” answered Mr. Lincoln. + +“And--and they are going to shoot him.” + +“That's worse,” said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. “But I expect he deserves +it.” + +“Oh, no, he doesn't,” she cried. “You don't know how brave he is! He +floated down the Mississippi on a log, out of Vicksburg, and brought +back thousands and thousands of percussion caps. He rowed across the +river when the Yankee fleet was going down, and set fire to De Soto so +that they could see to shoot.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “that's a good starter.” Then he looked +thoughtful. + +“Miss Carvel,” said he, “that argument reminds me of a story about a man +I used to know in the old days in Illinois. His name was McNeil, and he +was a lawyer. + +“One day he was defending a prisoner for assault and battery before +Judge Drake. + +“'Judge, says McNeil, 'you oughtn't to lock this man up. It was a fair +fight, and he's the best man in the state in a fair fight. And, what's +more, he's never been licked in a fair fight in his life.' + +“'And if your honor does lock me up,' the prisoner put in, 'I'll give +your honor a thunderin' big lickin' when I get out.' + +“The Judge took off his coat. + +“'Gentlemen,' said he, 'it's a powerful queer argument, but the Court +will admit it on its merits. The prisoner will please to step out on the +grass.'” + +This time Virginia contrived merely to smile. She was striving against +something, she knew not what. Her breath was coming deeply, and she was +dangerously near to tears. Why? She could not tell. She had come into +this man's presence despising herself for having to ask him a favor. +The sight of his face she had ridiculed. Now she could not look into it +without an odd sensation. What was in it? Sorrow? Yes, that was nearest +it. + +What had the man done? Told her a few funny stories--given quizzical +answers to some of her questions. Quizzical, yes; but she could not be +sure then there was not wisdom in them, and that humiliated her. She had +never conceived of such a man. And, be it added gratuitously, Virginia +deemed herself something of an adept in dealing with men. + +“And now,” said Mr. Lincoln, “to continue for the defence, I believe +that Colonel Colfax first distinguished himself at the time of Camp +Jackson, when of all the prisoners he refused to accept a parole.” + +Startled, she looked up at him swiftly, and then down again. “Yes,” + she answered, “yes. But oh, Mr. Lincoln, please don't hold that against +him.” + +If she could only have seen his face then. But her lashes were dropped. + +“My dear young lady,” replied the President, “I honor him for it. I was +merely elaborating the argument which you have begun. On the other hand, +it is a pity that he should have taken off that uniform which he adorned +and attempted to enter General Sherman's lines as a civilian,--as a +spy.” + +He had spoken these last words very gently, but she was too excited to +heed his gentleness. She drew herself up, a gleam in her eyes like the +crest of a blue wave in a storm. + +“A spy!” she cried; “it takes more courage to be a spy than anything +else in war. Then he will be shot. You are not content in, the North +with what you have gained. You are not content with depriving us of +our rights, and our fortunes, with forcing us back to an allegiance we +despise. You are not content with humiliating our generals and putting +innocent men in prisons. But now I suppose you will shoot us all. And +all this mercy that I have heard about means nothing--nothing--” + +Why did she falter and stop? + +“Miss Carvel,” said the President, “I am afraid from what I have heard +just now, that it means nothing.” Oh, the sadness of that voice,--the +ineffable sadness,--the sadness and the woe of a great nation! And the +sorrow in those eyes, the sorrow of a heavy cross borne meekly,--how +heavy none will ever know. The pain of a crown of thorns worn for a +world that did not understand. No wonder Virginia faltered and +was silent. She looked at Abraham Lincoln standing there, bent and +sorrowful, and it was as if a light had fallen upon him. But strangest +of all in that strange moment was that she felt his strength. It was the +same strength she had felt in Stephen Brice. This was the thought that +came to her. + +Slowly she walked to the window and looked out across the green grounds +where the wind was shaking the wet trees, past the unfinished monument +to the Father of her country, and across the broad Potomac to Alexandria +in the hazy distance. The rain beat upon the panes, and then she knew +that she was crying softly to herself. She had met a force that she +could not conquer, she had looked upon a sorrow that she could not +fathom, albeit she had known sorrow. + +Presently she felt him near. She turned and looked through her tears +at his face that was all compassion. And now she was unashamed. He had +placed a chair behind her. + +“Sit down, Virginia,” he said. Even the name fell from him naturally. + +She obeyed him then like a child. He remained standing. + +“Tell me about your cousin,” he said; “are you going to marry him?” + +She hung an instant on her answer. Would that save Clarence? But in +that moment she could not have spoken anything but the truth to save her +soul. + +“No, Mr. Lincoln,” she said; “I was--but I did not love him. I--I think +that was one reason why he was so reckless.” + +Mr. Lincoln smiled. + +“The officer who happened to see Colonel Colfax captured is now in +Washington. When your name was given to me, I sent for him. Perhaps he +is in the anteroom now. I should like to tell you, first of all, that +this officer defended your cousin and asked me to pardon him.” + +“He defended him! He asked you to pardon him! Who is he?” she exclaimed. + +Again Mr. Lincoln smiled. He strode to the bell-cord, and spoke a few +words to the usher who answered his ring. + +The usher went out. Then the door opened, and a young officer, spare, +erect, came quickly into the room, and bowed respectfully to the +President. But Mr. Lincoln's eyes were not on him. They were on the +girl. He saw her head lifted, timidly. He saw her lips part and the +color come flooding into her face. But she did not rise. + +The President sighed But the light in her eyes was reflected in his own. +It has been truly said that Abraham Lincoln knew the human heart. + +The officer still stood facing the President, the girl staring at his +profile. The door closed behind him. “Major Brice,” said Mr. Lincoln, +“when you asked me to pardon Colonel Colfax, I believe that you told me +he was inside his own skirmish lines when he was captured.” + +“Yes, sir, he was.” + +Suddenly Stephen turned, as if impelled by the President's gaze, and so +his eyes met Virginia's. He forgot time and place,--for the while even +this man whom he revered above all men. He saw her hand tighten on the +arm of her chair. He took a step toward her, and stopped. Mr. Lincoln +was speaking again. + +“He put in a plea, a lawyer's plea, wholly unworthy of him, Miss +Virginia. He asked me to let your cousin off on a technicality. What do +you think of that?” + +“Oh!” said Virginia. Just the exclamation escaped her--nothing more. The +crimson that had betrayed her deepened on her cheeks. Slowly the eyes +she had yielded to Stephen came back again and rested on the President. +And now her wonder was that an ugly man could be so beautiful. + +“I wish it understood, Mr. Lawyer,” the President continued, “that I +am not letting off Colonel Colfax on a technicality. I am sparing his +life,” he said slowly, “because the time for which we have been waiting +and longing for four years is now at hand--the time to be merciful. Let +us all thank God for it.” + +Virginia had risen now. She crossed the room, her head lifted, her heart +lifted, to where this man of sorrows stood smiling down at her. + +“Mr. Lincoln,” she faltered, “I did not know you when I came here. I +should have known you, for I had heard him--I had heard Major Brice +praise you. Oh,” she cried, “how I wish that every man and woman and +child in the South might come here and see you as I have seen you +to-day. I think--I think that some of their bitterness might be taken +away.” + +Abraham Lincoln laid his hands upon the girl. And Stephen, watching, +knew that he was looking upon a benediction. + +“Virginia,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I have not suffered by the South, I have +suffered with the South. Your sorrow has been my sorrow, and your pain +has been my pain. What you have lost, I have lost. And what you have +gained,” he added sublimely, “I have gained.” + +He led her gently to the window. The clouds were flying before the wind, +and a patch of blue sky shone above the Potomac. With his long arm he +pointed across the river to the southeast, and as if by a miracle a +shaft of sunlight fell on the white houses of Alexandria. + +“In the first days of the war,” he said, “a flag flew there in sight of +the place where George Washington lived and died. I used to watch +that flag, and thank God that Washington had not lived to see it. And +sometimes, sometimes I wondered if God had allowed it to be put in irony +just there.” His voice seemed to catch. “That was wrong,” he continued. +“I should have known that this was our punishment--that the sight of +it was my punishment. Before we could become the great nation He has +destined us to be, our sins must be wiped out in blood. You loved that +flag, Virginia. You love it still. + +“I say in all sincerity, may you always love it. May the day come when +this Nation, North and South, may look back upon it with reverence. +Thousands upon thousands of brave Americans have died under it for what +they believed was right. But may the day come again when you will love +that flag you see there now--Washington's flag--better still.” + +He stopped, and the tears were wet upon Virginia's lashes. She could not +have spoken then. + +Mr. Lincoln went over to his desk and sat down before it. Then he began +to write, slouched forward, one knee resting on the floor, his lips +moving at the same time. When he got up again he seemed taller than +ever. + +“There!” he said, “I guess that will fix it. I'll have that sent to +Sherman. I have already spoken to him about the matter.” + +They did not thank him. It was beyond them both. He turned to Stephen +with that quizzical look on his face he had so often seen him wear. + +“Steve,” he said, “I'll tell you a story. The other night Harlan was +here making a speech to a crowd out of the window, and my boy Tad was +sitting behind him. + +“'What shall we do with the Rebels?' said Harlan to the crowd. + +“'Hang 'em!' cried the people. “'No,' says Tad, 'hang on to 'em.' + +“And the boy was right. That is what we intend to do,--hang on to 'em. +And, Steve,” said Mr. Lincoln, putting his hand again on Virginia's +shoulder, “if you have the sense I think you have, you'll hang on, too.” + +For an instant he stood smiling at their blushes,--he to whom the power +was given to set apart his cares and his troubles and partake of the +happiness of others. For of such was his happiness. + +Then the President drew out his watch. “Bless me!” he said, “I am ten +minutes behind my appointment at the Department. Miss Virginia, you may +care to thank the Major for the little service he has done you. You can +do so undisturbed here. Make yourselves at home.” + +As he opened the door he paused and looked back at them. The smile +passed from his face, and an ineffable expression of longing--longing +and tenderness--came upon it. + +Then he was gone. + +For a space, while his spell was upon them, they did not stir. Then +Stephen sought her eyes that had been so long denied him. They were +not denied him now. It was Virginia who first found her voice, and she +called him by his name. + +“Oh, Stephen,” she said, “how sad he looked!” + +He was close to her, at her side. And he answered her in the earnest +tone which she knew so well. + +“Virginia, if I could have had what I most wished for in the world, I +should have asked that you should know Abraham Lincoln.” + +Then she dropped her eyes, and her breath came quickly. + +“I--I might have known,” she answered, “I might have known what he was. +I had heard you talk of him. I had seen him in you, and I did not know. +Do you remember that day when we were in the summer-house together at +Glencoe, long ago? When you had come back from seeing him?” + +“As yesterday,” he said. + +“You were changed then,” she said bravely. “I saw it. Now I understand. +It was because you had seen Mr. Lincoln.” + +“When I saw him,” said Stephen, reverently, “I knew how little and +narrow I was.” + +Then, overcome by the incense of her presence, he drew her to him until +her heart beat against his own. She did not resist, but lifted her face +to him, and he kissed her. + +“You love me, Virginia!” he cried. + +“Yes, Stephen,” she answered, low, more wonderful in her surrender than +ever before. “Yes--dear.” Then she hid her face against his blue coat. +“I--I cannot help it. Oh, Stephen, how I have struggled against it! +How I have tried to hate you, and couldn't. No, I couldn't. I tried to +insult you, I did insult you. And when I saw how splendidly you bore it, +I used to cry.” He kissed her brown hair. + +“I loved you through it all,” he said. + +“Virginia!” + +“Yes, dearest.” + +“Virginia, did you dream of me?” + +She raised her head quickly, and awe was in her eyes. “How did you +know?” + +“Because I dreamed of you,” he answered. “And those dreams used to linger +with me half the day as I went about my work. I used to think of them as +I sat in the saddle on the march.” + +“I, too, treasured them,” she said. “And I hated myself for doing it.” + +“Virginia, will you marry me?” + +“Yes.” + +“To-morrow?” + +“Yes, dear, to-morrow.” Faintly, “I have no one but you--now.” + +Once more he drew her to him, and she gloried in his strength. + +“God help me to cherish you, dear,” he said, “and guard you well.” + +She drew away from him, gently, and turned toward the window. + +“See, Stephen,” she cried, “the sun has come out at last.” + +For a while they were silent, looking out; the drops glistened on blade +and leaf, and the joyous new green of the earth entered into their +hearts. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. ANNAPOLIS + +IT was Virginia's wish, and was therefore sacred. As for Stephen, he +little cared whither they went. And so they found themselves on that +bright afternoon in mid-April under the great trees that arch the +unpaved streets of old Annapolis. + +They stopped by direction at a gate, and behind it was a green cluster +of lilac bushes, which lined the walk to the big plum-colored house +which Lionel Carvel had built. Virginia remembered that down this walk +on a certain day in June, a hundred years agone, Richard Carvel had led +Dorothy Manners. + +They climbed the steps, tottering now with age and disuse, and Virginia +playfully raised the big brass knocker, brown now, that Scipio had been +wont to polish until it shone. Stephen took from his pocket the clumsy +key that General Carvel had given him, and turned it in the rusty lock. +The door swung open, and Virginia stood in the hall of her ancestors. + +It was musty and damp this day as the day when Richard had come back +from England and found it vacant and his grandfather dead. But there, +at the parting of the stairs, was the triple-arched window which he had +described. Through it the yellow afternoon light was flooding now, even +as then, checkered by the branches in their first fringe of green. But +the tall clock which Lionel Carvel used to wind was at Calvert House, +with many another treasure. + +They went up the stairs, and reverently they walked over the bare +floors, their footfalls echoing through the silent house. A score of +scenes in her great-grandfather's life came to Virginia. Here was the +room--the cornet one at the back of the main building, which looked out +over the deserted garden--that had been Richard's mother's. She recalled +how he had stolen into it on that summer's day after his return, and had +flung open the shutters. They were open now, for their locks were off. +The prie-dieu was gone, and the dresser. But the high bed was there, +stripped of its poppy counterpane and white curtains; and the steps by +which she had entered it. + +And next they went into the great square room that had been Lionel +Carvel's, and there, too, was the roomy bed on which the old gentleman +had lain with the gout, while Richard read to him from the Spectator. +One side of it looked out on the trees in Freshwater Lane; and the other +across the roof of the low house opposite to where the sun danced on the +blue and white waters of the Chesapeake. + +“Honey,” said Virginia, as they stood in the deep recess of the window, +“wouldn't it be nice if we could live here always, away from the world? +Just we two! But you would never be content to do that,” she said, +smiling reproachfully. “You are the kind of man who must be in the midst +of things. In a little while you will have far more besides me to think +about.” + +He was quick to catch the note of sadness in her voice. And he drew her +to him. + +“We all have our duty to perform in the world, dear,” he answered. “It +cannot be all pleasure.” + +“You--you Puritan!” she cried. “To think that I should have married a +Puritan! What would my great-great-great-great-grandfather say, who was +such a stanch Royalist? Why, I think I can see him frowning at me now, +from the door, in his blue velvet goat and silverlaced waistcoat.” + +“He was well punished,” retorted Stephen, “his own grandson was a Whig, +and seems to have married a woman of spirit.” + +“She had spirit,” said Virginia. “I am sure that she did not allow my +great-grandfather to kiss her--unless she wanted to.” + +And she looked up at him, half smiling, half pouting; altogether +bewitching. + +“From what I hear of him, he was something of a man,” said Stephen. +“Perhaps he did it anyway.” + +“I am glad that Marlborough Street isn't a crowded thoroughfare,” said +Virginia. + +When they had seen the dining room, with its carved mantel and silver +door-knobs, and the ballroom in the wing, they came out, and Stephen +locked the door again. They walked around the house, and stood looking +down the terraces,--once stately, but crumbled now,--where Dorothy had +danced on the green on Richard's birthday. Beyond and below was the +spring-house, and there was the place where the brook dived under the +ruined wall,--where Dorothy had wound into her hair the lilies of the +valley before she sailed for London. + +The remains of a wall that had once held a balustrade marked the +outlines of the formal garden. The trim hedges, for seventy years +neglected, had grown incontinent. The garden itself was full of wild +green things coming up through the brown of last season's growth. But +in the grass the blue violets nestled, and Virginia picked some of these +and put them in Stephen's coat. + +“You must keep them always,” she said, “because we got them here.” + +They spied a seat beside a hoary trunk. There on many a spring day +Lionel Carvel had sat reading his Gazette. And there they rested now. +The sun hung low over the old-world gables in the street beyond the +wall, and in the level rays was an apple tree dazzling white, like a +bride. The sweet fragrance which the day draws from the earth lingered +in the air. + +It was Virginia who broke the silence. + +“Stephen, do you remember that fearful afternoon of the panic, when you +came over from Anne Brinsmade's to reassure me?” + +“Yes, dear,” he said. “But what made you think of it now?” + +She did not answer him directly. + +“I believed what you said, Stephen. But you were so strong, so calm, +so sure of yourself. I think that made me angry when I thought how +ridiculous I must have been.” + +He pressed her hand. + +“You were not ridiculous, Jinny.” She laughed. + +“I was not as ridiculous as Mr. Cluyme with his bronze clock. But do +you know what I had under my arm--what I was saving of all the things I +owned?” + +“No,” he answered; “but I have often wondered.” She blushed. + +“This house--this place made me think of it. It was Dorothy Manners's +gown, and her necklace. I could not leave them. They were all the +remembrance I had of that night at Mr. Brinsmade's gate, when we came so +near to each other.” + +“Virginia,” he said, “some force that we cannot understand has brought +us together, some force that we could not hinder. It is foolish for me +to say so, but on that day of the slave auction, when I first saw you, +I had a premonition about you that I have never admitted until now, even +to myself.” + +She started. + +“Why, Stephen,” she cried, “I felt the same way!” + +“And then,” he continued quickly, “it was strange that I should have +gone to Judge Whipple, who was an intimate of your father's--such a +singular intimate. And then came your party, and Glencoe, and that +curious incident at the Fair.” + +“When I was talking to the Prince, and looked up and saw you among all +those people.” + +He laughed. + +“That was the most uncomfortable of all, for me.” + +“Stephen,” she said, stirring the leaves at her feet, “you might have +taken me in your arms the night Judge Whipple died--if you had wanted +to. But you were strong enough to resist. I love you all the more for +that.” + +Again she said:-- “It was through your mother, dearest, that we were +most strongly drawn together. I worshipped her from the day I saw her in +the hospital. I believe that was the beginning of my charity toward the +North.” + +“My mother would have chosen you above all women, Virginia,” he +answered. + +In the morning came to them the news of Abraham Lincoln's death. And the +same thought was in both their hearts, who had known him as it was given +to few to know him. How he had lived in sorrow; how he had died a martyr +on the very day of Christ's death upon the cross. And they believed that +Abraham Lincoln gave his life for his country even as Christ gave his +for the world. + +And so must we believe that God has reserved for this Nation a destiny +high upon the earth. + +Many years afterward Stephen Brice read again to his wife those sublime +closing words of the second inaugural:-- + + “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the + right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish + the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him + who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his children + --to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace + among ourselves and with all nations.” + + + + +AFTERWORD + +The author has chosen St. Louis for the principal scene of this story +for many reasons. Grant and Sherman were living there before the Civil +War, and Abraham Lincoln was an unknown lawyer in the neighboring +state of Illinois. It has been one of the aims of this book to show the +remarkable contrasts in the lives of these great men who came out of the +West. This old city of St. Louis, which was founded by Laclede in 1765, +likewise became the principal meeting-place of two great streams of +emigration which had been separated, more or less, since Cromwell's day. +To be sure, they were not all Cavaliers who settled in the tidewater +Colonies. There were Puritan settlements in both Maryland and Virginia. +But the life in the Southern states took on the more liberal tinge which +had characterized that of the Royalists, even to the extent of affecting +the Scotch Calvinists, while the asceticism of the Roundheads was the +keynote of the Puritan character in New England. When this great country +of ours began to develop, the streams moved westward; one over what +became the plain states of Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, and the other +across the Blue Ridge Mountains into Kentucky and Tennessee. They mixed +along the line of the Ohio River. They met at St. Louis, and, farther +west, in Kansas. + +Nor can the German element in St. Louis be ignored. The part played by +this people in the Civil War is a matter of history. The scope of this +book has not permitted the author to introduce the peasantry and trading +classes which formed the mass in this movement. But Richter, the type +of the university-bred revolutionist which emigrated after '48, is drawn +more or less from life. And the duel described actually took place in +Berlin. + +St. Louis is the author's birthplace, and his home, the home of those +friends whom he has known from childhood and who have always treated him +with unfaltering kindness. He begs that they will believe him when he +says that only such characters as he loves are reminiscent of those +he has known there. The city has a large population,--large enough to +include all the types that are to be found in the middle West. + +One word more. This book is written of a time when feeling ran high. +It has been necessary to put strong speech into the mouths of the +characters. The breach that threatened our country's existence is healed +now. There is no side but Abraham Lincoln's side. And this side, with +all reverence and patriotism, the author has tried to take. + +Abraham Lincoln loved the South as well as the North. + + + + ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + Behind that door was the future: so he opened it fearfully + Being caught was the unpardonable crime + Believe in others having a hard time + Freedom meant only the liberty to earn their own living + Humiliation and not conscience which makes the sting + Most dangerous of gifts, the seeing of two sides of a quarrel + Naturally she took preoccupation for indifference + Principle in law not to volunteer information + Read a patent medicine circular and shudder with seven diseases + She could pass over, but never forgive what her aunt had said + Silence--goad to indiscretion + Simple men who command by force of character + So much for Democracy when it becomes a catchword + They have to print something + To be great is to be misunderstood + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Crisis, Complete, by Winston Churchill + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRISIS, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 5396-0.txt or 5396-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/5396/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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