The Crisis — Complete

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:

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: